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.

2. 2

Night came quickly.

Alone and surrounded by darkness, Adam struggled to keep the memories of the past at bay. It was an impossible feat; the notion that he would be granted any peace with the devastation surrounding him was inconceivable. He thought about starting a campfire, giving life to something that would provide both light and warmth, then dismissed the idea. Recollection of the night he had set fire to the Silver Dollar's barn and house already felt too close to the surface. He would have no other choice but to consider the memory if he built another fire and stared into the flickering flames dancing among the darkness.

Hands planted on his hips, index fingers looped through the front belt-loops on his pants, Adam strode the distance between where the house and barn once stood. He kicked at the piles of ash as he walked by them, erasing his previous footprints, and sending remnants of the substance to soar through the air only to hang momentarily in dark, wafting clouds. Though the evidence of his previous unconscious excursion was expunged, hints of the thick, gray dust clung to his pant legs and boots, providing ample proof of his more recent actions.

It felt good to walk, even if he was only traveling a circular path, and it was calming to allow his building frustration to have some physical expression—even if it promised to leave telltale stains of his actions behind. He had to do something, because he knew he hadn't been brought to this place to do nothing. His determination to remain on this property had never been born from nothing; there had always been something calling him back to this land, this place. At one time that something was Ross's ghost.

There was no way to ignore Ross's spirit after he had first been seen. No way to ignore or deny its existence, malicious and enduring; a hint of him was always there. Even if he couldn't be heard or seen, his presence was always felt. In the blackest of nights and brightest of mornings, it was always there, pushing and torturing, doing everything in its power to make each day more miserable and difficult than the last. He knew all of Adam's secrets and weaknesses—and worse—he knew his most carefully protected fears, and he didn't hesitate to weaponize them in the ongoing struggle to convince him to take Frank Mitchel's life.

Looking back, it was sometimes difficult for Adam to justify how difficult that fight had been. Ross had only wanted one thing from him; his determined existence and efforts had been so focused on such a singular goal. It should have been easier to stand in firm opposition to what Ross was demanding he do, and maybe it would have been had Adam not been so distracted. Had he not pulled himself so completely away from the people he needed the most.

Wars with the devil—and the undead—were not destined to be won alone. They weren't meant to be won at all. Adam knew that now. If he had to do it all over again, if he were somehow able to go back and give himself advice before everything in his life began to decline, then he would tell himself to pull his family closer rather than pushing them further away. The distance is what made him vulnerable, the growing space between him and his father—a pillar of a man whose strength and wisdom had always been able to successfully guide him through the most treacherous of storms. He had needed his father so much back then, almost as much as he knew he needed him now.

It wasn't good to be alone. It wasn't wise to put himself in situations that seemed destined to make him more vulnerable to evil than he already was. Although, he thought wryly, his lips curling into the smallest of smiles, he wasn't really alone—Hoss had seen to that.

Ever the affable companion, Sport stood steady a few mere paces away. He was content in the darkness, sporadically kicking his front hooves over the ground, moving around dirt, and occasionally lowering his muzzle for an investigatory sniff.

Adam approached the horse slowly, setting his attention on the animal for the first time that evening. He hadn't intended to ignore Sport; the night had slipped away from him as he was captive to his apprehensive pacing. The horse seemed neither bothered by the previous lack of attention nor the way Adam suddenly fixated on him now. Dark eyes sparkling beneath the moonlight, he looked upon Adam in a welcoming way, bobbing his head in anticipation as Adam came to a stop in front of him and extended his hand.

"Heya, buddy," he whispered, stroking the horse's forehead. "How are you, huh?"

Sport didn't answer, not that Adam expected him to. It wouldn't bode well for his future, the way others perceived him or the way he perceived himself, if he asked animals questions and began hearing them reply. Talking to animals seemed innocuous in comparison to engaging the ghosts of the dead; even the most severe things an animal could say seemed mild in comparison to some of the messages he had endured from the dead.

"You're not as moral as you think you are," Ross's ghost used to take such pleasure in reminding him. "It's easy to look upon my actions and judge me harshly, but remember you're just as much a sinner as I am. Shit, maybe more considering the circumstances. Just because nobody knows what you did, that doesn't make it any more right. Just because Delphine and I are dead, that doesn't negate the part you had in our demise."

Though Adam had desperately wanted to, he had never been able to deny the truth of the words. They had hurt to hear then and they hurt to recall now.

"This is all your fault," Ross's ghost had said. "I wouldn't have gone mad if not for what you did. I may have hurt Del, but remember you hurt her first. We'd both still be alive if it wasn't for you; if it wasn't what you did."

"I did what you asked me to. It wasn't my idea," Adam had been quick to reply. It was always such a weak retort in comparison to what was being said. Adam had been quick to offer his own explanations, to deny the truth of what Ross's ghost was saying in effort to soothe himself. He had disagreed with what was being said at first, but over time that changed.

There was a time, in his younger days, when Adam questioned how a person could come to so fervently believe something about themselves that on the surface seemed so untrue. Some men lived their lives thinking they were stupid when their actions were decidedly smart. Some women spent their time upon the earth thinking they were destined to be unwanted by a man because of one frivolous thing or another. Now, Adam knew that a person could come to believe anything if they heard it often enough. Though it was not to say that the accusation Ross's ghost was making was not true.

"Oh, I asked you, alright, but, in the end, it was your decision," Ross said. "Your mistake. Now she and I are dead and you're still alive. You're the only one left, that makes you responsible for carrying the burden of what really happened. You're the one who's going to make sure everyone pays for their sins. We're gonna start with Frank Mitchel and we're gonna end with you. A man is responsible for what he does, Skinny, don't matter what his intentions were when he did another harm. Everyone has to take responsibility for what they've done. You're no exception to that rule."

It was a startling threat, one which had frightened Adam more deeply than he wanted to admit. Ross wanted him to kill Mitchel, he had made that clear from the beginning, but what was Ross going to do to him once he did? At the time, he couldn't have conceived of what he would eventually do to Frank Mitchel or what Ross's response would be. Things had seemed so bad back then, it was difficult to imagine them becoming any worse.

But they had gotten worse.

Each decision Adam made in effort to mend the situation seemed to exacerbate it instead. He had set fire to the buildings on the Silver Dollar because he wanted to get away from Ross. He had thought the ghost was tied to the property and the buildings; he had believed that destroying those would sever that tie, that it would destroy whatever was linking Ross to this world. He thought he could save Ross's spirit; he thought he could save Frank Mitchel, and himself.

He had been wrong.

Setting the property on fire became another mistake he didn't recall making. He didn't remember striking the match, giving life to a spark that would flourish and grow until it destroyed everything that surrounded him. He didn't remember fleeing the property afterwards, directing Sport to take him to the cliff where Ross had died. He didn't remember Hoss coming upon him or anything either of them said or did. He didn't remember being taken home or the long hours his family members endured after, sitting helplessly by as they finally bore witness to the fever ravaging his body and mind. Adam didn't remember what he dreamt about then, or how much time passed around him. But he remembered waking up, setting eyes on his father, his aged face etched with exhaustion, gratefulness, and relief. He remembered seeing Hoss and Little Joe as they entered his bedroom, their expressions mirroring that of their father. And he remembered seeing something else.

Despite the fire, Ross's ghost had lingered. He stood, angry and foreboding, in the furthest corner of the room. "You can't stop this," he seethed. "There ain't no changing what's got to be done. Don't matter how many buildings you destroy; how much you drink to drown me out. It's not going to work. The only way you can be free of me is to follow my direction. You have to do what I tell you to do."

His presence was more frightening than Adam could give words to. It was then he realized he could be followed; it was then he knew there would be no getting away from Ross or what he was demanding. And there would be no leaving his family and the Ponderosa, not after his sickness. Not after Hoss had finally brought him back. Not after he had set fire to where had been living and left himself nowhere else to go.

Still, he found other ways of running away. Of denying the truth, ignoring the seriousness of what was happening to him, and what Ross would inevitably push him to do. Ross wanted Frank dead—he wanted Adam dead, too, but he needed his help first; there was no limit to things he would say or do. He was incessant and cruel, his persistent presence in Adam's life was isolating. Surrounded by people, the love of his family members, Adam began to feel increasingly alone. There were so many things he couldn't talk about; so many things Ross's ghost could say for only him to hear while he was in his family's company. Horrible things, nasty and cruel verbal attacks that he had no choice but to not to show any reaction to.

Ross called him a murderer. A philanderer. A coward. And a liar. He spoke so freely—and in appalling detail—about the things Adam would never dare to. Each time Adam heard the damaging remarks, he had to remind himself not to reply, not to flinch or react. It wasn't seemly for a man to openly display emotions invited by something only he could see. His family wouldn't have understood if he had. It wouldn't have made sense to them. There was no logical way to explain to his brothers or even his father what was happening to him; there were no words which he could use that would explain the situation in a way that they would believe him. They would have thought he had gone mad if had tried; they would have thought that drinking and sickness had affected him poorly, fragmenting his grip on reality and damaging his brain. They would have believed him sick, their own perceptions of the world, acceptable beliefs about the dead and living, impeding their ability to see the truth. He wasn't crazy—he had always known that—still, if he were to share what he was seeing and hearing then that was how he would be perceived—he knew that too.

Even back then, Pa had known something was awry; he had known something was wrong. Although he eventually reached his own conclusions as to why Adam seemed to be pulling away. Prior to destroying the Silver Dollar, he and Adam hadn't spoken much and after it seemed like they spoke even less. The tension that had settled between them lingered, impeding their conversations, and growing a little more each day. It limited their patience with each other; it made them less willing to look upon one another with anything other than frustration or anger. They didn't speak often and when they did, their conversations were terse and short; they ceased to speak about anything of real importance. Although Pa had tried—God knew he did—to span the distance growing between them. He tried to talk to Adam; he tried to keep him close. His efforts were not welcome. Each conversation was shut down before it had a chance to truly begin; each time Pa tried to hold him close, Adam pulled further and further away.

This pulling away led him to many different places, all of them familiar in their own way and none impenetrable to Ross. His spirit clung to Adam like a cloud; he was always with him, no matter how far or close to home he remained. Adam became more and more inclined to avoid home and the people who knew him well enough to interpret his increasingly quiet demeanor as worrisome.

Still, Pa knew something was wrong—he always had. He had his suspicions as to why his son's demeanor was steadily changing. Adam knew his father suspected he was growing weary of ranch life and in desperate need of a change of surroundings, new adventures, problems, and successes to focus his energy on. He wasn't completely wrong in his beliefs. To appease his son, Pa began delegating any needed business travel to Adam, and he remained quietly supportive of his eldest's son to take up sporadic residence at the timber camp.

Adam's presence there led him to eventually hire Frank Mitchel, an arrangement that forced them together for extended periods of time. He hadn't really wanted to hire the older man; bringing him on was a foolish decision, a shameful moment of weakness resulting from being the sole focus of Ross's cruel attention for far too long. Adam hadn't wanted to hire Frank. He wanted the man to remain as far away from him as possible; bad things were destined to happen if they were around each other, if not another fight between them, then something else.

Bringing Mitchel on the Ponderosa's payroll appeased Ross for a while. He was satisfied with the man remaining in a predictable place; somewhere he could be easily found; somewhere Adam could come and go without drawing attention to his actions or himself.

"You could do it at any time, Skinny," Ross would often say. "You know that camp well, you know those men. It wouldn't be hard for you to sneak up on Mitchel when he's sleeping. It wouldn't be difficult for you to do what needs to be done. Kill him, Adam. Do it for me, for Del, for yourself."

Adam wanted to say that it would be difficult, that what Ross was demanding of him was incredibly hard, but he didn't, because he had grown weary of responding to that ghost. Nothing he said ever made much difference; there was no argument he could conceive of that would change what was wanted from him.

He had begun experiencing bothersome dreams and nightmares by then. Horrific visions of terror almost too horrible to speak of. He saw Ross in his dreams, Delphine, and the baby, too. Somehow it was dreams of the latter that bothered him the most. Little Joe would eventually become privy to the appalling frequency of these dreams but never the content. It would fall upon him to wake his eldest brother before Adam's yells and screams became too loud. When Adam was away from home, when his dread and discontent demanded different surroundings and locations, rousing him from a violent nightmare was a task that fell upon someone else.

Kane had begun reaching out to Adam with great regularity. He presented himself as a friend—as most demons do—he spoke to Adam as though his faults had no meaning, as though his guilt and mistakes could be eradicated. He told him he could be freed from his ghosts by proper action. That proper action, Kane advised, was to come to the desert and atone for his sins. Still, Adam hesitated at first, too frightened by who and what Kane really was. Ross may have been an unkindly ghost, but at least his spirit was known; he had enough problems without suddenly taking up with demons, setting out into a desert to hand himself over to be tortured. He wasn't ready to admit he needed help; he wasn't yet prepared to accept that the only one who could provide proper assistance was a demon in the desert named Peter Kane.

"I wish you could talk," Adam whispered, his hand embedded in Sport's mane. "You were with me through most of what happened, I think maybe I'd like to know what you remember about all of this."

His horse served as an odd kind of constant, something to hold on to while remaining surrounded by so much nothing. This land was empty now, scattered ashes the only remaining evidence of what had been done. He thought of Frank then, the memory of the man inviting a painful sting to set up residence in his heart. Killing him was a mistake, yet another in a long line. At the times each were made they felt so inevitable, the likelihood that he would live long enough to have to shoulder the pain and guilt attached to his actions seeming so small. But he had lived after killing Frank Mitchel, because Ross had decided to leave him after that, entrusting the continuation of torture to Delphine and her unborn baby.

The baby had no interest in forcing Adam to do much of anything; it was too small, too underdeveloped to have such intentions and thoughts. It only wanted its pain to be soothed, something Del had no interest in allowing if things remained as they were. Del wasn't concerned with inviting more death, for Adam to kill someone or himself at her behest; all she required was that he tell the truth. But the trouble with the truth was the same as it ever was. It wouldn't kill his body if he finally gave voice to what she was asking, but it would kill his soul. It would change everything, how his family saw him, how he saw himself. There were just some things too painful to admit; there were just some things better left alone. Sometimes the pain of sharing a secret outweighed the pain a man felt when he kept it to himself. This wasn't a lesson Pa had ever taught him, rather was shared with Adam by someone else.

"What are we doing here?" Adam asked Sport, the words nearly inaudible. He hadn't meant to ask the question any more than he expected the horse to provide an answer; however, it was startling how much he struggled to conceive of an explanation himself. This land held nothing for him. There was no purpose in remaining here, nothing to glean or find. Maybe at one time there had been, but there wasn't anymore.

There was rustling in the distance.

Turning his head, Adam squinted into the darkness, struggling to canvas the distance just beyond his immediate surroundings. It was too dark to see much of anything, save for the outline of the Silver Dollar's head gate. Something was approaching slowly, its movement crunching then dragging against the dry landscape. Staggered and prolonged, the noise was odd; Adam wasn't certain he had heard before. He couldn't imagine it being attributed to any man, animal, or any creature he had encountered before.

Snorting, Sport's sudden apprehension was palpable. He took a backward step only to be forced to remain where he was when Adam grasped the side of his bridle. The horse snorted a second time and began nervously dancing in place, moving one foot and then another as he shifted his weight from side to side.

"Whoa, buddy," Adam whispered, his grip on the bridle tightening. He would be helpless if the horse gave into his fear and decided to bolt. He wouldn't be able to stop Sport from running if that's what he wanted to do. "I need you to stay with me. It's you and me, just like before."

The statement did nothing to ease the horse's fear as the noise intensified, becoming louder and more pronounced. Whatever was approaching was coming more quickly now. It moved through the night, ceasing all sound except for its own. The air around them seemed to turn to ice; each breath Adam and Sport expelled lingered in front of their faces in small, frozen clouds. Sport tried to pull away one last time, and Adam, suddenly more concerned by the crushing weight that seemed to be engulfing his chest, let go of the bridle and finally allowed the horse to step away.

In an instant Sport was gone. Adam stood alone, the sound of his breaths, labored and thick, ringing in his ears. The noise stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Adam looked upon the shadow figure as it towered before him, its elongated form stretching into the sky. It was so big, so tall, thick, and vast that it seemed like it could swallow him whole. It had no discernable features, no eyes, no face. Still, it seemed to be staring him down. Freezing him in place, it was looking through him, staring into his heart and mind, embedding into his soul a stifling combination of dread and fear. He felt rather than saw it reach out to him, long, slender tendrils of darkness that moved slowly, penetrating his arms and legs, his torso, and head. It was no longer looking through him, rather touching him instead. He could feel every movement, every agonizing millimeter of his body the slender darkness moved through, tugging, and tearing, setting his muscles and skin aflame. It felt as though his body was being burned, every internal organ being cooked from the inside out. His legs were weak and shaking beneath him, his chest impossibly tight. Breathing was becoming more difficult, each shallow breath he inhaled and exhaled coming hard, each struggling excursion teasing it might be his last.

The pain was excruciating, his dread and fear so overwhelming. What was this thing that held such power over him? What did it expect him to do? Did it mean to kill him? Or had it come to lead him once more?

"What are you?" Adam gasped. "What the hell do you want?"

The shadow didn't answer. Tendrils took hold of Adam's arms and legs, enveloping them with darkness, overpowering him with maddening strength. They moved his legs first, forcing him to turn around and then place one foot in front of the other as it directed him to move slowly under the cover of night. He didn't know where he was going; he had no concept of how much time had passed, or how many steps he had taken since he began. His awareness of himself and his surroundings became fragmented, his mind too preoccupied by pain.

He was on fire—he was sure of that now. His blood was composed of lava flowing through his veins and it set every inch of his body aflame. His clothes felt heavy, stifling and claustrophobic. They were a hindrance, further stimulating the fire burning beneath. Maybe if he took them off then his pain could finally ebb. Maybe if his body was no longer contained then the inferno raging through his veins would finally be allowed to cool. With the dark tendrils tightly coiled around his limbs, he was helpless to do anything other than what he was being directed to do.

He was being directed to walk, the soles of his boots scraping against the jagged landscape. The land beneath him was changing, slowly transforming into steep, craggy rock. He wasn't certain how long he had been walking or how far the shadow had taken him from where he originally began. Somewhere along the line he had been allowed to take off his clothes, or they had been taken off for him; he had no memory of stripping himself but he had become naked at some point.

Dawn was breaking. The sun was beginning to rise, sending tall and cascading rays shooting up into the sky above. They seemed to extend into infinity, their cheery brightness irreconcilable with the chill of the morning air, illuminating the startling, dangerous beauty of the landscape surrounding him.

Goosebumps peppering every inch of his skin, the incessant chattering of Adam's teeth was the only sound he could hear as he found himself standing on the edge of a familiar cliff. The tendrils that had held on to him so tightly vanished in an instant, leaving him to fight to regain equilibrium after being bolstered for so long.

Standing on shaking legs, Adam extended his arms into the air and struggled to stay upright, his body swaying dangerously. The edge of the cliff was crumbling beneath his bare feet; remnants of rock of varying sizes broke away and were sent careening haphazardly into the rough landscape below. The drop was too steep, the land beneath too unforgiving to allow survival after impact; if he fell now, if he was unable to regain his footing and balance then he would surely die. This was a fact Adam didn't think about calmly; it was a horrifying detail declared by his overpowering fear. He didn't want to fall; he didn't want to die. Not now. Not like this. Not when there were so many things to be fixed and mended. If he died now then his family would never understand what happened; they would never know what had brought him here. Longing for an explanation they would believe he had done this. They would think he wanted this, that it was his choice to leap from the edge.

But it wasn't his choice. Not now. Not ever. He didn't want to die; he wanted to live.

The rockface bearing his swaying weight had other plans. The ledge of the cliff crumbled beneath him, displacing the precarious balance he had just found. His body lurched forward, his eyes widening as they set upon the drop below. He was falling now, his stomach turning violently, his arms helplessly swinging, his hands blindly grasping for something to hold on to.

There was nothing to hold, nothing to say or do that would change what was happening now. The Adam of before and after may have been allotted a chance at a different outcome but it was a luxury the Adam of now wasn't given. It was darkness that had brought him here and left him alone. It was the pull of a shadow that placed him upon a wayward path and set him up to fall. There would be no changing anything now. No more half-truths or carefully told lies. No closure for his family after he was gone. They wouldn't understand what had happened; Adam wasn't sure he understood himself. Still, with sudden appalling certainty he knew what he would change given the chance. If allowed to live, he knew what he would do. He wouldn't be afraid of the past anymore; he would force himself to face it instead.

An eternity seemed to pass around him as he began his descent toward the ground below, his mind burdened by a maddening cluster of thoughts. He was falling, his body rushing through the air at increasing speed, and then, suddenly, he wasn't.

Strong hands grasped him from behind and he was pulled backwards and back up. His feet found the crumbling edge of the cliff once more as the arms wrapped around him and he was pulled even further back. The swiftness of the action displaced his feet further and those of the person hanging on to him. Adam felt a jolt of anxiety as he began falling again, not forward but backwards to land safely upon his savior's chest.

They both laid still for a moment, their breaths coming in taxed tandem gasps. So overcome by a conflicting mixture of adrenaline and relief, Adam's first inclination was to cry; however, he found himself laughing instead. Deep and rasping, his crazed laughter filled the morning air.

"I see nothing funny about this," Pa said gruffly as he held Adam close to his chest.

Shaking his head, Adam continued laughing. It wasn't funny, he knew that. A moment ago, he had been terrified and now he was just so damn relieved. The darkness had brought him here; the shadow had led him to this place. And then, out of seemingly nowhere, Pa had arrived and saved him. He had sent him away, steeling himself to endure the night and the future alone. But Pa had followed and saved him. It was like the desert all over again.

"Adam," Pa said, his voice carrying an insistent edge. "Please stop laughing. I need to know you understand what just happened. I need to know that you're still with me, that the stress of the night hasn't made you unbalanced like before."

Ceasing his laughter, Adam took a deep breath and then cleared his throat. A tightness was settling in it now; there was a burning in his jaw that teased those tears were coming after all. He lifted his hands, moving them to grasp his father's arms, needing so badly to hold on to him. To verify that what had happened moments ago was true. Suddenly forsaken by the shadowy darkness that had led him here, he had been falling and Pa had saved him. He had caught hold of him and pulled him back.

"I don't think I really believed you could do it," Adam whispered. Though he didn't mean to say the words, to give voice to the doubt Kane had cultivated, he couldn't stop them. It seemed silly to not speak of it now.

"Do what?"

"Catch me."

"Did someone tell you I couldn't?"

Adam was once so determined not to think or speak of such things, now it seemed as though he wouldn't be able to stop himself from sharing them. There was no point in keeping them quiet. He and Pa, they both knew the information being alluded to. Kane had visited both in their dreams.

"Before I went to Eastgate, I used to dream I was standing on this cliff," Adam said. "Kane was on one side of me and you were on the other. He kept pushing me toward the edge and you kept begging him to stop. Nothing you ever said was enough to convince him to quit, and you never were fast enough to get to me in time."

"You fell off the edge."

"Again, and again. I had the dream so many times that I lost count."

"Hm," Pa grunted thoughtfully, his grip on his son intensifying. To Adam, it was as though the thought that Kane had led them to experience mirroring dreams had never occurred to his father. Pa had dreamed of the cliff too; this Adam knew because Kane had told him. He had taken such pleasure in reminding him that his father was neither quick nor intelligent enough to save him from his unforgiving fate.

"Your pa isn't quick enough," Kane had so often taunted. "He'll never figure out how to save you, because he doesn't know you need to be saved. You've hidden your pain so well; he won't know how to help until it is too late, and you'll never tell him the truth because you're afraid."

The memory was biting. It was enough to dissolve the ease Adam felt in the moment and negate the comfort he had found in his father's arms. Suddenly, he was too aware of himself, the unclothed state of his body and his proximity to his father. He cringed as he began to pull from his father's embrace. He was grateful when Pa allowed the action without complication or comment.

Still, expanding the distance between them posed its own difficulties as it allowed them to look upon each other. Pa could see him clearly now, the nakedness of his body, his embarrassment leaving his cheeks slightly pink. And Adam could see Pa, the deep, tired lines the stress of the night had left etched in his face, the glint of sadness in his dark eyes. For a moment they didn't speak, and, stomach turning, Adam lived in fear of what his father might say. There was countless things Pa could say, expressing words of frustration, worry, and anger that Adam would have no choice but to endure and accept. He couldn't deny or justify any of his poor choices if his father chose to point them out. He couldn't deny anything.

"He won't love you," Kane had once so gleefully said. It was a carefully crafted statement that had so often risen from the depths of Adam's memory to haunt him over and over again. "If he finds out what you did. He's forgiving, but he's not that forgiving. He raised you to be a better man than what you've turned out to be."

"Well," Pa said with a nod, "can I trust you not to jump off the edge of this cliff if I leave you for a moment?"

"Sure."

Pa tilted his head skeptically.

"I promise," Adam quickly amended.

Pa wasn't gone for long. It seemed like he had just disappeared down toward the base of the cliff when he reappeared with his son's missing clothes. He handed the items over wordlessly, then turned around, giving Adam privacy to redress.

Dressing quickly, Adam wondered if the trail of discarded clothes had led his father to the edge of the cliff. He wasn't sure he wanted to ask, but something inside of him needed to know. His father's timing was impeccable, damn near perfect. He could have arrived sooner, that was true, but if Pa had stepped in any later then Adam would have been beyond saving.

"How did you find me?" Adam asked. "How did you know where to look?"

"I didn't look," Pa said. Turning around, he seemed to take note of his son's confused expression. "I didn't have to," he added. "I never lost you."

"What?"

"Hoss told you that staying by yourself wasn't an option; he said to expect another visit from me."

"Yeah, tomorrow."

"Which has now become today. It was important that Hoss left you last night, that you were given an opportunity to be alone. You needed to be alone and I… Well, I needed to see it for myself. I talked to Hop Sing," Pa said knowingly. "He spoke of a spirit, a darkness that overcomes you in the night and leads you. I must admit, I was skeptical. I probably shouldn't have been given everything that has happened, but I was. After Hoss left you, I returned and remained a distance away. Then I waited and I watched."

Inhaling deeply, Pa exhaled a concerned breath. "Adam," he said seriously, "that was the most troubling thing I have witnessed in my life, and, believe me, I have seen more than you can imagine. I watched that thing approach you. I watched as it took over your body and eventually your mind. It guided you to take off your clothes and it led you to the edge of this cliff. Why would you keep that a secret? Why on earth with everything that's happened would you try to bear the weight of that alone?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do. Tell me the truth. I heard what you said to it; I saw the dreadful expression on your face. You're afraid of it, son. It's okay to admit it. There's no shame in that; it's a terrifying thing, having something take control of you like that. What do you suppose it is?"

"I don't know," Adam repeated softly. "It's… darkness. I don't know where it came from or what it wants. I don't think it really wants anything, other than to destroy what's left of me." He looked at the edge of the cliff, his eyes locking on the land below. "Or kill me."

"That's not what I saw."

Looking at Pa, Adam frowned. "It tried to push me off the edge of a cliff."

"No. It didn't," Pa said. "It led you here, then it let you go and vanished. It could have walked you off the edge, but it didn't. It placed you on it. When you regained awareness, you took a step forward without realizing where you were. When you understood the danger of your surroundings, you became afraid. Your body swayed, son. Your fear made you off balance and you unrooted yourself."

"I didn't mean to step off the edge."

"I'm not saying you did. I am saying that thing didn't push you."

"Then what was the purpose of bringing me here?" Extending his arms in frustration, Adam indicated at the vast steepness of the cliff where they stood.

"What's the purpose of bringing you anywhere?" Pa countered. "Have you thought about it, Adam? The places where this shadow takes you? Maybe it isn't intending to hurt you. Maybe it's intending to accompany you instead."

"What?" Adam snorted, his arms falling to hang at his sides.

"Think about it. You don't want to be at home, this thing takes you away from it. You begin second-guessing your decision to remain at the Silver Dollar, so it leads you somewhere else. You wondered aloud what you were doing back there; you gave voice to your doubt."

"That was a private discussion between me and my horse." Adam's eyes widened, his frustration transforming into worry over his wayward horse. "Sport—"

"Is fine," Pa assured. "He came around after his bolt, then picked up your trail and came upon Buck and I. And even if he hadn't, he knows this land as well as you do. He's too loyal of an animal to stray for long."

Adam nodded. The statement was too true not to find comfort in it. It didn't take long for his relief to fade as he began thinking about the previous when the horse had bolted in fear. It wasn't the first time Sport had been frightened away from him by something beyond understanding. There had been times the animal had been prompted to do so by Ross's ghost; it wasn't Sport's fault the dead liked to play unsettling games. There was the occasion just outside of the timber camp, when Adam and Frank had gotten after each other, aiming their words as carefully as their fists. And there was another, when after setting outbuildings on the Silver Dollar aflame, Adam had kneeled on the ground and emitted a series of piercing screams.

Burning the buildings had hurt. At the time, he could have sworn he had lit his own body on fire. The pain was excruciating and overpowering. He felt every flame as they grew larger and larger, burning with intensity, white and hot. He felt the fire wither his skin beneath his clothes, consuming his muscles before turning its attention to his bones. The pain was agonizing, and so were the sounds of his screams. He didn't remember walking to the cliff with the intention of jumping; he didn't recall Hoss coming upon him or convincing him to change his mind. But he remembered the confusion. The pain. He remembered that the cliff where he now stood with his father, the cliff where he once intended to jump, and the cliff where he had taken Ross's life were one and the same.

"Think about it, Adam," Pa implored once more. "Why is this place important? Why would something choose to take you here? And where is going to take you next, given the opportunity?"

Adam shook his head. The answers to one of the questions he wouldn't dare voice, and the other two he didn't know.

"You better figure it out," Pa warned. "That thing came for you before; it will come for you again. What's going to happen when it does? Where else would it lead you? What is it trying so hard to get you to see?"

"What makes you think it's trying to show me anything?"

"What makes you think it's not?"

"How can you be so curious? So calm? If that thing comes back and takes me again, what makes you believe I'll be easily found?"

"Because I don't intend to lose you. Not to that thing. Not to anything else."

Though the statement should have reassured Adam, it ignited his stubborn anger instead. Eyes narrowing, he lifted a threatening index finger. "If you think I'm going to go home—!"

"Adam," Pa said firmly. "If you think you are going to remain by yourself after what Hop Sing told me—after what I saw last night—then you really have lost touch with the reality that surrounds you. You are not alone in this; I would appreciate it if you would stop acting as though you are. Everything you do, everything you think and feel affects this family greatly."

Adam shook his head, his face contorting with disgust. He was already aware of all the things his father had said. What was the purpose of saying them? He knew how much pain he had already caused. Didn't Pa understand that his only focus was on not causing anymore?

"I am not saying you have to remain inside the house," Pa said, his tone softening. "If that's what you're worried about then don't be. We will find other arrangements. There's always the bunkhouse. We don't have any hands housed there right now. The barn is an option, I suppose. Or we could find something else."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. We can find a solution we're all comfortable with." Pa nodded at the edge of the cliff. "I do know that solution isn't out here. Whatever the future holds for you, Adam, you won't find it alone, and you won't find it out here."

Following his father's gaze, Adam was quiet for a moment. He thought about the questions Pa had posed about the shadow figure's return and noted how similar his father's worries were to his own. Then he thought about the edge of the cliff and how close he had come to falling. How different the outcome would have been had he been truly alone. This led him to reconsider the thoughts he had experienced when he was falling. He had been afraid he would die without having the opportunity to fix anything. In that moment, given the chance and exchange for his life, he would have told any truth asked of him. He had told himself if he were allowed to live then he wouldn't be afraid anymore.

But all those thoughts had been born from a moment of intense fear, and now that it had passed, so did most of his intentions. Still, maybe keeping his secrets and returning home weren't mutually exclusive. Maybe he could do both. He was a grown man, after all. Who was to say that he wasn't allowed to keep certain things to himself?

His determination to remain alone had made him weak. It had led him back to this cliff, and whether he had taken a step forward and prompted himself to fall off the edge or he had been pushed, it didn't change the fact that if Pa hadn't come, if he hadn't lingered and followed, then the morning would have unfolded much differently than it had. Adam had told Pa to stay away, but he hadn't. Catching hold of him, he had pulled him to safety; he had saved him from the edge of that cliff. Pa had done that, his actions contradicting everything Kane had ever said.

Looking at his father once more, Adam was taken by a new thought. He could build a life ignoring Del and dodging the shadow figure, couldn't he? If he avoided the house, he would never have to see her; if he remained surrounded by family, he wouldn't have to worry about wandering again. If the shadow came back intent on leading him somewhere then his family could put a stop to it. They could rouse him from its spell the way Hop Sing had. It wasn't ideal; it wasn't what Delphine's ghost or the shadow seemed to want but it could work.

"If I go back, I'm not staying in the house," Adam said.

Pa nodded. "Alright."

"And I want you to stop treating me like a kid. Quit ordering me around, telling me what to do and when to do it. I don't want you tucking me back into bed if I have a bad dream or reading me stories. I want to be treated like a grown, rational man."

"You act like a man, then I will treat you like one."

"I want to be given real tasks, not books or barn chores. I want to shoulder my fair share."

"Then I expect you to eat better," Pa countered. "You're still thin. I won't allow you to work your body to bone."

"Fine, but not around Del. Not in the house."

"That can be arranged."

"And I'm not staying in that house," Adam said firmly.

"As you already said."

"I mean it. I won't take one single step inside of it, so don't expect me to. Don't even ask. This isn't something you can agree to now and then retract later when you have me home. I won't be made to remain underfoot, and I won't go back into that house."

Face frozen in an indecipherable expression, Pa didn't readily respond. "Fine," he said eventually, his tone forced. "Anything else? Do you have any other pressing conditions begging to be discussed beforehand?"

Adam pursed his lips thoughtfully. "No," he said. "But I'll let you know if the terms of agreement need to be amended."

Nodding, Pa's eyes glistened with an emotion Adam couldn't readily identify. There was relief in those dark eyes, a hint of pleasure too, but in their depths lurked something else. Adam wasn't certain he knew what it was or that he had ever seen it before. Then, just as quickly as it had arisen, it was gone, quickly dismissed, and hidden completely as Pa tilted his head at the trail peeking up on the brae of the cliff, a silent prompt for his son to follow his lead, first down the trail and then eventually back home.

Silently, Adam followed in his father's footsteps. There would be time for another conversation, the soothing of discontent and unseemly thoughts awoken by their prior argument. There would come a time when the details shared or alluded to during that painful discussion would have to be properly discussed. But that time wasn't now; it wasn't today.

Today had been reserved for something else, the shattering of ill-thought intentions and the slight bending of wills. The time would come for another disagreement, another debate about the danger of keeping secrets and the alleviating power of telling the truth. That conversation wouldn't be today. Or tomorrow. Or even the day after that. And when the time finally did come, Adam knew he'd hold on to his determination, his fear. He wouldn't tell his family anything, because his secrets, his mistakes, weren't for anyone else to know. He would return home and he would try to build a new life. It wouldn't be what he had before. It wouldn't be what he wanted or hoped for, but it would be fine. It would be something, and something was always better than nothing.

Wasn't it?

Riding home in the company of his father, Adam was suddenly painfully uncertain.

Xx

Grinding his jaw, Adam cringed painfully as he struggled to suppress a groan.

His efforts were wasted, his determination faltering as he felt the sharp needle pierce his scalp. A deep groan escaped his throat; he pulled his head away from the item causing him pain and stood swiftly from the stool where he sat only to stare blankly down upon the short man in front of him. Regret overcame him immediately. He hadn't meant to stand. Surely, if he would have taken a second and thought about the benefits of remaining in place or pulling away, he would have decided upon the former. The action had been impulsive, an impetuous demand made by his body rather than brain.

The wound on his head had been left unattended for too long after his scar was reopened. A mixture of blood, fresh and new, had clung to the sides of the open skin and his hair, leaving it in a congealed, matted mess. Cleaning the area, preparing both sides of the area to be sewn back together had been incredibly painful. Now clean, the skin was red, puckered, and raw. Each time it was moved, held together by Hop Sing's careful fingers in preparation of pressing the needle through, it awoke a startling amount of pain. Beginning beneath the area of the wound, the throbbing sting extended, enveloping the side of Adam's head and neck with a pain so powerful he wasn't certain it would ever be calmed.

"Sit," Hop Sing ordered firmly, looking between Adam and the empty stool. "More move, more hurt. Sit."

The tips of Hop Sing's fingers were red, colored with the fresh blood oozing from the head wound. The sharp needle he held and the line of thread trailing from its end were either too small, too dark, or held too far away for their bloodstains to be seen. The stains were there—Adam was sure of that, just as he was sure if he sat, he would only stand again, his legs moving beneath him despite his determination otherwise. It was a shameful realization, one which prompted more annoyance than anything else. He should have been able to endure the treatment; he should be able to sit for as long as necessary without fidgeting like a child.

Inhaling deeply, he looked at the stool, expelled a hearty sigh, and resigned himself to the inevitable.

"Sit," Hop Sing repeated.

Grinding his jaw, Adam did what he was told.

"I can hold you down if you want," a familiar voice interjected from across the room.

Gaze locking upon the entrance to the bunkhouse, Adam found Hoss. Leaning against the doorframe, his younger brother's arms were crossed as he appraised the situation thoughtfully.

"Might help," Hoss added.

"Might not," Adam scoffed as he allowed Hop Sing to tilt his head to the side. The movement intensified the pounding reverberating through his skull, but his brother was a welcome distraction.

"Won't know unless you try."

"I think I'll try on my own, thank you."

"I don't know. That independent streak of yours didn't seem to do you any good the last couple of days. Older brother, I thought you said you weren't going to be made to come home."

"Yeah, well, Pa's awfully convincing when he wants to be."

Hoss grinned. "Ain't he, though?"

Back becoming ridged, Adam cringed as he felt Hop Sing press the needle into his skin once more.

"Still," Hop Sing whispered, the instruction coming as he finally pushed the needle through.

"I'm tryin'," Adam groaned under his breath. He was tired, the pain in his head too powerful to be ignored. It was moving down his shoulders now, spreading into his upper back.

"It wouldn't hurt so much if you just relaxed," Hoss said. "The way I see it, pain is always a lot worse when you think too much about how it's gonna feel beforehand. In fact, I think that goes for a lot of things. How'd he do it?"

"How did who do what?" Adam asked.

"How did Pa get you to come home?"

"How does Pa get anyone to do anything?"

"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes he talks, sometimes he yells, and sometimes he outsmarts you altogether. Which one worked on you?"

"I'm not in the habit of disclosing my weaknesses."

"Or your secrets," Hoss countered, his smile faltering. "Keeping things private hasn't worked out too great for you lately, either."

The pounding in Adam's head intensified. "You come out here to tell me that?" he asked.

"Nope. I came out here to tell you something else. Pa had me and Joe take turns pulling those matchsticks again. This time Little Joe lost."

"What did you win?"

"Nothing I didn't already have. I get to keep sleepin' in my nice comfy bed in the house. Joe is gonna be your new bunkmate."

Given earlier events, Adam was neither surprised nor particularly upset. Although Pa had respected their agreement not to force him back into the house, Adam hadn't truly expected his father to leave him to sleep alone. Not after what he had seen. Not after what happened at the cliff. Though it was a term that they hadn't discussed, it was one Adam both easily accepted and understood. Still, if being relieved of the duty of bunking with him in the building normally reserved for housing hired hands was being considered by Hoss as winning, then he couldn't help wondering if Joe perceived it as losing.

"What does Joe think about that?" Adam asked.

"He ain't happy," Hoss said. "That's why I'm tellin' you about it now. He ain't gonna be good company, at least not this first night. Of course, you ain't exactly been great company as of late either, so maybe your poor moods will allow the two of you to get along."

"Or make us fight."

Hoss shook his head. "Little Joe ain't gonna fight with you," he said. "Not now. Not anymore. He might ignore you completely, but he ain't gonna start a fight."

"Why?" Adam snorted. "Because he's afraid of being yelled at again by Pa."

"No, sir. Because he's afraid of yelling at you. You know, Adam, just because you want to forget the way things were around here not too long ago, the state you were in and how delicately we had to treat you, that don't mean the rest of us don't remember. Just because you've decided you're ready to move forward that don't mean the rest of us are ready to follow you down that trail. Like I told you before, lots of things around here have been broken. We're all tryin' to figure the future out."

Hoss was quiet for a moment, his face contorting thoughtfully as he chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes scanning the sparse contents of the room.

Intended for use by rotating company, the building wasn't set up for long-term lodging. It provided the minimum of comforts to its tenants: four walls around them, a roof overhead, and cot for sleeping. It wasn't much, but, for Adam, it was more than enough. It wasn't a barn and it wasn't the house where Del's ghost lingered. It provided him somewhere peaceful to be; it gave him someplace to belong.

"I am happy you're here," Hoss said. "Just so you know. I'm happy that whatever Pa said to you, it was enough to get you to come home. Joe's happy, too. Although it may not seem like it when you see him. This is a new trail for all of us. The landscape is different from what we're used to, so Joe, me, and Pa, we might be a little hesitant, slow to start and follow. But we are trusting you to be strong enough to lead us from here. We all have faith you can be stronger than you have been as of late."

Though Adam wanted to respond, he couldn't seem to find the proper thing to say. It didn't matter; having said his peace, Hoss wasn't interested in continuing the conversation. Uncrossing his arms, he pulled himself off the doorframe and left with a parting nod.

Adam and Hop Sing were quiet for a while. Adam was too busy mulling over his brother's statements to give conversation or the pain in his head further thought. Had Pa disclosed the shadow figure to his brothers? With the way Hoss has spoken it didn't seem likely. But why would he keep it a secret? Why, if he wasn't the one bunking with Adam, keeping out a watchful eye for the figure's return, wouldn't he disclose the threat?

The answer was as glaring as the question.

Oddly, Pa didn't see the shadow as a threat. He saw it as something else. A facilitator of sorts, something or someone who was trying to help rather than hurt. With the way the figure made him feel when it overcame him, overwhelming him with pain, dread, and fear, Adam wasn't certain he could agree with his father's theory. The shadow may not have tried to push him off the edge of the cliff, but it had put him there, perfectly aligning him to take a horrible misstep.

He was fortunate his father had been there. He was fortunate his father's love and loyalty had endured throughout a lot of things. During the time that came before the desert and the time that came after. The night he took Frank Mitchel's life and the punishment that had been allotted for his crime. Pa hadn't been required to travel with him to that asylum and he hadn't needed to linger outside of it, waiting seemingly indefinitely to set eyes upon his son again. But he had. Throughout all those things, Pa's love had never faltered. He had never changed. It was Adam's opinion of his father's love that had changed. It was his kinship with Kane that had cemented this opinion rather than facilitated it.

"He won't love you," the memory of Kane's words rose from the recess of Adam's memory. "When he finds out what happened, he'll condemn you instead. That's what you're really afraid of. That's why you've drawn me closer and closer to you. It isn't taking responsibility or having people know what has taken place that you fear. It's losing your father and the way in which he sees you. In his eyes, you are righteous, noble, and strong. So steadfast in your strength, in your opinions of right and wrong. He never worried about you breaking. He never worried about you putting yourself in a situation that would threaten your safety or wellbeing. He never worried about you being foolish or short sided, but you were and it changed everything. This all started with your best friends but it ended with you. Now they're gone and you're still here, holding on to your secret, never daring to speak of it for fear that it might irrevocably change someone else."

During their argument, Pa had alluded he already knew the secret Adam was keeping. At the time, Adam had been threatened by the notion. Now he knew the statement had been a lie, carefully told in effort to coax him into telling his weighted truth. Pa didn't know—Adam was sure of this now. He wouldn't be acting so kindly toward him if he did. He would be heartbroken; he would be asking more questions than he was. He would want to know how such a thing could happen and how Adam could live with himself now that it had. The truth was Adam couldn't, that's why his life had become what it had.

"You missing in night," Hop Sing said quietly. Abandoning the needle in a bowl filled with water, he began to wash the blood from his hands. "Brothers worry."

"I know," Adam said.

"Father worry."

"I know."

"Hop Sing worry, too."

Pressing his lips together, Adam looked at Hop Sing wearily. "I'm sorry," he said.

Hop Sing shrugged indifferently. The apology was as unnecessary as the conversation. "Hop Sing understand," he said. "Things difficult, make afraid, hard to stay in place with fear." He nodded firmly. "Hop Sing understand. You talk to father, make understand, too."

Adam took a long look around their surroundings. "I think he already understands. After all, I'm out here, aren't I?"

"Father understand little… You make understand more."

"He understands plenty."

Shaking his head, Hop Sing's expression became stern. "Not enough," he said quietly.

"Enough," Adam said firmly, the word meant to both counter Hop Sing's opinion and end their conversation.

Hop Sing dried his hands, then he reached for a paintbrush and a vat of ink he had set on the small table next to the bowl of water and towels. Once clean, they were all ruined now; splotches of crimson had seeped into the linens, the liquid contained by the bowl had been dyed red by blood.

Lost in thought, Adam couldn't pull his attention away from the bowl and the towels; he couldn't believe how much he had bled. He couldn't reconcile having reopened his scar, his insistent scratching resurrecting and deepening a wound that had healed. If he wouldn't have done that, if he wouldn't have allowed his fear to force him to move his hand and finger in such a way, the scar he had had might have one day faded, leaving behind only the smallest of linear hints. Now, he didn't know what it would eventually look like, or if it would ever truly heal. His fear had prompted him to do that. To touch a scar better left alone. To poke and dig until he hurt himself further. There was a metaphor in this action, he was sure of it. A way to liken what giving into his fear of the shadow had done to his head to the way he was allowing his fear of telling the truth to tear at his heart. But like the scar, he didn't want to look at it. He wasn't yet ready to see the truth.

Dipping the paintbrush in the ink, Hop Sing reached for Adam's hand.

"Wait," Adam said. "Don't. Those symbols don't work anymore. They didn't do anything to keep the shadow away. Del's inside the house and I'm out here, so I won't need them."

Hop Sing stared at Adam blankly. "Good."

"Good? How is that good? I just told you that something that used to protect me doesn't work anymore."

"Symbols not meant to protect," Hop Sing said simply.

"What?"

"Only meant to make feel better. Words meaningless. Only work in fight against spirit because you make work. You believe words strong, make you feel strong. Only you really strong."

"You wrote nothing on my hands?" Adam said, his voice flat. The revelation was disheartening. Surely, Hop Sing had had the best of intentions but the truth made him feel like he had been played for a fool. How long had lived with those paintings on the backs of his hands? With the Chinese text staining his bedroom door? All of it meaningless in his fight, eternally declaring his fear to those around him.

"Not nothing," Hop Sing disagreed as he reached for Adam's hands. "Strong," he explained lifting the left one. "Good," he said as he lifted the right. "Real words."

Pulling his hands away, Adam didn't know what to say. The only words that seemed intent on springing to his tongue were decidedly unkind. It was best not to allow them to be voiced. He would regret them later, and he already harbored enough regret. His hand found the carved pendant still hanging loyally around his neck, the tip of his index finger absently rubbing the indents in the wood. He didn't want to ask; he was certain he didn't want to be privy to what the symbol in the wood really meant.

Carefully eyeing the pendant, Hop Sing smiled. "Brave," he said. Picking up the paint brush once more, he dipped into the vat of ink, then reached for Adam's left hand. "Strong," he said as he crafted the familiar symbol. Letting go of the marked hand, he nodded in approval as he reached for the other. "Good," he said as he drew. "Words no protect. Words remind."

Moving his hands to awkwardly clench his kneecaps, Adam sighed, his throat suddenly tight with emotion. "Oh, Hop Sing," he whispered. "I'm not any of those things. I used to be, but I'm not anymore. I'm weaker than I am strong; I'm so afraid that I'm not sure I remember what being brave feels like. I'm not a good person. I was, but I'm not anymore."

"You same," Hop Sing assured firmly. "You feel… pain…guilt… sadness because of mistake. That make you same. You never hurt because of past, because of mistake, then you change. You hurt, you same."

"Then why do I feel so different? Things used to be easy and now even the easiest things are difficult. I used to have a direction; I used to know exactly what to do and when to do it, and now I'm lost. I don't know where I'm going. I don't want to remember where I've been."

"Too many voices in ear. Some seen, some not. Family, spirit, evil, good. You listen voices long time. You no listen to self. Silence voices, hear self. Not changed. Same."

"I want to believe you."

"Time," Hop Sing said as though he understood.

He did—Adam was sure of that. Though the smaller man wasn't privy to much more than the rest of his family, Adam was certain Hop Sing had always had a deep understanding of his struggles and pain. Maybe it was the difference of culture that made him more sensitive, perceptive, and respectful of supernatural forces and things beyond explanation. Or maybe it was something else. Whatever it was Adam was certain Hop Sing understood more than anyone else ever would or could.

"Time pass," Hop Sing continued. "Then understand. After understand come belief. Take time." He lifted his hand, indicating at the symbols he had drawn on the backs of Adam's own. "Time make see. Words remind. No different, same."

Tears gathering in his eyes, the lump in Adam's throat prevented him from pursuing the conversation further. Lifting his long-sleeve covered arm, he wiped the tears that had begun to trickle down his cheeks. He didn't want to use his hands and risk smudging the ink that had been carefully placed.

Laying on the cot furthest away from the entrance to the small building, the one he had chosen to be his own, Adam thought about the words and voices surrounding him long after Hop Sing was gone.

Pa came in a little while later. In his hands he held two items. One Adam had predicted his father would ensure he was given and the other he had assumed he would take back.

"Comfortable?" Pa asked as he approached the cot.

Adam shrugged. Like the rest of the building, the thin mattress where he lay was far from luxurious. Still, it was better than the ground. It would support his weight, keep him dry, and warm. While it wasn't nearly as comfortable as his bed in the house, it would do its job well, and that was enough for now.

"Good choice," Pa said as scanned the distance between the door and his son approvingly.

"Yeah, well, it'll be warmer back here at night."

"And the floorboards in this building echo; the other cots between here and the door can be troublesome to avoid in the dark. Being back here there's less chance of you leaving the building without being heard."

"That too."

"Speaking of being heard, I talked to Little Joe. He's going to be bunking with you for the next few days."

"So, I was told."

Pa looked surprised. "By Joe?"

Adam shook his head. "Hoss."

"Ah."

"He said Joe wasn't happy about it."

"He's not. That boy has always been quick to tantrum and cool. He'll get over it. He always does."

"Maybe he shouldn't be forced to. I'm the oldest, he's the youngest. It's not right that he should be asked to look after me. Especially now that I'm capable of looking after myself."

Pa's brow furrowed, his lips forming a slight frown. "You best not repeat those words to Joe," he warned. "It would be in the best interest of both of you to avoid repeating conversations you've already had, especially when they surround such traumatic events."

The warning itself was a disclosure, the careful acknowledging of something Adam wasn't aware had been shared. "Joe told you about the dreams I had before Eastgate," he said quietly. It wasn't a question; it didn't need to be. The expression on his father's face was a declaration of the truth.

"He did," Pa said.

"What else did you tell you about that trip?"

"Is there anything else he should have told me?"

Mouth hanging open, Adam didn't reply. There was. Some of those events had already been exposed. The detail of Adam leaving Joe behind after being asked to remain had been shared with Pa by Adam himself, and now he knew Joe had shared some of what he had said. There was more to speak of. Of course, there was. If Joe hadn't spoken of those things, then he wasn't going to either. The drive to Eastgate had been a nightmare—in more ways than one.

"I see," Pa said. This response, so purposeful and calm, left Adam feeling like a child who had been witnessed doing wrong but was too afraid to admit what was already known. "You should be careful with your youngest brother, Adam. Don't think for a single instant that those events don't still weigh heavy upon his heart. He tried to help you after your nightmares and you refused to allow him to. He asked you to stay with him in Eastgate and you left anyway."

"Did you tell him about the shadow?" Adam asked, the glaring detail suddenly outweighing all the rest. "Did you tell him it comes over me? That it can take me places I don't want to go."

"No. That's something I thought better left up to you. Given everything that's happened between you and Joe, you best tell him soon."

"You're forcing me into telling him the truth."

"I am not forcing you to do anything," Pa said. "Not anymore. That was part of the agreement, remember? You want independence, then you can no longer lean on me to communicate things to your brothers you'd rather not discuss with them directly. I do hope you discuss this with Joe sooner rather than later. He's not going to tolerate you walking away from him again, even if it isn't by your own volition. The recent past has left its mark on all of us. What the future holds is mystery, but it should come as no surprise that you have a lot to make up for, especially when it comes to Joe."

They were the harshest words Pa had dared to say to him in a while. They were hard to listen to, their truth as glaring as the reason they had been said. Adam had wanted room to sort things out on his own; he had wanted to be treated and respected as a man. He wanted to make his own decisions. Though his method seemed harsh at first, Pa was only doing what had been asked of him, holding strong to the deal they had made on the edge of the cliff.

Adam looked at the dark, symbols staining the backs of his hands. One declared he was strong and the other good; he still wasn't certain he was either of those things but that didn't mean he couldn't try to be both things. He could try to tell Joe the truth about the shadow. To make up for the things he had said and done on the way to Eastgate.

"I have some things for you," Pa said, drawing attention to the items he held in his hands. Extending the book, he placed it on the end of his makeshift bed. "I thought you might want to finish that. I've marked the page where we last left off."

The second item wasn't as easy for Pa to present. Holding Adam's holster tightly, there was a hint of hesitance in his dark eyes as his expression shifted, settling somewhere between apprehension and irritation.

"I'm not ready for you to have this," he said. "I don't like the idea of you having a gun strapped to your side. I don't like that Hoss took it upon himself to return it to you. And don't think the time is right for you to have it back. But I am old enough to realize that what a man likes or even thinks aren't always complementary to what he knows. I know the time has come for you to redefine your place in this world. I know I won't always be there to protect you while you do. I know you cannot walk alone in this territory unarmed."

Pa extended the gun in offering and patiently waited for it to be accepted.

Adam didn't reach for it. He hadn't wanted the gun before and he didn't want it now. He had been careful not to strap it around his waist after his brother left him to pace at the Silver Dollar alone. Abandoning it on the ground, he wasn't sure he had ever intended to pick it up again. The responsibility of having it was too crushing, too crippling to endure amongst everything else he struggled with.

"I know you're not ready either," Pa said, his voice softening with understanding. "I know having this gun in your possession is going to make you uncomfortable. The responsibility of it is going to feel a whole lot heavier than it ever has before. But you have to take it, and you have to be careful with it when you do. You can't pick and choose what you want to do, son. You want independence, you want to be treated like a rational man, then you have to be willing to shoulder all the responsibilities that come with it. You can't stand on your own while depending on me or your brothers to protect you. Like I said, I'm not comfortable and neither are you, but we came to an agreement earlier today. I have to hold myself to my word, and so do you."

Looking down, Adam's eyes found the symbols on his hands again. He was now certain the words written no longer had anything to do with him. He wasn't good and he wasn't strong, but that didn't mean he couldn't try to be. Just because he didn't feel the words were applicable to him now that didn't mean that one day they wouldn't be. He would never know for certain until he really tried.

Squaring his chin, he looked up again, his eyes meeting those of his father as he reached out and finally accepted the gun.

"I want you to promise me…" Pa said, beginning a statement he was destined to never finish.

"You don't have to worry," Adam interrupted, his voice firm despite his overwhelming doubts. The gun belt felt heavy, the smooth, worn leather startlingly cool against his skin. Maybe if he held it tight enough, long enough too, it would feel right in his hand. Maybe the weight would lessen. Maybe it never would. "I promise," he added. Maybe if he said the words with enough determination and resolve then Pa would be able to believe them. Maybe he would come to believe them himself.

Pa stared at him for several long seconds, his face frozen in an indecipherable mask. "Have you given it any thought yet?" he asked.

"What?"

"Where will that shadow take you next?"

Adam shook his head. He hadn't. Returning home in the company of his father, there had been too many other things to think of first. Which building was he going to sleep in? What cot he was going to choose? The throbbing pain reverberating through his head, the scar he had violently opened and transformed into a gaping wound. His conversation with Hoss, the one with Hop Sing. The symbols written on his hands, reflecting words that did not describe him well. If he was forced to pick more truthful declarations, a pair of words to be written on his body for the world to see, his choices wouldn't have aligned with Hop Sing's. They would have been akin to the things Ross and Delphine's ghosts had told him was: weak, liar, coward. These things always hurt to hear; while no else had ever dared say them, it didn't make them any less true. Adam knew couldn't be described by the words Hop Sing had written. They had nothing to do with him now.

"Talk to Little Joe," Pa implored. "Tell him about that shadow yourself before it comes back and takes you somewhere else."

"How can you be so calm?" Adam asked. "Why aren't you more worried than you are?"

"I'm plenty worried."

"You don't seem worried."

"And what would you have me do? How should I act in order to make my true feelings known? Force you into the house? Keep you in constant sight and underfoot in effort to contend with something that can't be avoided or changed? I've done those things, Adam. They don't work. My feelings about you, my love and fear for you, have not changed. They are as powerful as they have ever been. But I have accepted that I am not the one who can fix the current situation. What happens now isn't up to me. I've done what I can. I've brought you home, kept you as close as reasonably possible. Though I can protect you from others, I can't protect you from yourself. You're in control of what the future brings. Not me. Not Del's ghost. Not that shadow."

"You make it sound simple," Adam said. "It's not."

"I know it's difficult. But, Adam, son, you are strong and brave; you are a good man. You've always made respectable decisions in the past and taken responsibility for your actions when you haven't. I have faith that eventually you will remember who you are and what you stand for and when that day finally comes, you will be able to accept the truth in your heart. You'll stop punishing yourself and you'll be ready to alleviate yourself from the ghosts of the past. A man's mistakes do not have to define him; one horrible decision does not make a good man bad."

"It wasn't just one," Adam said impulsively. He could no more control the first admission than the one that followed. "I've made so many more than that. Del, she knows all of them, that's why she won't leave me alone. Ross knew them, too. He used them to torture me. And Kane used every single of them to lure me into that desert. You think you know me, Pa. You think you know what's in my heart and mind because we've been walking alongside each other for so long. But you don't. You don't really know me at all, because I've been careful about what I let you see, and what I don't. I'm not a good man. I wish I were, but I'm not."

If Pa was shocked by the quiet outburst, he showed no indication. "Son," he said calmly, "I don't believe a word of what you just said, and someday, when you finally allow the pain within your heart to ebb and you forgive yourself for what happened between you, Ross, and Delphine then I know you won't believe it either."

"You speak like you know what you're talking about, but you don't, because if you did then you wouldn't be standing in front of me. You wouldn't be talking to me at all. You would be so disappointed. You would see me for what I really am."

"And what really are you?" Pa asked gently. "Just what exactly is it you believe I can't see? What is the mistake you don't want to own up to for fear of losing more than you already have?"

"When we were arguing earlier you said you already knew." Adam shook his head. "You don't."

"Then tell me."

"No."

"Why? Because someone told you not to talk about it?"

It was too apt of a question not to be purposefully prompted. "What makes you ask that?" Adam asked.

"When I caught hold of you on the edge of the cliff, you said Kane made you believe I wouldn't be able to save you. What else did he make you believe?"

"Nothing."

"I don't believe that."

"It doesn't matter what you believe."

"Yes, it does. If my opinion of you didn't matter then you wouldn't be so desperate to conceal the truth."

"I'm not desperate."

"Then what are you? What is the point of all this struggle and pain? Why are you so intent on punishing yourself? Ross is gone, Kane has left you. Delphine's spirit may be rooted inside of our house, but there is no one accompanying you out here. There is no one whispering in your ears, prompting you to do anything."

"The shadow makes me do things," Adam disagreed.

"I am talking about right here in this building, right now at this very moment. There is no one else in this room. It's just you, me and two truths you want so badly not to think about. One is false, but you're convinced it's true. The other is true, but you believe it to be false. You don't want to consider either of these things, but you should."

"You don't know what you're talking about. You think you do, but you don't."

"Then tell me. Make me understand."

Adam shook his head, his fear stubborn and enduring. Pa didn't want to know the truth, not really. It was an easy thing to request to be privy to; once shared it was nearly impossible to endure.

"Think about it," Pa said. "The shadow and your pain, where you're headed and where you've been. When you are ready to talk about those things, I will be here to listen." Extending his hand, he grasped Adam's shoulder and squeezed tight. "If you're not ready to talk to me, then at least talk to Joe," he added, his voice deepening with seriousness. "Take the opportunity that has been presented to you. Tell him about the shadow before it comes again and he sees it himself. Tell him the truth about that figure before it comes in the night and he decides upon his own."

Xx

Joe joined his brother in the bunkhouse just before dark. He was in a poor mood. This Adam knew by his brother's lack of greeting and the tired expression upon his face. Joe picked the cot closest to the door. It was as far away from his oldest brother as he could possibly be while remaining in the building he had been instructed to sleep.

Pulling his boots off, Joe tossed them haphazardly and they fell on the floor, sending twin thuds to echo throughout the small room. He removed his belt, pulled the bottom of his shirt from the inside of his pants, and laid down. Arms lifted, elbows bent, he placed his palms between the back of his head and pillow as he stared at the exposed wooden beams lining the ceiling of the building.

Laying on his back on his cot across the room, Adam's eyes darted between the pages of the book in his hands and his younger brother. He was neither surprised nor intimidated by his youngest brother's silence or his palpable frustration. Given Hoss's previous warning, he had expected the air between him and Joe to be tense. Being faced with Joe's disgruntlement was oddly comforting and welcome. It was nice to know that despite recent history, his youngest brother thought him strong enough to endure his hostility over being forced to spend the night away from his own bed—even if it wasn't verbally expressed.

They pretended to ignore each other for a while. Joe's attention remained rooted on the ceiling, Adam's on his book as they both snuck covert glances at one another from the corners of their eyes. Neither of them seemed to know what to say to the other. Adam knew the feelings his hesitation was born from and he thought he understood the cause of Joe's.

"How long are you gonna let this go on for, Adam?" Joe asked. "How much more time is gonna pass before you decide it's time to tell the real truth?"

Adam's brows furrowed. "What?" he asked.

His brother's sudden question conflicted with his assumptions about the moment, the tension between them and their prolonged silence. He thought Joe was riled, irritated over being expected to guard over him for the night; he never thought it could be due to something else. He didn't want it to be. Adam would gladly endure their oppressive silence forever if it meant neither of them ever had to draw attention to the past; Joe could have remained angry at him for eternity if it meant he never had to speak to him that he was. There was a distinct sadness in Joe's tone of voice, a gentle edge that teased something much worse than anger. Things like sorrow and pity, distinct emotions that could only be awoken by knowledge of a very specific truth.

"I've been working at that timber camp," Joe said. "Your camp, the one Pa gave you a long time ago so that you would want to come home after college. The one you gave me on the way to Eastgate when you knew damn-well you weren't planning on coming back."

Pulling himself to sit on the edge of his cot, Joe placed his feet on the floor and set his gaze between them. It was not lost on Adam that his younger brother was refusing to look him in the eyes. Joe didn't know the truth Adam thought, needing so badly to contend with the anxiety threatening to overcome him. Did he? No, he couldn't. It was too carefully hidden to ever be stumbled upon. It was too unlikely for anyone ever to deduce with theoretical thought.

Running his hands through his hair in an overwhelmed manner, Joe was painfully hesitant to speak again. Though eventually he continued. "I've been working at that timber camp," he repeated as though the answer was enough to explain all he was too troubled to voice.

It wasn't. Because it simply could not be. It just wasn't possible for Joe to know what he was clumsily alluding to—what Adam was so fearful of anyone knowing. He could be referring to any number of other things.

"What do you think you know?" Adam asked carefully. Talk to Joe, Pa had said. It was either a purposeful prompt or careful warning of what was to come. Tell him the truth before he decides upon it himself. "And how do you think you know it?"

Taking a deep breath, Joe refused to look up. "Hoss doesn't know you gave me that camp, neither does Pa. I never did tell the two of them you gave it to me. After we found you wandering the desert there never seemed to be a right time to tell them without adding to their worry over you. And now…" Hesitating, he cringed as he turned his gaze upon the room. "Well, now I know there ain't gonna ever be a right time. Before I was trying hard to protect them, and now, I think, I'm trying my damndest to protect you."

"Joe—"

"No." Joe cast Adam a serious gaze. "I don't think you should say anything, not yet. Just let me get this shit out; let me say what I need to and then you can decide how you feel about it and what you want to do."

Adam's anxiety was electric now, enveloping his body in a maddening buzz. His skin felt hot, his chest tight with dread and apprehension. Joe didn't know the truth, he reminded himself. He didn't because he couldn't. He didn't know. Nobody could know.

"I've been working at that camp," Joe repeated for a third time. "I've been walking in your footsteps, doing my best to fill the space you left empty. Some days it's hard, others it feels impossible, but I do it, because it's for you. Hoss, he doesn't really like spending time up there. It makes him miss you; it reminds him too much of how things once were. He doesn't like being up there. I think he feels guilty delegating so much of that workload to me, asking me to take on more than he's willing to. His feelings about that camp are convenient, really. It's made it easier for me to take it on like you wanted without having to tell anyone the truth about you walking away from it. You see, all that time that passed between that drive to Eastgate and when you killed Frank Mitchel, that's the secret I thought I was keeping safe for you. The gift of that camp from you to me."

"And now?" Adam didn't want to ask—God knew he didn't—but he had to know where the conversation was headed. If his younger brother's words were carefully chosen or haphazardly aimed to spontaneously hit upon a glimmer of the truth.

"And now I know there's another. I'm sorry, brother, if you didn't want anyone to know what happened up there then you should have hidden it better."

Heartbeat thudding in his ears, Adam felt as though he couldn't breathe, the air from his chest knocked so completely out of him by the expression on his baby brother's face.

"I found your liquor bottles," Joe continued. "I always knew those men up in that camp were drinkers, but apparently for a time, you were the worst of the whole lot. Which is funny because after you burned the Silver Dollar to the ground, after you got sick and came home, you let the rest of us believe you had quit drinking hard. We thought your drinking got better. Now I know it only got worse."

"I didn't get better," Adam said. There was no point in denying it. It was the only thing that had provided any kind of reprieve from Ross's ghost—as fleeting and temporary as it was. "I just got better at hiding what I was doing."

"You stayed in that camp a lot back then, spending your days working your body to death and your nights in a bottle. You couldn't do either of those things at home, not in front of Pa, not in front of us. That's why you went up there. You stayed up there for long periods of time. Somewhere during that time, you hired Frank Mitchel. I didn't really understand why back then. It didn't make a whole lot of sense why you would go out of your way to bring on a man that you hated so much."

"Oh, I hated him, Joe. Don't you think for a single second that my feelings toward him ever went away."

"Even so, the anger you had toward Frank wasn't enough to kill him. Not back then. Not at first. That kind of hatred came later, didn't it?"

It was more statement than question, carefully crafted and so gently asked. It was the asking of the question that verified Joe was keenly aware of what he was talking about. And, suddenly, Adam knew his brother knew everything. His secret. His lies. Everything he had tried so hard to keep to himself. Joe knew; and now everything between them was going to be forever changed.

"Nobody told me," Joe said sadly. "Just you know. I don't think anybody else up there knows. I didn't go looking to discover what I did. It just… happened. I've been spending a lot of time at that camp, just like you used to. Hours. Days. The occasional night. The first time I slept on that cot it was so uncomfortable. I spent the whole night tossing and turning; I couldn't seem to find any peace. The next time I found myself sleeping upon it, I was determined to make it better somehow, anyhow. I flipped it, and… that's when I saw the bloodstain. I didn't understand it at first, believe me, I didn't. It didn't make sense to me until the moment it finally did."

Opening his mouth, Adam found himself without a reply. There was nothing to say.

"I saw the stain," Joe continued, "hidden and oddly placed on the underside of that mattress. I started thinking about you and all the time you spent up at that camp. There were weeks when the rest of us hardly saw you, and then, suddenly, out of nowhere, you were home again. You went from spending most of your time up there to none at all. It wasn't long after you came back when you started having nightmares. Yellin' and screamin' like nothing I've ever heard. You asked me to keep them a secret, Adam. At the time I didn't understand why."

"And you understand now," Adam scoffed, the statement made thick by the tightening of his throat.

"Oh, God," Joe whispered tearfully. "I don't want to, but think I do. You didn't kill Frank Mitchel because some ghost told you to. You may be haunted, you may see, hear, and feel things that the rest of us can't. Ross may have wanted you to hire that man and take his life, but in the end, you didn't kill Frank because of that. You killed him for yourself."

Adam stared at his brother numbly. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so careful to hide so many things and not dispose of the most glaring evidence? When did Joe get so intelligent? So worldly? So able to glean truth from the most minute of evidence?

The bloodstain on the mattress wasn't minute. It was obvious and glaring—Adam knew that and that's why he had attempted to hide it. He had flipped it over so it wouldn't be easily seen. He should have dragged it out into the trees and burned it. He had thought about doing that way back when, but he hadn't wanted to draw attention to himself. He hadn't wanted to give the events that had led to the stain proper consideration for fear of how it would lead him to feel. He hadn't wanted to give Frank Mitchel the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he had been hurt.

"Yeah, well, I shouldn't have," he said.

Standing, Adam refused to look anywhere other than the door. Long, purposeful strides took him to it quickly. He couldn't bear to look at his younger brother, to sit in place and speak about the past any longer than he already had. His breaths were coming too quickly now, the tightness in his throat promising that the tears filling his eyes wouldn't be hastened or stopped. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to be anywhere other than where he was.

"Where are you going?" Joe asked.

"Outside. I need some air."

"Hold on, I'll go with you."

"No. You said what you wanted to, now just let me be for a while."

Stepping in the cold night air, Adam was surrounded by darkness. He stood still for a moment, trying, and failing to regain control over his panic, dread, and grief. There was no stopping the emotions now; he had controlled them for as long as he could.

Lifting his hands, he embedded his fingers into his hair, his quiet sobs trickling into the darkness surrounding him. Though they were quiet now, he knew they wouldn't remain that way for long. He needed to move if he didn't want to be heard. If he didn't want anyone else to know what Joe knew then he needed to do something different than what he currently was.

He set a wayward gaze on his surroundings, squinting his eyes to see past the tears blurring his vision. He didn't know what he was looking for, or what he was expecting to find. His eyes caught on a flickering in the immediate distance, the sight of an oil lamp burning steadily, illuminating his father's bedroom window in a warm inviting glow. I'm here, that light in the window declared, ready and willing to listen to whatever you need to say.

Adam didn't think as his feet began to move beneath him, quickly closing the gap between where he stood and where he so suddenly wanted to be. It wasn't until he reached the front door of the house that he hesitated. It wasn't until his hand took hold of the doorknob and clenched it tight that began to really think about his actions, what walking inside the house sobbing would mean or do.

He couldn't seek out his father looking and feeling this way, and he couldn't bear the thought of facing Delphine or the baby. He couldn't comprehend sharing with anyone the feelings prompting his tears. He couldn't endure another conversation like that he just shared with Joe. He couldn't stand the thought of anyone else knowing a truth he could hardly tolerate himself. He stood there a moment longer, frozen in place by sheer emotion, the chest-wracking sobs he was trying so hard to keep quiet. He didn't want to be heard or seen. Not now. Not like this.

But it was too late to hope for such a foolish thing now.

There were footsteps behind the door, warning of someone's approach. Closing his eyes, Adam took a shuddering breath, hoping and praying softness of the footsteps would spontaneously change, the weight of them transforming the person on the other side of the door. It was such a foolish thing to hope for now. He hadn't been seen, but he had been heard.

"What are you going to do?" Delphine's ghost hissed gleefully from behind the wood. "Everyone's going to know the truth now. There's no hiding it. Little Joe knows; it's only a matter of time before the weight of it becomes too much and he tells your father and then they're both going to know how weak and cowardly you really are. They're gonna know you lied. What are you going to do now? Tell another lie about me? Or are you finally going to summon the courage to tell the truth about my husband? Oh, that's right," she said with mock understanding, "You don't know about that. Or at least, your father believes you don't know about it, and you'll never tell him the truth now, because you're a sniveling coward who would rather go die in a desert than face the truth. And to think, your pa always was so worried about your drinking. The bad things that could happen to you. The horrible things that someone could…"

Adam couldn't bear to listen anymore. Letting go of the doorknob, he turned around, his steady stride taking him further and further away from the voice behind the door. He didn't know where he was going when he finally disappeared into the dark stretch of pines beyond the immediate ranch yard. He only knew he couldn't return anywhere he had already been.

Xx

Under the cover of darkness, Adam walked.

He didn't know where he was going. He didn't think about the direction in which he was headed, or the location his steps would inevitably take him. Memories surrounded him as he fled into the soaring sturdy pines, voices echoing relentlessly in haunting overlapping whispers.

This don't change anything between us, Frank Mitchel had warned. I ain't ever gonna like you.

I'm sorry, Del's ghost had whispered, reaching out to him to soothe the pain her husband had awoken. She had been so kind at first. Comforting. A beam of light shining brightly in the midst of a storm. I'm sorry I involved you in this. If I could go back, I would.

You're gonna kill Frank Mitchel, Ross's ghost had said. Whether you want to or not. Think of it as atonement for your sins. Think of it as doing now what you couldn't back then.

Tell your father the truth, Elizabeth had said.

Tell me, Pa had said. Make me understand.

I understand, Little Joe had said. I don't want to but I think I do.

We're trusting you, Hoss had said.

I know you're not ready, Pa had said. But you have to be.

How long are you gonna let this go on for? Little Joe had asked.

Shaking his head bitterly, Adam broke into a run. Maybe if he was fast enough, he could silence the voices. Maybe if he moved quick enough, he could forget everything they had once said. He didn't want to remember any of the things being repeated. He had done everything he could to forget.

Perhaps you should spend less time listening to the voices of the dead, Minister Joe had offered.

You're not as moral as you think you are, Ross's ghost used to take such pleasure in reminding him. It's easy to look upon my actions and judge me harshly, but remember you're just as much a sinner as I am. Just because nobody knows what you did, that doesn't make it any more right.

I hate you! Del's ghost had eventually bellowed, her shrill screams interwoven with the sound of her unborn baby's screams. You should have stopped him! You should have stopped yourself! You knew better! You wanted something else, too!

The voices continued whispering, their overlapping chatter seemingly stirring the branches of the trees hanging overhead. Adam ran, struggling to find peace and quiet respite amongst the familiar pines. He ran until his legs grew weak and weary beneath him, until his chest, throbbing with emotion and exertion, felt as though it would explode. Breaths coming in haggard gasps, he finally stopped, lingering in place momentarily before swiftly turning around.

The whispers suddenly ceased, leaving the night air calm and quiet, the branches of the trees still as they surrounded him. He blinked into the darkness, struggling to decipher anything in the night. The moon was noticeably absent from the sky above; there were no stars overhead. The night felt colder and darker without them.

Frozen in place, Adam stood still, his chest heaving with exertion. For a moment, he thought he had been followed; he was convinced more than the echoing of his memories had trailed him through the thick forest. With his surroundings void of any guiding light, it was impossible to truly tell. He was incapable of seeing anything beyond where he stood. He was convinced he wasn't alone; he was sure there was someone—something— lingering in the darkness awaiting the perfect moment to make its presence known.

Had Joe followed him after all? Had someone else? Had the shadow come again to rescue him from another place and moment he desperately wanted to leave?

"Come to me," Kane's voice suddenly whispered through the darkness. Deep and gritty, it sounded much more soothing than it had business to. Snaking through the trees to reach his ears, it didn't sound like memory—although Adam knew, he had dreamed of this invitation before. Still, Kane's voice sounded different than it had in his dreams. Resonating in the air around him and decidedly disembodied, the voice was real. It was as though Kane was actually with him, standing a few paces away where the darkness would not allow him to be seen. "I can help. You don't want to return home and face the truth, I know. Then come to me and we will face it together."

"We never faced anything," Adam said. The comfort of their rapport was odd and curious—even now. Their time together in his dreams and the desert had left them able to speak freely. There was little point in lying to the demon, or pretending. Kane already knew everything; there was no hiding anything from him. "You said you'd help, but you never actually did anything."

"We both know that is not true."

"It is. I came to you. I sought you out because I needed someone. You lured me into the desert with your words and promises. You always knew exactly what to say. But you didn't help me. You made everything worse."

"Oh, what a selective memory you have," Kane laughed. "I would have helped you. Your father intervened, remember? He pulled you away from me; he broke the promise you made, negating the terms of our agreement. I would have given you everything you wanted, Adam, if you would have given me what I wanted first."

"You abandoned me after the desert. You left me to walk this path alone."

"I allowed you to dream of me."

"You embedded yourself in my father's dreams. You spoke to him more often than you spoke to me. You abandoned me in that asylum."

"You abandoned yourself."

"You left me alone to deal with everything when I needed you the most."

"You had the shadow, didn't you?" Kane challenged.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with anything. You have such a selective memory. You remember what you choose to. You silence anything that makes you feel pain, regret, fear, or permanent judgement toward yourself or the people you love. You push it away and ignore it. You tell yourself the things that hurt you most never happened. You can't bear to look at them, so you don't. This is a learned behavior. Something you used as a very young child to protect yourself from the variance of your ever-changing surroundings. You had no one, nothing beyond the stability of your father. He was a much younger man back then, quick to anger, slow to cool. The path the two of you traveled in order to get to where you eventually arrived, the great Ponderosa, land which extends for as far the eyes can see, was a challenging one. Full of pain and heartache, danger, and fear. It was a hell of a way to spend the first few years of your life. And to think, your father wants to remember that time fondly."

"I don't want to remember it at all," Adam admitted.

"Why?"

"Because there's more bad memories than good. Finding Mama was good. Hoss being born was too. But everything that came before or after is… not. It was hard and painful, and Pa… he wasn't always as good of a man he should have been."

"Like father, like son."

"He was hard, sometimes callous and often angry," Adam continued despite Kane's comparison. "He yelled so much. I watched him defend me; I watched him do things to others that I don't think Hoss and Little Joe even know he's capable of. I knew how formable he could be. He always did what was necessary, what he needed to do to keep us safe. As a man, I can look back and see that so clearly…"

"That is assuming you ever choose to look back and see it at all."

"…as a little boy I couldn't see it. I… I was afraid of him."

"You're still afraid of him," Kane said. "That's why you're here, talking so freely to me about all the things you don't feel as though you can bring to him. That was the beginning of your fear. Do want you talk about all the ways in which it has affected your life? Are you finally willing to give voice to the way your fear of your father eventually turned to hatred?"

"I don't hate my father."

"No. You resent him instead."

Adam opened his mouth to refute the statement. No words came. He didn't want to resent his father, to blame him for a past that couldn't be changed now—especially when the life they had obtained because of those early struggles was so abundant and good. He didn't want to resent anyone for the mistakes of their younger days, but sometimes he did.

"Pa changed," Adam said, not knowing who he was trying to convince. "He isn't the same person he was back then. He grew up, too. The stability, the permanence of home and ranch life mellowed him. It softened his gruff edges. It allowed him to be more patient and kind. You can see that with the way he deals with Joe; he's always indulged him in ways I was not allotted."

"You resent that."

"No," Adam said. He didn't. Why on earth would he? Joe was his brother and he loved him. He wanted good things for him. He wanted his life to unfold correctly, for his baby brother to be protected from having to endure unnecessary pain.

"Then tell me what you do resent," Kane prompted.

"Why? So you can use it against me like before?"

"You and I were friends, remember?"

"You were never my friend. I don't know what you were but it wasn't that. Why are you here? Do you have any idea how much time has passed since we last spoke? Do you have any concept of how many times I called out for you to return? I ached for your wisdom, for you to come and lead me. Only now do you finally show yourself. On a night when I haven't cried out for you. When the very secret I trusted your influence to keep has been discovered."

"You need someone," Kane said simply. "Like you did back then. You want a way out; I can give you one."

"Why would I go with you now? What purpose would running away serve?"

"I don't know," Kane chuckled. "Why did you flee from the conversation with your brother?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Adam seethed. "I don't want anyone to know what happened at the camp. It's over, done with. It's nobody's business other than my own."

"You made it everyone's business. It could have stayed secret forever if you hadn't killed Mitchel. If you hadn't done that, then no one would have ever had to know."

"I didn't have a choice. You know I didn't."

"You always had a choice," Kane said. "Just because you don't want to see something that doesn't make it untrue. You ask me why I'm here, it's because the needs you had when we first met are the same as they are now. You don't want to see things as they really are. You don't want to remember the past; you want to run from it. You don't want to look back and see how your own actions, your own stubborn willfulness was the thing that hurt you the most. You want to blame your father for not telling you the truth about Ross Marquette but you don't want to look back and realize why he might have been hesitant to. Your unwillingness to examine the distant past has paralyzed your ability to heal from more recent things; it has left you incapable of negotiating the future. In order to move forward, in order to heal and live a full life, then you must abandon the habits you developed when you were a small child. You must stop being selective with your memories. You must accept them for what they are. You and I both know you won't do that, because running is easier than telling the truth."

Adam cast a wary glance at the sky. There were no stars to be seen, no hint of a moon. He was surrounded by darkness. The voices in his head silenced so suddenly and fully, cast aside by the power of a demon named Kane. If he went to the desert they could be silenced forever.

"What are you going to do?" Kane asked. "You called for me, so many times, you did. I didn't come then, but I am here now. I can take you away. I can hide you in places where you will never be found. There will be pain and torture, sure, but you will never have to speak a word to anyone other than me. Your secrets will be safe. Your brother knows what he does. However, if you go missing again, he'll never share it. You know he won't. He'll keep it to himself forever if it means protecting your memory. He'll do for you what your father did for Ross Marquette."

Adam frowned. It was odd to finally speak to Kane after so much time had passed. To finally be presented with an offer he would have longed to have weeks ago. So much had remained stagnant since the last time Kane had reached out to him, and so much had changed. The shadow figure had become more prominent in his life. His father was aware of it and Little Joe was aware of something else. Was that knowledge enough to threaten him into leaving, again? Was his fear of the past and the future enough to drive him away from both forever?

"I seem to remember another thing you have convinced yourself to forget," Kane said. "I went away because you asked me to. That shadow made itself known in the asylum. You saw it, remembered its existence for the first time since the beginning. You knew what it was back then. You knew what it wanted from you. You knew where it would take you, what it was trying to get you to see. You knew back then and you chose to walk with it over me."

"I did not want that shadow." Adam's frown deepened. He had no memory of choosing one over the other. Of knowing the power of the shadow and picking its desires for him over that of another. "Then why come back?" he demanded. "I called for you before and you didn't come. Why are you here now? I didn't call out to you. I didn't ask you to be here."

"Then why are you here? Standing in the darkness alone. You chose this moment. You could have remained, spoke to your brother further, summoned the courage to tell your father the truth. None of those things would have brought you into contact with Delphine or the baby. Your father would have come outside if you asked him to. You chose to be here. When faced with the truth you chose to run. You remain unwilling to look honestly upon your memories. You are who you are, even after all this time. Some things are destined to never change."

Think about where you're going, Pa had said, the memory emerging from the depths of Adam's mind to contend with Kane's pull. Where you've been and where you want to be. 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.

"But what if things can't change?" Adam asked, the question a nearly inaudible whisper. "What if all there is to look forward to is this?"

Kane laughed deeply, seemingly finding intense hilarity in the very thought.

Face contorting with a mixture of discomfort and skepticism, Adam did his best to ignore Kane's grinding laughter; it was an overbearing sound, one which threatened to undermine everything he thought and silence him completely for fear of feeling foolish and small.

You're not alone in this, Pa had said, another memory that sprung so readily to Adam's mind. I would appreciate it if you stopped acting as though you are.

"He caught me, you know," Adam mused.

"Your father," Kane provided.

"Earlier, when I stepped off the edge of that cliff, Pa grabbed a hold of me and pulled me back. He wasn't supposed to be there, but he was. Before he did that, I thought I was alone in this; now I know I'm not. For so long I thought you were the only one who could save me, now I think maybe that's not true, because Pa was there when I needed him. He saved me from falling off the edge."

"You sound surprised."

"I was," Adam said. "Are you?"

"No. I was never the one who doubted him."

"That's a lie. You doubted him so much that you convinced me to doubt him, too."

"I didn't convince you of anything. I didn't plant any seeds of doubt within your heart or head. I only tended to those you already had; my attention made them flourish and grow. I won't deny that because it's the truth. Speaking of truth, what were the two things your pa was talking about?"

"Two things?"

"The two truths you want so badly not to see," Kane began, repeating Pa's earlier words nearly verbatim. "One is false, but you're convinced it's true. The other is true, but you believe it to be false. He said you don't want to consider either of these things, but you should."

Adam tilted his head in thought. What was Pa talking about? What was the falsity he had begun to hold as truth? What was the truth he believed false? At the time Adam had questioned whether his father had known what he was talking about. Now he knew that he himself had been confused. He didn't know the things his father was alluding to. He didn't know the truth Pa had been referencing. So intent on quickly ending the conversation, he hadn't given the words much thought. He hadn't been giving any of Pa's statements thought. So focused on never talking he had forgotten to listen.

When you are ready to talk about those things, I will be here to listen, Pa had said.

Adam frowned. How could he ever be ready to talk about things he didn't know existed? "What was he talking about?" he asked, an odd feeling settling into his chest.

"Don't you know?" Kane asked.

"No."

"You should. Or wait, no, you wouldn't. Would you? You do have such a selective memory."

"Am I supposed to remember?" Adam whispered, giving voice to a troubling thought. Maybe Pa wasn't the one who didn't know the truth. Maybe the only person Adam was really hiding it from was himself.

"Come with me and I'll tell you. I'll remind you of all the things you think you don't know."

Adam took an impetuous backwards step as the threat lingering behind Kane's invitation awoke recollection of someone's singular word: remind. Lifting his hands, he held them next to his face, squinting his eyes to see the symbols in the darkness. It was to no avail; the dark ink was impossible to see under the cover of such a still, black night. But that didn't mean it wasn't there. It didn't dissolve the meaning of the symbols staining the backs of his hands or the intent with which they were written.

Words remind, Hop Sing had said. Too many voices in ear. Silence voices, hear self.

Kane's presence in the darkness was nothing more than another whisper, yet another voice that needed to be silenced. Perhaps he was a mere memory; perhaps he was something more, a demon once again presenting himself in the middle of a moment filled with complete and utter darkness. He knew all the right things to say; he knew Adam's weakness and faults; he knew how hard it was to decline tantalizing offers of keeping secrets concealed, safely hidden from his family forever. Adam had been eager to accept the offer before. There was a glaring problem with doing such a thing now. Too much had happened, too much had changed between before and now. It didn't seem like much on the surface, but it was.

Pa had grabbed a hold of Adam when he stumbled off the edge of the cliff. He had been there when he was needed and after he had stood back and given Adam his space. He hadn't demanded explanations, or ordered him home. He hadn't demanded or ordered anything. There was only one thing Pa had implored Adam to do.

Think about it, Pa's pronouncement sprung readily to mind. You're in control of what the future brings.

This was something Adam was certain he should have known from the beginning. He had forgotten it somewhere along the way, because the voices he had spent so much time listening to weren't interested in empowering him. They wanted to control and destroy him. They wanted to manipulate him; they wanted things from him he couldn't give.

"Do you really think your father doesn't want anything from you?" Kane sneered.

I don't want to control you, Pa's affirmation rang in Adam's ears. All I want is for you to be free of the weight that is holding you down.

"That's not all he wants," Kane was quick to retort. "He wants something else, too. He wants the truth. That's not nothing."

Sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, Adam chewed it absently, his attention firmly rooted on his father's previous statements.

How long is it going to take, Adam? Pa had asked. 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?

"Ah," Kane said. "But you did have a choice. Of course, Papa doesn't know about that because you have been careful to hide it. He doesn't know the truth and he doesn't see you for what you really are."

And what really are you? Pa had asked gently. Just what exactly is it you believe I can't see? What is the mistake you don't want to own up to for fear of losing more than you already have? What is the point of all this struggle and pain? Why are you so intent on punishing yourself?

"He doesn't know," Kane reminded. "He thinks he wants to, but he doesn't. He doesn't know what Joe thinks he knows or what you and I really do. How do you think the truth is going to make old Papa feel? How is telling him what happened to you up in that camp going to make you feel? You drank too much and left yourself in untrustworthy company. You hired a man who hated you, and then you trusted him. You put yourself in that situation. It was your choices that made you weak. You got what you deserved."

It's alright, Pa had once soothed. Adam closed his eyes, wanting so badly to believe his father's words. This isn't your fault.

"But it is," Kane countered. "A man must take responsibility for himself, remember? He is accountable for what he does. He cannot feel poorly for the things he did to himself. There was another choice. You decided not to take it. If you would have listened to your best friend in the first place, if you would have given his ghost what he wanted earlier on, then that shit wouldn't have had to happen to you. Ross wouldn't have tricked you into hiring Mitchel. He wouldn't have put you in place with a man he knew damn-well was likely to cause you harm."

"Ross didn't know," Adam said firmly as he finally opened his eyes. "Dead or alive, he wouldn't do that to me."

"There's that selective memory again," Kane said. "Boy, you've been telling yourself the same old lie for such a long time that it's loosened your grip on the truth. Of course, he knew, and so did you, even if you didn't fully understand it at the time. He knew, and he put you there, because, as time had proven, you were a force to be reckoned with, so stubborn and steadfast in your beliefs of right and wrong. He knew you were never going to kill Mitchel just because he wanted you to; there was nothing he could ever do to you that would be enough to drive you to murder. You would have spent the rest of your life being haunted by him if you had to. You weren't going to be made to do something you knew was wrong. You weren't gonna be forced to take another man's life."

"I couldn't," Adam said. "I didn't know if the things Ross was saying about Mitchel were true. I didn't witness his crimes. How could I act on hearsay? How could I convince the law to? There was nothing to do. There was nothing to be done. Ross and Delphine were dead. True knowledge of what Mitchel did or didn't do died with them."

"But it didn't. After that night in the camp, Ross made sure it lived on in you."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Some things never change."

"I don't want to talk to you," Adam said firmly, his words taking even himself by surprise. "Why are you here after all this time? I called out to you so many times and you ignored me, and now you've come back to take me away from…what? You didn't save me from anything. You were supposed to, but you didn't. You abandoned me. Left to suffer on my own. And now you come back, trying to lure me away with your careful words? You're too late. Maybe if you would have come sooner, I would have given in. Joe already knows what he does. There's no point in running away now."

"Sure, there is. Though your brother knows what he does, it isn't everything. You still have another secret. One that will not cast you in a very good light. The fight to ignore the truth has never been about protecting your pride, it's about protecting something else. Telling the truth about what Frank Mitchel did to you, having to endure pity and pain over what happened to you ain't nothing in comparison to having to own up to the truth about what happened before your friends died, or having to come clean about the made-up story you told the sheriff and doctor with the hope that murdering a man would be enough get you hung. You wanted to die with that secret then. Nothing about that has changed. But that little gal had other plans. Your lie pissed Del off, rightfully so. And to think, she was so kind to you at first. After she died, her spirit only lingered behind to help you contend with her husband's disruptive ghost. She remained to help you. In death, she was intent on doing for you what, in life, you tried to do for her; she wanted to protect you. She was so nice to you that you didn't give her spirit proper consideration. You sullied her memory with your lie. You slandered her to protect yourself."

Kane wasn't wrong. He couldn't be. He knew everything about Adam there was to know. He knew his secrets, his lies. He knew things that had driven him into the desert the first time, and he knew the things had changed since.

"What is your choice?" Kane asked. "I can take you away from here. I will hide you forever this time. No one has to know any more than they already do. There will be pain, of course. I will not hesitate to remind you of all the things you've done wrong. But you'll have your pride. You'll have your reputation, or what's left of it, anyway. People will look back upon their memories of you and wonder what happened. They'll think you became inexplicably unbalanced. Sure, they'll talk about what might have happened. People always do. But they won't understand. Which is worse? Having your actions clouded in eternal mystery or having the truth understood?"

"I…" Adam hedged, his brows furrowing as he took another step back.

"You can't have it both ways. If you come with me your secrets are kept. If you stay, they will have to be told."

Adam shook his head, his stomach turning with apprehension. He couldn't go back to the desert, not now. Too much had changed since the first time he had gone. New complications had developed; new lies had been told. He didn't want to think about how much worse it could be with knowledge of all these new mistakes at Kane's disposal. The fear, pain, shame, and grief he would leave behind couldn't begin to outweigh what he would be forced to endure. Before there had been a purpose to entering the desert. He had made so many mistakes; he was trying to keep himself from making anymore. He was trying to keep his secrets safe. He was trying to save Mitchel's life; he was trying to preserve what was left of himself.

Back then, there was a purpose to enduring Kane's torture. Now Mitchel was dead; and his family knew much more than Adam ever wanted them to. If he returned to the desert they wouldn't have to know anymore. He could spend the rest of his life running and hiding the truth. Was that really what he wanted? He wanted it before, but was it what he wanted now? An eternity full of suffering, torture, and pain. To leave his family with so much of the past exposed and so little truth actually told.

"You're as afraid of the truth as you ever were," Kane reminded. "Don't mislead yourself. Telling the truth will be torturous. Living in a world in which everyone knows what Frank Mitchel did to you and the truth of what drove Ross Marquette insane will not be easy."

"Not everybody has to know."

"Oh, yes, they do. You cannot continue living with Delphine's spirit lingering. She's stuck in the house now, but your time with her husband's ghost proved that things can always change. Now you know the symbols on your hands don't do anything to protect you. What are you going to do if she begins to follow you around? She'll never leave you until you give her what she wants. She wants you to retract the lies you told about her, Frank Mitchel, and her baby. She wants you to tell the truth. That baby deserves the truth, don't you think?"

"That baby doesn't want anything," Adam said.

"Oh, yes it does. Do you wonder, Adam, why nothing Del does comforts it? Why it cries so incessantly? It's such a tiny thing, where could its pain possibly come from?"

"She tortures it."

"No," Kane laughed. "She hurts it, but you're the one torturing it. You're the one who could liberate its soul from its mother's grasp and soothe its cries, but you'd rather protect yourself instead. What kind of man are you?" he sneered. "What kind of man choses protecting himself over protecting his child?"

"That's not my baby. It can't be."

"It sure isn't Frank Mitchel's, and you know it isn't Ross's. Whose is it? You can hide the truth from everyone else, you can even hide it from yourself. But you can't hide it from the dead, and you can't hide from me. It was your actions that sat on your best friend's heart, twisting, and torturing him until he went slowly insane. There was a reason he pulled his gun on you that day and accused of being with his wife, a reason why Delphine confessed to her husband what she did, and there was a reason why you took her away from him. It wasn't just her you were trying to protect. Although you didn't know it at the time."

"That's impossible."

"Is it?" Kane laughed.

"Yes."

"There's that selective memory again. You don't want to see it; you don't remember, then fine. But I'll ask you this: if it isn't true then why is your guilt over what happened to Ross so encompassing? Why have you been so careful to keep the truth about the past to yourself? You know what you did, and you know what happened because of it. The truth doesn't change because we want it to. Ignoring what we don't want to see for fear of the pain it would cause doesn't mean make something untrue. If you can't tell anyone else the truth about what happened between the two of you, at least summon the courage to admit it to yourself. There was a reason Ross went crazy. There was a reason he wanted Frank Mitchel dead. And there was a reason Ross's ghost wanted to hurt you. You knew it before, that's why you came to me. And you know it now, even if you don't want to see it."

Shaking his head, Adam took a step backwards, suddenly wanting to put as much distance between himself and Kane's voice as possible. He didn't want to return to the desert. He didn't want to listen to anything Kane had to say.

"I don't want to talk to you anymore."

He took another step back, then another, and another. He stumbled a bit on one of them, tripping in an awkward manner on something he couldn't see in the darkness. A hole in the ground or rock. A bit of downfall from the trees surrounding him. He needed to turn around if he didn't want to stumble again. He needed to look upon the path he was traveling if he didn't want to fall.

"Who are you going to talk to? Are you going to walk back home and face that conversation with your brother? Are you going to share the truth he knows with your other brother and your father? Are you going to tell them why Ross set you up? Why did he put you in a place with a man who intended to harm you?"

"I'm done listening to your lies."

"I'm not the one who lies. It serves no purpose for me. You, on the other hand, have built a life upon lies. If you go back, you will have no other choice but to take responsibility for each one of them. If you reject my offer, it will not be extended again. I will leave you to struggle alone for the remainder of your life. The next time you see me, you will be dead and then you and I will have our time again."

Adam turned around as Kane's gleeful laughter filled the air. He walked quickly at first, then broke into a run. He couldn't see the ground beneath his feet or the landscape that surrounded him. He couldn't see anything in the darkness. But he didn't need to. He knew where his current direction would lead him.

He was going home.

He was returning to Joe and that terrible conversation. To his father and Hoss. To Hop Sing. To Delphine and the baby and the truth. He was tired of running away. He was weary of seeking comfort in the wrong sources. He was done being made to believe lies—even if they were his own. Nothing he was destined to return to was worse than the alternative. No conversation he could have was more terrible than the one that had just taken place. He didn't know if he could give Del what she wanted; if he could ever be more courageous than what the recent past had shaped him to be. But he knew he could go back and that was at least something, and something was always better than nothing. He was certain of that now.

He was gasping from exertion by the time the bunkhouse and ranch house came back into view.

His lips curled into a slight smile as his eyes found the faint light of the oil lamp still burning, illuminating his father's bedroom window in an inviting glow. I'm here, that light still declared, shining like a beacon of hope in the midst of so much darkness. Adam didn't break stride as he entered the ranch yard; he didn't think as he burst through the front door of the house and up the staircase. He was gasping for breath by the time he stood in front of his father's door.

"Pa!" he said, lifting his hand to knock steadily on the wood. He caught a glimpse of the symbol written on the back of it and smiled. Strong, he thought. Or was that one brave? He wasn't sure. He would ask Hop Sing in the morning, and when he heard the translations for the symbols once more, he would memorize them, so he could read them over and again. "Pa!"

"Adam," Pa said as he opened the door. Hair disheveled, he stood in his nightshirt, his obvious worry over his eldest son's sudden startling need outweighing his desire for modesty. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Adam said as he broke into a tearful grin. He didn't want to cry and he wouldn't. He was just happy, so damn relieved to see Pa again. Stepping forward, he wrapped his arms around his father and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"Adam," Pa repeated as he held him tightly. "Did something happen?"

"I chose."

"What?"

"I chose. I went into the trees and Kane called out to me. He came back like I wanted him to…"

"Kane spoke to you?" Pa's worry was made evident by his tightening grip and the tone of his voice.

"…He came back and I chose home over returning to the desert. I chose you over him, because you're right. You never lie. You may choose to omit certain things, but you don't lie. I can't say the same about him. I can't even say the same about myself. But, you, you're the most trustworthy out of all of us. Even if I can't believe myself and I can't believe him, I can always believe you."

"Adam—"

"I was afraid of you," Adam said. The sudden admission came easily as Kane's statements still lingered a little too close for comfort. Some he knew were wrong. Others were not. "When I was a little boy and it was just you and me and a treacherous path in front of us, I saw things I wish I hadn't. You scared me in ways I couldn't articulate."

"I know."

"I think that some of that fear never left me. It's irrational and asinine, because I know you would never hurt me, but sometimes I think I'm still afraid of you. I'm sometimes afraid to come to you, to tell you things you don't want to hear."

"I know that, too."

"I want you to know I don't resent you for anything you did or didn't do back then. I don't hate you for the way things ended up."

"Who said you did?"

"Kane," Adam said.

"Why would he say that?"

"Because… Well, he knows things, Pa. With all the things he says to torture a man, all the lies he tells, he does speak some truths. I did resent you once. I think I might have even harbored a bit of hate."

"When?"

"It doesn't matter now."

"Why bring it up if it doesn't matter?"

"Because…"

Hesitating, Adam pulled out of their embrace and took a cautious step back. His father's eyes sparkled with a mixture of confusion and worry; his aged face was set with deep lines of concern.

"I don't hate you," Adam added. "Sometimes I'm still afraid of you, though. I know you know that, and I know that's what stopped you from telling the truth about what happened to Ross when I asked you for help, because that same fear was what stopped me from telling you the truth back then, too."

"Is it stopping you now?"

"No." Adam shook his head. "Something else is."

Pa's unease was palpable.

"Don't worry," Adam assured.

"Hard thing to avoid. Son, forgive me for pointing this out, you aren't making a lot of sense. You said you went into the trees, saw Kane, and then came back home. Now you're talking about all manner of things. You're all over the place."

"I'm fine. I just… there are some things I can't talk about."

"Why?"

"Because I need to talk to Joe first."

"You haven't talked to Joe yet?" Pa asked carefully.

"No, we talked. We need to talk more."

Mouth agape, Pa shook his head in an overwhelmed manner. "Adam," he whispered deeply, "what on earth is going on?"

"Nothing's going on," Adam said. "I promise. I told you I came back. I chose. I'm here now."

"What about tomorrow? What about that shadow?"

"What about the truth?" Del suddenly hissed from the end of the hallway.

Back becoming ridged, Adam's eyes widened. He hadn't thought he'd hear her again tonight. He hadn't thought about much of anything when he entered the house. "I don't know," he whispered. He wasn't certain who the answer was intended for, Del or his father. Or neither. Or both. "I chose," he repeated softly.

"You say that like it means something," Del said angrily. "It doesn't."

"What does that mean, Adam?" Pa asked.

"I'm here," Adam said.

"So, I see," Pa said.

"So am I," Del said. "So is someone else."

A piercing cry erupted as the hallway was filled with the sound of an infant's shrill, tortured screams. They ground on Adam's nerves in a way they hadn't before, setting his heart with stinging pain that was only intensified by a sudden gaping doubt. He knew the child didn't belong to Frank Mitchel because that was part of the lie had told in order to shield his actions and protect himself. And it couldn't belong to Ross because…

"Because he had his own problems," Del provided. "A child does not endure the things he did for the length of time he was forced to without sustaining deep scars. He wasn't capable of it. Oh, there was nothing wrong with his body; it was his mind that got in the way of certain intimacies. But of course, you knew that, because he came to you."

"No," Adam said. It simply couldn't be true. No. Kane was a liar; it was a proven fact.

"He came to you, Adam," Del continued, her voice rising above the baby's continuous cries. "He asked you to do for us what he couldn't do himself."

"I said no," Adam said.

"To what?" Pa asked quizzically.

"I told him I wouldn't do it," Adam continued, setting his stubborn gaze on Del. Her skin was gray and rotting, her bloody face displaying an ever-widening grin. The baby, though heard, could not be readily seen. For a moment, he wondered where it was. What was she doing to it in order for it to scream so shrilly? "Ross asked me, and I told him no. I told him he shouldn't have even asked."

"What?" Pa whispered. His face was contorted in confusion as he looked between his son and the empty hallway. "Is Del here? Is that who you're talking to now?"

"You did," Del agreed. "At first. He was as incessant in life as he was in death, and you, you were obnoxiously steadfast in your opinion. I won't do it, you said over and over again. What kind of man do you think I am?"

"He said everything he could to convince me," Adam said. "None of it was enough. He called me his brother. He blamed me for the past. For the things I knew about what was happening to him when he was a boy and the things I didn't. He said it was my fault he was the way he was."

"You told him you never touched him," Del said. "And do you remember what he said to that?"

"He agreed with me."

"He said you didn't touch him, but you didn't save him either. You saw the marks on his body; you knew something was wrong and you did nothing."

"I wasn't supposed to tell," Adam said. "He made me promise. He threatened me that day at the lake. I wasn't going to go against what he wanted. Not after what he did to my arm."

"Tell what?" Pa demanded. "What are the two of you talking about?"

"Nothing!" Adam said. Tearing his attention from Del, he looked at his father once more.

Pa cast him a worried gaze. It was immediately clear his fierce explanation had not been believed. "You're talking about Ross, aren't you?"

"No," Adam lied.

"Who else could you possibly be talking about. And why would you lie? You said his name aloud. You said Ross asked you to do something and you said no. Then you said you weren't supposed to tell. What weren't you supposed to tell?"

"Nothing," Adam said.

"It's not nothing," Del laughed. "It's a big something."

"You said he threatened you," Pa said. "That he hurt your arm." His eyes widened with understanding. "Was Ross the one who hurt you when you were a boy?"

"No! Nobody hurt me when I was a boy!"

"Yes, someone did," Pa countered. "You had bruises on your arm, Adam, cuts so deep that they didn't heal right on their own. Someone put their hands on you, scared you so much that you felt you had to hide what happened from me. When I finally discovered your wounds, you wouldn't tell who did it. It was Ross that did it. You were protecting him… from me."

"Not from you," Adam denied.

"Yes," Pa insisted. "You were. You said so yourself, son, you were afraid of me when you were a child. When you were a boy, Ross made you promise not to tell the truth about something and then he hurt you. You said you were sometimes afraid of coming to me with certain things and that's what stopped me from telling you the truth. You said you knew that because it was the same fear that stopped you from telling me the truth, too." He paused, seemingly thinking about the meaning of what he said. "You knew what happened to Ross as a child," he deduced. "You knew he was being hurt and you never said anything."

"I didn't know," Adam said.

"You knew enough," Del disagreed.

"You knew enough," Pa echoed.

"I didn't do anything!"

"Until you finally did," Del whispered. "Until Ross's incessant request became too grinding to endure. Until your guilt over your silence became too much to bear—"

"You're right," Pa said softly. Though his tone held no malice or judgement, the gentle nature of his tone couldn't soften the power of what was being said. "You didn't do anything. You didn't tell anyone what was happening to your friend. You kept it a secret."

"Telling the truth wouldn't have changed anything," Adam said. "It wouldn't have put a stop to what was going on in that house."

"Yes, it would have," Pa said.

"No, it wouldn't have. Because I didn't know what you and Sheriff Coffee eventually suspected. I knew Ross was being hurt but I didn't know what was really happening, or even for sure who was harming him."

"It wouldn't have mattered if you knew who was hurting him. The suspicion would have been enough to look into; it would have led us to his brothers. It would have allowed us to save him sooner than we did."

"No," Adam scoffed. "It wouldn't have."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that you and Sheriff Coffee think you know the truth about what happened but you don't. You think you saved Ross; you didn't save him from anything."

"What?" Pa asked.

"I bet you asked Ross what happened back then, didn't you? You asked if it was his brothers who touched him, and I bet he didn't say a word. I bet he never told you who it was. That's why, after the fever came through and you sent him back to live with mother, the torture went on."

"Ross's brothers were dead, Adam. It couldn't have continued."

"Oh, but it did, because it wasn't his brothers who were messing with him. It was somebody else."

Pa was horrified. "How do you know?"

"Yes, how do you know, Adam?" Del whispered gleefully. "You don't want to tell him, but you can't run from the truth anymore. Because you came back. You chose."

"Look," Adam said. "It... it isn't like you think."

"Then what is it?" Pa asked. "Tell me the truth. How could you possibly know it was someone else?"

Adam shook his head. This was a topic of conversation he wasn't ready to embark on. He may have brought it up, but he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to remember. It just hurt so damn much to consider.

"What were they?" Adam asked. Taking hold of the conversation, his question would propel it in a drastically different direction.

"What were what?" Pa asked.

"The two things. The one that is true and the other that isn't; the things I have confused."

"There's more than two," Del said. "You know there are. Like with Ross, like with our unborn baby, like with myself, the past has left marks on you, too. You're more confused than you are certain; you're more fearful than you are brave; and you are more culpable than you want your family to ever know. Why don't you tell your father the truth, Adam?" she sneered. "Why don't you tell him why you really went into the desert? And why what happened there wasn't enough to save your soul from the powers which meant to destroy it. Just because you want to revise your memories of the past doesn't mean the rest of us can or will."

"Adam," Pa said as he grasped his son's forearm.

The softness of his father's voice, the feeling of his hand, his grip, so fierce and yet so gentle, weren't enough to steal Adam's attention from Del. They weren't enough to allow him to ignore her deep chested cackles or the horrendous screams of the infant as it's dire crying filled the air around him, making the space where he stood feel much smaller than it was.

Chest tightening with an irrepressible dread, Adam choked on his breath as his deepest fear was renewed. The baby wasn't his; it couldn't be true. Kane was a liar.

"He lied," Adam whispered, his gaze not wandering from Del. "It can't be."

"Oh, but it is," Del said. "Kane lied about a great number of things, but remember, darling, so do you. You're a coward, a liar, and a fraud. It's no mystery what drove my husband mad. It wasn't what happened to him when he was a child, oh, I suppose it was, but he had lived years shouldering that pain. In the end, it was what you did that pushed him over that edge..."

"I only did what I was asked to," Adam whispered. "It wasn't my idea."

"Good intentions don't make a wrong right," Del said. "You know they don't. You think I'm the one making this child scream? You think I have the power to comfort or quiet it? I don't. You're the one hurting it. You're the one keeping it here."

"What?" Adam said. His heart felt leaden with agony; its beat pounded relentlessly in his ears to reinforce Del's words. "No."

"It's true," Del said as the baby's screams became louder, each one more grinding and pain filled than the one before. "You've always known it to be true. I'm not the one making this child cry. I'm not hurting it. What kind of mother do you think I am? As a matter of fact, what kind of father are you?"

"It was never mine," Adam whispered desolately. "It was never supposed to be mine."

He didn't want to remember; he didn't want to think about it. There was nothing that could stop him from recalling the memory now.

He could still hear the conversation he and Ross had when the topic had first been broached. They were drinking, he and Ross, sitting companionably in the familiar living area of the Marquette house. Their laughter had been easy; their banter and quips helped along by the bottle of amber liquid they passed back and forth and the awakening of their respective competitive natures by the cards held in their hands. It was the last good memory he had of Ross; the last time before his death that their rapport was irrevocably unaffected by what was to come, because the fateful question had eventually been asked.

Drunkenly citing what he called his shortcomings as a man, Ross had asked Adam to lay with Del. To do what the overpowering memories of his traumatic childhood prevented him from himself. Fueled by liquor and shock, Adam's indigent anger had been quick. He had said no.

"Son?" Pa asked, his hand still holding Adam's arm tight.

It was a good thing he was being held on to, Adam thought absently. If he wasn't then there was no telling where his feet would have taken him. If he ran fast enough then maybe he could silence the memory, maybe he could tell himself another lie in place of the truth. Kane wasn't lying, and neither was Del. He was the only one who was so determined not to acknowledge the truth.

The baby wasn't Frank Mitchel's because he had never attacked Delphine. That was a lie Adam had told in order to protect his pride after killing the man. And the baby wasn't Ross's because if it was—if it ever could have been— Ross never would have asked Adam to do what he had.

"We want a child," Ross had said. "You're my brother, Skinny. If it has to belong to anyone other than me, then I think I could be at peace knowing it was yours."

The first time Ross had asked the question Adam had said no. It was a response he stood by, repeating it over and over again as Ross's request endured. It was posed kindly at first, then, over time, as Adam's impatience and anger grew over being so incessantly asked, so did Ross's. The question began to carry a bitter edge, a hint of resentment, and a very real underlying threat. Ross did know Adam well. A little too well.

It was stupid in hindsight, the piece of information that Ross had used against him in order to get to do was what wanted. It was scandalizing, yes, but the complications of that truth being known were nothing in comparison to that of the secrets Adam now held.

"You said no," Del said from the end of the hallway. "Until you finally said yes, because you were as much of a coward then as you are now. You don't want to remember. You tell yourself you don't, but you do."

Adam inhaled a sharp breath. He did remember. He didn't want to, but he did. Agreeing to lay with Del had been easy in comparison to the actual act. They didn't talk, and they didn't dare kiss. Neither of them summoned the courage to look the other in the eye. She had been uncomfortable; this Adam knew because he had been uncomfortable too. It wasn't right what they were doing—they had known that then. Their rigid bodies and labored breaths had declared how unseemly, awkward, and uncomfortable their coupling was. They were like siblings, touching each other's bodies in ways that couldn't be forgiven. And when it was over, they dressed swiftly, neither of them speaking a word until he was halfway out the bedroom door.

"You and I will never speak of this," Del had quietly said. "This never happened. If a child comes of it, then so be it.

"Agreed," Adam had said, his stomach turning wildly at the very thought.

Adam and Delphine never did speak of it—not really. They pretended it hadn't happened. They lied to each other and themselves. It had been easier to blame his father for keeping Ross's secrets hidden. It had been easier to act as though he didn't know what was going on—where his best friend's anger and accusations had come from, why he had changed. Back then, it had been easier to avoid the truth; to convince himself to believe a lie so fervently that it canceled everything else out. But there were reasons for everything. For Ross' anger, for Del's, for the things that happened between them before their deaths and everything that happened to Adam after.

Adam remembered everything, and now that he did there was no going back. No fixing anything. No more believing the lie. No more denying the crying of the child he hadn't known existed. Had he known it was his child all along? He wasn't certain he had. He hadn't known about the baby before Del's death—and neither had she. Months had passed without her experiencing sickness symptomatic of being with child, without any noticeable growth in the belly beneath her clothes. They had no reason to believe their evening together had resulted in life. No reason to repeat the action, because Ross's opinion of them both had been so drastically changed.

Though he had denied the truth back then, Adam knew he couldn't do that now. Things couldn't be allowed to continue. He could endure a great many pains, but he refused to contribute to the pain of an innocent. It wasn't right for such a small thing to experience so much pain. It didn't ask to be created. The baby had nothing and everything to do with what happened first between Ross and Del and then between the pair and Adam. It was a facilitator of sorts, but it wasn't the cause. It wasn't the thing that made Ross accuse Adam of lying with his wife; it didn't make Del tell Ross what they all knew using words he wanted to hear. The baby hadn't created the situation; they had done that on their own.

"What do you want?" Adam asked as he stared at Del's shadowy form at the end of the hall. He did what she wanted—whatever was necessary—to allow the baby's soul to rest in peace. He was the only one left who could put an end to its torture and ease its pain. He was the last living person who knew the truth.

"You know what to do," Del said.

Adam did.

"Pa," he said. Carefully pulling his arm out of his father's hold, he took a step back, placing a slight distance between where he had once stood. "You have to let me go now."

"Go?" Pa frowned.

"I need to go to town."

"It's the middle of the night."

"I have to talk to Sheriff Coffee."

"Sheriff Coffee?"

"I have to tell the truth."

Mouth hanging agape, Pa was suddenly silent. In his dark eyes, Adam clearly saw the questions his father was too terrified to voice. What was the truth? Why did the law need to be involved? And what was going to happen when they were?

"Son?" Pa whispered.

"You were right," Adam said, his voice low and tight, as he held his father's confused gaze. "I can't hide behind you anymore. I can't pick and choose what I tell the truth about. I know you want to be the person I confide that truth in and maybe someday I'll be able to, but I have to go to town tonight. I need to talk to Sheriff Coffee. I need to take responsibility for what I did."

"What did you do?"

Shaking his head, Adam didn't reply. It was odd, considering how much time had passed with little focus on little else, how much he didn't care about protecting himself. Suddenly, what happened to him didn't seem to matter. Who knew about what or how, the shadow figure, the desert, his dreams and nightmares, a demon who called himself Peter Kane, how Ross and Delphine or even Frank Mitchel had come to die, none of it mattered anymore.

The only thing that mattered was the baby and giving peace to its tortured soul. For so long he had looked at Del's ghost as the cause of its pain and misery; he had blamed her for its cries and screams. He had looked at her to eradicate the result of their actions. He had left her alone to shoulder the pain of it because he had been too afraid to carry it at all. He hadn't wanted the child when Del was alive—it hadn't been his to have—he had thought it was what she had wanted. She had lied to him about that when she was alive; it took death and a hastily told lie for the truth to become clear. Her ghost had acted kindly toward him before he had killed Frank Mitchel, before he had told those lies, before he had spent time at the asylum. It wasn't until after—until now—her lingering love for him had fully transformed to hate.

"I'm sorry, Del," he whispered as he looked at her once more. He needed to tell her now in case he wasn't allotted another chance. "You're right. I'm more confused than I am certain; I'm more fearful than I am brave; and I'm more culpable in what happened between you and Ross than I want to admit. I should have seen how bad things were between the two of you back then. I should have noticed the first time he came after you with a violent hand. I shouldn't have left the two of you alone to struggle with the complications of a mistake we all made together. I should have been courageous enough to see a lot of things sooner than I have."

"What happened?" Pa asked. Reaching out, he grabbed Adam's forearm once more and looked at his son, his eyes pleading for the truth. "What was the mistake?"

Tilting his head, Adam looked at Pa through the corners of his eyes. There was so much hidden truth. How would he even begin? "It wasn't just one."

"How many were there?"

"I don't know. I've never been brave enough to look back long enough to count them."

"Are you feeling brave enough to do that now?"

"I'm not going to run away if that's what you're really asking. I could have run earlier but I didn't. I wanted to after Joe told me what he knew. I did at first. Then I stopped, turned around, and came back home."

"Now you want to leave again," Pa said anxiously. "You want to go into town in the middle of the night to speak to the sheriff alone."

"I don't want to do anything. I have to. Isn't this what you wanted? What you've been spending so much time trying to convince me to do."

Opening his mouth, Pa didn't reply.

"You asked me how much was enough," Adam continued, "how much pain and suffering and torture I would have to go through before it became enough. When you asked me that question, I wasn't certain that day would ever come. I was so wrapped in running away, denying the things I knew as I tried so hard to think about the ones I didn't. I didn't want to think about it, because I didn't want to hurt you more than I already have. I wanted to protect you; I wanted to protect myself. I wanted to think I was a different person than who I really am. That's why I went to the desert before. Why I answered when Kane called out to me. I was trying to hide myself, my pain, my mistakes. I just wanted to hide from the truth back then. I didn't have a good enough reason to come clean."

"And now you do?"

Adam cast a troubled gaze at the end of the darkened hallway. Though Del still occupied the space, she had become oddly silent. The baby had stopped crying; it was as though it had known what Adam was saying, what he was planning to do. Del held it in the palms of her hands. Staring at the outline of the child, Adam couldn't help thinking about before and after and now. Had he known about the baby before Del's death what would he have done? If he had known about it after his father pulled him from the desert outside of Eastgate, would it have changed what he had done to Frank Mitchel? What was his life going to become now that he knew?

"He has to go, Pa," a voice interjected from the top of the staircase.

Turning his head, Adam squinted through the dim light of the hallway and found Little Joe. How long had he been there? Watching their interaction from afar only to chime in when his words were needed the most? There was a time when Adam would have been angry about such a thing, scandalized over the notion that a private conversation where he was so obviously admitting weakness was overheard by his youngest brother. But he wasn't. Not this time. Not anymore.

In a curious way it was comforting to have Joe know a sliver of the truth. It was strangely liberating, so oddly soothing to know he didn't have to carry the burden alone. He wondered how long Joe would be able to carry it, how much time would pass before its weight became too much and his youngest brother would need to share it with someone else.

"We have to let him go," Little Joe said. "He needs to talk to the sheriff; he needs to tell the truth."

"Which is?" Pa asked.

Looking at Adam, Joe's face was set in an emotionless mask. "If Adam is going to talk to the sheriff about it, then does it really matter to the rest of us? I don't think it's our place to force a man to share everything he's done wrong. I figure, sometimes it's gotta be okay for certain things to stay private. Let Adam go to town, Pa. Let him do what he needs to do."

Adam's lips curled into the slightest of smiles. He shouldn't have been surprised to observe his baby brother advocating so firmly for his interests—standing up to firmly rival those of their pa—and he quickly realized he wasn't. He was grateful.

Inhaling deeply, Pa looked warily between his two sons. Adam knew he was asking his father to grant an impossible wish. This wasn't how Pa had envisioned the truth coming out—or even how Adam had seen it emerging himself. He had thought it would never come out. He had believed he could spend the rest of his life running away, telling himself—and others—the same lies over and over until they were finally believed. And Pa—poor Pa, who had been so supportive and protective, patient, and loving—had wanted to stand beside his son throughout the struggle. He had wanted to be the one Adam eventually confided in. Now he knew his youngest son knew more about what was going on than he did, and his oldest son was intent on speaking his secrets to someone outside of the family. Though Sheriff Coffee was far from an outsider; he wasn't one of them. Telling him things better left alone promised more complications than solutions, more pain than good.

"I'm not asking to be allowed to go," Adam said softly. "I'm telling you I have to. We can't pick and choose, Papa. I want to be treated like a rational man then I have to shoulder my responsibilities. I can't stand on my own while depending on you to protect me. You're not comfortable, and neither am I, but we came to an agreement. We have to hold ourselves and each other to our words."

"Are you planning to come back this time?" Pa asked, his forehead wrinkling with deep lines of worry. "Or is this going to be another goodbye that will come to haunt me?"

Adam glanced at Del's ghost lingering silently at the hall. It was the quietest she had ever been when presenting herself. He hadn't known her to loiter without cackling, crying, or taunting him with one horrible statement or another. He had never known her to be so quiet as she held her unborn baby, who for the first time since Adam laid eyes upon it was noiseless and still in the palms of her hands.

"It's so tiny," Del said as she looked at the baby in awe. "I've never seen it this quiet. It always seemed intent on driving me mad with its screams. Oh, I hate it when it cries, but it's quite pleasant like this. I think I could hold on to it for eternity if it stayed like this forever. It could be like this…" She paused, her bruised face contorting, deepening the unhealed lacerations on her lips and cheek. "Oh, God, it could have been like this," she whispered, sounding so close to genuine tears. "It should have."

"No, Del," Adam said. "It couldn't have. And it shouldn't have."

Looking down, his eyes found the symbols on his hands, one meant good and the other strong, both suddenly so clearly declaring what he had to do. It was time to tell the truth and accept responsibility for what happened. It was time to allow Del and her baby to move on; it was time to give the people he loved some peace.

"I don't know what's going to happen," he admitted as he looked back at his father. "I know I get to choose to leave; I don't have a say in whether I come back."

"Sheriff Coffee has that say," Pa said.

Adam nodded. "If I don't come back by tomorrow, then you come for me. I will tell you the truth from beginning to end. I will answer any questions you want to ask."

Pa stared at him, only opening his mouth the reply when Adam had begun to believe he never would. "Fine," he said. "Go. Do what you need to do. I don't want you riding in darkness alone. The two of you seem to have a silent understanding about what it is you must talk to Sheriff Coffee about, so I see no reason why Joe can't accompany you. One way or another, I will see you tomorrow."

Adam nodded. He didn't trust his voice to hold long enough to give his father a proper good-bye.

Xx

The ride to town seemed to pass too quickly and too slowly at the same time.

Trailing behind Adam and Sport, Joe was painfully silent. Whether this was due to hesitance or something else, Adam wasn't certain. He supposed the source of Joe's silence didn't really matter—whether his little brother was afraid to talk for fear of asking questions that wouldn't be answered, or worse: ones that would—he was thankful either way. The silence made it easy to ignore where they were headed and what he would have to do when they finally arrived.

Telling the truth was not going to be easy. It was better not to speak until the time was right; if he began explaining the past now, he might never summon the courage to speak of it again. And it needed to be spoken about, if not for his own benefit or Del's then for the baby's. He had already wasted so much time running away.

Virginia City's thoroughfare was dark and empty when they finally arrived. It was odd to be surrounded by its uncharacteristic stillness; the absence of people and noise only served to reinforce the earliness of the morning hour. It was strange to ride on the dirt path which extended into the distance, composing the main street of the small town after avoiding doing so for so long. Adam couldn't help thinking of the last time he had traveled this path intent on speaking to the sheriff. It was a night not so dissimilar from this one, though the season had been different. The air had been decidedly cooler, its frigid thickness teasing snow. He had been so cold without his coat and with his shirt sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms, his hands and clothing forever stained with Frank Mitchel's blood. With all things he didn't remember about that night these were the small details he knew he would never forget.

He didn't remember leaving home that night. He didn't recall procuring the hunting knife, saddling Sport, or riding to the timber camp. He didn't remember sneaking into the outbuilding where he had once spent so much time, or finding Mitchel asleep on the cot next to the one he once called his own. The mattress of one cot was already stained with blood; it wouldn't be long until the other one was as well. There would be more blood, of course; there would be no hiding the evidence like before. Unlike Mitchel's previous actions toward him, the brutality and violence Adam was certain had only been unleashed in effort to declare an odd sense of superiority and control, the events of the night Mitchel had been killed wouldn't be so easily hidden away, kept secret, and ignored. His actions would be put on public display for everyone to see. After that night, everyone in town would know of Frank Mitchel's death; they would know it was Adam Cartwright who had killed him.

Even so, Adam didn't remember taking Mitchel's life, grabbing the knife, or holding it to the man's throat and pressing the blade deep. Still, he remembered coming to suddenly, only to find himself rooted in the horror of the moment. He remembered the thud of Mitchel's body as he fell to the floor. He remembered the awful gurgling emerging from the man as he fought for his few last breaths, the look of surprise on Mitchel's face as he stared up at him with wide eyes.

And he remembered the blood.

Spilling from Mitchel's gaping wound, it spread across the floor of the outbuilding, flowing like a crimson river, so quick and accusing, staining the land, Adam's hands, arms, and clothes, and the blade of the knife he held in a shaking hand. He remembered the sound of laughter around him. Emerging from nothing and nowhere, it was grinding, haunting, and panic inducing.

"I told you," Ross's voice had whispered from somewhere unseen. "There's no stopping what's meant to be. If the devil wants to find you, he will."

"Adam?" Joe asked, his quiet voice rescuing Adam from the powerful memory.

Shaking his head, Adam blinked numbly as he found Sport standing patiently in front of the familiar hitching post outside of the Virginia City jail. Joe had dismounted Cochise. Having already tied the reins of his horse to the hitching post, he stood beside Sport and lifted his hand, silently offering for his brother to hand off the reins to the horse on which he still sat. Inhaling a deep breath, Adam held it as he ignored Joe's hand and finally dismounted. The breath escaped his chest in an audible exhale as soon as his boots made contact with the ground. He forced himself to take and hold another as he tethered Sport to the wood. He took another deep breath, and then another and another as his feet took him closer and closer to the door of the sheriff's office. He lingered momentarily when he finally stood in front of it, his stomach turning with a nervousness so intense that it promised to make him physically ill. He knew what he had to do and the reason why it was important; still, he hesitated, his expression falling underneath the weight of his apprehension.

Once he entered this building and talked to the man inside his whole life would be different. The things people knew about him would change. It was impossible to expect such things not to affect his already fractured reputation. The townsfolk already called him crazy. What would they call him now? It was unreasonable to anticipate his relationships with his family members would remain the same. How was he going to tell Pa what he did? How was he going to look him in the eye and admit he had fathered a child with his friend's wife? How could he possibly justify that decision? Or the way he had acted after—his selfish behavior and poor decisions. Drinking, running away from everyone and everything he once held dear. Entering the desert outside of Eastgate and emerging later only to put his family through hell.

"What do you want me to do?" Joe asked from behind him.

"What?" Taken aback, Adam turned to find his brother still standing by the hitching post. He had already forgotten about Joe; it was a ludicrous fact to acknowledge while holding his brother's troubled gaze.

Joe's eyes sparkled with trepidation as he remained frozen in place by their respective horses. "Do you want company," he asked. "Or would you rather be alone while you say what you've come to?"

Adam shrugged. He hadn't given the thought of enduring the approaching moment with an audience much consideration. Did it matter if Joe sat with him? Was telling the truth in the company of one member of his family better than having to face it alone? He quickly realized that with Joe already in his company, he hadn't thought speaking to the Sheriff Coffee alone was an option.

"What do you want to do?" he asked. He was hoping Joe would decide to sit it out and praying that his baby brother would be brave enough to follow him through the doorway. It was strange to want two such conflicting things so badly at the same time. He wanted to be alone, because the things he had come to say to Sheriff Coffee were going to be difficult enough as was. He wasn't sure he would be able to voice them with a voyeur in the room. But he wanted Joe to be in the room, too, because it wasn't Adam himself who had facilitated the events of the night, bringing them to this moment in time. It was Joe.

Joe was the brave one. He was the one who had somehow summoned the courage to suddenly address what he knew. It was the conversation that had led Adam into the forest where he would have another conversation, and it was the second one with Kane that had led him back home. There he had been met with a third discussion and a fourth, one he had shared with Pa and the other with Del, both had led him to the sheriff's doorstep. They had brought him to where he currently stood, here and now, preparing himself to finally speak of the truth.

Pursing his lips, Joe's brows furrowed. "I don't want to hear anything you don't want me to," he said softly. "If you want me to come in then I will, but… like I told Pa back at the house, if you want to keep some things secret from the rest of us then that's up to you. It shouldn't matter to us what you did or why. All that matters is that you tell the truth to the proper parties and that you do right by yourself."

"You don't want to come in?"

"I want what you want, brother. It's your choice. It's always been your choice whether you want to stand alone or let the rest of us stand beside you. You know, riding in the silence on the way here, I couldn't help thinking about the drive on the way to Eastgate. I couldn't help remembering the things that you said. You said I couldn't help you because of who we were, because of the order we were born in and the way things have always been between us. You said you were the oldest and I was the youngest and it wasn't seemly for you to need me, or for me to see you for who you really were. At the time, I was so used to always being looked after by you that I didn't realize that sometimes you needed to be looked after too. I mean, I guess I did see you needed help and that's why I tried to stop you from leaving me back then, but I didn't know the right thing to say, because I hadn't thought about it before."

"You've thought about it now?"

"I have," Joe said. "Because now I can tell you what I should have told you back then. You are the oldest, and I am the youngest; those two facts can never change. We're brothers, Adam. I may be younger than you but that doesn't mean I can't support you. It doesn't mean I can't stand beside you while you face your deepest fears. I can fight for and defend you just as fiercely as you have me over the years. I can look past your mistakes and forgive you for just about anything. But I can't do any of these things if you aren't willing to allow me to. If you still want to hang on to asinine notions that the differences in our ages leave a gap too far for the two of us to bridge in way that allows us to understand each other as men, if you don't want me to be privy to your weaknesses or faults because you're clinging to some obsolete fear that makes you believe that if I'm aware of your mistakes and regrets then it's gonna change how I see you, then I don't need to hear about them. I don't want to do anything you don't want. If you don't want me to accompany you while you talk to the sheriff, then I won't. I know what I do, but I want you to know that secret is safe with me. I won't ever share it with anyone."

Adam was as taken aback by Joe's mature declaration as he was touched by it. Out of the things his baby brother could have chosen to say to him, the things he had picked were damn near perfect. Though it was everything Adam wanted to hear, he immediately knew what he wanted and needed were two separate things. He wanted to keep the past secret; but he needed to tell the truth. It was the only way to give those who were dead proper consideration. It was the only way to give closure to the ones still living. Secrets were dangerous—he knew that now; shamefully, this was something he knew he should have been certain of a long time ago.

If he hadn't kept Ross's childhood secret then maybe things could have been different. Maybe they wouldn't have. But at least when he and best friend had grown into men that secret wouldn't have been lingering between them. A mammoth unspoken, unacknowledged detail that had facilitated their demise. That old secret had led to another and then another after that. At first these had been solely Ross's secrets; over time they had come to include Del and then eventually Adam.

Their secrets had destroyed them; they had all struggled under the crippling weight of the things they promised never to talk about. Their determination had made them weak; it made them unable to ask anyone for help when they needed it. It made those around them unable to understand why events were unfolding the way they were or how people who had been so normal were now so suddenly changed. Sharing these secrets would have cast new light on certain events; it would have made the pain, anger, grief, and poor behavior being displayed make more sense. Had they told the truth back then—to others, each other, or even themselves—then maybe things could have been different. Maybe they could have been saved.

"I don't want you to keep my secrets," Adam said. "I love you too damn much to ask of you what Ross asked of me. I think time has proven to all of us that I'm not as strong as I would like to be; there's no point in not drawing attention to something that is so clear to all of us. I didn't come here tonight to tell anymore lies, so I'm going to be direct with the truth. I don't want you to come inside with me. I need you to. I'm a coward. It's your courage that brought me here, not my own. Though the things I'm going to say aren't going to be easy to hear, I need you to hear them. Talking about them tonight is going to be hard enough. I don't know how I'm going to find the words to repeat them to Pa, or Hoss. I need you with me, Joe, tonight and tomorrow, because I know that no matter what Sheriff Coffee says, I'm still going to be afraid to look Pa in the eye and answer the questions I know he's going to ask. If I get weak and scared, then I'm going to be counting on you to stand strong and brave beside me. I'm going to be counting on your courage to pull me through the other side of this. Like you said, we're brothers. I'm sorry I couldn't see myself leaning on you before, because now I can't see myself standing without you."

Joe stood in place for a moment, his eyes sparkling with a hint of an emotion Adam couldn't readily define. It wasn't quite understanding and it wasn't quite gratefulness either; though, it resembled both. He wasn't certain he had seen his baby brother look at him the way he currently was; Adam wasn't sure how he felt about it, or if defining this seemingly undefinable thing would make him feel better or worse. Something was changing between them—he could feel it in the energy of the night air—something was shifting. The words they had traded would change them; they would change the way they saw each other and themselves. As Joe had said, they were brothers, and they were men. They stood paces away from each other, each awaiting the other's next response or move, the years that had separated their respective ages suddenly no longer seeming to impede their actions. Before it might have mattered who was the youngest or oldest, when and if it was seemly for the latter to need protection from the former, and who was braver than who, but suddenly it didn't. Not now. Not anymore.

Clearing his throat, Joe offered Adam a single, firm affirmative nod.

Turning around, Adam took another deep breath and extended his hand. The thudding of his fist knocking against the door filled air, intermixing with the sound of the soles of Joe's boots as they first scratched against the wood of the short staircase and then the walkway lining the front of the small building. It took an eternity for his call to be answered, for footsteps to be heard on the other side of the door, and for it to be opened to reveal a painfully familiar face.

The light from the room behind him backlit Sheriff Coffee in a curious glow. He was fully dressed, gun belt still slung on his hip, the badge declaring his position in the town pinned prominently to his woolen vest. The earliness of the morning hour coupled with his appearance hinted that the night before had been an eventful one. Someone had done something and earned themselves a stay in one of the jail cells in the back of the building.

"Who's there?" Coffee asked as he squinted into the night. It was a question that quickly proved to be rhetorical. "Adam Cartwright," he added as he thoughtfully appraised him. "I was wondering when you were going to show up on my doorstep again. I'm glad to see you ain't covered in blood this time, and finding you in the company of your brother is somewhat of a relief. There's no telling what kind of trouble a man can get into when he wanders after nightfall alone. Of course, I don't need to tell you that, given how our last middle of the night meeting came about."

Though taken aback by the sheriff's greeting and the ease in which he was speaking about past events, Adam was determined not to appear uncomfortable. He had wanted the impending conversion—no matter how it began. "I need to speak to you," he said flatly.

"I can assume that much, seein' as you are standing right in front of me," Coffee said. "Your pa know you're here?"

Adam bristled slightly under the implication of the question. He could hardly hold on to any anger or frustration over it, however. His father's lingering control over his life was hardly a secret. "Of course," he said.

"You best be sure that's the truth," Coffee warned. "I ain't in no mood to find myself in a war with your pa." He opened the door wider, tilting his head toward the room behind in silent invitation.

Entering the building with Joe on his heels, Adam couldn't ignore his building anxiety. His chest felt tight, his stomach turning with growing sickness. He clenched his hands into tight fists that hung by his sides, wanting nothing more than to turn around and run. But, taking one step after another, he didn't. There was more than just his brother following him that prevented him from fleeing. He had come here with a purpose—the first he had held true in a long while. He wouldn't run away from this moment or the conversation, even as painful and uncomfortable as they promised to be.

Coffee sunk into the chair behind his desk and pointed at the twin chairs on the opposite side. Leaning over, he opened his desk drawer and procured a bottle filled with amber colored whiskey and a single glass. "Sit," he said as he popped the lid of the bottle and filled the glass.

Adam did what he was told. Joe, however, did not.

Setting his attention on the front door, he strode across the room. He locked it when he reached it, then leaned against and crossed his arms. This action was so unexpected that Adam nearly laughed. He had asked his little brother for help, but he had never anticipated his request would be taken so literally. Standing between his older brother and the only escape route, Joe was ensuring Adam would stay where he was until he had done what he had come to do. He couldn't help wondering how many times he himself had done the same for Joe. How many times had he stood, tall, silent, and strong in the periphery of a difficult conversation between his baby brother and their pa—his brother and someone else? Though he had taken up the defensive position for both his brothers countless times over the years, this was the first time had seen Joe reciprocate it. Hoss and Pa had always sprung so readily to his defense; he had never expected such things from Joe. He had thought he hadn't needed them either.

"You best drink that," Sheriff Coffee said.

Adam looked at the glass of whiskey that had been set on the table in front of him. The sight of the amber liquid renewed the turning of his stomach. He felt sick looking at it; he couldn't imagine how drinking it would make him feel. "Why?" he asked.

"Might help soothe whatever bad feelings led you here tonight. Lord knows talkin' to me ain't gonna help much. I tried to come see you, you know. It was a while back now, just after your pa brought you home from the asylum."

"I don't remember seeing you."

"That's because you didn't. Your pa sent me away as soon as I arrived. He said he didn't want me talking to you anymore. He told me to keep away from you." Coffee tilted his head, his eyes narrowing skeptically. "You sure he knows you're here?"

"He knows."

"Hm," Coffee grunted. "He didn't want us talkin' back then; it's difficult to believe his opinion on the matter has changed. I told him if he wasn't going to let me talk to you, then he should do so himself. I told him there was no point in delaying the inevitable. He could keep you home and away from town for the rest of your life, but hiding you wouldn't hide the truth. It wouldn't keep the secrets buried alongside Frank Mitchel from eventually rising again and demanding proper consideration. He couldn't hide the truth from you, I told him that back then. He didn't want to listen."

Frowning, Adam was deeply unsettled. Something about the moment wasn't right. Something about it felt incredibly wrong.

"I know why you're here, Adam," Coffee continued ominously. "I know what's brought you to my doorstep in the middle of the night, again, and before you start talking, I want you to listen, so I can tell you the same thing I told your pa. What happened between you and Frank Mitchel don't really make that much of a difference to me. What's done is done. The past can't be changed now. There's no use in torturin' yourself with it. No matter what led to Mitchel's death it don't change the fact that he's dead and you're still alive. I don't mind sayin' that his is a welcome absence. The territory is a mite better off now that he's gone."

Adam couldn't conceive of his presence being anticipated or expected. He couldn't understand the things the sheriff was saying or why.

"I told your pa that," Coffee said, "when I came to see you. I wanted to clear the air between you and me. I wanted to put any lingering worries you might have had at peace. I told your pa if he wasn't gonna let me do that then he oughta find the courage to talk to you himself. Judging by the look on your face, I can see he did not. I won't lie, that is a great disappointment, although not completely unfathomable, I suppose. A man can hardly fault him for wanting to protect you given everything that happened. He is your pa, after all, and a fierce one at that. Ain't nobody in this world who can look at him unkindly for sheltering you given all that's happened."

"What do you know?" Adam whispered. I know more than you think I do, Pa's previous words rang in his ears, overwhelming him with a rush of anxiety so fierce that he was certain his stomach was being twisted and tied into knots. What did Sheriff Coffee know? What did Pa? "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, Adam," Coffee groaned sadly. "Don't do that. You and your pa can lie to each other all that you want. Don't lie to yourself, and don't lie to me. You came here tonight for a reason; you and I both know that. Even if you truly don't recall the truth, you are a smart man. Surely you must have had some inclination that something had changed. That some part of the truth had been discovered, given how abruptly you were released from that asylum and why."

"I was released because I was injured." Lifting his hand, Adam pointed absently at the line of fresh stitches marking his reopened scar. "I fell."

Coffee stared at him for a moment, seemingly struggling with the proper words to say. "You did fall," he said, his voice careful and low. "But, Adam, I'm talking about when you were let out of the asylum, not after."

Hand still hovering next to his wound, Adam's index finger found the protruding edges of his freshly closed scar, so carefully sewn back together with thread. He ran his fingertip absently up and down its length, the pressure increasing a little more each time. He couldn't comprehend what the sheriff was alluding to. There was no when or after; he could only think in terms of before and after. His fall had facilitated his release from the asylum. These two events were not independent of one another. They were intertwined; he couldn't have one without the other. Had he not fallen and been injured, then he would still be in the asylum. Wouldn't he?

He wasn't sure. Why wasn't he sure? Was this something he was supposed to remember? Like the details surrounding the conception of Del's baby, was this yet another memory he convinced himself not to recall?

"Goddamn it," Coffee said, his face contorting with unease. "I told your pa to talk to you. I told him if he wasn't gonna let me tell you the truth then he needed to tell you himself."

"What's the truth?" Adam whispered. "What do you know that I don't?"

Leaning back in his chair, Coffee set his gaze upon Joe. In his eyes, he seemed to be asking a question. For permission to continue or abandon the conversation completely. Though Adam didn't turn around to witness Joe's silent answer, Joe must have given one, because looking at Adam once more, Coffee took a deep breath.

"You should drink that," he said, nodding at the glass of liquor on the table. "This ain't gonna be easy for you to hear."

Adam looked at the glass as he rubbed relentlessly at his wound. He wouldn't drink it. He couldn't. The alcohol would soothe nothing; there was nothing that could make things easier now. This conversation wasn't unfolding the way he had expected it would. This moment wasn't as difficult as he had anticipated; it was much worse. The expression on Coffee's face was decidedly grim; there was a hint of sadness and pity shining in his eyes, teasing the truth was already known.

"Tell me anyway," Adam said as he pushed the glass away.

"When you showed up on my doorstep the last time covered in Frank Mitchel's blood, do you remember what I said to you?" Coffee asked.

Adam shook his head. He should have, but he didn't. So many details of the night had been lost to him; they had either been taken by the impact of his fall or silenced and forgotten by the selectiveness of his memory. He didn't remember, so he hadn't expected others to either.

"Do you remember what you said to me?" Coffee asked.

Again, Adam shook his head.

"You said you'd finally done it; you'd taken Mitchel's life so that he couldn't take anyone else's. I asked you what you meant by that, even though I was pretty sure I already understood. You and Mitchel were like oil and water; even if y'all acted as though everything was alright between you, I knew you were never gonna mix. You were too different. You were too virtuous to hang with a dude like him, and he was too accustomed to takin' what he wanted. He wasn't a good man, that's what you told me that night, and I told you that I knew that was true. Of course, I didn't really know, not then, not really. I had a lot of suspicions; I had heard a lot of rumors. Contrary to what I told your pa later that night, not one of them was about him being inappropriate with a saloon gal. Those rumors didn't have nothing to do with women. So, when you showed up that night after doing what you done and said what you did, I had a pretty good idea that something had gone sour between you two. Of course, that ain't what you said. You told me a story that I had a hard time believing. You told me you killed Mitchel not because of what he did to you but because of something he did to somebody else."

"Can't a man take the life of another because that person wronged somebody else?" Adam asked.

"Sure." Coffee nodded. "A certain type of man can do that. You can't; you ain't that type. You may have been confused-like at the time, struggling with your mind, but there's no way you would have taken somebody's life had they not deserved it, had they not done something deeply wrong."

"Attacking Delphine Marquette could have been that thing."

"It could have," Coffee agreed. "But it wasn't, was it?"

Mouth hanging slightly agape, Adam struggled to respond. He had come to tell the truth but it was as difficult of a thing to speak of as it ever was.

"I tried to get you to talk about it then," Coffee said. "I want you to know that. I tried my damndest to get you to say something different than the story you were tellin', that's why I involved Doc Martin. The two of us sat with you for nearly three hours tryin' to get a different story out of you. You wouldn't budge. You kept sayin' that Mitchel had hurt Delphine and that's why you killed him. I didn't believe it, and Doc, he didn't believe it either, but there wasn't anything we could do at that time. I may have had my suspicions about Mitchel, but if you weren't going to talk about what really happened, then there was nothing else to do other than what I did. Sending you away never did feel right; I always had the inclination that I was punishing you for someone else's poor behavior. I tried to justify it in my own mind. I told myself that I was doing the best I could for you, that putting you in an institution was lenient in comparison to what would have been done had there been an actual trial."

"I would have preferred a trial," Adam whispered.

"No, you wouldn't have, because if there had been a trial then you would have been hung. There would have been no bringing you back home when the truth finally did come out. A witness came forward, Adam, weeks after Mitchel died. He told me he was one of your men, that he had been working on and off for you at the timber camp for years. He said he knew you very well, said he got to know Mitchel pretty good too. He told a story about the two of you that gave weight to my previous suspicions, transformed them into truth. It was then I knew I made a mistake punishing you for killing Mitchel; I had no right to send you away for you done."

Overcome by anxiety, Adam ground the tip of his fingernail into his wound; his absent rubbing intensified, quickly transforming to purposeful scratching. What Coffee was saying couldn't be true. It was impossible for anyone to bear witness to what had happened between him and Mitchel. No one knew—save for Joe and he had only found out because of happenstance. It wasn't as though the evidence had been gleanable or quickly recognizable. Joe had deduced the truth because of the stain hidden on the underside of a worn-out cot. There was no reason for anyone else to make the same discovery, no reason for them to think anything of the stain if they found it.

Cutting timber was dangerous; men were often wounded, their skin peppered with bruises, marred with cuts and injuries that often bled. Blood was not necessarily indicative of anything. It was Adam's foreign behavior that had led Joe to think more of it; it was his familiarity with his brother that allowed him to glean the truth. Nobody else at the timber camp could have deduced the truth, because nobody knew Adam as well as his brother. They didn't know him well enough to see what Joe did, the changes in his outlook and habits, things that were so slight at first and would later become glaring but only to those who knew him best.

No one at the timber camp could have known what had taken place, because Adam and Mitchel had both been careful to hide the truth. Though their reasons for doing so were different, somehow, they were the same. They both needed to protect themselves from the judgement of others; they both feared facing repercussions of what had happened. Arguably, Mitchel deserved to be confronted with all the potential complications that would result because of his violent actions, but Adam knew he never would be, because he himself couldn't bear the thought of everyone knowing the truth.

"That can't be," Adam said quietly, his eyes shining with doubt. "I don't believe you."

"Don't matter if you believe it or not," Coffee said. "The truth don't change based on your willingness to accept it."

"And what is this truth you heard after the fact?"

"You really want me to say it out loud?"

Adam didn't answer, his attention taken fully by the stinging pain beginning to spread across the length of his puckered wound. Blood was beginning to seep from in-between the stitches, small droplets that clung to his fingertip and hair. It wasn't enough to keep him from touching the area, to calm the frantic motions that promised to break and untether the thread Hop Sing had so carefully placed. He didn't want to break his stitches; he didn't want to undo what little progress had been made. He just couldn't get a handle on his emotions; he couldn't calm the crippling anxiety tightening his chest.

Del was right; he wasn't brave and he was far from strong. He couldn't hear the truth any more than he could speak it. Maybe if this conversation would have been different then it would have bolstered his abilities. Maybe if the sheriff didn't already know what he did then Adam would have felt different about what was being said. The details the sheriff was alluding to made him feel powerless, small, and foolish. He had spent all this time thinking that he was in control of his secrets, that he himself had the power to conceal or share them. But he didn't, because he wasn't the only one telling lies. Everyone was. They all knew so much more than they were pretending to.

Adam flinched, his body lurching as someone reached out to him, taking a hold of the hand and him by utter surprise. Holding it tightly, they ceased his violent scratching of his wound, pulling his hand away from the side of his head and down toward his lap. Crouching next to Adam's chair, Joe neither spoke nor let go; resting their entwined hands on his brother's knee, he held tightly and squeezed. Go on, the movement seemed to say. Do what you came here to do.

The action was glaring, as difficult to ignore as it was to reconcile. There was once a time in his life when the thought of having to hold the hand of his youngest brother to siphon enough courage and strength to endure a difficult conversation would have been too scandalizing for Adam to even consider. It wasn't seemly for a grown man to need such comforts. Of course, that's how Adam would have felt had he experienced the action before or after. But this was now, and now he was grateful for Joe's presence beside him, for the weight of his hand holding so tightly to his own. It encouraged him to cast his fear aside and be strong. It reminded him of what he come for and why. The truth needed to be told, regardless if it was already known.

"What did this witness say," Adam requested softly. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what else the sheriff would say, but he was certain he had to. He had to endure this moment, so it could lead him to the next.

Coffee was silent for a moment as his gaze moved about the room. His sudden hesitance, his assumed determination to settle upon the correct words, seemed to declare the delicate nature of the story that had been shared. He looked at Adam, then at Joe, then back to Adam. "It was shared with me," he said softly, "that Mitchel had acted very unseemly toward you. He had attacked you, taken advantage of a situation and certain liberties that would never have been granted otherwise."

Unseemly. Adam snorted softly. It was odd to hear an event that had been so painful and violent diluted by such a graceful description. Though correct, unseemly wasn't a word he would have chosen to describe the events of that night. There were so many others he would have picked over that one. Words like horrifying or catastrophic, shattering or irreconcilable—there were so many better descriptions than the one the sheriff had chosen.

"Like I said," Coffee continued. "I had my own suspicions about Frank Mitchel. I had a pretty good idea what kind of man he was, and I had a pretty good inclination you wouldn't have done what you did if Mitchel didn't do something to you first. I've known you for a very long time, Adam. I watched you grow from a boy to a man. You've always been steadfast in your beliefs of right and wrong, eager, and willing to let the law take care of those who've done wrong. Now, I know, at the time, you had been confused for a while; you weren't actin' like yourself, even your pa would attest to that. Even so, it was difficult to believe you would set out to kill someone based on something somebody said; it was hard to accept you could kill a man on behalf of someone else. I never did accept it. The lie you told to explain your actions never made sense; the truth I heard after did. You didn't kill Mitchel because of what he did to Delphine Marquette. You killed him because of what he did to you. I know why you came here tonight, Adam. With you being as righteous of man as you are, I know what you're looking for. You want to be condemned, held accountable for what you did. You want a trial that finds you hanging at the end of a noose. But it ain't gonna happen. There's already been enough loss, enough pain and death surrounding this whole deal. I ain't gonna add to it. Like I said, I heard stories about Frank Mitchel. The truth about him doesn't surprise me, and now neither do your actions toward him."

Adam should have been relieved; he should have been grateful the truth was so fervently believed with so little effort. But he wasn't. This moment was nothing like the one he had once imagined and dreaded; he had expected a laborious conversation, for the truth to be divulged a little at a time, each piece of it equally grueling to speak of and hear. He had expected condemnation; he had anticipated being held accountable for his crime. But this conversation would result in nothing. Nothing would change, because Coffee was already aware of the truth. It was knowledge he had used as justification to shorten Adam's punishment, not lengthen it.

"What about Ross?" Adam asked.

"What about him?"

"Don't you want to know why Ross wanted Frank Mitchel dead? What Mitchel had to do with what happened between Ross and Del or what happened between the three of us?"

"No." Coffee eyes glistening knowingly. "I already know, and so do you. I don't want to hear any more out of you, you understand. The law don't have any interest in holding you accountable for nothing. You did what you did, and now it's done. It ain't exactly like you walked away unharmed. You served your time in that institution." Eyes locked on the stitches lining the side of Adam's head, he nodded. "You carry the scars of those events for everyone to see. You've been through enough. It ain't my place to hold you accountable for nothing else. Maybe that's right and maybe it's wrong, but it is what it is. Three people are dead, Adam; I'm not gonna make you fourth."

"Fifth," Adam corrected. "Five people are dead."

Coffee's brows furrowed, the statement taking him by genuine surprise.

"You dismissed the story I told you about Frank and Del, because you heard another that made more sense, but that doesn't make every detail I told you false. Delphine's baby was very real. Its life ended with hers; it was taken away before it was given the chance to truly begin."

"Okay," Coffee said, the sudden tightness of his voice matching his expression.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I know that?"

"No."

"Ross Marquette was my best friend; he died hating me. Put those two details alongside what I know you know he endured as a child and it isn't too hard to understand what happened and why."

"It don't matter now."

"But it does," Adam insisted. "Don't you understand? One thing always leads to another. You can't pick and choose what you remember. You can't tell the truth about one thing without telling the truth about it all. This started years ago, not when Ross went mad. Ross and Del dying wasn't the beginning or end of anything. It started with a terrible mistake, and you and Pa thinking you were wiser than anybody else. You thought you knew what was going on in the Marquette house when Ross was a boy. You thought you were right but you were wrong. You and Pa, you act like you don't know why things are the way they are. You act like you don't know what made Ross change. You know. More than anyone else you do. You failed him, and I failed him too."

"That may be true," Coffee said. "There's a whole lot of things I'd do differently given the chance. Mistakes are a part of life. We all make them, and we all have to live with them when we do. I'm sorry for what I didn't know back then. I regret not seeing what was happening to that boy sooner, and not leaning on you harder when I questioned you about what you'd seen. I knew you knew a heck of a lot more than you were sayin', and your pa, he knew that too. He let his fear get in the way of asking the right questions back then; I suppose that's the same kind of fear that's kept him from speaking to you about your reasoning for killing Frank Mitchel."

"That has nothing to do with what I'm talking about."

"Doesn't it?" Coffee asked. "I told your Pa to talk to you after he brought you home from that asylum. I told him to share with you what we knew. Given the difficulties you'd been havin' with your mind, it wasn't right for this lie to fester. Given the nature of what Mitchel had done, it wasn't right for you to struggle alone with the truth. He didn't do that, and now you're here, looking to me to condemn you for something you had no choice but to do."

"I had a choice."

"And what was it?" Coffee asked. "Say you didn't kill Frank Mitchel then what would have happened? Who else would that man have hurt? How many others would he have touched before enough was enough? I heard stories about him, Adam. You and I both know you weren't the first one he was improper with. You were just the first one who decided to hold him accountable in a permanent way."

"I shouldn't have done it. It shouldn't have happened the way that it did. I should have told you the truth. I should have let you handle him."

"Why? So the whole territory could have known what happened to you? So the townsfolk could add a bit of scandalous truth to their gossip? A man's reputation doesn't recover from such things. It don't matter much if he was a willing participant or not, the scandal of something like that follows him around for the rest of his life. People look upon him like there's something wrong with him; they judge him harshly for the mistakes of someone else. Why do you think your pa and I worked so hard to make sure the truth about what happened in the Marquette house never saw the light of day? Do you think that was a selfish action? It was not. We couldn't save Ross from the pain of the past, so we tried to give him a future."

"You gave him nothing. You left him to suffer with the weight of it alone. You invalided his pain; you told him to keep it a secret. That didn't help him; it hurt him. It hurt Del, too. She didn't know what she was getting into when she married him. She didn't know how angry he could get; how dangerous he could be. She didn't know the things he struggled with, how his struggles would become her own."

"Maybe so. None of that can be changed now." Coffee tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with sadness. "Go home, Adam," he softly implored. "Talk to your pa, answer all the questions he's too afraid to ask, and tell him everything you think you need to be forgiven for. Then you let go of the past. Find a way to forgive yourself for your mistakes and move on with your life. Enough lives have been wasted over Frank Mitchel's evildoing. Enough people have paid the price for his mistakes. I didn't know the truth when you and Ross was kids, but I know it now. I know what that man did to Ross when he was a boy, and I know what he did to you. So trust me, as an officer of the law you have always held in such esteem, he got what he deserved. Ain't nobody in the world can fault you for what you did. It's better this way, believe me it is. Mitchel would be dead no matter what, and you've provided folks with enough to talk about as is."

"That's eye for an eye talk," Adam said. "You're justifying what I did based on what he did to me. The problem with reasoning like that is I didn't kill Mitchel in self-defense. It wasn't me fighting back in the moment that led to his death. I took his life much later. I murdered him and you're using his poor actions to defend my own, because you believe he was a bad man and you think I'm a good one."

"I don't think anything. I know you're a good man, recent years notwithstanding. You've had some trouble with yourself, issues with your mind and such. The last time we spoke you told me that ghosts spoke to you; back then, I couldn't understand why you said that or why you would need to believe such a thing. I didn't understand where it was coming from. How you, of all people, could become so haunted, your conviction and strength so obviously undermined. I understand it now. Maybe someday, if you learn to loosen your grip on the past and let go of some of your guilt and grief, you will too."

"He's right, Adam," Joe said softly.

Pulling his hand away from his brother's, Adam frowned. How could Joe say such a thing? Didn't he know right from wrong? Didn't he know anything at all?

"He's wrong," Adam said firmly.

Joe's emerald eyes glistened with sadness. "Then let him be wrong," he urged softly. "You said what you came to say, brother. Like you told Pa, you don't get to choose what happens next. You ain't the law; you don't get to condemn yourself. Whatever's good enough for Sheriff Coffee ought to be good enough for you."

Adam didn't respond. There was nothing left to say, or do. He felt deflated, disappointed in the sheriff, his family, and himself. What right did they have to not judge him for his mistakes? Why were they so eager to dismiss accountability when it came to his crimes? Why did he get to live when so many around him had been forced to die?

Standing abruptly, he nodded curtly at the sheriff and strode purposefully toward the door. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to escape the confines of the small building and leave the unsatisfactory conversation behind.

The sky was still dark, the main street of the town still eerily empty. Neither he nor Joe spoke as they stepped into the thoroughfare, mounted their respective horses, and pointed them in the direction of home. Adam tried his best not to think about what awaited him there. He didn't know what he was going to find when he arrived, what it would make him feel or do. He hadn't told Sheriff Coffee anything the man didn't already know. This was a fact that only seemed to reawaken a series of questions.

What was the point of his struggle? His pain? Once asked by Pa, these questions lingered at the forefront of Adam's mind and gave birth to one of his own. What was the purpose of telling the truth? What was done was done; nothing could be changed. The memories of the mistakes he had made would linger on, haunting him forever—even if Del and the baby were gone. Although, it didn't seem likely now that they would be, because he hadn't shared anything that wasn't already known. He had given Delphine nothing. How could he return home expecting her to be gone? How could he expect anything at all?

Now that he had spoken to the sheriff, what else could he really do? Tack a testimonial on the wall of the post office for the whole town to see. Detailing everything that happened and why, declaring his guilt to anyone who bothered to take the time to read it. Even if he were able to remember it all and write it down, it didn't seem likely those around him would allow him to share it. He felt trapped, constrained by secrets he no longer wanted to keep, stifled by the people around him and their determination to protect the truth from being openly shared. All this time he had believed—his father had made him believe—he was in control of the truth. He wasn't in control of anything.

"I need to admit something," Joe said suddenly, his voice trickling through the darkness to reach Adam's ears. "I don't really want to say it, but you need to hear it, because you should know the truth."

Adam frowned, wishing his brother had remained silent instead. "What?" he asked, the word carrying a bitter edge.

"I was the witness that came forward. I didn't tell Pa what I found up at the timber camp, or what it led me to believe, but I did tell Roy. It was my decision; my mistake. If you want to blame somebody for sharing the information that's being used to defend your actions then you're gonna have to blame me. If you can't do that, then you're going to have to let it go."

Adam remained unsurprised. There was no one else the witness could have been. Still, there was something familiar about his brother's statement, something about the flawed reasoning that was so reminiscent of something that had already been said. It took a moment for him to really remember; this memory was hard to recall; its ordinariness made its details more difficult to distinguish than those of more distant memories. Still, he remembered the crackling of the campfire, his father and Hoss planting their bedrolls on opposites of his own; he remembered the night air feeling so thick around him. Thick with his family's worry, thick with his own. He recalled hearing Joe and his father whisper, their voices nearly too soft to be heard, but they had been heard. The things they were saying were impossible to ignore.

None of this your fault, Joe, Pa had whispered, trying to comfort his youngest son's worry over his eldest one.

When whose fault is it? Joe had asked. Who can I blame? Pa, it has to be somebody's fault.

Joe had been talking about what happened in Eastgate then, how he had allowed Adam to leave him behind. Adam hadn't been able to accept his brother harboring guilt over something he had no choice but to do, so he had spoken and put an end to Joe's troubled thoughts.

"Those are my words," Adam said. He wondered what purpose his brother had for repeating them. What was the point of Joe doing anything he had done? Why had he withheld the truth of what he had disclosed? Why had he led Adam to think there was a choice about what was disclosed, to who and when? Why had he accompanied him at all? "You're using my own words against me."

"I'm not using anything against you, brother. I'm just trying to find the right words to comfort you. I know nothing about anything has been easy. I know some difficulties you invited on yourself and others were invited upon you by someone else. I just want you to clear on who is responsible for what. I didn't lie to you before; I want you to know that too. I told you I hadn't told Pa; I didn't say anything about anyone else."

"A lie of omission is still a lie, Joe. You could have just told me. Then at least I would have known what I was walking into. I would have known Pa knew more than I thought he did."

"I didn't know Pa knew anything. That was just as much of a surprise to me as it was you. I didn't know the Sheriff Coffee tried to come talk to you after, or that Pa sent him away. The only thing I was sure of was that the truth was what allowed you to come home. It's stupid, I know, but at the time I didn't think Pa really cared about what Sheriff Coffee knew or what had brought you home. He was still so worried about you; I didn't think he had room to think about anything else. The sheriff is right, you know. You and Pa really do need to talk."

"I know."

"Do you still want me with you when you do?"

Adam shook his head; he was no longer certain of anything. This was motion that became lost in the still darkness of the early morning hour. If Joe was aware of it, he gave no indication, and their ride home was completed slowly and in silence.

Xx

The sun was beginning to rise when Adam and Joe finally rode into the ranch yard.

Hoss and Pa were waiting on the porch outside. Occupying the chairs on the side of the house, they sporadically sipped coffee from cups that had been placed on the table between them. They looked nervous; their faces were frozen in indecipherable masks which only seemed to highlight the tenseness of their respective shoulders and the almost awkward straightness of their postures in chairs which had always seemed to be reserved for airy moods and light conversations. No one in the family ever dared to sit where they were when something serious was afoot. Looking between each other, they stood in unison as Joe and Adam sprung from their horses. Neither Joe, nor Hoss, nor Pa dared to say a thing. Adam knew they were waiting for him to speak the first word.

We're all counting on you, Hoss had said. To lead us from here.

Recalling the statement, Adam struggled to define a direction. What was the point of talking about things? Of disclosing secrets everyone already seemed to be privy to. What was the purpose of anything at all? Evaluating Pa from afar, he felt a surge of anger, burgeoning and bitter, as he handed Sport's reins over to Joe.

"Hoss," Pa said, his deep voice cutting through the thick coolness of the early morning air. "Help Joe take care of the horses. Adam and I need to talk."

Lips forming a furious line, Adam snorted. There was little point in sending his brothers away; he was certain there was nothing that would be spoken about that they didn't already know. After all, Joe was privy to the secret of Frank Mitchel's actions and Hoss had become Pa's right-hand man. It was ludicrous to think he and their father hadn't discussed the aftermath of Sheriff Coffee's visit or what the witness had come forward and said. There was no doubt his father and brothers all knew the truth of what Frank Mitchel had done. It was a shame, really, he thought, feeling a little too repulsed by all of them. His family's inability to speak the truth for fear of what it would mean or do was almost as inane as his own.

Hoss eyed him sadly as he walked by, extending his arm, and resting his large hand on Adam's shoulder and squeezing encouragingly. It was a touch that lasted for only the briefest of seconds, for as soon as Hoss began to squeeze, Adam shrugged out from beneath his hand and took a step forward.

"You knew it wasn't going to be enough," he said, his gaze locked on his father as he made his overwhelming frustration and anger clear. "That's the only reason you allowed me to leave last night. You knew that whatever I had gone to say to Roy wasn't going to make a damn bit of difference. It wasn't going to change anything. He was never going to hold me; he was going to let me go. All this time you acted like it was my choice how and when I wanted to tell the truth. You acted like I could choose."

"You chose, Adam," Pa said evenly. It was as though he had expected his son to be outraged. As though he had predicted the visit to town not unfolding the way Adam wanted, resulting in the indignation his son was displaying now.

He had predicted it, Adam thought. Of course, he had. That was why Pa had looked so forlorn the night before, why he had instructed Joe to accompany him. He knew what Adam was walking into, what would happen and how it would make him feel. All this time, Pa had known and he never said anything.

"No." Adam shook his head as he quickly closed the gap between them. "Don't lie," he said as he finally stood in front of his father, clenching, and unclenching his fists as they hung at his sides. There was something grounding about the action, something familiar about his anger as it overcame him completely, and something comforting about Pa as he remained calm in the face of all of it. "If you want me to speak the truth then you hold yourself to the same expectation."

"Am I not?" Pa's voice was even and quiet as he gently negotiated his son's variant, stormy mood. "Last night you told me you chose. I'm only reiterating what you already said."

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"Use my words against me. Joe did that too. God," Adam swore, the word escaping him as an exasperated groan. "He's just like you, and Hoss, he's just like you too. Always trying to trip me up with my own damn words, making me feel like I have choices when I don't."

"And you're not like me?"

"No. I'm the most like you. You see, all this time, deep down, I've known that I was a coward, but it took an honest conversation with Sheriff Coffee to finally realize that you're one too. All this time you knew what happened at the timber camp. You knew what Frank did to me and you didn't say anything. You didn't tell me you knew; you didn't tell me anyone knew."

Pa was quiet for a moment, his face contorting with a mixture of grief and regret as he reached out and took hold of his son's forearm. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be," Adam said tersely. Pulling his arm away, he took a step back, no longer able to tolerate his father's patronizing tone or the sadness in his eyes. "I don't want your pity," he spat. "I don't need your protection. I don't want anything from you."

"Then what do you want? I see your anger, frustration, and pain, emotions that, before, would have demanded you flee this conversation, that you run away from the truth you don't want us to know. But you can't do that now, because now you know what we do. So, tell me, Adam, now that we all know this truth, what happens. Tell me what you want us to do."

Mouth hanging open, Adam was suddenly, painfully, unsure. He hadn't predicted Pa's patience to endure throughout the conversation. He hadn't expected him to speak so calmly and freely. He had thought joint knowledge of the truth would cripple them both. But it hadn't. It had done something else instead.

Stepping closer, Pa re extended his hand. "I think you've mistaken me," he softly said, taking hold of Adam's arm once more. "I'm not apologizing for what happened to you; although, that is something that grieves me deeply. I'm apologizing for myself. For what I did and didn't do. You have to understand, Adam, when Roy relayed to me what he had heard, I didn't want it to be true. I prayed it wasn't true. It's an interesting conflict to find yourself in as a father, wanting so desperately for something to be both true and false. I was grateful the information was enough to sway Roy into releasing you from the asylum. I was thankful he was determined to keep what he believed to be the truth secret from those who surround us. But I didn't want it to be true. The thought of someone taking advantage of you, of harming you in that way is… unbearable. The knowledge that you have been alone with this truth for so long is troubling—"

"Troubling?" Adam scoffed bitterly, taken aback by the chosen word. It wasn't powerful enough. It did little to encompass the agony surrounding the event.

"Hear me out," Pa implored.

"No." Shaking free of his father's grip Adam took another step back. "What's the point of talking about it? What is the purpose of saying what everyone already knows?"

"How can you ask that question? You were so sure of your purpose last night. You went into town to see Sheriff Coffee because you knew it was time to talk."

"That was different!"

"How?"

"Because it wasn't you I was going to have to talk to!"

Eyes widening with shock, Adam closed his mouth quickly. It was the truth—they both knew that—but saying it aloud was painful and startling. It felt like admitting a transparent fault, something seen clearly by everyone but never addressed. He didn't want to tell Pa the truth about what happened between him and Frank Mitchel; he didn't want him to know the truth about what happened between him, Ross, and Delphine. Knowing what he had endured and done was horrible enough, he couldn't imagine how it would make his father feel. How his father knowing would make him feel.

He could barely tolerate the conversation as it was. How was he supposed to endure it going any further? Wasn't it enough that Sheriff Coffee had shared with Pa what he had? Wasn't it enough that Joe knew what he did? Wasn't it enough that he tried to do the right thing?

Turning in place, he lifted his hands, placing his palms over his face in an overwhelmed manner. Spreading his fingers apart, he stifled a groan, the growing gaps between index and middle fingers allotting him space to open his eyes. The side of the house stood a few mere paces away, serving as a sudden silent reminder of the spirits tethered to its depths. Hours ago, he had been so certain of what to do to free them. Now, he lived in fear that nothing he did would ever be enough.

How could it ever be enough? If the people around him knew the truth but remained so willing to protect him, preventing him from accepting the punishment for his sins? What was there left to want? Or have? Or do?

"You're afraid to talk to me," Pa said simply. "That was another thing you said last night. You said something else too. You said you chose me over Kane, remaining in place over running away, and you said it was time to tell the truth. I know you, Adam. It isn't possible for your determination to leave you so soon. When you have your mind set on something, it doesn't change this quickly."

Adam realized his determination had never really left him, rather it had shifted to something else. He was angry, frustrated with the limits those around him had carefully placed. They wanted the truth but only if they were able to control what the outcome of it was. They wanted him to be a victim, an innocent amidst evildoers. They wanted to justify the unjustifiable. To mitigate his responsibility because of what had been done to him. But they didn't know what he had done. They didn't know the truth. They couldn't see it, because they didn't want to.

Hands falling to his sides, he turned back around and looked at his father, anger simmering in his chest. "You say you want the truth, but you don't. You see, actions can cancel out words, Pa; you taught me that. With your words you say you're willing to listen, that you're ready to hear everything. But you're not, because with your actions you've declared otherwise. You could have talked to me after you brought me home. You could have let Roy talk to me too. But you didn't. You took the truth that you were told and you hid it. You did with that truth what you did with the truth you knew about Ross."

"What happened to Ross has nothing to do with this. It has nothing to do with you."

"It has everything to do with anything. Ross died hating me, Pa. You can't tell me you never wondered why."

"I wondered no such thing, and neither should you. Ross had issues; he was not in the right frame of mind when he passed away. The things that happened just before his death should be grieved but not held on to. He wasn't a terrible person, or a criminal, not in his heart. He was unwell. The past affected him deeply. He tried his best to live a normal life but the scars of what happened to him were just too deep to overcome. He had struggles that went unseen for a long time. Problems that couldn't be corrected."

"I know. Ross was my best friend, my brother, my twin. Do you really think you were the only keeper of his secrets? When he started hitting Del, do you really think I didn't know what was happening to him? When his poor behavior started or why?"

"You said you didn't. You came to me and you asked for my help because you didn't know what to do."

"Maybe I was lying."

"Were you?"

It was such a simple question; still, Adam hesitated. Carefully guarded, this truth would change everything. Potentially, permanently shifting how he was seen in his father's eyes, it couldn't be taken back. He had acted poorly. Casting his values aside, he had laid with his best friend's wife. He had created a baby. And then he had denied the very act. He had denied the spirit of the child as it relentlessly cried, blaming Del's ghost for the pain he himself was inflicting on the child. Their child. He was a father—or at least he had been for the briefest of times. What kind of father denied his child? What kind of man didn't mourn its loss?

"Adam?" Pa gently prompted.

Pa would be so disappointed if he knew. Oh, God, he would be profoundly grieved. But there was nothing to prevent that now. The truth had to come out. If not for Delphine, then for the baby. Their baby. The one soul amongst them who was truly innocent. It didn't deserve to suffer as much as it did; it didn't deserve to suffer at all. It had done nothing wrong. It hadn't asked to be created. Now, with its screams and crimes, so unbearably loud and shrill, it was only asking to be set free. It was only asking for Adam to let go.

"You weren't supposed to hold on to me," Adam said, the blunt, quiet words taking even himself by surprise. "You were supposed to love me enough to let me go. But you couldn't because you don't know how. And now I know how to let go, because with all the things you taught me, you never taught me that."

His bitter anger was gone in an instant, cast aside to make room for his infinite sorrow. All this time he had told himself that those around him couldn't see him for he really was, but it wasn't until now that he realized he didn't know himself. Who was he now that he knew he had fathered a child and then denied its existence? The clues had been there the whole time but he had never summoned the courage to admit the truth. He didn't want to see it. With all the choices he had made, he didn't want to think himself capable of such an appalling mistake.

"I lied to you when I said I didn't understand what was happening to Ross," Adam said. He was helpless to stifle the admission; it was as though it was coming from his mouth by its own accord. As though it wanted to be said aloud. "I don't think I meant to. I don't think I really realized I was at the time, because I was lying to myself too. I was so scared for Ross. I was desperate to help him, to believe that his anger toward Delphine or me wasn't because of what we had done. You see, Pa, when I went to see Ross that day and he pulled his gun on me, I don't think I was so shocked about the words he was saying, I think I was more surprised he was daring to say them. We swore we'd never talk about it; we were supposed to pretend like it never happened. It didn't happen. That's what we said after, because no one was supposed to know, and we all knew it would never happen again."

"What would never happen again?"

"Ross's ghost wanted Frank Mitchel dead," Adam said cryptically. It was a shift in focus; a tangent that wouldn't make immediate sense to his father. He didn't know where else to start other than the beginning. If there was any sense to be gleaned then the whole series of events needed to be disclosed, because one thing had led to another. One mistake had given birth to the next. "Ross wanted Frank dead because of what happened between them."

"They had a falling out?"

"Not quite."

"What then?"

"Frank was an old hand at the Silver Dollar. A drover by trade. Ross's father first hired him a long time ago. He came and went; he wasn't the type to work year-round. Still, he came back, year after year to work round up. He was trusted by Ross's pa when he was alive, and later by his ma when her husband and two older sons had died. He was a huge proponent in the continuing success of that ranch and Ross's eventual downfall. You and Sheriff Coffee got it wrong, all those years ago. Ross's brothers may have enjoyed pushing him around a little too much but they weren't the ones being..."

He hesitated, struggling to settle on a tactful term. One that would both do the horrific things his friend had endured justice whilst protecting his memory and pride. It was difficult; even with his vast vocabulary, he struggled.

"Inappropriate," Pa softly provided, seemingly understanding his son's silent pursuit.

Though he thought the term lacking, Adam was grateful for his father's interjection. Without it, he might have hesitated forever, seeking something he was destined never to find. There wasn't a word apt or delicate enough to encompass all that Frank Mitchel had done.

"You and Roy thought it was Ross's brothers," Adam said. "It wasn't."

"It was Frank Mitchel." Pa's pain over the revelation was made clear by the bleakness of his expression. "We protected that boy from nothing," he added, softly repeating Adam's previous accusation. "That's what you said last night."

Adam nodded.

"Ross never told us who was doing those things to him," Pa continued. "You said that too. You're right, although I don't need to tell you that. He never said a word. We made an assumption based on the evidence at hand. The older Marquette boys were rowdy and wild. They tended to be crass and disrespectful. I suppose it made sense at the time."

"It wasn't true. That's why it went on after their deaths, because every year, Frank Mitchel would come back, and every year Ross would silently endure his iniquitous attentions. It went on and on until the day it finally stopped. Mitchel, he walked away from Ross with an enduring fondness, a loyalty toward him that one might be able to mistake for love. He walked away unaffected by what he had done. But Ross was irrevocably changed. He hid his scars well. Buried his pain so deep that most of us couldn't even see it. We didn't want to see it. Delphine, she never had that choice. When she fell in love with Ross, she wasn't privy to any of his scars; when she died, she was acutely acquainted with all of them. Even in death, she still has them memorized. Despite her anger and frustration, she sees things as they were with an astounding clarity. All she's ever wanted is for the truth to be told."

"About Ross?"

"About me."

Pa nodded sadly. "I wanted so badly for it not to be true," he said.

Adam knew they were talking about two different things now. Pa was assuming Delphine's need to torture included the need to ruin and embarrass. He believed the truth Del wanted exposed was what Frank Mitchel had done to Adam under the cover of darkness in the timber camp.

"Ross wanted Frank Mitchel dead," Adam said. He had no choice but to continue the story he had begun. "That's what his spirit was after me to do. I held strong for as long as I could; although, I'm sure it isn't a secret I struggled beneath the constant pressure. All the drinking I did after his death, the time I spent running away, it wasn't you or home I was trying to get away from. It was Ross and myself, I suppose."

"Roy told me tales of you and Frank Mitchel fighting. Hoss and Joe, corroborated them. Adam, how on earth did that man end up on our payroll? How could you hire him knowing what you did?"

"It wasn't my idea. It wasn't what I wanted to do. At the time, Ross told me having Frank closer was better than having him far away. I could keep an eye on him, he said. I could always know where he was, where to find him when I finally resigned myself to do what I was told. You're going to kill Frank Mitchel, Ross said. He said it over and over again. He wanted him dead; he wanted me dead too."

"Because of what you knew?"

"Because of what I did," Adam said sadly. "What I could have. What I could do."

Tilting his head, Pa was visibly confused. "Son?"

"You asked me why the cliff was important. It was where I killed Ross. I'm sure you already know that, so let me tell you something new. It's where I would stand after, trying to find the courage to jump. It was where Hoss found me after I set fire to the Silver Dollar and burned it to the ground. You asked me about the places the shadow could take me and why. It took me back to Silver Dollar so I could finally begin to remember what I convinced myself to forget. Ross wanted Frank dead because of what he did in secret, his actions were hidden behind the walls of that old house. Ross's reason for wanting me dead was the same. Ross had problems when he was alive. The deepness of some of his scars prevented him from pursuing certain relations that come so easily to other men. Delphine, she knew that, and me, I guess I knew it too."

"What are you saying to me?" There was fear in Pa's eyes now, a telling glimmer reinforcing Adam's belief that this truth wasn't known. It hadn't even been suspected; the very notion so incompatible with the vision of Adam Pa held so dear.

"You dismissed it, didn't you? What I told you, Sheriff Coffee, and Doc Marten about Del's baby." There was a sudden tightness in Adam's throat, a familiar burning sensation in his jaw that promised the onset of tears. He had to continue; he had come too far to stop now. "When you heard the story about what Frank did to me, you assumed everything I said about why I killed him was a lie. Not everything was," he said, his voice straining. "One thing was a little too true. Del was with child when she died. My child."

Mouth hanging slightly agape, Pa's anguish was immediate and unmistakable. He didn't ask how or why it had happened. He didn't press for more information. He didn't say anything at all.

"I told you I was the most like you," Adam whispered. "All this time I've been running away from all the things I didn't want to share for fear that they were true. I'm not who you think I am. My best friend is dead and I was the one who killed him. First with my behavior and then with a bullet from the end of my gun. It was what I did, what Del and I did together, that drove him mad. Not his past, his memories or anything else. It was me. And killing Frank Mitchel, that was me too. Oh, I let you believe it wasn't, because I couldn't bear the thought of telling you the truth. I didn't kill him for anyone else. I killed him for myself. I took Frank's life because of what he took from me. It wasn't an act of justice or self-defense, it was revenge. Sheriff Coffee doesn't want to see it that way, but I'm sure now that I've said it, you won't be able to deny what I did was wrong. You won't be able to deny what I really am. I'm a coward, a liar, an adulterer, and a murderer. With as much alike as we are, this is where we differ, because I am nothing like you are. I'm not anything you taught me to be."

The admission seemed to hang in the air around them. The only thing less tolerable than their prolonged silence was the look upon Pa's face. Adam had been right; his father hadn't known the truth. He hadn't wanted to know it either. Despite his earlier assurances, he hadn't wanted to listen to the truth any more than Adam had wanted to speak it.

Inhaling a deep, shaky breath, Adam tore his gaze away from Pa's wide eyes and awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He thought about walking away. He thought about taking one step after another, each one increasing in speed until his motions transformed into a run. But he couldn't do that, because there was nothing left to run from, and nowhere else to go.

Expelling his breath, he turned in place, his eyes setting on the chairs where Hoss and Pa had sat awaiting his return. He didn't think as his legs moved beneath him, closing the gap between himself and the chairs. He didn't look at his father as he sunk heavily into one, propping his elbows on his knees and head in his hands. There was nothing else to say. Nothing to do but wait for a response.

Pa's silence seemed to extend into infinity. It took several minutes for his shock to ebb enough so he could move from where he had become frozen and follow Adam's lead. Taking a hold of the empty chair, he pulled it to rest beside the one his son occupied. Taking a deep breath, he sat down, rested his hand on Adam's shoulder, and finally found his voice again.

"When I dreamed of Kane," he began, "I kept asking him what he did to you in the desert. I had so many questions; there were so many things I didn't understand. He never answered any of them; he never really added any clarity to the situation. He did, however, ask me his own question. He asked if I thought you were going to tell the truth about what happened, or if you were going to try to hide it and tell a story instead. I didn't understand what he was alluding to. I thought he was talking about you and him. I didn't realize he was speaking about something else."

"It was never about Kane and me," Adam whispered. Pulling his hands away from his eyes, he clenched them together and rested them beneath his chin. "It was always about me. What I did. What I went into the desert trying to prevent myself from doing. I sought Kane because I was trying to avoid changing. There was a problem with thinking I could avoid that, because, the thing is, I had already changed. I just couldn't see it at the time. I had already told my lies; I had already set upon running from the truth. There were so many things I didn't want to see. I went into the desert so I wouldn't have to see them."

"You went into the desert knowing what would happen. Knowing what you would find." Pa nodded. "Your mother told me that. I didn't want to believe it at the time. I was still trying to save you. I had not yet realized you did not want to be saved."

"When did that realization come?"

Shaking his head, Pa's hand seemed to become heavier as it continued to rest on Adam's shoulder. "When you sought my help back then, you told me that Ross's accusations about you and Del held no truth. You said that Delphine was like a sister to you. There is quite the distance between what you said then and what you're saying now. Which am I supposed to believe?"

"I'm not lying."

"Then tell me how it happened. Tell me how we came to this place, with you killing a man and fathering a child. Share with me what you so readily confided in Kane."

Adam's stomach turned. "You don't want to hear it."

"You're right," Pa said. "I don't." Shifting his weight, he adjusted his hand, moving it to rest his upper arm across Adam's shoulders. Palm lying flat, he began to move it in a comforting manner, up and down to stroke his son's shirt covered arm. "Tell me anyway," he prompted gently. "Yesterday, you said I could ask you questions and you would answer them, but I don't want to ask you anything, because I'm trusting you to tell me on your own."

Adam was slightly disappointed Pa had decided upon not asking questions. It made it difficult to know where to begin. There were some things he knew he had no choice but to confide in his father and others he knew he would not. How many secrets were proper for a man to keep? How many should he keep to himself before deciding he had enough? There seemed to be so much to speak about and nothing to say.

"When did you realize I didn't want to be saved?" he asked. If his father didn't want to begin with a question that didn't mean he couldn't. Perhaps, whatever came from this one would lead him to the next. "Who told you that?"

Pa shook his head. "You're trying to distract from the task at hand."

"No. Not really. That's part of the truth, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Then tell me."

Pa was quiet for a moment. Adam swore he could feel his father's hesitance in the weight of his arm, suddenly heavier somehow, pulling to hold him closer than before.

"Isn't it strange how quickly we all can become so accustomed to things?" Pa whispered, his lips curling into a small, sad smile. "Recent times have left their marks on us all. Changed us in ways that are difficult to reconcile or modify. You have become hesitant, avoidant, and fearful. And I have become so accustomed to taking care of you that sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be able to fully let go of you. Don't get me wrong, son, I take no pleasure, no joy, in watching after you like a wayward adolescent or sometimes even a boy. It's this strange mixture of devastating and reassuring at the same time. After Eastgate, it took a long time for me to admit how much you were struggling, how much you had changed. You needed so much from me then. You need less from me now, but…"

"It's hard to let go."

"You have no idea the truth behind those words. You're not the only one afraid of the change the truth might facilitate. You're not the only one who grieves the past so powerfully that you go to great lengths to purge it from your memory. You're not the only one who was changed by what happened to Delphine and Ross, or what happened to you. We're all affected, and we all hesitate to look at things that are bound to cause us pain. Sometimes it's okay to forget certain memories, to keep them hidden away from others. Sometimes it's not. As a man viewing you as another man, given the nature of the things you have hidden, it is clear to me that you should not be made to speak of anything you don't want to. As your father, looking at my son who has endured horrific challenges because of his secrets, I struggle to believe hiding the truth is the right thing to do."

"It's not seemly for a grown man to share every detail of every bad thing that's happened to him," Adam softly said. "Once certain truths are shared, they cannot be taken back. That's what Sheriff Coffee said. It was the reasoning for hiding the truth about what happened to Ross, and then me."

"We didn't have a choice with regards to Ross, even you must know that. He was a boy; we felt a responsibility to give him a chance to grow into a man who could be viewed without scandal. We believed it could be done at the time. We thought we knew who was doing him harm; we thought the threat had passed. Of course, we didn't know what you did. I now regret not pressing you for more information the day Sheriff Coffee came to speak to you about Ross's brothers."

"Why didn't you?"

"I was afraid. You and Ross were so close. There was rarely a moment of a day when the two of you couldn't be found in each other's company. It seemed reasonable that whatever had happened to him most likely happened to you too. Embarking on the conversation I was terrified I missed something. That I had falsely assumed you would come to me if someone ever… well, if anyone tried to do anything inappropriate. You were so young, Adam, so innocent. You had no idea what Roy was talking about. You hid it well if you did. I believed in your innocence back then. I had no reason to truly question what you were saying. You were less of a mystery to me when you were a boy; you might not always have shared your worries easily, but, in the end, you always shared them. We used to speak about everything. Now, it's as though we speak about nothing at all. Time has reacquainted me with the worry I felt embarking on that conversation. There is not a day that goes by that I don't find myself wondering: when did your desire for secrecy begin? Did I fail you back then, like I failed Ross?"

"You didn't. Nobody touched me when I was a boy."

"Then how did you know about Frank Mitchel? How did you know what the rest of us couldn't bear to see?"

"I didn't. Not back then. I saw the marks on his body; I noticed the change in his behavior; I knew something was wrong."

Pausing, Adam briefly considered omitting the details his admission had prompted him to recall. There was no purpose in hiding it now.

"I already told you about the cliff and why it was important," he continued. "Lake Tahoe's important too. If I would have stayed on my own and not come home the other night, I have no doubt that is where the shadow would have taken me. It was where I sat as a boy and finally summoned the courage to ask Ross what was going on. It was where he threatened me and hurt my arm. It was where the shadow led me the day I disappeared while visiting the timber camp in Hoss's company. That was a bad day for numerous reasons, but mainly because before I had thought that I was strong enough to resist the urge of what Ross wanted to do to Frank, and after I knew I wasn't. Sitting naked in that water, I came to for the briefest of moments, suddenly so certain of what I was going to do. It was then I knew I was going to kill Frank, because there wasn't any preventing what was meant to be. Ross's ghost made a point of saying that to me, over and over, he did. But that was the first time I think I really knew it was true."

"Lake Tahoe reminded you of what Ross wanted you to do?"

"No. It reminded me of how I felt; what I wanted to do; and all the feelings I had gone into the desert to forget. I was so full of anger, fear, hatred. I hated Frank Mitchel and I had every reason to. Seeing him that day reminded me of a whole bunch of things. Sitting in that lake reminded me of some more."

Leaning forward, Adam rubbed his palms over his eyes, wanting so badly to stifle that which was determined to be recalled. He had no specific memory of being assaulted by Mitchel. His recollection of what had taken place in the middle of that dark night was fragmented at best. If this was due to the alcohol he had consumed prior or the sheer trauma of the experience, he wasn't sure.

He recalled flashes of moments and feelings of intense fear, confusion, and pain. He remembered the sensation of a foreign weight on top of him, a half-naked body that felt so wrong pressed against his own as he lay face down and immobile, somehow unable to stop what was happening. He remembered the panic that overwhelmed him, the fear and confusion that wouldn't calm. How could this happen? How could this happen to him?

He was smart, sturdy, and tall, quite capable of defending himself against anyone who meant him harm. He had always been able to protect himself from the ill will of others—except for that night, he couldn't. For whatever reason, his body had been incapacitated, rendered incapable of movement. He had no choice but to endure what was happening to him, no choice but to deny the memories of the event the next day.

He had woken up to find his body bloodied and still naked beneath the blanket. There was a coolness to the morning air and stench that lingered like a cloud meant to suffocate him. A horrible mixture of alcohol-soaked morning breath and undefined sickness, something reminiscent of uncontrolled bodily functions and excretions. It was the foulest smell.

"When I woke up," Adam said tightly, his expression pinched with pain. "I didn't know what had been done to me." He prayed Pa would be able to decipher the event he was speaking of. If he had to backtrack and speak in particulars, he was certain he wouldn't be able to finish what he had begun. "I mean, I guess, I did, but I… the whole thing just seemed so unlikely that I thought there was no way it had actually happened. It simply wasn't possible someone could do that to me. At first, I thought it had been a dream, a terrible nightmare, and then as I began to try to move, I realized it was much worse than that."

Clenching his hands together, he felt his father's palm move to rest in-between his shoulder blades. Pa's extended silence declared his awareness of the sensitivity of what was being confided. The solidness of his lingering touch was all he offered, seemingly hoping that his strength would transfer to his son and give him the courage to continue.

"There was blood," Adam continued. "There were other things too. I did my best to clean up what I saw. What I knew nobody could ever see. My blanket was dark. I used it to clean myself and then I put my clothes back on. I flipped the mattress of the cot, rolled the blanket up and took it with me. I think if I had to do it again, I'd burn that outbuilding to the ground."

He had emerged from the outbuilding and found the camp nearly empty. Most of his men were already at work. There were a few surrounding the morning campfire, dented tin coffee cups held in their hands. The things he remembered about the morning were odd. Strange, small details forever imprinted in his mind. Squaring his shoulders, he had held his back erect, trying so hard to ignore the pain of his body and the grief he felt, as he did his best to walk tall and act normal, as though nothing had taken place. The men nodded as he walked past them but didn't say hello. Adam remembered becoming overwhelmed by panic, wondering if they knew what had happened to him. They couldn't know. Nobody could ever know.

The pain of walking was excruciating, saddling Sport was worse, both these actions couldn't begin to compare to how mounting his horse or riding had felt.

"Frank wasn't in the camp when I left it," Adam said. "Ross had gone oddly silent. I didn't think anything about that at the time. I just wanted to get as far away from the camp as I could. I just wanted to go home. I knew I couldn't, not looking like I did. I didn't get close enough to any of those men for them to know that anything was wrong, but I knew there wasn't going to be any hiding it from you, or Hoss, or even Joe. There wasn't going to be any hiding it, if I didn't clean myself up. So, I went to the lake."

For such a short ride, it felt like the longest and the most excruciating of his life. The impact of dismounting Sport had sent a wave of pain through his body so overpowering that it was a wonder he didn't fall to his knees. Absently, he stripped himself of his clothing as he walked purposefully toward the water. He was naked by the time he entered it and swam into its frigid, dark depths. The water was freezing; it quickly enveloped his body in a comforting numbness, eventually leaving his lips and skin slightly tinted blue hue. Holding his breath, he submerged his head and held himself beneath the waters to stifle the screams he could no longer silence.

"I don't know how long I stayed in the water," Adam said. "Or how long I lasted beneath the face of it. When I finally came back up, I looked at the shore and I saw Frank Mitchel on the bank, watching me. He had the strangest look on his face, the likes of which I had never seen. His eyes were gleaming, Pa; his lips were curled in the evilest smirk. I couldn't bear to look at him, knowing what he'd done. It made me feel awful. Angry. Afraid. I felt a fear run through me unlike any I'd ever felt before. He knew what he'd done and he was happy about it. I hated him then. I wanted him dead."

Frank had walked away from the bank before Adam had emerged from the water to gather up his clothes to be washed, but not before Ross's laughter filled the air. It was grinding, gleeful and self-satisfied.

Adam closed his eyes, not willing to consider the memory further.

"You came home after," Pa said softly. His voice was laced with regret, a clear indication he remembered what had happened when his son had arrived.

"It's fine," Adam said as he reopened his eyes. "You didn't know."

"It's not fine. I didn't even ask why your clothes were wet; why you seemed so out of sorts. You had endured terrible brutality and I accused you of acting unfavorably."

"You couldn't have known."

"I should have known. It was obvious to anyone that something was wrong. Your appearance was proof of that. I thought, I assumed you had fallen back into old habits."

It couldn't have been past ten o'clock when Pa had come upon Adam bedding Sport down in the barn. His hair and clothes were still wet from his time at the lake. Pa wasn't pleased to see him home so early; he wasn't happy to find him in such disarray. It was obvious to anyone Adam was feeling ill; the powerful memories of his eldest son's recent behavior had made Pa a little too quick to assume he knew what it was. It wasn't his fault he didn't know the truth. Adam was the one who hadn't corrected him. It was Adam who had made no effort to guide the conversation in a more truthful direction.

"It's a little early in the year for a swim," Pa had grunted, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "A little early in the day too. I thought you were over this, Adam. I thought your recent illness had cured you of your fondness for a bottle."

Turning his back on his father, Adam faced his horse. He couldn't bear seeing the disappointment on Pa's face. With the way he was feeling, he couldn't trust himself not to tell the truth about what Frank had done. There was no point in speaking of it. In drawing attention to something that couldn't be changed.

"I'm sorry," Adam whispered, his voice a little too thick. The assuaging numbness of the lake waters had lingered, making his body feel cold and absent. It was his mind that seemed destined to never calm, leaving him leaden with anguish and panic. No one could know what happened in the timber camp. No one could know what Frank Mitchel had done to him or why. Adam wasn't certain he knew the latter himself. But he knew who would tell him: a ghost whose extended laughter had gone suddenly quiet.

"I have reservations about you spending so much time at the timber camp so soon after your struggles," Pa had said. "I don't want to think the only reason you spend time there is so that you can continue behavior you know I don't allow at home. That's a difficult suspicion to deny this morning with you arriving home so early, looking how you do."

"I'm sorry," Adam repeated. And he was but not in the way Pa thought. He was sorry for the way he had acted before. He was sorry for drinking at the timber camp, for losing track of his surroundings and himself. I was sorry for hiring Frank Mitchel. For listening to Ross's ghost. He was sorry for coming home early, secretly hurt and visibly sick.

He hadn't had anywhere else to go. There wasn't anywhere else he had wanted to go after seeing Frank Mitchel disappear into the trees lining Lake Tahoe. After pulling himself from the icy waters and washing his clothes while listening to Ross ghost's grinding laughter, the only thing Adam had wanted was to find his way home and his father. He wanted to be where his father was, protected by mere proximity to his stability and love.

Standing paces away, not able to face his father for fear he might speak without thinking, Adam felt a peculiar nervousness start to overwhelm him. Pa's disappointment was palpable. His underlying accusations were impossible to refute. He had been drinking the night before and the one before that one too. He drank every night he spent at the timber camp; it was his reason for remaining there for such extended periods of time. He couldn't deny what Pa was saying, because it was true. He had drunk too much the night before; he had incapacitated himself. He knew he wasn't responsible for Frank's actions; however, he had made it easy for the man to do what he'd done. It was asinine and stupid. He had never liked Frank Mitchel. He had never trusted him either.

"Don't you have anything to say?" Pa had asked. "The last time you became too fond of the bottle you destroyed buildings. We thought you were dead, Adam. I would think the shame associated with such knowledge would be enough to make you rethink your need for drink."

"I'm sorry," Adam whispered for the third and final time. They would be the last words he spoke for the rest of the day.

They settled into a long silence, each having so much more to say but unwilling to allow the words slip from their lips.

"Take care of your horse," Pa eventually sighed. "Then go inside and sleep off whatever lingering illness the night's activities have left you with. You will stay out of the camp for the rest of the week. If you choose to work up there with any regularity then I want to spend your nights here, at home, in your own bed."

And Adam did stay home after that, though not for the reasons Pa had assumed.

"You thought it was that talk that made me stay home," Adam said.

Sitting next to his father, he pulled himself to sit up straight, dislodging Pa's arm from where it still lingered upon his back. Pa didn't seem to know what to do with his arm, whether the action had been purposeful or accidental. He hesitated to move it again, before eventually crossing his arms and learning back into his chair.

"It wasn't," Adam continued. "I would have stayed away from the camp whether you came upon me in the barn or not. Everything felt different after that night. That camp was different. I was different. The things Ross's ghost said to me changed. His attention shifted because mine did. It became less of a struggle over what he wanted, rather what I did. I hated Frank Mitchel. I loathed him with an intensity I didn't know I was capable of. There were moments when I was certain I would kill him, and others when I knew I couldn't let myself do it. I felt cornered. Trapped. I knew I couldn't tell the truth and I knew I couldn't keep it secret. It was tearing me up inside. Kane had begun really reaching out to me by then. I can help you, he said. Come to me. That was when my nightmares really became unbearable and I screamed loud enough for Joe to hear. Knowing that he knew something was truly wrong with me was agonizing. I couldn't tolerate him actually knowing anything, enduring his suspicion was difficult enough."

"Suspicion?" Pa asked.

"People think I'm the smart one. I think maybe your baby son is more intelligent than us all. There's something wrong here, Adam, that's what Joe said to me. People don't scream like that when nothing's happened to them. He knew something was wrong long before he found anything to validate his beliefs."

"Which were what?"

"Doesn't matter now."

"Then what does?"

Adam shook his head. He didn't know. "I've had so many voices in my head for so long, I think I've forgotten what my own sounds like," he said quietly. "It's strange to look back at certain events of your life, knowing that the mistakes you made were your own but still wondering how they possibly could have happened. How any of these horrible events could have had anything to do with you. I thought I was smarter, stronger, and more righteous too. It turns out I'm no better than any other man who's done terrible wrongs. I fathered a child with Del, a decision that drove my best friend mad and to his death; and I killed a man because I wanted to."

He looked at the backs of his hands, the black symbols renewing his sadness and guilt. "Strong," he said as he lifted his left. "Good," he added, lifting the right. "They're just words. They don't really mean anything, not anymore. I tried to tell the truth. I tried to give Del what she wants, what our baby needs, but nobody wants to hear it. Everyone is so blinded by their desire to save the me of before that they can't see the me of now doesn't deserve to be saved."

They were silent for a moment; their conversation had come full circle, returning to the topic which it had begun. Pa had known Adam didn't want to be saved, and now he knew why.

"Everyone deserves a second chance, Adam," Pa said. "You of all people must know that. You've been fighting for the underdog your whole life; you've always stood up for people who've paid their dues and taken accountability for their mistakes. How are you any different from the people you've advocated for in the past?"

"I am different. I lied."

"Then you told the truth. If Sheriff Coffee doesn't want to pursue charges against you then that should be enough for you."

"It isn't."

"Why? It isn't as though you haven't suffered, son. It isn't as though you took Frank Mitchel's life without repercussions. You took accountability for what you did, just because the punishment wasn't what you think it should have been that doesn't mean it wasn't adequate."

"It wasn't," Adam insisted.

"It was." Looking at Adam solemnly, Pa's eyes drifted to the wound marking the side of his son's face. "You can't place it, can you?"

The question was as odd to Adam as the look upon his father's face. "What?" he asked, holding Pa's troubled gaze.

"The events leading you to have that mark upon your head. The scar that you keep re-opening, again and again; you should learn to leave it alone. Each time you touch it, the wound becomes deeper, more prevalent and less likely to heal."

Frowning, Adam wondered if his father was speaking about more than his visible scar.

"I should have allowed Sheriff Coffee to speak with you," Pa said regretfully. "You have to understand how afraid I was when he came here, not of what he would say, mind you, of what you would do after. I want you to know, I would have spoken to you about all of this before if I thought you were strong enough to handle it. I know you think I believe you are capable of hurting someone. You think my fear for what you could do to others is what drives me to keep you close to me. But that's not true. I harbor no concern over your intentions toward others. My only worry is your intentions for yourself. Adam, there was no staircase in the asylum …"

Pausing, he cringed painfully.

"Or maybe there was. I'm not sure what the interior of the building looked like. They wouldn't let me see you; they wouldn't let me set foot inside. I suppose you don't remember that either. I tried to visit you; I fought so hard to be permitted to walk behind those walls, to verify your safety and wellbeing with my own eyes. It wasn't allowed; the administration wouldn't allow it. They were a crooked group that was made immediately clear to me the first time I spoke with them. They didn't care about you or anyone else they held in the depths of that building. They told me to return home; they said remaining so close to you served no purpose. They told me to stop trying to see you because it was a fight that would not be won. I don't know how much of what happened to you in there you remember. I'm not sure I want you to remember if you have truly forgotten."

Adam felt a tightness begin to build in his chest as a peculiar nervousness settled into his stomach. He had no memory of the time his father was describing. He only remembered entering the institution; he didn't recall being allowed to leave. He didn't remember much about being inside. He recalled the sound of screaming and crying and being cold. He remembered speaking to Kane, listening to his voice as he tried so hard to hang on each word because they were all he had. He remembered the day Kane stopped speaking to him; after that he had been truly alone and there was nothing left to hear but the screams.

"They wouldn't allow me to see you," Pa said again. "For weeks I tried to convince them otherwise with no avail. I'm sure you can imagine how I felt when Roy sent word he was directing for you to be released. I was so happy, so relieved. I couldn't wait to take you home. Then I saw the state you were in and all good thoughts left me completely. It was no mystery as to why they withheld you from me. Though you hadn't looked or acted particularly well the last time I had seen you, there was a distinct difference between how you looked when you entered that building and when you left. Your clothes were tattered and filthy; you were unshaven, unbathed, and painfully thin. You had lost weight, which seemed like an impossibility considering how thin you were before. Neglect isn't the right word for what you endured; torture does nothing to describe it."

"I don't remember leaving that place. I barely recall being there at all."

"I'm not surprised, given what happened after."

"After?"

"You were not in good health back then, making immediate travel impossible. I extended my lodging arrangements, postponing our return home. You needed a few weeks of proper rest and solid meals. I wanted to ensure traveling wouldn't pose a risk to your health. I needed to make sure you could sit quietly, peacefully during the trip. At the time it didn't seem likely you would ever be capable of such a thing. While before it may have taken an act of God to convince you to speak, after it seemed like you would never stop."

Adam was astounded. He didn't remember what had happened before his fall; he only recalled fragments of after. The strangeness of the mattress beneath his body, Pa's protective presence never once faltering from the bedside. Was he himself the reason Pa knew more about the past than previously thought? Had he been the one to carelessly disclose all the things his father knew?

"What did I say?" he asked.

"Nothing really, mostly nonsensical ramblings mixed with violent tears. I thought I had seen you cry when we found you in the desert outside of Eastgate, but that was nothing in comparison to what you expressed after being held in the asylum. Nothing I did helped you. There were no words I could say that would comfort you. Nothing I did eased your troubled thoughts. You were inconsolable. At first, I thought you were upset because of what you endured inside the asylum; then I slowly began to suspect you were troubled because you had been let out. You didn't want to be free; you didn't want to go home. You wanted to go back to that dark place; you wanted to be held accountable for what you did. What I failed to see at the time was how intently you had become focused on this goal. You were beside yourself, incapable of taking proper care of your needs. You didn't even have the strength or wherewithal to get out of bed and stand on your own. You were in such a state; I couldn't imagine you capable of doing what you eventually did."

Considering him sadly, Pa uncrossed his arms and lifted one of his hands, extending his index finger to hover over the length of Adam's reopened wound. "There was no staircase," he whispered. "I know that's what you believe, and I know I'm culpable in supporting that theory. You must understand how terrifying it all was, before and after that horribly dark night. You were unconscious for days, Adam. And when you finally woke up, you talked to me the way you had the night you killed Frank Mitchel. Your voice was quiet but sturdy; your eyes were clear of confusion and fear. You were so certain of what you wanted."

"I said I wanted to go home." It was a memory Adam hadn't forgotten. "And I asked you what happened, how I had gotten hurt. You told me I had fallen."

"I was trying to protect you."

"From what?"

"From yourself. I withheld the truth because I was afraid of what it might make you remember. What it might make you do. I was terrified you would return to how you had been before you went into that asylum or even after. At the time, I was afraid of what recalling the truth would make you do. I was terrified you would remember what you did and why and that it would prompt you to do it again."

"What happened?" Adam asked breathlessly. "What do you know that I don't?"

"There wasn't a staircase. There was nothing leading you anywhere, no dark shadow figure, no voices of demons or the dead. There was only you and a sixth-floor bedroom window. You didn't lose your balance; you didn't trip or fall. Son, you jumped."

Mouth hanging agape, Adam was too stunned to speak. It wasn't that he couldn't conceive of doing such a thing, it was that he couldn't imagine summoning the courage to act upon the thought.

"It's odd to think of, isn't it?" Pa asked. "Difficult to believe. With all the things I could have anticipated you doing, I never would have thought you would do that. Sometimes I question whether it really happened at all. Then I set eyes upon the mark on your face and I'm reminded of the truth. That wound is another odd detail. You broke the window pane when you threw yourself through it. You hit the back of your head when you landed on the ground below. But the wound on your head was the only visible injury to your body. The doctor believed you had been cut by a piece of the glass. No evidence was found to that effect, but it must have happened that way, because, after all, you had a deep laceration, a cut that seemed likely to come from the edge of a sharp piece of glass. Still, there was no blood on any of the pieces that were found after. There was no blood anywhere other than on the side of your face."

"Did I say anything before I did it? Was there a reason for why I would have done that?"

"Nothing that I heard. Of course, I was asleep on the other side of the room. I woke up when I heard the crash. It was a confusing thing to suddenly hear. I thought…" Pausing, Pa grimaced, then shook his head, seemingly to clear a particularly bothersome thought. "I'm not sure what I thought at the time. Now, after watching you continue to struggle with your pain and guilt, well, you already know what I think, because I've already told you. I think you jumped because you didn't want to walk free. You wanted to be held accountable for everything you had done wrong; the people around weren't going to do that, so you decided to do it yourself. It makes sense to me; I know it makes sense to you too, because, deep down, you haven't changed. You may look and act a little different. You're quieter, a bit nervous, and there's a constant sadness in your eyes. But you're still Adam. You're still resilient and moral; you have such strong definitions of what is right and wrong."

Adam couldn't bear to agree. "I should have been better," he whispered thickly.

"You did the best you could."

"I should have been stronger."

"You were plenty strong."

"I should have said no to Ross and Delphine, to myself. I should have said no when Ross asked me to lay with Del and do what he couldn't do himself. I should have stayed away from the Silver Dollar, the desert, and Frank Mitchel. I should have let things be as they were. I should have said no and left well enough alone."

Inhaling a deep, shaky breath, Adam sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. He didn't want to cry, but the tears filled his eyes despite his determination as he thought of Ross, Delphine, and the baby, everything that had happened between them and why. He was the only one left alive to shoulder the truth. It was too large of a burden to carry alone. Elbows resting on his thighs, he leaned forward in his chair and covered his eyes with his hands as he lost what little control he had over his tears. He felt Pa's hand settle upon him immediately and rub wide comforting circles on his back.

"Maybe," Pa said carefully. "You're not perfect, Adam. You never have been and you never will be. It's okay to have faults. There isn't a man alive who hasn't made a bad decision, a mistake that haunts him. You did some things you will spend the rest of your life trying to make peace with in your heart. You will continue to hurt and grieve and that's going to be difficult enough to work through. You need to stop looking to be condemned for your actions. You need to stop seeking punishment for your mistakes. You took responsibility for what you did to Frank Mitchel. Sheriff Coffee may have saved you from noose and trial, but you suffered plenty for that wrong. Given what we know about Mitchel, one could argue the price you paid was too high in comparison to the crime."

"It's not enough. All that I've been through isn't enough to make up for all that I've done."

"It is."

"But it's not."

"But it is. You made some bad decisions but that doesn't make you a terrible man. You're a good man, son. The guilt you feel is testament to that. You look upon the past with such pain, regret, and remorse. You understand how things went wrong and how they could have been different. You see how your decisions shaped the past. I pray you can see they don't have to shape your future too. You can have life beyond all of this, if you summon the courage to forgive yourself."

Sob emerging from his chest, Adam was too overcome to speak. He couldn't imagine a time in which he could follow his father's advice. For so long he had told himself he didn't remember the past and now that he did, he knew he could never forget it. It didn't seem likely that relief could come from remembrance; it didn't seem right for his life to continue while others had been taken so soon. How could he ever forgive himself for all the things he had been a part of?

He felt a surge of dread as Pa's hand left his back, then a wave of relief as he was pulled into his father's arms. Pa didn't say anything to try to soothe his tears. He didn't say anything at all as he held on to Adam, his grip seemingly declaring his enduring promise to never let go.

Adam was grateful for his father's strength, silent and steadfast, and the warmth of his sturdy arms holding him tightly to his chest as he cried. No longer born from overwhelming fear and despair, the emotions which had prompted his tears were different than he had experienced before. It felt a little less like panic and more like genuine grief. He cried for the things he had lost, people, places, and time. He cried for what had been and what would never be. He cried for Ross, Delphine, the baby, and himself. For all the things he hadn't known before or after. For what he could only know now.

And what he knew now where the two truths Pa had alluded to. One had always remained true despite his belief that it was false. His father knew everything, the good, the bad, and everything in-between and his love hadn't faltered. His father's love was unconditional, unwavering, and enduring; it was something that could never change.

The other truth or false belief—as Pa had said—was a little more difficult to let go of at the moment. But maybe, with his father's help and over time, he would begin to see its faults. For so long he had believed himself irrevocably changed by his mistakes. A terrible person forever deserving of punishment and pain. But maybe he wasn't really all that changed; maybe he wasn't a bad person, rather someone who had made a series of bad decisions. That was what Pa believed, maybe he could come to believe it too.

Adam held on to his father long after his sobs had ebbed and his tears had dried. Eventually, he pulled back from the embrace and they settled comfortably back into their respective chairs. They didn't look at each other or say anything as Pa settled an arm around Adam's shoulders and they looked upon the land in the distance, their companionable silence enduring.

"What now?" Adam asked eventually, his voice quiet, tired, and hoarse. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"What do you want to do now?"

Shaking his head, Adam shrugged. He didn't know. "What if it's not enough," he asked. "I told the truth, but what if Del wants more from me than that? What if she lingers further? What if she never goes away?"

"It's enough," Pa assured.

"How can you say that? I may have told the truth but nothing's changed."

Pulling Adam closer, Pa tilted his head and peered at his son out of the corners of his eyes. "Hasn't it?"

The question was rhetorical. A soft, subtle acknowledgement of all the things they had finally found the courage to talk about. There were no more hidden truths or secrets lingering between them.

Leaning into his father's warmth, Adam didn't answer. He didn't need to. They both knew everything had changed.

EPILOGUE:

The sky hanging over the seaboard was gray and dark, casting limited light on the calm and peaceful waters below.

There was a chill in the air, tepid and damp; the cold was to be expected given the earliness of the morning hour. Pulling the collar of his coat up toward his ears, Adam tilted his head, his brow furrowing in sudden thought. Did time exist in dreams, he wondered.

It didn't seem likely, because the only thing changed about his current location was himself. Though he had aged, the land and waters surrounding him had not. They looked exactly how he remembered them to be when he last stood in the very same place nearly ten years ago.

He hadn't dreamed of the docks until after he had seen them for himself. His father's descriptions depicted through various bedtime stories told to Adam when he was a boy were rich with detail; however, they had done nothing to truly describe the ocean's beauty and the wonder its vastness awoke.

Adam remembered the first time he had visited this place in person, its deck bustling with activity, various ships sailing in the distant water. It was one of the first places his grandfather had taken him when he first arrived back East for college. This is my favorite place in the world, lad Abel Stoddard had said. I've waited years to share with you. Little did his grandfather know it would grow to become one of his grandson's favorites as well. There was just something about the salt in the air and the movement of the waters that embedded themselves into a man's heart, making him feel like anything was possible, making him itch for adventure and new beginnings.

"You have the sea in your blood," Elizabeth said as she suddenly appeared. "If you didn't inherit that from your own father then it was certainly instilled within you by your time with mine. He loves the sea, and so do you. You can't stay away from it forever. These waters call you toward them in the way the vastness of the West once called out to your father."

Adam's lips curled into a smile. "You came back," he said.

"Did you truly expect me to remain gone forever?"

"Not really. Of course, I didn't expect you to return quite so soon either."

"There didn't seem to be a good enough reason to stay away. You always say things you don't mean when you're angry. Your father knows that and I know it too." Standing next to him, Elizabeth nodded at the distant sky. "The sun will be up soon," she said. "It's the dawning of a new day, tell me, darling, what do you think this one will bring?"

Adam wasn't sure. There was no predicting what the future would bring; he no longer wished to do such a thing.

In the months that had passed since he had spoken to both Sheriff Coffee and his father, some things had changed while others seemed destined to remain the same. Hop Sing had ceased writing symbols on the backs of Adam's hands and Adam had procured a new bedroom door. He slept with it closed now, his father no longer lingering at his bedside and rarely checking on him in the middle of the night. There seemed to be little reason to. Adam's sleep was no longer fitful; he had stopped dreaming of falling and unconsciously enacting his nightmares by rolling out of bed.

Hoss had maintained his seat at the dining table at their father's right-side, an arrangement Adam was no longer threatened by, rather thankful for and accustomed to. It was a change that would make the future easier, for all of them, because Elizabeth was right—as she always was—Adam couldn't fight the pull of the sea forever. Pa knew it too, though it had once been an easier truth to admit long before it was now with some things so changed and others eternally the same.

Adam still struggled to eat enough to appease his father or even Hop Sing, but he did his best and most days that was more than enough. He had gained weight, obvious muscle too; slowly his clothes had ceased to hang on his frame, their looseness once declaring the startling decline in his health. His skin had regained its natural hue. His gate was more confident now; he had lost the hint of dread and anxiousness in his eyes. He looked better; he felt better too. Peaceful. Rested. Strong.

There was a glaring difference between the Adam of before, the Adam of after, and the Adam of now. A change so obvious it couldn't be hidden. His family saw it, and the townsfolk saw it too. Of course, he couldn't be sure if their uproarious whispers and looks had been born from his appearance or his sudden appearance after being absent for so long. He would never be sure if they noticed the change in his disposition or just plain noticed him.

When he had finally entered town, under the cover of sunlight rather than darkness, his return had been quite the event; sending waves of shock through the town, it had invigorated gossip mongers in a way not seen since word spread of his odd behavior after being found in the desert outside of Eastgate. The unsolicited attention bothered Pa, Hoss, and Joe almost as much as the falsities of what people were saying. Adam remained strangely calm in the face of all of it. What did he care if people chose to spend their time whispering about things they knew nothing about? They didn't know the truth, and they never would. It was a fact Adam had made peace with, something that was so oddly comforting now.

"Have you talked to Pa lately?" Adam asked Elizabeth. He was no longer threatened by the thought of his parents speaking in his father's dreams. There was nothing left to be afraid of. No information anyone could share that would instill within him dread or fear. There wasn't anything left to hide; the truth had all been told—maybe not to everyone but to the right people. Sheriff Coffee and Pa knew it; Hop Sing, Hoss, and Little Joe knew it too. They all knew his darkest secrets, his deepest faults, and it hadn't changed how they felt about him. It hadn't really changed anything at all—at least not anything that truly mattered.

Of course, after the truth had been shared, Adam lived in fear for the briefest of times his efforts wouldn't be enough to atone for his sins. In some ways they were and in others he knew they would never be. Delphine and the baby were gone from the house when he, in the company of his father and brothers, had finally summoned the courage to reenter it. It was a development that left him both relieved and deeply saddened. While it seemed that Del had finally forgiven him, it was difficult to forgive himself. Some days it was an easier proposition to think about than others, and some he managed not to think about it at all. Easing him back into the roles in which he once fit so perfectly, Pa kept Adam busy, and for that, Adam was grateful. It was better not to have too much time to think about the past, or future; it got in the way of the success of the present.

He was slowly becoming accustomed to living his life as a series of moments, not giving anything thought than what was immediately required. This was an outlook he knew couldn't last forever. After all, he was who he was, endlessly contemplative and percipient, but how many things in life were destined to remain forever? He could count the things he was certain would on both of his hands: the rising and setting of the sun; the renewing vastness of the ocean waters; the comforting steepness of the mountains that had surrounded him as he grew from a boy to a man; the fierceness of his brothers' loyalty; Pa's love for all his sons; and the permanence of the presence of the shadow figure.

Though Del and the baby had gone, the shadow had remained. Existing in the periphery of Adam's daily life, its interest in leading him seemed to have waned. It had taken to following him rather. For Adam, its presence was more comforting than bothersome, more easily explained to Hop Sing and his father than his younger brothers or the townsfolk. Everyone saw it; there was just no hiding that cloud of darkness, billowing and tall, when it chose to appear and float mere inches behind Adam at any given time. It was appalling and scandalizing to have others privy to the seemingly sentient mist; it was less so later, when Adam became more accustomed to it himself.

Hoss and Joe never would make peace with the shadow's existence; it would always unsettle them in ways they wouldn't articulate. Pa grew to think of it as a good thing, Adam's guardian angel, of sorts. Remember, son, he would warn, the places this thing can take you if you ever decide upon keeping unwise secrets or running from the truth. I don't think it means to hurt you. I think it means to accompany you instead. Adam couldn't disagree. Though he still didn't understand where the shadow had come from, what it truly was, or how and why he had chosen it over Kane, he began to view the shadow as more friend than foe; a constant comforting reminder that, even after everything, he was never truly alone.

"Of course, I visit your father," Elizabeth said. Smiling wryly, she nudged Adam's arm with her shoulder in a friendly manner. "He wasn't the one who told me to leave him alone."

"What do the two of you talk about now?"

"Not you, that's for sure."

"What then?"

"Nothing that is of your concern. It should come to no surprise to you that, despite the passing years, the love your father and I felt for one another has not waned. We don't lack things to discuss, or do."

Brows furrowing, Adam's smile faltered briefly. "You're right," he said. "It isn't any of my business what the two of you do in Pa's dreams."

"Now, now, don't be crass," Elizabeth warned lightly. "He and I are married, after all."

"Were," Adam corrected. "He was married two times after you. You died so young; he's… decades older than you are now. Even I'm older than you are now."

"Only because you choose to be. This is your dream, Adam. You could choose to embody any age you've already been. You just happen to feel more comfortable appearing as you currently are. It's a wise choice, actually. The right one for you, given the complications of the last few years. You spent so long running from yourself; it's important for you to exist how you are in each and every moment of each and every day."

"I know," Adam said, his eyes drifting to the sea. How much time would pass before he saw it again, he wondered. How long would he be content to remain in place before the pull of those waters became too much?

His need for travel was slowly being reawakened, igniting a familiar boredom. With all the things destined to shift and change, there was one that would remain the same. He was who he was, even after all this time. He knew he couldn't stay in place forever. There was too much to see and do. Still, it didn't seem likely he would act on such intentions soon. Maybe before he would have, but not now. Not after that had been done. Not when there still was so much to repair and heal. Not when he still found so much respite in the proximity of his brothers and father, always close, a moment away whenever he needed them. Not that he needed them often these days. He was as independent now as he had ever been. It was his perspective of his family and life that had changed. Someday, he would leave home and the road he would travel on his new journey may never lead him back to his family. He needed to appreciate what he had while he still had it. If there was only one lesson to be learned from the past it was that things never seemed to remain the same.

"Don't spend too much time looking forward or back," Elizabeth warned as though privy to his thoughts.

Looking at her out of the side of his eyes, Adam wondered if she really was. She knew most things before he found the words to speak them. She was a lot like Pa in that regard.

"I know you are beginning to ache for adventure," she continued. "Don't be in a hurry to respond to such feelings. There's a difference between being open to the future and running from the past. Now is not the time to be pulling away from your family. You have a few good years left in the company of your brothers and father before it's time for you to truly consider a life without them."

"I know."

"Someday you will leave the life your father carefully built for you," she said as she looked longingly at the ocean before them. "You will look upon these waters again outside of your dreams. Though that day is further away than it once was, it's closer now than it was before. Your father has decided not to look upon that approaching day with dread. He hopes you have decided the same. He hopes your need to occasionally deny how you truly feel won't stand in the way of you doing what you're meant to. There are so many choices in this life. We both hope you decide to cling to faith rather than fear when you make them."

"I thought the two of you didn't talk about me in his dreams."

"Most of the time we don't," she qualified. "It is a difficult topic to avoid, given our love for you. You're not alone, darling. You never have been and you never will be, not with all the people who care for you."

"And the shadow," Adam mused.

Elizabeth cast him a curious look. "It doesn't bother you the way it once did."

"I'm not sure it ever really bothered me at all. I think it was another thing I had convinced myself not to look at or see. Kane said I chose it over him, though that's a difficult accusation to deny or confirm, because I don't know what it is, where it came from, or what it wants." Adam shrugged. "I don't think it wants anything. I think it's content to follow me around."

"Think of it as a souvenir."

Adam looked at her, confusion sparkling in his hazel eyes.

"You made a deal with a devil in the desert, darling," Elizabeth said. "Even if Kane has decided to relinquish you that doesn't mean you get to walk away unscathed. There is darkness to every man, every woman too. Yours is just a little more visible now than that of most. Like the scar on the side of your head, the lingering darkness is a reminder to stay righteous. To be truthful to yourself and others."

"You're saying that cloud was inside of me?"

"No. Don't be silly. It didn't come from you; it was given to you. Like the pain of the past, it's a part of you now. Its essence is meant to remind you of where you've been, where you are, and where you're going. Sometimes, if you drift too far away from who you are, it will lead you back to where you need to be, and others, when you are certain of your direction and yourself, it will be content to follow you."

Adam thought for a moment. "Why did Kane do that?" he asked. "He had me where he wanted me; he had so much control over me. Why would he allow me to choose between him and anything? Why would he let me go?"

"You don't know?"

"I wouldn't be asking if I knew."

Elizabeth turned her attention to the horizon. "Kane couldn't hold on to you," she said, "because your father refused to let go. There wasn't room enough for both to maintain their grip. One of them had to give up on you, eventually. You couldn't listen to them both, Kane knew that. And he knew your father was never going to let you go. Not at first, of course. That knowledge came later, after your father miraculously pulled you from that desert, after he refused to abandon you in the asylum. It was after all that when Kane knew he couldn't contend with your father. He knew he could never fully have you because nothing he could offer would ever supersede what your father so freely gave."

"There was always a limit to what Kane wanted to offer. Everything always came with conditions and strings. Everything was contractual in the desert. Nothing came easy or free. If he gave me a sip of water then he expected me to dig him a lake in return. If he was going to shoulder the burden of even the smallest of my secrets then he forced me to relive the moment ten-fold. There was no peace out there. No healing, safety, loyalty, or love."

"Still, you clung to him after."

"I was tired, hurt and confused. I had convinced myself to forget what had happened between Delphine, Ross, and me; I had become determined to run forever from what Frank Mitchel did; and in doing both those things I lost track of the only thing I could truly be certain of."

"Your father is and will always be a steady constant in your life," Elizabeth said knowingly. "His love is neither conditional nor finite. He will always love you no matter your sins."

"I should have remembered that then," Adam admitted.

"At least you remember it now."

Nodding, Adam was quiet for a moment, his thoughts settling on a question he had long told himself he wouldn't dare ask. There was just no purpose in knowing the answer, because it wouldn't change anything. He needed to feel whole with or without it—something that was easier said than done. With all the things he could let go of he wondered if this was one he was destined to hold on to forever. It didn't seem right that he should forget it. It didn't seem fair that his life could continue while another hadn't been given the opportunity to ever begin.

"Do you see them?" he whispered, impulsively asking the question before he convinced himself to silence it again. "Delphine and the baby, are they where you are?"

He didn't worry about the whereabouts of Ross and Frank Mitchel's souls the way he did those of the baby and Del. Maybe it was right and maybe it was wrong, but he didn't care about the whereabouts of the former. It was the latter that was most important; it was the ways in which he failed both that seemed to still sting the most.

"Oh, Adam," Elizabeth sighed sadly. "I thought you had resigned yourself to never ask."

He felt a twinge of anguish then, a sudden, sly emotion he had come accustomed to being overwhelmed by without warning. It was always the quiet moments that facilitated such a feeling. The short span of time between when he was awake and when he fell asleep at night; the evenings he sat in front of the fireplace, book laying neglected his lap and his mind turning with impossibilities.

What would have life been like had Ross never killed Delphine? What would life have been like if Ross had died and Delphine had lived to give birth to the child? What would he himself have done then? What would he have done if they all had lived? Ross, Delphine, and the baby. If Ross's physical expression of anger and frustration had expanded to involve both Delphine and the child? If Ross would have lived to raise the child with an unkind hand? What would Adam have done then? How would he have remained kind or quiet? How would he have kept their secret?

You wouldn't have, Pa had said, sitting next to Adam in front of the fireplace as he watched him stare numbly at the flames of the flickering fire. It was a conversation they were destined to repeat, his father's sad assurances so needed in moments that felt particularly bleak.

With all the mistakes Adam had made and all the truths he had once run away from this one seemed to hurt the most. He and father had spoken of the baby often—at length, they had. With all the doubts and pains and Pa could soothe this was one that seemed intent on enduring forever. It didn't seem right to let it go; it seemed better to hold on to it forever, because somebody should remember the life few were privy to and nearly no one had known was lost.

Sometimes, Pa so often reminded, although events are deeply saddening and cause us great pain, they're for the better. Ross was who he was, and so are you. Nothing would have saved him from his mental decline, or Del from his viciousness. If that child would have been born you wouldn't have stood idly by. Even if the events of the past didn't unfold how they did, something bad would have happened between you. There was always destined to be pain, son. There's just no way around that. There's little point in torturing yourself over what can't be changed.

"Your father's right, you know," Elizabeth said. "You may always wonder how things could have been different and question if they would have ultimately ended up the same, but it is better this way. And even if it's not, you have no choice but to accept it. The past is what it is; you can't change it now."

Adam nodded, his throat feeling tight. He knew she was right; still he couldn't help wanting to know everything, the answers to every question which circled his mind so ruthlessly in the quietest of moments. Was the baby a boy or a girl? Who did it take after, he or Del? After everything it had endured, was it okay? Did it ever stop crying?

There was little purpose in knowing these things. They wouldn't make his future easier; they wouldn't make the memories of the past any less painful. Still, he longed for an answer, something to help him hold on the good and let the bad go.

"You didn't answer my question," he whispered.

She looked at him then, her eyes glistening with sorrow. "Oh, darling," she said. "I don't intend to. Don't mistake me, I would like nothing more than to give you something that would ease the pain you feel about the loss of that child. But knowing more isn't going to help you move forward; it's only going to hold you in place. Someday, you will have all the answers you seek. Years from now, when you've lived what's left of your life, you'll take your last breath and a first step toward the light and only then will the pain in your heart truly disappear. You'll enter a world you can't conceive of now and you'll find her waiting for you."

"Delphine?" Adam asked. The notion felt outrageously wrong. Why would she wait for him? He wasn't the one she had loved.

"Not Delphine." Elizabeth shook her head. "Your daughter."

Mouth hanging open, Adam felt the breath rush from his chest. It wasn't the grandest of realizations, but, in the moment, it felt like everything he had ever longed to know. It was all he needed to know to let go.

"Don't hang on to her now," Elizabeth continued. "There will be plenty of time for that later. You have so many days ahead of you; despite the shadow of darkness clinging to you, your future is vast and bright. Make me a promise, Adam. Time is a gift only allotted to some. Don't waste any more than you already have."

"I won't."

Smiling, she took his hand, then nodded at the rising sun. "A new day is here. Are you ready?"

Relishing the feeling of his mother's hand in his own, a comforting warmth that seemed intent on spreading into his chest, Adam didn't hesitate. "I am," he said as his lips curled into a wide smile. "This time, I really am."

END

Thanks for the reviews! Given its AU elements and difficult premise, I continue to be thankful this storyline ended up being enjoyed by so many.