The foreign address was deeply familiar, though he hadn't written it in well over a year. Joe scrawled out the final words, bold and dark, then tossed the pen aside, sat back, and stared for a long moment at the result. He had already enclosed his letter (Brother Adam, I don't know if you'll ever see this letter. I don't know if you're dead, or if you don't care, or if you just moved and your new address got lost somewhere between Ballarat and Virginia City. Whatever the reason for these past years of silence, I've decided to write you anyway …) and sealed it so that he had no chance to rethink—either his wording or his decision.

This wasn't really about Adam, anyway.

It was about starting to feel his way through his own new life. Who this Joe Cartwright was, as Lina had said. What—and who—was important to him.

"Tell me about your brother Adam. How long as he been gone?"

"Almost ten years. At first he was just supposed to be a year or so in Boston—his grandpa, his mama's pa, was dying and Adam went to help out, get his grandpa's affairs in order. While he was there, though, he met up with a couple friends from college who were talkin' about Australia. They've got gold down there, and his friends figured there'd be opportunity for engineers. They heard about Adam's experience with the silver mines here, workin' with Philip Deidesheimer on support structures like he did, and they asked him along."

"And he went."

"Well sure. Nobody could really blame him—who wouldn't want to go see Australia? And anyway, that's the kinda thing Adam likes, he's always had designs for somethin' on scraps of paper all over the house. He and Pa wrote back and forth for a while, but there was never any real question about whether he would go. Things were in hand here at the ranch, there was no reason he couldn't take off for a while. He signed on for six years after his grandpa was gone and they headed out. Ended up in the Ballarat gold fields—southern Australia—doin' pretty well for themselves."

"It has been longer than six years."

"Yeah. Yeah, it has. He was real good about writin' for all that time, but then at the end all of a sudden the letters stopped. We haven't heard anything since … well, since right before Hoss …"

Joe had been worried for Adam, and then angry. He'd grieved the possibility that his eldest brother, too, had been killed somehow—though surely someone would have sent them word. He'd grieved the possibility that his eldest brother hadn't wanted to come home home—though surely Adam would have given them some sort of warning. He'd grieved for his pa, who didn't need this kind of uncertainty about his firstborn on top of the loss of his middle son.

He'd grieved for Hoss. He'd grieved for Alice and their baby.

He'd withdrawn. It was all … too much.

That was over now. Partially. This Joe Cartwright didn't seem to need—or want—the social crush on which he had thrived in his previous life (it was the closest description he could find for the divide between then and now), but he did still want his big brother. He wasn't above telling Adam that.

Along with a few other things he'd probably waited too long to get off of his chest.

Joe picked up the letter, balanced it for a long moment in his hands, then went to put it with the outgoing mail.

He found Ben still at his desk, nodding over the ledgers. Darkness had fallen several hours ago, Jamie's bedtime was come and gone, and the rest of the house stood silent except for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. His pa sat back as Joe approached. "I thought you were asleep."

"Nah." Joe motioned to a neat stack at the outer corner. "This the mail to go into town?"

Ben nodded, and Joe dropped his letter on top. Seeing the address his pa's eyebrow rose, and Joe offered a wry grin before crossing to the liquor cabinet and pulling out the good brandy with two glasses. Ben stood, bemused. He studied his son, then drifted over to his red chair by the fire. Joe met him with one of the glasses, but rather than retiring to the settee with his own drink, he sat on the edge of the low table, staring into the fire. After a silent moment, Ben joined him.

"I don't know how you did it three times," Joe ventured.

It was the first time since Alice that Joe himself had raised the subject of Ben's losses—the first time he had willingly spoken of this painful new similarity. Ben took a long breath and a quick drink. "Not well, certainly." He smiled distantly. "Not as well as I would have wanted, anyway."

"Well." Joe laughed softly, without humor. "That makes two of us." Ben studied him from the corner of his eye. "I'm … sorry, Pa."

"About what, Joseph?"

"All of it. The past months. I know I'm not the only one havin' a hard time, but I just …" He shook his head, and took a deep sip of brandy.

Ben stretched his feet toward the fire. "I held on too tight, after each of your mothers. I held onto my dream with Elizabeth, when it should have waited a few years. I held onto my dream with Inger, with two young sons who needed more from me than the Sierra wilds. I held onto my memories of your mother Marie, when you and your brothers needed me to live with you in the present." He absently circled the rim of his glass with one finger. "I held onto my sons too tightly, even after I had raised you to be strong, good men." Joe looked around, surprised by his father's admission of this long-unspoken tension. Ben offered a dry half smile. "I held on too tight."

"I pushed everybody away."

"Maybe." Ben shrugged. "But I think you've been spending your energy holding on to Hoss, and to Alice and your child. There hasn't been room for the living."

Joe nodded slowly, testing the idea. He hadn't quite thought of things that way, but his pa's words had the ring of truth. "Yeah. You might be right."

Ben ruffled his son's tangled curls, then drew Joe's head down and pressed a gentle kiss onto his temple. "Take it from an old hand, son. It's an easy mistake to make."

"Yeah."

They sat silently together, staring into the flames.