TWO

Eighteen year old Jamie Hunter Cartwright left his room on the second floor of the Ponderosa ranch house behind as he moved to the top of the stairs. Once there he halted and listened to the tall case clock by the door chime the hour of midnight. He'd tried to sleep but for some reason found he couldn't. He wasn't usually one for nightmares, but tonight his sleep had been troubled by disturbing images that vanished as soon as he opened his eyes.

Images that, he was pretty sure, had to do with Joe.

He missed his older brother; physically now as well as in just about every other way. When he'd first met Joseph Cartwright, the silver-haired man had always had a ready laugh and seemed to be one of the most grounded and content men he had ever known. Oh, Joe had a heck of a temper. It was legendary as a matter-of-fact. He'd heard stories about it since he arrived at the Ponderosa and about all the trouble it had gotten Joe into when he was around his age. But it seemed, most of the time when Joe got mad, that there was a good reason for it. His 'mad' was usually not for himself but for someone else. Pa said Joe couldn't stand injustice. That he just couldn't it go when he thought something wasn't fair.

That probably explained why Joe'd been mad ever since... Well, ever since everyone died. First it had been big brother Hoss. Boy, he sure missed him too. Hoss had been just about the best big brother anyone could have wanted, always helpful and so understanding. With Hoss around you knew you were all right. Maybe that was what was wrong with Joe.

Maybe without Hoss he just couldn't be 'right'.

'Course then, it hadn't been very long after Hoss died that the fire happened. Jamie drew a sharp breath and tears entered his eyes as he considered the pain his brother had been through. He couldn't imagine losing anyone in a fire – knowing that someone you loved was burning up and not being able to do anything about it. Joe'd almost died too, running back, trying to get into the house; getting all burned. He just hadn't been the same since... Since Alice and his baby died.

That was why Pa sent him away.

They'd talked about it a little. He didn't like to bring up Joe and how he was hurting because it made Pa hurt too, but sometimes it seemed the older man just needed to hear things in words. Even if they hurt, it seemed like saying them took the sting away for a little bit.

Still, it always came back.

After a few months it had seemed Joe was getting back to normal. He was working with the horses again and taking care of Ponderosa business. Joe smiled and laughed some, though not as much as before. It was about six months later – after that soldier Tanner hunted him down and tried to kill him – that the laughing stopped all together. Joe got quiet. Real quiet. He'd go past his brother's room on the way to the privy and hear him pacing and talking low to himself all hours of the night. He never could make out the words. They were soft and low and sounded almost like a moan. And then Joe started to get angry. He got so angry he drove just about every one away. Everyone but Pa who said Joe needed time to heal, and that every man healed at his own pace and in his own way. So when Joe started to forget about his chores, when he didn't' feel like handling the family business – when he walked away from the horses – Pa said they needed to be patient and wait.

He's been all right with that, right up to the time he came down at four o'clock in the morning and found Joe sitting on the porch in Pa's rocking chair dead drunk. His older brother had a bottle of whiskey in his hand and it was near gone. Joe tried to hide it when he came out but he wasn't quick enough, so he confessed he'd been drinking hard and he'd been wrong to do it and swore he wouldn't do it again.

But he did.

It started happening so often that, just out of curiosity, he'd begun to open the liquor cabinet every couple of days to check and see how many of the bottles were empty or missing. One time Pa caught him doing it and boy, did he think he was gonna get a tanning. Only the fact that he'd just turned eighteen stopped it. He'd never really had a lot of interest in liquor and he was sure Pa knew that. Pa had to know who was drinking the whiskey and the brandy. He just didn't want to admit it. He thought Pa would be mad at Joe too. But he wasn't. He was just sad.

Really sad.

Gripping the stair rail with his fingers, the young man began his descent. He'd gone by his pa's room and the older man hadn't been inside, so he figured he was sitting on the porch in that rocking chair, looking at the stars and thinking about things. Pa'd been doing that a lot since Joe left a little over a month before to check out the lumber industry in Minnesota. It was a long way to go. To him, it seemed traveling almost two thousand miles should have taken his older brother pert near to China! When he'd asked Pa about the time he spent outside, the older man told him he felt closer to Joe out under the stars, knowing that they might be looking at the same stars.

Jamie walked to the door and took hold of the latch. Pa was probably gonna skin him for being up so late, but he didn't care. For once he needed to talk to someone. That nightmare still had a grip on him. Maybe because he couldn't remember it.

Or maybe because he remembered just enough.

Opening the door, Jamie stepped outside.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben was not surprised at all when he heard the door to the house open. Jamie was a sensitive boy and he probably felt it too – something in the air, some wind of change. The older man looked down at the piece of paper he held in his hand and sighed. Roy had brought it out earlier. His old friend was retired as a sheriff, but that didn't mean the sheriff in him had retired. Roy still haunted the streets of Virginia City watching for trouble and could often be found at the telegraph office sniffing out news. That was how Roy had come to volunteer to bring the message from his business associate Daniel Jacobs in La Crosse to him. It had arrived mid-afternoon.

TRAIN ARRIVED TWO DAYS BACK. STOP. JOE NOT ON IT. STOP. SHOULD WE START SEARCH? STOP.

Stop.

It was as if his heart had stopped when he read it. Oh, Joseph was a grown man and could take care of himself. The west was not so wild as it had once been and it was unlikely he would have run into any trouble on the train unless it had been robbed, which it hadn't. No, when he had sent his youngest boy off in search of himself he had feared only one thing and it seemed it had happened.

Joe was not to be found.

Ben said nothing as Jamie came to his side and sat down. This young son, who was a man now, was all he had left. The boy was quiet and thoughtful and such a contrast to Marie's boy. He'd always known Joe felt things too deeply and feared Alice's death might be enough to break him. It had been hard enough when his own wives died – Elizabeth in childbirth, Inger through violence, and Marie as she rode her horse into the yard. But each time he had held the woman he loved in his arms as she passed to her reward, and he had had fine sons to ground him and give him a reason to continue living.

Ben lowered his eyes and closed them. His son's arms had been empty – were empty.

Joe was empty.

Joseph hadn't said anything when he left – he didn't have to. There was another deeper loss, even greater than that of his family that he mourned. It was evident in his son's face. It was there in the deep dark pools of Joe's green eyes. The loss was written in the lines that had formed at the edges of those always ready-to-laugh lips. It pulled them down into an unending frown and moved them toward the bottles of liquor he had found stashed in the barn and hidden in his son's room.

Joe had lost his way.

His son had lost his faith.

It took about five minutes of silence, but Jamie finally worked up the courage to ask, "What'd the telegram say, Pa?"

Jamie loved Joe. Everyone loved Joe.

Everyone but Joe.

"Your brother seems to have gotten off the train somewhere along the line. He didn't arrive in La Crosse as expected." Ben folded the paper and tucked it in his pocket. "I imagine he took a detour, maybe to do some sight-seeing. Or maybe he went to see my old friend Lars."

"That the one in," he paused, "what was it? Elm Grove?"

Ben smiled. "Walnut Grove. It's a small town in Minnesota, not too far out from La Crosse."

"Who's Lars?"

"Lars Hanson. We met on the way out west and became friends during the time we traveled together. He went north to found Walnut Grove, while Adam and Hoss and I continued on to Nevada. Lars has been the city's mayor and is now the owner of a prosperous saw mill. I gave Joseph his name and told him to look him up if he had time."

"But wasn't there some meeting Joe had to go to first?"

Ben nodded. There was a sort of conference; a gathering of all the timber barons in the area and of those who were seeking lumber for a multitude of uses including town building, railroads, and mines. Joe was to represent the Ponderosa and its interests there. His travel plans would have brought him into town two days before the meeting. In other words, the meeting had been today.

And Joe had missed it.

"Yes, there was. Many of the men at that meeting have interests in the West. Among other things I sent Joe to get a feel for whether or not they would be willing to do business with us. The Cartwright name carries weight, son. There would be those who would come to us rather than use one of the companies in the East for their needs."

"Wouldn't that make the men back East sore? Like you're buttin' in or something?"

The boy was shrewd. "Maybe. But that's how it works. "

They fell silent again. Jamie lifted his head and looked at the sky. Several heartbeats later, he said, "I miss Joe. And not just 'cause he took the trip." His son's blue eyes flicked to him. "If you know what I mean..."

He knew all too well. It had been Joseph who had brought up the idea of going east though, at the time, he was fairly certain his son had no intention of actually traveling there. There had been an article in the paper about the burst of new ideas in Minnesota and how those innovations were powering the growing lumber industry there. Joe had said, at the table over supper, that new thinking and maybe new blood might help them turn a better profit. As he watched his son sink deeper into disorderly habits and despair, an idea had formed in the older man's mind. Maybe Joe just needed to get away – away from the Ponderosa and the constant reminders of all he had lost. New land and new people would give his mourning son a fresh perspective, remind him that he was alive – maybe even get him interested in that life again. He had formulated a plan and laid it before Joseph and his son had agreed. Only one thing had held him back – one thing made him uneasy about letting him go. Joseph insisted on going alone.

And Joe had never been alone.

Ben stood up. He placed a hand on Jamie's shoulder. "I know, son," he said. "Joe's been away for a long time. I had hoped... I hope this trip will return him to us in all the ways that matter."

Jamie's young face was turned up. On it was written a portion of his own misery.

"What if he doesn't ever come back?"

The older man drew a breath and held it. He had started this life with nothing but the skin on his back. He had married three times, to three wonderful women, and lost every one of them, but he had not been lost. Each one left him with a son. Adam. Hoss. Joe. He'd had them with him, held them in his arms, loved them and taught them to be men, and then he had watched them leave one by one. His eldest by choice. Hoss, through death. And Joe...

Joe was still living but he might as well have been dead.

Ben drew Jamie to his feet and placed his arm around his son's shoulder. It was what he had told Joseph when he'd said goodbye as his youngest boy stepped onto the train.

"You must have faith, son. With it you can move mountains."

The white-haired man looked to the east. The words were for him as well.

You must have faith.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Lars Hanson stood in the Ingalls' home, looking down at the injured man and shaking his head.

"Charles," he said, "I haf no idea who he is. I haf never seen this man before in my life."

He'd gone to Nels' house first, but no one had answered when he knocked. Moving on to the Edwards he had roused Grace and Isaiah from their bed and explained his need, giving a letter to Grace so she could send it to Doctor Baker in Sleepy Eye first thing in the morning. Returning to town he had pounded on the Oleson's door again. By God's providence, the storekeeper had just come down to make certain he had locked the door. Nels let him in and gave him a small bottle of laudanum to ease the stranger's pain. Bottle in hand, he had gone on to Lars' home. When the older man answered, his nightcap on his head, he had apologized and explained why he was calling so late. At the end of the story he handed Lars the ruined paper with the dried bloodstains on it. Seeing his name, Lars agreed to return with him to their farm to take a look at the young man. The older man had brought his own wagon so he could go back on his own. It was a good thing.

He was about dead on his feet.

Caroline moved past them. She had just returned from fetching fresh cold water from the well. The injured man's fever had risen dangerously high. His wife said she'd gotten a little tea down him but it didn't seem to help much.

Charles sighed. Another couple of degrees and he'd be heading back to town for ice to pack the man's battered form in.

"You're sure?" he asked.

The older man nodded. "Ja. I vould remember that face and hair."

Charles pulled the piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. He unfolded it and took another look. Lars' name was about all he could make out. There was another, nearly illegible. 'Benson' or something like that.

"Has he told you his name?" Lars asked.

"It's Joe," Caroline said as she put the bucket on the bedside table and then sat down on the bed by the restless man. "He told me just before he lost consciousness."

"Joost Joe? No last name?"

She shook her head. "I tried to get him to tell me his full name so we could wire his relatives." She dipped a cloth in the cold water and placed it on the man's forehead. "He said there was no one left, but I didn't believe him."

"I vonder vhat happened to his horse," Lars said.

Charles looked at the older man. "What?"

"He had to haf a horse or a vagon, didn't he? Unless he valked all the vay to town from the train station."

"I didn't see anything, but then it could have been scared off by that grizzly." Charles paused and then added with a rueful smile, "I know I would have been."

"If that is true, then it might still be in the voods," Lars said. "I vill go back to town and first thing in the morning, I vill take some men and go look for it."

Charles nodded. "I'll come with you."

Lars shook his head. "You vill do no such thing. Go to sleep, Charles. You haf done enough."

"Listen to him, Charles," Caroline said as she wet the cloth again and wrung it out. "You look exhausted."

It was near four o'clock in the morning. It would be time to get up in two or three hours.

Caroline left the cloth on the man's head and came to his side. Once there, she took his hands. "You've done everything you can. You brought him here and put him in your bed. You've got your family tending him. You sent for Doctor Baker and brought back something to help his pain until Hiram can get here. There's nothing else to do, Charles, except wait."

He didn't like waiting. He liked 'doing'.

His wife caught a blanket off the bottom of their bed and pressed it into his hands. "Go. Find some corner somewhere and bed down in it. The best thing you can do for this young man – and for yourself – is to get a few hours sleep. You'll be no good to anybody if you don't."

"What about you?" he asked as he accepted the blanket.

"I slept a few hours in the chair. I'm fine."

The circles under her eyes had circles under them. "Oh, you're fine, are you?"

Caroline's hands went to her hips, which was always a bad sign. "Yes, I'm fine. Fit as a fiddle and ready to fly. While you look like you've just about broken every string." His wife shook her head. "Really, Charles, sometimes I think you believe you could save the world single-handed."

He stared hard at her. After a second, he said, "Are you tellin' me I can't?"

Placing her hand on his face, she pulled him into a kiss and then whispered in his ear. "Go to sleep!"

He gave her a half-salute. "Yes, Ma'am!"

She pointed at the passageway. "Now!"

"You have your orders, Charles," Lars snorted.

Yes, he did, and for once, he was going to obey them.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The world was on fire.

Everything – trees, grass, buildings, even the water was ablaze. The whole world was bathed in a hellish glow and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

When the water was on fire, what was left to put it out with?

Joe moaned and thrashed from side to side as a wall of flames rose up before him, shutting him out, keeping him back from saving the life that was burning up inside. He refused to believe it. Refused to give in, to stop. He ran through it and toward the burning house and took hold of the blazing hot handle and pulled for all he was worth.

All the time Alice was screaming. Their child within her was screaming.

'Joe, save me! Joe!'

'Pa!'

He spent his strength throwing himself against that door, ramming his shoulder into it, pounding with his fists. As Alice screamed again, he redoubled his efforts, striking the wood that had turned to embers, thrusting his fingers through and into the flames until he was on fire as well.

God, he was on fire.

God, let me burn with them.

God...

Something cool touched his forehead and for a moment, he resented it. Weakly, Joe raised a hand to chase it away. He didn't deserve it. He didn't save them.

He couldn't save them.

"Mister?"

Like a man whose lungs had breathed smoke for so long he forgot the meaning of air, Joe gasped. His eyes flew open and his hand shot out, catching the one that hung suspended above his face. He held that hand tightly, as if it were a lifeline he dare not let go. Slowly his eyes focused on the fingers he clutched and he realized they belonged to a child.

Shamed, he let her go.

"Are you okay, Mister?" she asked.

Joe blinked and looked at her. She was a little girl, maybe eight years old. She had light brown hair and eyes and freckles. Her hair was pulled into two tight braids, one on either side of her head, and she was wearing a blue dress with a white pinafore over it.

She wasn't on fire.

Her small hand reached out. She laid it alongside his face. He almost shuddered with the cold touch.

"You're awful hot. Ma said you need to drink some water. Can you do that?"

He was staring at his hands. There was no fire there either. As the girl continued speaking, Joe's gaze went to the window and the world outside. The sky was blue. There were white clouds. He could hear birds singing.

It wasn't fair.

A second later he felt one of her little hands touch his hair. She pressed a tin cup to his lips with the other. He didn't want it, but he didn't want to hurt her so he drank a little. The water was so cold it stole his breath and set him to coughing.

"I'm sorry, Mister," she said, her voice a worried whisper. "I didn't mean to hurt – "

"Didn't..." he rasped. "Thank...you."

The girl beamed. "Hey! You're awake!"

So she'd been talking to him, caring for him, when she thought he was asleep. That said something for her tenaciousness.

"Joe," he said.

She blinked. "Joe?"

"Call me...Joe."

The smile returned. "I like that. Joe. Joseph, like Jesus' pa."

Pa. The word held everything in it he needed and everything he must deny in order to keep his sanity.

Joe turned his face toward the wall.

The girl was silent a moment. "I'm sorry, Mister...Joe, if I made you sad."

'Made' him sad.

How could she make him something he had become?

Drawing a deep breath, he turned his face toward her. "Who...?"

She started and then pointed toward her chest. "Who am I?"

He nodded – marginally. "Yes..."

"Laura. Laura Ingalls. Though Pa calls me 'Half-pint' on account of I'm so small."

With a faint smile he said, "My mama called me...Little Joe."

"'Cause you were small too?"

That made him laugh. "Still...am..."

Laura fell silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice shook. "I'm sorry, Joe."

He knew for what – for putting him in the path of that angry mama bear. "I'm...not," he said.

The little girl frowned. "You're not?"

" 'Bout time...I waltzed with...a grizzly..."

"Laura." The voice was deep. Not angry, but on the edge of it. "Are you wearin' our guest out?"

Guest.

"Sorry, Pa."

Oh, God. Pa.

"Half-pint, your Ma needs help fixin' dinner." Joe watched as the man, just outside of his vision, bent over and kissed the little girl on her head. "You go now. Tell her I'll be there soon."

"Yes, sir."

Joe felt the girl rise. Felt the emptiness left by her going. Felt the man's weight bend the bed ropes as he took her place. Joe heard water being wrung from a cloth and then felt the cool relief as the man placed it on his hot forehead.

"How are you feelin'?" he asked.

Joe's jaw tightened. Lost. Empty. Hopeless.

"Fine," he said.

"Oh. Well, if you don't mind my saying so, you don't look 'fine'." The man paused. "You got quite a fight on your hands. Are you up to it?"

Honesty. How refreshing.

Joe's lips quirked. "No."

The man paused. "Well, I'm here to tell you that I ain't exactly pleased with the thought of you dyin' in my bed. Maybe you could get better so we could move you before you give up."

There was a hint of humor in his tone, but he was serious.

Joe turned his head to look at the man and froze.

His host snorted. "Scary, ain't it?"

It could have been him. Older. With hard-won wisdom crinkling the skin at the edge of his eyes and plowing lines at the corners of his lips. The man's hair was the color his had been years before and his eyes were just as green.

It was like looking into the future.

"Who?"

The brown-haired man smiled. "Charles. Charles Ingalls. My wife tells me you're Joe. Care to tell me 'Joe' who?"

He turned his head away.

Charles was silent a moment. "All right. I'd hate to have to bury you with no last name on the stone and no way for your family to find out what became of you, but I won't press you. At least for now. But Joe..."

He waited until he looked at him.

"If anything you are threatens my family, I promise you, you'll answer to me. You understand?"

He knew that tone. Those words.

This kind of man.

Joe nodded even as the flames rose up before his eyes again, brilliant, bright, burning; tantalizingly dark.

"Okay," he said.

"Pa."