FOUR
"So just who have you got hidden away at your house, Laura Ingalls? I hear its a gunslinger."
Laura closed her eyes and sighed. Her peaceful swinging time outside of the school was over.
Nellie.
"Well?" the blonde girl demanded in that way she had, making it sound like you'd done something wrong just by living.
Drawing that sigh back into herself, Laura slid off the swing seat and turned to look at her nemesis. She liked that word. Pa'd taught it to her when they were reading Moby Dick. The white whale was Ahab's nemesis.
Laura's lips quirked with a smile.
Nellie kind of looked like a white whale.
"He ain't no gunslinger," she replied. "He's just a man who got hurt."
"Saving you, I hear. It's a wonder you didn't get him killed being so stupid about that little bear cub."
Laura scowled. Now how did Nellie know about that? She hadn't told much of anyone. Then she remembered. Pa went to Mister Oleson for medicine. He probably told the storekeeper everything.
And Nellie probably sneaked and listened at the top of the stairs.
"I wasn't gonna leave it there all tangled up in the brambles. It might have died!" she snapped back.
"So that man is gonna die instead? I saw your Pa coming to get ice at the icehouse. He must be real bad." Nellie shook her head, making her perfect blonde ringlets swing. "But I suppose if you think a bear cub is more important than a man..."
"I didn't know he was gonna come rushin' out of the woods! I didn't even know he was there!" she all but shouted, her own guilty feelings making her temper rise. "I would of done anythin' I could for Joe not to get hurt."
Nellie smirked. "So the gunslinger's name is Joe?"
Laura let out a deep sigh. Why she let Nellie get under her skin, she didn't know. Still it was hard not to since just her existing was irritating.
"I told you he'd not a gunslinger. His name's Joe and Pa says he's a rancher from out West."
"Ooh. A rancher?" Nellie made a face. "Does he stink like cattle? Ma says they all stink like sweat and cattle." The blonde girl let out an exaggerated sigh. "Ma says never to marry a man that smells like a stable." She paused and then leveled her eyes like a bull before it charged. "I guess your Ma never heard that."
Laura's fingers were clenched. That was never a good sign. "You take that back, Nellie Oleson!"
"Take what back?" She rolled her eyes skyward. "I didn't say anything. You're just overly sensitive Laura Ingalls. You need to develop some backbone."
Laura breathed in and out a couple of times. Given half a chance, she'd snap Nellie's!
"Why I do declare, you've gone all red. You look like the top of your head's going to blow off." Nellie placed a finger along her chin and tilted her head. "I'd say that would be an improvement. Wouldn't you?
Laura lifted her fists. "I've had just about enough of you! Why don't you just get before I forget I'm supposed to be forgivin'?"
Nellie cackled. "Like there's anything to forgive me for!" Growing sober, the tall blonde girl moved forward. Poking her finger against her pinafore, she drove Laura back. "You're the one who's going to be responsible if that gunslinger dies! It's all your fault for being so stupid!"
She wanted to punch her. But she couldn't.
Nellie was right.
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Girls! Time to come in. Class is about to begin!" Miss Beadle called from the church steps. "Everyone else is inside."
Nellie stared her down for a minute more, and then with a flounce of her perfect curls and her New York City dress she crossed the school yard, moved past Miss Beadle, and went inside.
Her teacher waited a moment and then called her again. "Laura, you need to come."
The tears were still flowing. She was crying so hard, really, that she couldn't even answer. Taking a couple of breaths, she said, her voice shaky. "I don't feel so good, Miss Beadle. Can I go home?"
Her teacher crossed the yard and came to her side. When she saw the state she was in, the blonde woman knelt beside her.
"Oh, Laura," she said, wiping away some of the tears with her hanky, "what did Nellie say this time?"
Her chin was on her chest. She muttered a reply.
"What? Speak up, Laura."
After drawing a breath, she looked up. "Nothing but the truth," she said in a whisper.
Miss Beadle looked at her and then she took her by the hand. "Come with me to the steps," she said, and led the way. After they sat down, her teacher faced her. "Tell me what Nellie said."
It all poured out like milk running from an upturned crock. She told Miss Beadle about how stupid she'd been to try to save the bear cub and how she'd talked her sister into it even though Mary was against it. How she remembered what their pa had told them about mama bears, but thought that – this time – the cub's mama couldn't be around because he was all wrapped up in brambles and she wasn't there trying to get him out. Laura's voice grew quiet as she related what she had seen – first the mama bear, so angry and running toward her – and then the man stepping into the path of the bear. She described how that old mama bear took him down and then swung him from side to side with her teeth in his leg and all the time there was blood flying everywhere. She told her teacher about how the man was sick and how his fever was real high.
She told her how he was going to die and it was all because of her!
There were tears in Miss Beadle's eyes too. "Oh, Laura..." she said.
Laura looked up at her. "Can I go home, Miss Beadle? I just need to know that Joe's still livin'. I can't think about my schoolwork. All I can think about is him!"
Miss Beadle took her hand. "Laura, I can't let you go home early. Not without your parents permission. However..." Her teacher wiped a few more tears away. "I can take you and Mary by your house after school and we can see together how he is doing. Would that help?"
Laura nodded. "Yes, Ma'am, but..."
"But?"
She shook her head. "I can't keep my mind on my schoolwork, Ma'am, like I said. I don't know how I'll get anything done."
Miss Beadle stroked her hair. "That's all right. You just do the best you can do. And don't you let that old Nellie Oleson bother you." The blonde woman scowled. "It would take just about all of eternity for that girl to apologize for all the things she's done wrong." Her teacher's hand flew to her lips. "Oh!" she laughed. "I shouldn't have said that!"
Laura frowned – just for show. "You're always s'posed to tell the truth, Miss Beadle. Isn't that right?"
Her teacher rose and held out her hand. "You're right, Laura." She hesitated a moment and then said, "And Harriet Oleson is a busybody!"
This time she laughed.
Then she followed Miss Beadle into the school.
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Lars Hanson pulled his team to a halt. It was early afternoon and he had closed the mill early to come out to the Ingalls' place to find Charles. He could have waited until later but, with what he knew of the condition of the young man who had saved Laura's life, he felt it was important to bring the new information he had to his friend's attention as soon as possible. He had, in his vest pocket, two telegrams a rider had brought him that morning. One was to him from Benjamin Cartwright and the other from the sheriff in Sleepy Eye, both inquiring as to whether or not anyone had seen a young man with curly silver-grey hair and green eyes. Joseph Francis Cartwright, it seemed, was a highly sought after man. And while he understood Charles reasons for not wiring Joe's father and respected them, he also feared that – in some way – Charles might be held responsible should it be found out he was harboring him and had done nothing to confirm that he was alive.
Lars looked at the Ingalls' household.
At least he hoped Joe was alive.
He hadn't thought about his journey west for a long time. He'd been a young man then in his twenties. His wagon had not been a part of the train young Benjamin Cartwright traveled in but, for a time, they had joined forces for the safety of those heading west. Benjamin had just lost his second wife and was journeying with his young son, Adam, and the boy's baby brother. They had talked about their dreams – Benjamin's of buying land in Nevada and building an empire and his, of starting a town. In time they parted ways when he went north and Benjamin and his small family continued west. They had corresponded a few times over the years, but it had been a decade or more since they had exchanged letters. It moved him that Benjamin remembered him well enough to ask his youngest boy to contact him on his way east. It grieved his heart that the young man had been so badly injured.
He did not want his first letter to Benjamin in all that time to carry the news of the death of his son.
As he sat there, thinking, the door opened and Hiram Baker stepped out. The doctor looked drained. His golden hair was unkempt and he had the beginnings of a beard. When Hiram saw him he stopped. His lips curled in a weary smile.
"What brings you out here, Lars?" he asked.
Lars climbed down from his rig. His eyes went to the house. "How is the boy?"
The doctor ran a hand along the back of his neck. "Finally sleeping naturally, I am happy to report."
"So is he out of danger?"
Hiram shrugged. "If the fever remains down and no new infection occurs, I would say he's on the road to recovery. The fever broke last night. Still..."
"Ja?"
"It's going to be a long road. He won't be going anywhere very fast – or even getting out of that bed for some time."
"Can he speak?" he asked.
Hiram frowned. "Not yet. At least, not coherently. Why?"
The older man shook his head. "Vhere is Charles?"
The doctor indicated the building behind him. "In the barn."
Lars looked. "I vill be speaking to him then. Good day, Hiram."
"Is something wrong?"
He halted and turned back. "No," he lied. "It's joost some mill business."
The doctor held his gaze for a minute and then nodded. "All right. Tell Charles to come in the house when you're done speaking with him. I want to go over some of the care instructions for Joe." He looked toward town. "Now that he's better, I need to see to some of my other patients."
"I vill tell him."
As Doctor Baker nodded his thanks, the older man headed for the barn.
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Charles looked up when he heard a noise to find Lars Hanson standing, framed in the barn's open doorway. Anchoring the rake he'd been using to clean out the horse stall against the stall wall, he headed for his employer and friend.
"What brings you out here, Lars?" he asked as he wiped his hand on his pants and offered it to the other man.
The older man shook it and then reached into his pocket. He held out two telegrams. "These."
Charles took them. One was addressed to Lars. The other to 'whomever it may concern'.
"Go ahead. Read them both. You haf my permission and, Charles, you are the one concerned."
Opening the first envelope he pulled out the piece of paper that contained the message: SON MISSING. STOP. JOE CARTWRIGHT. ANY WORD. STOP. CONTACT BEN CARTWRIGHT. STOP. VIRGINIA CITY NEVADA. STOP.
His eyes flicked to Lars as he switched the envelopes and read the second message.
FROM SHERIFF SLEEPY EYE. STOP. MAN MISSING. STOP. JOE CARTWRIGHT. STOP. FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED. STOP. IF SIGHTED INFORM LAW. STOP.
Charles' brown eyebrows danced toward the tumble of curls on his forehead. He let out a low whistle.
"It could mean trouble, Charles. If someone realizes who the young man is you haf in your house. I did not vant to trouble you, but..."
"It's no trouble, Lars," he said, slipping the second note into the envelope. "I saw you talking to Doc Baker. Did he tell you how Joe was doing?"
"Ja. He said he is better."
"I'm hoping to be able to talk to him tonight." Charles' eyes went to the house. "He's a grown man, Lars. It has to be up to him."
The mill owner nodded slowly. "And yet, if I vere his father, I vould hope someone vould tell me where my boy vas," he said quietly.
Charles had thought long and hard about it. If one of his children was missing – no matter how old – and he was looking for them and found out someone knew where they were and had not told him, he would be furious. And yet, as he said, Joe was a grown man and, reasonable or not, he had the distinct feeling Joe Cartwright did not want to be found.
He reached out and placed a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Let's give it one more day. Hopefully, Joe will be up to talking tonight and he can make the decision himself. All right?" Lifting his hand, he asked, "Can I keep these and show them to Joe?"
"Ja. You keep them. And you let me know vhat he says as soon as possible."
He nodded. "I will."
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Caroline checked the chicken she had cooking in the stove and decided she had a few minutes to step in and check on their guest. Before Doctor Baker had gone to lay down to rest, she had helped him remove the soaked blankets and ice, and together they had dressed the young man in one of Charles' nightshirts. Joe was still fevered, but it was nothing compared to the temperature he'd had before. He felt slightly warm to the touch now like a youngster did when fighting a mild infection. The high fever had broken about midday and Joe had fallen into a deep sleep. She'd checked on him periodically and he'd been sleeping every time.
Poor thing! He needed it.
After wiping her hands on her apron, Caroline hung it over the back one of a chair. After stopping at the mirror to pin a few stray strands of blonde hair out of her eyes, she headed down the passage to their bedroom. The late afternoon sun was shining in through the window, casting a warm glow over the room and its occupant. Moving quietly she checked to make sure the pitcher by the bed had cool water in it and that there were adequate cloths should they have need of them again. Then she crossed to the window and began to draw the curtains together.
"Leave them. Please," a quiet voice said.
Caroline spun. The man in her bed was alert and watching her. She smiled. "You're awake! How wonderful."
He blinked several times and then looked about the room. It was obvious he was puzzled. "Where am I?"
She came to the bed and sat down beside him. "You're in my home. Mine, and my husband's."
He licked his lips and swallowed. "Can I have some water?"
"Of course!" She jumped up and went to the pitcher on the opposite side of the bed. After filling the cup, she again sat beside him and held it to his lips.
"Better?"
He nodded as she drew it away. "How... How did I get here?" Joe asked, his voice rough from disuse.
"You were hurt," Caroline said as she put the cup down. "Charles brought you here."
"What happened?"
The blonde woman laid her hand on his. "You saved our daughter's life and nearly lost your own."
His gun-metal grey brows knit together in the center and he frowned. "The little brown-haired girl..."
"That was Laura. She was very foolish. She tried to help – "
Joe nodded. "Bear cub. I remember."
"We're so sorry you were hurt."
His lips curled. "I'm not."
His words surprised her. "You're not?"
"Wouldn't have met...you nice people otherwise."
Tears entered her eyes. "That's very gracious of you."
"Caroline."
She looked up to find her husband standing in the bedroom doorway. He had one hand on the jamb and the other in his pocket and was staring at the injured man, a resolute look on his handsome face.
"Yes?" she asked.
"I need to talk to our guest before he gets too tired." Charles moved into the room and stood at the end of the bed so the injured man could see him. "If that's all right with you," he said, addressing Joe.
She saw Joe's eyes widen and then narrow. Though the sick man had seen her husband before, he probably didn't remember.
She had to admit, the resemblance was startling.
Slowly, Joe nodded.
"I'll go finish supper."
Charles caught her arm. "I told Lars to find someone to bring the girls back home."
Caroline beamed. She missed her little ones!
He leaned over and kissed her lips. Then he nodded toward the hall.
Understanding, the blonde woman hurried from the room.
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Charles pulled up a chair and sat by the bed. He looked at the man laying there, staring out the window. Joseph Francis Cartwright – if that's who he truly was – looked to be about thirty. He had a boyish face that seemed out of place surrounded as it was by an unruly halo of curly silver-grey hair. Joe was thin, but he thought that might have come recently because his body was that of a man who wasn't afraid to work. He'd seen it all when they undressed him. Charles frowned. He'd seen as well the record of the multiple injuries the man had suffered. They were written in scars and tough knots of tissue on his shoulders and back.
In fact, he looked like he might just be that gunfighter Mary was worried about.
Still, there was a gentleness about the man that belied that thought. He looked refined for a rancher, as if he was a child of wealth. The clothing they had removed from his battered form had reflected that as well. It was cut from an expensive cloth and tailored, not homespun. He'd heard him speaking to Caroline and his words were cultured. He'd obviously had an education of some sort, though it was too early to tell whether it went beyond the standard years.
Charles stared at him for a moment longer and then asked, "Are you Joseph Francis Cartwright?"
His eyes had been nearly closed. They opened and Joe turned his head in his direction. "Who wants to know?" he asked, a note of defiance creeping into his tone.
"Just about everyone this side of Nevada," Charles answered. He removed the envelopes from his pocket and held them out. "Including Benjamin Cartwright."
The injured man's jaw was tight. "Would you believe me if I told you 'no'?"
"I'd say lyin' is a poor way to thank the man who saved your life," he answered quietly. When Joe said nothing more, he asked, "Son, what are you runnin' from?"
Joe snorted. "Nothing. Everything..."
Charles dropped the telegrams on the bedside table. He sat back and folded his arms. Running one hand across his face, he asked, "So what do we do now?"
Joe's green eyes narrowed and then widened with surprise. "You haven't answered them?"
He shook his head. "No."
The sick man shifted a bit, so he could look at him better. "Why?"
He held his gaze. "You're old enough to make your own choices. Do you want me to wire your father?"
Joe's eyes moistened. He almost choked. "No."
"Are you running from him?"
Again. "No."
Charles sighed. "So you want to tell me what you are running from, Joseph Francis Cartwright?"
A little smile lifted the corner of the other man's upper lip. "No."
He couldn't help it. He laughed. "Anybody ever tell you, you're ornery?"
It was instant. The pain in Joe's eyes. He looked away. "I'm tired," he whispered. "I'd like to sleep."
Charles stared at him a minute longer and then he rose to his feet. "All right. I'm sure the Doc would agree with you." He started for the door and then stopped and turned back. "A couple of things before I go. Doc Baker says that its gonna take you some time to recover. You're welcome here until you do, so long as you don't bring any harm to my family."
Joe shifted to look at him. "You said 'a couple'."
"I'm getting to it. Secondly, if you don't want anyone to know who you are or that you're here, that's your business. You're old enough to make your own choices. But I will tell you this, I'm a father and I know I would be heartbroken if my son..." He paused, hearing the pain in his own voice. Joe didn't miss it either. "I would be heartbroken if my son thought it was better for me to think he was dead when he was livin'. You know, Joe..."
"What?"
"It makes me think maybe you don't want to go on livin'." His voice took on an edge. "One time. One time and you try somethin', and I'll send you packin' injured or not. I won't be havin' my girls see anything of that nature. You understand me?"
The young man was staring at him, a curious look on his face. Finally, he nodded. "I understand."
"Good. Now, I'll go see about Caroline bringin' you some broth from that chicken she's got cookin'. You need to build up your strength."
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Joe Cartwright watched the brown-haired man go and then returned his eyes to the room he lay in. It was simple and homey. The curtains on the window were hand-sewn as was the quilt that covered him. The furniture in the room was finely made but didn't appear to be store-bought. What he saw took him back many, many years to the log house and land he'd begged his father for when, at the age of twenty-one, he and Laura White were to be married. Joe closed his eyes as that ancient pain blended with the current one.
It seemed every woman he truly loved was destined to die.
He'd thought about it with Alice, even asked her once if she was sure she wanted to take a chance on a Cartwright. Their record for incomplete courtships and almost marriages was legendary. This time it happened. This time he had said his vows and he and the wonderful woman he had chosen had built a house and a life together.
And then, she died. Burned alive.
He closed his eyes in an attempt to drive the waking vision from his eyes, but it was no use. When his eyes were closed the waking vision became a nightmare from which he could not escape.
Well, not without downing the contents of a whiskey bottle.
Joe sucked in air. Pressing down with his hands, he shifted his body up. The movement was more painful than he could have imagined and it made him shudder. He took one hand and drew the blanket that covered him down, and using his right hand, examined his battered body. His left shoulder was stiff and that arm was bandaged and hurt like the devil. Still, it was nothing in comparison to what his leg felt like. Laying there, panting, he used his fingers to probe the area of the thigh wound. Several times their tips found small indentations – puckers in the skin left no doubt by the angry mama bear's teeth. The area of the wound was still hot to the touch, though it seemed the heat was growing less and not more.
Daunted by what he found, Joe laid his head back on the feather pillow. His memories of the bear attack were muddled. He could see the she-bear standing on her haunches at the edge of the trees, bellowing at him. He remembered her charging and barreling into him, striking his body like a runaway locomotive and driving him to the ground.
Then, pain. Nothing but pain.
The next thing he knew, he was here. He'd awakened before, but he'd been out of his head. One time he thought he saw Alice. Another time he thought he heard his pa talking. Joe turned and looked the way the brown-haired man had gone. And him, this man who had saved his life, he'd thought he was nothing more than a fever-dream – a wish from his subconscious for a life that could never be. Him older, as a pa, with his beautiful wife beside him and his children playing in the yard.
An ironic smile curled Joe's lips. Maybe this current reality was the dream – this life he'd led with all of its loss and grief. Maybe he'd close his eyes and open them again to find that Joseph Francis Cartwright was nothing but a figment of his imagination and he could shake him off as he would a bad dream.
Laying there, remembering, Joe felt himself slip toward sleep. A minute, maybe two later, he heard the door of the house open and two girlish voices giggle and cry out 'Pa! Pa!'
Joe looked at the telegrams. The brown-haired man had left them on the table. He moved gingerly, stretching his good arm out, and managed to pick up the one on top. It was from his father.
Joe closed his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
Dear God.
Pa.