TWO - Winter, 1847
oooooooooo
Adam Cartwright moved down the staircase, careful to keep his steps as light as he could. His father had fallen asleep in his chair – again. Since Marie's death, whenever he bothered to come home, the older man went straight to it. Pa would fall into that chair, order Hop Sing to bring him a bottle of brandy, and then drink at least half of it. They had learned to give him a wide berth. Well, he and Hoss had.
Little Joe just didn't understand.
And so he had made it his job to make sure Little Joe was 'elsewhere' when Pa was in one of his moods – which was most of the time that he was home. Or maybe it would be better to say, when he was 'in the house'. The Ponderosa hadn't been a home since that terrible day last spring when Marie's horse spooked and landed on top of her.
The teenager paused at the bottom of the steps. His father didn't know it, but he did. The older man blamed Little Joe for Marie's death. Oh, not consciously – and Pa had never said anything to Joe or to any of them – but it was there.
Pa avoided Marie's son just as much as he did the Ponderosa.
At first, he'd thought their pa had a hard time being around his baby brother because Joe looked so much like Marie – more so, in fact, with each day that passed. That was a part of it, but there was something deeper – and darker – to it. Pa was always short with Joe. He said it was because he had no time and, Joe being Joe, didn't understand. But that wasn't it. Adam's eyes returned to his father where he slumped in the chair. Pa had plenty of time to waste in a stupor, after all. No, he knew what his father believed and why the older man thought what he thought. But Pa was wrong.
Dead wrong.
He'd been on the other side of things that day as his step-mother came riding into the yard. He was at the barn, talking to one of the hands. The black was acting like a bee-stung stallion. Marie barely had it under control. It was only a matter of time before it threw her or came crashing down on top of her. Nothing could have stopped it.
It was plain bad luck that Little Joe chose that moment to run out of the door.
His little brother had been in danger too – from the animal's wild and willful thrashing – but he didn't cause the thrashing. That was an unfortunate combination of the horse's temperament and its rider's temper. Marie was high-handed with a mount. She expected it to understand her and obey instantly. He'd seen it many times.
This time she met a horse as stubborn as she was.
With careful steps, the teenager moved into the room and headed for the kitchen. Little Joe had been crying again and he had promised his baby brother a warm glass of milk and some of the cookies left over from their meal. Pa had come in unexpectedly just after supper growling about his trip being a waste of time, and then shouting about the cookies being a waste of good money. It had been all he could do to keep his mouth shut.
In fact, it had been all he could do to keep from yelling back.
Adam paused to run a hand through his hair, thrusting the fringe of black back and off his forehead. He'd be the first to admit it. He'd been sort of jealous of Joe before Marie died. The kid got everything handed to him on a silver platter – the best clothes, enough toys to fill a store, more than enough to eat; kisses and hugs and pats on the head and promises of more. At Little Joe's age, he'd sometimes felt the back of his father's hand and been growled at as many times as his stomach had growled for lack of food. He'd grown used to it. Little Joe wasn't. There were times now when he looked at the little scamp that Joe looked like he'd lost his best friend.
Adam glanced at his pa again where he sagged in his chair.
Of course, Joe had.
He hadn't any more than taken a step when the older man stirred and grunted, "Who's that?" No surprise, his father's words were slightly slurred. "What're...you doing?"
"It's just me, Pa. Adam."
The teenager winced as the tall case clock chose that inopportune moment to chime quarter after midnight.
His father's eyes went to it. "What are you...doing up so late?"
Curfew was eleven. Probably so he wouldn't see what he was seeing now.
"Sorry, Pa. I was just getting a glass of milk."
The inebriated man pushed himself up by bracing his hands on the arms of the chair. "Aren't...you a little...old...for a glass of milk?"
Adam winced and waited for the explosion. Pa would have a fit that Joe wasn't asleep. "It's for Little Joe."
"Your brother's...awake?"
"Just woke up. A minute go," he lied. "I thought the milk would help him get back to sleep."
His father didn't explode as he'd expected. Instead, he surprised him.
"I'll get it, Adam. You go...to bed."
Startled him was more like it. This was definitely not a good thing – especially considering what was in Little Joe's room.
"It's okay, Pa," he replied as he headed for the hall. "I don't mind – "
"Are you dish-oh...disobeying me?" his father roared.
Yes, he was. And with good reason.
Christmas was in a few days. Pa had told them he would be gone until New Years. Little Joe had been so sad when the older man left that he'd decided to do something to cheer him up. Together with Hoss, they'd headed out to find a small pine tree and put it in Little Joe's room. They'd had a blast decorating it. Hop Sing had even joined in, supplying the gingerbread men. The tree stood proudly now, in front of his baby brother's window, dripping with tinsel and decked out with candles and homemade ornaments.
Pa had forbidden Christmas this year.
Adam cleared his throat. "No, Pa. I'm not disobeying you. But you did ask me..." He paused to correct himself. "...order me to tell you if I thought you were too...tired...to take care of Joe."
Something like pain entered his father's eyes. "I did. When?"
This was it – acceptance or the belt.
"When you were sober."
Anger flared in his father's eyes, a familiar anger – the kind that had brought that callused hand to his backside when he was young. Then, as quickly as it flared, it was gone.
"Thank you, son," was all he said.
The teenager didn't know how to respond. He looked down toward his feet and then back up. Pa was still staring at him.
"I'll just go get that milk then. Shall I?" he inquired, jerking his finger toward the kitchen. "Little Joe will be waiting."
His father nodded and then dropped back into his chair. Anchoring his chin on his folded fingers, the older man turned and looked at the fire.
Adam took that as a 'yes'.
oooooooooo
Ben Cartwright opened his eyes and shivered. It took him a moment to remember where he was. When he did, he shifted and looked at the hearth. There were a few active coals left, but they did little to dispel the chill that had settled on the room.
It was not as great a chill as the one that had settled on his heart.
The older man turned back into the great room and looked around. He knew what he should see – all that he had achieved and all he had. But the only thing he could see was what was missing.
Marie.
It had been a little over six months ago since he had lost her. In some ways it felt as if he had never had her to begin with and in others, like it had only been a day since she had been in his arms. Falling back, he stared at the elegant settee his late wife had ordered from France. He could see her sitting there, a book in one hand; the other stroking Joseph's curls as he lay in her lap sleeping.
Joseph.
Ben ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble. Plain and simple, he'd failed the boy. No . Who was he kidding? He'd failed all of them – not only Marie's son, but Inger and Elizabeth's as well. Hoss was the easiest going of the three. His middle son accepted him as he was and where he was. Hoss would be fine. Adam, on the other hand, was shamed by him. He knew it. And Adam was angry – angry that he'd been forced to grow up too quickly – that there was no time to raise hell with his friends. No time to be a boy. And then there was his boy. His youngest.
Joseph was withering.
Ben rose with a start, displacing the half-empty brandy snifter on the table and knocking it to the floor. He stared at it as it hit the stones and shattered into a dozen pieces, echoing the stuff of his soul. He had nothing for the boy and the boy knew it. It...just wasn't in him. At first he had told himself that it was because he was an old man. In a way, he had never raised a child. Adam had been his partner – and all too soon his right hand. Hoss? Well, in truth, it was Adam who had reared Hoss as he forged his empire. He had been so pleased – so excited – when his youngest had come along. He had doted on the boy and enjoyed nothing more than coming home in the evening after a hard day's work to spend time with him and his mother.
Joseph and his mother.
How often, in reality, had he spent time with the boy on his own?
Ben remained where he was, considering his failures. As he did, a tear escaped to trail down his cheek. He'd gone so far as to try to convince himself that he blamed Joseph for his mother's death in order to excuse his behavior. It had been a selfish thing to do and pure fiction.
No one was responsible for Marie's death but Marie.
And God.
"Ah, there's the rub," the rancher sighed, quoting Adam's bard.
It wasn't Joseph he was angry at.
Reaching up, Ben struck the tear away. He drew in a deep breath as he glanced up the stairs. Adam had acted so strangely when he'd offered to take Joseph the milk, almost as if...
As if Joseph was afraid of him.
A thought struck him then, and a deep sadness, as he remembered the night before Marie's fall – that night when he had been stopped outside his youngest's door, drawn there by the sound of his son's joyous laughter.
There had been no laughter in the house since that night.
Lost in thought, Ben left the hearth area and walked to the kitchen. Entering it, he looked around for the cookie jar. He'd take a couple up and leave them on the bedside table with a note telling Joseph that he loved and missed him. Adam or Hoss could read it to the boy in the morning. He would leave tonight. It seemed they were doing fine without him and he couldn't stand to be home.
Not tomorrow.