PART TWO – 1876, 2269

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ONE

Joe Cartwright stood with one black-gloved hand resting on the fencepost, looking out toward the Virginia City road. The autumn wind rustled his curly silver-gray hair, tossing ringlets that sparked like quicksilver before his green eyes. He didn't bother to strike them away. The cold winter wind was an excuse for the tears that filled them – just in case anybody noticed. It was a ritual he repeated every October, standing here, waiting for the impossible. He'd done it for twelve years and he'd do it for twelve more. Hell, he'd do it until his bones froze up and he was no longer able to walk to the fence.

Adam had made him a promise. One day he'd see him. One day he'd come.

Joe cracked a smile. Hopefully it would be before they were both too old to spit nails at each other.

He was thirty-four now, just about the age Adam had been when he went away. Older brother would be somewhere around forty-six. Sometimes he pictured what he'd look like. Adam's hair had always threatened to rear back from his forehead. Would he have lost most of it, or, like their Pa, would he still have a full head of hair but gone white as snow?

Joe ran a gloved hand through his own unruly locks. Pa said his hair was like he was – unwilling to be tamed.

Sobering, he turned around to look at the house. If he knew his Pa, he was watching. He said it was nothing but foolishness, but Joe knew in his heart Pa hadn't given up either. Pa was in his late sixties now and slowing down, though you'd never know it by any lack of determination or spirit. Still, his body was growing old. He'd always been a big robust man. Pa was smaller now, thinner. And they were about the same height. Joe shook his head. That had been a day – the one where he realized he was almost as tall as his pa.

It came to all of them, aging and dying. Leaving or being left. Jamie'd grown up and moved on. And Hoss... Hoss hadleft them in the spring of eighteen seventy-two. He hadn't thought anything could bring that big, gentle giant down. In the end, the Doc thought maybe his size had something to do with it. Could have been his lungs or maybe his heart was just too big to keep on beating.

Adam didn't know. He needed to know.

Joe drew in a breath of crisp cold air, dispelling the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. He'd lost Alice that same year, in the fall, just like he'd lost Hoss and Adam.

And his child.

The tears fell now and he didn't care who saw them. It happened every year, this sadness that threatened to take him with it. In the beginning it had nearly done just that. The Doc had been worried he'd take his own life. He had to admit, he'd considered it. The pain had been...well...he didn't have a word for it. Pa had been there taking his hand, trying to walk him through it. He'd done his best, but Pa wasn't a brother. He'd needed his brothers. Taken together with Alice's horrific death, the loss of Adam and then Hoss had been almost more than he could bear. The look in his pa's eyes had been the only thing that stopped him.

He just couldn't bring him anymore pain.

That had been four years ago. Slowly, ever so slowly, with each day that passed living had gotten a little bit easier. He'd thrown himself into work, driving himself so hard he'd ended up in bed for one whole winter with something the Doc called Dropsy of the Brain. He'd been feeling poorly. Later Pa'd told him how worried he'd been about him. At the time the older man had thought his lack of appetite and inability to sleep were the result of all he'd been through. He'd thought so too until one day he woke to a sudden fever. By that night it had been so high he'd been out of his head. He'd hear his pa and Doc Martin talking when they thought he couldn't, whispering in low voices about damage to his brain. He'd come to believe them too. While he was fevered, strange images had flashed in his mind of a place for which he had no name – a place that seemed to grow out of the desert sands, the buildings more like plants than mortar and stone structures. And the people there, they were beautiful but odd. One of them, a man, spoke to him, telling him he had to come back, it was not his time, his family would miss him.

I would miss you, Joe.

Adam had said that, or at least he had thought it was Adam until he pried open his eyes and found it was someone else. Someone from long ago.

Someone who changed his life.

Joe heard the ranch house door open behind him. He didn't look. It would be Pa. The older man always joined him at the fence. They'd stand there, trading stories about Adam and Hoss, remembering them with tears of joy instead of sadness as they would have wanted. He waited for that familiar hand to land on his shoulder.

Instead an even more familiar pair of arms encircled his waist.

Come away, Joe, those arms said. Embrace living and leave the dead to their hard-earned peace.

He covered the slender hand that wore his ring with his own, pulling it close so the woman it belonged to could feel his beating heart. Then he turned and laid his hand on her amber hair.

When he'd wakened at last from his illness, he'd seen a woman sitting in the chair beside his bed. The room had been darkened so the light wouldn't hurt his eyes, so he couldn't see her clearly. She'd lifted his head and given him some water and then left to call his father. An older woman had come back with the pair of them. He felt their hands. Heard their happiness. And wished he could share in their joy. But he had been too tired. He'd smiled weakly and fallen back to sleep.

She told him later that nothing had ever frightened her more in her life. She'd cried all night, fearful that he would never wake again.

But he did and the next time he was aware, and even though the room was dark that day too, he recognized her as surely as he recognized the woman standing beside her, holding her hand – it was Anne Landes and her mother, Carrie Pickett.1 They'd returned to the Piney Woods for their annual visit and had decided to pay them a call, arriving just as he fell ill. Carrie told him later that nothing could pry Anne from his side. Her child had grown thinner as well, often forgetting to eat as she tended him. His Pa said he would come in in the middle of the night and Anne would be sitting there, holding his hand and stroking his forehead, telling him he had to come back – telling him she loved him and wanted more than anything to be his wife.

At first all he could think of was sleeping. Then it was learning how to walk again. He'd lain so long his muscles were weak and he had to fight for every step. Then, it was pushing himself beyond endurance as if he had to prove something, roping more, riding longer, driving himself harder to prove simply that he could. She'd scolded him one day – yelled at him really – accusing him of being afraid.

Afraid.

At that moment his brothers' words had come back to him. They'd always said their little brother wasn't afraid of anything. They were wrong. Anne was right.

He was afraid of life.

Anne left that year, going back to New York to pass the winter with her mother. He didn't wait for her to come back. He followed her and in her fancy parlor on Fifth Avenue he proposed. It took her several months to sell her property there and then she and Carrie had come home to the Ponderosa to stay.

"You're feeling sad," his beautiful wife said. "It's Adam, isn't it?"

With Hoss, there was no chance for a return. Adam, well, Adam had ridden off that night and simply disappeared. He didn't know which loss was harder.

"You have us now," Anne said, taking his hand and placing it on her belly. "You have to let it go, Joe. I'm not Alice. No one is going to take me away. Or your child."

He nodded. Words wouldn't come.

"It's late," she said. "Come to bed."

With one last look over his shoulder at the expanse of autumn leaves, Joe Cartwright did something that was coming to feel more and more comfortable.

He did what he was told.

Joe woke later that night, or maybe it was early morning. Anne was sleeping. She had her hand draped over his chest. Gently disengaging it, he rose. Wrapping a lounging robe about his lean frame, he went to the door and opened it and stepped into the hall. Pulling it closed behind him, he went downstairs. Outside the windows there was a spark of light – a pale vermillion color tinted the long low bank of clouds heralding rain. The house was still. So still he could hear the ticking of the tall case clock with its green face that had sounded since before his birth and would sound long after he was dead. The pleasure he'd found in Anne's arms had distracted him for a time. It might have done so longer if he had not begun to dream. The images from his fever dreams were still with him as was the voice in his head –Adam's voice, promising to return.

"Joe."

His name was spoken so low he wasn't sure he'd heard it. Joe halted and ran a hand across the back of his neck. Then he shook his head, deciding he was crazy. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he headed for the kitchen. Warm milk with a pinch of sugar might not be included in Doc Martin's book of remedies, but it had always served him well.

"Joe. It's time."

Joe halted. He had heard it this time. Not only his name, but the voice from the past that spoke it.

"Adam?"

"You have to be careful, Joe. They're coming for you again. Whatever you do, don't go to Bodie."

He turned in a circle, frantic. "Adam? Adam, where are you?"'

A man stepped out of the shadow cast by that old tall case clock. The dawning light struck him, revealing a lean taut figure and a full head of rich black hair. Joe frowned. It couldn't be Adam, the man was too young.

But it was.

"I'm sorry, Joe. I want to stay, but I can't – not yet. Remember what I said. Don't go to Bodie."

"Bodie? What's Bodie? Adam?" A sound behind him made the man with the shining gray hair turn. When he did he stumbled back, confronted by a face from his nightmares.

"I regret the need to do this, but it is imperative we are not delayed."

Joe blinked and looked down as the man's hand landed on his shoulder. Seconds later long fingers pressed into his temple.

Forget.

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"Was that necessary?" Adam snapped as he caught Spock by the shoulder and turned him around. They were outside now, some distance from the house.

"Making contact was not wise. That contact being accepted as reality would be even more unwise should your brother determine to share any recollection of it with another."

"I know. I just..." Adam looked back toward the house. "I just had to see him. I had to warn Joe about Bodie. What you showed me – what I saw – I can't let that happen."

"No, you cannot. But not for your brother's sake alone. Remember, his fate, Adam, is inextricably connected to the fate of your world."

"So you've told me. Time and again. You still haven't told me how."

"What is not known cannot be revealed."

"In other words, you intend to keep me in the dark, even though my brother's life hangs in the balance."

He could still see it. The images shown to them by the Guardian. At first the idea that he was traveling through time and space and standing on another planet had seemed like madness. He'd even told Spock so, believing he must be ill or insane and had imagined the whole thing. But then he'd come to realize that it was real and that it was what he had always wanted to do – to sail an ebon sea dotted with stars and to go boldly where other men had not gone before. The Vulcan was amused. At least, he thought he was amused. Those sober lips curled a bit and his eyes seemed to dance when something struck him as particularly droll, but the effect was subtle at best.

Still, you travel with a man – well, a kind of a man – for half a year and you get to know him.

For them it had been a six months since he had walked away from his family and home. For Joe and his pa, it had been more than a decade. They'd spent the time tracking down the other groups supplied by the rogue Originator with time manipulators. He'd walked on the Orion homeworld and visited one of the outer moons of Qo'noS. He'd seen things and beings he'd never dreamed could exist. And all the time they'd been looking over their shoulder. At first Lieutenant Commander Spock of the Starship Enterprise had been listed as missing in action, then, as simply missing. A short time ago Starfleet had put a price on his head.

James T. Kirk was one of the signatories.

The reason was the bracelets. Starfleet knew that, as soon as it was discovered they were associated with Gateway and the Guardian, the entire galaxy would be after them. He and Spock had managed to track a good many down and to stop the beings who wore them from causing any harm. They, of course, each still had one.

Starfleet was not happy about that.

They couldn't surrender them. Not before their mission was complete. Not before he made sure the bones of the man found in the Bodie mine wearing one of them was not Joe. Somehow they had to stop that bracelet ending up on his brother's wrist and his brother ending up in that mine. Spock wouldn't tell him what it was, but there was something about Joe – something important.

Important enough for someone to want him dead before his time.

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Leonard McCoy had a mission. He was armed with the necessary tools and was, at the moment, stalking his prey down a poorly lit corridor. The one he hunted had made a few mistakes, but the biggest was returning to the scene of the crime. It had been simple to pick up the trail and follow it – as easy as getting a frown from a Vulcan.

McCoy missed a step.

Now, why had that particular phrase come to mind?

Adjusting his balance, the self-proclaimed country doctor continued on, careful not to disturb the vial of precious liquid he held. When he reached the end of the corridor he halted to allow a crewmember to pass by. He didn't remember him, but the man looked like he could use a transfusion, his skin was so pale. Making a mental note to check if any of the crew had been diagnosed with pernicious anemia when he got back to sickbay, McCoy started across the corridor. What lay behind the door in front of him was going to prove quite a challenge. Maybe he should take his dose now.

Nah.

It would be more fun to wait.

Stepping boldly up to the door McCoy bypassed the code that sealed it. The first thing that hit him was the heat. Ignoring it, he stepped inside. The room was completely dark except for a faint red glow that pulsed against the far wall like a sunrise refusing to happen.

"Are you gonna turn a light on," he asked, his tone wry, "or do you want me to trip and spill the Bourbon?"

Jim Kirk's voice was weary. "Bones, go away."

"Not before you take this." He held the glass out. "Doctor's orders."

"I fail to see why you think alcohol is the answer to whatever ails a man. This is the twenty-third century, after all."

McCoy squinted into the dark. He could just make Jim out, seated at Spock's desk. "It must be the chair. You're talking like a Vulcan."

"That's not funny, Bones."

He knew where the light was and so he moved forward and turned it on. McCoy sucked in air when he saw his friend.

"You look like Hell."

Jim ran a hand across his stubbled cheek and through his unkempt hair. "Couldn't sleep. Bad dreams. I came straight here."

McCoy drew up a chair and sat down. He shoved the glass toward his hurting friend. "Like I said, 'Doctor's orders'," he said softly. As Jim obeyed, he made his diagnosis. "You're still blaming yourself, aren't you? For what's happened with Spock."

Kirk's hazel eyes narrowed. "It is my fault. I should have trusted him."

"And got yourself court-martialed along with him." McCoy sipped his Bourbon slowly. "Spock wouldn't have wanted that."

Jim's eyes flicked to his face. His words bristled with challenge. "He's not dead."

The doctor held up a hand. "Whoa, there. I didn't say he was. I'm just saying Spock wouldn't want you sitting here in his quarters – in the dark – bearing the weight of a galaxy of guilt on your shoulders."

His friend was fingering his glass. He didn't look up when he said, "Starfleet is sending me a new First Officer."

"What?"

Again, those hazel eyes shot to his face. "They've declared Spock a criminal. He's been officially stripped of his rank." He paused. "I just heard. There's a price on his head."

"Good God..."

One second Jim was sitting there, staring at his glass like a lazy Louisiana gambler. The next thing he knew the blond man had burst out of his chair and was pacing the room, pounding his fist into his hand.

"It can't end like this, Bones! With Spock's career in disgrace, with him..." He had to swallow over the word, "...imprisoned or executed."

McCoy whistled. "Has it come to that?" he asked softly.

Jim's jaw was tight. "Not quite. Not yet. Command has given Spock another two weeks to surrender the himself and the Originators' devices and then – then they go after him with all phasers primed."

McCoy shook his head. "How are they gonna find him if he's still back there in the nineteenth century trying to solve whatever it is he thinks he has to solve?"

Kirk looked at him. There was something in his eyes – something dangerous. "A special agent has been selected to use one of the confiscated time manipulators to go back and get him. I intend to steal it before he does."

McCoy choked on his Bourbon. "You...what?"

His friend rounded the desk and leaned on it. "I intend to break into the vault that holds the time manipulators. I'm going to use them to go back into the nineteenth century and help Spock do whatever it is he thinks he has to do. Bones," Kirk paused. "I can't order you – I wouldn't want to – but I could use your help."

"How are you going to...steal the manipulators?"

"As one of the signatories on Spock's 'wanted poster', I have complete access to any and all things pertaining to the case."

McCoy shook his head. "You sly dog. That's why you signed it!"

Jim nodded. He held his gaze. "I hate to push you, Bones, but I need to know if you're in."

He downed the last of his bourbon. "You think I'd miss the look on Spock's face when you catch up to him? Of course I'm in!"

"You're sure?"

"Hell, I'm sure. Things have been too dull around here without that green-blooded hobgoblin to bedevil."

Kirk nodded. Then he leaned over and depressed a switch. "You can come in now."

Puzzled, McCoy turned to look. One after another three people filed into the absent First Officer's quarters – Scotty, Uhura, and then, Sulu.

"Well," Kirk said, "buckle your seatbelts everybody, here we go."

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Joe Cartwright halted what he was doing and looked up. He squinted into the low-riding sun and then wiped his sleeve over his face. Though it was October and the air was chill, pounding fence posts was more than enough to make a man feel like it was summertime. He'd removed his green jacket and was attired only in his light brown shirt and gray pants, a fact that was certain to make the woman approaching him chide him for being careless with his health.

Upon reaching him, Anne held out a basket. "I brought you lunch."

He bent low and kissed her cheek as he took it and placed it on the ground beside them. "You didn't have to do that, you know. I've got some jerky."

"I wanted to." She frowned. "After last night I was...worried about you."

"Now, don't you worry. I just fell and hit my head, that's all." He grinned. "That's what I get for walking around in the dark without a lamp."

"You were..." She paused. "...talking about Adam."

It was his turn to frown. "Was I?"

"Yes. It was like...before."

'Before' being when he'd almost died of the brain fever. Joe dropped the mallet in his hand. Taking Anne in his arms he pulled her close. "Shh," he said, brushing her hair with his fingers. "Nothing's going to happen to me."

Her arms circled him and her hands gripped him with all her strength, like she feared he might suddenly up and disappear if she didn't hold on tight enough.

"Hey." He gently pushed her back so he could look into her eyes. She was crying. "What's wrong? Not Pa..."

"No." Anne turned so her face rested on his chest. "There's..something in the air, Joe. Can't you feel it?"

It pained him, less than it had before, but it still did. He remembered Alice had been like this at times when she'd been with child – overly sensitive, prone to worry and tears.

He cupped her head in his hand. "All I sense is a new beginning. The old year's almost over." With his other hand he touched her middle. "And look what this one holds."

"It's a boy, you know," she said softly.

He laughed. "Ah, now, you can't know that."

She looked up at him. Dead serious. "But I do. He's your son." She shifted his hand. "And he's a fighter."

He felt it. It was the first time. Wonder filled him at the tiny feet pressing through Anne's skin into his hand. He smiled, and then frowned.

"I bet that's gotta hurt."

"No more than dealing with his thick-headed stubborn-as-a-mule father!" She laughed as she bent to retrieve the basket. "And now, Mister Cartwright, if you would be so good as to put your jacket back on and accompany me to yonder tree, we will share the repast I have prepared."

He snorted as he reached for the jacket. As he pulled it on, he looked at the basket and all the wonders it held, including a bottle of wine. Anne was a beauty and a wonderful woman, but she was not a cook. "You prepared?"

She shrugged. "With a little help from Hop Sing." As his eyebrows formed a 'v', she confessed. "Well, I packed it anyhow!"

Joe laughed, kissed her again, and then – with their arms linked together – they repaired to yonder tree.

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A lone figure waited in the hallway outside of Admiral Fitzpatrick's office. He had been called to receive his instructions regarding the mission to track down and apprehend Lieutenant Commander Spock. His operatives were in place. All he needed was the official seal to travel through time. The man's pale lips curled. Well, it wasn't that he 'needed' it, but it was all part of the game. The endgame, really. Within the pouch he wore, anchored on the hip of his current Western gear, was one of the time manipulators. It was not one confiscated or counted by Starfleet.

It was his own.

He needed two, after all, not to travel but to write his signature, so to speak, declaring what he had done. He would do it by having his agent place the bracelet on the wrist of Joseph Cartwright in the year of eighteen-seventy-six, deep within the heart of the Bodie Mine.

Oh yes, and he would enjoy doing so.

The man's attention returned to the present when the door opened and he was ushered into Admiral Fitzpatrick's office. Fitzpatrick was a crusty well-seasoned Starfleet officer who regretted the task he had been assigned, but would execute it with his usual military efficiency.

The older man was looking at his screen. Without looking up, he said, "Major...Vance, is it?"

The being known as Theron Vance's crimson eyes crinkled with a joke only he knew the punch-line to as he drew himself up to attention and saluted.

"Reporting for duty, sir!"

1 From Same Pines, Different Wind by Marla Fair