So, back to Boston and Abel and grown Adam.

BOSTON

(Part 1)

Dear Grandfather…

Abel smiled. The "Rs" were backward. Adam had had some trouble with those "Rs" – had taken him a year or two to straighten that out.

How are you? I am fine.

Always started the same way – for the first few years, anyway – the years, he suspected, when Ben had been carefully guiding Adam's hand. Later, Adam's missives had grown more adventurous – more personal. But Abel had kept and treasured them all. A marvel, really, when you considered – that Benjamin had taken the time and spent the money to keep him in touch with his grandson. A combination of duty and guilt, those two strong motivators, he supposed. It must have gotten increasingly difficult as they got further west, yet Ben had persisted. Abel couldn't but be grateful. He had preserved every letter that reached him, no matter how shaky the penmanship or vague the content, had stowed them all carefully first in a wooden box, then, as they overflowed the box, an old chest of drawers. It had been almost like seeing Adam's face as he grew. Almost.

We are in Illinois. Pa says that's how it's spelled, even though you say Illinoy, not Illinoise. I don't know why. Pa says he doesn't know why either. If you know why, could you please write and tell me? I'd like to know. Your loving grandson, Adam.

Of course, he hadn't known why. Just a small drop in the comprehensive ocean of things he didn't know "why" about.

He caught the sound of footsteps overhead and tilted his head to listen, could just make out the murmur of voices, and then silence. Damn, that doctor was taking a long time. You'd think he could excuse Mrs. Longworth for a moment to tell him something. Bad enough that he'd been kicked out of Adam's room – insult to injury that SHE had been allowed to stay.

He carefully folded the letter away and tucked it back in place, plucked out another one. Adam would be astonished to see how neatly his grandfather kept this single spot.

Dear Grandfather,

…aye, that was better – all the alphabet marching in the right direction now.

It is winter and the snow is very, very deep – I don't remember seeing it so deep anywhere before. It's cold too. Pa says in California not too far away there is no snow at all but I don't see how that can be, do you? I think maybe Pa is just saying that to tease us and pass the time because there's not much to do in here what with all the snow. What do you think? If you know, please write and tell me cause Pa does like to tease sometimes. Pa says there is plenty of snow where you are and you're way far away, so how can there not be any snow in California? I think Pa must be teasing. Your loving grandson, Adam.

He had done better on that question – had done some asking among his sailor friends and customers at the Chandler's Shop and had finally ended up sending Adam some books on the principles of climate and geography. Smiling at the memory, he slid the letter back into its slot and reached randomly for another.

Dear Grandfather, thank you very much for the new books. I like them a lot. I was going to save them and read them a little at a time so they would last but they were very interesting and I finished them very fast. But I'm reading them again, because they were very good. I like the one about the North Atlantic. Pa says that he sailed the North Atlantic with you before he married my mother. Someday I'm going to sail the North Atlantic too, like you and Pa. I like the pictures a lot, too. I keep the books high up on a shelf so Hoss can't get them and wreck them. Hoss is not very careful with things because he is just little. I mean he's not very old – I guess Hoss was never really very little. I hope you are well and thank you again for the books. I like them a lot. Your loving grandson, Adam. P.S. Pa says when you sail far enough north the sun doesn't set and it stays light for days and days. But doesn't the sun have to set every day? Otherwise, how do you know it is night? Can you write and tell me whether or not this is true? Sometimes it's hard to get a good answer out of Pa. I'm getting too big to tease now, but sometimes Pa likes to do it anyway, I can tell. Love again, Adam.

Abel chuckled. Sometimes corresponding with Adam was like cramming for exams. He slipped that one back in the bundle of its fellows, under the faded ribbon. He kept them all carefully tied together by year, lined up in order. He wondered what Adam's letters to his father and brothers over the last two years looked like – what they said, what they carefully avoided saying. Probably Ben kept them, too – read them over and over, worried or wondered or laughed over the contents.

Some days he felt that he had understood Adam better when he was writing him than he did face to face.

Voices overhead now - not loud enough to overhear, just loud enough to make him tense and listen. He sat very still, trying to catch at least a word or two - no luck. Damn whoever had built this bloody house so solid. He rose and took a turn about the room, rubbing the back of his neck to loosen the stiffness that had lodged there.

It had been difficult sometimes - he and Adam just different enough - or maybe just enough alike. Like two flints knocking together to cause sparks. They had had a bit of a squabble not long before Adam had become ill - a foolish one, he realized now. Not even about what it had seemed to be about, really - actually about who got to decide what Adam should and should not do.

He had lost, of course.

He had come home to find Adam whistling some complex tune, stuffing things into a satchel. Adam had glanced up from his work to grin at him. "Don't wait breakfast for me tomorrow morning - I have to be off early. Practice."

Abel had tried to catch a glimpse of the clothing being arranged neatly inside the satchel. "Practice. And what are you practicing for at the crack of dawn?"

"Rowing. I joined one of the rowing teams." Adam had neatly fastened the buckles on his pack and moved to set it near the door for easy remembering, so it took him a minute to register Abel's frown and raise his brows questioningly in response.

"Rowing. You mean in one of those skinny little boats?"

"Well, it's called a scull, actually, but yes, one of those."

Abel had felt his frown deepen. "And where will this rowing in the skinny boat take place - on the Charles?"

"Scull," Adam repeated. He looked mildly exasperated but visibly made an effort to keep it in check. "Yes, of course. I don't think we'd make much progress in the lake in the park."

"Do you have any idea how deep the Charles is?"

Adam had lost his smile now, and he crossed his arms carefully over his chest. "At which point?" he countered politely.

Abel scowled. "Don't be showing off your fancy knowledge to me."

"Well, you did ask."

"What would your father have to say if he knew you were setting forth in that tiny boat on that great river?"

Adam stared. "This, from a man who crossed the Atlantic!"

"We aren't talking about me now; we're talking about you!"

He could almost watch Adam count carefully in his head. At last he took a breath and said, "Then I guess he'd say it must seem mighty tame after Lake Tahoe. Would you like to know how deep that is now?"

"Don't you be smart with me, young man!"

"Grandfather, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but you have to be a little reasonable - what on earth is it that you think I do at home?"

"I'm not responsible for you when you're at home!"
"And you're not responsible for me when I'm here! I'm twenty years old - and frankly, if I don't get a little more physical outlet, I think I'm going to lose my mind!"

Abel had paused, briefly routed. "You have walks," he rejoined feebly.

"And those are nice - they're fine, but - I spend most of my day sitting - well, sitting on something that doesn't move for a change and - it's not enough. I need - I need something else!"

"Then find something else! Something not dangerous!"

"It is perfectly safe!" Adam raised his voice to be heard over Abel, and despite his preoccupation, Abel lifted his brows a bit in surprise. It had been a long time since anybody had been able to shout him down. Not since…well…Benjamin.

"And what happens if the skinny little boat turns over in the middle of the river?"

"IT'S. CALLED. A. SCULL."

Abel blinked. Impressive, how he could enunciate through his teeth like that.

One big breath. One smaller. "And if, by some bizarre turn of circumstance, the SCULL tipped over, then I would swim."

"And if you hit your head - "

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Adam paced away from him, rubbing a hand over his forehead. After a minute he turned around. "I like it," he hissed with forced calm. "I'm used to - to working as part of a team! I guess I - I guess I miss it. It's - well, it's FUN. It's something I want to do. Something I'm going to do! I'm sorry if you don't approve!"

"Yes, little you care for my approval! And little you'll care when I'm the one who has to break the news to your father that you've drowned! Just once in my life I'd like to not let him down! Just once in my life I'd like to successfully complete a charge he gives me!"

Adam opened his mouth to retort, stopped suddenly, his eyes narrowing. After a second, he walked over to the wing chair and dropped down on the arm of it. "You know," he said quietly after a second, "that's not the first time you've hinted at something like that. Are you ever going to tell me what that's about?"

Abel hesitated. "I was speaking metaphorically." Adam's eyes narrowed further. "And don't give me that all-knowing look - it's not at all becoming."

Adam stretched his long legs out in front of him and dropped his probing gaze to his boot toes. "Metaphorically. Very fancy."

"Comes from having some high faluting university student living with me."

"Hmph." Adam continued his frowning investigation of his footware. "So. First match is Saturday morning. You coming?"

Abel glared. "Wouldn't miss it. Someone has to be there to drag your ungrateful carcass out of the drink."

He chuckled at the memory and ran a finger over a particularly fat bundle of letters, his smile fading. Ah, yes. That year.

The letters had been long and frequent for a while that year. Ben had gone to New Orleans, and it seemed to leave Adam more time to write - or perhaps just more need to. The letters were different, though - no requests for information, no ingenuous observations. They were filled with hollow chatter about daily things, long and rambling. Many references to what good care Shaughnessy was taking of them. Glancing references to how badly Hoss was missing Pa.

Abel had learned by now that what Adam left unsaid was often more significant than anything he actually shared and what was missing from these letters bothered him so much that he had found himself pacing the floor, then actually checking out passage to Utah territory - what routes were available, how long it would take to get there. He finally had to grudgingly concede that by the time he would be able to arrive, Ben would already be home. Pointless. So he had written back long, cheerful letters instead - tried to send small surprises now and then. And then suddenly, the letters had stopped all together for a while.

He picked up the next, slight bundle, running his thumb down the edges, counting. He hadn't been alarmed at first. Mail out of the west was infrequent and unpredictable at the best of times. Then he received a note from Ben telling him that he had remarried while in New Orleans, so there was a new Mrs. Cartwright. Like Adam, what Ben didn't say was often more significant than what he did, so Abel had looked at the letter for a long time before sitting down to answer it. He wrote his congratulations and added cautiously that he was glad to hear that all was well because he hadn't heard from Adam in a while, and he had been somewhat concerned. Predictably, another letter from Adam arrived shortly thereafter. Very brief and empty. Very "Dear Grandfather, how are you; I am fine."

After some hesitation, Abel had sent another letter off to Ben, saying that Adam didn't really sound like himself and was everything all right? Ben had answered rather crisply that Adam took a little longer to get used to things than most people but that all was well. Thank you for your concern. How are you, we all are fine.

Neat, dutiful letters arrived regularly from Adam after that. The weather was good. Schoolwork was good. The ranch was good. Everything fine. Absent among the pages of words, though, was a single, solitary reference to his new stepmother. Troubled, Abel had read them over and over, searching for clues. Lonely as the letters during Ben's trip to New Orleans had seemed, these seemed lonelier still. Withdrawn. Like a box with the lid shut and locked. After bearing with a few of them, he had finally ventured to write to Ben to suggest that perhaps Adam would like to come for a visit and winter in Boston? Ben wouldn't be needing him for ranch work really over the winter, and Adam was probably old enough to travel alone now? Perhaps it was time that they became acquainted.

Ben had written back very definitely that Adam would be staying right where he was. He wasn't really old enough to make such a trip by himself; there was plenty for him to do on the ranch, and besides, Marie was expecting a baby right away - by fall. The extra set of hands would be needed. But thank you very much for the kind offer. How are you…?

Heavier footsteps overhead now - brisker, hurrying. He stiffened like a terrier catching a scent. A male voice raised - the doctor's - calling for something. Abel found himself on his feet and at the door before he could stop himself, paused with his hand on the latch. He heard the doctor call again - no answer from Mrs. Longworth, but in his mind's eye he could see her economical, efficient motions as she fulfilled his requests. More requests - barked almost, now…Abel ground his teeth and pressed his forehead into the door.

He would only be in the way.

He would be a distraction to whatever they were trying to do. They mustn't be distracted now…God forbid he should distract them, but why in God's name couldn't someone at least send him word…?

No. Adam needed them, and that's where they should be. He could wait. It might kill him, but he could. He could do whatever he had to do.

He turned his back to the door, leaned against it as if to shut himself inside, covered his face with his hands.

TBC