NOW:

Surveying the surrounding land, Adam expelled a hearty sigh and tried to ignore his budding frustration. What had once been a purposefully chosen swath of Ponderosa property, now felt a little too ill-picked. The area was as gregarious as it had been generous; it shared the entirety of the Running D's west property line and was nearly twice as big as the defunct ranch. According to Ben Cartwright, the combined spread belonged to both Adam and Peggy; if he had his way, Adam would have begun drafting permanent plans and broken ground on a new house for his young family long before now. But Adam had not, because, like so many things of late, so much about this land and place remained elusive to him.

Years ago, when he and Laura Dayton had been engaged, Adam had stood in this very place as his father graciously gifted him the acreage. Overcome by gratefulness and excitement, he had looked forward to building something of his own. Back then, planting his roots within the rocky soil had been exhilarating and enticing. It felt like an achievement of sorts, and now, it felt a lot like failure.

The land had changed significantly in Adam's six-year absence. Ben had done a remarkable job cleaning up the skeletal remains of the house that had been left unfinished. Any evidence of the home Adam had been building for his once future wife, Laura Dayton, had been eradicated. All that remained now were memories, haunting recollections of the uncompleted house and the period of time which followed its fateful erection. They were the ghosts that lingered behind, making way for sullen thoughts of all that had once been and then was not, giving birth to questions of all that could have been and would never be.

If he had not chosen to build that house, would he have ever discovered Laura's fondness for Will? Would he have married her instead of bowing out to make way for the love he thought she shared with his cousin? Would he have ever found the courage to leave his father's home? Or, like his younger brothers, would he have remained? If he had stayed would such a thing really have been so bad? There was once a time, long ago, on days like this, when the world seemed to shift so suddenly away from his favor, Adam had not thought so.

A quiet evening in front of the Ponderosa's grandiose fireplace could be entrancing, stabilizing, and assuaging. Life had been comfortable and easy back then. Even in the worst of times, there was no darkness that could fall that was black enough to block out the light of Pa's enduring love; there was no distance away to which Adam could travel that he could not be shepherded back home by his father's steadfast presence, wisdom, and strength. But it wasn't like that now. Or at least, it didn't seem to be. Adam was older now, a husband, and father himself. The thought that he would look to Pa to shepherd him anywhere was as impermissible as it was unlikely.

"Adam?" Ben asked gently.

Closing his eyes, Adam did not turn around. He had neither heard his father's arrival nor approach. Leaving Virginia City in a mood, he hadn't known where he was headed and therefore had not expected to be followed. But still, his father was here; he had come to stand mere paces behind him.

"How did you know where to find me?" Adam asked. "Or that you would even have to look?"

There should have been nothing notable about this day. No interaction should have led him to this place. Nothing should have implored his father to follow him. For all Pa knew, this was a day just like any other Adam spent overseeing his post in town. As Ben remained quiet, Adam knew his father was aware the day was different, harder to endure than the rest which had come as of late.

"I'm not running for reappointment," Adam said flatly. There was no sense in prolonging the inevitable. His father's presence was an admission of his knowledge, curiosity, and worry. "It seems certain details of the past have rendered me unsuitable, untrustworthy for the position."

"You're plenty trustworthy," Ben soothed.

"Even so, Roy Coffee has another man in mind for the job." Turning, Adam finally looked at Ben. "But you already knew all that. That's what our little father-son breakfast was about, why you were so anxious to discuss my plans for the future, and the reason you're here now."

"I'm sorry, son."

"For what? The conversation Roy and I shared or the one you and he did?"

"Both, I suppose."

"You were never in favor of my appointment. I'm sure when Roy shared the details of his new plan, you were more than a little relieved. After all, the whole damn territory knows you didn't raise your sons to live by a gun."

"I did not," Ben agreed. "Even so, I would not want you to think this was a decision I had a hand in making."

Snorting, Adam was not so certain Ben had not. His father's prominence had saved his job before; it stood to reason his influence could take it away. "I don't know what I think," he admitted. "Not yet at least."

"About what I just said?"

"About anything."

Staring at the sizable boulder standing in the distance, Adam grew thoughtful and bitter. Stubborn and solid, the mass of rock had once been a neighboring cornerstone of the house he had begun to build for Laura and Peggy. Back then, he had thought it would help shelter his future family from the strength of any incoming storm. Now it seemed to stand as a silent testament of all the hardship that had been endured.

"What do you think would have happened if you wouldn't have given me this land?" he asked. The question was blunt and impetuous, as difficult to hear aloud as it was to respond to.

A prolonged silence proceeded Ben's reply. "What do you mean?" he carefully asked.

"Exactly what I said. What do you think would have happened if this stretch of land never belonged to me?"

"Adam."

Stubbornly tilting his head, Adam ignored his father's pressing interjection, a slightly sorrowful bid for him to abandon such unsavory topics. "Everything is connected, Pa," he said. "One decision leads us to the next. If I wouldn't have spent so much time trying to help Laura Dayton after Frank's death, then I never would have grown so fond of Peggy. If I hadn't grown to love that little girl so fiercely, then I never would have asked her mother to marry me. If Laura and I hadn't been engaged, you never would have given me this land. If I never had this land, I never would have tried to build a house. I never would have fallen and hurt my back. I wouldn't have spent months trying to regain my independence and mobility. You wouldn't have become quite so protective of me; I would not have become quite so frustrated with you. Things might not have had to change between us, or at least they might not have had to change in the manner in which they did. Do you think that without the land, the house or the fall, Laura and I would have ended up marrying each other after all? Do you think I would have been happy here? Or would I have turned into another Frank Dayton?"

"I think, considering the fact that you moved on with your life, married and had children with someone else, giving credence to questions like that serves very little purpose now. We all did what we did, son, and things became what they are. I see no point in questioning the past now."

"It isn't wise to ignore it either. We are who we are, Pa. Time doesn't change a man that much. Without change the only hope he really has is to heed the lessons of the past. You can't find them if you remain intent on dismissing everything that is uncomfortable or unsavory to think about."

"Even if all that is true, it isn't wise to question the past when you're wrestling with the present."

"Who said anything about that?" Adam deflected.

Taking a series of forward steps, Ben did not speak until he stood beside his son. "At breakfast you said things were not going particularly well. I can't imagine the progression of the day has improved that sentiment."

"I can't imagine much of anything is going to improve it."

Ben ventured a consolatory hand and Adam stepped just outside of his reach. He was not in the mood to be comforted.

"What can I do to help?" Ben asked simply.

"Nothing."

"Don't do that. When you and I agreed to be kind to each other, you also agreed to ask for help when you needed it."

"And you agreed not to push, to let things be when I asked you to. I know you don't want to hear it, Pa, but there comes a point in a man's life when he realizes his father cannot fix anything, and even if he could, he would not want him to. There are limits to your power, and your wisdom."

"Even so, there must be something I can do."

Adam thought about the past, then the ever-elusive future, and the current, pride-bruising predicament of the present. His lips curled into a slight, sardonic smile. "Well, maybe when my term officially expires, you can give me a job."

The words were meant as a sarcastic quip, but as Ben gaped at him Adam knew they had fallen flat. The shock in his father's dark eyes led him to wonder what Pa had expected him to say.

"Well, don't look so surprised," Adam said. Or unwilling, he thought. Frustration building, he found himself doubling down on the statement, engaging himself in a fight for something he decidedly did not want. The end result of such a conversation may not be satisfactory, but at least the fight would be. It had been a long time since they had truly debated something or partaken in anything resembling a bona fide argument. A little back and forth, some disgruntled verbal push and pull had the potential to make him feel better—or worse, depending on the outcome. "You must have known that was coming," he said tersely. "After all, you did follow me here, and I have to do something if I'm not going to be the sheriff anymore. I have a family to support. A wife, three small children, and a daughter who's bound for college."

Ben inhaled a deep breath, held it, and then expelled it. "I thought you and Peggy were still going back and forth about college," he said softly. His careful tone of voice was a clear indication he would not be baited into the destructive conversation his son was seeking.

"That's hardly the point of what I just said."

"I know. I also know that you are going to have to do something should you no longer hold the position you currently do. But, son, are you absolutely sure that the something you want to do is that?"

Concern lurked in both the question and the elder man's eyes. Adam found he could neither hold his father's gaze nor provide a satisfactory answer. After Will's death, they had promised not to lie to each other. During their trip to Ohio to bury Will's body next to those of his parents, Adam and Ben had spoken about all manner of things. They had visited the house where John's family had once lived; they stood on the banks of the lake, and they had vowed not to harbor secrets anymore. Would avoiding his father's question be perceived as lying by omission? How could a truth be withheld if a man didn't know it himself?

"You know I'd never ask you to be certain of something you're not," Ben said. "You also know, you will always have a home and a place in the Ponderosa's business ventures if you want it." His face etched with a sudden sadness, he appraised the empty land surrounding them. "But," he whispered, "I don't think you really do."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because I raised you. I know what's in your heart and head."

Frowning, Adam was slightly annoyed and unnerved by the declaration. It was an odd statement to hear, considering the recent past, the prolonged hellish period of time when it had seemed as though their relationship would never recover from the enduring pain of past disagreements and actions. The recent past was sometimes difficult to reconcile with the present. Falling into a surly silence, Adam could not help but recall the memory of a moment in time that did not feel very far removed from this one.

When he had finally returned to Virginia City, showing up unannounced—and uninvited—to his father's grand birthday celebration, Pa had wordlessly regarded him with a haunting combination of shock, anger, and disgust. In the weeks which had followed, he had spoken to him so irately, so gruffly and flippantly. How could his father have treated him so recklessly back then only to regard him with such care now? The juxtaposition of the two was frightening, leading to the bothersome notion that one wrong decision, a wrong admission or omission would magically render Adam, once again, outside of the family fold. Conversations such as this did not help matters, nor did the sudden realization that his unwanted back-up plan may not be viable in his father's eyes.

Adam's chest constricted, the breaths drawn into his lungs feeling a little too shallow to sustain him. Pa would not dare reject him now, would he? "Come on, Pa," he said insistently. "It's your dream to have me back here, working alongside you and my brothers and living on this land, raising my children like you raised yours."

Ben's lips formed a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Yes, I know," he said, "but it isn't yours." Planting his hands on his hips, he appraised their surroundings with a nomadic gaze. "As I said earlier, grief is a hell of thing. It can influence what we say, think, and the decisions we make. I know you haven't had an easy time with things since you've been back. I know I had a part in making life difficult for you." He looked at Adam, his brown eyes shining with sympathy and sadness. "Son, I can see now what I fought so hard to avoid acknowledging years ago. Your spirit yearns for independence, freedom, and space. If you need someone to blame for that, then I suppose you should blame me. I'm the one who tore you away from the stability of the house we shared with your grandfather when you were an infant. I raised you up in a rough and rambling way. I didn't give you a stable home until you were eight years old. The seed which would lead you to become a wandering soul was planted long ago and it was my actions that tended to it and allowed it to grow. Life around here is significantly smaller than the one you were meant for; I think we both know that."

"But what if it isn't smaller? What if it's just the right size?" Adam asked. His father's words stung; they cut in a way he was not prepared for. There was once a time when he thought his father was a little too eager to hold on to him, now he feared he was a little too eager to relinquish his grip. What are you saying, Pa? he thought. Can't you see that I need you?

"I don't think it has to be smaller," Ben said. "In fact, up until your conversation with Roy Coffee this morning, I don't think it really was." His eyes found the star of authority pinned to Adam's vest. "You know even as a little boy you were always quick to stand up for what you believed in. You were the first to fight for the underdog, to come to the defense of the weak, or improperly scorned. As much as it frightens me to think about, and no matter how much it is a truth that I don't want to admit, you becoming the sheriff of Virginia City makes sense. It suits you in a way that maybe we both should have foreseen. It's almost the perfect compromise when you think about it. You are both close to me and autonomous from me. Your endeavors and authority are your own. It's everything you didn't know you wanted years ago when you began to struggle with your place here. That position is the answer to the question neither of us had the courage to ask: what can make Adam Cartwright happy, satisfied with the life that doesn't lead him away from his family? That job fulfills you in a way nothing else ever can or will. Do you understand that?"

"It doesn't matter if I do. Understanding it doesn't change the fact that it's going to end."

"It doesn't have to. Do you really believe Billy Buckley is the right kind of man to serve as sheriff of our town?"

"Not particularly."

"Why not?"

"Roy thinks the years have mellowed him. They haven't. He's still a hothead. He still likes to jump to conclusions, and he's easily swayed by the loudest person in the room. A man like that in a position of power can be dangerous if the wrong kind of people find his ear."

"I agree."

"Well, that's great, but it doesn't mean there's anything to be done about it."

"I think there is something to be done about it. I think you should run against him."

"And I think Roy Coffee has already made his opinion on the matter clear."

"Why should his opinion dictate what you do?"

"Why should yours?"

"Because I know you, Adam. I understand you in a way no one else ever can or will. If you wanted to return to ranching, then you would have already done so. If not in the weeks after we buried Will, then at least in the ones after our conversation about this stretch of land and the Running D. If you truly want to be a rancher again, you don't need my permission or approval. I'm not even sure you would need my help. You have this land, and you are in legal possession of that of your eldest daughter, combined they are a robust spread full of potential, and yet they remain untouched."

"I fail to see how any of this relates to the topic at hand."

"Then listen a little longer," Ben implored. "You've avoided this land. You chose to move your family into the house on Kay Street instead of keeping them at the Ponderosa or building a home for them here. You can't tolerate the idea of building a future that might remind you of the past. You are afraid that one day you will wake up and find yourself living the same life that you lived before. You are terrified that the feelings which once drove you away from here will return and drive you away again, but what I don't think you understand is that the old feelings aren't nearly as frightening as the new ones which seem to be consuming you. Being a husband isn't always easy, and being a father is sometimes downright difficult; those are two things that will be true regardless of mistakes or circumstance. A traditional life was never going to come easy to you, not growing up the way that you did, not with being a single man for as long as you were. It didn't come easy before, and it won't be easy now, but there is no need to make things more difficult for yourself. You don't want to be a rancher. If you truly did, it would not be a decision you would make like this. You would choose it. It would not be something you forced yourself into because you were being forced out of something else."

Closing the slight gap between them, Ben lifted his hand and clasped his son's shoulder. As his father squeezed in a reassuring manner, Adam thought he took a little more comfort in the touch than a man of his age should have.

"The land you stand on will always belong to you, should you ever want something else for your children or yourself. There will always be a place for you on the Ponderosa should you need it. But taking backward steps, especially those you don't want to, isn't going to restore anything you've lost. It will only slowly destroy what you have left to hold on to. We can all decide to travel paths we weren't meant for but those roads tend to not be as satisfying as the ones which were. You've lived the life of a lawman for quite a few years now. It's a life you chose, or as you once said: a life that chose you. Now, I have faith that you can succeed whether you choose the things you want or the ones someone else wants for you. If you want to know if I believe following through on the latter will make you happy, I have doubts. Even so, I want you to know I will support you in whatever decision you make, as long as you are the one who is making it."

It was sage advice. If only Adam believed he could heed it. If only he did not understand why it had been offered. If only he could remain blind to his father's confidence in him. If only it was a sentiment, he himself could share. Pa thought he still knew him, but he didn't. Unlike his father, he was not the kind of man who could not be changed.

Ben squeezed Adam's shoulder again, then retracted his hand. "And now that I've said all that, that's the last you'll hear from me on the matter, but I hope you will tell me something in return."

"What's that?"

"Does Roy Coffee's opinion of you really hold more weight than mine?"

"If you would have asked me that question when I first came back then the answer would have been yes."

"And what's the answer now?"

Adam's reply did not come easily. "It's still yes."

Ben's disappointment was palpable. "I don't understand."

"He's done right by me, Pa. Back when things weren't so good between us, all the times you tore me down, he was there to build me back up. I know this may come as a surprise to you, but there was a time when Roy Coffee's faith in me was just about the only consistent thing in my life."

"No, that I understand. Are you really implying that you're going to allow Roy Coffee to have his way without a fight? That you're going to bow out of the upcoming election and allow Billy Buckley to stand in your place?"

There were so many things Adam wanted to say. So many others he longed to make his father understand. Throat constricting, he reached for the appropriate response, found himself without the proper words, and nodded instead. He would step aside allow Buckley to take his place. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. It was the right thing to do. He had known Roy Coffee's condemning decision was coming. After all, he was not an innocent man; he had done things which led him to this tumultuous place. He had made bad decisions and his share of mistakes. Maybe at one time he could have been viewed as a moral man who was beyond reproach, but he was not that person anymore.

Chasing Will had changed him. Keeping his cousin captive, hidden away in the back bedroom of the decrepit Running D farmhouse had changed him, too. He had made decisions he was not proud of; he had chosen to do things he did not want to think about now. For every detail his father knew, there were at least ten more he did not. If his actions toward his deceased cousin were to be perceived as a crime—and he was acutely aware they should have been—then being asked to abstain from the sheriff's election was a lesser punishment than he truly deserved. If Billy Buckley could be viewed as a poor candidate for sheriff, then Adam knew he was a much worse one. Roy Coffee knew that. He prayed his family would never come to know it, too.

Billy Buckley announced his candidacy for sheriff on Sunday morning. That evening, gathered among his extended family at the Ponderosa for dinner, Adam carefully avoided answering any inquiries about his future endeavors posed by his younger brothers. Neither Ben, nor Lil, nor Eddie pressed him on the topic. Later, Adam would look back on the evening and wonder if it was because the trio was already aware of a truth he had not yet been willing to see himself.

TBC