Quick Note:
This is an older story I finished years ago. It was pulled to be slightly re-worked, which is why you're seeing pop up as a new story now. If you enjoyed this story the first time around and were offended or saddened when it was removed, I am sorry. That being said, if you decide to revisit it (or if there are any new readers out there) I hope you still enjoy it.
Reviews are never expected but always appreciated.
A month before two of his sons set out to Eastgate Ben Cartwright began to have a recurring bad dream. If he were a younger man, he may have called it a nightmare. Nearing the age of sixty and with hair of almost pure white, he was considered much older than he was young, and, as a man of such distinguishment, he was determined not to assign such youthful classifications to his dreams—no matter how haunting and deeply unsettling they were. The visions were always the same. Surrounded by an endless desert, he stood upon a steep cliff watching in horror as his oldest son inched closer and closer to the edge. Adam's clothes were dirty and tattered, hanging off of his body in threads. His skin was darkened, burned, and blistered by the sun. With his hair slicked back by sweat and grime, he stared at his father, his hazel eyes bright, wide, and wild. Seemingly drunk with fever, his body swayed dangerously; he was always so close to falling off the edge.
"Pa," Adam would whisper, his voice deep and dry and slightly crazed. "Do you think you can catch me?"
"What?" Ben asked breathlessly, his heart clenching with fear.
"If I jumped, do you think you could make it to the bottom in time to catch me?"
Adam always asked the same question; it was terror inducing, evocative, and so contrary to the inviolable man Ben had raised. Which was not to say that the real Adam was not fond of asking questions. It was one of his favorite pastimes. Even as a small child he thirsted for knowledge in a manner that even the wisdom of adulthood would not quench. As a small boy, he had a penchant for asking questions Ben could not answer. As an adolescent, his desire for answers had led him to become a vivacious reader, to college and away from his family for a time. Adam had always been eager to ask questions, but he had never dared pose any like the ones in Ben's dream. He never asked them in such a demented manner, insanity shining brightly in his eyes. He had never once dared to question his father's ability to save or desire to protect him. Adam had never needed much in the way of protection. He had been an endlessly capable boy who had grown into self-reliant man. Intelligent, inquisitive, and mostly obedient, he had traversed his teenage years with an astounding level of maturity and grace. Though he had experienced a handful of insolent and rebellious bouts, Ben had never really feared for his safety. At least not in the way he sometimes feared for Joe. Joe had always been the needy one, so impulsive and headstrong, easy to anger and quick to react. If Ben ever imagined he would experience unsettling dreams about any of his children, then he would have waged a firm bet they would have been about Joe. He never would have expected to become captive to unsettling nocturnal visions about Adam.
Not Adam. Never Adam.
The dream about the desert, cliff, and his oldest son never lasted long enough for Ben to glean if he had or had not been able to catch his son. He didn't even know if Adam had jumped. Each time, just after Adam posed his haunting question, Ben awoke wide-eyed and gasping, his body bolting upward violently as he sat upright in bed. Each time, he was taken by the awful notion that, in the dream, Adam had, in fact, jumped and that he, himself, had not been quick enough to save him. Which, in the daylight hours when the image of the dream would sometimes spring to the forefront of his mind, he realized was just about the most implausible thing that could ever be conceived of. Adam would never choose to jump off a cliff, and he certainly would not challenge his father's love prior to doing so.
Adam had such a level-headed disposition. He was intelligent, rational, and self-contained. Independent was the word Marie had used to describe him when she was alive. "That boy has a thoughtful mind and an independent streak," she had said. "He will make for a very fine man someday."
Her words were eventually proven true, though she never lived long enough to see them come to fruition. The dream, however, continuing to haunt Ben most every night, was something he prayed would never come to fruition. He hoped its persistent presence was not some kind of omen, a warning sent from above to advise of something terrible to come. Despite his determination to dismiss it entirely, he found himself eager to interpret it as a warning to be heeded, because when a trip to the town of Eastgate became necessary he had done his best to keep Adam home.
"You're going to sit this one out," he said.
Standing opposite of where Ben was sitting, Adam planted his hands on the top of the desk, leaned over, and cast his father a confused gaze. "But I always go when we drove cattle in that direction," he protested.
"That's as good of a reason as any for you to stay home." The dry landscape surrounding lining the brutal journey to the settlement was another reason, and so were the steep cliffs which were scattered sporadically amongst the trail.
"I don't understand."
"That's fine. You don't need to."
"I don't? Pa, just exactly which of your sons do you think you're talking to right now? Joe would be grateful for dodging such a task; Hoss would accept your direction without further thought, but I'm not like either of them."
"You need to understand things."
"Yes, so help me understand this."
"You've been gone an awful lot lately, Adam," Ben said, reaching for the only acceptable explanation he could think of. "You just spent nearly three weeks in San Fransisco getting those lumbar contracts in order, and you haven't been back for more three days and now you're preparing to leave again."
"With the way you say that it's as though you've forgotten this is a working ranch. The time I spent in San Francisco wasn't my choosing, and it was far from a leisurely trip."
"Droving cattle Eastgate will not be leisurely either. It's a rough trek, son, which is all the more reason for you to remain here."
"I'm just pulling my weight, trying to take on my fair share of work. If you won't send me, then who are you going to send?"
"It's such a small herd, Little Joe can do it."
Hanging his head, Adam groaned. "By himself?" he questioned, looking up once more. "Are you really telling me that you'd rather send him over me?"
Ben was impressed by his oldest son's restraint; Adam had refrained from pointing out his baby brother's deficiencies in order to shift the argument into his favor. Joe was spitfire, there was no denying that; he was much too temperamental to be expected to complete such an arduous task on his own. "Then Hoss can go," he said.
"He's been watching that broodmare for weeks. She's liable to foal any day. Hoss isn't going to want to miss that, not the way he's been looking after her."
Ben couldn't disagree. "Then I'll go," he countered.
"You?" Adam exclaimed.
The question was nearly as insulting as the staggering tone of voice in which it had been declared. For the briefest of seconds, Ben was tempted to broach the topic of windmills and outline the damning outcome of another journey Adam had insisted he embark upon. Somehow, he refrained, choosing instead to repeat what had already been said. "I've already made up my mind. You're sitting this one out, Adam. Stop petitioning for a different option than the one you've been presented."
"The funny thing is I don't recall being presented with any options."
"The answer is no," Ben said firmly. "Do not tempt fate by asking again." It was an old instruction, often as ineffective on his grown sons as it had been when they were little boys.
Still leaning on the desktop, Adam ground his jaw and surveyed Ben stubbornly, seemingly intent on preparing to do the opposite of what his father had requested. Just when it seemed as though he was going to open his mouth and protest further, Adam stood tall and exhaled a hearty sigh. Ben knew he had been lucky his son had chosen to accept the order rather than make issue of it. Adam was a grown man, after all; he could challenge his father's direction and assertions and win should he find himself in a mind to. Today, however, he did not seem up for such a fight. Still, his hazel eyes shone with bitter disappointment, his shoulders sinking as he stood defeated. Neither thing boded well with Ben, and acceptance of his father's direction, it seemed, didn't bode well with Adam after all, because turning around to leave, he hesitated, then walked around the desk instead. Sitting on the edge of it, a few mere inches from Ben's chair, he fixed his eyes on the map hung on the wall behind his father.
"Spring goes awfully fast around here, you know," he said softly. "Summer and Fall pass by a man before he even knows they've truly arrived. It'll be winter soon, and when the snow begins to fall there won't be any opportunity to go anywhere at all, except for maybe the barn and some of the closer pasture. I know I've been gone a lot recently, but that's only because winter is on the horizon. I need to get out while I still can. Before all the roads leading away from here are rife with snow and I'm stuck in place, feeling like my only choice to scale the walls around me." He looked at Ben, his face uncharacteristically pleading. "You can understand that, can't you?"
As sad as it was to think about, Ben could. His son's insatiable appetite for knowledge had instilled within him an overpowering wanderlust, a wandering spirit which led him away from home for varying periods of time. Someday it would lead him away for good. Inane lingering anxieties born from dreams aside, Ben was not eager to expedite his son's eventual permanent departure; he was not eager to push him away by holding to him too tightly. If the painful nature of this realization was not enough to crumble his resolve to keep Adam from traveling to Eastgate, then his son's next words were.
"Papa, please."
It was an old term, abandoned in early adolescence by most of his sons. Adam, however, had retained it, only uttering it sporadically in private. He was a man now, after all; it simply wasn't appropriate to say it anymore. Perhaps it was the infrequency of its use that made Ben so susceptible to it. Or maybe it was because by saying the word, Ben knew Adam was really trying to say something else. Let me go, Pa—is what the word meant in this instance—Let me go now so I come back to you. Let us have a few more good years before the winters become much too long to bear and I have to leave for good.
Extending his hand, Ben took hold of Adam's forearm, and squeezed. "I understand."
Adam looked at him questioningly. "So?" he prompted, hopefully.
Taken by a sudden vision of the crazed and disheveled Adam in his dreams, Ben's response did not come easily. "So, you can go to Eastgate," he said. "But not alone. Take Joe with you."
Xx
"I want a telegraph when you arrive at Eastgate and another before you leave," Ben said as he watched his eldest and youngest sons ready their respective horses for the journey ahead. It was an exaggerated instruction, startling and odd, the proof of which was reflected on his youngest son's face.
"Two telegraphs?" Joe scoffed. "That's a bit much, ain't it, Pa?"
"Fine, Pa," Adam said. Grinning evilly, he looked at Joe as he cinched his saddle taunt. "But you really don't have to worry. I promise to keep your troublesome baby son safe."
"I don't know about that, older brother. I think those worried words may have been aimed at you, seeing as Pa was lookin' at you when he said them."
"Sure, they were," Adam retorted placidly. "If I recall correctly, I wasn't the one who nearly demolished the last town I was tasked with delivering beef stock to."
Scowling, Joe cast Adam a dangerous gaze.
"It was meant for both of you," Ben clarified. The explanation soothed one son and riled another. Adam cast Ben a tired glance. "Look after one another," he continued before his oldest could reply, demanding he explain his comment further. "And take it easy in the Eastgate saloon. I expect you both to be back by the end of the week."
"The end of the week?" Joe protested. "But that only leaves enough time to get there and come back."
"I said what I meant to," Ben said firmly. His irrational worry for Adam made him feel like a sentimental old man. What was the harm in sounding like one, too? "I'll tolerate no opinions from you."
Joe had the decency to appear adequately chastised. His softened expression was counterfeit—any old fool could see that. Just as any old fool could see the frustration darkening Adam's features was genuine; he was not happy about the instructions or having his credibility likened to that of his much different, much younger brother. When was the last time Ben had requested Adam send two telegraphs or take it easy in a saloon? Well, not for a while, at least.
"On with you then," Ben urged.
Unable to bear watching Adam ride away, he turned and stalked back into the house. Upon walking through the front door, he was assaulted by such a feeling of overwhelming wrongness that he had to hold himself back from rushing outside and pulling Adam off his horse. What was this worry? This feeling that he just could not shake. It didn't make sense for him to be this unsettled, so silently panicked over the safety of his most reliable son. Unlike in the dream, it wasn't Ben accompanying Adam to Eastgate, it was Joe, so what was he worried about? What concern did he need to feel over the desert and the intermitted cliffs contained on the landscape his sons would traverse? Adam had never—would never—acted in a manner in which Ben had dreamed.
Ben closed his eyes, forced himself to take a deep, grounding breath. It did nothing to sooth him, so he took another, then another, and then another after that. The door creaked open behind him.
"Pa?" Adam asked.
Turning around, Ben found Adam cautiously regarding him. "Yes?" he said, forcing a smile as he stifled the urge to take his son by the hand, haul him upstairs, and lock him in his bedroom. What harm could come to the boy who was kept behind closed door, lock, and key? Adam wasn't a boy anymore, making such desires impossible to enact. "Son?" he prompted, when it seemed as though Adam would never open his mouth to say whatever he had come inside to.
Stepping forward, Adam pulled his father into a tight hug. The son's action was as atypical as his father's worry; it only served to intensify Ben's fear.
"Promise me," he whispered, "that you'll make good decisions. Promise me that you will be safe."
"Pa—?"
"Promise me, Adam."
Adam expelled an exasperated breath. "I promise," he said.
Even then, Ben knew it was a vow destined to be broken.
