Ben spent the afternoon in Virginia City.

Watching Adam and Hoss leave, he had almost pitched the idea of the trip. It took every amount of control he had to follow through on what he had originally planned for the day and not follow his sons. Standing just outside the barn, he had taken a deep breath and held it before finally expelling both it and the idea of trailing behind his sons.

Adam was in good hands; Hoss was quite capable of safely negotiating any complication that could arise. Everything would be fine; Adam would be fine. In a handful of hours both of his sons would return home, safe and sound as promised, and Ben and Hoss and Adam would finally rejoice in a day gone well. A much-needed beacon of hope in the dark horizon of the future.

Adam would be fine. With Hoss at his side, watching and protecting him, how could he not be?

Forcing a tight smile, Ben silently posed this question to himself over and over on his way into town, like a mantra of positivity whose repetition would eventually soothe his worry away. It didn't work. If anything, it only added to his unease. He couldn't help feeling something was bound to go wrong, that the decision he had forced Adam to make was destined to become another mistake. He had made so many mistakes where Adam was concerned, bad decisions which spanned decades now, beginning at his son's birth and continuing through the present. He didn't know how he would bear another.

As a young man, Ben hadn't been a keen listener. He was companionable and jovial, but he had a temper that carried a dangerous edge. None of this seemed to be too much of a problem before he was a father or even when he was merely a husband for the first time. Elizabeth had had a way about her, a warmth and graciousness that could navigate and dismantle his anger, soothing the dangerous discontent which lurked below the surface into peace. She had been an asset to him, her presence the only thing he needed to keep his fear of impending fatherhood at bay. He would be a fine father because of her ability to steer his anger toward peace. Their baby would be happy and healthy, forever safe, and unharmed because of her equalizing and stabilizing warmth. Or so Ben had thought. Then Elizabeth had died and nothing which followed seemed to ever unfold according to plan.

That was not to say that Ben thought he was a terrible father; he had come across more than a few of those types of men over his lifetime to see the differences between himself and them. Terrible fathers were either too hard or too soft; they either demanded too much or too little, and through their actions they taught their children to fear or disrespect them. Ben knew he wasn't like that. He knew that on an imaginary scale of fatherhood he had landed somewhere safely in-between good and bad.

His sons loved and respected him; with his guidance they had grown into strong, capable, and beneficent men. He hadn't been alone in shaping Adam and Hoss into young men; before her death, Marie had been a great help with this, and after she was gone, Adam and Hoss had been gracious enough to help Little Joe along, modeling their patience and compassion in such a way that Joe had no choice but to conform. And before Marie, there had been Inger, Hoss's mother and the woman Ben knew Adam would forever hold as his mama in his heart; the day they had met her had changed everything, because before there had been Inger, it had just been Adam and Ben.

Little Adam, who had been early to walk, late to talk, and eternally small for his age. With big, hazel eyes, dark hair, and deep dimples, he had been such a stunning child. Like Elizabeth before them, women had often remarked on his beauty—first as an infant, then as a boy, and even now as an adult. Ben knew that as a grown man his son was revered and swooned over by the opposite sex. He had been a beautiful boy and he had grown into a handsome man.

When Ben looked at his son, he saw hints of Elizabeth —he always had, and he supposed he always would. She was in his eyes, mannerisms, and evil half-smirk. She was in his patience and kindness, his ability to remain resolute in his beliefs even if he was alone; she was in his willingness to stand up for others no matter the cost to himself. She was in his laughter and his smile and any other attribute he had that would ever be defined as good.

For Adam's anger, however, Ben blamed himself.

Adam was such a fine man, poised, reasonable, astute, but there was a darkness lurking beneath the surface of his demeanor. Ben knew this because he had seen it before; what he saw in his son he recognized in himself.

Ben's anger had always been with him; it was a gift from his father, he supposed, a characteristic that seemed to be hereditary in the Cartwright line. His grandfather had been a brutal man, his father less so, and Ben and his brother, John, even less than him. Still, there was an anger that lived inside of them, one which—in Ben's younger days—left him quick to react and slow to think. His anger had always been there, lurking, but it was his travels West with Adam that had caused it to aspirate.

There had been nothing romantic about traveling West with an infant. It was intensely challenging, eternally difficult, and all-too-often terrifying. A lot of people they had come across were companionable, supportive, and kind. Others were hazardous, violent, and sinister. Men—and occasionally women—whose only goal in life was to survive, to have what they desired by whatever means necessary. They had come across men who had robbed them, barren women who were intent on having Adam and raising him as their own. Traveling West, Ben had anticipated coming across Natives of the land, but he was unprepared for the level of savagery displayed by his own kind. There is a certain type of fury intense fear can give birth to, especially the fear turned fury of a widowed man who would do anything in his power to protect his child.

Adam saw things Ben wished he wouldn't have. He heard him bellow dangerous warnings and he watched him fight. It couldn't have been helped; the things Adam was exposed to were symptomatic of their surroundings. Protecting him from the knowledge of the brutality of people was a luxury Ben had never had. Shielding his son from being exposed to his father's own formability, furious and dangerous when pushed, was an option Ben was never presented with.

He wasn't an abusive man. He adored his son; he never hurt him outside of punishing him for his own good. This was a resolute fact that was difficult for a young child to understand—or reconcile with the violence he had seen. Toddlers couldn't understand context, how his father could hurt someone who threatened their safety but would never dare raise a hand to him to do the same.

Adam was nearly two before Ben realized how much his voice could genuinely terrify his child. He was nearly three when he began palpably fearing his father's responses to even the most minor of accidents and bad behavior. And Adam was five before Ben made any solid strides toward improvement. With Inger by his side, he was no longer alone in minding and protecting Adam; he had a wife and partner, someone whom he loved and trusted indefinitely. It was her love, her faith in the goodness of humanity, which had begun to soften some of the edges Ben hadn't realized had begun to grow coarse. Adam had seemed wary of the changes in his father at first. He didn't trust the longevity of such a thing, and in response to this distrust, the boy did what he always did—what he would always do—he became quiet.

And time marched on. Hoss was born and Inger died but her influence lingered. Ben tapered his anger, reigning it in when need be; he was determined that Hoss would never come to fear him in the way that Adam once had. Life moved on, some could even argue it improved; Hoss grew at a steady rate and Adam learned not to fear his father's anger rather to respect it instead.

Adam was eleven the first time he exhibited the same uncontrollable rage his father had once displayed—something that even now Ben still believed wasn't entirely his son's fault. After all, he was a boy protecting his little brother; he was just doing what Ben hadn't realized he had taught his son to do.

It was shortly after he and Marie had been married and she was newly pregnant with Joe. Meeting in Louisiana, their courtship had been quick, the conception of their baby even more so, and the weeks which followed their return from New Orleans all proved to be an incredibly rough transition for Adam. He wasn't used to having a stepmother; he wasn't keen on having this stranger live in their home.

Marie was nothing short of a saint, weathering Adam's skepticism and distrust. Her personality was warm; she was patient; and she was kind. But at the time, she had also been with child which left her occasionally captive to certain types of moods.

If Ben closed his eyes, he could recall with appalling clarity the details of that morning. The four of them had been gathered around the breakfast table. Usually so jovial, Hoss had awoken with a sour outlook; he was fussing over his pancakes not being cut properly.

It wasn't the way Pa did it, that was what Hoss had said to Marie as she stood behind his chair.

Marie was short on patience that day—something that even later she readily admitted to. She told Hoss to eat them anyway, and Hoss responded with shrill whining and tears. It was a grinding combination to endure that early in the morning. Ben had every intention of putting a stop to it, but Marie got there first. Grabbing Hoss's arm, she ordered him to either eat quietly or retire to his bedroom for some alone time. Hoss, being the sensitive young boy he was, didn't follow the order Marie had given; he looked at Marie's hand still clutching his arm and screamed instead.

"You're hurting me!"

And then it happened. The one thing Ben never anticipated ever would.

Leaping out of his chair, Adam grabbed a knife from the table. Springing to stand next to Marie, he held the blade of the knife to the veins on her wrist. His expression was dark, a threat lurked in his eyes, and then came the words, low and dangerous, "You let my brother go."

Ben had always considered himself a man of action, however, in that moment, his shock had rendered him unable to move. He and Marie looked at one another, their horrified expressions mirroring one another. Absently, Marie let go of Hoss and only then did Adam seem truly aware of what he had done. He was horrified; the knife clattered the floor as he looked at his father and burst into tears. And only then did Ben finally move.

Leading a sobbing Adam to the barn, Ben was overcome by guilt and shame. It was he who had taught Adam to react like that. Still, such a thing couldn't go unpunished—they both knew that.

But in that moment, Ben immediately knew he would not do what his father did; this was not something he would try and fail to beat out of his son. Instead, he would teach his son to use words to express what was causing such powerful emotion.

He sat Adam on a hay bale, then crouched down and looked him in the eye. "Use your words, Adam," he had said. "There is a difference between bravery and violence born from fear. When you feel fear that controls you like that, you use your words; you speak wisely and directly, or you try to walk away."

This was an instruction he would never need to repeat to his first-born son. It was a lesson learned, so frightening and painful for both, the first time.

Though Adam would heed his father's instruction a part of Ben would always worry about his eldest son. If Adam had felt the kind of fear that translated to violence before, he could feel it again. It was a worry that over time Ben found himself dismissing and burying deep, because as Adam grew, he became a thoughtful young man, purposeful and reasonable, quite apt at controlling his emotions.

Still, the smallest hints of the familiar anger would pop up from time to time; dangerous and volatile, it would rear its ugly head in moments when Adam became particularly outraged or frustrated—when some threat or injustice seemed more than he could navigate or bear. Even though Adam never acted physically on such feelings, each time they were displayed Ben would be reacquainted with shame and guilt; he would be reminded of not what was, but what could have been had Adam not learned composure.

Ben had seen a hint of this anger the day he and Adam had spoken about windmills; overly frustrated over not obtaining his father's consent, Adam had heeded his father's long since given advice about walking away but not before throwing his hat on the floor. Ben had become overcome by guilt in that moment too, which was why he allowed his son to go.

The Peter Kane of Ben's dreams had said Adam was manipulative for acting in such ways. Ben didn't agree. In his eyes, Adam was only displaying what he had been taught by his father when they were both too young to know how such things would complicate the future.

He didn't know as a young man what he knew now. He didn't know how susceptible children were, how they watched, retained, and eventually modeled every action and every habit, good and bad, absorbing words, and details like a sponge. He didn't know how anger could shape a child. How they could become angry themselves. He didn't know how Adam's fear as a toddler would linger too. How, even in his thirties, he would sometimes still struggle when he found himself the focus of his father's disapproval.

Most of the time, Adam could remain unaffected by Ben harsher tones, and he would bellow right back, others he would flinch or cringe, his face set with uncontrolled nervousness. You're shouting, he would say, a quiet reminder—and plea—for Ben to stop. And Ben would stop, then he would take his own advice.

It was the knowledge of how the past had shaped the present coupled with all the unknowns that worried Ben now. It was the occasional harshness he saw in Adam's eyes since finding him wandering the desert that reminded him the Cartwright fury lived on. Infamous and hereditary, it was in Adam, and it was in Joe though there were distinct differences between the two. Adam's anger was a different kind of volatility than Joe displayed. It was a grown man's anger, fury that could only be cultivated in response to the most terrible of things. It was serious, threatening, and dark. It promised pain—both for whoever was on the receiving end of it and Adam once he calmed down enough to realize his mistakes.

Was that what Adam was doing now? Realizing his mistakes? Was that the reason for the silence, sleepless nights, and drastic changes in behavior? Was Adam holding himself responsible for his actions because he knew no one else would?

What had happened in the desert? Had Adam tried to use his words with Kane and when that hadn't worked had he tried to walk away? If so, then why had such a thing not been allowed? And if walking away hadn't been allowed, had Kane taunted, abused, and pushed Adam into making a mistake?

Adam was a moral man, and, judging by the knowledge of others, Peter Kane wasn't. Kane was a devil of a man—or so Ben had heard. If Adam had acted out of anger in order to protect himself, then did that not make the action defensible? He had done what he needed to survive an assumed monster. How could any of it be perceived as wrong?

The Eastgate Sheriff hadn't deemed Kane's death wrong. It was the educated opinion of law—something which Adam had always held in such high regard—that Adam was innocent of any crime. Who was Ben or Adam or anyone else to disagree with what the lawman had decreed?

All Ben had was questions, haunting memories, and bad dreams. He felt culpable for the intense anger he had seen Adam display only once as a child. He felt guilty over recalling the memory now, using it to question and theorize about his son's actions in the desert. How could he dare think of such a thing?

Adam was alive and Peter Kane wasn't. Ben didn't want to believe his son killed the man, but there had been strangulation marks on Kane's neck. He didn't want to believe Adam capable of taking a life in such a way, but he knew there was a fury that lived deep inside of his son that could be unearthed if he became fearful enough. If Kane had done something, if he and Adam had come across each other in the desert and Kane had been truly horrible or he hadn't allowed Adam to escape him, then there was no telling what could have happened between the two.

The one person who could explain what happened wasn't talking. Adam had taken to acting strangely instead. If only they could have a conversation. If only Adam would talk to him, use his words, and allow him to know what had happened in order to understand why it was affecting him so much. Ben only wanted to understand, then maybe he would know what to do; he would finally be able to give Adam what he needed to overcome what he had endured. He could help shoulder some of the blame for whatever Adam had done that was so wrong. Wasn't it the responsibility of fathers to carry some blame and responsibility for the mistakes of their sons?

Entering Virginia City, Ben made quick work of his errands, then he stopped by the saloon for a drink to calm his nerves. He tried hard to ignore the curious stares and officious—downright rude—questions about Adam from the people surrounding him. He reminded himself curiosity was one thing he could understand. Adam hadn't been to town in months, people were bound to be interested as to why, and judging by how he was received, it was a trip that Ben would not allow his son to make anytime soon. He is grateful for Hoss and the decision Adam had made to accompany his brother. There were just some occasions when curiosity did more harm than good. There were a whole heap of things Ben couldn't protect his son from now, but he could shelter him from this.

He finished his drink and left the saloon, intent on returning home to wait for his sons. Walking down the thoroughfare, his feet didn't lead him to his horse; it wasn't long until he found himself entering Doc Martin's office instead.

Lingering just inside the doorway, he didn't know why he had come or what it was he wanted to say. Nothing, he supposed, because there was no reason for him to seek out the doctor, nothing he wanted to ask or share or any information to be gleaned from a conversation with yet another curious party. He had decided upon shielding Adam from the curiosity of others, so what was he doing here? He should turn around, exit the building, return home, and wait as he had intended. He shouldn't have been there at all.

"Ben?"

Doc Martin's voice broke through his thoughts and Ben found the man accessing him from the doorway to the back room.

Martin nodded in greeting. "Something I can help you with today?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Martin appeared skeptical. "Everything alright with Adam?" he asked.

For a few terrible seconds, Ben wasn't certain how to respond. He shouldn't be here; he shouldn't have come. He should turn around, return home, and wait for his sons.

"I suppose," he said eventually, the low response escaping him despite his determination otherwise. "Hoss took him to the timber camp today. It's the first time he's been away from the house since we brought him home."

Martin's face softened with a smile. "Well, that is a pleasant development."

Nodding, Ben didn't trust himself to reply. He shouldn't have stopped at the saloon; he only partook in one drink, not nearly enough to leave him inebriated or soothe his unease, but it had led him here and he feared it would loosen his tongue. He didn't want to talk about Adam with the doctor; he didn't want to betray his son's privacy that way. Whatever was going on with his son was a family matter; it demanded caution and discretion.

"It is normal for you to fret over such a thing," Martin said as though privy to Ben's thoughts. "With your ferocity over those boys, I would be concerned about your current state of health if you did not feel, at the very least, a little alarmed over Adam's first trip since he was found."

"Hoss is with him," Ben said. He didn't know if the statement was meant to appease Martin or himself. "And Joe too, once they arrive. They won't be staying all day, just a couple of hours or so."

"Then I am certain the excursion will be a successful one."

Feigning assurance, Ben nodded once more. He had a horrific feeling about this day and the trip. A nagging concern that refused to calm. The last time he had allowed his son to leave hadn't ended well and Adam had been acting normally then. Now he was so changed, so impacted. What made Ben believe this trip could be any different than the last? How could he know anything when everything he did not was so glaring?

"We found Adam with a dead man," Ben said, the soft admission escaping him before he could silence it. Once the statement came, it was impossible to cease talking, or calm his stifling concern for his son. "He was dragging the body around, laughing and mumbling about gold and games. And when I came upon him, when I first grasped his shoulders and struggled to look him in the eye, he didn't even know I was there."

Martin was visibly perplexed. "But he did recognize you eventually?"

"He did and then he didn't and then he did again. He was... agitated...angry... confused." Ben shook his head mournfully. "Afraid."

"Of you?"

"Of everything… He was out in the desert when we found him; he was in the middle of nowhere, wandering as he pulled that man's body around. He was beaten, exhausted, dehydrated, and starved. The ride to Eastgate was challenging, and when we arrived, the challenges only seemed to become worse. Adam didn't want the doctor to examine him. He—I— had to coax him into drinking powder to make him sleep before such a thing was possible. He was..." Ben paused, exhaling heartily, and feeling impossibly old. "He was in such a state, Paul. I've never seen him act like that before. He screamed and cried and when he did it was like he was never going to stop."

"I see."

Do you? Ben wanted to ask. Was there something to see? Some telling hint that made everything make more sense than it did. Had a detail gone ignored at the time and was now forgotten? Dismissed by the horrible reality of their everyday life.

"I take it Adam calmed eventually," Martin said.

"He did."

Even then, Adam wasn't the same as before. Looking back now, Ben could understand that something inside of Adam was already starting to shift. Something had changed.

"He wasn't the same," Ben said. "He was... different. He's been different since."

"And the nature of his injuries when you found him were what exactly?"

Startled by the question, it took a moment for Ben to remember that the state of Adam's body upon being found had never been shared with the Virginia City doctor. Doc Martin had come to the Ponderosa weeks after, looking in upon Adam by his own volition, any physical proof of Adam's difficulty—save for the weight he had lost and his visual tiredness—had since healed.

Bruises, scratches, split lip, and black eye had all healed; his body had harbored no explicit evidence of what he had endured. And exactly what Adam had endured was still a mystery. One which weighed on all of them, a situation that showed no indications of ever changing.

"Ben?" Martin prompted.

"He was exhausted, beaten, dehydrated and starved," Ben said, unknowingly repeating his words from only moments ago.

"So, you just said, but I'm talking about what the Eastgate doctor said. What he found when examining your son."

Ben hesitated. What had the Eastgate doctor found? It was such an obvious question to ask. One which, he suddenly realized, he couldn't provide an answer to.

Though he had been there when the doctor returned to examine Adam, neither Ben nor Adam had been awake. Adam had been rendered unconscious by medication and Ben had finally given into his own exhaustion. Both had slept through the doctor's subsequent visit and departure. It was Hoss who had assisted the man. Hoss who saw the state of his brother in appalling detail, helping the doctor clean and treat his brother's wounds. It was Hoss who had sat vigil at Adam's bedside, protecting him until Ben finally awoke. And it was Hoss who, when asked by Ben if there was anything he should know about, hadn't immediately answered, or looked at his father when he replied. In fact, his gaze had been locked on the floor when he finally passed on the Eastgate Doctor's advice.

We need to keep quiet about how we found him, what he said or did, Hoss had said. He said certain experiences, certain injuries, have a way of eating away at a man if too many people are privy to them, especially his pride.

"Who was the dead man you found him with?" Martin asked, seemingly deciding his previous question was destined to remain unanswered.

"Peter Kane," Ben said. His shame was renewed as he was unable to stop himself from disclosing the man's name. He had been so good at following the Eastgate doctor's until today. There was something about today, about the worry, nagging and bothersome, that refused to be calmed. "He was an evil man by the local's account. Though they didn't go into specifics with me, both the doctor and the sheriff made certain I knew he was a troublesome man. The sheriff said Kane was a devil, that he had a way of influencing people, winding them up to hurt each other or themselves. The sheriff couldn't hold him accountable for anything he had done in the town, so he exiled him from it instead."

"A man named Kane exiled to the desert," Martin said thoughtfully. "That sounds awfully familiar, doesn't it?"

Ben didn't need to be reminded of what the Peter Kane of his dreams had been certain he knew. It did sound like an excerpt from the Bible, something that with the details of Adam's own disobedience when choosing to venture into the desert alone, he was not eager to dwell on. Kane had likened Adam's disobedience to sin; he had implied that, because Adam had disregarded his father's instruction, he deserved what he had found.

"I take it Adam came across this Kane after he was robbed," Martin said.

Ben was acutely aware that this was a presumed fact he had no verification of. "I assume," he said.

"And you have no idea as to what took place out there between the two?"

"No. Adam was not much for talking after he was found, and now... well, you know he's given up talk completely."

Nodding, Martin crossed his arms, seemingly waiting for Ben to continue.

Finally managing to silence his treacherous words, Ben didn't continue. He hadn't come to town to talk to the doctor. He hadn't intended on sharing what he had. "Well," he said, expectantly dreading Martin's eventual assessment of what he'd been told. It was foolhardy not to expect him to voice his clinical opinion on the events Adam had endured. Ben had told himself that he wasn't seeking such a thing from the doctor, but only now did he realize that maybe—subconsciously—he was.

"Well, what?" Martin asked.

"What do you think?"

"I think it sounds like Adam was failed by the very law he holds in such high esteem. That sheriff ought to be ashamed of himself for sending a dangerous man into the wilderness so that he could be stumbled upon by someone who was unaware of his capabilities."

"And?"

"And what?" Martin asked evenly. "Ben, what exactly is it that you expect me to say?"

"I expect you to express your educated opinion on the matter," Ben said tersely. "I expect you to tell me what to do."

"Oh, Ben," Martin groaned, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. "It isn't for me to tell you what to do—not that I would entertain doing so under normal circumstances. God help the man who thinks he can tell Ben Cartwright what to do with one of his sons. Adam isn't terminal; he isn't suffering from something I can ease or cure. It isn't his body that's sick; it's his mind. I know a great deal about healing bodies and not nearly enough about healing minds."

"Then what good are you?" Ben asked.

Shaking his head, Martin's smile disappeared as he cast Ben a serious look. "As a doctor, I am plenty good, and for the record, as a father, so are you. You're doing well, my friend. Is that what you need to hear? You have weathered every storm that boy has thrown at you, and you will continue to do so, because that is what you always do. Adam is fortunate to have you as a father; there are a great many men who wouldn't be willing to give their sons what you offer so freely to yours."

"Which is what?"

"Your support, acceptance, and absolute love. You may never know what happened to Adam in the desert, Ben. He may never decide to talk again. Like I've told you before, what he experienced may have left him permanently changed, and if he is then I have ample faith in you, as a man and a father, to successfully guide him through life. Don't make the mistake of comparing the Adam of the present or future to who he was in the past. Love him, support him, and learn to accept what you can't change."

Ben thought the advice a little too simplistic. Easily given by an outsider but much more difficult to enact and implement by members of his family.

"I have faith this afternoon will be a pleasant one for your sons," Martin said. "I hope Adam's excursion will be successful and that it will become the first of many."

Nodding, Ben hoped the doctor was right about the afternoon, Adam, and himself.