NOW:
Adam stalked the yard of the dilapidated Running D ranch, absentmindedly appraising it with an unobserving stare. He didn't know why he had returned to this place. He hadn't meant to come back here. Leaving Noah in Lil's care, he mounted Sport and left Virginia City with the intention of going to the Ponderosa to speak with his father about his proposal. But something had taken hold of him with an almost magnetic force, commanding him to direct Sport toward the abandoned homestead. He didn't know what had compelled him to do such a thing. He had no desire to check up on the outbuildings or pace the land. He didn't want to dwell on the past—torturing himself with recollections of his recent conversation with Peggy or ones he had shared with Will. He didn't want to preoccupy himself with memories of all the vicious things that had once taken place here—Will's sins or his own. It was an impossible thing to avoid as he looked upon the desolate remains of Peggy's childhood home.
"Why would you come back here?" Will had once asked him. Sitting on the floor, his back rested against the dingy, peeling wallpaper clinging to the wall. The chains that bound his feet ground against the floor as he shifted his legs. His knuckles were scratched, his eye socket blackened, swollen, and bruised. "What on earth do you hope to accomplish or find?"
"Shut up," Adam had said. "I don't want to hear another word out of you."
God, he had been so callous. Discombobulated. Angry. Afraid. He had been afraid of answering the question. What if he didn't like the answer? Or worse, what if the answer was something the past had rendered unattainable? Something he couldn't have again.
"Why did you come back here?" Adam had asked Peggy a few hours after the stagecoach had delivered the girl and Noah to town. If Adam had thought his own spontaneous arrival had sent shockwaves through Virginia City, it was nothing in comparison to what followed in the wake of his son and surrogate daughter's arrival. "What on earth do you hope to accomplish or find?"
Adam looked at the surrounding landscape, his eyebrows knitting. Had he asked Peggy those questions before Will had asked them of him? Or had his replicate inquiry come after Will's failed one? He couldn't recall. But Peggy's answer, firm and forward, sprung readily to mind.
"This is where I belong," she had stubbornly said. "I'm here to reclaim what's mine."
"And what is that?" Adam had pressed. The question seemed so stupid in hindsight. If only he had taken the time to think about what she had already said. If only he had taken the time to see what was right in front of him. Then maybe he could have changed what had come to be.
She didn't answer the question; even so, the answer should have been clear. Peggy had wanted to take hold of her own birthright, the property her mother and Will had failed so totally to properly care for after Frank's death. She had returned to lay claim on the Running D. Unlike him, she knew what she wanted to accomplish; she wasn't walking aimlessly through life, allowing the events of each day to dictate her actions. Not back then, at least. It wasn't like that anymore.
Despite her once vehement declaration of ownership of the land, Peggy's interest had fizzled, abruptly waning the day she discovered Will hidden inside the house. So many things had changed that day. So many things had been lost. The manner in which Peggy regarded the property. The manner in which she regarded Adam himself. It was his actions that sullied the house and the land. He had taken something that was dear to Peggy, and he had stolen it. He had taken the boogieman of her youth and trapped him in the place she held most dear. He had violated her trust, and he had hurt her. If that itself was not enough to strain their relationship, then putting her in a position where she had to disclose her childhood diary to the town certainly did. No, it didn't strain it, Adam thought. It broke it.
I hate you. Peggy's forlorn admission rung in his ears. For everything you weren't and all that you can't be now.
Though he had once considered himself Peggy's protector, Adam knew he was the furthest thing from that now. He came upon Peggy's old swing, hanging feeble and forgotten from the hearty, weatherbeaten tree branch. A cold breeze whistled around him, nudging the wooden plank to sway back and forth. Taking hold of the ropes suspending it, he hastened its movement, his gaze drifting back to the farmhouse.
There had once been a time when the house stood pristine and whole, a charming and alluring backdrop for the little girl who used to run circles around the yard and spend countless hours on the rope swing. He would never forget the manner in which Peggy had regarded him that first day, when he approached the house in Laura's company. The little girl's expression had been innocent, so bright, full of exhilaration and love when she had thought—tried so hard to believe—he had been her father. Her warm demeanor had not lasted when she realized that he was not Frank. Lord, she had been so angry. Disappointed. Hurt. The way she had looked at him then was not all different from how she regarded him now. Still, the look was easier to endure back then. She had been easier to win over, too. All it had taken back then was a pony and ride. Well, both those things and the disclosure of the truth. But back then, the truth wasn't his secret to keep or share. It was Laura Dayton who was ultimately responsible for telling Peggy her father was dead.
You're not my father. Peggy's voice seemed to echo around him.
And maybe he wasn't, but that didn't mean he hadn't wanted to be. He looked at the porch pillars; the pristine white paint that once covered them had eroded, cracking and peeling to allow the rotted wood to peek through. How many times had he come upon Peggy playing on those pillars? How many times had he whisked her into his arms, propped her on his hip, and asked, "How's my girl?" His girl. Not Frank or Laura Dayton's, Ward Banister's, or Will's. She was his. Somehow, she had always been destined to be his.
Avoiding the truth doesn't protect you from it. Peggy's declaration whispered, embedding itself in the surrounding breeze. The longer you allow yourself to believe things that are untrue, the more difficult it becomes to accept that they aren't.
"I know," Adam whispered, fruitlessly responding to the claim. He understood why the girl felt as she did. He didn't want to, but he did. Maybe that's why he had come to the Running D to seethe and dwell. To think of things better left forgotten in an effort to make himself feel better—or worse. Peggy had once wanted this property so badly, and now she wouldn't set foot on it. With all the things he claimed to not understand, he would never be able to feign ignorance regarding this one. He shouldn't have come back here. To this property, Virginia City, or the territory. When Roy Coffee came calling on him in San Francisco, he should have ignored every fallacious word the man said. But he had wanted to believe him. A part of him wanted the things Coffee had claimed to be true. But they hadn't been. They never could be.
You've ruined everything. Peggy's voice accused. You pinned a badge on yourself and spent the next six years chasing Will and running away from the truth.
The truth. Adam shook his head bitterly. Which one are you after, Peg? Would knowing it make you feel better or worse?
Relinquishing his grip on the swing, he resumed pacing, his feet taking him away from the tree and toward the farmhouse. He surveyed his surroundings vacuously, his nomadic gaze looking at everything without really seeing anything at all. What was he doing? Dwelling on a conversation that had already taken place to distract himself from another he was not eager to have? Peggy had her grievances, where both he and Eddie were concerned, that much was true, but he wouldn't abide pondering the veiled accusations of a disgruntled teenager.
The truth.
The truth wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. It wouldn't make things easier or solve anything. It would just create a whole new crop of issues—things he wasn't willing to acknowledge or endure. Peggy wanted the truth. About what? About whom? Her poor, deceased mother? Eddie? Adam? Will?
The truth.
If the girl wanted to make peace with the past, then she had chosen the wrong question to ask. If she wanted to forge an honest life, she was planting her roots in the wrong place. Because the truth was that every adult who surrounded her had lied about something. Roy Coffee had lied to Adam to convince him to return. Ben Cartwright had forged an entire legacy hiding his difficult past. Eddie had lied about what had facilitated her arrival in Virginia City. Adam had lied about damn near everything he could think of. And Will had lied about…nothing. Despite his wrongdoing, Will had been surprisingly honest and upfront in comparison to the rest of them.
Adam stopped walking, stunned by the revelation. No, that couldn't be right. He had to be misremembering, his aggravation leaving his memories of his cousin colored by a slight rose hue. But Will had never claimed to be something he wasn't. He hadn't been interested in keeping the Cartwright family past a secret. If anything, he had wanted the truth to be told.
"You can ask me anything," Will had once declared. "About the present or the past, your father or mine. If I know the answer, I'll tell you."
"I don't want to know anything," Adam had said, knowing that the statement was a lie. He wanted to know all manner of things about his father, uncle, and grandfather, but Will wasn't the person from whom he wanted to glean the information from.
"Oh, come on. You have to be curious."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You are."
But he had been, because there were just some things he couldn't figure out—no matter how much he thought about them. How could two sons born to the same father and reared with brutal violence grow into such different men? How could their sons, for that matter? Maybe they weren't all different from each other. Maybe, in some ways, they were the same. And maybe that was the truth Adam was afraid of acknowledging and disclosing. The thing he was terrified Peggy already understood.
Will was never the wolf.
And he hadn't been. Not really. Not in the end.
Adam stared at the farmhouse absently, taken by a memory he could neither silence nor ignore.
"Where are we?" Will had asked. Standing on swaying legs, his confusion was palpable as he looked between the limp rope swing and the rotting boards covering the farmhouse's front door.
Taking a hold of his cousin's arm, Adam ignored the question as he ushered Will forward. If he did not immediately recognize their surroundings, given time, he would. It was too memorable of a place to forget.
"Wait." Bleary eyes widening, Will hesitated, horrified.
"Come on," Adam prompted.
"No." Will shook his head in an overwhelmed manner as he seemed to momentarily conquer his extended disorientation. "Why are we here? Oh, Christ. Why would you bring me here?"
"Because."
"Because why?"
Adam was taken aback by Will's fear, so pure and unfiltered, almost childlike when paired with his docile voice and the current fragile state of his body. He could not help the wave of shame and guilt that overcame him anymore than he could prevent his reply. "Because there isn't another alternative," he said. "I can't turn you in, and I can't let you go. I may know the extent of your proclivities, but I can't prove anything you've done. Even so, I can't allow you to do it again. You're dangerous, Will."
"I'm dangerous."
"Yes."
"You're the one who's going to hide me here. What does that make you?"
Adam did not reply.
"Please don't do this," Will pleaded. "You don't have to do this."
"What do you know about what I do and don't have to do?"
"The years may have changed you, but you don't have to allow them to change you this much."
"Don't talk like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you know me. You don't. You never really did."
"I always knew you. You were the one who never knew me."
"That's not completely true."
"But it is."
"No, it's not," Adam said tersely. "You can't say you know me if you can't deduce why we're standing on this property in front of this house. You know, Will, the townsfolk say this place is haunted. They say that Laura's ghost still lingers here. Maybe that's the reason I brought you back, so she can haunt and hurt you like you hurt her."
Will was unconvinced. "That's not it."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're not like that."
"Maybe I am."
"You're not."
"I could be."
"Yeah, but you're not. You're not a villain, Adam; you're the enduring good guy. You don't hurt people; you help them. Besides, even if you did bring me to this house to hurt me, that still doesn't explain the other thing."
"What other thing?"
"The real reason you came back. Man, why are you here? You can't have what you had before. You know that. Time has moved on without you."
"I don't intend to have what I had before."
"There is no place for someone like you in town like this. Not anymore. It's only a matter of time before the people around you see that. Why are you determined not to see it yourself? You weren't meant for a life here, brother. Don't you dare go running back to hide in your father's shadow just because you're scared of the path before you. It's not too late to turn around and choose something different. You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do."
"You can just let me go, and then the two of us will pretend this never happened. We can go on living our lives as though the last six years never happened."
"I can't do that."
But maybe he could have. Perhaps he had been foolish. Maybe Will had been right.
A gust of wind erupted around him. Its stark and startling coldness was strange and startling, decidedly out of place for the season. Feeling the beginnings of a chill creep up his spine, Adam shifted his weight and surveyed his surroundings. His eyes narrowed as his skin began to tingle, preliminary gooseflesh forming on his arms. He felt oddly keyed up, nervous, and on display. It was as though his body was aware of something his mind hadn't yet identified. He was certain he was being watched, but a quick assessment of the empty landscape confirmed that he was alone. Still, the feeling lingered, unwilling to relinquish him.
Maybe his thoughts and the unsavory memories they awoke had unsettled him. Maybe he was more troubled by Peggy's accusations than he wanted to admit. He looked at the farmhouse and frowned. Or maybe lingering disgust and annoyance were responsible for his paranoia. The boards covering a second-story bedroom window had been removed. It was the first thing he noticed when he first came upon the property. Someone had somehow pried the boards off without disturbing those covering the other windows or the front door. How they had achieved such a feat, he wasn't sure. But he was certain he knew exactly what they were doing when they did it. That particular bedroom was different from the others; it had a dark history and secrets it could never divulge. It was the place where Laura had died. Where Adam had kept Will captive until Peggy stumbled upon him.
Attention fixed on the uncovered window, he took a single step forward, stopped, and appraised his surroundings again, certain now that he was being watched. The wind rushed around him, violent and whistling and carrying the hum of a familiar whisper.
It's not too late.
Then Adam finally saw it—the hint of a figure lurking in the darkness behind the cloudy windowpane. Though it was too far away to identify or distinguish its features, he could feel it looking down at him, taking note of his every move. Blinking, he shook his head, silently disputing the verity of the feeling and sight. Surely the intensity of his temperamental state of mind had allowed his imagination to run amok, giving birth to such a delusion. But the figure remained stubborn and indecipherable as the wind surged.
It's not too late.
Howling now, the wind pulled at his clothes and threatened to disrupt his hat. Placing a protective hand over his brim, he took an instinctive step backward. The figure mirrored his movement, gliding backward into the shadows. The breeze died, leaving an eerie silence and vexatious stillness in its wake. It was then that Adam heard it—the faintest sound of footfalls approaching him from behind. Thoroughly unnerved, he reached for his sidearm, pulled it from his holster, and turned rapidly around.
"Don't shoot," Ben said, holding his hands up in surrender as he eyed the barrel of his son's gun. "Not unless you want to explain to your brothers how you made them orphans."
Adam expelled a taxed breath, lowered his gun, and shoved it back into his holster. "Adults can't be orphans," he said, forcing an even tone.
Ben frowned, his narrowed eyes sparkling with concern as he carefully looked his oldest son up and down. "Rough morning?" he asked, seeming to glean some unknown revelation from the lingering rigidity of Adam's shoulders.
"Not exactly."
"That doesn't mean it wasn't."
"Doesn't mean that it was either."
"What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same question."
"I was looking for you."
"Well, you found me," Adam said. "What shall we do now?"
Ben was slow to respond. "Tell me something, Adam."
"What?"
"Have you given it any thought?"
"What?" Adam repeated.
"What you intend to do."
"About?"
"The future. My offer to come back home and work alongside your brothers and me."
"Oh," Adam said. "Well, I…" He hesitated, the correct response lingering just beyond his grasp as his eyes were drawn back to the second-story window. The figure had returned, stepping forth from the shadows to lurk and leer once more.
Following his son's gaze, Ben eyed the window and frowned. "I suppose Little Joe didn't tell you."
Looking between the window and Ben, Adam waited for his father to acknowledge the figure. To be taken aback by its strange presence, unsettled by its unnerving, incessant stare. "Do you see it?" he asked when Ben made no mention of the presence.
"Of course I see it. The window was messed with."
"That's it?"
"That's hardly it."
"What then?"
"Teenage boys up to no good," Ben mused disapprovingly. "I thought Joe had already told you. He chased a pack of wayward boys off the property the other day. The foolhardy nature of youths never ceases to astound me, nor does their staggering ability to pick the most difficult manner in which to reach their goals. They didn't remove the boards lining any of the first-floor windows or those securing the doors in order to enter that bedroom. No, they crafted a ladder to reach the window, and that's how they intended to get in."
"Maybe they didn't intend to get into the house at all. Maybe they just wanted to look inside."
"Why?"
"Oh, come on, Pa. Don't tell me you've remained impervious to that particular rumor. Given everything that happened here, in that room especially, some folks have taken to believing that it's—"
"Haunted!" Ben grunted.
Staring at the figure in the window, Adam was hard-pressed to dispute the claim. His father couldn't see it, but he knew someone else had. Will had seen something. He had declared the house haunted; he believed there was something wrong with it.
"That's not all of it," Ben said. "Those boys who tore the boards off that window—Jamie was among them."
Adam blinked dumbly, struggling to comprehend his father's statement. He didn't know what to think about his youngest brother's foolish behavior. His father's opinion, however, was made clear by the disappointment in his eyes. Being a Ponderosa Cartwright meant defending family property against vandals, not joining them.
"Sometimes," Ben said wearily, "I don't know what to think about that boy. His foolishness is often abounding, and he doesn't seem to understand how his actions can affect others."
"He's just of that age, Pa," Adam said, rising to his brother's defense and trying to assuage his father's disapproval almost automatically. "He's hot-headed, full of piss and vinegar, and a little too much youth. He just got caught up in the moment. The house is abandoned after all. Given everything that happened here, you can't blame a group of boys for having grandiose notions about what could still be inside of it."
"I don't blame a group of boys for having grandiose notions or allowing themselves to be guided by them."
"But you blame Jamie for following along."
"No. I don't blame him."
"You're disappointed, then."
"Aren't you?"
"Well, it's not like there was any real harm done. So, they pried some boards off a window; Peggy won't care about that."
"Do you?"
Adam stared at the figure. If it weren't for Jamie and the teen's wayward friends, would he have ever seen it? Or would he have only heard whispers in the wind? Which option was better? What was worse? "I don't know," he whispered.
"I'm worried about that boy, Adam. I'm worried about you, too."
"He'll figure things out."
"Will you?"
Adam forced a small smile. "Of course."
"Forgive me for not being reassured by that. Boy, I swear, you may be closer than you once were, but some days it feels as though you are still so far away." Planting his hands on his hips, Ben shook his head in a futile manner, his eyes focusing on the road in the distance. "You never answered my question."
"What question?"
"What do you intend to do now that you aren't a lawman anymore?"
Crossing his arms, Adam held them tightly to his chest as he failed to provide a response.
"Have you given any thought to my proposition of returning home?" Ben probed.
"No, I've been too busy looking into setting up a hardware store."
Ben frowned, Adam's airy quip missing its mark. "If you want me to leave the topic alone, you can say so. There's no need to be sarcastic."
"Maybe I wasn't being sarcastic."
"You certainly weren't being serious."
"Well, maybe you're being serious enough for the both of us."
"Adam, will you please just do us both a favor and answer the question?"
"I thought about it," Adam conceded.
"And?"
"I can't do it."
Disappointment carving deep lines into his face, Ben expelled a hearty breath. "Can't or won't?"
"What difference does that make?"
"All the difference in the world," Ben said as he watched his son walk away.
Coming upon the swing, Adam took hold of the frayed ropes suspending the weathered board in the air, his eyes drifting to the road lingering just beyond where he stood. This part of the pathway had been concocted years ago to connect the Running D and the Ponderosa, allowing the workers of both ranches to access the fences separating their property lines. Years ago, he and Hoss had passed by this way via buckboard, stopping briefly to converse with Peggy as she enthusiastically awaited Frank's return. All of them had been blissfully unaware of the pain and challenges the future would bring. Lord, sometimes it felt as though the passing years had been nothing more than a bad dream. Other times he thought he'd like to open his eyes, wake up, and find things the way they once were. He and Hoss sitting next to each other in the seat of the buckboard, destined for another day spent fixing a fallen fence line. Little Peggy, her face beaming with innocence and optimism, pumping her legs forcefully through the air, propelling the swing higher and higher. He couldn't wake up because he wasn't asleep. He was more awake now than he had ever been.
"I'll have you know that you were not the only person I was thinking of when I asked you to come back to the Ponderosa," Ben said, now standing a few paces behind his son. "I'm sure I do not need to remind you that you have a wife and children to consider—"
"Don't do that."
"Don't what? Consider your family. Well, that's a difficult thing for me to avoid given current circumstances, and given current circumstances, I want you out of that town, Adam."
Adam was momentarily incredulous. Why should his father be easily granted the things he wanted when the rest of them were left wrestling with their own desires? "You want me out of town because you're afraid of Billy Buckley," he said matter-of-factly. "And the badge that Roy Coffee pinned to his chest."
"That's not exactly true."
"You're afraid of me, then. What I will and won't do when Buckley inevitably tries to squash me beneath his authoritarian thumb."
"I do believe you were the one who said there would be no kowtowing."
"And that frightens you."
"Maybe. Maybe not. Son, is it a crime for a foolish old man to simply want all of his sons together, working alongside each other to fulfill his dream?"
"A foolish old man can want that. You can't."
"And why can't I?"
"Because your fear won't let you."
The accusing statement hung between them, heavy in the air.
Ben's expression darkened with quick, fleeting frustration, then softened again. "Okay," he said carefully, his voice quiet and deep. "I supposed this as good a time as any for us to talk about fear. You're right; there is a part of me that worries about you remaining in Virginia City, especially now that Billy Buckley is the sheriff. The two of you never saw eye-to-eye, even before Ed Payson hit town. I worry that the authority of the badge he now wears is going to go to his head and that you won't be able to ignore his imperiousness. He is who he is, Adam, and you are who you are, even after all this time. And even after all this time, I still recall the day you called Buckley out in the street because you were so fed up with how he was needling Ed Payson."
"You're afraid history is going to repeat itself."
"I don't see how it can't. Maybe I'm being foolish for hoping you'll remove yourself from the situation entirely. For wanting to bring you home where you can be bolstered and protected in the company of your brothers and me."
"I don't think that's foolish," Adam said. The offer had been opportunistic and perhaps a little too optimistic—especially given more recent events, the wretched details of which Adam was certain his father remained unaware of. Not foolish. "But you had to have known when you made the offer that I was never going to accept it."
"I did." Ben paused, his expression becoming weighted with a mixture of sadness and disappointment. "Do you want to know how I knew?"
Adam shrugged. It made little difference to him. It wouldn't influence his answer or make this conversation any easier to navigate.
"Because I'm not the only one who's stifled by fear," Ben said. "Your fear won't allow you to do things, too, Adam. You never thought about returning to the Ponderosa because you're afraid that, despite all the things that have changed, there are still others that never will. You don't want to come back because you're afraid that returning to the life you had before you left is going to reignite the very feelings and frustrations that drove you away from the territory in the first place. That's why you didn't consider my offer."
"I thought about it."
"Not nearly long enough."
Turning, Adam cast Ben an indignant stare. Then, taking note of the manner in which his father was regarding him, he turned back around. He couldn't look at him. He couldn't bear to become privy to the understanding glint lurking in the familiar, dark depths. He didn't want to be understood. "I thought about it," he said firmly.
"Not long enough," Ben repeated.
Tilting his head, Adam was annoyed. "That is quite a bold statement, considering how little of my life and the circumstances governing my decisions you are actually aware of."
"I know you didn't think about it."
"How can you know that?"
"Because if you would have considered it, then you would have realized the offer is not contingent on you bringing your family to live beneath my roof. In fact, the offer is not contingent upon anything at all."
"That's what makes you so sure? Lack of contingencies."
"No. Options. If you had considered the offer, then you would have realized that right now you have a few. Adam, if you were to return to the Ponderosa, neither you nor your family would have to live beneath my roof. I won't pretend that, as a father and grandfather, I wouldn't be thrilled to have you all so close to me; it would be a gift to be able to watch your children grow up in the same house where I raised you and your brothers. However, as a man, I can understand why such a thing would be less than desirable to you."
"Not less than desirable. Downright intolerable. Can't you imagine it, Pa? You and I living beneath the roof, butting heads, fighting as passionately as we used to. The disagreements would be the same. You have your ways and vision, and I have mine, and sometimes those things just aren't compatible. They never were, and they never will be."
"Perhaps my imagination isn't as pessimistic or robust as yours. Or maybe it's more."
"Let me guess, this is the part of the conversation where you start talking about options."
"You have a few. If you came back to the Ponderosa, you and your family could live with your brothers and me. Or we could build you a house somewhere in the ranch yard, beyond the barn or behind the big house, maybe. Or you could build your own house. In fact, you could build your own even if you decided not to participate in family business ventures. After all, you have nearly six hundred miles of Ponderosa land that belongs solely to you, and you have Running D at your disposal to use as you wish."
Adam nearly groaned. "Oh, Peggy would love that," he said. "All the time I spent trying to keep the Running D out of her hands only to lay claim on it myself. Talk about hypocritical."
"Would it really be hypocritical if the only purpose of your claim was to attend to it until she was capable of looking after it herself?"
He didn't need to consider the question. "In Peggy's eyes, yes. Besides, you're talking ranching again, Pa. If I don't want to engage in the Ponderosa's business ventures, what makes you think I want to set up my own spread?"
"It's just an idea."
"It isn't a very good one."
"It's not necessarily all that bad either. It would get you and your family out of Virginia City, away from Billy Buckley."
"If I'm not going to kowtow to that boy, then I'm certainly not going to run away from him either."
"It wouldn't be running away. It would be deciding."
"To what?" Adam scoffed.
Ben shook his head, unwilling or unable to clarify. "I know coming back wouldn't be the easiest thing to do, but I don't believe it would be as difficult as you are anticipating."
"Impossible. Not difficult. Impossible."
"It's hardly impossible."
"But it is." His father and Roy Coffee had both made sure of that, each in their own way. Roy Coffee shouldn't have brought him back, not the way that he had. And his father never should have encouraged Peggy to remain in his care when they both knew she belonged in Adam's. Lord, there was bad blood to be had there, with both Roy Coffee and Pa, if Adam really sat down and thought about these things. If he really sat down and thought about anything of substance at all. "Look," he said, "seemingly blinded by enthusiasm surrounding both your proposition and your argument, my so-called options, you have managed to conveniently forget one very important thing."
"Which is?"
"I've already lived that life, Pa. I walked away from it for a reason."
"Things were different back then."
"They're not all that different now. Not the important things, at least. If I had wanted to stay under your roof, then I would have. If I wanted to build a house behind the barn or beyond the big house, then I would have convinced you to allow me to. And if I had wanted to keep the acreage you had given me, then I would have taken a hold of it back then. I would have come to you after things fell apart with Laura and asked to keep the land and make use of it. I could have had that life. I didn't want it."
"I don't believe you were necessarily fully aware of what you wanted during that time. I also don't think either one of us was in a good frame of mind to discuss your options. I wasn't ready to see your struggles for what they were, and you…You had decided to marry Laura and become Peggy's father, and then, when that didn't happen, you were left spinning your wheels, blindly reaching for anything you could grasp. Between your fall and back injury, Laura choosing to marry Will over you, and the abrupt change to your relationship with Peggy… It was a lot to deal with, son."
"I wasn't completely unaware," Adam admitted. "Maybe I didn't know exactly what I wanted, but I was pretty certain of the things I no longer did. You want to believe it was concern for Peggy that drove me away from your home. It wasn't."
"It was a big piece of it."
"No." Adam shook his head vehemently. "There was an even bigger one. I wasn't happy, Pa."
They looked at each other then, somber brown eyes locked on conflicted hazel, as the statement seemed to echo around them. This was the first time this particular truth had been admitted aloud. But Pa had to have known, Adam thought. Even if he had never spoken about it, his past actions had made such sentiments clear. There had come a point when he had grown discontent, weary of residing in his father's home. He had been frustrated, working to further a dream that had never truly been his own. Oh, in his much younger days, he had thought it was—at least for a time. But it hadn't been. If he were more like Hoss and a little less like Joe, then things might have been different. He might have been less angry. Less frustrated. Able to accept things as they were instead of what they could be. And if he were less like his father, he would have been a different kind of man entirely.
"Okay," Ben conceded, his lips curling into a small, sad smile. "You weren't happy back then; I'll admit to understanding that, so maybe now you can admit to understanding something, too."
"What's that?"
"The fact that you aren't happy now."
The assessment was a little too apt, startling, and stinging. Adam didn't want to believe he was that transparent. He didn't want to think his father could see or so easily understand all the things he would never dare speak of.
"Please, son," Ben continued, "just think about it. Take some time to consider all the things I've said and all you still refuse to, and then maybe you'll finally be able to do what you were incapable of doing years ago. You'll be able to decide upon a path that will make you happy. Take a few more days to think everything over. Then you can let me know what your final decision is."
Though he didn't reply, Adam silently stared at the dirt road beyond the rope swing long after his father left his side. When he finally turned around and looked back at the house, his eyes found the second-story window and noted that nothing had changed. Lurking in the shadows, the figure seemed to be watching him intently. As he stared at the ghost that was overlooked by his father, he could not silence the voice that resounded in his mind.
It's not too late.
TBC