BEFORE:
Charlie was gone. Eddie was gone. And in so many ways, so was he.
In Peggy's eyes, he swore he could sometimes see the sad, silent acknowledgement of his glaring inadequacies, inadequacies that, in very rare moments when he forced himself to look upon his actions honestly, he had no choice but to acknowledge too. It didn't happen often; honesty was rare these days—at least where his life was concerned. There were so many things he did not want to see, so many unpleasant truths he did not want to consider, and too much pain associated with everything to allow him to properly see or consider anything at all.
Miles outside of Virginia City, Adam had nearly beaten his cousin, Will, to death. Sitting on the porch stairs outside of Lillian Manfred's home in San Francisco, he administered a hefty pour of whiskey to his morning coffee and drank deeply. It took another cup of coffee and three more generous amounts of alcohol before he allowed himself to wonder if killing Will would have been such a bad thing. Brow furrowing, he frowned bitterly. No, he had not killed Will in Nevada. Letting his temper get the best of him, he attacked his cousin and beat him damn near to death. It wasn't a sudden surge of guilt or remorse that had ceased the savage force of his fists upon his cousin's face. No, that had been something else. Someone else.
Roy Coffee's inexplicable and invasive presence shocked Adam stunned him out of his vicious fury and rooted him in the heinous reality of the moment. Stumbling upon Adam and Will, the older man had unknowingly stifled Adam's hand and then forced it, imploring him toward a completely different outcome entirely. Adam was uncertain if Coffee's miraculous appearance had prevented him from killing his cousin, but he was sure that had the man not come upon them, then, captive to pure rage, he would not have moved his unconscious cousin after beating him. He would have left him in a bloodied heap on the ground and allowed fate to sort his destiny out.
Pulling the rim of his mug back from his lips, he scowled. Lord, he was a bitter drunk. An expensive one, too. At the rate he was going, the bottle of whiskey would be gone well before noon. He'd be in for another stern talking to from Lil if that were the case. Not that he cared much about that anyhow. The woman's words would be direct and firm, but her eyes would still glisten with a mixture of pain and appreciation, because even if he had spent another day sitting vigil on the front stoop, drinking and stewing, at least he was sticking things out. At least he was still here. Which was a lot more than either one of them could say about her daughter, should they ever decide to speak of her at all. With the way things had gone as of late, he didn't anticipate such an occasion would present itself anytime soon. Lil had her own reasons for not wanting to utter Eddie's name, and Adam, well, he might have still been deciding how he felt about what his wife had done and the things she had said prior to taking her leave.
This is all your fault. Eddie's tearful accusation still rang in his ears. If you had been half the man you pretend to be, none of this would have happened!
Shaking his head, he reached for the whiskey again and topped off his drink. If speaking of Eddie had become verboten, he wouldn't dare think of her either. No, sir. Not him. Not like this. Not right now. Not when this bit of morning contemplation had already been earmarked and set aside for someone else. Now, where was he with that again? Lord, his thoughts felt so damn fuzzy all of a sudden, volitant, and airy. Ah, yes, that was right. Nevada. Will.
Back in Nevada, he had nearly beat Will to death, and then instead of leaving him to die like the vile animal he was, he had thrown his battered cousin over the back of his horse and packed him back to California instead. That was not to say that the journey had been easy. It hadn't come without its own set of challenges, frustrations, and pains. Symptomatic of the beating he had endured, Will was in decidedly bad health. There were moments during their tumultuous journey when Adam wondered if Will would survive the trip. Now, weeks later, he silently cursed his cousin for daring to. Things would have been so much easier if Will had just died. No, not easier; he silently qualified. It would not have made his actions easier to justify or live with. It would not have rendered the result of their volatile interaction morally correct. It would have, however, made things a hell of a lot more convenient.
If Will were dead, Adam would have the luxury of leaving San Francisco to search for his wayward wife—or someone else entirely. He would have the freedom to return to marshaling, a notion that, considering how things had gone between him and his wayward wife, was becoming more alluring with each passing day. It simply wasn't an option. With Eddie gone, someone had to look after Peggy and Noah. Since Will had not died, Adam was forced to look after his cousin, too. The grim reality of both situations had quickly become shrouded in secrecy. They had both required their fair share of lies to maintain. None of the falsehoods he had told slipped easily from his mouth; none would hold forever, and each came with its own set of complications and consequences that would only become clear with time.
No one could know Eddie had left. He was determined that, at least for the time being, Lil would remain the only other person privy to the truth about his wife. He would have liked to have protected Lil from having to harbor the bitter knowledge too, but he hadn't been given the chance. Adam was the one who had awoken to find Eddie absent from his bed; it was Lil who had confirmed to him that her daughter had gone, and together they had decided to keep the truth from Peggy. There was no reason to worry the girl, lest Eddie come to her senses and return, and there certainly was no reason to go spreading the truth of the matter around town. The topic of wives running out on their children and husbands was not discussed in polite society. Folks neither took kindly to nor were tolerant of such things. While he and Eddie may have had their differences and difficulties, the last thing Adam wanted was people thinking his wife was a trollop, derelict, or deserter. He didn't want her absence to affect his children any more than it already had. If her unexpected and mysterious departure became public, it would harm Noah and Peggy. Folks would treat and view them differently; the scandal would follow them for the rest of their lives. Though he would never dare admit it aloud, Adam was secretly uncertain what would become of Noah and Peggy without Eddie's influence. Oh, Peggy would be fine—on the surface at least—as she had recently decided herself independent of Eddie's authority and command.
"She's not my mother," the girl had declared. "Eddie is my second cousin and only twelve years older than me. I see no logical reason why she should be allowed to tell me what to do." Adam was far more tolerant of the proclamation than Eddie and Lil had been. He couldn't help but understand the feelings such a notion had been birthed by or why it was important to speak aloud. Eddie had accused him of being too indulgent, of spoiling Peggy by respecting and adhering to her childish whims. Though he didn't reply, Adam had thought—had known—that his wife didn't understand Peggy's terse sentiment the way that he did. How could she? Eddie grew up beneath the watchful eyes of the mother and father she had been born to. She had been nearly seventeen when her father died, and Lil had never remarried; therefore, Eddie simply had no comprehension of the struggles and internal turmoil that came with being forced to accept that someone unwanted was assuming someone else's place.
She's not my mother.
When he was around Peggy's age, Adam had once made the same obstinate declaration to his father. Of course, that conversation had ended much differently than the one that had taken place between Adam and Peggy. His temper flaring, Ben Cartwright had not wasted much time before taking his oldest son by the arm, dragging him to the barn, and letting the worn leather of his belt finish out the conversation. Adam, conversely, liked to think he had handled his teenage charge with a little more grace and understanding than that.
Indulgent. Eddie's voice reminded him. You indulge her. According to her, there had been nothing graceful about him agreeing to respect Peggy's point of view. You spoil and oblige her whims too much. You think you're showing her kindness, but you're not. How is she ever going to function in the real world as a grown woman, a wife, or otherwise if you're so quick to adapt expectations to suit her moods?
Adam was tempted to open his mouth and remind Eddie's aged accusation that Peggy wasn't the only one who had benefited from his so-called indulgence. Yeah, he snorted into his mug. He indulged. He obliged. In fact, he had obliged and indulged his wife right out the damn front door. She was gone, and he was still here. Indulging. Obliging. Sitting on the stoop morning after morning, pacing the house night after night. Watching. Waiting. Praying that whatever failed logic Eddie had used to convince herself to walk out on her family would be enough to keep her away. Peggy was better off without her. He was better off without her. Noah…was not.
Noah.
Having grown up without his own mother, it was Noah Adam was most worried about. It was the difference between having a mother who died in comparison to one who chose to walk away that frightened him the most. What would Noah think when he grew to an age that would allow him to understand such a distinction? How was he to feel knowing that his mother had chosen to walk out on him? Or that his father had driven her to it?
"The boy will be just fine," Lil once reassured. "Well taken care of and profoundly loved. He has you for a father, doesn't he? That's reason enough to believe he will be all right."
Adam clung to his mother-in-law's certainty, her steadfast support, unwavering faith, and fondness. Of course, the woman had her own reasons for being relieved by her daughter's absence from the household—or she was damn good at pretending, and if her dispassion truly was a farce, he appreciated her acting ability. He appreciated her faith and certainty. Her steadfast maternal presence and dedication to protecting the secret they shared. There was so much solace to be found in the woman that Adam sometimes wished he could share the other secret he was keeping. Even though the words occasionally lingered a little too close to the tip of his tongue, he couldn't make himself say them. He couldn't burden her with that. He couldn't make anyone else responsible for something that should never have been allowed to happen.
Trading his now empty coffee cup for the bottle of whiskey, he drank deeply. It shouldn't have happened. It shouldn't behappening.
Goddamn it. Will.
The door of the house opened, and Peggy quietly strode past him. School books in hand, she hesitated a few steps down, turned, and cast Adam a perceptive gaze. "Careful with that," she quietly warned, nodding at the bottle in his hand. "Drinking isn't going to bring back what's been lost. Keep it up, and you're going to wake up one day to find yourself resembling him."
Adam's throat tightened, regret sitting heavily in the pit of his stomach. He didn't dare reply, too stunned and stung by the ease and directness with which the girl likened his recent fondness for drink to that of Will. He hated the comparison. He hated that he was capable of anything that would ever lead others to correlate his behavior to that of such a vile human being. He thought of himself as a better man than Will. Stronger. Wiser. More virtuous. But there was nothing strong or wise about drinking himself into oblivion before the day had a chance to truly begin. There was nothing virtuous about the secret he was harboring. So, what was the real difference between him and Will now? Now that they had both hidden things. Now that they had both done wrong. Though their respective sins were as different as they were alike, they were both unforgivable in their own ways.
Arriving in San Francisco with his cousin in tow, Adam was met with few options. He couldn't turn his cousin into the authorities because Will was not linked to or wanted for any known crimes. He couldn't accuse him of any wrongdoing because he had no solid proof. He couldn't let him go, for fear of what he might do. And so, in a seedy building located in a clandestine section of the city, Adam had rented a room where his cousin could be kept indefinitely, and this was when the first few lies about his cousin had been told.
When securing the room, he advised the proprietor that Will was mentally unsound. A danger to himself and others, Will was a man who needed to be kept under lock and key. Lord, it was amazing the things fear could drive a man to do. The things money could implore others to ignore. He had told the man looking after Will that any accusations his cousin could wield about his current predicament—Adam's actions or intentions for him—were nothing more than the paranoid ramblings of a lunatic. He had not suggested or encouraged this man to ply Will with opium to keep him quiet, dulling his loud, supposed manic ramblings to nothing more than scant, pallid, nonsensical murmurs. Adam hadn't wanted him to do it; he hadn't known it was going to happen until it had already begun. It was wrong, and it was shameful. It could not be allowed to continue forever. Nothing about the current state of affairs could continue for long. Eventually, the lies that had been told would weaken, the truth would come out, and then everything would change.
Peggy would discover the truth about Eddie if she was not aware of it already, and Adam could not hide his cousin forever. When enough time passed with no sign of Eddie, folks would begin to question where she was. The man looking after Will would begin to question things, too. Or maybe he would not. With as much money as Adam was paying him, it was not likely he would sabotage such a lucrative arrangement. Still, Adam would question everything. His faults. His sins. His intentions. His motives for keeping Will secret and not doing the right thing when he still had the opportunity to. But what exactly had been the right thing?
Telling Eddie the truth about the darkness lurking in the Cartwright family line? Sharing with her the truth about his father and his uncle, Will and himself, and Ohio before the information was shared with her by someone else?
Allowing Will to remain free? Free to kill another woman because there was no tangible evidence linking him to the vile crimes he had already committed. Free to track Eddie down to say and do all that Adam would not.
Would any of those options be better than the one he had chosen? Would any of those paths be easier to traverse than the one he was on?
I don't know.
Why didn't he know? For a man who had always been so certain of everything, this was a deeply unsettling fact.
He cast his gaze on the steep pathway that lined the front yard and gave way to the jagged stairs that led to the street. Peggy was gone. It was not long before the remainder of his whiskey was gone as well. He remained on the front steps, his eyes glassy and unfocused, staring absently at the road in the distance.
If Will was to be held responsible for his wrongdoing, he would be, too. If his time as marshal had taught him anything, it was that justice had a way of coming for everyone in the end. The funny thing about it was that it rarely appeared in the form a man was expecting it to, and the things it wrought were always much worse than anything one could possibly imagine. Even if he could hide Will forever, it wouldn't help the hurt that had already been done. It wouldn't stop the pain. There was just no preventing it. Not with Charlie buried in the ground. Not with Eddie gone. Not with the strength of the whiskey that surged through his veins, thinning his blood, clouding his thoughts, and making his heart vigorously ache.
What had happened to him? What kind of man had he allowed himself to become? What kind of man had he secretly been all along?
I should have believed her! Eddie's shrill voice echoed in his head. I should have read Laura's letters with more care and taken better note of the things she said about you!
Goddamn it, Will.
"Adam Cartwright!"
The declaration dissolved all anguished thoughts of Will and drew Adam's attention to the precipitous stairwell connecting the Manford house to the street. He was taken aback as he watched a familiar form slowly come into view. It was not until the man was standing in front of him that either of them spoke. It was not until he heard his familiar, lazy drawl that he realized this person was not a figment of his imagination.
"Adam Cartwright," Roy Coffee said easily. "Lord, boy, it is damn good to see you again."
Adam was dumbfounded. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I came to see you, of course."
"But…" Adam sputtered fruitlessly. "Why?" he finally managed. "How on earth did you find me?"
"A man of your specific profession ain't that difficult to track down. A man of my specific profession just has to know in what circles to ask." Coffee smiled, beaming with pride. "There ain't no sense in the two of us dancing around the topic, tryin' our best not to say what we both know. You're a lawman, Adam. A rather successful and esteemed one at that. I know your father won't exactly be proud or happy to see what you've become, but I sure am."
Adam's eyes focused on his empty mug and then wandered to the whiskey bottle. "You shouldn't be," he said. The statement was decisive yet slowly spoken. He took great care to ensure his words were not slurred. It was not a small feat considering the unambiguousness of the moment and the dilatory sluggishness the liquor had instilled within his body and mind. The whiskey had long caught up with him, leaving the world around him and the man in front of him seeming a little too surreal.
"Well, I am. It suits you."
"It doesn't." Setting the mug aside, Adam crossed his arms and pressed his palms against his ribcage, hoping that the pressure would be enough to steady his nerves. "So," he said, not feeling near as sure of himself as the deepness of his voice was making him sound. "What, um, specific concerns led a man of your profession to track down a man of mine?"
"I was worried."
"About your…town?"
"Not exactly."
"You in need of a marshal to track someone down?"
"Nope."
"You troubled by outlaws?"
"No. I reckon I'm more troubled by something else."
Coffee nodded at the space next to Adam on the step, making a silent request to be allowed to sit down. Adam shrugged indifferently, overlooking the empty whiskey bottle and coffee cup that currently resided in the space. Coffee picked up both; the cup he placed on the step below as he sat down and the empty bottle he kept, turning it between his calloused hands.
Adam wondered if the man would dare acknowledge the obvious. If this were six years ago, there would be no conversation. Coming upon him drunk in the early morning hours, Coffee would have taken away whatever bottle he was holding onto, ushered him to the sheriff's office to sleep the bender off, and then sent him packing back the Ponderosa once he was good and sober. Though he wouldn't tell Ben Cartwright what his oldest boy had been up to, he would threaten to. Occasions like that were terribly rare, but that didn't mean they had never happened. The morning after Marie was killed was the first. The morning following Laura and Will's wedding had been the last.
"Adam," Coffee said carefully. "Do you happen to remember how old you were when we first met?"
Adam couldn't place the specific memory of meeting the man next to him. "Nine?"
"Eight," Coffee corrected. "Lord, you were a quiet little thing. Everyone always gave Joe so much guff because that boy didn't grow for the longest time, but what most people don't know is that neither did you. When we met, you were eight and Hoss was three, and even at the time, there was nothing little about your little brother."
"Hoss was always big for his age. When he was a child, his largeness often skewed the basis for comparison, at least where Joe and I were concerned."
"That's probably true. Still, I do recall you being a mite small back then. You and Ross Marquette were the same age, and he had a good four inches on you."
"Ross was always tall."
"He was. You eventually caught up to him, though it took a handful of years. Yes, sir," Coffee drawled. "You were eight the day we met. I remember because, well, when I asked you, that's what you said. I recall thinking that you had to be pulling my leg; with as small as you were, there was no way you were that old. I remember looking at you and thinking' that, given the way your pa had brought you up, out on the trail, wild and such, you might have a difficult time adjusting to life in one place. I worried for you. You don't know that, but I did. I was fond of you, too. Almost immediately, I was drawn to you. I suppose I saw something in you then, when you were nothing but a quiet little kid, a hint of what my own son would have been like had he been given the chance to thrive outside of my Mary."
There was a grimness to Coffee's voice—a soft, knowing sadness that could not be ignored. Adam couldn't ignore it. He didn't want to. "I didn't know you had a son," he said.
"Not many folks do. Not anymore, at least. We lost that infant long before you, your father, and Hoss settled in Virginia City. Had he been allowed to grow up, well, then he would have been about your age now, living his own life the way that you are, raising his own family like you've been. Like I said, a man of my profession can always find a man of yours. Adam, I'm sorry, but when I was looking for you, I couldn't help talking to folks, and now that I've found you, I can't ignore the things that I heard. I know you're a family man. You kept Peggy and married Lillian Manfred's daughter. You have two sons. Well, one son now." Coffee's expression was laden with sympathetic sadness. "I'm sorry, Adam. I am. Losing a child isn't the kind of thing a man takes easily. A woman don't either. My Mary, she was never the same after we lost our boy, and, I guess, maybe your wife ain't the same either. I guess right now you're feeling like you've changed too. Maybe that's why you're sitting here now, losing yourself in a bottle before the day had a chance to begin."
"You heard all that, huh?" Rubbing his hand across his beard, Adam sighed tiredly. "That's funny," he said, his voice flat and humorless. "And here I was thinking that Lil and I were doing a banner job of hiding the fact that Eddie left town."
"I'm sorry, Adam. I am. Truly and deeply."
"I don't want your pity."
"Oh, son, it ain't pity."
"What is it, then?"
"Understanding."
"Is that why you came all the way here? Because for some reason or another, you thought I needed someone to understand me."
"No. I came because I was worried. You see, I watched you grow up, bore witness to you going through all sorts of things. I was there when you got into your first fistfight, when you took your first bullet, when you had your first real, big fallin' out with your pa, and when you and your family lost Marie. I watched you weather all sorts of bad times, challenges that would bring any grown man to his knees, and throughout it all, there was one thing I never saw you do."
"What's that?"
"Cry. But, weeks ago, when I came upon you and your busted-up outlaw, you cried the minute you recognized me. When I took you in my arms, you clung to me as though I was the only thing standing between you and something truly terrible. I'm sorry, Adam. I know it ain't seemly to speak about such things, but you have to understand the worry that's consumed me since that day. One moment you were there, crying in a manner I have only ever seen the most hopeless and despairing men do, and then you were gone."
Adam bristled, feeling unsettled and slightly threatened now. "And, allowing worry to cloud your judgment and govern your actions, now you are here, but I'm still waiting for you to share the purpose of this visit."
"You were there, and then you were gone. I reckon seeing you that way should have prepared me for the things I was gonna hear when I set my sights on traveling this way, or at the very least, they should have prepared me for the moment when I came upon you again." Sighing, Coffee set the whiskey bottle aside. "Boy, if I had a jail cell at my disposal in this town, then I'd be dragging you to it so you could sleep off the contents of that bottle and mood that's seemed to have taken hold of you. Then again, seein' as you're a marshal and therefore outrank the authority I hold, it's probably a good thing that I don't. So, seeing how I can't haul you off or force you to do much of anything, I've decided that maybe what I ought to do is proposition you instead. Adam, I reckon it's about time, don't you?"
"For what?"
"For you to come back home."
Adam snorted. There were occasions when returning home didn't seem like such a bad idea—if only he could decide where it was. "The Ponderosa isn't home," he said. "Not anymore."
"Well, that's a hell of a convenience, considering that ain't the place I'm talkin' about."
"Okay. Then what are you talking about?"
"Virginia City, of course."
"That…" Adam began and then stopped, unable to craft a response that encompassed the full spectrum of unsavory sentiments the suggestion awoke.
"You see," Coffee drawled, "I've got my mind set on retiring. I'm in need of a good man to replace me."
"What does that have to do with me?"
"Everything, seein' as I got my sights set on you takin' up my post."
"As sheriff?"
"Yep."
"Of Virginia City?"
"Yes, sir."
Adam blinked dumbly, momentarily unwilling to respond. "It's an election position," he said slowly, carefully, minding his tone so that his befuddlement would remain overlooked. Coffee couldn't be serious. He didn't really think he had the power to choose such a thing. He couldn't actually be so diluted that he thought that Adam would believe it, too. "That's not the way these things work. If you retire, you don't get to just choose who succeeds you. There's due process to consider. There has to be an election; folks have a right to choose the man who governs them."
"Under normal circumstances, I'd agree with you. But these ain't normal circumstances. You see, I'm in the middle of my term, which means I get to choose the man who takes my spot."
"No. It means that you are allowed to make a recommendation for the town council to vote on."
"Exactly." Pleased, Coffee smiled. "See? You understand the rules; that's why you're a wonderful candidate."
Shaking his head, Adam blew out another breath and remained immune to the older man's opinion and sentiment. Lord, he could imagine it. He didn't want to, but he could. The way things would be if he suddenly returned, intent on looking after and presiding over the very collection of folks whose gossip had driven him away from the territory in the first place. Didn't Coffee recall the way things once were? The way Laura Dayton-Cartwright's sordid diary had influenced the Virginia City townsfolk to spin sordid tales about the eldest Cartwright son and how Ben Cartwright himself had chosen to believe them? Or was Coffee simply starry-eyed and optimistic, focusing instead on how things could never be instead of how they once were?
"Does my father still have a seat on the council?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then I'm a horrible candidate."
"Why? Because you think he'd deny you the job if you came back?"
"You're a fool if you think he won't."
"He won't."
"Given the past, how can you think that?"
"Given the present, how can you not?"
Adam frowned, perturbed by the elder man's determination, his enduring tender expression, and fond declarations. Who was Roy Coffee for daring to come here to look at and talk to him the way that was, anyhow? Who was the man to seek him out? Talking to God only knew who about God only knew what? It wasn't six years ago; his life was none of Coffee's concern. The man had already helped enough. Adam's anger surged; the memory of the day he had beaten Will renewed. If it weren't for Roy Coffee, he'd have one less problem to deal with and one less secret to keep. He might have been able to leave his cousin behind in Nevada. Alive or dead—the distinction between the two outcomes might not have been so important if Adam lived a life unrestrained by knowledge of Will's previous crimes and current whereabouts.
"You think you can just come upon me in Nevada one day and then track me down and turn me into some kind of charityproject?" Adam fumed. "You think you can just—?"
"It ain't charity," Coffee drawled.
"Then what is it?"
Coffee refused to clarify. "Adam," he said seriously, "I really think you ought to take me up on my offer. I think coming home might do you and your children a world of good. I know there's some guff between you and your pa. I also know that what happened between you two isn't anything that can't be worked out."
"You don't know my father as well as you think you do."
"He's my oldest friend. Some folks might even make the offhanded accusation that I'm his best friend, after you, of course."
"Then you don't know me as well as you think you do."
"I've known you since you were a little kid. A mite, small boy." Coffee smiled. "Now, look at you. Son, you ain't small, and you ain't mite. Besides, think about what I'm offering you: a chance to come back as your own man and job, a future, and a livelihood that isn't attached to your old man. You wouldn't have to work for your pa to support your kids. In fact, you wouldn't ever have to set foot on the Ponderosa ever again if you didn't want to. Of course, once he understands the whole story of what's happened over the last six years, I'm not saying he ain't going to be begging you to reclaim your place in the family fold."
"I don't want his pity either."
Coffee nodded as though the response had been expected. "No," he agreed. "But you do need his love."
Adam blinked, the statement rocking him slightly, dissolving his anger and shaking his resolve. Brows knitting, he pressed his lips firmly together and silently cursed the whiskey for rendering him so ill-equipped to dismiss the foolish claim. There were just some things in a man's life that were destined to never change, no matter how much he wanted them to. "You're forgetting something," he said, his voice softening with a hint of sadness.
"What's that?"
"When I left, my father wasn't the only person I walked out on." He hadn't seen his brothers in years. He hadn't bothered to write to them during his absence. He hadn't thought much about either of them lately. He wasn't sure which of these things troubled him the most.
"Hoss and Joe will be fine," Coffee soothed. "I'm sure the two of them will welcome you back with open arms."
"And what about him?"
"Your pa," Coffee thoughtfully mused. "I don't know. I ain't going to lie to you. A lot of things have happened since you left."
"Is he still the same as he was?"
"There's a lot of things that have changed in the territory since you've been gone; I don't reckon Ben Cartwright is one of them."
Nodding, Adam leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and rested his chin heavily on his clenched fists. His eyes drifted to the bottle of whiskey sitting aside Coffee and he nearly cringed. Oh, if his father could see him now. Well, the old man wouldn't be half as kind as Roy Coffee was pretending to be. "Men as stubborn as him don't change," he whispered. "Not really."
"Neither do the sons they raise."
"All the more reason for me not to go back."
"No, sir. All the more reason for you to. Listen, I'm not asking you to decide right here, right now. All I'm asking is for you to think about it. Take a day or two and really mull it over."
"I don't have to think about it to know I can't do it."
"Can't or won't?"
"What difference does that make?"
"All the difference in the world."
"You're forgetting something else," Adam said sullenly.
"What's that?"
"When I left, it wasn't as though I didn't have good reason to go. I walked away from that town, my father, and my brothers six years ago. Six years, Roy. I know that man's memories can begin to lose shape after such a span of time, but neither one of us can sit here and pretend that I didn't have a good reason to walk away and then stay away. The fact remains that I took Peggy Dayton away from my cousin, and then I kept her and raised her as my own. I can't imagine what folks, or even my father, are going to have to say about that."
"The last six years have done a lot to calm the Virginia City rumor mill, at least where your name is concerned. I can't imagine folks will outright ignore your reappearance, but I don't reckon they'll fixate on you like they once did."
"You don't reckon, but you don't really know. I'll tell you something I do know. If I go waltzing back into that town, back into my father's life after all this time, he is going to be furious."
"He's going to be relieved," Coffee corrected. "Happy, even if he don't act that way at first."
"Yeah, and how long am I going to have to put up with his fury and harsh impulsivity before that day comes? If I return and he decides to be angry and bitter, if he chooses to hold my absence against me…?"
Shaking his head uneasily, Adam did not continue. His father's rejection would destroy him—or what little was left of him. He couldn't bear to endure his father's fury. Not now. Not with his wife missing, his firstborn son buried in the ground, and the burden of Will. Will. What would he do with his cousin if he went back? He couldn't bring him along. He couldn't leave him where he was for much longer.
"I'm not gonna lie to you," Coffee said. "I know things won't be easy if you come back. In fact, I know, at least for a while, they're going to be damn hard. Of course, you've never really been the kind to take the easy way out. Adam, I am dead set on resigning my position as Sheriff, and I'm choosing you to replace me. I need you. Virginia City needs you, even if the folks who live there don't know it yet. You're the perfect man for the job."
"I am the worst man for the job. Roy, you think you still know me, but you don't. The last six years have changed and shaped me in ways you can't begin to imagine. You don't know the things I've been through. You don't know the things I've done or will do. You don't know me anymore, and you don't know my father as well as I do. He may be loyal, but he can hold a grudge longer than anyone I have ever come across. I can't go back. Not now. Not with the way things are. I don't have it in me to walk back into that town and stand alone."
"Hey, now. You won't be alone, not as long as I'm around. No matter what you've been through or done, no matter what the future brings or demands from you, you have me. I will always stand in your corner or by your side. If you're intent on thinking' that you've lost your father's love for good, fine, but I at least want you to know that you won't ever lose mine. You have me, boy. No matter what, you will always have me."
Adam's throat tightened, unwanted tears filling his eyes. Coffee could not have known how affecting his statement would be any more than Adam could have known how much he needed to hear it. Or maybe Coffee did know, and that's why he dared speak it aloud.
"Think about it," Coffee urged. "If you decide that the real reason you can't come back is because it ain't the right choice for your family, your mother-in-law, children, and such, then so be it. But if you come to realize you don't want to come back because you're afraid of facing up to your pa, then I think you know what your decision should be. Think about it—all that I've said and everything you refused to. I'll come back 'round in a few days, and then you can let me know what you've decided to do."
The older man took his leave then, disappearing down the steep stairs lining the pathway to the street as quickly as he had appeared.
Clearing his throat, Adam swiped his shirtsleeve over his eyes. Damn the whiskey, he thought, for stripping him of control over his emotions. And damn Roy Coffee for arriving unexpectedly to say the right thing at the worst time.
TBC