PLEASE NOTE this story's rating has changed to T. This chapter depicts some semi-graphic child abuse. I have indicated the beginning and end of this sequence with a line of asterisks (*), so you can skip it should you want or need to.
BEFORE:
Adam's westward journey was fruitless. Neither the Running D nor the road that forced him on to his family's property led him to stumble upon anyone—stranger or otherwise. This was a gift, in the end, for as soon as he had decided to return to town and directed his horse to turn around, he finally noted that he had not completed his journey alone. Jamie and Todd Wyatt had followed him.
With his head still pounding violently, sending shock waves of pain to run the length of his spine, Adam regarded them coolly. "I thought I told you to be on your way," he said to Wyatt. He looked at Jamie. "A boy your age ought to know better than to go chasing around with strangers. Pa won't like it, and neither do I. Get home, Jamie, and don't come back around again until you've decided to give your actions a little more thought. I'm not your sitter, and no matter what Pa thinks, you ain't mine."
He didn't wait for either to reply. His ride back to town was slow, painful, and lonely. His heart was heavy and burdened by the present, his thoughts consumed by a memory of the past he longed to forget now that it was finally recalled.
Follow me. Will's childish voice urged, rising to haunt him.
And for the first time since returning, Adam wished he could follow his cousin—that things could have been the way they once were. Not when they were children, but when they were adults. He longed to be a marshal again; he wished the road he was traversing was far away from the one he was on. God, things were so much easier back then—no, not easier, simpler. When Charlie was alive, the boy, Peggy, and Noah all still happy and safe in San Francisco with Eddie. But Charlie was dead; Eddie was gone; and Adam was here, chasing after ghosts and wasting precious time. He needed to find that photograph quickly. If he couldn't do that, then he needed to warn Roy Coffee, and he needed to summon the courage to tell his father the truth before someone else decided to share their own.
The truth. He snorted. And what exactly is that anyway?
That he had been in possession of a vile photograph that depicted such a grisly and evil scene? That he was secretly harboring his cousin in San Francisco? That his wife was gone? And his son was dead? These were all truths, he knew, but independently, they failed to provide a full image. They failed to explain how or why any of the circumstances had come to fruition, or his part in them. He needed to find that photograph. Before his family and the people of Virginia City became privy to it. The townsfolk would be far from understanding should such a despicable thing be revealed. Oddly, it was his father's reaction that frightened him the most. If the past was any indication of the future, then there would be no reasonable explanation he could provide for having such a nefarious thing in his possession. There was nothing he could say that would force Ben Cartwright to understand how the road his oldest son was on was not completely of his choosing.
I don't trust myself. The memory of his father's deep voice echoed. Not now. Not anymore.
Well, Pa, Adam thought contemptuously. That makes two of us.
"Hey, man!" A voice called from behind him. "Wait up."
Adam closed his eyes and forced a deep breath. He neither tempered his horse's steady stride nor did he instruct the animal to increase its pace as Todd Wyatt caught up to him. The young man was silent for a few moments, his mount falling into step with Adam's.
"I'm sorry that things didn't go your way," Wyatt said eventually, his voice carrying a hopeful edge.
Adam did not acknowledge the statement. West. Wyatt had said the man who had assaulted him was headed west, but this journey had proved otherwise. Did that make him a liar? Or had Adam been a little too slow to properly follow the trail? There had been no trail. This was a fact that could not be denied. There had been no discernible hoof prints to be found to serve as a testament that Wyatt's story was truthful.
"He must have been quick," Wyatt said. "That guy that you're after." He paused, seemingly suddenly intimidated by the strained silence that had fallen between them. "I sent your little brother home," he added. "Just like you wanted. That oughta at least make you a little happy."
Clenching his reigns in a tight fist, Adam abruptly instructed his horse to stop. Wyatt's rode on for a few paces before it too stopped. Turning in his saddle, Wyatt gave Adam a hesitant look.
"Did you lie to me?" Adam asked bluntly, darkly.
"No," Wyatt said.
"You said there was a man."
"There was."
"Who assaulted me."
"That's right."
"Cleaned out my pockets."
"He did."
"And headed west."
"I didn't lie."
"Then where is he?"
Shrugging, Wyatt lifted his hands and indicated the vastness of the surrounding land. The motion was as much of an answer as he would volunteer, the expression on his face betraying his desire for it to be enough.
It wasn't.
"Get off your horse," Adam tersely instructed as he dismounted.
"What?"
Standing on wobbly legs, Adam held tight to his saddle horn as his vision swam, a wave of nausea threatening to overcome him. "Dismount. Now."
"Why?"
"Because I want you to clean out your pockets."
Wyatt directed his gaze skyward as reality dawned. "You don't believe me."
"I did."
"You don't anymore."
"Nope," Adam grunted.
"Because you didn't find your man." Wyatt was visibly exasperated now, his emerald eyes gleaming with disappointment. "And somehow that's my fault? Look around, man. There's about a million places for him to hide."
"Not a million," Adam corrected. "Hundreds, maybe."
"And you still think that I lied."
"No, I suspect you lied."
"What's the difference?"
"The fact that I'm giving you the opportunity to prove me wrong."
Wyatt held stubbornly for a moment longer as he peered down at Adam from atop his horse. Then, with a shake of his head, he obliged. "Man, I didn't know what kind of lawman you were when you let me go, but I think I'm beginning to find out."
"I'm still a better one than any you've come across before. I've known men in my time who wouldn't be bothering with questions."
"Or opportunities." Wyatt scoffed. He wrapped his reigns around his saddle horn and shoved his hands into his pants pockets. He pulled out the sparse contents piece by piece, tossing a total of three items on the ground before pulling the inner material out of the tight slits to hang in front of his thighs. "Satisfied?" he asked. It was not clear which had frustrated him more, Adam's palpable distrust or the forced action.
Adam peered down at what seemed to be Wyatt's only earthly belongings: an old, dented pocket watch and two silver dollars. He glanced at the young man's horse and noted he was without saddlebags. He looked at Wyatt again, the absence of a holster or a sidearm suddenly seeming indicative of a bleak situation. Todd Wyatt was shorter than he was by at least half a foot. He was well-built but thin, a lankiness that could have contributed to more than a few missed meals—or his age. He was young; to Adam, that much was made clear by his impulsivity, stubbornness, and fear. Sitting behind the jailhouse bars, Wyatt had been afraid of him, but not too afraid to speak his mind or rise to the defense of two men who were older than he was. That pair was long gone, but Wyatt was still here; though the young man had sent Jamie on his way, he had chosen to follow Adam. Adam knew he would be remiss if he did not at least try to understand why.
"You weren't lying," he said.
"I told you I wasn't."
"That all the money you have?" Adam probed, nodding at the silver dollars.
Wyatt squared his jaw stubbornly. "What's it to you?"
"I suppose it doesn't really mean much to me, but if you answer honestly, it might mean more than a little something to you. Why are you following me?"
"I don't have anything better to do, I guess."
"Now, that is a lie."
"It ain't exactly a lie."
"Then what exactly is it?"
"Maybe a bit of a fib."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-two," Wyatt reluctantly said.
"You're a little small yet for twenty-two."
"Are you calling me a liar, again?"
Adam's expression softened. "No, not a liar," he said. "Just a fibber, I guess."
"I'm old enough to be out on my own. Old enough to be considered a man, too."
"And just how old would that be?"
Wyatt's response did not come easily or quickly. "Eighteen," he said.
"Eighteen," Adam repeated. It was a precarious age, which, in his opinion, rendered Wyatt more boy than man. But he could not deny that the young man was right. He was old enough to be out on his own. Old enough to be held responsible for himself and his actions in the same way any other man would be. "You have family in these parts?"
"I just told you—"
"That you're old enough to be a man, yes, I heard you, and more than that, I agree, but at your age, you shouldn't be wandering around alone. Bad things can happen to a man who travels unaccompanied."
"I know. Your friend who accused me of wronging you was one of those things."
"And still you chose to follow me after I let you go," Adam reminded.
"What does that have to do with anything?" Wyatt deflected.
"I don't know. You haven't answered my original question yet. Why are you following me?"
Wyatt glanced at Adam's hand, still holding tight to his saddle horn for stability. Then he crouched down to retrieve his possessions from the ground. "Because I think you need a friend," he said as he stood, adjusting the material of his pants pockets before shoving the silver dollars and pocket watch back inside of them. "Maybe I need a friend too, and…" he looked at Adam, his eyes gleaming with false hope. "Maybe even… a job."
"A job?"
"Yeah. I couldn't help but notice that you didn't have a deputy. That old guy, I suppose he kinda acts like one now, but he ain't really your deputy."
"How do you know he's not?"
Wyatt shrugged. "Because I asked him, and he said he wasn't. After you let me go and we got to talking like we did, I kinda started to think that I could help you. That maybe I could do more than just point you west. Look, I know I impressed you, speaking for those other two guys like I did. I wasn't afraid to talk to you or ask questions or even follow you in case you needed help. I guess, I wanted to make a good impression, so that maybe you'd take me on."
"As my deputy," Adam said. He shook his head, the movement eliciting a painful cringe as his headache surged and his neck protested. "A deputy at eighteen years old." He swore under his breath. "No, sir," he added, his voice deepening. "I won't do it. Buddy, I have boots older than you, and you want me to make you a deputy. Not to mention the fact that just two hours ago you were sitting in one of my jail cells."
"Hey, I didn't hit you, and I didn't lie, remember. That's got to count for something."
"No, you just fibbed. Which is reason enough why you aren't old enough for the responsibilities of such a job—a dangerous one, at that."
Wyatt's shoulders sank, his hands finding the inside of his pockets. He did not respond. But he didn't need to. Despite the pain that was now radiating through his skull and down his spine with thunderous ache, Adam could see the young man's disappointment and silent desperation. The kid did not have anyone to look out for him. He was alone. Judging by the contents of his pockets, the absence of a gun and saddlebags, he was nearly broke. And that was a very frightening reality—at any age.
"You can't be my deputy," Adam said. "But I'll tell you what you can do." He lifted his hand, jetting his thumb at the road he had abandoned. "Head back that way; in another few miles, you'll come upon a settlement, a barn, and a great big house. Ask to talk to Ben Cartwright, Hoss, or Joe; tell them that you're hungry and in need of a job. They'll take care of you, give you meals and lodging, and pay for whatever job they hire you for."
"What makes you so sure they'd be willing to do that?"
Taking a deep, steady breath, Adam mounted his horse and looked down at Wyatt, squinting through the pain. "Because with all the things in this life that time is destined to change, there are just some things that it never will."
He left Wyatt then, completing the ride back to town with sheer stubbornness and will. He was stumbling by the time he re-entered the sheriff's office, silently cursing himself for not having the foresight to listen to Doc Marten's instructions.
"Welcome back," Roy Coffee said. Sitting behind the desk, he appraised Adam carefully, his eyes running the distance between his boots and the top of his hat. "Although I can't say I am happy to see that you ventured anywhere or that you're back, in fact, I was hoping that you mighta finally come to your senses and headed home to rest."
"Home, huh?" Adam asked wryly, his voice so soft that it was nearly a whisper. "Where's that?"
"It sure ain't your current livin' arrangements, that's for damn sure. I meant home as in home, you know, the Ponderosa, that great, big, sprawling spread your father painstakingly built for you."
"The spread that he and I painstakingly built together, you mean."
Smiling, Coffee was pleased. "So, you agree with me."
"About what?"
"That the Ponderosa is your home."
Sinking into the chair opposite the other man, Adam planted his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. The movement prompted another wave of agony to reverberate through his skull, rendering him too timid to venture another. He was too exhausted to lean back and allow Coffee to see how physically affected he really was by the events of the day. He never should have listened to Wyatt and rode west. He should have listened to Doc Marten, remained on the jail cell cot, and rested. Still, he couldn't allow Coffee to think he had obtained the upper hand; he could not allow him to believe he was right.
"That's not my home," he grunted into his hands. "Hasn't been for quite a long time now." Feeling a cool washrag being pressed up against the back of his neck, he wondered when the other man had stood. How he not taken note of it when he had.
"Don't mean that it can't be again," Coffee drawled softly. "I'm sorry, Adam; I was kinda of wishing you were gonna allow your pa to see after this part. Doc left some powder for that headache he warned was gonna catch up with you. How about you drink one of them down?"
It was the best idea Adam had heard all day, but he knew that Coffee had not offered up the remedy with the intention of allowing him to stay put. He could not trust the older man not to meddle anymore than he had. "I don't mind the idea," he whispered. "But not right now."
He removed the damp cloth off his neck and tossed it on the desk. Then, feigning fortitude, he gathered what little remained of his resolve and stood.
Coffee watched him warily, his face set in a grim expression. "I don't know where you're headed, but can I walk you?"
"No," Adam said.
Coffee gathered the packet of medicinal powder from atop the desk and extended it out in offering. When Adam reached for it, Coffee took hold of the top of his hand, pressed it down to rest on top of the powders, and held tight. "Jamie left his schoolbooks behind," he said. "I see you set those guys I rounded up free."
"I'll return the books to Jamie later."
"And the dudes you set free? When are you going to deal with them?"
"I've already dealt with them." Weakly, Adam tried and failed to free his hand from Coffee's grasp. "They weren't guilty, so I let them go."
"How do you know they weren't guilty?"
"I asked them."
"Is that how it works in Virginia City these days? You simply have to deny taking part in the crimes you were caught doin' and then you're allowed to walk free." Coffee relinquished Adam's hand abruptly, leaving him to clutch the powder alone. "Or is that just how it works with you?"
Adam's narrowed eyes found Coffee's widened ones. He couldn't decide if the man was concerned, affronted, or downright afraid. He quickly realized that he didn't care either way because identifying the sentiment wouldn't change anything. He had spoken at great length with Todd Wyatt, and Coffee had not. He had endured the gossip of the townsfolk, the cruelness of the Bonner Brothers, and Billy Buckley's insolence, and Roy Coffee had not.
"Are you questioning how I'm choosing to look after my town, Roy?"
"No." Coffee shook his head. "It ain't your town, Adam. Not now. Not yet. It can be, but it will never be if you don't stop and take a good look at your life and yourself."
"Are you questioning me?"
"I reckon I'm beginning to question a whole lot of things."
Adam thought of the missing photograph then. An endlessly troublesome fact that did not bode well with the sad, knowing gleam in the older man's eyes. If Todd Wyatt hadn't taken it—if the boy was not lying—then who had—and who was?
I don't trust myself anymore. His father's voice whispered.
Then trust me. John Cartwright's voice resounded. You can always trust me.
"You need to think about taking a deputy," Coffee said.
Adam was dumbfounded. He couldn't have predicted the suggestion any more than he knew how to respond to it. It was the second time that day that the topic had come up.
"A man you can trust to watch your back," Coffee added. "Especially on the occasions when you ain't in a mind to watch it yourself."
"Who? You?"
"No, not me."
"Who then, Roy?" Adam asked. His stomach turned wildly, the bitter throbbing in his head finally transformed into a volatile pound. For a moment, he wondered if he was going to be sick, and then when Coffee opened his mouth, he was certain he would be.
"Billy Buckley."
"You can't be serious."
"He ain't such a bad guy when you get past his rough edges. Underneath it all, he has a good heart. Sally wouldn't have agreed to marry him had she not known that. He's a family man now, just like you will be again come Sunday."
"Nothing is going to change on Sunday."
Because all at once, everything seemed to be changing right now. His trust and faith in the man whom he had known since he was just a kid were eroding by the second. It was all but washed away by the powerful implication of the suggestion he had offered. How could Coffee ever think it was right to intercept the telegraph from Lil—however he had done that? How could he say the things that he was? About Billy Buckley, no less. How could Coffee ever believe that Buckley was even a hint of the kind of man that Adam was—the kind of man that could be trusted to safeguard a town in a position of power? No, not the right kind of man to look after a town. The right man to look after this particular one. Buckley was more well-liked and accepted than Adam was. Currently, he had more standing than Adam did with the townsfolk who traded their frivolous gossip, with the Bonner Brothers, and even with Roy Coffee, it suddenly seemed. It was Billy Buckley whom Adam had drug into the alleyway. Buckley with whom he last recalled speaking. Buckley who…
Had Buckley hit him? Was that the man Wyatt had seen on the edge of town? Adam wasn't certain. He was certain, however, that Wyatt's account of the events suddenly seemed much more believable and probable than Roy Coffee's did.
He lifted an accusing finger, his hand shaking from the effort and his budding fury. "Billy Buckley aimed his gun at me in the center of town this afternoon," he said. "If he had his way, then I would be dead."
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Coffee expelled a breath. "Adam," he said emphatically, the tenseness of his tone declaring his patience was finite and forced. "Sometimes a man makes a rash decision. Sometimes he just gets riled up, says, or does things that he don't—"
"You knew."
"Of course, I knew. I was the lawman in these parts for a long time. There ain't really anything that goes on in or around this town that I don't hear about, by overhearing people's gossip or otherwise. And I'll tell you something else: I know there ain't nothing worse in this world than a man who thinks he's outlived his usefulness. That kind of thinkin' can get in the way of everything else."
"And you're defending him."
"I'm hardly defending him."
"Then what are you doing?"
Shaking his head, Coffee lifted his hand and then allowed it to fall to hang limp at his side. "I'm just trying to help, Adam. I'm just trying to get you to see that things don't have to be the way that they are. After all, from what I heard, you had more than enough cause to shoot Buckley or at least arrest him, and you did neither. So, maybe I'm not the only one who thinks he's worth more regard than his quick, angry words might lead one to believe."
"Buckley and I will never be friends."
"No, but that's probably why the two of you would make a good team. You'd get after one another, push each other, and make one another better in the end."
"I won't do it. Even if I was agreeable to the idea of taking on a deputy, I would never choose him. Not that I will ever find myself in a mind to hire a second man. I don't believe in deputies because, just like you, I know a thing or two about being a lawman. In my experience, deputies are the ones you have to look out for. It's a position that always seems to fall into the lap of an untrustworthy sort. I've never known a deputy that didn't try to shoot me in the back."
"Tell me something, Adam, is that because you purposefully turned around and gave them ample opportunity to?"
Adam didn't answer the question. Maybe it was because he was affronted by its implication. Perhaps he had grown a little too frustrated with the man in front of him. Or maybe the pain in his head finally reached the cusp of no return, prompting him to turn and leave by his own accord before he was no longer able to. Something between him and Coffee had shifted. Something had changed.
Sinking into the lumpy mattress bed of his squalid rented room, he dumped an envelope of powder into a glass of cloudy water and drank it. Kicking off his boots, he lay on his back, stared up at the dark ceiling, and tried to ignore his budding apprehension and the agonizing, seemingly eternal pulsating pain in his head. Sleep did not claim him easily. He slept fitfully when it eventually did. When he finally dreamed, he was a little boy again, standing next to Will in the darkness, their hands clenched tightly together.
(*)
"Shhh," Will whispered. "He'll hear."
"Who?"
"You know who."
But Adam was certain he did not.
"Come on." Will pulled insistently on his hand, pulling him through the surrounding blackness. "Don't stop now. We have to keep going. Or he'll find us."
Where they were headed, who, or what they were fleeing, Adam didn't understand. Still, he took timid step after step, firmly clenching his cousin's hand in his own as they walked, each step taking them further and further up the winding stairwell, bringing them closer and closer to someplace unseen. Will wouldn't let go, and neither would he as they faced the uncertain path before them together.
"William!" a deep voice resounded. Booming and foreboding, it prompted Adam to flinch and his heart to wildly pound in his chest. Something bad was chasing them. That was why they had sought protection in the darkness. It was why they avoided the light.
"Keep going," Will whispered.
"Adam!" the deep voice boomed.
"Don't stop," Will urged.
"Come out from where you are!"
"You can't stop."
"Answer me!"
"Faster," Will quietly said, clenching Adam's hand with renewed force.
"You're hurting me," Adam whispered as his palm began to throb.
"William!"
"Come on," Will demanded.
"Adam!"
"I…can't," Adam puffed. Tears gathered in his eyes, and the pain in his hand began to creep up the length of his arm. He began to drag his feet.
Thump.
Thump. Thump.
Footfalls pounded forcefully behind them, powerful thuds that echoed off the walls.
Thump.
Thump. Thump.
"He's coming," Will hissed. Letting go of Adam abruptly, he shoved the other boy in front of him and pushed him forward, forcing him to keep going. Their pace was furious now; his cousin's desperation was thick and palpable, intermixing with the incessant and battering footstep behind them.
Thump.
Thump. Thump.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It seemed like Adam had been running forever. His little legs burned in protest of the exertion, his shoulders screaming in agony as Will continued to push him, his cousin's hands pressing painfully on the fresh bruises hiding beneath his shirt.
Thump.
Thump. Thump.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Then, at all once, there was a door, and beneath the door there was a sliver of light. Adam reached into the darkness, clasped, and turned the doorknob. Together, the boys thrust themselves into the room.
Adam squinted his eyes as they burned, the sudden stream of daylight upsetting his equilibrium. He tripped and fell hard, the impact sending a shockwave of pain up through his shins, kneecaps, and palms as he made violent contact with the floorboards. He heard the door slam behind him. Spinning around, he sat heavily on his behind, his stinging palms pressing against the floor as he looked at his cousin.
"It's okay," Will said, the words escaping his lips breathlessly. "It's gonna be okay."
Gasping, Adam knew it would not be okay. The light had allowed him to see what the darkness had disguised. Leaning against the closed door, Will's gray shirt was wet, clinging to his chest and back. The material was not soddened with sweat but with fresh blood.
"William!" the deep voice roared from behind the door.
"It's okay," Will whispered, his gaze finding Adam's. A hint of resignation glittered in his brown orbs as he refused to relinquish his cousin's wide hazel eyes. "I promise."
"Adam!" Sharp and commanding, the furious word was accompanied by an overbearing stream of heavy pounding on the other side of the door.
Thud.
Thud. Thud
"William!"
Thud. Thud. Thud.
"No matter what," Will said. "It's gonna be okay, little brother."
"Adam!"
Thud. Thud.
"William!"
Thud. Thud. Thud.
"I'm not going to let him hurt you," Will vowed. "He never gets to hurt you."
"Adam!"
Thud. Thud. Thud. THUD.
The door burst open, sending Will flying onto the floor. Looming in the attic doorway, John Cartwright was sweating and disheveled. His shoulders were excruciatingly rigid, and his brown eyes were alight with fury. He held a switch in one hand; the other was clenched into a tight fist.
"How dare you?" he seethed, regarding the boys darkly. "How dare you disobey your elders?"
Advancing, he lifted the switch and aimed toward Adam.
Snap. Crack.
Gasping, Adam closed his eyes, bracing for the impact. Then suddenly, Will crouched over him. Their eyes locked. Will cried out in agony as the thin, flexible wood cut into his bloody back.
Snap. Crack.
Adam flinched as the switch snapped again and again.
Snap. Crack.
Snap. Crack.
Droplets of blood were sent careening through the air, splattering upon the floor, and peppering both boys.
Snap. Crack.
Snap. Crack.
Snap. Crack.
The switch snapped again, and again, and again. Until finally, all noise was momentarily superseded by the loudness of Will's agonized screams. Though he had not been struck, Adam was thoroughly traumatized. He was sobbing in earnest when John pulled the switch back once again and thrust it forward with renewed force.
Snap. Crack.
This time, however, John overshot his target—or he had decided on a new one. Time seemed to slow down as the tip of the slender wood flew over Will completely and soared vigorously toward Adam's face. He screamed as it connected, ripping through his skin. Warm blood flowed freely, streaming over his lips, into his mouth to choke him, and down his chin.
"P-papa!" he began to sob, a desperate and stuttering howl that was destined to remain unheard. "P-papa…! P-Papa…!"
(*)
"Papa!" Adam gasped. Waking abruptly, he sat up in bed, his hand finding the linear, pale, puckered scar parting the hair growing on his upper lip. Breath still catching in his tightened throat, his wide eyes darted aimlessly and sightlessly around his dim and desolate quarters. It took a long time for his breathing to calm down, even longer still for his heart to stop racing, and longer than that for him to finally realize he was not alone.
The door to his room was open. Amelia Terry stood in his doorway; the sparse light from the hallway sconces illuminated the outline of her body, rendering her face and expression difficult to see.
"Do you understand?" she slurred. She was too drunk to realize she had posed her question without proper pretense. She was too impaired to understand that her words were more suited to the middle or end of a conversation, not the beginning of one.
To Adam, it didn't matter. Smoothing the tip of his finger over the length of his scar, he was suddenly not nearly as confused as he wanted to be. "Yes," he whispered. "But I wish I didn't have to."
She laughed, a quiet yet gritty sound. "I heard you took Buckley's gun away today."
"I did."
"Then Roy Coffee gave it back to him."
Adam frowned. Though he had been unaware of the development, he was not surprised. Not really. Not deep down. How could he be after the elder man's noxious suggestion? "He did," he verified flatly.
"Of course he did," Amelia slurred, interpreting his statement as a question. Her tone was neither angry nor kind, but rather some sentiment that existed in between. "I thought you said you understood."
Pulling his hand away from his face, Adam swung his legs over the side of the bed and pressed the soles of his sock-covered feet hard against the cold floorboards. The powder had done what Doc Marten had prescribed: dulled the pain in his head and neck to a manageable ache—or dulled his senses and left him less sensitive to it. Either way, he still did not trust himself to stand. He was not certain he trusted himself to do much of anything.
"What am I supposed to understand?" he asked.
Her body swayed, her spasmodic instability symptomatic of the alcohol surging through her veins. "It isn't that easy," she said. "If you don't know, then I'm not going to tell you. At least not without getting something back. Don't be expecting special treatment just because you're the sheriff or even because you're a Cartwright."
Adam was taken aback. This was the first time the woman had declared that she knew who he was. "You remember me?"
"Of course I remember you."
"What do you remember?" Adam asked impetuously.
"What do I remember?" Amelia snorted. "Well, I remember that…" Her voice catching in her throat, she paused. "I remember," she began again, her softened voice full of longing, "happier times. The briefest second of something good. Do you remember that time?"
"Yes."
"You…you were so happy with Sue Ellen. You took one look at my baby sister, and you saw something other than what the other people in this town or even your father wanted to see. You didn't treat her like a whore; you looked after her like a lady and paraded her around like she was some prize that you had found. You weren't like John Henry, Jesse Saunders, or any of the other countless guys who took a shine to my baby sister. You were different, and that meant you were supposed to be good. You were supposed to be good because Sue Ellen, she wanted you to be. But you weren't that good, were you? You weren't that different, even if you weren't just like the others. All those fine, upstanding men that liked to step out on their marriages, courtships, or were just looking for a moment of satisfaction. The difference between you and them was that they paid. You never did."
Lifting her arms, she took hold of both sides of the doorway to stifle her swaying and steady herself. "No, sir." She shook her head. "I ain't like my sister. If you don't understand what's happening around here, if you need me to explain it to you outright, then you're going to pay me for my services, just like everybody else."
"What do you want?"
"That depends on how stupid you are. How much more I know than you do."
"Define more."
"I can tell you all about Billy Buckley, Roy Coffee, and your cousin Will, too."
Adam was unsettled. "What do you know about Will?"
"Oh, honey," Amelia laughed, "so much more than you do. So much more than your father would want anyone to."
"Amelia!" a man's gruff voice shouted. "You get back here, girl! I ain't payin' you to stand around in the hall and ramble about all night."
"Think about it," she said.
As she shakily sauntered back through the hallway, Adam stared at the vacant doorway silently, his index finger absently rubbing the length of the scar.
TBC