Willow Grove, Northern Illinois, 1834

Worrying his lip, Adam held the stick and applied its tip to the sand. The letter "A" looked like a plow from above. The main frame of the plow formed the two diagonal legs of the "A," and the legs were connected at the top by a horizontal crossbeam, which supported the plowshare. It was an important letter because his name had not only one but two of them.

Careful, Adam drew the first "A" into the sand, as he listened to the rhythmic pounding of a hammer coming from the stable's roof. That was where Pa was, fixing it for Mr. Clarkson in the afternoon sun.

"Send up some more nails, Oliver!" Pa called out to Mr. Harrison, who also worked for Mr. Clarkson. It was the second time Pa had called for nails that morning, and Adam smiled. They were both having fun.

Where Adam liked letters, Pa thrived on fixing roofs. Pa also enjoyed sawing wood, building fences, and hauling lumber. Perhaps his favorite activity was stacking wood for Mr. Clarkson or wrestling stones from the ground for the new road, or at least those were the things he did the most. That fall, while Adam had played, Pa had been building a henhouse for Mrs. Thompson and constructing a shelter for Mrs. Harrold's hairy pig. Pa preferred all those things to playing and learning the alphabet, maybe because he was a pa and pas liked things that earned them coins, or maybe because he already knew how to read and write and had played lots with his big brother, Uncle Aaron, when he had been little like Adam.

Except Adam wasn't that little. He was almost five. He was a big boy.

The letter "D" resembled a saw. Adam wasn't allowed to touch Pa's saw because it was sharp, but one time he had touched it just to see how sharp it was. The metal had sliced through his skin, causing his finger to bleed. Pa had rushed to his side, wrapping the wound in a leaf from a healing plantain. Adam had remained silent as the saw had made its cut. He had clenched his fist tightly, feeling the warmth of his blood pool in his palm, and gritted his teeth as Pa had cleansed away the dirt. It hadn't been until Pa had declared him a disobedient boy that the tears had finally come.

"Plow-saw-plow," he recalled, moving on to the letter "M," which towered like majestic mountains. With every line and peak he drew, he thought of the vast ranges he had seen in the distance, unsure of how many peaks should appear. He ended up crafting an entire mountain range, just in case, delighted that "mountain" also began with "M."

"What are you doing?" a familiar voice broke his concentration.

Absent-minded, Adam looked up to see Eddie Millegans, a boy with sunbleached curls peeking out from under a straw hat. He wore dirty brown pants and an oversized shirt inherited from James, his older brother who had been kicked by a horse the day the harvest had begun. Like Adam, he was barefoot.

"Writing," Adam replied thoughtfully, letting the name "Eddie Millegans" wrap around his tongue. Eddie… it began with an "E" which reminded him of a card brush women used for their wool work. Eddie Millegans would be a long name to write, but he would try it regardless.

Eddie had a stick with him. It was a nice stick, too. All straight and long. Adam wondered if he could borrow it. He liked sticks. He had found a real nice one in the maple woods, but then he had fallen asleep and when he had woken up, he had been in his bed at the boarding house, and Pa hadn't taken the stick with them.

"My pa says no one writes but those who can't handle real work," said Eddie, and suddenly his stick didn't look that nice after all.

Adam tilted his head and considered his friend. "But my pa made your pa's cart all better and he can read and write. If your pa says please, maybe my pa can show him how too."

Eddie's eyes flashed and he bared his teeth. "My pa only gave your pa work because your pa is poor as a church mouse. Everyone knows the Cartwrights had to sell their horse because you have nothing."

Adam's heart sank. He missed Billy Boy. When they had reached Willow Grove, they had needed food and a place to stay for the winter, and that's why Pa had sold Billy Boy to Mr. Clarkson. Sometimes Pa said he would buy Billy Boy back, but first, they needed to buy other things, things they would need for when they left for Nevada. Adam didn't know where or what exactly Nevada was, but Pa wanted to go there, so Adam would go there, too.

You and I, Adam.

You and I, Pa.

"We have each other," Adam repeated to himself what Pa always said. It was a good thought and he grinned despite the chill that crept through his bare toes.

Eddie's face twisted. He stepped a little closer, gripping the stick tightly. "Are you laughing at me, Cartwright?"

Adam peered up at him, bewildered. "Of course not. I'm just glad I've got Pa."

Eddie scoffed, puffing out his chest as though it might make him seem bigger, even though he was at least a head taller than Adam already. "You always think you're better than everyone, don't you. You've got your pa who fought horse thieves to keep you safe, but look at me! Since James went away, it's like no one around here cares about me. Ma just keeps crying for James. And James is being stupid and won't come back! I bet Pa wouldn't even notice if I got killed by Indians."

A chill ran through Adam. Pa still had a scar on the back of his head, among all the hair. It had been left there by the same horse thieves that had burned their wagon and all their supplies when Adam had been very little.

"I would be really, really sad if that happened," he said, sincerely. "I would find you the best stick and you could play with it. Maybe I'd even go see your grave with Pa."

"You know nothing about graves!" Eddie shouted, brandishing the stick like a sword. "Your pa doesn't keep calling you James. You are full of yourself and I hate you, Adam Cartwright!"

Like burned, Adam let go of the stick and hugged himself. He no longer wanted to write Eddie's name. Why was Eddie so mad at him?

In an instant, pain flared in his shoulder. Taken off guard, Adam flinched back where he was kneeling on the sand. He tried to scramble up, but another impact sent a jolt through his body and forced him back down. He hadn't expected a fight. He hadn't expected Eddie, his friend, to start beating him with the stick.

"Stop it!" he shouted, as he raised his arms to shield himself. He felt the warmth of tears prick at the corners of his eyes but forced them back. He wouldn't cry where the other boy could see. He was no baby. He was almost five and a big boy.

"You think you're so smart with your letters. You get to play while I'm stuck with nothing but – but – but… And you're your pa's whole world, but I know the truth – you're a bastard, Adam Cartwright!"

The betrayal, the hurt, the anger stole his words, and Adam just whimpered there, protecting his head.

Pa's voice rang out from the stable roof, sharp and commanding:

"What in the world is going on down there? Eddie Millegans, put that stick away this instant!"

Dropping the stick, Eddie took off, his bare feet padding quickly against the ground. Sniffling, Adam pushed himself up on shaky legs. He looked down at what remained of his name. The sand was a mess of muddled letters, and the sight constricted his throat with a painful knot of emotions he couldn't quite name.

Snarling, he brushed away the remnants of his work.

A moment later, Pa emerged. He towered over Adam with his hands on his hips.

"What on earth happened here? You were not just fighting, young man, were you?" His voice, usually warm, had a sharp edge to it now. Adam looked up with the angry tears welling in his eyes, and Pa's brows furrowed.

"I see… Did that Millegan's boy hurt you?"

Adam said nothing, though he felt the sting of the strikes still radiating through his shoulder. He never tattled. He was no tattletale. Besides, that hadn't been the pain that had made his vision go blurry.

The pain that had truly struck had him confess,

"Eddie said he hates me."

Each word stung his tongue like they didn't want to leave his mouth.

He didn't have many friends because he and Pa were usually moving from one place to another and there were not many children among the people who sometimes traveled with them. Adam spent most of his time with Pa and other adults. But when they had come to Willow Grove, he had gotten to know Eddie. Eddie had given him a button. They had played together. That had made them the best of friends, or so Adam had thought.

Wiping his face on the hem of his ragged shirt, stained with dust and sweat, Pa knelt in front of him so they were at eye level. He heaved a sigh and reached out, brushing Adam's tousled hair back with gentle, calloused fingers.

"The Millegans have been through a lot," he said, and cupped Adam's neck, stroking the skin there with his thumb. "Sometimes the emotions inside us are too big for us to handle, and so we turn them into emotions we're more used to experiencing. Grief may be too much for a little boy like Eddie, so he fills himself with anger instead. He loved his older brother, James, dearly. They were very close."

Adam bit his lower lip, recalling Eddie's sunken cheeks, the haunted depth of his gaze.

Pa tipped his chin up with a finger. His eyes were intent, worried. "Did he hurt you badly?"

Adam lowered his gaze. He never tattled, not even to Pa.

Pa held onto his chin for a moment longer, waiting. Then let go with a sigh. "He's hurting, so he hurt you. It doesn't excuse his behavior. I'll go talk to his father tonight. This will not happen again."

Despite its name, most trees in Willow Grove were maples. Their leaves now blazed with hues of yellow, red, and orange, as though they were sending a warning of the chill that lay ahead. Whenever someone mentioned the changing foliage or the growing cold of the days, adults looked grim and spat over their shoulders to ward off evil.

Pa never spat. Nor did he weave spells like some others. "Superstitions have no place in the modern Christian world," he would scoff, shaking his head whenever anyone brought up mice bones, Saint Raphael, and the blood of Jesus Christ. Adam didn't spit either, though he sometimes felt a forbidden urge. Secretly, he wondered on occasion how far he could spit if Pa ever permitted him to try.

But Adam was not thinking about spitting now. He tore through the vibrant canopy of maple trees, hauling a log tied to a rope behind him. He imagined he was a train, darting from station to station, transporting passengers from Baltimore to Ohio, the bright fall leaves rustling beneath his bare feet. In the chilly air of late fall, each breath escaped him as a fleeting wisp of vapor, hanging in the air like a whispered secret. He blew out air—steam—until his cheeks flushed from exertion and the cold.

There were no railroads in Willow Grove or anywhere in Illinois, but Pa had said Adam was from Boston, which was so far east it would take awfully many days if he decided to walk back there again. The people in the east, which had been Adam's first home, did have a railroad, and when Adam lay in bed and waited for sleep to come, Pa sat with him and told him stories, sometimes about Adam's grandpa, who had once traveled by train. They were the fastest, even faster than a horse! Even the fastest man couldn't outrun a locomotive, Pa had said.

When Adam had been so little he hadn't even been born yet, Pa had seen an iron horse in the east, and there was a picture of one on the cover of a book in Mr. Wilkinson's general store. Adam wasn't allowed to touch it. No one had bought the book yet—maybe because most folks in Willow Grove couldn't read, unlike Pa. Adam looked at it whenever he visited the store with Pa. He gazed at the cover, where the iron horse towered over the people, its chimney puffing out steam. It looked like a giant nose.

Locomotives whistled, Pa had said, though he hadn't specified which tune.

Furrowing his brows in concentration, Adam pursed his lips, hopeful. But each attempt yielded only a feeble, squeaky noise, barely audible over the rustle of leaves. Frustration stoked his determination. He would learn to whistle, so he could play iron horse properly.

He had a grandpa in the east where there were railroads, and his grandpa had traveled in a car pulled by an iron horse. Adam didn't remember his grandpa because he had been a baby when they last met, but Pa assured him Grandpa couldn't have forgotten about him. If Grandpa were here in Willow Grove, he could play with Adam when Pa didn't have the time. Grandpa had liked the railroad, Pa had said, and Adam decided that therefore he, too, should like it. That way, he had something in common with Grandpa. It was a bit like they were playing iron horse together, wasn't it?

A calloused hand, rough and strong, grasped him by the collar. Adam grunted when he was thrown to the ground, and scampered away before the kick aimed at his side could land. He clenched the rope, pulling the log and its passengers into the safety of his arms, and peered up – and up – and up – at the giant who was looming over him like an approaching storm.

"Cartwright, can't ya keep yer damned runt of a bastard in line? Seems to me yer raisin' nothin' but a thievin' fox."

Mr. Gregson was the man who paid Pa to do all kinds of work now that Mr. Clarkson no longer needed help. He was huge and carried two revolvers and a long knife on his belt, and always smelled like tobacco and fish. In the summer, there had been a nest of cardinals in a nearby maple tree. When Mr. Gregson had seen Adam looking up at it in wonder, he had climbed the tree to fetch the nest. The muscles in his arms had flexed as he had lifted a boulder and dropped it onto the peeping birdlings. Adam still heard the thud, the merciless crack, in his mind whenever those blue eyes landed on him.

Adam's chin gave a quiver, and Mr. Gregson's eyes lit up in delight. With his cheeks flushing, Adam hugged the log to his chest and glowered at the giant from behind it.

"I'm no thief," he peeped like the birdlings, as bravely as he could, and climbed up to his feet.

"That's my timber, ain't it, and now yer downright talkin' back to me. Cartwright, you best teach your little runt some respect, or I'll use the belt on him myself."

Mr. Gregson grasped his belt buckle, and Adam's gaze followed the action. He took several frightened steps backward, and Mr. Gregson grinned, approaching slowly.

Adam jolted when two hands landed on his shoulders. Pa gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze, eyes fixed on Mr. Gregson. With his heart hammering in his throat, Adam leaned back into his father, clutching the front of Pa's shirt.

"I'm sorry," he said and couldn't help the way his voice wavered. "I didn't mean to be bad."

"Hush now," said Pa, as he took the log from Adam.

He untied the rope from around it and put the log into the nearest pile of firewood.

There were piles and piles of firewood all around Mr. Gregson's yard, most of it so poorly stored that the wood had grown moldy. There was stacked lumber in the yard, too, and Pa had told Adam to keep away from it. He wasn't to climb on the high stacks or get in the way of any of the four men working there. He wasn't to touch any of the tools either. Pa had told him to play among the maples because it was safe there, and the maples were also close enough for Pa to keep an eye on him, just in case.

Adam had meant to be good. But it was true that he had taken one log of firewood without asking. It had been in the pile of moldy firewood and it had looked like the perfect car for his train.

Maybe Mr. Gregson was right – maybe he really was a thief.

Adam hung his head, ashamed, and sniffled quietly.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

"Adam meant no harm," Pa said, calm and measured, and wrapped an arm around Adam's chest, pulling him close. "He's only four, and boys that young have a way of getting lost in their games. We apologize. We have returned the log, and no harm has come to it. Adam can even gather you an additional pile if you wish to be compensated for the inconvenience."

Adam peered up just in time to see the way Mr. Gregson's face twisted into a scowl. The bushy mustache quivered as the man sneered.

"Games? That what ye be callin' it? The young'un's been galivantin' off with my log the whole morning! Can't run a livin' if I got varmints prowlin' 'round."

"He certainly intended no harm to your business either, Mr. Gregson. He was just playing. He has a wild imagination."

Mr. Gregson crossed his arms and fixed Adam with such a mean look that Adam's breath hitched. Suddenly his bare toes felt cold and the chill ran up his spine, leaving him shivering. Pa had said he would get shoes for the winter. He would just have to be patient for a little while longer.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Adam said, wiping his eyes with the back of his palm, but again his apology went ignored.

"Imagination's nuthin' but a fancy way of sayin' somebody's tellin' tall tales. And what d'ya reckon happens when he pulls a trick like this again? Should I just let it slide like, or ought I to take the reins myself?"

"I assure you this won't happen again," said Pa, stiffly. "I'll make sure he knows better."

"You keep bringin' him 'round to work, Cartwright, and I swear I won't stand for it."

Pa went quiet. The arm around Adam tightened its hold. Clutching Pa's shirt, Adam wished he had never decided to play Iron Horse with any of Mr. Gregson's logs. He had been bad and now Pa was in trouble, too. All because of him.

"I do understand your frustration, Mr. Gregson," Pa finally spoke, running a soothing hand through Adam's hair. "But I ask you to please reconsider. We don't have any family here. There isn't much work for an outsider here, and we can't go any further before spring. I've got no one to look after Adam while I'm working. He's too little to be by himself."

Mr. Gregson's gaze shifted, calculating, and his eyes narrowed, as he studied Adam. The sound of the cracks, of little cardinals getting crushed, echoed in Adam's mind. He shuddered.

"That ain't my worry none. If y'can't keep that boy outta mischief, then I can't keep you 'round either. You go ahead and take 'im with ya one more time, but mark my words, I ain't waitin' for a second round of trouble."

Pa's heart was thudding fast. Adam could hear it where his ear was pressed against his father's chest.

"Mr. Gregson," said Pa, quietly. "I would… prefer to keep this job. The winter is approaching fast. We need the money."

Mr. Gregson shrugged and turned to go.

"If ya bring that fox 'round here tomorrow, you'll be outta work. Come alone, or don't bother comin' back."

The wind howled around the corners of Mrs. Thompson's log cabin as Adam padded across the frigid floor planks. He pushed the door slightly ajar and took a peek outside. Instantly, the biting cold rushed in, hitting him squarely in the face and making his breath hitch. Outside, the world was wrapped in darkness. The only illumination came from the oil lantern's warm glow spilling across the snowdrifts.

Despite the icy chill, Adam remained steadfast in his post, staring out into the darkness until Mrs. Thompson ushered him back inside and closed the door firmly against the harsh winter morning.

"Better not let the cold in, sweetling," she cautioned. "We wouldn't want you to catch your death."

"Will spring come today?" Adam asked the question that had become as routine as washing before breakfast.

"Not today, little one," Mrs. Thompson replied with a wistful smile. "Not yet. We'll still have to wait for a little while longer."

Mrs. Thompson's hut was just half a day's journey from Willow Grove, but the heavy snowfall had rendered access nearly impossible. Without a proper road leading to her home, visitors would need to bide their time until conditions improved and the path was safely cleared.

Pa had left Adam under Mrs. Thompson's care for the winter, promising he would return come spring. The memory of that parting remained raw. Pa had looked stricken as he stood by the door, hat clutched in his hands, eyes lingering on Adam, who had been playing with Betsy, Mrs. Thompson's striped cat. Adam had fought back tears until after Pa had gone. Then they had come pouring out, turning days into a blur of sadness and longing, with each morning bringing the same desperate hope that spring had finally arrived.

She's a good woman and we must be grateful, Pa had told Adam. She will look after you for the winter. You will assist her and keep her company. Be obedient and respectful at all times.

Mrs. Thompson was a widower, clad in black garments. Her wrinkled hands, spotted with age, were seldom idle. She could often be found knitting, even as she walked from the barn back to the hut, a ball of yarn nestled in a bag at her side. When the moment allowed, she would invite Adam to sit in her lap as she rocked in her chair, reading from an illustrated Bible. The soothing motion and the gentle stroke of her fingers through his hair became as familiar as the howling wind.

"Would you please read about Daniel and the lions again?" Adam requested, hopeful.

"Of course, dear," she replied, her smile softening as she opened the Bible.

Adam's heart raced as she began to recount the tale. He was mesmerized by the terrifying lions depicted in the illustrations — mighty creatures with huge paws. Whenever the tale grew too frightening, he would bury his face into Mrs. Thompson's soft chest, where he felt safe.

In his imagination, Betsy often transformed into a lion, and he became Daniel, courageously waiting beneath the bed and clutching the purring cat close to his chest. He trusted God to keep him safe from the ferocious lion until Mrs. Thompson called out for him, thus releasing him from the den.

Mrs. Thompson was the mother of thirteen children, but only one of them, William, who was the town's doctor, had survived to adulthood. Even so, there was still a box of toys for Adam to play with, and he grew to like the tin soldiers in particular. The marbles were also a delight since he hadn't had any before. During the brief hours of daylight, he either played outside in the snow, assisted Mrs. Thompson with her chores, or practiced his letters on a chalkboard.

Adam could read a little, and he knew how to write many words. He knew A-D-A-M and P-A, of course, but also C-A-T, D-O-G, G-U-N, H-A-Y, S-H-O-E, and even F-O-O-D. Mrs. Thompson was very difficult to write, but he did his best.

"It's remarkable that you can write so well already," Mrs. Thompson praised him when he showed her his efforts. "Goodness, you are only four years old. What a smart boy you are."

Every day, he gathered as much firewood from the shed as he could manage, envisioning the heavy loads his father used to haul. Pa had told him to be a good boy, and Adam was determined to be just that. He was no little baby, after all, but almost five. Mrs. Thompson had borrowed him the shoes of his late son and a pair of woolly socks, and Adam could run in the snow all he liked without his toes getting cold.

Among the supplies were bundles of dried shrub branches that Mrs. Thompson had stored for Strawberry for the winter. He diligently carried armfuls of them for the cow and watched in fascination as she ruminated in the light of the fish lantern. One time, he took the hammer to repair a crooked chair. Though the chair remained slightly askew after his efforts, Mrs. Thompson praised him.

"It looks much better," she said, her hands proudly on her hips.

One of the winter storms brought a pack of wolves with it. Mrs. Thompson found their fresh tracks near the barn and hurriedly ushered Adam back inside. From then on, Adam was no longer allowed to play outside, and Mrs. Thompson exchanged her knitting needles for a rifle whenever she stepped out of the cabin.

The network of wrinkles on her small, withered face seemed to deepen as winter stretched on. One evening, while she hummed "Jesus, Let Thy Pitying Eye," her song was abruptly cut off, prompting Adam to abandon the wooden horse and the four-wheeled wagon. He hurried to her side at the spinning wheel.

"What is it, Mrs. Th— Mrs. Thompson!"

One side of her face sagged, and although she attempted a smile, it appeared lopsided. The droop of her upper eyelid had Adam whimper, although he instinctively clutched her hand to his chest.

"Mrs. Thompson…"

With a trembling hand, she reached for the gnarled stick that had once belonged to her husband. When she spoke, not a word of it was English, each slurred word foreign to Adam's ears. He couldn't grasp a single syllable. One side of her face wore a frown, while the other remained sunken as she slowly rose to her feet. Leaning on the walking stick, she hobbled around with Adam trailing behind her anxiously. What had happened to her?

Eventually her face returned to its usual state and Adam's worry lessened. Soothing him, Mrs. Thompson made him wash behind his ears and tucked him in for the night. When Adam finally closed his eyes, Mrs. Thompson was sitting by the stove, knitting quietly.

When Adam woke up, the hut was cold. Mrs. Thompson was still sitting by the stove, her knitting resting in her lap. Next to her on the table, the fish oil lantern flickered a familiar light.

Shivering from the cold, Adam yawned and padded to her. The stove had gone cold.

"Mrs. Thompson," he said, drowsily, and reached for her hand.

It was icy to touch, and it hung down from the arm of the chair like a wet linen from the clothesline on a still day. Her chin drooped towards her chest, the watery eyes fixed on the floor. They reminded him of dead fish.

What Mrs. Thompson was doing, Adam couldn't fathom. Did she usually sleep with her eyes open? He didn't know because he was always asleep before she was, and she had always woken up before him.

Hesitant, he let go of her and went to fetch a quilt from the bed. With goosebumps all over, he wrapped it around her the best he could. Then he stood there by her side, uncertain of what to do next, until finally he pattered to the door to see if the spring had arrived.

Everything looked much the same outside as it had the evening before. Adam held the door open and looked over his shoulder at Mrs. Thompson. He waited until he couldn't stand the cold any longer, but even then Mrs. Thompson didn't tell him to please close the door, dear. In fact, she said nothing. She just sat there, motionless, and stared at something Adam couldn't see.

Had she decided to sleep until spring like some animals did? Why hadn't she told Adam of her plans?

Miserable, Adam, too, went back to sleep with little else to do. Maybe he had simply woken up too early, he concluded. When he would wake up next, Mrs. Thompson would be humming her psalms and scurrying around, preparing breakfast for them both.

But when Adam woke up again, Mrs. Thompson was still sitting by the unlit stove, and the flame in the fish oil lantern was dying out. Betsy had curled up in Mrs. Thompson's lap, and stared at Adam, unmoving.

Adam was hungry and feared the impending darkness. Sniffling a little, he got up and went to the stove. He wasn't allowed to play with fire, but maybe Pa and Mrs. Thompson wouldn't mind it if he lit up the stove? It was awfully cold, after all.

"Mrs. Thompson?" he said, hopeful, but she just kept sleeping with her eyes staring at nothing.

He tried to look after the animals.

Snow had piled up to his waist as he trudged through the drifts, returning to the cabin multiple times to warm himself before finally managing to create a new path to the barn and the henhouse. But when he went to give the hens their share, the rooster attacked him from above.

Adam screamed and ran, claw marks bleeding on his cheeks. He sobbed for a long time, holding on to Mrs. Thompson's skirts. Only when Betsy came to sit in his lap, her fur soft and warm against his face, did his tears begin to dry.

He tried again the next day, but the rooster was already waiting for him. Letting out angry noises, it chased him out before Adam had managed to feed any of the hens.

Unlike the rooster, Strawberry offered him no trouble. She ate all the shrubs Adam hauled for her, but he didn't know how to get her water. The well was frozen. And even if it hadn't been, Mrs. Thompson had told him about the monster that lived in the well. The monster ate little boys who dared to go to the well unsupervised, and Adam had no intention of becoming a meal.

After worrying over the matter the whole morning, he ended up bringing Strawberry a bucket full of snow.

"Oh, I should melt it for you," he realized when Strawberry didn't care for it.

He fetched the fish oil lamp and put it there by the bucket.

But before he knew it, the small flame suddenly reached out for the dried shrubs, curious. At first, the timid flame hesitated. Then it began to devour the shrubs with greed. Suddenly it was no longer dark in the barn at all, and Strawberry cast a terrifying shadow on the wall. The cow let out a loud moo, and the flames clawed up the wall. Adam threw the bucketful of snow at the flames, but it was getting unbearably hot.

His heart raced as the fire consumed the wooden beams.

What had he done?

Nothing remained of the barn and poor Strawberry but the charred ruins, and when the snowstorm next came, it covered what little had once been.

How could it be that fire froze cows? Wasn't fire supposed to melt things?

But he had witnessed it himself, the way the flames had frozen Strawberry in her place. She had ignored all his pleas, all his efforts to get her out. His hands had burned red when he had tried to pull her along, but she had remained rooted to the spot. Choking on smoke, he had eventually let go. He had made his own escape, coughing until something deep inside him had ached.

Strawberry had burned with the barn. Adam could still hear her agonized mooing, the pain he had caused her.

He had killed the cow. He hadn't meant to, but it had still been his fault.

He was Daniel, and Betsy was the angel guarding him.

The lions came at night. He could hear them at the door, trying to find their way inside. They howled and barked, and in the morning, he found the headless rooster and what little remained of the hens. The bloody tracks of the monsters led to the direction of the well, and Adam hid under the bed with Mrs. Thompson's rifle, even though he wasn't allowed to touch guns.

He was Daniel in the lions' den, but this time Mrs. Thompson didn't come to get him out.

He had killed his own Ma. He had killed Strawberry. He hadn't kept the hens safe.

Was he the monster?

He ate snow to quench his thirst, casting nervous glances around. Would the lions return? Would the well monster come for him, too?

Mrs. Thompson still slept. Adam didn't dare venture to the shed for more firewood, so he spent most of his time huddled at her feet, wrapped in as many clothes and quilts as he could find.

Betsy looked after herself, and sometimes she brought him mice. Adam didn't eat them, but she did.

He dreamed of porridge and stew but didn't know how to make them. He mixed flour into the snow and wept as he ate his belly full. Sometimes he threw up, afterward.

Adam caught the tail end of three grey wolves, but by the time he had pulled the rifle from under the bed, the animals had vanished behind the snowdrifts.

That day, when Betsy went outside, she didn't come back.

Adam never saw her again.

The angel had black eyes and deep lines on his golden-brown face.

"Hungry," Adam tried to say, but nothing emerged but an exhalation, hoarse and broken.

His tongue, dry and clumsy, stuck to the parched roof of his mouth. He could barely focus his gaze on anything.

The angel poured blessed life into him, water. He put Adam in a sledge under wolfskins, and then for the longest time, he saw little else but the twinkling stars in the sky above and the vapor of his breath. He drifted in and out, never quite certain when he was dreaming and when he was not. Was he a train? Or was he a boy? Where was Pa?

Where was Pa?

Pa?

Pa?

…Pa?

"Hush, child. You are delirious."

Bad things happened when Pa went away.

He wanted Pa.

"I know, nijanes. But I'll look after you for now."

When the cold was no longer taking greedy bites out of him and warmth embraced him for the first time in ages, a voice echoed from somewhere far away, from somewhere nearby. The angel sported grey streaks in his black hair, and his voice was there between them, between him and the angel, like a vine that tied them together. Adam said his name because the angel asked it, but when it reached his ears an eternity later, it was but a raspy whimper.

"You have a fever, Little Adam," said the angel from the other side of his closed lids.

"You and I, Pa…" Adam said, or thought, or whispered.

You and I, Adam.

And then there was nothing but a cardinal humming its quiet tune. It lulled him into unconsciousness.

A/N: Please give me a reason to continue this story. I've got so many ideas, but I'm feeling down because there will be no more episodes of Bonanza and I miss the characters so much. :')