Ben Cartwright stood beside his small canvas-covered wagon gazing out over the surrounding fields.  In much the same way he had once watched the waves from the bow of the New England square-rigger where he’d served as first mate to Captain Abel Stoddard.  And though it had been six years since he walked a deck, there were times, like this, when the same emotions billowed through his soul, when the emptiness of the land echoed the solitude of the sea.

    The Sangamon Valley of Illinois was a fertile land, a good place to build a home.  But twenty-seven-year-old Ben's sights were set on a more distant horizon, his vision fixed on a less settled land.  He dreamed of being part of this growing nation, of helping expand its frontiers.  He was only one man, of course, perhaps an insignificant one, but the nation would be built of individual dreams, and he was determined to see his fulfilled.

    Ben felt a slight tug on his sleeve and heard a soft whisper.  “Pa?”

    As Ben looked down at the small boy seeking his attention, he wondered if he would ever get used to that term of address.  Young Adam had picked it up from the simple people among whom they'd traveled, and it fell naturally from his lips.  But it still sounded strange to Ben.   He had always called his own father “sir,” and when he'd gone to sea, he'd simply transferred that title and the respect it implied to Captain Stoddard.  Somehow, though, Adam's single soft syllable lay sweeter on Ben's ear than that crisp, respectful "sir" could ever have sounded.

    “Pa?” Adam whispered again.  “Pa, I don't feel good.”

    Alarm instantly registered in Ben's velvet brown eyes, and he stooped at once to feel the child's forehead.  “Why, son, you've got fever,” Ben said.  “Do you hurt anywhere?”

    “Just my head, Pa,” Adam murmured, laying his aching temple against his father's broad shoulder.

    “Well, I think we'd best bed you down right now, son.”   Ben lifted the boy in his arms and carried him to the mattress covering the center of the wagon bed.  Pulling a faded quilt over the child, Ben sat beside him and smoothed a lock of hair, dark like his own, back from the small forehead.  Then his hand rested lightly, lovingly, against Adam's cheek.

    Anyone watching that tableau would have realized that this cherished boy was his father's whole world, all Ben had left of the love he once shared with Elizabeth Stoddard.  Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth, who had died giving this precious gift to Ben.  His heart convulsed at the thought of her.  The wound, though five years old, had never really healed, and Ben doubted it ever would.  Still, he had Adam and his love for the boy eased the pain.  At times like this, though, when the fear of again losing someone he loved hovered near, the pain of Elizabeth's passing seemed as fresh as yesterday.

    It was at times like this, too, that Ben most regretted the lack of female influence in their lives.  It had been hard rearing Adam alone.  He'd had help in the beginning, of course.  He couldn't possibly have cared for an infant alone.  Dear Mrs. Callahan——dear, gray-haired, grandmotherly Mrs. Callahan——how tenderly she had nurtured baby Adam.  She would have known how to nurse a sick child had she still been with them, but Ben and Adam had been alone two years now.

    Thoughts of Mrs. Callahan brought back to Ben's memory that day long ago when they had said good-bye to Captain Stoddard, Elizabeth's father.  How hopefully Ben and Mrs. Callahan, with tiny Adam cradled in her arms, had started out on their great adventure, traveling west in a hired carriage.  But Ben soon learned how impractical such conveyance was.  His share in the New Bedford chandler's shop he had partnered with Captain Stoddard had seemed vast when they started, but his resources melted like snow in the sun with the expense of travel.

    Mrs. Callahan had stayed with him, even though their journey slowed to a walk, even though the West was his dream, not hers.  Her delight lay in caring for the little life entrusted to her.  Where didn't matter.  She had even stayed loyally when Ben missed her first stipend.  He had found employment and quickly paid her, but from that point on Ben found himself stopping more and more frequently to earn money and making less and less progress west.

    Eventually, a higher loyalty called Mrs. Callahan back to New England.  Word came of a sick sister, and Mrs. Callahan returned to nurse her just before Adam's third birthday.  Since then, Ben and his son had traveled alone in a painfully slow advance toward his dream.  Sometimes Ben felt they would never reach their destination.  At other times, like tonight, the wind from the horizon whispered his name and he knew destiny awaited him in the West.

    That destiny would have to be delayed again, though.  With his funds almost depleted and Adam ill, Ben desperately needed to find work.  Harvest had already ended that fall of 1848, so his best hope for employment would be found in a town.  By his calculations they should reach Petersburg tomorrow afternoon.  As Ben lay down beside Adam, he closed his eyes and breathed a silent prayer for God's provision there.

    The day's journey began later than usual the next morning.  Adam had been restless most of the night; and when he finally did fall into a heavy sleep, his father had no heart for waking him with the jolting of the wagon.  But now Ben found himself questioning the wisdom of that decision.  The boy seated beside him seemed unnaturally listless, and his father began to fear he might need medical attention.  How Ben would pay for it was an unanswerable question, though.  He had only a few coins left in his pocket and, what was a more urgent concern, nothing whatever edible in the wagon.  The two-hour delay in starting that morning began to take on increasing significance as the sun reached its zenith without disclosing Petersburg on the horizon.

    When Adam made no complaint about his father’s failure to make a noonday stop, Ben didn't know whether to feel relieved or more concerned than before.  Adam was by nature a good-humored, uncomplaining child, but by no means a reticent one.  Had he felt any desire for food, he would not have hesitated to ask for it.  The fact that the request had not come disturbed Ben and tied his own stomach in such a knot that he, too, had no appetite.

    By mid-afternoon, though, Ben Cartwright was pulling his team to a stop next to Petersburg's local tavern.  Ben tugged the patchwork quilt closer about Adam's shoulders and stepped down from the wagon.  “Stay right here, son,” he instructed.  “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

    Ben hesitated just a moment before entering the Illinois House.  Then, squaring his shoulders, he grasped the door handle with resolve.  The tavern seemed unusually busy for so early in the day.  Men Ben's age and younger, who should have been occupied with their daily labor, were instead gathered around a table, lifting tankards of ale as they took turns singing rousing verses of a song they seemed to be composing as they went.

    Ben ignored them and headed straight for the bar, hat in hand.

    The mustachioed bartender looked up and asked perfunctorily, “What'll it be, stranger?  Whiskey or ale?”

    “Nothing,” Ben replied, though a drink would have moistened his suddenly dry mouth.  “Like some information.”

    “Information?” the bartender asked, looking perturbed at dispensing a free product.  “What kind of information?”

    Though he felt like letting his face drag the floor to hide his desperation, Ben forced himself to look the man in the eyes.  “I was wondering where I could find some work.”

    Instead of the bartender, a man seated at the table next to the bar answered.  “I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place, friend.”  His hand swept toward the singers at the table behind Ben.  “Lots of these local boys looking for work.”

    In a glance Ben took in the quality of clothes the man was wearing:  royal blue jacket with black velvet collar and cuffs and a maroon vest over a frilled shirt with a light blue cravat tied in a stylish bow at the neck.  Obviously, a man of means, probably the proprietor of the tavern.

    Next to such a man, Ben knew he must present a bedraggled appearance in his worn brown pants and tan corduroy vest, its ribs rubbed smooth in several places.  The fact that, in his concern for Adam, he had neglected to shave that morning probably made him look even more like a vagrant.  But once again his need made him swallow his pride.  “Do any kind of job,” Ben said, and though he hated to sound like a beggar, added, “I've got a sick boy out there.”

    Though displaying no overt solicitude, the tavern owner seemed helpful.  “You might try that sawmill at the edge of town.  I'm afraid you won't have much luck.”

    It was only a thread of hope, but Ben grabbed it.  “Well, I'll—I'll try there.  Thanks.”

    From the table of rowdy carousers came a loud voice.  “Hey, you!”

    Ben turned to see a big blonde Swede toss a coin at him.  “Maybe that'll help you get out of town, huh?” the man laughed.

    The pride Ben had been willing to swallow before surged up in his throat.  But he didn't want trouble.  Ignoring the scoffer, he moved toward the door.

    “Hey!” the Swede called again.  “Isn't that enough or would ten cents make you move faster, unh?”

    One of the Swede's older drinking companions hooted.  ‘Gunnar, you're a bad judge of men.  You're too extravagant.  You can tell by just looking at him that he's only worth a nickel!”

    Gunnar laughed.  “No, no, no, no.  Today I feel generous.  Here's a dime, mister.  Come and get it.”

    Slowly, Ben approached the man, but he paid no attention to the outstretched dime.  Instead, he grabbed the Swede, pulled him from his chair and threw him against the bar.  As Gunnar's friend rose to join the fray, Ben decked him with a solid left to the jaw, the fighting skills he had perfected in rowdy seaports around the world making him more than equal to the contest.

    The tavern owner rose from his chair.  “All right, hold it, all of you.”  No one struck another blow, but Ben maintained his fighting stance and kept his eyes sweeping the room in case anyone else decided to mix in.

    The proprietor's voice rose authoritatively.  “Gunnar, you and the rest quiet down or I'll throw you out myself.”

    The Swede picked himself off the floor and walked away, disgruntled, but reluctant to antagonize the owner of his favorite place of diversion.

    Turning to Ben, the tavern owner ordered, “You——come here.”  Still keeping a careful eye on the table occupied by the Swede and his friends, Ben scooped his hat off the floor, where it had fallen during the scuffle, and moved toward the man.

    “Well, you handled yourself pretty well.  I'd've cracked their heads together myself,” the well-dressed man said, obviously impressed by Ben's prowess.  “I could use a man like you around here.  Do odd jobs, clean up, occasionally throw somebody out.  I'll pay you a dollar a day and food.  How about it?”

    Ben's response was immediate.  “When do you want me to start?”

    The man's tone softened as he replied kindly, “That's up to you.”

    Realizing he would have to make some disposition of Adam first, Ben said simply, “I'll be back.”

    His employer's voice stopped him as he started to leave.  “Oh, just a minute.  You can probably use this.”

    Ben looked at the dollar bill being held out to him, his jaw and his fists tightening.  “I'll be back,” he said once more, turned and walked away.

    Outside, Ben stepped briskly to the wagon.  “How are you feeling now, Adam?”

    “My head still hurts, Pa,” forthright Adam replied, “but I'm getting hungry.”

    For the first time that day Ben's expression brightened.  “Well, that's a good sign,” he said cheerily.  “That shows you're getting better.”

    “Pa, are we gonna eat soon?” Adam asked, his voice as close to complaining as Ben had ever heard from his stoical five-year-old.

    “Yeah, son, yeah,” Ben answered, his eyes scanning the street for the prospect of a meal.  His searching brown eyes lighted on a sign across the way, BORGSTROM'S EMPORIUM.  “Yeah, I'll go get something to eat,” he promised.  “I'll be right back.”

    Ben put his hat on and walked purposefully toward the  general store.  Entering, he saw a neatly-coifed blonde woman in her early twenties handing a brown paper-wrapped package to a stout lady. Ben waited by the door until the transaction was finished.

    As the other customer left, the storekeeper's slender hands rested on her narrow waist.  Her pale blue eyes turned to Ben.  “Good afternoon.  Can I help you?” she said with a melodious Swedish accent.

    “Yes, I—uh.”  Ben hesitated, unsure what he could afford.  “Some milk and bread,” he suggested tentatively.

    Above a ruffled white blouse with a narrow red ribbon about the neck, the woman's head tilted to look around the counter.  “You have a container for the milk?”

    “No,” Ben said.

    Though he had tried to disguise it, his concern must have shown, for the storekeeper's voice became soothing, reassuring.  “Oh, it's all right.  I'll loan you one.”  She took a small round covered pail from the counter and turned toward the large metal can behind her.  She plunged a dipper into it and began to ladle creamy milk into the pail.  “I have not seen you before,” she said over her shoulder.  “You must be a stranger in town.”

    “Yes,” Ben responded brusquely, instantly regretting the stiffness of his reply.  He hadn't meant to give her a short answer, but he felt ashamed of his meager circumstances and, therefore, divulged as little as possible of his personal business to strangers.  He needed information, however, and this friendly woman seemed as likely a person as any to ask.  “Would you happen to know of a room that I could rent——cheap?  Where they don't object to children?”

    The woman's face brightened as she continued to fill the milk pail.  “So, you have children?”

    “A five-year-old boy,” Ben replied, that customary brusqueness edging his voice again before he could stop it.

    But nothing seemed to dampen this woman's congenial manner.  “And your wife, she is vith you?” she asked conversationally.

    “No,” Ben said, his tone sharper than before at the reminder of Elizabeth.  “My boy and I are alone.”

    The woman glanced over her shoulder, her face registering compassionate comprehension.  She had heard the tension in Ben's voice and guessed correctly that this rather shabby-looking man and his son were truly alone, that the wife and mother of this family had not just been left at home, but laid to rest in some distant churchyard.

    That understanding moved her habitually helpful heart, but she kept her demeanor business-like to spare her customer further embarrassment.  “Vell, there is a Mrs. Miller who runs a boardinghouse across the street.”  The storekeeper pressed the lid on the milk container and reached for a strip of brown paper in which to wrap the bread.  “It's not very elegant,” she continued, “but it's clean.  And I'm sure she won't obyect to a boy of five.”

    Worried about the cost of his purchase, Ben didn't think to thank her for the information.  “Uh—how much——how much will that be?”

    “Ten cents should do it,” the woman replied.  Her face softened again as she took the two five-cent pieces Ben handed her.  The careful way the stranger had picked through the coins he drew from his pocket told her his life's savings were held in the palm of his hand.  Now she understood his touchiness.  In her business she had seen pride make men act unlike themselves before.

    Ben took the pail and the package of bread.  He intended to leave, but the woman had been so gracious already he found the boldness to speak again.  “Would you—uh——would you have anything for a fever?”

    The blue eyes registered immediate concern.  “Oh?  You are not feeling vell?”

    “Oh, it's not for me,” Ben said immediately, shaking his head to emphasize the words.

    He had no opportunity to say more, for at that moment Adam came through the door.  “Pa?”

    Ben instantly took on the visage of a strict parent.  “Adam, I told you to stay in the wagon,” he said, stepping toward him.  He took the boy's arm and started to turn him around.  “Now, come along.”

    “Pa, I'm not feeling so well,” Adam said, that uncharacteristic fretful whimper tugging at his voice again.

    The stern expression dropped from Ben's face, and a troubled hand reached for Adam's burning cheek.

    The storekeeper's slender fingers rested on Adam's forehead moments after Ben touched him.  “My goodness, child, your head feels varm,” she said as she knelt before him.  “Open your mouth; let me see your throat.”

    Adam responded readily to the gentle touch and the soft command that accompanied it.  The woman peered into his mouth.  Looking up at Ben, she smiled, relieved.  “Oh, it is not bad——just a little on the pink side.  It is a thing of the throat children get.  Oh, vait a minute.  I have something for that.”  She stood, her slate blue skirt rustling as she stepped quickly into an alcove behind Ben.  She took a small gray crock off a low shelf and handed it to him.

    “What is it?” Ben asked warily.

    “Salt pork and onions.”  She smiled at the look on his weathered face.  “Don't laugh; it's an old Svedish remedy.  I'm sure it will help.  When you get to the boardinghouse, ask Mrs. Miller to heat it.”

    She still hadn't addressed Ben's greatest concern.  “Well, how—how much will this be?” he asked, that telltale irritation edging his voice again.

    The woman smiled.  “Nothing; it's for the boy,” she said with a cheerful nod toward Adam.

    Ben bristled.  “I don't need charity.”

    “I'm not offering you charity,” the storekeeper said, the buoyancy of her tone indicating no offense with Ben's continued brusqueness.  “I'm offering you medicine for your boy because I happen to like children.”  She leaned around Ben to look at the boy.  “Good-bye, Adam.  I hope you feel better.”

    Adam responded with the politeness he had been taught, rather than the poor demonstration his father was currently displaying.  “Thank you, ma'am.”  The woman laughed lightly, seeing in the son what the father must be like when worry was not gnawing holes in his heart.

    Ben still felt awkward about taking the medicine without paying.  But the storekeeper's attitude had been too matter-of-fact for him to argue against.  “Come on, Adam,” he said and steered the boy out the door.  Just before exiting himself, Ben turned.  Feeling he should express gratitude for the woman's kindness, he held up the crock of salt pork and onions, but the words just wouldn't come.  He turned away, his emotions swirling in confusion.

    The storekeeper followed him out and stood on the porch watching him cross the street, his right arm gently pressing Adam's shoulder against his hip.  She smiled as she lifted her hand to shade her eyes from the bright sun.  For all his bluntness, there was much love in that man's heart, she decided.  How else could he care so deeply for a child?

    As the winsome Swede watched the Cartwrights, the tavern owner walked up the steps and tipped his hat to her.  “Good afternoon, Inger.  How's business?”

    “Business is fine, thank you, Mr. McWhorter,” Inger Borgstrom replied absently, her hand still shading her eyes as she watched the stranger tenderly lift little Adam into their wagon.

    “Oh, is it?” McWhorter asked.  “I thought it was a little slow.  The town's not doing so well these days.”  Realizing he did not have Inger's attention, he followed her line of vision.  “Oh, he's just some drifter.  I gave him a job cleaning out the stable.”

    Inger looked pleased as she folded her hands demurely in front of her.  “Oh.  Vell, let's hope he does a good yob of it, then.”

    Feeling they had spent enough time discussing trivialities, McWhorter turned to face Inger.  “Now, when am I going to get my answer?”

    A perturbed pucker replaced Inger's smile.  “I gave you your answer, Mr. McWhorter:  I'm not ready to get married yet.”

    “Oh, come now, Inger,” McWhorter urged.  “You're not going to keep me waiting forever, are you?”

    A bemused twinkle flickered in the blue eyes.  “Vell, I'm sorry if you obyect to vaiting.”

    McWhorter caught her amusement and responded lightly, “I don't mind waiting for something I want.”

    Inger's voice still sounded cheerful, but there was a hint of displeasure in her words.  “You do believe in getting what you're after, don't you?”

    “I always have,” McWhorter admitted with a self-assured cock of his head.  “At least, I have up to now.”

    As her prospective suitor walked away, Inger shaded her eyes and looked again at the father and son entering Mrs. Miller's boardinghouse.  Compared to the suave and prosperous Mr. McWhorter, the stranger with the dark stubble on his face looked ill-kempt and indigent.  Even so, Inger felt her heart stir toward him in a way it never had toward McWhorter, despite his persistent declarations of ardor.  She was glad the stranger had found work here and glad she owned a business he was likely to visit again.

    Inside the boardinghouse across the street Ben slipped a nightshirt, once white with purple stripes, but now dingy and pale from many washings, over Adam's head.  Then, sweeping the youngster up in his strong arms, Ben popped the boy into the small bed that had been placed near the foot of the larger one his father would occupy.  Ben broke chunks of bread into the bowl he had borrowed from Mrs. Miller and poured milk over it.  Adam eagerly accepted the spoon his father handed him and began to feed his famished belly.

    Answering the knock on his door, Ben greeted Mrs. Miller.  She handed him a set of towels and asked if there were anything else he or the boy might need.

    “As a matter of fact, yes,” Ben admitted, holding out the gray crock Miss Borgstrom had given him.  “I'd also be very grateful if you heated this up for him.”

    Mrs. Miller’s figure may have suffered from too much enjoyment of her own cooking, but the sympathy she felt for the sick child beautified her plump face.  “The poor little boy.  Of course.  You can come down for it in just a few moments.”

    Ben put on a cheerful face as he closed the door and turned to look at Adam.  “Well!  My goodness,” Ben said, giving his voice a sprightly lilt.  “You certainly didn't waste any time finishing that up.”  He took the empty bowl from Adam and set it on the small table to the right of the boy's bed.

    Adam licked the last few crumbs of bread from his lips.  “I sure wish there'd been some jam with the bread.”

    Ben looked sympathetic.  “Yeah.  Well, it filled the cavity,” he said with a comforting pat on Adam's tummy, “and tomorrow we'll have some real food, huh?”

    Adam nodded trustingly.  “Sure, Pa.”

    Ben stood and headed for the door.

    “Pa?”

    Ben turned.  “Yes, son.”

    Little Adam looked worried.  “Pa, did you have anything to eat?”

    Ben hadn't, of course, but he didn't want Adam to be concerned.  So he added a dash more cheer to his voice as he responded, “Oh.  I'll—I'll have something to eat later.  I'll go downstairs and wait for that medicine.”

    Adam shook his head and frowned.  “I sure wouldn't like that medicine much.  But that lady who gave it to us, she was nice, wasn't she?”

    Ben nodded agreeably.  “Yeah.  Yeah, she was real nice.”  As he walked downstairs, he found himself smiling.  Miss Borgstrom truly was nice, as Adam had said, as nice a person as Ben had met in any of the myriad small towns he'd passed through on his way west.

    After dosing Adam with the warm medicine and getting him settled Ben crossed the street and entered the Illinois House once more.  The tavern was nearly empty now, most of the revelers having left to partake of the evening meal.  Mr. McWhorter, however, was behind the bar.  Ben walked purposefully toward him.

    McWhorter looked surprised.  “I didn't expect you back tonight.”

    Ben shrugged.  “I thought you might have something I could do to earn my supper.  Wouldn't expect any cash for so short a day.”

    McWhorter nodded.  “Fair enough. You can wash up those tankards, clear the tables and sweep up.  That ought to earn your supper for you.”

    Ben nodded his appreciation, turned and began to clear the nearest table.  There was an energy in his movement that belied the stress and strain of the long day he'd had.  Ben felt as refreshed as though he'd spent the entire time lounging on a riverbank.  He had food and shelter for himself and Adam and a job to help him rebuild the nest egg for his dream.  It was all he'd hoped for when he'd prayed for provision the night before.  As he tackled the task of making the tavern shipshape, Ben breathed another prayer, this time one of thanksgiving.

The following afternoon Inger Borgstrom came into the store from the stockroom, stopping in the doorway as she saw the tall blonde man rifling through the cash register.  “Again, Gunnar?” she asked in shocked anger.  “You are always emptying it, little brother, but you never help to fill it.”

    Gunnar didn't even look at her as he continued to pocket the contents of the cash drawer.  “I have the right.  Our father left the store to both of us.”

    “And he expected both of us to run it,” Inger protested, “not one of us to vaste his time and money in McWhorter's tavern.”

    “Don't tell me what to do,” Gunnar demanded.  “I'm not made out for a storekeeper.”

    “What are you made for, Gunnar?” Inger asked, her voice troubled.  “To drink?  To play cards?  To spend your time with your friends talking of going off to the gold mines?”

    Gunnar walked toward Inger.  “I'm old enough not to take orders from my sister.  I vill do as I vant.”

    “Please, Gunnar.  You are vasting your life doing as you vant.”  The warmth in Inger's voice this time came more from concern than anger.  “We could make a success of the store if you vould vork in it.”

    “I vill not vork in it!  I told you I vas cut out for other things,” Gunnar snapped.  He saw his sister's shoulders slump with discouragement, but his temper was out of control and sentiment could not stop his angry accusation.  “If you vould only marry McWhorter, I could sell the stupid store!”  Without a backward glance he stormed out.

    Just as Inger had feared, Gunnar went directly to the Illinois House and joined the usual group of guzzling gripers.  While the idle young men dallied over a game of cards, the complaints were the same as the day before and the day before that and days and days and days before that.  The chief subject of the murmuring was the lack of opportunity for a young man in Petersburg, Illinois.  And the proffered solution was the same one suggested every day.

    “The ground is rich with gold in California,” Gunnar's most vocal companion said for perhaps the hundredth time, “and I've been hearing such tales it makes my very skin crawl and my hands itch for the feel of it.”

    Gunnar grabbed a handful of coins off the table and held them under his friend's nose.  “But you need money,” he pointed out impatiently.  “For gear, for grub.”

    The other man waved Gunnar's objections aside.  “The boys and I sold everything we have—to McWhorter.  We got all the money we need.”

    “I don't have any money,” Gunnar said bitterly.

    “But you have a store!  Sell it, man; sell it.  McWhorter'll buy it.”

    From behind the bar McWhorter listened with interest, his eyes fixed on Gunnar's face, for the Borgstrom Emporium was a business he had long coveted.  In fact, if the truth were told, his long courtship of Inger was as much a courtship of the business as of its proprietress.

    Gunnar shrugged in disgust.  “It belongs half to my sister.”

    “But it's in your name, isn't it?” his friend asked.

    “Yah, yah, it's all in my name,” Gunnar admitted.

    “Then, that makes it yours,” the prospective gold miner declared vehemently.  “California's no place for the soft-hearted, Gunnar.”

    McWhorter decided the moment was ripe to add his influence.  “You boys talking about California again, as usual?”

    “Not just talking about it, McWhorter,” Gunnar's friend announced pridefully.  “We'll all soon be on our way.”

    “All but you, eh, Gunnar?” McWhorter egged.  “What about my offer?  That'll get you there and beyond.”

    “You know why I can't sell you the store,” Gunnar said glumly just as Ben Cartwright entered from the back.  Carrying a crate of tankards, Ben went behind the bar to set them in order.

    “Why not?” Gunnar's friend demanded.  “Aren't you man enough to handle your sister?”

    Ben's ears pricked up.  For the first time he made the connection between the soft-spoken lady he had met yesterday and the lumbering Swede who had taunted his poverty earlier.  Miss Borgstrom was unmarried, then.  For some reason Ben couldn't quite fathom, that revelation pleased him.

    Gunnar, though, was decidedly displeased by his friend's accusation.  “I'm man enough, Brewster, and you know it.  It's Inger; she's as stubborn as my father vas.”

    McWhorter laughed.  “All she needs is a husband!”

    Brewster smirked.  “Wouldn't you like to tame her, McWhorter?”

    Ben glanced sharply over his shoulder and saw McWhorter acknowledge the remark with a half-smile.  It was none of Ben's business, of course, but he felt troubled by McWhorter's interest in Inger Borgstrom.  She deserved better.  McWhorter had treated Ben well enough, but there was a business hardness about him that Ben had seen in earlier employers.  He felt certain as giving a woman as Miss Borgstrom would not be happy married to such a man.

    But Ben kept his opinions to himself as he finished his day's work and headed back to the boardinghouse.  After all, he had more pressing concerns than Inger Borgstrom's future.  He had a sick boy to see to.  Adam had seemed better when Ben checked on him at noon, but it had hurt to leave the ailing youngster alone.  Of course, Mrs. Miller had promised to look in on Adam, but she had work of her own to tend to.  Ben knew he couldn't expect her to give his son the attention the boy really needed.

    As Ben walked down the hall toward his room, he heard the strains of a familiar tune.  He stopped outside his door and tried to let the pain wash through him.  But anger followed in its wake, Ben's concern for his son's health drowned in the surge of emotion.  Adam knew better; he'd been told again and again to respect his father's property.      Ben opened the door and stormed in.  He was somewhat taken aback by the presence of Adam's visitor.  But even that did not dissipate Ben's paternal ire.  Tossing his hat on the table by the door, Ben grabbed the music box from Adam's hands and closed it quickly to shut out the painful music.

    Inger Borgstrom looked up at Ben, her blue eyes registering surprise and concern.  “He asked me if he could play it.  I said it vas all right,” she explained in Adam's defense.

    “What are you doing here?” Ben asked abruptly.

    Inger smiled.  “I'm giving your son his medicine.  I knew you'd be busy.”

    Ben took the bowl from her.  “I can take care of my son,” he asserted stiffly.

    Inger rose from her chair and began to tie the strings of her cloak.  “I'm sure you can, but not while you're vorking all day.”

    “Miss Borgstrom, I had to take your medicine” Ben snapped, still disgruntled by his need for that charity.  “That doesn't mean I can't handle my own affairs.”

    Inger's open face looked incredulous.  “But, Mr. Cartwright, why are you so against anyone helping you?”

    Ben didn't answer her.  Instead, he delivered the lecture he had intended when he first entered.  “Adam, I don't ever want you to play this again.  Do you understand?”

    Adam's dark eyes showed his disappointment, but he answered his father with a wordless nod.

    “He told me about the music box,” Inger said.  “Did it belong to his mother?”

    “Yes, it did,” Ben said tersely as he sat in the chair by Adam's bed that Inger had vacated.

    “He's better,” Inger said encouragingly.  “His throat is better; his fever seems less.  But I think he should continue vith the medicine.”

    Ben stood, suddenly awkward.  “I—I was gonna come by the store soon as I'd cleaned up a bit.  I don't mean to be ungrateful.  It's just—”

    Inger tilted her blonde head to peer intently at Ben.  “You know, vithout that dirty beard, your face looks quite nice.  In fact, if you wore a smile on it sometimes, it might be quite an attractive face.”  She turned to go, then glanced back, her face merry.  “You know, I think you could used a good meal yourself, Mr. Cartwright.  As soon as Adam is asleep, come to my house for dinner.  It's right next to the store.”

    As the Swedish lady breezed out the door, Ben felt the corner of his mouth twitch in consternation at her persistent sunniness in the face of his surly rebuffs.

    From the bed behind his father, Adam piped up.  “You know, Pa, she's a real nice—”

    “I know, son,” Ben interrupted with a smile as he spun around to face the boy.  “She's a real nice lady.”  Ben laughed.  “Well, young fella, let's finish up this medicine.”  He spooned some into Adam's reluctantly obedient mouth and crooned, “There we are.”

    A strange nervousness danced through Ben's stomach as he carefully brushed his Sunday suit.  Like his everyday clothes, it had seen better days.  But it was the only good garment he had left from the wardrobe with which he'd left New Bedford.  Of course, Miss Borgstrom had only been extending the milk of human kindness when she invited him to dinner.  Nothing more.  But Ben wanted to look his best, for some reason wanted——no, needed——her to see him as something other than a ungrateful beggar.

    Looping his necktie, Ben examined his reflection in the small mirror above the washstand and smiled in satisfaction.  Miss Borgstrom had said he'd have an attractive face if he wore a smile on it.  Though Ben was not a vain man, at this moment he had to agree.  Being dressed up made him feel attractive and renewed the self-confidence he'd always felt when commanding men aboard ship.  It had been a long time since he'd felt that way, though, a long time since he'd been anything but a menial worker. Tonight, though, he felt more like his true self than he had in years.  And it seemed important that Inger Borgstrom meet the real Ben Cartwright, not the shabby shadow of the man who had walked into her store yesterday.  Stopping only long enough to drop a farewell kiss on slumbering Adam's forehead, Ben headed toward the Borgstrom home next to the store.

    The house was small, but Ben couldn't remember ever being in one as homey.  Though the furnishings were simple, there were traces everywhere of its mistress's creative touch.  Hand-stitched curtains, pillows and table coverings in soothing shades of blue calmed Ben's heart the way watching the blue of a clear sky reach down to stroke the sapphire sea had once done.  It had been years since Ben had spent an evening in a real home, and it made him feel——well, homesick——downright homesick for a home, Ben decided.

    He smiled at Inger Borgstrom as she brought a fresh-baked pie to the table for dessert.  “The food is not much,” Inger apologized.

    “Oh, it's been very good,” Ben replied earnestly.  The meal may have seemed inadequate to his hostess, but it was a feast in Ben's eyes.  Not to mention in his contented stomach.  He just hoped he'd have room for that delicious-looking pie.

    “It's been a hard year all through Illinois,” Inger said, still trying to explain the meager meal she had offered her guest.

    “Not as hard as those farmers when it comes to paying their bills,” her brother Gunnar grumbled.  His scowling presence at the table had been the only detraction from what Ben considered a perfect evening.

    “They vill pay their bills, Gunnar,” Inger asserted as she sliced the apple pie.  “They are honest people.”

    “Honest people who vant everything on credit,” Gunnar growled.

    “Please, Gunnar; ve have a guest.”  Inger handed Ben his slice of pie with a smile.

    Ben returned the smile warmly.  “This looks wonderful,” he said enthusiastically, “and I do thank you for your hospitality.”

    “Have you been a long time on the road?” Inger asked.

    “Yes,” Ben admitted, “yes, we haven't come too far in the amount of time it's taken.  Four years to get from New England to Illinois.”

    “Four years!” Inger looked shocked.  “But surely it should not take so long.”

    Ben rested his fork on the edge of his dessert plate.  “Well, we weren't on the move all the time.  We made quite a few stops.”  He cut off another bite of pie.  “You have to have funds to keep going,” he added with a short laugh.

    “Yah,” Gunnar agreed bitterly.  “A man can go nowhere vithout money.”

    Inger felt a quick change of subject was in order.  “You say you came from New England.  What did you do there?”

    Ben settled back in his chair.  “I was a seaman most of my life.  I wound up a first mate.”  For the first time Gunnar showed an interest in their guest.  “When I married,” Ben continued, “I opened up a ship's chandler's shop.  Then when my wife died, my boy and I set out to build a new life.”

    “Why didn't you go back to sea?” Gunnar spat out in disgust.  “There's a life for a man!”

    With the confidence of a man who knows he's made the right choice, Ben smiled in the face of his critic.  “It's pretty hard to raise a boy when you're off at sea most of the time.”  He turned to Inger's more welcoming countenance.  “I'd always had a dream about the West.  It's a new country; it's big and I want to be part of it——to build, to grow things—”

    Inger smiled.  It was the kind of dream she understood, the kind she had once shared with her father.

    The same memory came to Gunnar's mind, though he saw it from a different perspective.  “Yah, yah,” he muttered disdainfully.  “That vas just like my father.  He had a dream of a new land, too.  Where did it get him?  A dirty store on a prairie crossroads.  He vorked ‘til the sweat poured off him and all he had when he died vas that store.”

    “But his dream of a new land; at least, he never gave that up,” Inger protested proudly.

    “What do I care about a storekeeper's dream?” Gunnar snarled.

    Inger's face burned with solemn anger.  “That is your sin, Gunnar,” she said gravely.  “It is a sin to not care.”

    “Don't tell me what's a sin!  Don't preach to me all the time!”  Gunnar stood, wiped his mouth and tossed his napkin onto the table.  “I'm sick of listening to you,” he snapped as he left the room abruptly.

    Inger lowered her head, embarrassed.  “I'm sorry, Mr. Cartwright.  This vas no vay to treat a guest.”

    “It's been a wonderful evening,” Ben said with such sincerity Inger knew he meant it.  “I haven't enjoyed one like this for such a long time.  But I really should be going. I left Adam alone with Mrs. Miller.”  He patted his lips with his napkin and rose slowly, as if reluctant even now to end the “wonderful evening.”

    Inger stood, too, smoothing her snowy apron over her soft blue shirtwaist.  “I—I hope——I hope ve vill be friends,” she said, struggling to find the words she wanted.

    “Thank you,” Ben responded cordially.  “Good night, Miss Borgstrom.”

    “Good night, Mr. Cartwright.”  Inger extended her hand.

    Ben took it without a word.  But no words were needed.  The touch itself communicated mutual respect and honest affinity.  As Ben left, he found his thoughts remaining with the congenial Miss Borgstrom.  And the way her eyes followed his retreating figure suggested hers went with him.

Sunday morning Ben dressed again in the brown suit he'd worn to dinner at the Borgstrom's three days before.  As he settled his broad shoulders into the jacket, he whistled a lively tune until he saw Adam grinning at him.

    “You sure sound happy, Pa,” Adam tittered.

    “Well, I feel happy,” Ben replied with a lilt in his voice.  “Our board is paid for another week, and I still have thirty cents left to splurge on my boy.”

    Adam's dark eyes went wide.  “Thirty cents for me?”

    “In one way or another,” Ben laughed.  “I'll have to set some of it back for new shoes since you've nearly outgrown your old ones.  But I figure I could let you have a nickel to fritter any way you please.”

    “Oh, boy!”  Adam stood on his bed and threw his arms around his father's neck.  “Thanks, Pa.”

    “Well, you've earned it,” Ben said with a proud pat on Adam's head.  “You've stayed abed just as Pa asked, and I know it was hard for you.”

    Adam bounced on his bed.  “Can I spend it today, Pa?  Can I, huh?”

    Ben wrestled Adam back onto his pillow.  “No stores open on Sunday, silly.  But if your fever stays down, I might take you shopping tomorrow.”

    “At Miss Inger's store?”

    Ben laughed.  “Miss Inger, is it?  You've become quite friendly with that lady, haven't you, son?”

    Adam nodded soberly.  “She's a real nice—”

    “A real nice lady.”  Ben shook his head, amused at Adam's persistent praise of his new friend.  “You don't have to keep telling me.  I think so, too.”  Ben reached down to muss Adam's hair.  “You be a good boy while Pa's at church, and I'll spend the whole afternoon with you.  How's that sound?”

    “It'd sound better if you said I could go with you,” Adam said, his small lips forming a pout.

    Ben sat down and took Adam's hand.  “I know you're tired of being cooped up, son, but I'd rather not chance taking you out today.  There's such a brisk wind.  But I do have a special treat for you this afternoon.”

    Adam sat up eagerly.  “Tell me, Pa.”

    Ben's brown eyes twinkled.  “Wouldn't you rather be surprised?”

    Adam shook his head in vehement denial.  “Tell me, Pa," he insisted.

    “Oh, all right,” Ben said indulgently.  “Mrs. Miller found some old storybooks that used to belong to her little boy.  How'd you like Pa to read you some new stories?”

    “Oh, yeah!”  Adam glowed with anticipation, for there was nothing he liked as much as hearing his father's deep cello-toned voice reading a story.  And a brand new one?  Yes, that was well worth spending one more day indoors.

    Ben's conversation with Adam made him a little late in arriving at the white frame church near the edge of town.  He slipped quietly into the back pew and turned to the hymn number being announced from the pulpit.  But if he had hoped to remain inconspicuous, that hope lost all chance of fulfillment the moment he opened his mouth.  His rich baritone harmony turned many heads in his direction as interested eyes peered from beneath stylish bonnets to locate its source.  Only one set interested Ben, a pair of lake blue eyes that demurely sought their owner's hymnal after she gave him a welcoming smile.

    Ben, too, turned his attention to the service.  But he had far more difficulty than usual in keeping his mind on the parson's words.  It was a good thing Adam was not there to sense his father's wandering mind, Ben admitted with chagrin.  One morning's bad example might have undermined half a decade's careful training.

    After the final amen Ben waited outside until Inger Borgstrom came out.  Seeing Ben, she walked quickly toward him, extending her hand.  Ben closed his broad palm around her slender fingers.  “Might I walk you home, Miss Borgstrom?"“ he asked.  “Unless, of course, you're with someone else.”

    “I am alone,” Inger answered with a hint of sadness.  “Gunnar used to bring me, but it seems the more he thinks of gold fields, the less he thinks of God and other good things.”

    Ben slipped his arm through Inger's.  “I've heard Gunnar and his friends at the tavern talk about going west to find gold, and I must confess I'm confused.  I realize I've been traveling a lot and may have missed the news, but I don't recall hearing of any gold found in California.’

    Inger fell into step beside Ben as he led her down the street.  “Yah, there have been some reports, but I do not know how accurate they are.  One of Gunnar's friends has relatives in Philadelphia.  Last month they sent him a clipping from a paper there that printed a report from a minister in Monterey.”

    “A minister?”  Ben asked, incredulous.  “It's hard to believe a true man of God would desert his high calling to grub in the earth for mere mammon.”

    Inger waved a hand in protest.  “No, no, I do not say he did.  The article spoke of his seeing other men——farmers, lawyers, doctors, and, yes, even priests——leaving their true vork to serve this, this golden goddess.  And now it seems Gunnar means to vorship her, too.  It vould grieve Mama so.”

    Ben gave his companion's forearm a gentle squeeze.  “I think it grieves you, too, Miss Borgstrom.”

    “Yah, it grieves me.  I fear for him, Mr. Cartwright.  The path he is choosing, it——it is so far from what our father dreamed of when ve came to America.”

    “Every man has a right to his own dreams, Miss Borgstrom,” Ben said quietly.

    Inger looked up sharply.  “Yah, that is true.  But I do not think Gunnar dreams at all.  Or if he does, they are but shallow, stagnant dreams——not like your dream of building, growing things.  But enough of such thoughts.  How is Adam?  I thought he might be vell enough to be out today.”

    “You should know,” Ben said with a meaningful smile.  “You've seen almost as much of him as I have these last few days.”

    Inger laughed.  “You did not mind my visiting him?”

    “No, certainly not,” Ben said, “though I don't wonder you questioned it, considering my rudeness on your first visit.  To answer your other question, Adam probably is well enough to be up and around.  But with the weather turning so cold, I thought one more day inside would be safer.”

    Inger nodded as she drew her crocheted shawl tighter.  “Yah, that vas wise.  You are a good father, Mr. Cartwright.”

    “Please call me Ben.”

    “If you vill call me Inger,” the lady laughed.

    “It would be a pleasure.”

    As they reached the front porch of the Borgstrom residence, Inger turned to face Ben.  “Vould you like to come inside, Ben?  Dinner vill be ready soon.”

    “Thank you, but I promised Adam I'd spend the afternoon with him.  We have so little time together.”

    “Yah, it must be hard to go avay to vork and leave him alone,” Inger said, giving Ben's shoulder a sympathetic touch.  “Perhaps you vould both enjoy an outing next Sunday, though.  Adam should be quite vell by then.  Vould you like to share a picnic lunch?”

    “A picnic sounds delightful, and I'm sure Adam will find the prospect most exciting.”  Ben reached around Inger to open the door for her.  “We may see you tomorrow noon, as well.  Adam has a few pennies to spend.”

    “Vell, ve vill try to make them stretch a long vay,” Inger laughed.

    Ben stiffened.  “We don't ask more than fair value for our money.  I told you before I don't need charity.”

    Inger's blue eyes snapped.  “And I do not need you to tell me how to price my goods, Mr. Cartwright!”

    Ben tipped his hat.  “Good day, Miss Borgstrom.”  Then he caught himself, realizing he didn't want to part in anger.  “Good day, Inger,” he said more quietly.

    Inger's face relaxed.  “Good day, Ben.  If you tell me your favorite pie, I vill fix it for the picnic.”  Mischief sparkled in the clear blue eyes.  “Unless, of course, you think that is charity.”

    Ben laughed.  “Perhaps I do need charity, Inger, if it comes in the shape of pie.  And I'm sure any variety you prepare will become my favorite.”

    Young Adam considered that week one of the best of his life.  As promised, Pa spent Sunday afternoon reading a treasure trove of new stories.  Then Monday, they visited the store, where Adam's nickel purchased a surprisingly full sack of gumdrops.  Pa had frowned a little at that, but Miss Inger had given him back a look that definitely said she was in charge of gumdrops and Adam's father had better not argue about it.  Adam couldn't help grinning when he remembered how quick Pa had backed down and let Miss Inger have her way.

    The rest of the week passed quickly in anticipation of the promised picnic, and its fulfillment after church Sunday was marvelous beyond Adam's dreams.  The food basket was stuffed with savory meat pies, potato salad and a wonderful deep-dish apple pie for dessert.  Afterwards, Pa pointed out a good spot and Adam settled down on a large rock to angle for catfish.  Pa usually fished with him when they had time for an afternoon together, but today he didn't seem in the mood.  Glancing over his shoulder, Adam saw his father, head propped on one elbow, lounging on the tablecloth that had held their dinner.  Adam shook his head.  Pa must be real tired from his week's work to just lie around like that staring at Miss Inger.  Well, then, it would be up to Adam to provide the fish for their supper.  Relishing the feeling of responsibility, the boy squared his shoulders and turned his attention back to his line.

    Inger Borgstrom sat with her back against a tall oak on the banks of the Sangamon River, her eyes brimming with content.  “The fox grapes are sweet,” she told Ben, lifting another one to her mouth.

    Ben gazed dreamily at Inger in her blue, lace-bodiced Sunday best, her hair hanging down with a blue ribbon tied in back.  “Umm,” he crooned.  “Everything around here is sweet——the air——the water.”  He gave her a meaningful smile and added, “The company.”

    Inger ducked her head modestly.  “You——you have a big spot of purple on your chin.”

    Ben wiped his chin with one broad finger.  “All right?”

    Inger nodded, then looked demurely away as she felt Ben's eyes rest on her face.  “What are you looking at?”

    Ben didn't answer directly.  “There's so many places I might have passed through on my way west.  I might have missed you.”

    “Vell, I am a very large peasant voman, Ben,” Inger said, blushing.  “It vould be hard to miss me.”

    “You're a very beautiful peasant woman,” Ben said warmly.

    “Ach, no,” Inger said, “My nose is too long and my hands are rough.”

    “You're fishing for compliments!” Ben accused, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

    Inger laughed.  “I hope I do better vith those than vith the catfish.”  Ben had tried to show her how to bait a hook earlier, but Inger felt too much sympathy for the poor worms to skewer them successfully.

    “Oh, you leave those to Adam,” Ben advised.  “He's a pretty good fisherman.”

    They both looked a short way down the riverbank to where Adam sat, pole in hand.  “He's a fine boy, Ben,” Inger said.

    “Yes.”  Ben's eyes sparkled with pride as he watched his son.  “It was nice of you to ask us to share a picnic with you.”

    “Vell, it's Sunday, isn't it?” Inger asserted.  “A man deserves a rest after a long veek's vork.”  Her work week had been just as long, Ben knew, but that didn't seem important to this generous-spirited woman.

    She looked at the river flowing to her left.  “Ve have a river in Sveden like the Sangamon——cold from the snows on the mountains.  When ve were children, my brother Gunnar and I used to run along the bank picking strawberries, eating them until ve were sick.”  Inger laughed nostalgically.

    “You have a head full of happy memories, haven't you?”

    Inger nodded quietly, a soft smile on her lips.  “And you?”

    Ben shrugged.  “Some good, some bad.”  He rubbed his hand across the tablecloth beneath him.

    “You——you loved your wife very much, didn't you?” Inger asked, broaching the subject tentatively.

    Ben's demeanor was instantly more sober.  “Yes, I loved her very much.”

    In the quiet that followed Ben's hushed response another voice was heard.  “Inger!  Inger!”  Ben stood to his feet as he saw Inger's brother Gunnar stalking toward them.

    “Ah, here you are,” Gunnar sputtered accusingly.  “I've been looking all around for you.”

    “Why?  Is there anything wrong?” Inger asked.

    Gunnar didn't answer; instead, he gave an order.  “Get back to town right away!”

    “But it is Sunday,” Inger protested.  “The store is closed.”

    “Mr. McWhorter came around in his new carriage asking for you,” Gunnar announced.

    Inger stiffened.  “I did not tell Mr. McWhorter I vould go riding vith him,” she said brusquely.

    “Nah,” Gunnar snapped.  “But you go off on a picnic vith a penniless drifter.”

    “Gunnar!” Inger exclaimed, shocked by his rudeness.

    “Gunnar, wait a minute,” Ben said.

    “You stay out of this!” Gunnar snarled.

    “I'm trying to tell you there's nothing to be angry about,” Ben explained.

    “I tell you something!  You stay avay from my sister!”

    “Gunnar, you are my brother, not my father,” Inger declared, a hint of banked fire in her words.

    “You be quiet!” Gunnar demanded.  “I do what is best for you.”

    “You do not run my life,” Inger reminded him.

    “Get back to town!”  Turning abruptly, Gunnar stormed away with long steps.

    Inger turned to Ben, sorrow and shame in her eyes.  “Oh, Ben, I am sorry.  He is young and unhappy.”

    “And very angry——with me,” Ben said soberly as he sat once more on the ground at the feet of the gentle Swedish woman.

    They said very little to each other after that.  Adam came running up shortly with a string of catfish, and for his sake they tried to keep up the illusion of light-hearted fun.  But the charm of their happy afternoon had been spoiled by the intrusion of conflict.  They fried and ate the catfish with only perfunctory words passing between them.

    Even Adam seemed unusually silent, as if he sensed the troubled thoughts of his father and his friend.  But for him, at least, the magic of their adventure had not been tarnished.  He fell asleep that night dreaming of picnics to come.

    Ben was at work behind the bar of the Illinois House when Gunnar Borgstrom, disgruntled eyes raking the floor, shuffled in.  Ben started to pour Gunnar's customary shot glass of whiskey, but Mr. McWhorter came behind the bar and took the glass from Ben's hand.  “I'll serve Mr. Borgstrom,” McWhorter said.  “We're running low on ale.  Bring another keg in from the back, Cartwright.”

    “Right away, sir,” Ben replied, leaving immediately and, if the truth were told, eagerly.  After Gunnar's sharp words yesterday Ben did not want to risk another angry confrontation.

    McWhorter drew himself a tankard of ale and carried it and Gunnar's drink to the Swede's table.  “Hello, Gunnar,” he said pleasantly, drawing up a chair.  “Did you tell your sister I was looking for her yesterday?”

    “Yah, I tell her,” Gunnar mumbled.

    McWhorter leaned forward eagerly.  “Well, come on, man; tell me.  What did she say?”

    Gunnar shook his head.  “My sister is a stubborn voman, Mr. McWhorter.”

    “You're the man in the house, aren't you?” McWhorter goaded.  “Since your father's gone, it's your job to see that things go right for your sister.”

    Gunnar nodded.  “Yah, I vant them to go right for her.  It vas our father's vish that I vatch out for her.”

    “Watch out for her?” McWhorter scoffed.  “How?  By seeing her waste away in that store across the street?”

    Gunnar's eyes narrowed.  “Mr. McWhorter, if I sell you the store and Inger still doesn't marry you, what happens to her then?”

    “Not marry me?”  McWhorter almost laughed.  “Why, I've got everything in the world to give her——richest man in the county.  Help you, too.”

    “Me?” Gunnar snorted.  “I don't need help.”

    “It takes money to go to the gold fields, Gunnar——lots of it,” McWhorter said pointedly.  “Now, I could help a brother-in-law, give him all the money he needs.  Tell her, Gunnar.  Tell her how good I'd be for the both of you.”

    Ben entered from the back carrying the requested keg of ale under his left arm.  As he went around the bar and began to dry the tankards he had been washing earlier, Gunnar leaned close to McWhorter.  “You'd be better off vithout that stranger around,” he whispered.

    “Stranger?” McWhorter asked.

    “That man you have vorking for you,” Gunnar responded with a significant glance toward the bar.  “My sister vent on a picnic vith him yesterday.”

    “With Cartwright?”

    Gunnar nodded.  “She's seeing him.  And I think she likes him.”

    McWhorter rose at once and approached the bar.  “Cartwright, I want to talk to you.”

    Ben turned.  “Yes, Mr. McWhorter?”

    “It's about Inger Borgstrom.”

    Ben’s gaze grew wary.  “Yes?”

    “I'm going to marry her,” McWhorter announced with as much conviction as if the invitations had already been engraved and sent.

    “I didn't know,” Ben said sharply.  “She didn't tell me anything about that.”

    “I don't want some shiftless drifter hanging around her,” McWhorter demanded.

    Ben bristled.  “When Miss Borgstrom tells me that—”

    “Well, I'm telling you,” McWhorter stated flatly.  “And here's something else I'm telling you:  there's no place in this town for you!”

    Ben took a final swipe at the tankard he was holding.  “Does that mean I'm fired?”

    “That's exactly what it means,” McWhorter declared, spun on his heels and left abruptly.

    Ben stood dazed for a moment.  Gunnar got up and sauntered over to him.  Tossing a dime on top of the bar, Gunnar grinned smugly.  “Here, drifter.  Maybe you're not too proud to take that now!”  With a roaring laugh, he left for home.

    In a somber mood Ben untied the black apron around his waist, dropped it on the bar and headed for the boardinghouse.  He had no idea where he'd go beyond that, though.  Much as he hated the term “drifter,” Ben found himself wondering if that didn't describe his destiny far better than his cherished dream of settling in the West.

    Adam was disappointed when Ben told him it was time to load the wagon and leave Petersburg.  He liked this town.  He hadn't had time to make friends his own age, but then he rarely did.  He had, however, made a new friend in Miss Inger, and the thought that they'd never share another picnic saddened him.  He didn't share his feelings with his father, however.  It was obvious Pa had feelings of his own——dark ones that Adam was wiser not prying into.  Adam didn't have to ask if Pa had lost his job; his father was acting just the way he had the other times that had happened.  Adam knew without asking, so he quietly packed away his own feelings along with his shirts and pants and helped Pa carry their belongings to the wagon.

    Adam climbed in to arrange the bundles Pa handed him.  They had almost stowed away all their meager possessions when Adam saw Miss Inger running across the street and heard her calling his father's name.

    “Ben!  Ben, I vant to talk vith you,” Inger called urgently.  But Ben didn't respond; he turned silently and headed back inside to finish packing.  “Ben Cartwright!” Inger called more loudly.  “The least you can do is listen to me.”

    Ben turned at the door of the boardinghouse.  “Why?” he demanded.  “So you can tell me you're going to marry McWhorter?”  Abruptly, he turned his back and went inside.

    Inger followed him.  “Marry McWhorter?  Who told you that ridiculous story?”

    Ben faced Inger again, sparks flashing in his brown eyes.  “McWhorter did,” he said bluntly.  “Just before he fired me.”

    “And you believed him?”  Inger's voice was sharp with anger.

    “Why shouldn't I?” Ben snapped and walked swiftly to his room.

    But Inger was close on his heels, entering the small room without invitation.  “Is—is that why you're moving again?”  When Ben made no response, Inger's tone grew hotter.  “Did you hear me, Ben?”

    Ben hastily folded his remaining clothes.  “There's nothing for me in this town.  There's no future here.”  One by one he thrust the clothes into his carpetbag, so carelessly it made his previous folding pointless.

    Inger clasped her arms tight against her body.  “So, what vill you do——go glowering through the vorld the rest of your life?” she asked with a hint of sarcasm in her tone.  “What becomes of Adam?”

    That remark burned Ben's pride.  “He'll be all right; I'll take care of him.”

    “Can you?” Inger asked more gently.  “Ben, listen to me.  How much longer can you go on drifting this way, running avay from your memory of Elizabeth?”

    Ben's face tightened.  Was there no subject so private this exasperating woman would not intrude upon it?  “She has nothing to do with it,” Ben said tautly.

    “She dwells over your head like a cloud,” Inger accused with barely concealed bitterness.  “She's in your voice, in your heart.  Vell, she's dead, Ben,” Inger added with grim force.  “You can't carry her vith you for the rest of your life!”

    “It's my life,” Ben snapped.  “It's my business!”

    Inger's hands came together in a gesture of entreaty.  “I—I have a better answer than that——a simple solution.  You could come to vork for me in the store.”  The heat returned to her voice. “If your stubborn pride vould let you!”

    “I don't need your help,” Ben declared.  “I don't need any woman's help.  I'm man enough to stand on my own two feet.”

    “I—I'll tell you what I think, Ben Cartwright,” Inger stuttered, finally losing her precarious hold on her emotions.  “I think you left your manhood behind vith your dead wife!”  Breaking into sobs, she ran from the room, almost stumbling into Adam as he came in to see what was keeping Pa so long.

    Adam stopped in the doorway.  “Pa, why did she run away?”

    “I don't know, son,” Ben said absently.  Then, his head lifted in sudden comprehension.  He laid one hand on Adam's shoulder.  “No, I—I do know,” he said as he moved past Adam.

    “Inger——Inger, wait,” Ben called from the porch of the boardinghouse.

    Arms held stiffly to her side, Inger stopped by the oak tree that grew in the middle of Petersburg's dusty main street, but she wouldn't face Ben.

    “Inger, I'd like to talk with you,” Ben said as he caught up with her.

    “Talk?” Inger muttered, pain in her voice.  “What good vill talking do?”  She took a step away.

    Ben grasped her elbow.  “Inger, I—I want to do as you suggest.  I'll work in the store.”

    Inger's blue eyes lighted like sunshine on an alpine lake as she turned to look at Ben.  “Oh, Ben, that's vonderful!”

    “Inger, I—I'm not a rich man,” Ben began tentatively.  “I have a young son.”  As Inger nodded, Ben continued, encouraged by her attention.  “But I do have a dream, a big dream——if only I could ask you to share it with me—”

    Inger's face grew brighter.  “Ask me, Ben; ask me!”

    “Inger, I, Inger—” Ben broke off, unable to put his desire into words.

    But Inger had read his heart and responded eagerly.  “Yes, Ben, I vill marry you!”

    Ben gathered his future bride in his arms and kissed her lips firmly.

    “Oh, Ben,” Inger protested demurely.  “What vill people say?  What vill they think?”

    Ben almost shouted his joyous response.  “Well, people will say that Miss Inger Borgstrom is going to marry Mr. Benjamin Cartwright!”  He pulled Inger close and kissed her again.

    Across the street McWhorter watched through eyes as hard as cast iron while Ben lifted Inger from her feet, swung her around with frolicsome energy, then walked with her to Borgstrom's Emporium.

    Inside the store Ben assumed a business-like attitude.  “Well, Miss Borgstrom, where do I start?”

    Inger laughed.  “Not here, not today.  Or have you forgotten you have a vagon to unpack?”

    Ben chuckled.  “You know, I had.  I'm afraid I also forgot my young son, who must be thoroughly confused by now.”

    Inger looked shyly into Ben's face.  “You vill tell him about us?”

    Ben took both of Inger's hands and pressed them warmly.  “I'm sure he'll be as happy as I am.  I think he fell in love with you even before his father did.”  Ben shook his head in amusement.  “Though how that could be, I can't imagine, since I've surely been falling in love with you since that first day we met across this counter.”

    “And I vith you,” Inger said with a smile.  “You should spend this afternoon vith Adam.  Then, if he is happy about our news, perhaps ve can all celebrate vith dinner at my place, yah?”

    “Yes, Inger, my love,” Ben said, savoring the endearment he had not used with anyone for better than five years.

    Inger stifled a giggle behind her fingers as she glanced out the front window.  “I think maybe you'd better go now, Ben.”

    Ben leaned around her to peer out the window and laughed out loud at the sight of young Adam tugging his father's carpetbag down the steps of the boardinghouse.  “Yes, it looks like I'd better.  Can you handle catfish two days running?”

    Inger nodded.  “So long as I share them vith you.  If I could have the fish by 5:30, it vould be good.”

    Ben bent to kiss her hand gallantly.  “Your wish is my command, my lady.”

    Inger pushed him toward the door.  “Hurry, Ben, or Adam vill drive avay vithout you.”

    As instructed, Ben hurried across the street and scooped Adam, carpetbag and all, into his arms.

    “I finished packing, Pa,” Adam said proudly.

    “So I see,” Ben chuckled, “but I'm afraid Pa's put you to a lot of trouble for nothing, son.”     Adam cocked his head quizzically at Ben, who laughed and explained, “We're just going to have to unload this wagon again.”

    “Aren’t we leavin', Pa?” Adam asked.

    Ben shook his head with vigor.  “No, sir.  We're going to stay right here in Petersburg.  How does that sound?”

    Adam beamed.  “It sounds great, Pa!”  Then his small face grew sober.  “Did Mr. McWhorter give you back your job, Pa?”

    Ben gave his son a sudden, appraising look, amazed the boy had realized why they were leaving town.  What a discerning child his little Adam was!  “No, son,” he answered quietly.  “Pa isn't going to work for Mr. McWhorter anymore.  I've found a better job——with a real nice lady.”

    “Miss Inger?” Adam asked excitedly.

    “That's right, and I don't start ‘til tomorrow, so just as soon as we've unloaded our wagon, you and I are going to spend another day down by the river fishing.”

    “Oh, boy!” Adam yelped.  “Let me down, Pa, and I'll get our stuff back inside quick as a wink.”  Ben complied, and let Adam drag the large carpetbag up the steps while he gathered another load of their belongings.

    In an unbelievably short time Ben and Adam sat perched on the bank of the Sangamon River.  Only Adam was actually fishing.  Ben took greater pleasure in simply holding Adam between his legs and stroking the straight black hair so like his own.  He spent the first hour just enjoying his son's company and searching his heart for the right words.  Finally, he gave Adam's cheek a pat.  “Son, Pa has something important to talk to you about.”

    Adam lifted his eyes to his father's face.  “Yeah, Pa?”

    “Well, Adam,” Ben began, “you and I have been making our way west a long time now, just the two of us.  And that's been real good.  Pa couldn't ask for a better partner than his little son.  But I wondered how you'd feel about someone else sharing that dream with us.”

    “What you mean, Pa?”

    Ben struggled for just the right answer.  “Well, son, you know how dear your mother was to me.  I never figured I could love another woman as much as that.  Now, I don't mean I love your mother any less, but I know now there is room in my heart for someone else, too——someone to be a wife to me and a mother to you.  But I'd like to know how you feel.”

    Adam was clearly caught off guard, but he had no fear of answering his father candidly.  “I don't know, Pa.  I guess it'd depend on if I liked the lady, too.”

    Ben smiled.  “You like the lady very much, unless I read you wrong.  Adam, I—I've asked Miss Inger to be my wife.  How does that set with you?”

    Adam smiled broadly.  “Miss Inger?  That sets just fine, Pa!  She's 'bout the nicest lady I ever knew.”

    Ben gave Adam a tight squeeze.  “I told her I thought you'd be pleased.”

    Adam's face scrunched thoughtfully.  “And she'll be my mother now?”

    Ben nodded.  “Technically, Adam, she'll be your stepmother, but I think she'd be real pleased if you'd call her Mama.”

    Adam tested the sound of the new term.  “Mama.  I'd like that, too, Pa.  You don't think my own mother'd mind, do you?”

    Ben kissed the boy's cheek tenderly.  “Not for a minute.  You never knew your mother, son, but I know she'd be glad you had someone to love you the way she would have if she'd lived.  Never doubt that, son.”

    Adam snuggled close to Ben's chest.  “I won't, Pa; I promise.”

    Ben tousled the boy's hair.  “Good.  Now, you'd better get to work on those catfish if we're going to have enough for supper with your new mama-to-be.”

    Adam nodded seriously.  “Maybe you better cut a pole and help, Pa.”

    Ben laughed.  “Maybe you're right!” he said as he stood to follow Adam's suggestion.

    After supper that evening Ben helped Inger with the dishes, then drew her into his arms for a long kiss.  “Come rest yourself,” Inger suggested, taking Ben's hand and leading him to a large armchair by the fire.  “You've had a hard day.”

    Ben laid his palm against Inger's smooth cheek.  “I've forgotten the hard parts.  I only remember the love I found today.”

    As Inger blushed and glanced away, her eyes fell on Adam, curled up on the sofa.  Smiling, she pulled away from Ben and laid a crocheted afghan over the slumbering boy.  She turned to find Ben watching her with eyes full of affection.  “Come here, little mother,” he ordered, patting his knee.  “Rest yourself.  You've done more work than I have today.”

    Inger laughed.  “It won't be so tomorrow, Mr. Cartwright.  I have much vork planned for you.”

    Ben drew her into his lap and pecked behind her ear with his lips.  “I'll try to keep my mind on business then, ma'am, but let's not talk of work now.”

    Inger laid her blonde head on Ben's broad shoulder and sighed contentedly.  “No, let's talk of other things.”

    “Such as?” Ben asked with a quizzical lift of his eyebrow.

    Inger's blue eyes twinkled impishly.  “The date of our vedding, perhaps.  I vould like it to be very soon, my love.”

    Ben's face sobered.  “Not too soon, I'm afraid, Inger.  I have small resources for supporting a wife.”

    Inger sat up.  “But the store vill provide us a living.  I am a frugal voman, Ben; I can get by vith very little.”

    Ben shook his head.  “It's not right, Inger, for you to support me.  That's the husband's responsibility.”

    “But ve vould be vorking together,” Inger protested, “not one for the other.  What is wrong vith that?”

    “Nothing, my love,” Ben replied.  “Working together is part of marriage, but not when your contribution would so far outweighs mine.  Besides, the store is half Gunnar's, and I don't stand high in his eyes.  We don't know yet that he'll accept me as a hired hand, but I'm certain he couldn't accept me as a partner.”

    Inger rubbed the worn ribs of Ben's corduroy vest.  “Gunnar does not care what I do vith the store.  And if he vill not help me himself, how can he question whom I hire?”

    Ben took her hand.  “Let's leave it at that for now, shall we?  I really want to build us enough of a nest egg before we marry that we can head west for our honeymoon.  Indulge my man's pride that much, please, Inger.”

    Inger snuggled against his neck.  “All right, Benyamin, ve vill vait.  But please, not past spring.  I vould like to marry by spring.”

    “By spring,” Ben promised, “pride or no pride.”  He pulled Inger close and sealed the promise with another kiss.
 

Ben stood on the front porch of Borgstrom's Emporium and took a deep breath.  The November wind was cold, but Ben found the fresh air refreshing.  He was tired, for it had been a hectic day.  Saturdays always were, of course.  Farm families for miles around made their weekly trip to town, so the store was always extra busy that day.  But if Ben found few minutes to relax during business hours, there was at least one redeeming factor.  With a long trip home ahead of them, most of the farmers finished their business by mid-afternoon, so the store could be closed earlier than usual, too.  And in the three weeks Ben had worked here, Saturday had always meant an invitation to dinner with his betrothed.  Ben chuckled.  The last two weeks he hadn't even had to wait for Saturday for that delight:  he and Adam had shared so many meals with the Borgstroms that Mrs. Miller had refused to accept full payment for their room and board.

    Ben lifted the bushel basket of apples he had set on the porch that morning to whet the appetites of passersby.  Carrying it inside, he set it down and turned toward the counter.

    Tying on her blue-gray cape, Inger came from the back room.  “There are no more customers, so I'm going home to fix dinner,” she said.  “Vould you pick Adam up at Mrs. Miller's?”

    Ben took Inger by the elbows, pulling her toward him,  and acquiesced readily.  “Yes, I will, and I'll bring him along with me.”

    “Hurry, I'm an impatient voman.”  Inger gave Ben a light kiss and started to leave.  Then she turned, remembering something she had meant to say earlier.  “Oh, Ben, vould you mind very much seeing if Gunnar vould come to supper?  He has not eaten vith us for days.”

    Ben's brown eyes clouded.  “Inger do you think Gunnar resents Adam and me eating with you all the time?  I think he resents me working here.  And I know he resents my loving you.”

    Inger's face was troubled, as it always seemed to be lately when anyone mentioned headstrong Gunnar.  “Don't be angry vith him, Ben.  He is my brother, and I do love him, even though he is young and sulks.”

    Ben smiled, more to lessen Inger's concern than from any decrease of his own.  “Well, all right, I'll try to bring him along.”

    Inger touched his shoulder imploringly.  “Oh, but do not have an argument vith him if he does not vant to come.”

    Ben made his tone light and cheerful.  “Why, I'll be as gentle as a lamb,” he quipped.

    Inger laughed, kissed him again and stroked his smooth face in farewell.  Stepping outside, she pulled the ruffled hood of her cape over her head and started toward home.

    Ben spread a dish towel over the eggs and cheese on the counter, then untied his apron and locked up.  Not wanting to expose Adam to a potential argument with Gunnar, Ben strolled down the street to the Illinois House first.  He knew he would find Gunnar there, for the young man spent most of his time in the drinking establishment these days.  More than once Ben had seen the big Swede taking money from the store's till to squander at McWhorter's tavern, but as a mere employee, he felt he had no right to object.  He was tired of seeing Inger hurt, though, as she inevitably was every time Gunnar staggered home drunk.

    When Ben walked in, he saw Gunnar seated at a table with Mr. McWhorter.  Ben still felt awkward around his former employer, even though he knew the fault for his dismissal had not been his own.  But his promise to Inger demanded he put personal feelings aside and concentrate on conciliating her brother.  “Gunnar,” Ben began, ignoring McWhorter.  “Say, you look like you could use a good meal.  Why don't you come along home with me?”

    “I'm not going home,” Gunnar groused.  “Stay avay from me, drifter.”

    Ben quickly realized his light-hearted approach was futile.  “Well, your sister's kind of worried about you,” he said more quietly, his own face reflecting Inger's concern.  “She'd like you especially to come home tonight.”

    “I told you I'm not going home,” Gunnar slurred.  “I'm going to the gold fields.”

    “Well, of course, you're going to the gold fields, Gunnar,” Ben agreed, reasoning with the big Swede the way he might have with little Adam, “but you're not going tonight.”

    McWhorter looked up at Ben.  “He's telling the truth, Cartwright.”

    “And I have the money, too,” Gunnar boasted.

    “We just made a business deal,” McWhorter explained, rising and moving toward the bar.

    “That's right——a business deal!” Gunnar smirked at Ben.  “I sold him the store.”

    Righteous indignation flamed within Ben.  “You what?” he demanded.  “You had no right!”

    “He had every right,” McWhorter declared.  “His father left the deed in his name.  I kept it in my safe.  Now I own the shop.”

    Ben ignored McWhorter.  “You did this to your sister?” Ben demanded of Gunnar.  “How could you?”

    “She'll get half the money, too,” Gunnar rationalized.

    Ben leaned on the table to stare directly into Gunnar's shifting blue eyes.  “For years your sister supports you and you do this!”

    Ben's tone reminded Gunnar of the one his sister used when admonishing him.  And Gunnar reacted to Ben with the same vehemence he ordinarily used toward Inger.  “Don't preach to me!  Leave me alone!”

    “You give him back that money and get back the deed,” Ben ordered through gritted teeth.

    McWhorter's lip curled on one side.  “Maybe without the store he won't be so anxious to marry your sister, eh, Gunnar?”

    “McWhorter, you're right!” Gunnar shouted, the liquor he had consumed talking louder than the man.  “You don't want my sister; you just want the store,” he accused, taking a swing at Ben.

    Ben tried to hold Gunnar at arms' length.  “Gunnar——Gunnar!” he protested.  When Gunnar continued to lunge wildly at him, Ben struck one blow to the younger man's jaw.

    Gunnar collapsed, unconscious.  Ben knelt swiftly beside him, slapping Gunnar's cheeks in an attempt to rouse him.

    “The boy's had too much to drink,” McWhorter said analytically.

    Ben looked worried.  “I'd better take him home,” he said reluctantly, dreading the look on Inger's face when she saw her brother.

    McWhorter shook his head.  “Not in that condition.  You go ahead.  I'll take care of him.”

    Still thinking of Inger, Ben nodded.  “Yeah, maybe you're right.”  With one last look of concern at the sprawled figure of his future brother-in-law, Ben left to pick up Adam.

    Ben had dreaded Inger's reaction to the news of Gunnar's treachery, but her actual response was unfathomable to him.  While he walked beside her, matching her step for step as she carried dishes from the cupboard by the fireplace to the dining table across the room, he gave an agitated description of the altercation in the tavern.  Instead of becoming upset, Inger nodded at him, smiling happily.

    Smiling?  No, a perplexed Ben realized, the woman was doing more than that; she was giggling with outright girlish delight.  “You don't seem to understand,” Ben said firmly.  “I said Gunnar sold the store.”

    Inger laughed and nodded once again.

    “Well, how can you find that funny?” Ben demanded.

    Inger arranged the utensils by each plate.  “Oh, Ben, don't you see?  In a vay, it is.”  She stopped and looked directly into his eyes.  “Ever since ve decided to get married, I have been trying to get up the courage to do as Gunnar vanted and sell the store.”  She laid an earnest hand on Ben's arm.  “Ben, now ve can go west; ve can find that dream of yours; ve can build what you alvays vanted.”

    The enormity of what she was proposing shocked Ben.  “But—but you mustn't do this for me!” he protested.  “How could I build anything on your sacrifice?”

    “Sacrifice?” Inger's clear eyes were wide with astonishment.  “To have found a purpose, a place in life vith you?”

    Having no answer, Ben took her hand tenderly.  “You're—you're so—”  Words failed him.  “Inger, I—I know how you feel about Gunnar,” he began again.

    The soft touch of Inger's hand on his lips stopped his words again.  “Ben, I love you,” Inger said plainly.  “You are my life now.  It is time for Gunnar to make his own vay.”  Her fingers stroked his smooth cheek.  “Oh, don't you see, my love?  This is the vay it should be.”

    Eyes swimming with emotion, Ben took Inger in his arms and started to kiss her.  Before their lips met, however, a knock on the door interrupted them.  Inger smiled softly, smoothed her blue dress and went to answer the door.  She was surprised by the identity of her caller.  “Oh, doctor, come in,” she said politely.  “What is it?”

    The doctor's expression was grave.  “I have your brother here, Miss Borgstrom.  I'm afraid he's badly hurt.”  He stepped aside so two men could carry in her unconscious brother.

    “Bring him in the bedroom——quickly,” Inger said, her voice trembling.  As she led them, she passed the sofa where Adam sat drawing on a tablet.  The youngster looked up, disturbed by the sight of Gunnar's puffy face.

    The two men quickly exited, leaving Inger and the doctor alone with Gunnar.  “How badly is he hurt?” Ben asked one of them as they passed him.

    The man glared at Ben with accusative eyes.  “You should know, Cartwright.”  Ben was too stunned to ask anything more before the men left.

    With troubled black eyes, Adam looked up at his father, who walked over to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.  The boy felt all kinds of questions tugging at his brain, but with his usual perception he realized this was no time to bother Pa with a little boy's questions.  Pa was upset.  Miss Inger, too.  The man he'd just started to call Uncle Gunnar was hurt, and the men who had just left acted like Pa was the one who had hurt him.  That just couldn't be.  Or could it?  Looking at his father, Adam wondered 'cause Pa looked like he was wondering, too.

    Adam glanced down at the picture he'd been drawing, a picture of a big house with three smiling people inside.  But the smile had vanished from the original of the child in the drawing.  He closed the tablet and set aside the fairy tale ending he'd been imagining.  It didn't look like there'd be a “happily ever after” for him and Pa and Miss Inger.  But he was too young to just wait and worry, so he picked up Miss Inger's sewing box and began fingering through the contents of its small compartments.

    Before long Inger followed the doctor out of the bedroom.  She closed the door carefully to avoid disturbing Gunnar with so much as the click of a knob, then turned to the doctor.  “When vill you be back, doctor?” she asked anxiously.

    “When I've finished my rounds,” the doctor replied.

    “And what can I do for him meanwhile?”

    The doctor shook his head.  “Well, not very much, I'm afraid.  Just keep him quiet.  You know, with a fractured skull we can't tell when he'll regain consciousness, but I'll be back.”

    Inger thanked the doctor as she showed him out, then turned angry eyes on the man she had intended to marry.  “Ben, how could you?” she demanded.

    “I don't understand,” Ben said, his face blank with bewilderment.

    “You fought vith him, didn't you?” Inger sputtered.  “The doctor says you almost killed him!”

    Ben wagged his head from side to side, as if seeking an explanation.  “I hit him, yes.”

    “You hit him?” Inger asked through tight lips.  “Ben, I thought the anger vas gone,” she said, almost in tears.  “I thought when you said you loved me, the anger vould go.”

    “I didn't hit him in anger,” Ben insisted.  “I didn't hit him that hard!”

    “And now he is lying in that room, and he may be dying,” Inger cried.

    Ben reached for her.  “Inger, please—”

    Inger pulled away.  “Ben, don't!  Please go.”

    “There's something terribly wrong here.  You must believe me!” Ben said frantically.

    But Inger could bear no more.  She went quickly into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.  Ben reached for the doorknob, then stopped.  Inger wouldn't listen, not until he could explain the injury to her beloved brother.  So, instead of following her, Ben stepped quickly toward his son.

    “Adam, you lie down for a little while,” he said as he settled the boy on the sofa.  “Stay here with Miss Inger.”

    “Pa, what happened to Uncle Gunnar?” Adam asked, unable to remain silent if he were going to be left alone.

    “I don't know, son,” Ben said as he covered the boy with Inger's crocheted afghan.  “I'm gonna find out.”

    Sadly, Adam watched his father leave.  Something was very wrong, something Adam had no hope of understanding.  He knew Pa meant for him to go to sleep, but there was no way he could with so much churning inside him.  He saw Inger come out of Gunnar's room and wanted to ask her to explain it all to him.  But before he could say anything, there was yet another knock on the door.  And the words choked in Adam's throat when he saw the latest visitor to the Borgstrom home.

    Inger, too, seemed surprised to see the man in the dark blue uniform with a double row of silver buttons down his jacket and a six-pointed star pinned to his chest.  “Oh!  Yes, constable?”

    The policeman nodded respectfully.  “Mr. McWhorter told me what happened to your brother.  It's a terrible thing.  How is Gunnar?”

    Inger gave a concerned glance toward Gunnar's room.  “Ve don't know yet.”

    “I'm sorry to be bothering you,” the officer apologized, “but I thought the sooner you preferred charges, the sooner I could arrest that man——Cartwright, that's his name, isn't it?”

    “Yes, that is his name,” Inger said quietly, then looked over her shoulder at Adam.  “But there vill be no charges.”  However she might feel about Ben right now, she could not deprive a child of his only parent.

    “No charges?” the policeman protested.  “If your brother dies, this man Cartwright is a murderer.  And if Gunnar recovers, he should be punished anyway.”

    Adam's eyes widened when he heard the word “murderer” attributed to his father.  Inger could almost feel the boy's pain, even without looking at him.  “I say there vill be no charges,” she repeated.

    “Ma'am, you're making a mistake,” the law officer asserted.  “This Cartwright fellow should be in jail.”

    “Good night, constable,” Inger said firmly.

    The policeman couldn't comprehend her attitude. “Good night, ma'am,” he