Bonanza: Odyssey

Startled out of his thoughts, the man tore his eyes from the stretch of water and turned his head to take in the woman in the deck seat next to him.

A pleasant faced woman in her forties smiled back at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. But I’ve never been this far east before and my husband spends all his time in the club room with his nasty cigars, so I’m growing quite forward.” She offered her hand. “Mrs. Lyle Chambers. It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

“How far are you going?” She saw his expression and flushed. “Pardon me. I am disturbing you.”

A little wearily, Mr. Cartwright turned himself to face her and summoned his manners. “Not at all. I’m going to Boston. And yourself?”

“That is a long way. I’m going to Albany, and heaven knows that’s far enough. Lyle has family there he hasn’t seen in years.”

He nodded again, his expression faintly distracted. “Over fifteen years ago now.”

He shook his head. “My son – “ he paused “is in school in Boston. Harvard,” he added, with a touch of pride.

Ben nodded again. “It’ll be faster now. On the steamboat. And the train.”

“Oh, yes, my husband says trains are a wonder. Still, it’s a long time to be away from your other boys.”

“Yes.” Ben shifted uneasily, his mind automatically replaying the same arguments it had been playing since he received the message. “Joseph’s only nine and Hoss fifteen – but they’re in good hands.”

Mrs. Chambers didn’t think it was her he was trying to convince. “Is your other boy graduating?”

Ben shook his head, his eyes drifting restlessly about the deck. “Not – not right now.” He looked at her directly for the first time as though trying to make up his mind about something, then said slowly, painfully, “He – he’s ill. His grandfather sent word to me – the doctor thought – if at all possible – that I ought to come.”

Mrs. Chambers was silent. They both knew what a doctor asking a man to make such a trip meant. They both also knew that the sheer length of the trip made arrival for final arrangements far more likely than arrival for final good byes. She cleared her throat delicately. “Do you know what he has?”

He frowned, his eyes back at the water, staring out from under lowered brows. “Some kind of fever. He’s always been a little prone to them – gets it from his mother, I suppose. Of course, he’s scared me before for nothing.” He tried to smile.

She tried to make herself smile back. “Is his mother with the other boys?”

Her distress brought out his chivalrous side and he made a quick, dismissive gesture. "A long time ago. More than twenty years. That’s what I was thinking about. Over twenty years ago I made this trip in the other direction to fulfill a dream and escape my memories of Liz. After all these years I’m going back for the first time to – " he broke off abruptly, frowning hard at the water.

Mrs. Chambers hesitated, then threw propriety to the winds and touched his knee lightly. “Children are so resilient, Mr. Cartwright. And we never really know what providence has in store for us.”

Ben smiled suddenly, a real smile. “That’s true, isn’t it, Mrs. Chambers? I certainly never could have guessed half of what it had in store for me.”

And just as well, too. Would he have ever had the courage to love Liz if he’d known he’d lose her so soon? To create Adam if he’d known he’d be raising him alone? And now perhaps he’d lose him, too. Possibly he’d lost him already. Madness, probably, to let him go so far away, knowing how tenuous, how fragile life is. But Adam had wanted it so badly…school – the east – how could he have denied him? Like denying his own birthright. And then there was Abel. Abel hadn’t seen his only grandchild since babyhood, though he maintained an active correspondence with both Ben and Adam.

Ben had often imagined the moment Abel would finally see Adam – see Elizabeth’s eyes smiling at him out of her son’s face, notice the echo of her smile. He knew how much it would mean to Abel because he knew how much it meant to him, himself. And Abel had been so generous – so reassuring, even as he’d carried away the last breathing remainder of his only daughter – had told him not to brood, to move on with his life. Surely it had only been right to give grandfather and grandson this time together. Impossible to know that the time would be so short. That was always impossible to know. Who had reason to know that better than he did? His gaze drifted automatically back to the broad stretch of water before him.

Ash Hollow. 1836. It had seemed to him, later, an ironic name - a symbol of his own hollowness - of dreams turned suddenly and irrevocably to ash. Dreams that had begun so auspiciously - not far from here in Illinois, that green land of many rivers that would always symbolize Inger to him, with its gentle, rolling landscapes and rich, warm soils. A good place to settle - to raise a family. But he had had his heart set on the west - the great, open country of the legends, where he could raise "tall sons among tall trees", as Liz had said. He had made a promise to her - to Abel - to continue on, to follow his dream. First Liz, then Inger had been so much a part of that dream - and so briefly, both.

He had left this green land with a strong sense of new beginnings - a fresh start - their small wagon full of happy dreams. Now, he had thought, now - after so long - to leave the pain of the past behind - the terrible grief that had ravaged him and haunted his days. Adam's days, too, he had realized with regret. Too much sorrow for a little boy.

Adam had run alongside the wagon as though he felt it too - a fresh new start. It made his heart full just to remember. A new land. A mother for his boy. A wife and partner and friend…God was hard sometimes, but in the end, he was merciful and good. The Lord taketh away, but the Lord also giveth.

Perhaps if they had stayed here in Illinois, it would have been different - Inger would have lived, they would have raised Adam and Hoss happily along the banks of the Ohio. He sighed. But of course, that would have meant no Marie - no Joseph. Life was a difficult thing, like a terrible game of barter - lose one precious thing, gain another. How to choose? Just as well it wasn't possible to know the choices you were making at the time. You would be paralyzed to immobility by the very prospect.

It had been a terribly slow pace to the promised land - a 2,000 mile walk. He wondered how much Adam remembered of walking across a continent. He would have to ask him, if… when. When he saw him. He would ask him what he remembered about the journey. He knew he remembered what came later.

The boat twisted gracefully to accommodate yet another curve. Took skill to steer this river, the old sailor in him thought absently. Pretty, though. Hard to remember why it had seemed so important to leave this pretty land for another. But the dream had burned in him like a fever then. There had been no fighting it. And Inger had seemed to want it too - maybe just because he did, though. She had been like that. Cherishing her loved ones' dreams - wanting their happiness - almost more than her own. Her face was so clear to him here, as it hadn't been for fifteen years. The soft lilt of her voice…he sighed. "Inger."

He hadn't realized he had spoken aloud. "Oh - just…remembering." He gave Mrs. Chambers a conciliatory smile, meant to show that this topic was closed, so he was surprised to hear himself saying, "My second wife. We met and married not far from here. More than fifteen years ago now. Doesn't look all that different."

He nodded, his mind replaying the simple civil ceremony, Inger's fresh face alight with happiness. "Oh, yes. Inger was mother to my second boy - Hoss."

"I'm fond of children." She gave him a whimsical smile. "Like most people who have none of their own, I suppose. Was your second boy born here?"

"No. In a wagon right on the Oregon Trail. I suppose you could say Hoss is a true pioneer." The light glittered on the river's surface. Somewhere it barely registered that the boatswain was calling the river depth. He should bring Hoss here sometime - when he was older, of course. See where his father and mother had courted. He shifted uncomfortably as he remembered saying good bye to Hoss.

He had tried to make light of it. Talked of it as a visit to Adam, of the fun they'd have with Hop Sing and Shaughnessy while he was away. Joseph, of course, had been adamant in his insistence on accompanying him - had enjoyed a full-blown tantrum, in fact. Hoss had been strangely quiet. He had waited until Joe was in bed before asking, "What's wrong with Adam, Pa?"

Ben had felt his heart sink within him. "What's wrong? What's wrong is he's been gone nearly two years and I'd like to see him! Is that all right with you?"

Hoss had just looked at him. "So yer goin' all that way just afore round up?"

Ben was silent a moment. "Well, it's not a trip you can make during the winter, Hoss…" he tried tentatively.

Hoss continued to stare at him. He could look uncomfortably like his mother sometimes. "Then I wanna go too," he said at last.

Ben had sighed, a beaten sigh, and lowered himself slowly into his chair. "I need you here, Hoss," he said at last. He wasn't placating - it was true.

He sighed again. "There's Joseph. Hoss, he needs you. I can't leave him here without any of us for all that time."

"Then we should all go. Somethin's wrong with Adam, Pa, whether you wanna say it er not. I wanna go."

"I know, son…" he rubbed his hands helplessly over his face. "It's a very expensive journey, though - very difficult and long - I need to make all due speed - even if you could manage, a boy Joseph's age…" he trailed off. Why were the choices always so terrible? Why was it his fate that his heart should always be rent? Choose this one, leave that one? He saw Hoss's chin quiver suspiciously despite his fifteen year old dignity and held his gaze earnestly. "Hoss. Do you remember when you were a little boy - a few years younger than Joseph - I had to go away to New Orleans for a while? Remember? I returned with your new mother…"

"Adam was probably old enough to travel with me. Can you imagine how difficult it would have been for you if we had both gone? He stayed to be with you.

I need you to do that for Joseph now, Hoss. I need you to be with him while I go to be with Adam. Do you think you can do that for me? For me and Joe? For Adam?" Hoss's tears spilled over. He looked so lost and hopeless - just as Adam had, ten years past. It tore at Ben's heart anew. "Thank you, son," he said quietly. "I appreciate it. I'll feel much better knowing you're here looking after things."

"Adam will be fine." It came out more sharply than he had intended. "Everything - will be fine."

He had still believed in happy endings before Ash Hollow, despite Liz, despite everything. Inger had renewed his faith - reset the world's order for him, giving it back a kind of sanity. Finding her had seemed to mean that things balanced in the end, that joy could be found even after the most horrible of losses. Losing Inger so suddenly and senselessly had ended that for him - broken the back of his faith in mercy and fairness. There was no justice, no evening of rights and wrongs - every throw of the dice was random. Some men were given everything - lost nothing. Some men knew nothing but loss. No easy answers. No guarantees. The Lord taketh. And taketh. And taketh.

He could not forget kneeling at Inger's grave in that hollow that day - so far away from where he'd been, so far away from where he was going. Another piece of his heart buried in some distant spot, deprived of even the comfort of visits. His mind flashed to Adam, dead or dying and fated, perhaps, to be buried almost a continent away from their home as well, and he lurched unsteadily to his feet. No. Not again. Please. He sensed, distantly, Mrs. Chambers steadying hand on his arm, her soothing murmurs in his ear, but somehow they were multiple - the murmurs of a group of mourners, quietly repeating after the minister as he gazed at the simple prairie cross with damp and stricken eyes. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Hoss's wail rising over the murmurs, like keening, the combined rustle as they began to move away - to care for his children for him, to give him some last time alone with her. Alone. He remembered laughing inwardly even as he thought it. There would be plenty of time alone now - nothing but time alone, now and forever. He knelt there for what seemed like an eternity, long after the voices had faded away, long after the cold dampness of the ground had soaked into the knees of his trousers and the cold dampness of his solitude into his bones. Only because he realized he could not, in all practicality, stay there forever - that he was, after all, the father of two motherless boys now, did he finally force himself painfully to his feet and turn to go. And stopped in surprise.

He was not alone. One mourner had stayed, silently shadowing him and patiently waiting for him to finish, with his flat-brimmed hat respectfully clasped in his hands. He didn't say anything, but looked up at him expectantly from Elizabeth's eyes.

Not so alone after all . He had reached down to stroke the dark head, at a loss for words. His stalwart companion through this whole journey of sorrows. How much worse would it have been to have traveled this road truly alone? He let his hand drop to the small shoulder and patted lightly. "Come on, son," he had managed at last. "Let's go find your brother."

He dragged himself back across a gulf of fifteen years and blinked at the anxious face of Mrs. Chambers, so close to his own. He gave an embarrassed laugh. Of course he wasn't all right - how could he be? But that was not an answer for this kind woman. What must she be thinking? Surely anyone could provide her with better company than himself. He patted the concerned hand resting on his arm. "I'll be fine, Mrs. Chambers. My - past and future seem to be - at odds this evening. Please forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive." Good breeding demanded that she release his arm but she did not, and somehow it seemed appropriate to him.

She raised her brows archly, but her eyes were compassionate. "Now, the bell for tea was just rung and I was going to invite you to join me and meet my husband. I hope you aren't going to leave me unescorted. I'd be quite mortified."

She waved his protests aside. "The price of tea is included in your passage so you might as well eat it." She squeezed his arm meaningfully. "It will help pass the time."

His eyes softened and he studied her, suddenly gleaning something. "Very well," he said after a moment. "On one condition. That later we put my troubles aside for a moment and talk about you."

He smoothed the telegram once more with a hand stiff and a little gnarled now with the years of salt spray, and reread the date. Three days ago. From St. Louis. At the very fastest, he would reach here in another twelve. If all went well. So far nothing seemed to be going well.

He gazed sightlessly at the steady shimmer of rain against the window. A fine caretaker he had turned out to be. He wouldn't blame Ben a bit if he packed Adam right up and bundled him back to the Ponderosa. Once he was well, of course. Always assuming…but those thoughts helped nothing.

He turned away from the window and rested his eyes again on the still figure in the bed nearby. The fever was as high as ever, but he no longer thrashed about and muttered to himself. Too weak, the doctor said. How long could a man - even a young and strong one - remain in such a fever? The doctor had said eight weeks wasn't unusual in these cases. Longer, with complications. It had been almost five already.

He dropped himself heavily into the rocker by the bed and glanced about the room. He should have moved Adam. What on earth had possessed him to put him in here? Even giving up his own room to him would have made more sense. At the time it had seemed like a good thing, a good place for a boy to get acquainted with the mother he had never known, but now, watching him struggle for his life in the same bed where his mother had breathed her last was almost unbearable - terrifyingly reminiscent. What would it do to Benjamin to see it? How he wished he had thought of it sooner. Now, of course, Adam was too weak to be moved. He reached out and took hold of the lax hand - it felt hot and dry in his own. Fleshless. And he'd thought him thin when he'd arrived.

He remembered waiting to meet him down at the wharf, nervous as moon calf at his first dance. He remembered the long figure, taller than himself or Benjamin but still boyishly thin - a jumble of long arms and legs, silhouetted against the horizon. In that poor light there had been nothing familiar about him - just another gangly boy caught on the bridge between youth and manhood. It wasn't until Adam had caught his eye and given him a tentative smile then dropped his eyes in a brief spate of shyness that his heart had nearly bounded out of his chest. Good Lord. Benjamin had tried to tell him, but nothing - nothing could have prepared him for this.

The handshake he offered was firm and strong - just like his father's - and for a moment Abel had been almost swept away in a tidal wave of memories. He had felt a quick rush of tears and to cover it had boomed out, "Well, laddie, look at you! Nothing but skin and bones! Doesn't that father of yours ever feed you?"

There had been only the slightest shift in the dark eyes but it had taught him something that he would never forget again - no criticism of his father would be tolerated, even in jest. Ah, well - and that was a good thing. A boy should be loyal to his father. But it had also underlined the fact that, even though a continent no longer lay between them, even after fourteen years of faithful correspondence, they were virtual strangers. Much as he may resemble her, this was not the daughter he had known. This was the grandson that he really didn't know at all.

The first weeks had been excruciating in their awkwardness - Adam had been faultlessly pleasant and endlessly polite - oppressively so - careful not to be in his way, keeping his belongings neat and contained. He was always respectful of his grandfather's wishes, solicitous of his comfort. Abel thought it would drive him mad. How could this boy have his daughter's face and yet none of her sass - her spirit? Oh, he knew he wasn't Elizabeth's child alone, but even Ben had never been this serious - this - this - damned proper!

He was being unfair and churlish - he knew he was - but it was torture to have the beloved image transformed and alive before his eyes and yet so far away and unfamiliar. He pushed sometimes - he needled - and sometimes he saw a flash of something that he thought might actually be temper, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared and he was sure it had just been wishful thinking. He put it down to Adam's restlessness, for he haunted the small house like a ghost, swinging his arms as though hunting some kind of physical release, looking for something. His brothers, most likely. And it would be hard for a boy accustomed to physical labor to suddenly find himself confined to the close quarters of the city. And so he went for walks - long walks, God only knew where. Sometimes Abel went with him, matching his long stride. It was on one of these that he had first seen a different side of his grandson.

They were walking about the Common. Abel was talking in loud, boisterous tones because that's what he did when he was nervous and Adam was answering in those brief and maddeningly polite pleasantries that made Abel long to shake him. Because he was used to carrying the bulk of the conversation it had taken him a minute to notice when Adam was no longer with him. He had slammed to a halt in surprise. Well, this was a new wrinkle. This might almost be considered…rude. He turned to squint back through the crowds, spotting his grandson's tall dark head easily above the throngs that jammed the sidewalk. He retraced his steps and stood behind him, about to speak, then pausing instead to follow his gaze to the plate glass window before them. A bookstore. What the devil was so entrancing about that? Well, from the lad's rapt expression, something, evidently. His heart softened. Elizabeth had been fond of books - was always at Benjamin to read aloud to her. He studied his grandson's profile, then cleared his throat. Adam actually jumped, then flushed. Abel chuckled. "We could go inside," he suggested gently.

Adam looked at the sidewalk, then at his grandfather. Abel chuckled again. So it wasn't impossible to ruffle his composure, then.

"Oh, come along. It's cold out here anyway. Let an old man warm up." That worked as well as he thought it might and he led the way into the store. Adam forgot him almost immediately, wandering from shelf to shelf, fingering the book bindings, pulling them out to look at them and flip through the pages, studying the color plates inside. Abel leaned against the counter, his eyes following him. Not a statue after all, are you, boy? he thought, folding his arms over his chest and watching the intent, absorbed expression settle and deepen on his grandson's face. He wasn't sure how long he stood and watched - until Adam seemed to remember where he was, carefully closing the large book he was perusing and easing it back on the shelf.

He looked embarrassed. "Sorry - I - didn't mean to take so long. Are you warm now?"

Abel pushed himself away from the counter, eyeing him with raised brows. "Aren't you going to choose one?"

Adam turned his eyes resolutely away from the shelves. "I'll have my college reading list in a few days - I'd better wait for that."

Abel blustered. "Nonsense, boy! Those books are for learning! I meant one for pleasure!"

Abel squinted at him. Of course. Money. Must have cost Benjamin a packet to send him and keep him here - couldn't be much left over for fripperies. "The devil!" he burst out brusquely. "Choose one you like! I'll get it for you - a welcome to Boston gift."

There was only the slightest pause in the drawing on of the gloves. "Thank you," he repeated, with one of his most civil smiles. "But I think I should wait for my reading list."

Abel wanted to kick him and then himself. Damn, he should have known better. Trust the son of Benjamin Cartwright to be stiff-necked with unreasonable pride! Why, the look on his face had reminded him exactly of - he choked a little. Oh . Well, he supposed he could have gotten it from both sides of the family. There were those who felt that he had a bit more than his share of pride as well. What was it Benjamin had called him that time they had fought over the Chandlers Shop? He snorted at the memory. Well, this was different. A grandfather should be able to give a gift to his only grandson without him stiffening up all over the place. Damn, he'd buy him the whole blasted book shop without blinking and count it cheap if he could only keep him looking the way he had a few minutes ago. He brooded about it all the way home, a cold and silent walk.

He was still brooding about it when they arrived, the words of remonstrance hovering on the tip of his tongue. He was a direct man, not given to subtleties, and couldn't help feeling that a good, rip-roaring fight would do them a world of good - well, himself, anyway. Adam opened the door and let him enter first - another of those damned courtesies. There was a stack of letters on the tray by the door and Abel flipped through them briskly. At least two addressed in Benjamin's strong, decisive hand - one for him and one for Adam - another one for Adam labeled in a boyish scrawl. He plucked Adam's free and held them out to him, caught the look on his face from the corner of one eye.

Eh, damn, he cursed himself. As bad as that, was it? And what kind of a fool was he not to think the lad might be awash in homesickness? Too old and stupid to be allowed the stewardship of a young man, he was - too callused of heart and hard shelled from years of fighting the sea and almost everything else in his path. Of course the boy was lonely. What kind of company was an old man - a stranger - to someone who was used to the companionship of two young brothers and a father? And what could he do about it? There had to be some way to ease his path here - maybe rent him a horse in the park on weekends - or there were other pleasures the city had to offer that he might enjoy - the Opera, the theatre, the museums. He felt a twinge of conscience. Of course, he had promised Ben not to spoil him. Ben had been very emphatic about that - had repeated it in more than one letter as they were trying to agree on arrangements. Don't spoil him, Captain, I know you…he'll have to make his own path one way or another after this is over, so you won't be doing him any favors…promise, me…and he'd promised - a little insulted, even, that Benjamin thought he could be so lily-livered - such a - a - woman. Well, maybe he was, then, after all, just a bit - but he was ready to don a skirt if it would get a smile out of the lad. A real smile - not one of those mannerly reflexes of the lips he was given to.

He continued to brood about it and worry it in his brain as the days passed. Perhaps the start of school would fix things - he'd be busy enough then and there would be young people to become acquainted with. He watched him anxiously, pretending to be jovial. I'm as bad as he is, he thought. He's pretending not to be homesick, I'm pretending not to be worried. There's a pair of us.

He was thinking about it hard when he returned home unexpectedly early from the Chandlers Shop one day. He had started to push his way into the house when he heard a peculiar sound and stopped to listen. Whistling. He worried his lower lip, drinking in the sweet, melodic treble notes. Unable to resist, he cracked the door an inch more and peeked through. Yes, it was Adam, with that same intent, absorbed expression he'd had in the bookshop, studying drawings on some large pieces of paper spread out all over the table and whistling contentedly to himself. Abel paused, suddenly feeling foolish. What was he doing, spying on the lad in his own home? Maybe he should just sneak away and pretend to arrive again. But he knew that when he did the papers would be instantly swept away and upstairs, out of sight. And the boy seemed happy - such a rare thing these days. He hated to drive him back to the cautious courtesy that characterized him in his grandfather's presence. He eased himself carefully away from the door and back to the stoop. Let the youngster have the house to himself for a time - he needed a walk anyway.

He walked for a long time and as he did he was thinking. He couldn't transport Benjamin or the two younger boys here - he couldn't fetch the Sierra Nevadas. Sending him home was not an option - winter was on the way, and besides, he was almost certain he'd refuse to go. He had started this course and, barring unforeseen circumstances, he was committed to it. But there must be something he could do - something.

Eh, Elizabeth - I don't know what to do. Yer mother took care of these things when you were a girl and I was away at sea. Perhaps it's just a matter of time, but I can't bear to see him so unhappy. If there's any way - anything I can do to help make yer laddie more comfortable here, then show it to me. He stopped with a sigh. Almost dinner time. Time to get back. He made a move to turn, then stopped, gaze narrowing.

Right above eye level swung a store placard - Conway's Music - fine instruments, repairs and sheet music since 1812. He frowned, remembering the whistle, and remembering something else. Elizabeth, my girl, you always were one with a quick and cheeky answer. The bell jangled as he made his way inside.

The interior smelled of wood polish and rosin and he sniffed deeply, looking about. Possibly this came under Benjamin's heading of "spoiling"…eh, who was he to tell him how to handle his own grandson? Young upstart. He wasn't here, was he?

He cleared his throat. "I need one of those - those guitars. You carry those?"

"Devil if I know - a good one. One with good sound." Devil take Benjamin, anyway. He knew what he was doing.

He obediently followed the clerk to a collection of instruments hanging along one wall. All looked the same to him.

Ben's dictums echoed in his brain and he frowned to drown them out. Damn it, he wasn't spoiling him, he was spoiling himself. Surely he had a right to do that. What was the point of having his grandson come all this way after all this time and then not even get to hear him play and sing? Ben had said he was good - he would like to hear for himself. He studied the instrument the clerk handed him. A pretty thing. He could picture Adam with it. He remembered the experience in the bookshop and hesitated. Damn. What if his confounded pride got in the way again?

"I need a nice one, but not too expensive," he added hastily. "Good, but not showy." He glared at the clerk, daring him to think him cheap. It's not me, he thought at him. It's that blasted stubborn, hard-headed boy of mine.

But the clerk merely nodded and reached for another instrument. "This is a good one. Very rich sound, but reasonably priced. Would you like to hear it?"

Abel shook his head. "If you say it's good I'm sure it is - they'd all sound the same to me. I'll take that one. I'd like it sent round - today, if you're able."

"Our boy is out doing some deliveries now, but I'll have him take it round as soon as he gets back. Would you like to write down the address?"

Abel had written it down hastily under Adam's name, his heart hammering in his chest. He hadn't been this self-conscious about a purchase since he'd bought his Meg her engagement ring. He fled the shop as though he'd been caught committing a crime. All the way home he'd felt both excited and uneasy at the same time. In his mind he could see that sassy daughter of his laughing at him. "This was your idea, you know," he told her sternly. "Just in case Benjamin ever finds out." He smiled to himself. Not that it would worry her. Elizabeth had always known her way around Benjamin. He wondered if Adam did.

He was late for supper and jumpy and nervous throughout the meal, speaking volubly to cover it. He saw Adam glancing curiously at him from time to time. Probably thought he had run mad. Well, it was better than all that politeness anyway.

The door knocker sounded in the middle of the meal and Adam got up to answer it, shooting him one more inquisitive look as he went by. Abel ducked his head guiltily, listening intently to the voices at the door. Adam was protesting, then arguing; the delivery boy repeating his answer with rote inflexibility. He held his breath as the voices got louder, then heard the brisk click of the door closing. Then silence. He waited, trying not to peek and then peeking anyway. Adam stood in the entryway between the front door and the main room with the cloth-wrapped instrument in his hands, held gingerly in front of him as though he thought it might explode at any minute. His face was dark as a thundercloud, as though he might explode at any minute as well. Abel raised his brows. Oh, yes - that was definitely temper. Well, well, well.

"The delivery boy," Adam began in carefully measured tones, "says this belongs to me."

Aye, big temper, too. Definite storm lurking beneath all that calm. "Does he, now?" boomed Abel breezily. He pretended to keep his eyes on his plate, but looking through his lashes he saw Adam narrow his gaze at him.

"Mm hm." Adam leaned his shoulder into the entryway lintel, staring at him, eyes smoldering. Aye, this was better now. Definitely a fight brewing. "Thing is, I don't remember ordering it. "

Abel nodded, slicing briskly at his ham. "That's because you didn't, I expect. I did." Couple of young upstarts, him and Benjamin both. Teach them to think they could tell him how to run his household.

"Grandfather - " Adam took a deep breath, looked at the guitar, looked back at him. "I - I appreciate the thought, but I am not supposed to - "

Abel beetled his brows at him. "Supposed to what?" He was amused to see Adam flush.

Abel nodded, gesturing with his fork. "And that there guitar, it keeps you from doing that somehow, does it?"

Adam glanced down at the wrapped guitar in his hands, the flush spreading to his ears. "Well, no, not - That's not the point and you know it. Pa - "

"Eh, yes, yer father. It was all right fer me ta send you gifts now and now when you were on the Ponderosa and for some reason it's a problem now that you're here. Well, as it happens that's not a gift for you, it's a gift for me - I don't suppose even yer father could object to that? He told me you play and I'd a fancy to hear it. Seems to me the least you could do for an old man seeing as you're living under my roof." Oh, yes - he had him now - he could see it, see the battle in his face! The first time he'd seen him nonplused. Terrible how much he was enjoying this.

Adam looked again at the guitar. Abel noted how gently he held it, even in his confusion and irritation. "Well, of course it's not that I wouldn't be happy to…I'll do anything you like, Grandfather, but - " he trailed off.

Abel grinned. "Then why don't you unwrap the bloody thing and we'll see how it sounds?"

Adam hesitated. He wasn't really ready to give in, but he couldn't quite remember what he was holding out for. He looked again at the package in his hands, then went over and, resting it on the nearest chair, proceeded to carefully unwrap it, a troubled frown creasing his brow.

Abel watched the frown soften and gradually smooth out as the mellow glow of the instrument's wood appeared. He watched him pluck delicately at a string and saw a smile lift one corner of his mouth. "So - are you going to play something or not?"

"Needs tuning." Adam pulled away the rest of the wrapping and plucked at another string, listening.

Adam hesitated, looking at the discarded wrappings. Abel saw the look. "Eh, leave 'em for now! Criminy, aren't you ever untidy?"

He gave his grandfather a shrewd look and Abel found himself flushing this time. He cleared his throat noisily. "Come, come, lad - food'll be cold as a polar bear's nose in another minute."

So after dinner Adam had tuned the guitar and played for his grandfather - that evening and nearly every evening that followed.

After that, things seemed to change. Not big things, but small ones. Not all at once, but gradually. Instead of being marshaled efficiently back upstairs, textbooks were found splayed open here and there in the main room. The occasional roll of drafting paper was left tucked near the dining table. The front door closed now and now with an indecorous slam and school friends started to find their way home with Adam.

Looking at Adam on the opposite side of the fireplace one evening Abel noticed that even his posture had changed - instead of the rigid, both feet on the floor stance of early days, he sat slumped comfortably with one leg thrown over the arm of the chair. Abel felt a warm glow of smug pleasure that his strategy had worked. Eh, maybe it would have happened eventually anyway - but he was willing to take the credit. He looked up from stuffing his pipe.

"So, lad - " he said jovially. "Are you going to play something for me tonight?"

Adam nodded and turned a page without lifting his eyes from his book. "Sure."

"Maybe you could play that Annie Laurie. Or Barbara Allen. Though that one gets me all choked up."

Abel couldn't resist rubbing it in a little. "So buying that guitar seems to have been a good idea of mine after all. Don't you think?"

"Yes, sir," Adam agreed politely, turning another page. And then, more quietly, but loudly enough to be sure he was heard, "Conniving old seadog."

Abel's brows twitched together and he squinted one incredulous eye at him. "Laddie-mine," he said cautiously after a moment, uncertain he had heard correctly. "Did you just - sass me?"

"Me, sir?" Adam's voice was innocent and faintly shocked, one eyebrow rising

Abel stared hard at him, then saw the telltale smirk sink into the corner of Adam's mouth.

A laugh rumbled deep in his chest. "You watch yerself, lad," he admonished sternly. "I'm not so old yet that I can't take you."

Abel settled back in his chair and puffed his pipe, his heart light with merriment. "I've been thinkin'…" he continued pensively, studying the embers glowing red in the pipe bowl, "of buying a piano. For myself, of course."

Adam's head shot up, eyes wide with alarm, then he caught the teasing expression and his face relaxed into a mock-glare. "Well, that would be nice," he agreed dryly. "Then you could play for me for a change."

Abel grinned evilly at him and bit his pipe stem. Eh, Elizabeth, girl - I knew you had to be in there somewhere. Not that it mattered now. By now he had ceased to love Adam as Elizabeth's child and had come to love him as himself.

Abel closed his eyes in pain at the memories and moved his hand so it rested instead on the pale, broad forehead, radiating heat like a boiling kettle. "Eh, lad," he said softly. "This is one way I'd rather you didn't resemble your mother. You hang on, now. Come back to me."

Ben stared over the rail into the bottomless blackness of the water. He had no idea what had woken him, but sleep had been restless lately anyway: elusive. Irritating, in a way, since on these long voyages it was sometimes the only way to pass the time. But this was better than the stagecoach had been. Smoother. Faster. And being on the water still held a deep sense of connection for him - of peace. He smiled a little into the darkness. Once a sailor…

There was no one else about except for the crew, who would no doubt be disconcerted to find a wayward passenger wandering the boat at this hour, so he kept quiet and out of the way. The only sound was the slap of the water against the side of the boat - the only light the pilothouse, a soft beacon of warmth and brightness. He knew what it would be like in there on a night like this - hot coffee and tall stories shared - the distinctly masculine companionship of those who made the water their mistress. He had thought himself one of them, once - had never imagined replacing that love of a boat and the water with that of a flesh and blood woman. Then he had met Liz and all of that had changed - like following one of the dozens of different eddies that branched off of the river, his life had taken a different path.

He looked again at the pilothouse and for a moment considered joining them, then changed his mind. No. All that was behind him now. He no longer belonged there. In truth, maybe he never had, for the call of the land had always been strong for him, too - stronger, possibly, than the voice of the sea. Maybe Elizabeth had just helped him to hear it more clearly.

He gazed into the inky depths below him. The loss of his first love would always be a tender spot - one that had hurt so deeply and for so long that he still approached it a little warily, expecting that crippling twist of anguish that had accompanied it so reliably for so many years.

It had dominated his days endlessly - he suspected, looking back, that it had made him more impatient, quicker to anger, than he had wanted to be. It was a bit of a blur now, but it had always troubled him some. He had often wanted to ask Adam about it - to apologize, maybe - but he knew Adam would have none of it, would tell him it was fine, that he was fine. He shook his head. A bad habit he had never been able to break him of. Things hadn't always been fine - he knew that all too well. But Adam had a protective streak where his father was concerned - would defend him from all comers, including himself.

Well, they had had a long partnership together - longer, oddly, than he had shared with any of his wives. No wonder the last couple of years without him had seemed so odd - so out of kilter. Still found himself looking around for him some days - expecting to see him coming down the stairs, sitting at the big desk in the Great Room, riding in after a long day. He wondered if Adam felt the same at all - their partnership had, after all, encompassed his whole life. His letters never hinted at it if he did, but then, Adam was stubborn. He'd fought so hard for this chance - he would never admit to any doubt now or distress his father with his troubles when he was so far away and unable to help. He sighed a little. And he was young - adaptable. Chances were he rarely even thought about his old father among the excitement of Boston and Harvard. He smiled at the thought. So much for him to love there. He would give a lot for a glimpse of Adam enjoying Boston.

He leaned his elbows on the ship's rail and rested his head in his hands. And maybe he would get that. Maybe. Adam was a strong boy, not just in body, but in mind and spirit, too. He wouldn't give into this any more easily than he had ever given into anything else that threatened to slow him down. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. Of course, Elizabeth had been strong, too. Of spirit, anyway. But there were things that even the strongest spirit, the most stubborn will, couldn't overcome.

Ben started and glanced up at the shadowed face of the watchman peering curiously at him. He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Certainly. Just couldn't sleep. The river is beautiful at night."

The watchman pursed his lips and frowned speculatively out into the stygian gloom where river and sky ran together as one and shrugged. "Yes, sir," he agreed doubtfully.

The watchman's expression compressed into one of deep reproach. "I should hope I did," he said indignantly. "Just left Illy-noy behind us. Now you've Kentucky on your right and Indiany on your left. Should make Loo'ville late tomorra, barrin' any trouble."

Ben nodded again. In Cincinnati there would be a telegraph office and an update from Abel. He would be able to send one on his own progress as well. The watchman lingered a minute, as though expecting him to go inside, then shrugged again when he didn't and returned to work. Barely over a week to make his way from St. Louis to Cincinnati. It seemed impossible. It had certainly taken him longer to travel in the other direction all those years ago. Of course, that had been somewhat different - earning his keep as he went, and with a small boy in tow. Ben leaned back against the railing and this time sought out the stars. Heavy cloud cover. Couldn't see much. Nothing to orient himself by. He squinted into the darkness, trying to imagine the bank on the other side. Indiana. What did he remember about Indiana?

They had lingered for a while, he thought - one of their stops to earn money. It was before they had purchased the horse and wagon and everything had gone slowly - he had walked and an old, swaybacked mule had carried Adam and their few supplies. Well, for a while. Until Adam had gotten it into his head that if his father could walk, he could, too. How old had he been - four, maybe? Ben had tried to reason with him - to explain that he was no real burden to the mule, but Adam had gotten that set look on his face that Ben was to grow so familiar with over the years and had slid off anyway.

Ben had wanted to scold - a habit of obedience was important to Adam's survival - but Adam had looked so pleased that he'd lost the heart to be strict about it. Well, what did it matter, anyway? He couldn't possibly be any slower than the mule was. In truth, it was pleasant to have him trotting along by his side, studying the flat green land before them with serious, curious eyes. Adam was happy. The mule was happy.

"It is closer, Adam. You just can't tell because it's further away than it actually seems. It will take a long time and a lot of walking before it seems closer."

Adam was quiet a moment, turning this over in his mind. "But we'll be there when we get past that group of trees?"

"No, son - that group of trees only looks like it's close to the town. It's actually very far away. You'll see when we get closer." Ben expected him to whine a little, prepared to put him back on the mule, but he looked more intrigued than anything.

"The last place," he said at last, "you didn't see things 'til they were close."

"Well…" Ben thought about it. "Because it was hilly there - you couldn't see far ahead. Here it's flat and you can see for a long way - makes things seem closer and piled up on each other, but they're not. That's called perspective."

Ben chuckled to himself. Never knew what was going to take his fancy next. From his face you'd think he'd just been given a new toy. He sighed. Just as well, too, because it was the only one he'd be getting for a while. Funds were low. Hopefully there'd be work for him in this town. They had a while before the cold weather set in, anyway. He'd better put a little away for that. No telling where they'd be by that time and he'd heard the winters could be fierce out this way. He felt a small hand slip into his and glanced down, his worry easing into a faint smile. "What is it, son?"

Even Ben had misjudged the distance, though, and the town had bounced tantalizingly ahead of them for hours like a desert mirage, never seeming to get any closer. A thin drizzle started to fall and he felt Adam's hand begin to drag in his and hefted him into his arms. No point in putting him back on the mule now - he was half-asleep and would probably just fall off. Besides, the mule looked almost as tired as Adam did. Too bad. He'd been hoping to trade it for a few dollars or supplies in town. The way it looked right now he'd be lucky if he didn't have to pay to have it shot and carted away. The sun was getting low on the horizon when they finally reached the first buildings of the town and he scanned them for a general store. Tomorrow was Sunday by his calculations and everything would be closed. As much as he would like to find a room to rest and put Adam to bed he would have to get his supplies now or go without until Monday morning. And by then he hoped to be working. He spotted what he was looking for and made his way up the steps, past the bags of feed and grain piled outside, out of the drizzle and into the cool, dimly lit interior.

The man behind the counter looked up from the scratchings he was doing on a piece of paper and smiled. "Can I help you, sir? Looking for a place to stay?'

"Well, yes, that's next - right now I need some things." Ben maneuvered Adam with practiced ease and pulled a short list from his pocket.

The man studied it and nodded. "Shouldn't be too hard - looks like you've come a long way."

"Mrs. Kittwell's place is nice enough and she likes young'uns. Plumb tuckered out, ain't he?"

Ben made a non-committal response. Probably the man was only being friendly, but he always felt faintly reproached by such remarks. He watched in silence as the storekeeper fetched items from the shelves.

"Lucky thing you came when you did - we'd be closed in another half hour. The missis has already gone home to fix supper. Let's see what we've got here, now…" he began to list figures in a painstaking row on the paper in front of him. "That's a nickel even…two cents…three more…ten for the feed…rope's another seven…fine quality, though - got those new…soap is three for six, but if you only want one, let's see, that's…"

Ben stopped listening. Adam murmured something in a sleepy voice and he reached up and smoothed the dark curls at his nape soothingly until he settled down again. He glanced down at him. His ankles hung below the hem of his trousers already. Seemed like he'd just replaced those, but Adam was growing fast. Something else he should see to while they were in town - new clothes.

Ben shifted his weight, trying to seem patient. Hopefully this boardinghouse would do. Hopefully it was someplace he could feel comfortable leaving Adam during the day while he worked. Maybe he could afford a slate for Adam, too, and he could work on his letters while Ben was away. He'd like that, and it would keep him occupied. "Do you have any slates here? And chalk." It was probably extravagant - probably he shouldn't - but it was a good, constructive way to pass the time and would keep Adam out of trouble. Not that he was much trouble, really.

"Hm…yes, we do…penny for the chalk and three cents for the slate. Hmph. Have to start over. Let's see, that's five and two…three…then ten then seven…two for the soap…a penny and three…" he gave Ben an apologetic smile. "I ain't much of a head for figures, I'm afraid. Usually the missis does 'em, but like I say, she's gone for the day. Too bad. She's the brains of the operation." He laughed.

Ben smiled in return. "I know what you mean. My wife - " he stopped, his heart suddenly constricting painfully.

The storekeep didn't seem to notice. "They're a wonder, ain't they? Your wife waitin' outside?"

The shopkeeper looked up in surprise, sudden understanding dawning. "Oh. Oh, now that's a shame. Let's see what we got here…forgot to carry somethin'…hm…there's five and two…" he droned back into his monotonous recitation of prices.

Adam turned his head on Ben's shoulder and muttered something. Ben reached up to stroke his hair again, making shushing noises. "We'll have a room soon, Adam."

Ben laughed a little. "I don't know. Probably "perspective". He's been practicing it all day. Once he gets a word in his head…"

"No." The shopkeeper shook his head, looking back down at his numbers. "No - that's not what he said. I'm pretty sure he said - thirty-three. And I think…" he carefully checked the column of numbers. "I think he's right."

Ben stared at him. "What are you saying?" He glanced at the heavy head on his shoulder and put his mouth close to the small ear. "Adam? Adam, did you want to tell me something?"

Adam sighed and muttered again. Ben frowned. It did sound like thirty-three. "What, son? What's thirty-three?"

Adam opened one eye at him and yawned. "Five and two and three and ten and seven and two and one and three…"

Ben glanced over to watch the storekeeper check off each number in turn. He swiveled the paper so he could look at it more closely and added them himself. Thirty-three. He looked back at Adam, whose eye had slid shut again.

"Looks like you owe me thirty-three cents, mister." Ben wordlessly reached in his pocket, his eyes on the dark head snuggled into his neck. "He do that a lot?"

"No, of course not. He's only a little boy, he - I'm sure it's just a coincidence."

"Don't be absurd. He couldn't possibly…" he trailed off. It was a big coincidence. And Liz had had a knack with numbers.

Afterwards, in their rented room as he peeled off Adam's wet clothes and poked his arms through the armholes of his nightshirt, he couldn't stop thinking about it. He pulled down the nightshirt, noticing the spots that had worn thin with age - this would have to be replaced, too - maybe after summer was over - a new flannel one for winter - and pulled down the clean, worn blankets so Adam could crawl under them.

"Adam - " he finally ventured as he pulled the blankets up over him, "did you add up those numbers in the store?"

Ben let his hand rest on Adam's chest, studying him curiously. "All those numbers? Who taught you to do that?"

Ben laughed shortly. "I did not! Well, of course I taught you one and one is two and two and two is four…"

Ben leaned over and dropped a kiss on his forehead. "No, no - of course not - it's just…" How to explain? "It's just that most people can't add up numbers in their head like that, son."

Ben reached over and stroked the hair off his forehead. "A story? Adam, you're barely awake."

Adam set his jaw mulishly. "I'm awake enough for a story. " His father's hand dropped to his shoulder and he nestled under it. "Tell me about the clipper ships."

The clipper ships . Ben ran his hand mindlessly up and down the boat rail, wincing at the memory. How many nights had he used them as a bedtime story? As many as he could get away with. Talk about anything rather than what he probably should have been talking about. At the time it had seemed like the best solution - to let the wound heal over and start to scar. Later, he had known better - that to let the wound heal over prematurely caused grief to fester and poison you. Live and learn. He'd done better after Inger, he thought - handled it better with both Adam and Hoss. He leaned over the rail and saw what wasn't visible in the darkness. Indiana. The first real blow to the wall he had built so carefully around his heart - a wall later demolished by Inger's deft and loving hands.

He had found work even more easily than he had hoped - at a nearby stockyard, counting and marking and slaughtering hogs. It was hard, exhausting work, but it paid well and Mrs. Kittwell at the boarding house seemed kind and competent to look after Adam. The board was good. It had seemed like a good place to rest for a while. He returned to the boardinghouse every night smelling of sweat and blood and hog entrails but Adam was always unfailingly overjoyed to see him.

Ben scooped him up in his arms as he ran to greet him one evening, inhaling deeply. He smelled pleasantly of fresh baked goods - a wonderful change after the stench of the hogs.

Ben shifted his shoulders, trying to relieve the tiredness in his back. "I give up. What else?"

Ben's brows twitched a little at the sight of his beaming face, then he glanced over Adam's shoulder to raise them questioningly at Mrs. Kittwell. "Really," he said slowly. "What kind of a job?"

"I do things for Mrs. Kittwell. Keep the wood box full and set the table and stuff."

"Uh-huh. Mrs. Kittwell says if I do a good job she'll take something off our board and then we can get to California faster. Isn't that good, Pa?"

"Is that so," Ben spoke slowly, watching Mrs. Kittwell for an explanation. "Well, I'm glad if you're a help to Mrs. Kittwell, son, but I think that's a favor for her kindness, not a job."

Adam's black brows drew together and he looked at Mrs. Kitwell, too. Mrs. Kittwell blushed.

"He's running some little errands for me, Mr. Cartwright. It's a big help to me - I'd have to pay a boy to do it anyhow and this saves me that. Seems only fair I should take it off your board."

Ben patted him lightly on the back and lowered him to the floor. "I see, son. Adam, will you go to our room, please? Do your letters for me. I'd like to check them before dinner."

Adam hesitated, studying him darkly. "Aren't you happy, Pa? It will go faster if we both have a job, won't it?"

Ben squeezed his shoulder absently. "We'll talk about this later, son. Now do as I say."

Adam paused as though he wanted to argue further, but Ben's lowering brows convinced him to obey and he turned slowly toward the hall. Ben and Mrs. Kittwell watched him leave.

Once he was out of earshot Mrs. Kittwell burst out, "Please don't be offended, Mr. Cartwright. He's very helpful, really, and I'd have to pay someone anyway. And it makes him so happy."

Ben kneaded at the tightening spot between his brows. "My son is four years old, Mrs. Kittwell. I do not want him going to work. I can support him just fine."

"I know…" Mrs. Kittwell clasped her hands earnestly. "But it's such a long day for him with you gone and it helps to pass the time…the things he does for me are very useful but, truly, they're just little things. Really, just the sort of thing he would be doing as chores anyway if he had a home."

Mrs. Kittwell eyed him timidly. "I hope you're not angry, Mr. Cartwright? I thought it would be a good arrangement for all of us - everybody benefits. Really, I was only trying to help."

Ben nodded dumbly. He was busy trying not to show how stricken he was by the words "if he had a home ." Adam had a home, didn't he? Well, not exactly a home, not yet, but he had Ben - that was almost the same thing, wasn't it? He swallowed again. Mrs. Kittwell seemed to be talking, but he couldn't concentrate on the words, his eyes on the hallway that lead to the rented room he shared with Adam. He held up his hand finally, forcing his face into what he hoped was an expression of pleasantness. "Mrs. Kittwell - I appreciate all your kindnesses to both me and Adam - please don't think otherwise. But if you'll excuse me, I need to have a talk with my son before dinner." Mrs. Kittwell looked apprehensive and touched his sleeve questioningly as he passed. He shook his head. "Adam is NOT in trouble," he assured her. "We just need to talk."

He found Adam sitting in the middle of his bed with his slate in his lap. He looked up as Ben entered, but didn't say anything. Ben dropped onto his haunches opposite him, studying his face keenly. Adam waited. "Adam, " he said at last, "do you understand that if you take this job, it comes with certain responsibilities? That you have to do it and do it well, even when you don't feel like it - that you can't stop if you get tired of it? When you accept a job from somebody then you have an unspoken agreement to honor - an agreement to fulfill that job to the best of your ability every day, until the job is done."

Ben sighed. "Well, I don't know if you do understand - I think you're too young to, really - but I suppose there's no better way to learn. But Mrs. Kittwell has been a good friend to us and it's important not to let your friends down."

"Very well. If you really want to do this, then you may. You can tell Mrs. Kittwell at dinner."

Adam gave a little hop of joy and threw his arms around Ben's neck. Ben held him close, knowing that the talk was not over and that the next part might not go nearly as well. So after a minute he added, "Adam. Look at me. I need to talk to you about something else."

Ben sighed at the memory, turning away from the railing, wishing he could turn off his mind and sleep. Tomorrow would be another long and tedious day on deck with nothing but his thoughts for company. He shuddered. With the responsibilities of building a ranch and raising three boys to distract him it had always been easy to keep his memories at bay. Now they swarmed over him like the escaping demons of Pandora's Box.

He found a deck chair in the faint light and sank into it. Silly to pay for a berth and then spend the night on the deck, but he felt better out here in the open air - the tiny berths below seemed claustrophobically cramped - pressing in on him. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, remembering.

That talk with Adam had been a disaster. He remembered how shocked he had felt, and how helpless - shocked because, even as a small boy, Adam was not usually given to emotional outbursts. He had wondered, not for the first time, how other people figured out how to do child rearing. Did they automatically know? Would Elizabeth have known?

At dinner afterward he had sneaked a glance at the dark head next to his elbow, bent low over his plate, listlessly moving his food about. He smiled slightly despite the pull on his heart as he remembered. Adam still did that when he was bothered about something.

That night he had forced himself to drag his attention from the red rimmed eyes and occasional sniffling on his right and to turn it instead with assumed casualness to the other diners, trying to look unconcerned. He hated everyone knowing his business, but they weren't so blind that they couldn't tell something was wrong between him and Adam and that Adam had been crying.

He shifted his eyes to the man on his left. He worked at the slaughterhouse with him but was less particular about his hygiene. The smell of the day among the hogs was still strong about him and as Ben watched, he spit a long stream of tobacco juice into a nearby bucket before returning to shoveling in his food with a knife. Ben averted his eyes quickly to the other end of the table. Two men who helped keep up the livery sat there, unwashed and unshaven, their fingernails black with inattention, enjoying a voluble, good-natured argument. Next to them was a tall silent young man who currently worked sweeping out the feed store - probably just passing through and at least he was clean. Ben felt his heart sink. They were all honest men, of course, and respectable enough since Mrs. Kittwell wouldn't take any other kind of boarder, but all things considered, they weren't exactly the sort he would have chosen to expose his young son to. Lord only knew the kind of habits he could pick up from them. He smiled grimly. Not that they hadn't been exposed to worse in their journeys. He could rarely afford the better places and a roof was a roof. Still, Mrs. Kittwell was right. This wasn't any kind of home.

He put down his fork, suddenly losing his taste for dessert, and glanced at Adam's plate. Most of the food remained there, organized into tidy piles. Softly, so as not to draw the attention of the others, he said, "Are you going to try to eat that, or are you finished?"

Adam put down his fork. "Finished," he whispered, so softly that Ben had to stoop further to hear.

Lectures on wasting food and never knowing where your next meal was coming from leapt to Ben's lips, but he bit them firmly back. Now wasn't the time and he wouldn't be telling Adam anything he didn't already know from bitter personal experience. "All right, then. Let's go to our room. There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

Adam looked directly at him for the first time since dinner started. "I have to help Mrs. Kittwell."

Ben swore internally. Not for the first time he wished that Adam's memory were a little less accurate. "I know what I said, Adam. But you can officially start your new job tomorrow - tonight I need to talk to you." He lifted him down from his chair and held out his hand to him. For a second he could see Adam consider rebelling, but then he seemed to notice the others at the table too and hung his head. He ignored Ben's hand and walked past him toward their room. Ben pretended not to see the furtive glances that shot around the table and followed.

By the time Ben reached their room, Adam had already climbed onto his bed and buried his head in the pillow. Ben sighed. Evidently this was not going to get easier. He sat on the edge of the bed and rested his hand on Adam's back. "Son. We need to talk about this." Adam pressed his hands over his ears. Ben sighed again, more deeply. "Adam. Look at me, please." Adam pushed his face more deeply into the pillow. Ben ground his teeth a little. "Adam, I know it's not pleasant, but ignoring it will not make it go away. Now, I want you to listen to me - "

Adam turned over suddenly and glared at him. "You promised!" he cried fiercely.

Ben blinked. Had he? Probably…he hadn't wanted Adam to worry about being left alone, didn't want him to worry about it now, in fact, but he had to tell him about Abel - he had to know that he had someplace to go if anything did happen to his father. Ben was only too aware of how easily accidents could happen - what if he was hurt or killed? What would become of Adam then? An orphanage? Some well-meaning soul letting him work for his keep, like Mrs. Kittwell? Some less than well-meaning soul taking advantage of his youth and vulnerability? His heart hammered painfully in his chest. He couldn't bear the thought of him left defenseless in the hands of uncaring strangers. No - Adam needed to know about his grandfather. Needed to know enough to explain to people where he was in case worse came to worst. He could count on Abel to step in for him. Abel would love Adam. Abel would take care of him. He cleared his throat carefully, wishing there was someone to tell him how to say this.

"Certainly I'll always be your Pa, Adam - and I'll always be there for you. I just meant that in CASE anything ever happened to me you should - " Adam promptly dropped his face back into the pillow and covered his ears again.

Ben pinched at the bridge of his nose. Well, this was going well. It had seemed so simple when he'd started. He desperately wanted to take Adam in his arms and assure him that of course he would always be there for him, forever and ever, but another part of him kept whispering, what if he wasn't? He reached down and rested his hand on the back of Adam's head this time. Adam didn't look up from the pillow, but he didn't flinch away, either. He was so still that it almost broke Ben's heart. He stroked the dark hair, thinking.

"Adam, " he said suddenly, "do you know what a grandfather is?" There was a pause, then Adam cautiously turned his head to peer at him. Ben wanted to smile, but he didn't dare. "Did you know that you have one?"

Adam turned his head a little more, studying him. "You mean like Grandfather Skinner in Schuylerville?" he said at last.

Ben shuffled through his memory. "Oh. Well, something like that. But I think everyone called Grandfather Skinner that as more of a - title of respect. I mean a real grandfather."

Adam rubbed at his damp eyes, frowning thoughtfully. "What's a real one?" he asked, almost against his will.

Ben forced his face to stay bland. "Well, you know how I'm your Pa?" Adam nodded a little warily, cautious of a trap. "Well, my Pa would be your grandfather. A grandfather is your parent's father."

Adam rolled onto his back, his eyes on Ben's. "My grandfather is your father?"

Ben flushed. "No - well, yes, of course, but my father is no longer alive. The grandfather you have is - " he coughed to clear his suddenly tight throat, "is your mother's father."

Ben didn't know what to make of his expression. "Adam…" he began uneasily, a terrible suspicion dawning, "you do know you had a mother?"

Ben wanted to weep. Mrs. Callahan. Hadn't he told him? He must have - surely, in four years he must have talked SOME about Elizabeth to Adam? Oh it was hard, and he actively avoided it, he knew that…even now he would like nothing more than to close the subject and move on, but…he cleared his throat again, but his voice came out husky anyway. "What did she tell you?"

Ben nodded. "She was. The most beautiful woman I've ever seen." He took a quick breath to get a hold of himself and tried to smile brightly. "What else?"

Ben was surprised. Adam's memory was surprisingly and sometimes even exasperatingly thorough. "All right. Well, then. " He tried not to sound relieved. "Her father is your grandfather. He lives in Boston. You know - where the clipper ships are."

"Well - it's taken us your whole life so far to get from there to here, and we're not even in California yet. So pretty far, wouldn't you say?" Adam nodded, trying to imagine it. "But you should always remember that you have a grandfather you can live with, Adam, in case - well, in case anybody ever asks."

Adam nodded again, his brain obviously puzzling this new information. Ben saw his eyes droop and patted his arm. Poor little fellow. Tired himself out crying. He went over to the washbowl and dampened the towel in the ewer, then returned to the bed, gently wiping the sticky tear tracks from Adam's face, then letting the cool cloth rest over his eyes for a minute. "You know, " he said quietly, "I think you should get some extra sleep tonight. After all, you're starting a job tomorrow." Adam nodded wordlessly, curling into a ball. Ben laughed softly. "Not yet - let me get you into your nightshirt first."

He struggled Adam out of his shirt and trousers and into his nightshirt, leaning his sleep-heavy body against him as he maneuvered the sleeves over his hands. He held him for a minute then; thinking, remembering - wondering a thousand things, then eased him onto his back. "Come on now - under the covers." Adam slid under the covers more due to Ben's help than any conscious volition and Ben tucked the blankets tightly around his neck, kissing him on the ear. "Good night, son."

Adam snuggled into the cot. "Story," he mumbled from deep inside the pillow's depths.

Ben chuckled a little at the stubborn conviction in his tone. "Very well. What'll it be - the clipper ships?"

Adam opened his eyes and looked at him. Ben felt his heart tremble in his chest. He grasped Adam's shoulder with a suddenly palsied hand, avoiding his gaze, fighting for his composure. "I see. So you think - " his voice came out in a strangled whisper and he cleared his throat and tried to start again. "So you think that tonight you might like me to - tell you a little about your mother?"

Ben nodded back, trying to sound calm around the great rush of tears in his throat. "Well, let's see…I met your mother by a clipper ship, you know…"

Ben turned away and looked hard at the opposite wall. A question he would like to ask his Maker himself. "Because - because that's where all good people go."

Ben's heart turned chill. "Someday, Adam, I'm sure - but not for a long, long time."

There was a pause and Ben was convinced he had fallen asleep, but when he turned to check he saw his eyes were wide and open, fixed on him unwaveringly. "Will you go there, Pa?" his voice quavered slightly.

"I hope, someday…" he saw Adam's face and recklessly threw caution to the winds, damning the consequences, daring God to make a liar of him. "But not for a long, long time for me either, Adam. I won't leave you for a long, long time."

Ben stroked his hair with his free hand. "Yes, Adam - I promise. I promise for real. Cross my heart."

Adam fell asleep still clinging to him with a two handed grip and Ben stayed by his bed the whole night, wanting him to know he was there, even in his sleep, wanting him to be able to keep his hold on him all night long. Or maybe it was him who had wanted to keep his hold on Adam. Looking back, he really couldn't be sure.

Something had changed for Ben in Indiana. Maybe talking to Adam about Elizabeth, even that little, had helped. He couldn't be sure, but whatever it was, his grief was somehow a little less acute. It frightened him at first and he had stubbornly clung to his sorrow, afraid that this shift was somehow disloyal - the beginning of forgetting her - but despite himself, he was beginning to heal anyway. He wondered now if even Inger, as persistent and patient as she was, would have been able to get through to him if he hadn't already started to change.

They had stayed for over a month in the end, carefully putting aside money. Adam worked hard for Mrs. Kittwell and while Ben still wasn't completely comfortable with it, he had to admit that the money off their board did help. By the time they were getting ready to leave, Ben had made a decision and carefully counted out a share of their savings. He took Adam over to the livery one morning after their tearful separation from Mrs. Kittwell and led him around the back to where the animals were kept.

"That's right. Oh, I know it's not really a home, but it's a place to keep our things and it has a roof for when the weather is bad. We can even sleep in back sometimes."

Adam ran around back and tried to peek over the gate. "I want to see!" Ben followed and boosted him up so he could clamber inside. "It's big!" Adam crowed.

Ben couldn't help smiling at his pleasure though he secretly thought it would probably get small pretty fast if they had to spend much time in there together. Adam scrambled to the front and disappeared through the opening to the driver's seat.

"Adam - " Ben called warningly as he hurried around to the front just in time to see Adam slide to the ground. "Adam!" he said sharply, then sighed at Adam's look of mild surprise at his tone. Sometimes he wished his boy were just a little less independent.

Adam lost all interest in the wagon at the sight of the horse. He trotted around to its head and lifted his hand up to touch the animal's nose. Ben made a snatch at his other hand and held on firmly, shooting an apprehensive glance at the horse's large feet. Oblivious to his father's agitation, Adam giggled as the horse sniffed curiously at the tiny fingers. "She likes me!"

"He." Ben shook his head ruefully. Oh, well. It would probably take a thunderclap to stir the tired old nag anyway.

Adam considered, patting gently at the velvety snout. "I think I'll call him 'Grandfather'."

Ben huffed out a laugh before he could stop himself. "I think that's an excellent name. Very dignified." He could hardly wait to write Abel. "Now, let's get started. Up you go."

He lifted Adam onto the wagon seat and Adam squinted up at the sky. "It's high," he observed.

"Yes, it is," agreed Ben dryly. "And it's near the wheels. Which is why I'd like you to wait for me to lift you up and down."

Adam knew that tone and kicked his heels against the wooden seat restlessly. "Okay," he said at last.

This horse will never win any races, observed Ben a few hours later as the fresh green countryside rolled by about them. But it was patient and steady and calm around children, and that was more important. And it was certainly a more comfortable mode of travel than they were used to. He sneaked a glance at Adam. He had been quiet so long that he expected to find him asleep, but no, he had his head tilted back, studying the great blue arc of sky overhead. Ben's face softened. What had caught his interest now? Pictures in the clouds, maybe? He felt the familiar twinge. Liz had always been finding pictures in the clouds - had laughed with him about one that looked like an elephant shortly before Adam was born. He lightened his hold on the reins.

Adam kept his eyes fixed overhead. "Mrs. Kittwell said heaven is up in the sky. I thought maybe I could see my mother." He dropped his gaze resignedly to where his boots dangled over the floor, his shoulders drooping a little. "I guess it's too far, though."

Ben's breath caught in his throat, his vision blurring suddenly. Oh, Adam. What can I say?

When he could trust himself to speak he said slowly, "Adam - do you remember what I taught you about perspective? About how sometimes even when things look close they're really far away?" Adam cocked his head at him and nodded thoughtfully. Ben took another deep breath. "Well, sometimes it works the other way, too - sometimes, even though things look far away, they're really much closer than they seem." Adam frowned, concentrating hard on what he was saying. "Because if there is one thing I am absolutely sure of, son, it's that your mother is never far from you - even if you can't see her."

Adam looked back at the sky as though he might catch a glimpse of something he had missed before. He sighed a little. "Do you ever see her, Pa?"

Ben drank in the achingly familiar profile and then turned quickly forward to hide the moisture stinging at his eyes. "Oh, son," he murmured, half to himself. "Oh, son - you have no idea."

Ben awoke with a start and a bump as the boat scraped over a sandbar. He was stiff and chilly and the sky was lightening with the first hint of dawn. He'd slept out here all night. He had to clean up for breakfast. He rubbed a hand over his eyes to clear them and it came away wet - he sat studying the moisture on his fingers for a moment, reflecting on his dream memories, rubbing absently at a strange tightness in the left side of his chest.

Oh, Adam - what was I thinking? It was all very well for me to promise to stay for a long, long time…why didn't I think to make you promise, too?

He didn't answer - had stopped answering such pointless questions days ago. The close air of the room became fragrant with the scents of tea and soap and pungent medicine, and then rain as he heard the window casements creak open. The moist breeze brought him to life. "Shut that!" he said sharply. "Last thing he needs is a chill!"

"Ah, so you haven't gone deaf then. " The tone was dry, but he felt the breeze diminish some. "Miracle, seeing the way you sit alone in here, day in and day out."

"I'm not alone." His voice was low, but held the warning note of a suppressed roar. "Not yet. Close that window, or you'll kill him sure."

"A little fresh air will be good for you both." But the tone was milder this time. "And you didn't answer my question."

The wall sconces suddenly sprang to life and he blinked, cupping his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sudden brightness. "You want answers then ask sensible questions."

He shifted positions, squinting his eyes to help them adjust. "Why?" he snapped sourly. "Something special going on out there?"

He pushed the rocker into truculent motion. "No," he said after a moment. "I'll stay." He ignored the gusty sigh that accompanied his pronouncement.

"Then at least come over here and have some tea while I clean him up. Allow the poor boy a little privacy."

He gave a snort of laughter. "You call a perfectly strange woman bathing him privacy? Just as well he's unconscious."

"I am not in the least strange and think of myself as a nurse. Heaven knows I've enough experience. Get out of my way now and feed yourself - I've enough to do."

Abel pushed himself from the rocker with reluctant stiffness and moved toward the small table by the window where she had laid out tea, pausing just short of it to hover anxiously around the foot of the bed.

He poked distractedly at a piece of toast. "Don't know why you have to keep shaving him anyway. Not like he's going anywhere."

He watched her movements, smooth and rhythmic, for a while and then sank slowly into a small chair facing the table. "Wives' tale," he muttered.

She didn't bother to glance up. "Maybe. But why take the chance?" She reached for a soft towel. "Besides, I'm sure it's more comfortable."

Abel's hand went unconsciously to his own beard and he glared. "Lot you know about it." He cut the top off of the egg sitting in the eggcup without really seeing it, dabbing at it with a bit of toast. He rumbled in his throat, glancing up again to where she was stirring a mug of shaving soap. "Spose I - " he broke the toast in two and abandoned it on his plate. "Spose I - should be thanking you."

She looked up at him in surprise, but his eyes skidded away. "I don't see why," she said easily. "It's my job."

He snorted. "It's not and you know it. A little cooking and cleaning and marketing - that's your job. Not - " he turned away and stared hard at the window.

'Well, then, I guess it must be my pleasure." He snorted in response. "It's true. You're not the only one to enjoy having a young face about for a change, you know." She paused, her eyes intent on spreading the shaving soap evenly. "And you're not the only one to ever lose someone."

"No," the voice was barely above a whisper. "No, I'm not. I'm sorry, Alice."

She glanced up from her work and looked at him in surprise. He caught the look and raised his brows in return. She smiled in response. "Usually you call me Mrs. Longworth," she explained. "That's the first time you've ever used my first name."

He grimaced. "Then I'm sorry for that, too. Next I'll be getting as cheeky as that one - " he broke off abruptly, turning hastily away from the figure on the bed and pressing a hand over his eyes.

Her eyes flashed with compassion, but her tone remained even. "Like grandfather like grandson, I suppose."

"No - " he shook his head fiercely, "No. He's not. Like his father, surely, and like his mother in almost more ways than I can bear to - but not like me. Never. I know what I am."

He made a crumbling mess of the toast in front of him, staring out at the grey dreariness. Typical New England springtime. There were things he should attend to…business things…but he had lost interest in them somehow. Adam would be irritated with him. He liked things done right, and on time. He smiled faintly. That must come from Benjamin, that rigorous, efficient streak. He could remember it, almost, if he thought about it - remember Benjamin's meticulous attention to schedule and detail on shipboard, but he had surrendered that memory until he had actually seen Adam at work in the Chandlers Shop - that had brought it all back. Not that he had approved of him working there in the first place.

It had happened more or less by accident - a brief stop on one of their weekend strolls. Abel had wanted to check on some things since one of his men had just retired and another was down with influenza. It was Adam who had suggested that he could assist on the weekends, Abel had waved the idea aside.

"As if you don't work hard enough. Why don't you spend a little more time in play with your friends? Row the lake, go on a picnic - find a pretty girl to write bad poems to…"

Abel nodded a casual assent, but in truth he was touched by the look on the boy's face - a softening, as if he were approaching a long anticipated shrine. Romantic soul. That must come from his father - certainly not from a hardened old barnacle like himself. "This is it, if you care to step inside. Hasn't changed that much since your parents started the place - still running, still solid - despite your father and all his new fangled notions."

Adam had taken a step towards the door, but stopped abruptly. "What was that?"

"Your father and all his new fangled ideas. New navigational equipment and the like. Like there was something wrong with the old way. Though I'll admit a few of those ideas didn't turn out so ill."

"Oh, aye - was always wanting to try new this and new that and the very latest - now what is it you're gaping at, boy? You have the look of a beached carp!"

Adam shook his head slightly as if to rouse himself. "Nothing, I just - Pa. I can't imagine. He's so old fashioned. Why, every time I mention trying something new he practically blows his top."

"Hmph." Abel reached for his pipe and tobacco and started to work on filling the bowl. "Is he now." He tamped down the tobacco, making sure it was even. "You keep at him though, I trust?"

He flipped open his tinderbox and eyed Adam over it. "No matter what he says."

Abel struck a light, hovering it over the pipe bowl. "Drives him mad, does it?"

He pushed at the door to the shop and went inside. Adam followed close at his heels, his face awash in that intent expression that Abel enjoyed so much. "You poke around if you like. I need to check on a few things." He squinted at the interior with critical eyes. "Needs a bit of cleaning up, I suppose."

"A bit." Adam picked up a stack of papers from the nearest desk and automatically started organizing them. "Look at this place."

Abel chewed on his pipe stem and waved vaguely at him. "Now, now - let's have none of your tidy, fussy ways - I'll just take a quick peek at the books and then we're gone. No point in spending a fine Saturday afternoon in the Shop."

"It's an overcast afternoon, and we might just as well take a few minutes to get things in order. Won't take long. How do you find anything?"

"I can find everything just fine," answered Abel sternly. "It's just - just a might - casual. I like it that way."

"Well, I'll tell you this," rejoined Abel indignantly, "you didn't get those persnickety habits of yours from my side of the family."

"Yes, I can see that," agreed Adam dryly, trying to sort through a scattered jumble of inventory. "What is all this?"

"That's - why that's - some things that need labeling, I suppose. Leave it, lad - you've better things to do."

"We might as well fix it, since we're here. Want me to take a look at the books? I do them for Pa a lot of times."

"What I want is for you not to work for a few bloody minutes on what should be your free afternoon!"

Adam laughed. "You call this work? This is nothing. Why, when Marie died - "

He stopped so abruptly that Abel looked at him in surprise. Why, the lad's face had actually gone white. What on earth…?

"Marie," he nudged gently after a tense, suspended pause. "That would be your last stepmother?"

Adam nodded jerkily, avoiding his eyes and paying meticulous attention to the stacks of boxes he was straightening, his face now colored with a hectic flush.

Abel beetled his brows. And now he actually looked mortified. "Something you'd like to tell me about…?" he suggested gently.

Adam ducked his head. "There's nothing to - there was just a lot of - work. After she died. With Hoss and Joe and…everything…"

"Yes. Of course. There would be." Abel waited patiently. He would bet his life there was more, but he knew better than to push. After a minute he knew there would be nothing more forthcoming and he removed his pipe from his mouth, choosing his words with care. "Well. Perhaps some time you'll tell me all about it. Wouldn't hurt if you took a glance at the books, I suppose - they're just a jumble of numbers to me. They're on that desk back there - " He indicated with a jerk of his head and Adam made a grateful escape to the rear of the store. Abel returned his pipe to his mouth and sucked on it thoughtfully.

"Find 'em, lad?" he asked after listening to the shuffling and banging of ledgers and giving him a decent time to regain himself.

"Yeah. All of them." Adam's voice floated up to him, sounding normal again and tinged with irony. "How did you ever manage on a ship is what I'd like to know. Don't you ever throw anything away?"

Abel blustered. "Why throw away perfectly good things that you might just as well need later? Can't believe your father raised such a wasteful boy."

"Well, in ranching we learn that sometimes you have to clear away the old and the dead to make room for the new. Do you have any idea how far some of these go back?"

"It's useful, I find, to have a history of the business. And you need to learn a little respect for your elders, young man."

"Well, the first thing we're going to do is create some kind of an archive system for you. That way you can keep all your history but it doesn't have to be cluttering up everything underfoot. Look at this one. I'll bet this is the first…"

Abel waited. The silence stretched between them. "Adam?" he offered after a moment. Still no answer, and he strode to the back of the store this time. "I hope you're not throwing anything out back here! I'll have you know that I'm still - " He stopped, puzzled and a little concerned. Adam sat with the ledgers surrounding him, one open in his hands, on his face an expression Abel couldn't begin to fathom. He maneuvered to get a peek at the ledger and felt his own face melt with sudden understanding.

Adam didn't answer and Abel mentally shook himself. Stupid thing to say to a boy about the mother he didn't know - that she had nice penmanship, as if that was all there was to her. "Of course, I'm afraid she wasn't always tidy either - look at the way she used to scribble in the margins - the marketing list…ah. Look. That one there - that must have been things she needed to prepare for you. She worked here almost until you were born, you know. Your father didn't approve, but your mother had a mind of her own, make no mistake." His eyes scanned the page, his heart warming within him.

"I suppose you're right - " he continued slowly after a moment, "About hanging on to everything. Time I cleared out a bit. Don't suppose you'd like to take