Bloodlines
Part 1

By Kathleen T. Berney

“Careful, Ma’am, watch your step.”

“Thank you, Mister Dawson,” Paris McKenna said politely. Though the Irish lilt in her voice had diminished considerably after just over two decades of living in the United States, a trace yet lingered. She accepted the driver’s proffered hand, and stepped gingerly from the stagecoach down to the dusty street. “How long will we be in Virginia City?”

“The coach leaves at half past three, Ma’am,” Angus Dawson, the driver, quietly replied.

Though aged in her late thirties, virtually everyone she encountered assumed her to be much older. She wore a plain white blouse and modest dark blue traveling suit that was long out of style when she purchased it second hand from a thrift store in Chicago ten years ago. Her hair, once a rich dark brown almost black, was generously laced with strands of silver gray. She wore it pulled back severely away from her face, and tightly bound into a simple chignon at the nape of her neck. Her cosmetics, a light dusting of powder and rouge, accentuated rather than concealed the lines, indelibly etched into the flesh of her care worn face. She walked slowly, taking small, hesitant steps, her posture slightly stooped.

Angus Dawson wouldn’t have spared her a second glance had it not been for her eyes. Hued the same bright blue as a clear summer sky at its zenith, they were the only striking feature in her otherwise commonplace appearance. “Miss McKenna?”

“Yes, Mister Dawson?”

“This your first visit to Virginia City?”

Angus’ heart sank the instant his ears picked up a sharp intake of breath. Her mouth opened slightly, as her right hand flew up to that sloping place between throat and bosom.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” he murmured a quick, yet heartfelt word of apology, while trying hard not to flinch away from the wild look that had suddenly come into her eyes. “I didn’t mean to pry, honest! I didn’t! It’s just that . . . well, for some reason, you look kinda familiar to me . . . . ”

“It’s quite all right,” Paris replied. She closed her eyes and took a deep, ragged breath. “I’m afraid your question took me a little by surprise.”

“You don’t have to answer, Ma’am . . . . ”

“I don’t mind, honest,” she said with a weary smile. “I HAVE been here before . . . once . . . . ” A wistful, far away look stole over those bright blue eyes. “I was much younger then . . . and traveling with my family. But, that was a long time ago.”

“Can you remember how long ago?”

“Indeed I can,” she said, her smile fading. “It was seventeen years ago . . . three months shy of the day.”

“ . . . and you haven’t passed through any time since?” Angus cautiously pressed, half afraid she was going to faint dead away, given her pale face and wavering stance.

Paris silently shook her head.

“It’s those eyes,” Angus suddenly, silently realized. “I KNOW I’ve seen those eyes before . . . and not seventeen years ago, either. It was more recent than that . . . a LOT more recent . . . . ” Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t quite recall where or when.

Paris, meanwhile, stole a quick glance at her elegant gold watch pendant, the only ornamentation amid her spartan attire. It was given to her by a man she once loved more than life itself. Though they had parted company long ago, the watch had become and would always remain a cherished keepsake. The time was a few minutes before noon. “Now, Mister Dawson,” she said, “I think it’s my turn to ask YOU a question.”

“Fair enough, Miss McKenna,” he acquiesced.

“As I just got through saying, it’s quite a while since my, ummm . . . last VISIT . . . to Virginia City. Can you tell me where I might go to eat lunch and maybe rest awhile before the stage leaves?”

“Yes, Ma’am. The International Hotel has a decent enough restaurant,” he replied, eying her with an apprehensive frown. “I’d be more than happy to escort you there, if you wish.”

“I appreciate your kind offer, but I can manage,” Paris said in a gentle, yet firm tone. “If you would be so kind as to direct me?”

“Certainly. Just cross the street here and walk on down to the corner.”

“Thank you very much, Mister Dawson.”

“You’re welcome,” Angus replied, politely tipping his hat.

“Now I’VE got a question for you, Mister Dawson . . . . ”

Angus turned and found his other passenger, a man from New York by the name of Zachary Hilliard, standing beside him.

“ . . . you by chance acquainted with a man named Cartwright?” Zachary asked. “I understand he owns a big spread somewhere hereabouts . . . . ”

“You talking about Ben Cartwright?” Angus queried, with eyebrow slightly upraised. “Of the Ponderosa?”

“Yes,” Zachary replied. “You know him?”

“I know him enough to speak to in passing, I s’pose,” Angus said with an indifferent shrug. “You a friend of his?”

“A friend of the son of an old business acquaintance, actually,” Zachary confessed. “My friend’s, um, father . . . well, he’s been telling me for a number of years now that if I ever have occasion to visit Virginia City, I should stop in and say hello to Ben Cartwright and his three sons.” He paused. “I trust they’re all well?”

“Mister Cartwright’s doing well enough, so far as I know,” Angus replied. “So are his younger boys. Adam, though . . . I’ve not seen HIM in a dog’s age.”

“Adam’s the eldest?”

Angus nodded. “He left a number of years ago, to seek his own fortune, I imagine,” he said. “I understand he traveled some, then settled himself down with a gal somewhere out in California . . . . ”

“San Francisco, perhaps?”

Angus frowned. “I’ve heard people say where Adam’s living now, but for the life of me, I can’t recall, exactly,” he said, “but I DO know it’s not San Francisco.”

“I see,” Zachary murmured softly. “My friend’s father said something about Mister Cartwright adopting a daughter recently?”

“Yeah, though it’s not been all that recent,” Angus replied. “It’s been . . . four . . . maybe five years ago, now.”

“ . . . and HER name is?”

“Stacy.”

Zachary smiled. “Yes, that’s right . . . Stacy.”

“I understand Mister Cartwright and his boys, Hoss and Joe that is, met her out at Fort Charlotte,” Angus blithely rambled on.

“Fort Charlotte?” Zachary queried with eyebrow slightly upraised.

Angus nodded. “The fort’s situated a couple of miles or so from a little town called Mormon Springs,” he continued. “You know it?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“I heard the girl was raised by a family of Paiutes, but I don’t know anything more than that,” Angus blithely rambled on. “As far as I can see, she’s a good kid, nice ‘n polite . . . respectful of her elders, though some of the ladies here in town think she’s too much of a tomboy . . . . ”

“I see.”

“You intend to pay him a visit?”

“Do I intend to, uhhh . . . pay . . . WHO a visit?” Zachary queried, taken aback by the stagecoach driver’s question.

“Mister Cartwright,” Angus replied. “Do you intend to pay him a visit while you’re here?”

“I, uhhh . . . thought I might . . . umm, time permitting, of course,” Zachary replied. Though he looked Angus square in the face, his eyes fell just short of meeting the stagecoach driver’s gaze. “I have some business to take care of first, of course.” Those last words, hastily added as an after thought, tumbled out in a disconcerted rush. “I . . . don’t suppose you could, um . . . tell me the way?”

Angus shook his head. “I don’t live in Virginia City. I live out Carson way, and though I’ve like as not passed through Ponderosa land one time or another, I’ve never had occasion to visit the Cartwrights, so I can’t tell you exactly,” he said apologetically. “But you just ask anybody who DOES live here. If the first person you ask can’t direct you, chances are he’ll know someone who can.”

“Thank you,” Zachary murmured softly. “Thank you so much. You’ve been most helpful.”

“Yeah. Sure.” For a brief, disconcerting moment, Angus felt a little apprehensive about having rambled on and on and on about the Cartwrights’ business just now. “Awww . . . come off it!” he silently castigated himself. “You’re imagining things! People are ALWAYS asking questions about the Cartwrights . . . why’s now any different?” He had no satisfactory answer to that question, yet, try as he might, he couldn’t quite shake that vague, nebulous uneasiness that seemed to have taken hold of him.

“Mister Dawson.”

The sound of Zachary Hilliard’s voice, speaking tersely, his syllables clipped, startled Angus from his troubled reverie.

“That’s the third time I’ve called to you,” Zachary admonished, sparing no pains to conceal his annoyance.

“Sorry, Mister Hilliard,” Angus meekly stammered out an apology. “Just slipped into a bit of wool gathering for a moment. What can I do for you?”

“The lady who got on with me in Freedonia . . . . ” Zachary turned to watch Paris McKenna, as she cautiously stepped from the board sidewalk into the street. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten her name . . . . ”

“It’s McKenna,” Angus replied. “Miss Paris McKenna.”

“Could it be?” Zachary silently wondered, with an anxious frown. He remembered meeting another woman by the same name, briefly, many years ago.

“Miss McKenna’s traveling on to San Francisco,” Angus blithely rambled on. “Has a job waiting for her, so she says . . . been real anxious to get there, too, what with the delays we’ve had . . . . ”

“Yes, I imagine she would be,” Zachary murmured softly, feeling a small measure of relief. “Mister Dawson?”

“Yes, Mister Hilliard?”

“I’d like you to fetch my luggage down from the top of the stage,” Zachary replied, mollified slightly by the driver’s apology. “I have some business to take care of, as I said before, and I’m thinking better done, sooner rather than later. I’ll be taking another stage to San Francisco in a few days.”

“Yes, Sir,” Angus grunted, before turning to clamber up on top of the stage.

Paris McKenna, in the mean time, made her way across the road, with head bowed, and eyes glued to her feet. “Seventeen years . . . . ” she mused silently. “Seventeen years, since I last— ”

Memories of another life, long past, began to rise, unwanted and uninvited, to the forefront of her thoughts . . . .

Two horses stood at the edge of a vast lake, surrounded on all sides by tall ponderosa pine. Their riders . . . a beautiful twenty year old, with a long thick mane of rich dark brown curls, nearly black as a raven’s wing, and sparkling sky blue eyes . . . and a handsome man, tall, his dark hair generously mixed with silver, with warm dark brown eyes . . . stood side by side at the edge of the water. Her quick, easy laughter, prompting a tender, indulgent smile; the quick, feathery, seemingly accidental touch of a hand; a tender glance, followed by a warm embrace . . . .

With those memories rose all of the feelings, just as vibrant, warm, and intense as they had been then. Paris realized too late that she had unwittingly opened a Pandora’s box. She tried desperately to squelch the images and feelings of the past, but found doing so akin to trying to put water back after a dam has burst. A sudden collision with what felt like a brick wall, mercifully brought her reverie to a screeching halt. Paris stumbled a few steps backward and would have fallen had it not been for the steadying influence of a pair of massive hands and strong arms.

“Ma’am, are you alright?”

Paris cautiously opened her eyes and found herself staring into the beefy face of a large, muscular man, wearing a white ten-gallon hat. An anxious frown knotted his brow.

“M-Ma’am . . . . ?!”

“I . . . f-fine! I’m fine,” Paris gasped. She shook her head, and took a deep breath. “Please excuse me . . . it’s MY fault, just a silly bit of wool ga— ” As she glanced up, her words of apology suddenly died in her throat.

“M-Miss Paris?!” His concern for her well being gave way to astonishment. “Miss Paris, is that really you?”

“Yes, uh . . . Eric?” Paris murmured in dismay.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Astonishment, in turn, gave way to a smile of pure delight. “Well, I’ll be danged! When did YOU return to Virginia City?”

“I-I haven’t actually,” Paris replied. “I’m just passing through . . . on my way to . . . to San Francisco.”

Delight faded into mild disappointment. “I sure hope y’ can get out t’ the Ponderosa while you’re here,” Hoss Cartwright said. “I know Pa ‘n Joe would love t’ see ya again.”

A cold, heavy lump began to coalesce deep in the pit of her stomach. His pa was the very last person in the world she wanted to see. “Oh, Eric, I-I wish I could,” Paris stammered, lying through her teeth. “But, that won’t be possible. The stage leaves at half past three. I’ll only be here long enough for the driver to change horses, and p-pick up the mail.”

“Well, maybe you can come out another time, when you can stay longer,” Hoss said affably. “Y’ had lunch yet?”

“No,” Paris said quietly. “I was just going down to the International Hotel. The driver said they have a good enough restaurant.”

“That they do,” Hoss agreed. “But, not as good as Hop Sing.”

“I don’t think ANYBODY’S as good as Hop Sing,” Paris admitted. “Eric . . . . ” she had always called him by his given name, “ . . . why don’t you join me? That way . . . well, the two of US can have a brief visit before I leave.” As she uttered the words of invitation, she had the momentary, disorienting feeling of standing outside her body watching it move and talk like a marionette in the hands of a skilled puppeteer. How could her own voice and lips betray her so cruelly?

“Thank you, Ma’am, I will,” Hoss accepted the invitation eagerly. He gently took her arm and unobtrusively steered her across the street. Silence, for her strained and unsettling, fell between them.

Ben Cartwright stepped out of the bank and found his youngest son, Joe, and daughter, Stacy, waiting with the buckboard, its back loaded with enough dry goods to last out the next couple of months.

“Ready to go when you are, Pa,” Joe declared with a broad grin.

“I’ll be ready as soon as we collect Hoss,” Ben said, glancing around. His middle son was nowhere in sight. “Do either of you happen to know where he is?”

“I saw him crossing the street, down there by the stage depot,” Stacy replied pointing. “He was with some lady.”

“Oh yeah?” Joe queried with a devilish gleam in his eyes. “A lady, eh? Anyone WE know, Stace?”

Stacy shook her head. “I’VE never seen her before,” she said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I saw her get off the stage when it came in. She and Hoss were headed in the direction of the hotel.”

“When was this?” Ben asked.

“Just a few minutes ago,” Stacy replied.

“You want me to go get him, Pa?” Joe asked with a sly grin.

“No, I’LL go,” Ben immediately decided, knowing all too well that the look on Joe’s face and the impish sparkle in those emerald green eyes almost always meant trouble. “You and Stacy wait here.”

“So. How have you been, Eric? Since we last saw each other?” Paris asked, after she and Hoss had been seated and placed their order. Her words tumbled out in a disconcerted rush.

“I’ve been fine, Miss Paris,” Hoss replied. His initial delight at running into an old friend literally, had slowly given way to uneasy concern. He had seen more meat on the corpse of a wild animal that had lain for weeks in the desert than his companion had on her bones. Her pale skin, thinned to an alarming translucence, the dark circles under her eyes, the halting step all belonged on a person at least twice her age. Had it not been for the watch pendant she wore around her neck, Hoss doubted he would have recognized her. How had the beautiful, warm, vivacious, loving, and passionate Paris McKenna, he remembered, turned into the old, sad, careworn, distant woman seated across the table from him?

“How about the banker’s daughter? As I recall, you had a real king sized crush on her when . . . when I was here last. . . . ”

“You . . . talkin’ ‘bout Margie Owens?” ii

“Yes. Margie Owens. I couldn’t think of her name just now to save my life.”

“Margie married someone else,” Hoss replied, with a wistful half smile. “It wasn’t a happy marriage, I’m afraid. She was lookin’ t’ him t’ show her the world, while he was lookin’ real hard at her pa’s money. She left him . . . ‘n not long after, she . . . she died givin’ birth t’ their daughter.”

“Oh, Eric, I’m so sorry,” Paris murmured softly, as she reached over and gently placed her gloved hand overtop his. “Please, forgive me. I didn’t mean to open up old wounds.”

“You had no way o’ knowin’, Miss Paris,” Hoss said quietly, “ ‘n seein’ as t’ how I WAS real sweet on her when you was here last, I s’pose it’s only natural you’d ask.”

“How’s the rest of the family?”

“Adam’s livin’ out in Sacramento now,” Hoss replied, as a waiter set a cup of coffee before him, and a cup of hot tea before Paris.

“What’s HE doing with himself these days?” Paris asked, as she reached for the dainty porcelain creamer at the center of the table.

“Keepin’ himself busier ‘n bee, Ma’am,” Hoss replied. “He’s an architect . . . he ‘n another man he went t’ Harvard with have got their own firm, ‘n from what Adam says in his letters there’s plenty o’ work to do.”

“Grand! That’s grand,” Paris replied, unconsciously lapsing into her old ways of speaking. “Whatever happed to that woman HE was so find of?”

Hoss smiled. “Which one are y’ talkin’ about, Miss Paris?”

“There’ve been that many?” she queried wryly, without missing a beat.

Hoss grinned. “Ol’ Adam can be quite the ladies’ man, when he wants t’ be.”

“Yes,” Paris said slowly. An errant thought about an apple not falling far from the tree flitted through her mind . . . . She groaned inwardly upon feeling the sudden rush of blood to her face. “Yes,” she said very quickly. “Yes. I, ummm . . . suppose he can be at that.”

“ . . . ‘course he ain’t doin’ much o’ that these days,” Hoss continued.

“Confirmed bachelor is he?”

“No, Ma’am,” Hoss replied, smiling broadly. “His wife’d kill him.”

“He . . . didn’t end up marryin’ that young woman he was courtin’ so hot ‘n heavy while he was attending school in Boston . . . did he?”

Hoss shook his head. “He met a real fine gal out in Sacramento, ‘n married HER. She’s not only pretty as a picture, but smart, too . . . just like Adam. I only met her twice . . . first time when Pa, Joe, and me went to Sacramento for their wedding, ‘n the second time, when she ‘n Adam came t’ visit before the kids came along. I really liked her.”

“Kids?!” Paris echoed.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“How MANY kids?”

“Adam ‘n Teresa are the proud pa ‘n ma o’ two fine, strappin’, energetic young ’ns,” Hoss replied.

“If either one or both, heaven forbid, has a fraction of the energy your youngest brother did . . . I’ll bet they keep Adam on his toes,” Paris remarked. An amused smile tugged hard at the corner of her mouth as she remembered some of Joe Cartwright’s wild escapades at the tender age of ten “goin’ on thirty-one,” as her paternal grandmother might have said.

“Yep. All the time. Leastwise, that’s what Adam says in his letters,” Hoss replied with a chuckle. “They named the boy Benjamin Eduardo, for his grandpas, ‘n the girl Dolores Elizabeth for both her grandmas.”

“That’s lovely,” Paris said with all sincerity, as she raised the creamer to pour a bit of its contents into her tea. Suddenly, her hand trembled. The creamer slipped from her fingers and crashed onto the table, drenching her dark blue suit with cream.

Hoss immediately grabbed his napkin and began to mop up the table, while Paris sat there, stunned. The waiter discreetly returned to the table with a pitcher of water and a handful of cloth napkins.

“Ma’am?” the waiter gently placed his hand on her shoulder.

Paris gasped and started violently, nearly hitting her head against the pitcher of water in his hand.

Hoss took the napkins from the waiter and quietly asked him to leave the pitcher of water. The waiter nodded and complied, then quickly withdrew.

“Miss Paris?!” Hoss frowned. Though she had her head bowed, he could plainly see that she was crying. “Miss Paris . . . you all right?”

Paris swallowed, and sheepishly reached for one of the napkins in his hand. “I’m fine, Eric, really,” she said, forcing a smile. She wiped away the last of her tears, then started to work on her skirt. “I-I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s been a very long, arduous journey.”

“You sure that’s all it is?” Hoss queried doubtfully.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said wearily.

Ben Cartwright entered the International Hotel restaurant and approached Gretchen Braun, the restaurant manager and an old friend. She was a buxom woman, about his age. She wore a print dress, of blue flowers and ribbons on top of a field of white, and a fresh, clean white apron. Her salt and pepper hair was styled in a French twist. Since the death of her husband six years ago, she had run the restaurant with an iron hand, transforming it from a greasy spoon to fine dining enjoyed by resident and visitor alike. “Gretchen?”

“Ben Cartwright, long time no see!” Gretchen Braun exclaimed with surprised delight. The soft accent of her native Bavaria remained as it had been when she and her husband first set foot upon American shores four plus decades ago. “Would you like a table?”

“Not today, Gretchen,” Ben declined. “I’m looking for Hoss.”

“He came in a little while ago with a woman,” Gretchen replied. “They’re right over there, next to the window.”

Ben spotted them immediately. He studied the woman for a moment, frowning. Something about her struck a distressingly familiar chord within. “Gretchen?”

“What is it, Ben?”

“Do you know who that woman is?” he asked.

Gretchen shook her head and shrugged. “ ‘Fraid not, Ben.”

He thanked her, then made his way across the room to the table occupied by his middle son, Hoss, and the disconcerting mystery woman. “Hoss, I— ” Paris glanced up sharply. Their eyes met. Ben’s voice trailed away to stunned silence.

“P-Pa? Y-You remember M-Miss Paris . . . don’t ya?” Hoss awkwardly tried to break the silence.

“Y-yes, yes, of course . . . . ” Ben stammered.

Paris rose none too steadily to her feet. “Eric, I think I’d better take a rain check on that lunch,” she quickly. “I-I just remembered some things I need to buy before the stage leaves.” She turned and favored Ben with a wan, embarrassed smile. “It . . . it was good seeing you, too, Ben . . . if only for a few minutes.”

“Sorry you hafta rush off, Miss Paris. Maybe next time . . . . ”

“Y-yes, Eric . . . m-maybe next time.” Paris turned, with every intention of walking out of the restaurant and finding a notions shop to hide in until the stage left. As she turned, a wave of dizziness hit. She reached out an arm to steady herself.

Hoss gently stepped over and took her other arm. “Miss Paris, you sure you’re all right? Maybe you’d better sit down, ‘n— ”

Her eyes rolled up under her eyelids. With a soft moan, she collapsed and fell against Hoss in a dead faint.

“Hoss, take her up to room number 208.” Gretchen Braun was right there at his elbow. “The door’s unlocked. Ben, I’ve already sent Luis to fetch the doctor.”

“Thank you, Gretchen,” Ben said gratefully. “Hoss, you take Miss Paris and go on up. I’ll be back after I let Joe and Stacy know— ”

“Let Joe and Stacy know . . . what?” It was Joe.

Ben turned and found himself staring into the anxious eyes of his youngest son and only daughter.

“Pa, I know you asked us to wait, but . . . . ” Joe began. His eyes moved from Ben’s face to the limp form in Hoss’ arms. “Hoss, who—?!”

“Miss Paris, Joe,” Hoss said.

Joe’s eyes went round with astonishment.

“Pa, who’s Miss Paris?” Stacy queried sotto voce, her sky blue eyes riveted to Paris’ face. For some inexplicable reason, she felt afraid.

“Miss Paris is an old friend of the family,” Ben said gently, hoping to quell the sudden anxiety he sensed in his daughter. “It seems she was passing through on the stage and suddenly took ill.”

“Anything WE can do?” Joe asked.

“No,” Ben shook his head. “Mrs. Braun’s already sent for the doctor. Why don’t you and Stacy go on home and unload the supplies. Tell Hop Sing that Hoss and I should be home by supper time, and that we’ll more than likely be bringing home a guest.” His eyes strayed over to the still insensate Paris McKenna, and lingered.

“Joe?”

“Yeah, Hoss?”

“Since it looks as if Miss Paris might be stayin’ with us a while . . . would you mind stoppin’ by the stage depot ‘n pickin’ up her luggage?” Hoss asked.

“No problem,” Joe grunted. “Com’n, Stace.”

No reply. She stood, unmoving, staring down at Paris McKenna’s flaccid face with a morbid fascination.

“Hey, Kid . . . . ” Joe took her by the shoulder and shook her gently.

Stacy started, and turned towards Joe.

“Com’n, let’s go.”

Stacy Cartwright rode in the buckboard beside her brother in utter silence, her thoughts fixed on the woman Hoss had identified as Miss Paris. She had never so much as laid eyes on her before this afternoon; never even heard of her. That last, in and of itself, was odd, given that she was supposed to be an old friend of the family. But, there was something beyond all that. Something very compelling that had begun to stir up odd, unsettling feelings. Her fear deepened.

“Stacy LOUISE . . . . ”

The sound of that hated middle name stirred her abruptly from her troubled musings. “Joseph Francis Cartwright, you know I HATE it when you call me that!” she rounded on him furiously.

“What’s wrong with Louise? I kind of like it!” Joe teased. “In fact, I like it so much, I’m gonna start calling you LOO-WEESE from now on, instead of Stacy.”

Stacy stuck her tongue out at him, then lapsed into stony silence, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Sorry, Stace,” Joe immediately apologized, taken aback by her angry, silent response. “I’ve been trying for the last half mile to get through to you, but you’ve been stuck out there somewhere on cloud nine. It was the only way I could think of to break through.”

“Oh,” she murmured contritely.

“You alright, Kid?” Joe queried, a worried frown knotting his brow. “You’ve been awfully quiet . . . . ”

“Joe, who’s this Miss Paris?” Stacy blurted out the question. “Besides being an old friend of the family?”

“Our pa met her pa . . . I think it was in Virginia City,” Joe replied, “about two . . . maybe three years after my ma died. He and a couple of other men from Fort Charlotte— ”

“Did you say . . . F-Fort Charlotte?!”

“Yeah . . . . ”

“Same place where . . . where you guys m-met me?”

“Yeah!”

Stacy’s sense of foreboding deepened.

“Fort Charlotte started buying Ponderosa stock . . . horses AND cattle back when I was a little kid . . . knee high to a grasshopper as Hoss might say,” Joe continued. “They were regular customers pretty much for the better part of twenty years, at least . . . maybe a little bit more.”

“They don’t buy stock from us anymore . . . do they.” It was a statement of fact rather than a question.

“No,” Joe shook his head. “If memory serves, they stopped buying from us about a year or so after you came to live with us.”

“Did they ever say why?”

“Nope . . . and between you ‘n me, I STILL don’t understand why,” Joe said with a bewildered frown. “I saw the letter Major Baldwin sent Pa, going on and on and on about how our horses and beef were the finest in the whole state of Nevada . . . but they had found another supplier and would be purchasing from HIM in the future.”

“That doesn’t make any sense . . . . ”

“You’re right, Kiddo. It doesn’t make a lick of sense, but . . . . ” He shrugged. “Going back to the matter of Sergeant Gerald McKenna . . . . ”

“Miss Paris’ father?”

“Yep. He was the man in charge of the horses at Fort Charlotte,” Joe explained. “The way Pa ‘n Adam told it later, that man knew good horseflesh when he saw it. He and Pa struck up a deal right then and there. Over time, Pa, Adam, and Hoss became acquainted with Mrs. McKenna and their kids . . . three daughters and a son, if memory serves . . . until Sergeant McKenna left the army.”

“What about you?” Stacy asked. “Didn’t you get to know the McKenna family, too?”

“Not as well as Pa, Adam, and Hoss, being that I’m quite a bit YOUNGER than they are,” Joe replied with a bare hint of a saucy grin. “Sergeant McKenna came to the Ponderosa three or four times a year to purchase stock in the company of a couple of men from the fort and about a half dozen civilian drovers, they had hired. He brought his son along a time or two, but his wife and daughters . . . never.” He paused for a moment, then added, “When he was here, I made sure I stayed well out of his way as much as possible.”

“Why?”

“I was a little afraid of him,” Joe freely admitted. “He could turn meaner ‘n a rattle snake at the drop of a hat, if he was of a mind . . . and most of the time he was around, he . . . WAS . . . of a mind. I don’t think he cared all that much for kids, either.”

“Did you ever go to Fort Charlotte with Pa, Adam, and Hoss?”

“Not until I was sixteen. That’s when I left school and went to work for Pa full time,” Joe said. “Sergeant McKenna had left the army by then . . . . ”

“Oh,” Stacy murmured softly. “Do you know what happened to Sergeant McKenna and his family after he left the army?”

“Right after he left the army, he and his family went out to California to look for gold,” Joe replied. “There WAS a rush on, if I’m remembering things right.”

“Greenhorn Creek?”

“Yeah. How’d YOU know?”

“We studied about that in school,” Stacy replied. “That would’ve been about a year or so before I was born . . . whenever THAT was . . . exactly.”

“Sorry, Kid.”

“ ‘S ok, Joe. I may not know when my real birthday is, but I have the date Pa gave me,” Stacy said, “and THAT’S plenty good enough for me.”

Joe smiled. “That’s plenty good enough for me, too, Stace.”

“Did Miss Paris’ pa ever find gold?”

“I . . . don’t know,” Joe replied. “If he did, no one ever said. At any rate, Miss Paris and one of her younger sisters ended up stopping over at the Ponderosa on their way out.”

“What about her ma and pa?”

“They went on to California with their youngest daughter, Elsie.”

A bewildered frown creased the smooth plain of Stacy’s brow. “Why didn’t THEY stay, too?”

“I imagine Sergeant McKenna was anxious to reach Greenhorn Creek,” Joe replied. “So they left Miss Paris and her sister here, with Doc Martin. When Pa found out they were in Virginia City . . . . ” He grinned. “ . . . well, you know Pa. He insisted they come out to the Ponderosa and stay with us until Mattie was feeling better. Somehow, I don’t think Pa had to work all that hard to convince Miss Paris.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Joe replied with an emphatic nod of his head, “and looking back, Miss Paris’ sister, Matilda— ”

“Matilda?”

“Yep.”

Stacy made a face. “Yuck! Poor woman! THAT’S even worse than Louise.”

Joe smiled, relieved to see Stacy acting more like herself. “At any rate, Matilda . . . Mattie, as she preferred to be called . . . didn’t look all that sick, leastwise not to ME, AND she made a real rapid recovery to boot.”

“Are you saying that Mattie McKenna FAKED being sick?” Stacy was intrigued, despite her growing uneasiness.

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“I’ll GET to why . . . IF you’ll stop interrupting me with questions every two seconds.”

Stacy stuck out her tongue.

Joe returned the gesture. “The why of it all should be obvious, Little Sister! The reason Mattie McKenna suddenly took, ummm ‘ill’ . . . was, so she and Miss Paris could stay here in Virginia City . . . for a li’l while at least.”

“Why?”

“Think about it, Kid.”

“Dadburn it, Grandpa! If you don’t tell me, I’m gonna tickle you silly,” Stacy threatened.

“Boy! Talk about dense— ”

“Joe . . . . ” She said in a low, menacing tone as she pointed a circling finger towards his abdomen.

“All right!” Joe snapped, as he dropped his elbow down protectively over the lower portion of his torso. “There was a special someone she wanted to spend some time with.”

“Miss Mattie?”

“No! Miss Paris.”

“Ooohhh-kay . . . who did Miss Paris want to spend some time with?”

“Now just hold your horses, Miss Stacy LOO-WEESE! I’ll get to THAT in my own good time.”

“OK, LITTLE Joe!” she sighed disparagingly. “I’ll TRY to be patient!”

“What you’ll TRY, Little Sister, is the patience of a saint,” Joe retorted good-naturedly. “Now where was I?”

“Pa insisted that Miss Paris and Mattie stay at the Ponderosa while Mattie recovered from an illness that wasn’t.”

“Mattie stayed two weeks,” Joe resumed the tale. “As for Miss Paris . . . she never made it to California.”

“She didn’t?!”

“Nope.”

“What happened?”

“Pa and Hoss took Miss Paris and Mattie to the stage depot in Virginia City. Pa said later that Miss Paris insisted they go on about their business . . . that she and Mattie would be all right. So, they did. Miss Paris put her sister on the stage, and came back to the Ponderosa, that very night. Pa . . . Hoss . . . and . . . and Hop Sing, too . . . . ” Joe laughed uproariously, “ . . . the looks on their f-faces . . . . Oh, Stacy, it was priceless! I wish you could’ve seen it.”

“Me, too,” Stacy said, grinning in spite of the anxiety she felt within. She had found that high-pitched, rapid-fire laughter of his to be highly contagious ever since she had met and joined the Cartwright family almost five years ago. “Joe?”

“Yeah, Stace?”

“What about the look on Adam’s face?”

“There wasn’t one.”

“There wasn’t?!”

“Nope,” Joe said chuckling. “He was in Boston then, attending Harvard University. When Miss Paris and Mattie came to visit, he would have been at the beginning of his senior year.”

“Oh.”

“Speaking for myself, I was happier than two peas in a pod, to quote our big brother again,” Joe continued, glad to see the smile on Stacy’s face. “I was absolutely besotted with her.”

“What?!” Stacy queried, surprised. “You?”

“Why do I have the distinct feeling I’ve just been insulted?” Joe demanded with mock severity.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Stacy protested. “It’s just that . . . well, you had to have been nine or ten, right?”

“So?”

“So . . . ‘way back when you were nine or ten— ”

“Whaddya mean ‘way back when I was nine or ten?” Joe demanded in melodramatic tones of mock outrage. “YOU make it sound as if I’m positively ancient.”

“You ARE,” Stacy quipped. “I mean . . . face it, GRANDPA! Come next birthday, you’re gonna be all the way up in your LATE middle twenties.”

“Hmpf! YOU may be about to turn sixteen, Kiddo, but there’s nothing sweet about it, no siree!”

Stacy smiled and cheerfully stuck out her tongue.

Joe responded by thumbing up his nose.

“Seriously though . . . you told me yourself when you were that age, you thought girls stunk to high heaven,” Stacy said.

“ . . . except for Lotus O’Toole,” Joe added, then smiled. “Miss Paris, however, WAS no girl. Not no how . . . not no way! I was definitely smitten.”

“With a woman old enough to be your ma?!”

Joe had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud at the astonished look on her face. “She’s not THAT old, Kiddo,” he said. “Old enough to be my older sister, or babysitter perhaps . . . . ”

Stacy favored her brother with a withering, jaundiced glare. “You joshin’ me, Grandpa?” she accused.

Joe shook his head. “Nope,” he replied. “She’s only a year or two younger than Adam . . . . ”

“She LOOKS more like she’s PA’S age.”

“I have to admit that shocked me, too, Stacy,” Joe said quietly. “If Hoss hadn’t said who she was . . . well, I’d have never recognized her in a million years.”

“So . . . why did she come back to the Ponderosa . . . after putting her sister on the stage?” Stacy asked.

“She was a lady in love.”

“Not with you, of course.”

“No . . . leastwise, not in the way YOU’RE thinking,” Joe said, smiling at the memory. “She looked upon me as a ‘delightfully naughty, yet thoroughly loveable little brother.’ HER words, Kid.”

“Hmm. Not quite the way I’D describe you,” Stacy quipped.

“All I gotta say to that is . . . the only thing worse than the way YOU’D describe ME is the way I’D describe YOU,” Joe cheerfully retorted.

“ . . . and if either one of us said it, Pa would wash our mouths out with some real good, strong lye soap.”

Joe looked over at her, grinned, and stuck out his tongue.

Stacy giggled and returned the gesture. “Joe?” she ventured, as her laughter began to subside.

“What?”

“Did she fall in love with Hoss?” Stacy asked, remembering the gentle concern her biggest brother had shown Miss Paris at the hotel restaurant.

“Nope.”

“ . . . and she couldn’t have fallen in love with Adam since he was in Boston going to . . . Harvard University . . . is that right?”

Joe grinned. “Right as rain, Kiddo.”

“That means . . . . ” Her voice trailed away to stunned silence as revelation suddenly dawned. She slowly turned her head and looked over at her brother, her face a shade or two paler than was the norm, and her eyes round with shocked horror. “Y-You mean she . . . she . . . that she actually f-fell in love with . . . with . . . . ?!”

“I know YOU don’t see him in that way, but Pa can be quite the ladies’ man himself . . . when he wants to be,” Joe said gently, unable to quite fathom the whys and the wherefores for the horrified look on her face.

“I KNOW that,” Stacy said crossly. “It’s just that . . . that . . . . ” She exhaled a sigh borne of pure and simple frustration. For some odd strange reason, the idea of Pa and Miss Paris having once been in love frightened her. She wished more than anything for the words to explain that to Joe, but . . . how in the world COULD she explain it to him, when she couldn’t even begin to explain it to herself?

“It . . . actually wasn’t as bad as all that,” Joe continued, treading carefully. “I mean she wasn’t a gold digger out for his money. She honest and truly DID love Pa . . . and he loved her, too. So much, in fact, I thought sure they were going to get married.”

“R-Really?” Stacy ventured hesitantly, in a voice barely audible.

Joe nodded.

“So, uhhh . . . what happened? Why didn’t they?”

Joe shrugged. “I don’t know, Kid. She just, all of a sudden, up and left without a word . . . a warning . . . without even saying good-bye. We woke up one morning and she was gone.”

“Why?” Stacy pressed. “Did she and Pa have a fight or something?”

“I don’t honestly know WHAT happened between them,” Joe said somberly. “Pa never said. All I DO know is that her leaving like she did hurt Pa very badly. It took him a long time to get over her.” He fell silent for a moment. “Stacy . . . . ”

“You don’t have to worry, Joe,” Stacy said. “I won’t ask Pa any questions about Miss Paris.”

“Promise?”

A stinging, angry retort sprang to mind, but the earnest look on his face stopped her from uttering it. “I promise,” she said in a voice barely audible.

“Pa . . . .” Hoss said very softly, “she’s comin’ ‘round now . . . . ”

“Paris?”

Paris McKenna sighed contentedly. She was twenty years old again. All of the intervening years, and the grief, the heartbreak, the tragedy that had come with them, all ceased to be, like a bad dream in the face of morning sunshine. Her sister, Mattie, had gone on to California to join their parents and their youngest sister, Elsie. Hoss was out with the foreman and a couple of the hands riding fence. Joe was in school and Hop Sing had gone into town to pick up supplies and visit with his father. That left her all alone in the house with the man she loved more than life . . . .

“Paris.”

The happy dream vanished. She was thirty-six years of age, very soon to be thirty-seven. The beautiful twenty year old, so hopeful, so full of life, was gone, as if she had never been. In her place was a woman, filled with bitterness and regret, made old before her time by the hard life circumstance had forced upon her. Most heart wrenching of all, the days . . . the weeks . . . the months, and . . . the years that had passed between then and now, once again stretched between her and Ben Cartwright like an abyss, far too wide and deep to ever be crossed.

Her eyelids flickered, and opened slowly with a resigned reluctance. Looking up, she found herself gazing into the anxious faces of Ben and Eric Cartwright. “W-what happened?” Paris groaned.

“You and Hoss were about to have lunch when you passed out,” Ben said quietly.

“Yes,” Paris murmured softly. “Yes. I remember, I was waiting for— ” Suddenly, her eyes went round with horror. “Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed. “What time is it?” She abruptly sat up, and in so doing set the room spinning before her eyes. With a soft, agonized moan, she collapsed back against the pillows.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” Ben chided her sternly. “When you DO get up, you’ll do it slow and easy, unless you want to risk the possibility of fainting again.” He paused, to allow her a moment to absorb the import his words. “As for the stage, it left an hour and a half ago.”

“Oh no!” she moaned.

“Now, don’t you worry none, Miss Paris,” Hoss said. “I asked Joe ‘n Stacy t’ get your luggage.”

“Th-thank you, Eric,” she said in a small, barely audible voice. “When does the next stage leave?”

“There’s one leaving tomorrow morning, but you’re NOT going to be on it,” Ben said firmly.

“Ben, I HAVE to get to San Francisco,” she said, “as soon as possible. I have a job waiting, and I’m already two days behind because of unforeseen delays on the stage line.”

“Paris, you’re not fit to travel, let alone work,” Ben argued. “The doctor said— ”

“Doctor!” Paris exclaimed weakly. “Oh, no! Ben, surely you didn’t call a doctor?!”

“Mrs. Braun did,” Ben said. “But, if she hadn’t, I most certainly would have.”

“Why? I told you I’m just worn out from the trip,” Paris wailed. “That’s all!”

“No, that’s NOT all,” Ben argued. “The doctor said, at the very least, you’re suffering from exhaustion and not eating properly. You need a long rest, and plenty of good food.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to eat and rest when I reach San Francisco.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to eat and rest right NOW,” Ben countered. “You’re coming back with us to the Ponderosa.”

Paris’ heart sank. “Oh no . . . no! Ben, I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“Well . . . it would be too much trouble, for one thing,” Paris argued. There was a desperate edge to her voice. “It would. I . . . no! No! I c-can’t put you and your boys out like that.”

“Nonsense,” Ben countered. “You won’t be any trouble at all. We have plenty of room— ”

“It would be charity, Ben,” she said adamantly. “I won’t take charity! Never! Never AGAIN!”

“You and that damnable pride of yours!” Ben swore, his exasperation getting the better of him.

Paris recoiled as if he had struck her.

“I’m sorry,” Ben immediately apologized, his voice filled with remorse. He took a deep breath and continued in a tone of voice more calm and even. “Paris, I’m not offering charity. I’m . . . I’m extending an invitation to an old . . . and very dear friend.”

“All right, Ben,” Paris acquiesced, her voice cracking on his name. His words and the way he had spoken them had almost thrown open that Pandora’s Box once again. She sternly reminded herself that the time she and Ben Cartwright had together was long past and gone. To try and recapture it now would be monstrously unfair. He had obviously gotten over her and gone on with his life. She felt a measure of relief in that. Maybe, as the years passed, he had even found it within him to forgive her for her abrupt departure in the dead of night.

She, however, would never forgive herself.

Paris silently and firmly resolved that she would to go to the Ponderosa, rest and eat, get back her strength. She would then go on to San Francisco and out of the lives of the Cartwright Family with all haste and speed . . . forever.

“Pa?”

Ben glanced up at his second son sharply. He had entirely forgotten that Hoss was still in the room.

“Tony Grainger just pulled up in front o’ the hotel with that buggy ‘n horse we’ve rented . . . . ” Hoss announced from his place next to the window. Tony Grainger owned and operated the livery stable closest to the International Hotel. He was a gregarious young man, tall and reed slender, with brown eyes and a full head of startling carrot colored hair.

“Why don’t you see Miss Paris downstairs, and get her settled in the buggy,” Ben suggested, feeling oddly embarrassed. “We’ll leave for home as soon as I settle up with Mrs. Braun.”

“Ben, I have some money,” Paris said, as Hoss gently helped her to sit up. “It’s squirreled away in my wallet at the bottom of my carpet bag. It w-won’t be . . . enough . . . . ” She had almost let slip that the little bit of money was all she had in the world. “I can send whatever I need to make up the difference when I get to San Francisco.”

“Don’t worry about the money right now, Paris,” Ben said. “I have more than enough to— ”

“I meant what I said about taking charity,” Paris said, her anger rising. The only thing she had left was her pride, damnable though it may be. Perhaps that was all she ever had that she could really and truly call her own. She was bound and determined to hold on to it, no matter what the cost. “Ben, I’ve ALWAYS paid my way,” she continued. “ALWAYS! I don’t aim to stop now.”

“All right, Paris, I’ll consider it a loan,” Ben said wearily . . . .

Paris McKenna lay wide-awake in the dark guestroom, listening to the grandfather’s clock downstairs strike the hour of three a.m. Outside, the moon had risen and set hours ago. A thick blanket of clouds rolled in, obscuring the light from the myriad of stars spread across the backdrop of indigo-black sky. Nearly every joint in her body ached; a sure sign of coming rain.

Paris gingerly rolled over onto her side, and closed her eyes with an exasperated sigh. The stagecoach journey, coupled with her chance meetings with Eric, then Ben, followed by the trip from Virginia City to the Ponderosa, had all taken a far greater toll on her dwindling energy and stamina than she cared to admit. She had almost passed out again when she walked through the door of the Cartwrights’ home, sandwiched between Ben and Eric. Only through a supreme effort of will did she manage to walk the distance between the front door and the settee without collapsing.

Memories of her first evening at the Ponderosa had deteriorated to a hazy blur, something for which she was heartily thankful. She vaguely remembered Hop Sing at her elbow, trying to coerce her to eat. Eric kept up a lively, albeit nervous, stream of chatter about the weather, Adam and his family in Sacramento, and the local gossip. Apart from catching a few names she recognized, Paris remembered nothing of what he had said. Joe was gracious enough, but seemed distant and remote, answering in monosyllables only when addressed. Ben added a word or two once in a while to Eric’s monolog, and occasionally tried to draw Stacy into the conversation to no avail. The absolute worst were the long, strained silences, during the inevitable conversational lulls.

The faces of Eric, Joe, and Ben slowly faded into the face the youngest member of the Cartwright family, Stacy. Apart from acknowledging their introduction, the girl never said another word the entire evening. There was something strange and compelling about her. Paris felt drawn to her, yet terrified of her at the same time. Maybe it was Stacy’s eyes, the same sky blue color as her own. Or maybe it was the fact that Stacy now was around the same age poor Rose Miranda would have been, had SHE lived. Stacy’s face, framed by a thick halo of dark, wavy hair and those big blue eyes, faded into the face of Rose Miranda, as an infant; a pudgy, cherubic face, with red cheeks, and enormous blue eyes, framed by a wispy halo of hair, hued a rich dark brown almost black . . . .

Suddenly, the lid of the Pandora’s Box within flew open with the force of an exploding volcano. All the memories and feelings that she had kept locked inside, washed over her like a raging flash flood. Helpless against the onslaught, Paris turned and buried her face in the softness of the down pillow beneath her head and sobbed herself into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Stacy woke with a jolt, heart pounding and forehead glistening with cold sweat. Her palms were clammy, and her breath came in short, ragged gasps. Sleep had been fitful, interrupted by the continuous replay of a dream filled with strange, shadowy people in a place she couldn’t remember, yet seemed horribly familiar. A glance at the regulator clock, hanging on the wall facing her bed, told her the time was a few minutes past five.

She climbed out of bed, intending to dress and go for a ride before breakfast. A good, brisk ride in the bracing early morning air always worked at clearing troublesome cobwebs out of her head. She turned toward the window, and saw, much to her dismay, that the pouring rain had just squelched her plans.

“Reading should help pass the time between now ‘n breakfast,” Stacy mused in silence, as she turned and grabbed her robe from its place on the post at the head of her bed. She fervently hoped a good book would keep her mind well away from the disturbing images in that terrible dream. She slipped on her robe, then stepped silently from her bedroom, pausing briefly to allow her eyes a moment to adjust to the diminished light in the upstairs hallway.

Upon reaching the top landing, Stacy noted with a start that her father was already up, and dressed. He sat on the settee downstairs, staring morosely into the cold, empty depths of the massive gray stone fireplace that dominated the great room. A book lay open on the coffee table before him alongside a glass, half full, of whiskey. “Pa?!”

Ben glanced up as Stacy started down the stairs. “Good morning,” he greeted her with a tired smile. “You’re up early.”

“Can’t get back to sleep,” she replied, as she hopped down off the last step.

Ben motioned for her to come and sit down beside him. Stacy bounded across the room and dropped down onto the settee next to him. “Hmmm. From the look of you, I’d say you didn’t get any sleep at all,” he said, noting her still wet brow with concern. “You all right?”

“I’m not sick, Pa,” she replied.

Ben blotted the sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief and touched it with the back of his hand. He was somewhat relieved to find her forehead cool as a cucumber.

“I SAID I wasn’t sick,” Stacy said irritably.

“Well, SOMETHING kept you awake most of the night,” Ben quietly observed, “and you’re not usually as quiet as you were last night, unless you ARE sick.” He paused. “You want to talk about it?”

“Pa, how is it you always seem to know—!?”

“Experience that comes from raising three sons and a daughter,” Ben replied.

Stacy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You remember that awful dream I kept having when I first came?”

“I remember,” Ben said sympathetically.

“It’s back,” she said, her voice breaking, “all night long! But, it’s changed.”

Ben wordlessly slipped a reassuring arm around her shoulders. He felt her nestling close in the crook of his arm, the weight of her head dropping down onto his shoulder. “It’s all right, Stacy . . . it’s all right. I’m here. I’m right here,” he whispered.

“Thanks, Pa,” Stacy murmured, grateful for the love, the comfort, and reassurance he offered through the strength of his presence, the simple touch of his arm wrapped tight about her shoulders. She closed her eyes once again and fell silent, as she worked to muster her own strength and courage.

“The dream started out the same way it always has,” Stacy began haltingly, at length. “I see the people . . . but not their faces. I feel like I SHOULD know them . . . but I can’t remember. To be up front and honest? I don’t WANT to remember. I just want to get away from them. Then, all of a sudden, I’m some WHERE, I’ve never been before . . . and yet I know it. I know where the road leads, what lies over the hill, what’s around the next bend all before I get there. That’s scary enough all by itself!” She shuddered.

“Yes,” Ben agreed. “Déja vu can be very disconcerting, to say the least.”

“Déja . . . what?”

“Déja vu,” Ben repeated the words. “What you went through in those dreams, being in a place you’ve never been . . . but knowing it, is called déja vu.”

“Has it ever happened to you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ben replied, “in dreams.”

That disclosure made Stacy feel a little better. “Next thing I know, I’m running for my life, but I don’t know who or what I’m running from,” she continued.

“How has the dream changed?” Ben asked.

“When I lived with the Paiutes, Silver Moon taught me to call on her namesake, the moon,” Stacy explained. “The moon would leave the sky and land on the road in front of me. I’d climb inside, and the moon would rise, taking me away from whoever was chasing me.” She lapsed into a long silence.

Ben waited patiently for her to continue.

“Pa, last night . . . last night, the moon didn’t come,” she said finally, her voice breaking. “I called and called, just like Silver Moon taught me . . . but the moon didn’t come!” With that, she buried her face against Ben’s shoulder and wept.

Ben held her, his own heart aching along with her. He wanted so much to take away the fear, the pain, and the grief that had always accompanied the dream, but knew full well he could not.

At length, Stacy’s tears subsided. “P-Pa?”

“Yes?”

“It’s been so long, I thought the dream had stopped for good,” she said in a melancholy tone. “Why has it come back?”

“I don’t know,” Ben said quietly, “but, I think I know why the moon didn’t come this time.”

“Why, Pa?” she asked, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her robe.

Ben handed her a handkerchief. “I think the moon didn’t come this time because the moon is Silver Moon. The moon can’t help you anymore because Silver Moon is no longer here to help you.”

Stacy was clearly frightened by that prospect. “Oh no!” she whispered, her eyes round with horror. “NOW what’ll I do?”

“Sooner or later you’re going to have to stop running and face whoever is chasing you,” Ben said quietly. “I think, deep down, you know that.”

“Oh, Pa . . . what if I can’t?”

“You CAN . . . and you will,” Ben said. “It’ll take a lot of courage, but I know you have more than enough to see you through.”

“If I’m so courageous, why do I feel like such a ‘fraidy cat?” Stacy asked dejectedly.

“A long time ago . . . when I was about the same age you are now . . . a wise man told me that courage has nothing to do with not being afraid,” Ben said. “Courage is facing up to something when you ARE afraid.”

“Like . . . facing up to whatever’s chasing me in the dream?”

Ben nodded. “Miss Paris frightens you the same way the dream frightens you, doesn’t she.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

For an uncertain moment, Stacy thought she was going to faint. “H-how did you know?”

“You’ve been edgy ever since you saw her at the restaurant in Virginia City yesterday,” Ben gently answered her question.

“I don’t know why, Pa,” Stacy said, feeling an almost giddy, guilty sense of relief that he knew. “I’ve never seen Miss Paris before in my life, until yesterday, but I can’t shake this feeling that somehow . . . somewhere I KNOW her. Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“You think Miss Paris might be connected with the dream somehow?”

“Her presence seems to have triggered feelings of déja vu like the dreams, but other than that I’m afraid I don’t know,” Ben replied. “I think the only one can really answer that question is you.”

“I’m scared, Pa.”

“ . . . and I’m right here,” Ben said, offering her a reassuring, if weary smile.

Stacy returned his smile, before impulsively throwing her arms around his neck and planting a sound kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

Ben’s smile broadened. “For what?” he asked.

“For hearing me out,” she said earnestly, “for NOT telling me I’m being silly, for not treating me like some kind of cry baby, and . . . most of all . . . for being with me.”

“Well, you’re NOT being silly . . . and you’re hardly what I’d call a cry baby,” Ben hastened to reassure her. He paused briefly, then added, “and I’ll tell you something else. Seeing Miss Paris McKenna yesterday’s had me pretty spooked, too.”

“Is that why YOU’RE up so early?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m up so early,” Ben replied. “You’re very perceptive yourself, Young La–, er Young WOMAN.”

“You and Silver Moon both say it comes from living with family,” Stacy said. “I wish there was some way you could meet her . . . . ”

“I do, too,” Ben said sincerely. “She sounds like a very wise woman.”

“Pa?”

“Hmm?”

“Miss Paris is sick, isn’t she,” Stacy said, bringing the subject of conversation back to their houseguest.

“Well, she’s not sick, exactly,” Ben explained. “The doctor said she’s suffering from exhaustion. She’ll be fine after she’s had plenty of rest and plenty to eat.”

Stacy shook her head. “No, Pa. She IS sick. Something’s eating her, from the inside,” she said. “I’ve seen it before . . . twice.”

“Oh?”

“I saw it the second time in the face of my grandfather, Chief Soaring Eagle,” Stacy said sadly. “The army had us holed up in this box canyon, with . . . with no way out. When my grandfather realized that, he . . . the look on his face . . . it was the same as the look on Miss Paris’ face now.”

Most of the time, by all appearances, Stacy was a typical teenaged girl, who loved horses, delighted in teasing her older brothers, and needed occasional motivation to apply herself to her school work. She had yet to discover the merits of teenaged boys, something for which Ben was heartily thankful, even though he knew that would more than likely change in the very near future. But, occasionally, there were times, like now, when the teenaged girl disappeared into an incredibly wise woman, more ancient than the mountains surrounding the Ponderosa. Ben knew that if he lived to be a hundred, this daughter of his would never cease to amaze him.

“When was the first time?” Ben asked.

“The first time?!” Stacy echoed, favoring her father with a bewildered frown. “What first time?”

“The first time you saw someone with . . . with the same sickness you see in Miss Paris?”

“Oh! It was . . . . ” Her face fell as that particular memory and the words, sitting right on the tip of her tongue, suddenly vanished. “I . . . thought there was another time, but . . . all of a sudden, I . . . I can’t remember.”

“Maybe it’ll come back to you later,” Ben suggested, with a hopeful reassuring smile.

“Maybe . . . . ” she said softly.

“In the meantime, Young Woman, I think I hear Hop Sing moving about in the kitchen . . . . ”

Stacy turned a listening ear in the direction of the kitchen. “I think you’re right,” she said, smiling . . . all teenaged girl once again. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“You think . . . maybe . . . if we get up right now, you and I can get to the kitchen first and get OUR share of the bacon before Hoss and Joe wake up?”

“ . . . then you’d better shake a leg, Miss Stacy LOO-WEESE!” Joe called out from the landing at the top of the stairs, “because right now, I’m hungrier than a mean ol’ grizzly bear that just woke up from a long winter’s night.”

“So am I . . . LITTLE Joe!” Stacy retorted, as she leapt to her feet. “Last one to the kitchen forfeits HIS bacon to the first.”

“LITTLE Joe?! Hey! Where do YOU get off calling me Little Joe, LITTLE Sister?! I’ve got a good mind turn you over my knee, and— ”

“You have to catch me first,” Stacy taunted. “Excuse me, Pa . . . . ” With the grace and powerful strength of a prowling cougar, she sprang from between the settee and coffee table, and sprinted toward the kitchen as fast as she could.

“WHY YOU LITTLE—! YOU COME BACK HERE!” Joe yelled, giving chase.

“I won!” Stacy crowed triumphantly from the kitchen door. “Your bacon is mine.”

“It is not! You cheated!”

“Did not!”

“Did so!”

“I most certainly and assuredly did NOT,” Stacy argued. “If anyone cheated . . . it was YOU!”

“ME?!” Joe echoed, outraged and indignant.

“Yes . . . YOU!”

“I did not!”

“Oh, yes you DID!”

Ben followed at a more leisurely pace, chuckling and shaking his head. A glance out the window told him that the rain had stopped and the clouds were beginning to break up. Soon, the winds would come and scatter the clouds, the way the gray light of this still overcast morning had, for the time being at least, driven away the dark dreams and the uneasiness that seemed to have accompanied Paris McKenna’s unexpected arrival. Out in the kitchen he heard the teasing banter between Joe and Stacy, followed by a peal of the former’s infectious laughter mixed with what had to be some very colorful Chinese from Hop Sing.

“Hey, Pa,” it was Hoss. “Shouldn’t ya tell those two hooligans to quiet down!? Their shenanigans are sure to wake up Miss Paris.”

Ben shook his head. “After the way Joe and Stacy behaved last night, I’m relieved and thankful to see them back to normal.”

“OUT! OUT OF HOP SING KITCHEN!” Hop Sing yelled, shifting from fluent Chinese to his own unique brand of English. “OUT! RIGHT NOW! CHOP! CHOP!”

“On second thought,” Ben said quickening his pace, “I don’t like the sound of that ‘chop chop.’ Stacy . . . Joseph . . . . ”

Paris opened her eyes and yawned. Turning toward the window, she saw that the rain had stopped. The sky and remaining wisps of cloud were drenched in a pinkish golden light. Though the pain in her joints had lessened, the muscles in her back and shoulders ached miserably. Her eyes burned, and her entire face felt swollen and tender. She slowly, gingerly eased herself up from prone to sitting. Though the move left her feeling horribly lightheaded, the room stayed firmly anchored on its foundations. She decided to rest a moment, before getting out of bed and finding her way to the washbasin on its stand across the room.

The sound of someone knocking on the door startled her. “Who . . . who is it?” she gasped, shocked at how hoarse her voice sounded in her own ears.

“It’s Ben, Paris. May I come in?”

She automatically straightened, smoothed out the folds of her nightgown, and pushed her hair back behind her ears. “Come in, Ben,” she invited, nervous and wary.

Ben entered the room, carrying a tray. On it was a steaming bowl of Hop Sing’s chicken soup, judging from the delicious, heady aroma. Beside the bowl was a small plate with two biscuits and a slab of butter, along with a mug of steaming hot herbal tea. “I’m sorry, Paris,” he said quietly, shocked by her gaunt, haggard appearance. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Paris said in a low, barely audible voice. “I’d just woken up a few minutes before you knocked on the door.”

“I thought I’d bring you a little something to eat.”

“Tell me something, Ben. Has it become a custom out here to have chicken soup for breakfast?!”

Ben felt a tiny prickle of relief at hearing something of the old Paris McKenna crustiness. “No,” he shook his head and set the tray down on her lap, “but we DO have it for dinner or supper occasionally.”

“Goodness! It’s dinnertime already?” she gasped.

“Past dinner going on supper time, actually,” Ben said quietly. “Hop Sing wanted to wake you for breakfast, but I figured you needed the sleep more.”

“SUPPERtime?!” Paris echoed incredulously. “Do you mean to tell me I’ve slept away the entire day?!”

Ben nodded.

Paris scooped up a generous spoonful of broth, vegetables, and chicken, blew on it, then gingerly sipped from the spoon. “Glad to know Hop Sing hasn’t lost his touch,” she murmured.

“Mind if I sit with you awhile?” Ben asked.

“No . . . n-not at all,” she lied.

Ben took the nearest chair and pulled it up beside the bed. “Did you sleep all right?”

“I couldn’t get to sleep right away,” Paris confessed sheepishly, “you know . . . the usual aches and pains when the rains come.”

Ben frowned. “Aren’t you a little young for that?” he asked.

Paris placed the spoon on the tray and reached for one of the two buttermilk biscuits. “Not when you haven’t the good sense to get the mumps while you’re still a child,” she sighed. “I caught them two years ago from my employers’ children. My joints have been achy ever since . . . especially when it rains. Ben?”

“Yes, Paris?”

“I need to send a wire,” she said briskly, “to my employer in San Francisco. I, uhh . . . think it would be prudent to let him know that I’ve taken ill and . . . am unable to take the job.”

“Yes, of course,” Ben immediately agreed. He rose and walked over to the secretary, set against the wall directly across the foot of the bed. There, he procured paper and pencil, then turned his attention once again to his houseguest. “The telegraph office would be closed before anyone could make it into town today, but I’ll have the man who goes in to pick up my mail see to it first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, grateful and deeply relieved. “It wouldn’t be at all seemly for me to not show up without some kind of explanation . . . . ”

“I understand.”

“The name of the man who hired me is Barnaby Cunningham,” Paris said. “He’s the manager of a law firm . . . Collins, Tyler, and Forsythe.”

“Would the second partner in the law firm happen to be Mark Tyler?” Ben asked, as he dutifully jotted down the information given him.

“Why . . . yes,” Paris replied, mildly surprised. “You know him?”

“I’ve done business with him a time or two,” Ben replied. He folded the paper and slipped it into the front pocket of his shirt.

“Small world,” Paris quietly observed, as Ben once again seated himself in the chair next to her bed.

“So . . . what have you been doing with yourself since you . . . uhh . . . since you and I last saw each other?” Ben asked, suddenly feeling ill at ease.

Paris winced. Her eyes dropped from Ben’s face to her soup like a pair of lead weights. “I’m afraid my life’s been . . . well . . . kind of dull, actually,” she replied, hesitant and apologetic. “I, uhh . . . took ill not long after I . . . after I left. I stayed with Mam, Da, and my sisters until I got back on my feet. After that . . . . ” She shrugged. “After that, I kinda drifted from one place to another, taking whatever work was available . . . . ” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then forced herself to look up and meet his eyes. “I’ve done well enough for myself for the most part, I s’pose . . . but it’s not been very interesting. I was hoping you’d tell me about Stacy,” she said, hoping against hope to steer the conversation well away from herself. The youngest member of the Cartwright family appeared to be a safe enough topic.

“Sure,” Ben replied. “What would you like to know?”

“Everything. From the beginning,” Paris immediately replied.

“Well . . . Hoss, Joe, and I met Stacy for the first time at Fort Charlotte four . . . going on five years ago now,” Ben began.

Paris glanced over at him sharply. “D-Did you say . . . F-Fort . . . Charlotte?!”

Ben nodded.

“Hm. A VERY small world,” she observed, speaking with a calmness she was very far from feeling.

“So it would seem,” Ben said with a touch of wryness. “As you WELL know, Fort Charlotte bought Ponderosa stock for quite a number of years.”

“Yes . . . ever since that chance meeting with my father,” Paris said. She gingerly sipped another spoonful of soup. “For all his faults . . . that man sure knew a fine horse when he saw one, and . . . I remember him saying on more than one occasion that the Ponderosa horses were the best in the whole territory.”

“High praise coming from Gerald McKenna,” Ben said. “We continued to do business with Fort Charlotte long after your father left the army. The summer we met Stacy, the boys and I had gone there to deliver a string of horses that Sergeant McGuinness— ”

“Sergeant DASHEL McGuinness?”

“Yes. He was horse master at the time.”

“So . . . Dashel decided to follow in his father’s footsteps after all . . . in spite of his many protests to the contrary,” she said quietly, shaking her head in wonder.

“He had the biggest crush on YOU, as I recall, beginning from the very moment he discovered the existence of girls . . . when? His twelfth birthday?”

“His thirteenth,” Paris said tartly. “I, of course, was a sophisticated, worldly woman, all of fifteen years old. My father would have been ecstatic if I had encouraged him, what with HIS father being the fort commander, but . . . I . . . well, I just couldn’t bring myself. To me he was a child, Ben . . . just a little boy, still wet behind the ears, trying to play grown-up . . . and besides . . . MY heart belonged to . . . to another.” As she uttered those last words she once again averted her eyes from his face back to the tray on her lap, deeply chagrined upon feeling the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks and neck.

“Sergeant McGuinness came to the Ponderosa in the early spring of that year to look over a string of horses we had just brought in off the range,” Ben continued. “He purchased them on the spot. That summer the boys and I took ‘em to Fort Charlotte, saddle broken and trained. The sergeant was at the corral waiting for us when we arrived. Stacy was with him.

“Sergeant McGuinness introduced us.” Ben smiled, and a soft, distant gaze clouded his eyes as thought and memory transported him back to that particular time and place. “Stacy and the boys hit it off immediately. It seemed the three of ‘em were thick as thieves before the sergeant could finish making the introductions. If you’d seen them together that day, you would’ve thought they’d known each other their whole lives.”

“How did Stacy end up at Fort Charlotte of all places?” Paris asked. “Was she an army brat like . . . like my sisters and me?”

Ben shook his head. “Sergeant McGuinness told me Stacy and about half a dozen other white children were found living with a tribe of Paiute Indians. A patrol heading north spotted ‘em,” he replied. “There were no warriors among ‘em . . . just women . . . children . . . and a handful of old men, including their chief. They knew they were no match for the cavalrymen, so they turned tail and ran. The cavalrymen went after them, and rounded ‘em up very quickly. The Indians were relocated to a reservation, and the white children taken back to the fort. By the time Hoss, Joe, and I arrived, the other children were gone . . . reunited with their families.”

“But . . . not Stacy.”

“No.”

“She had to have come from SOMEWHERE, Ben,” Paris said softly.

“I found out later that Major Baldwin, the fort commander at the time, carried out an extensive search . . . but no one ever came forward to claim her,” Ben explained. “Stacy wasn’t able to tell ‘em anything because she had no memory whatsoever of the life she led before she became part of the Paiute tribe. The only thing she had from that time was a heart shaped pendant and chain, with her name was engraved on the heart. In the end, Major Baldwin decided to place her in an orphanage.” The anger, the outrage came through in his voice loud and clear.

“Ben, Fort Charlotte IS an army outpost,” Paris reminded him. “As such, it would hardly have been an appropriate place for a young girl.”

“I know, Paris . . . I know,” Ben was forced to concede the point, “but, hard as life is on a reservation, she would have been better off THERE . . . with a foster mother and family who genuinely cared about her, than at some orphanage out in Ohio, of all places, run by a . . . a monster of a woman who had no damned business looking after children.”

Paris frowned. “Ohio? They were going to send her to an orphanage . . . out in Ohio?!”

“Yes.”

Paris shook her head in complete and utter bewilderment. “Why?”

“I don’t know, Paris,” Ben replied. “Sending that child all the way out to Ohio didn’t make one bit of sense to me. There’s an orphanage and school right there in Mormon Springs, run by people I know to be kind and decent, who try their best to do what’s right for the children placed in their care. I asked Major Baldwin flat out why he was so hell bent on sending Stacy out to Ohio, but he wouldn’t give me a straight answer. He just kept telling me over and over that the matter was out of his hands.

“The headmistress of that place in Ohio arrived at the fort the day after WE did. That night— ” Ben abruptly broke off, shocked and dismayed by the intensity of emotion churning within him. He closed his eyes, and took a deep, ragged breath. “Paris . . . the way that . . . that woman treated that poor li’l gal . . . well suffice it to say that Hoss was every bit as outraged as I was, and Joe was furious . . . fit to be tied.

“The next morning, all three of us went to Major Baldwin, and asked his permission to take Stacy with US . . . over and above the protests of that woman from Ohio. He told us that Mrs. Crawleigh, the woman who had come to take Stacy, would have to give consent. SHE made it very clear that she give her consent when hell freezes over.”

“I don’t understand . . . . ” Paris said very softly, with a puzzled frown on her face. “I would’ve thought the headmistress of an orphanage would have been overjoyed at the prospect of you, Hoss, and Joe wanting to provide a home for Stacy.”

“She told me ours wasn’t the proper kind of home with a father, two brothers, and no Mrs. Cartwright to speak of,” Ben replied with a scowl, “and Major Baldwin backed her up all the way . . . until Hoss and Joe changed his mind at the eleventh hour.”

“How did they manage that?”

“To tell you the honest-to-goodness truth, Paris, to this day, I’m STILL afraid to ask,” Ben said chuckling, as he recalled the odd, almost fearful look that stole over the fort commander’s face, every time he happened to catch sight of Hoss or Joe, after their little chat concerning the welfare of one Miss Stacy Louise. “The important thing is . . . Major Baldwin forced Mrs. Crawleigh to sign the necessary papers relinquishing custody of Stacy to me. After we arrived home, I was able to legally adopt her almost immediately because Major Baldwin had already carried out the search for possible relatives, as required by Nevada law.”

“She must be quite a remarkable young lady to have captured your hearts so completely . . . and . . . and so quickly,” Paris said, her voice filled with sadness.

“Yes, she is,” Ben agreed, with a proud smile, “but, Paris . . . a word to the wise?”

“What’s that?”

“Whatever you do . . . don’t EVER call her a lady, young, old, or otherwise . . . at least not to her face,” Ben warned. “She’ll tar and feather you first, ask questions later.”

“Oh?”

“Hoss made the mistake of referring to her as a young lady . . . oh, sometime within the first few days she was with us,” Ben said quietly. “The end result was . . . well, to hear Joe tell it, Hoss was limping for at least a month of Sundays, and Stacy couldn’t sit down for the better part of a week.”

“Thank you for the warning, Ben. I’ll try to remember,” Paris dutifully promised. “I’m . . . glad that poor child’s story had a happy ending, though . . . especially after all she’s gone through . . . being abducted by the Paiutes from . . . from wherever she was . . . followed by all the years of living with those savages . . . . ” She shuddered.

“According to Stacy her life among the Paiutes wasn’t so bad,” Ben said.

“Oh?”

Ben nodded. “Stacy’s foster mother and grandfather taught her to ride, to hunt and fish . . . to track just about everything from wild horses and game to people,” he explained. “They also taught her to swim like a fish, to sing like the birds, to howl like the wolf and the coyote, to walk silent as falling snow, and how to use the stars to find her way in the night. They also passed on to her a love and a reverence for the land the like of which I’ve seen in a white man once . . . a young man, every bit as remarkable . . . . ”

“Eric?”

“Yes . . . Eric,” Ben replied with a proud smile. “I’ve . . . never thought of this before, but during his growing up years, and still, to this very day, the Ponderosa’s been his classroom, and the sky, the trees, the other plants, and animals were and continue to be his teachers. Since the day Stacy joined our family, he’s taken her under wing and continued the lessons I’m almost certain her Paiute foster mother, Silver Moon, began.”

“Even so . . . she can’t possibly love the Ponderosa more than YOU do,” Paris said in a voice, more calm and steady. “I don’t think anybody can.”

“My sons . . . my daughter . . . and I love this place we call home very much,” Ben explained, “though we love her in different ways . . . .

“I think I’VE come to love this land . . . this home of ours . . . as a man loves a woman,” Ben said slowly, thoughtfully. “Out of that love has come a healthy respect . . . of knowing what we can and can’t do . . . and an equal portion of give and take on both sides.

“Her resources . . . her gifts . . . are many and vast and she’s been very generous with them. But, they are NOT without limit. So . . . I’ve tried to find ways in which I can give back, whether it’s planting a tree for each one we cut down . . . allowing our fields and pasture lands to go fallow every few years, each in their own turn, so that they might rest and replenish themselves . . . or in simply not hunting or fishing for more than we can eat. I’ve done my very best to teach these things to my children.

“Now Joe, on the other hand . . . the Ponderosa is all he’s ever known,” Ben continued. “He’s the only one of my children who was actually born here. The Ponderosa has in a very real way nurtured and sustained him, and has been for him especially the center that draws and keeps our family together every bit as much as a mother would. He’s grown up into a fine young man, one whom I’ve very proud to call son. I’ve done the best I could to bring that about, but I have to give a large portion of that credit to the kind of life the Ponderosa’s given us . . . individually AND as a family.

“For Adam, I think the Ponderosa was his teacher . . . his mentor, but in a different way than for Hoss and Stacy. All of the knowledge he learned while attending Harvard University, he brought back and applied here. He honed and sharpened those skills . . . and . . . . ” Ben chuckled softly, “he learned some hard lessons about the differences between what he read in books and the way things work out in life.”

An amused smile tugged hard at the corner of Paris’ mouth as she took a dainty sip of Hop Sing’s herbal tea.

“For many years, Adam was very much my right hand man,” Ben continued, with a wistful, nostalgic smile. “As such, he’s worked with many different people, coming from different backgrounds, with different ways of seeing things . . . and in so doing has learned a lot about human nature. I . . . make a point of visiting him and his family whenever I’m in Sacramento . . . and from what I can see, he’s taken all those things he learned and put into practice here . . . and has applied them to the life he and his wife have made for themselves and their children.”

“ . . . and THAT brings us back again to Eric and Stacy,” Paris said. “You said that the land has become Eric’s classroom, and the sky, the plants, and the animals his teachers . . . and that he, in turn, is passing his knowledge on to Stacy, but . . . how, exactly do THEY love this wondrous Ponderosa of yours?”

“Eric . . . HOSS . . . and Stacy . . . I believe the two of them see The Creator in the beauty and the majesty of the land they call home,” Ben replied, “and in the plants, the creatures with whom they share their home. Hoss, more than any of us, sees ownership of the Ponderosa as a trust, one that he takes very seriously and I dare say, holds sacred. Silver Moon and her father instilled that same idea in Stacy, and Hoss, over the last few years, has reinforced and solidified those ideas.”

“ . . . and I suppose the NEXT thing you’re going to tell me is that Eric and Stacy love the Ponderosa in the same way people love God,” Paris snorted with a gentle derisiveness.

“I believe they do.”

“ . . . and you allow such . . . such . . . blasphemous idolatry in your own house?!” she queried, appalled, yet envious.

Ben smiled and shook his head. “There’s no more blasphemy in Stacy’s Father Sky and Mother Earth than there is in Hoss’ God, Father and Creator of All Things, or in Saint Francis of Assisi’s Brother Sun and Sister Moon. Sometimes I think if more of us COULD see The Creator in the creation, and remember that when God created, he pronounced it all good . . . maybe this world would be a better place, and the lot of us much healthier . . . and happier.”

“That’s certainly not what I was taught . . . but I’d far rather live in the world YOU envision, Ben,” Paris said in a voice barely audible. She sighed and though shaking her head in complete bewilderment, a small ray of delight shone in her deep blue eyes, as well.

“The greatest gifts Silver Moon, her father, her husband, Jon Running Deer, and the rest of the tribe gave Stacy were unconditional love and acceptance,” Ben continued.

“Unconditional love and acceptance . . . . ” Paris murmured softly, shaking her head once more in utter disbelief. “The idea! The VERY idea . . . . ”

The thought of a people, she had always been taught to regard as little better than savage wild animals, accepting a strange white child into their midst and actually loving her, was incomprehensible. She, by contrast, had always lived among her own, yet she had no memory of ever having been loved. As a young child, she was looked upon as an inconvenience, to be seen as little as possible and never heard. When she was older, she worked alongside her mam and da, not as a daughter, but as just another servant, tending to the farm that ironically belonged to her maternal grandfather.

Times was hard, Par’een.

She heard again the voice of her paternal grandmother, a wise and kindly woman, who had never lost the capacity to love, no matter what troubles beset her.

“SHE loved me,” Paris silently remembered with a pang of guilt that brought tears to her eyes. “She LOVED me. Oh, dear God in heaven . . . how could I have forgotten h-how much Grandma McKenna loved me?!”

“ ‘Tis all too easy t’ lose sight o’ the silver linin’ behind the dark cloud, Par’een, when day after day after wearyin’ day, you’re fightin’ an uphill battle to just t’ stay alive . . . ‘n you, Darlin’, willful li’l thing you were, with that stiff-necked, uncompromisin’ pride about y’. . . . ”

Her thoughts drifted back to Ireland 1847, the year that had become known as Black ‘47. . . to the sight of her mother, the disowned and disgraced daughter of the manor lord, on her knees begging the lowliest of her father’s servants for kitchen scraps to feed her starving family . . . .

. . . then, to New York City, a year later, to the sight of her father, a proud man, big, strong, and powerful . . . coming home with his shoulders sagging and his head bowed in humbling defeat, after having spent yet another day looking for work amid a veritable sea of help wanted signs, with the words, “No Irish need apply here,” splayed prominently across their bottom . . . .

“You BET I have my pride,” Paris silently told her grandmother, with an emphatic, angry nod of her head.

“At what price, Par’een?”

The price HAD been dear . . . . Very dear indeed. Her pride had cost her the love of the people who had mattered the most: Mam . . . Da . . . John . . . Matilda and Elsie . . . and most heart wrenching of all . . . the big silver haired man now seated in a chair drawn up beside her bed.

. . . and yet, dear as the price had been for her . . . it was poor Rose Miranda who had ended up suffering the consequences.

“Paris?” Ben queried, noting the quivering bottom lip and the unusually bright eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m f-fine, Ben,” she replied in as steady voice as she could muster.

“You always were a very poor liar, Paris,” Ben chided her gently.

A single tear slipped over her eyelid and ran down her cheek. His way of reading her like a book was disconcerting enough seventeen years ago. Now, it seemed even more so. “You . . . you w-were telling me about STACY,” she said pointedly, her voice breaking.

“Yes. So I was.” Ben immediately backed off. “You . . . know much I love my sons.”

Paris nodded. “Y-You love . . . Adam . . . Eric . . . and Joe . . . more than just about anything,” she said, her voice shaking. “Y-You love them even more than you love this beautiful Ponderosa.”

“I built the Ponderosa for my sons,” Ben said quietly. “I wanted to give them a home . . . and a way of life that would draw us together as a family, bound together by the love of and a mutual respect for one another.”

“ . . . and you have, Ben, you HAVE!” Paris said quietly. “I’ve encountered many families in my travels . . . some wealthy beyond imagining . . . others so destitute they have no roof over their heads, no idea as to where their next meal is coming from . . . the rest lying somewhere between those two extremes. None of them had what you, Adam, Eric, Joe . . . and now Stacy have. A few came close, but the vast majority missed the mark by a wide mile. You have something very special, Ben.”

“Yes . . . even if I DO say so myself,” Ben agreed. “Adam, Hoss, and Joe have all grown into fine, decent young men and I’m very proud . . . very proud indeed to call them my sons. I love them . . . and over the years, they’ve earned my respect many, many times over.”

“ . . . and I dare say, you’ve earned their admiration and respect many times over, as well,” Paris added quietly.

“I wouldn’t trade my sons for anything,” Ben declared punctuating his words with an emphatic nod of his head. “But, sometimes . . . I’ve found myself regretting not having had a daughter, too. From the first moment I laid eyes on Stacy, I knew . . . deep down, I KNEW that she was the daughter I’d always wanted, but never had. No father could possibly love his daughter any more than I love Stacy.”

Paris suddenly burst into tears. “Ben . . . I . . . I c-can’t eat anymore,” she sobbed pushing the tray back towards him.

The suddenness and the intensity of her grief disturbed and frightened him. “Paris, what’s wrong?” he prodded gingerly.

“Nothing’s wrong, B-Ben, n-nothing,” she stammered.

“That’s an outright lie, and you know it,” Ben chided her gently. “We’ve always been able to talk to each other about what’s bothering us. Please, talk to me now, Paris. Maybe I can help.”

“Ben, please! Just leave me alone!” she wailed, on the edge of hysteria. “Please!”

“All right,” Ben said curtly. Her outburst left him feeling helpless, and utterly shaken to the very core of his being. He took the food tray and rose stiffly. “If you need anything let me know.”

Downstairs in the kitchen, Hop Sing shook his head morosely over the almost untouched food on the tray. “Miss Paris not eat, Mister Cartwright,” he chastised Ben severely. “How she get strong again, if she not eat?”

Ben shrugged.

“Know what Hop Sing think? Hop Sing think Miss Paris NOT tired like doctor say,” Hop Sing stated with an emphatic nod of his head. “Hop Sing think Miss Paris SICK! Very, very sick.”

“You’re the second person who’s said that today,” Ben said wearily.

“Miss Paris HEART sick, Mister Cartwright,” Hop Sing pressed.

“Are you trying to tell me she has a heart condition?” Ben asked.

“No, no, no, no.” Hop Sing shook his head vigorously. “Mister Cartwright think BODY heart. Hop Sing mean SOUL heart. Miss Paris sick in soul heart. Sickness in soul heart worse than sickness in body heart. Much worse!”

The following morning dawned clear and sunny. Though still chilly, there was a hint of the spring warmth soon to come. Ben leaned up against the fence surrounding the field where the horses were trained, watching Hoss and Stacy put Golden Boy, a young palomino gelding, through his paces. Hoss gave the orders; Stacy and Golden Boy flawlessly executed them as one.

“ . . . magic,” he murmured softly, his eyes and face shining with pride. “Nothing less than pure ‘n simple magic.”

“What’s that, Pa?”

“What’s, uhhh . . . what, Son?” Ben queried, as he turned his head and favored his biggest son with a bewildered frown.

“What’s nothin’ less ‘n pure ‘n simple magic?” Hoss queried.

“Oh!” Ben murmured softly, aware for the first time of having given voice to his thoughts. “I was referring to the way you and your sister seem to have brought that palomino around.”

“Aww, Pa . . . . ” Hoss gently guffawed, his cheeks slightly flushed, “what brought Golden Boy around was just a lotta plain, ol’ fashioned love . . . then trust. Ain’t nuthin’ particularly magical ‘bout either one.”

“Now THAT’S where you’re wrong, Hoss,” Ben said quietly. “Love and trust are just about the most magical things there are in this world . . . . ”

Love and trust.

Ben’s thoughts drifted to Paris McKenna. He had stopped to look in on her before coming down to watch Hoss and Stacy. The visit was strained, and mercifully, very brief. She had adamantly insisted that she slept very well last night, thank you very much; and that she felt much better this morning. He couldn’t help but notice that she had seemed inordinately relieved when he told her he would away from the house most of the day. To be up front and honest, he felt the same deep, profound relief himself.

“Well, Pa?”

The sound of Hoss’ voice drew him away from his troubled musings about Paris.

“What do y’ think?”

“I already told ya, Son . . . . ”

“Now, Pa . . . .” Hoss groaned and rolled his eyes, “you ain’t gonna start in on that business about magic again . . . . ”

“A month ago, Hoss, that youngster . . . . ” Ben inclined his head toward the young palomino, now trotting along the fence on the other side if the corral, “ . . . was the most unruly of the lot. For a while there, I thought sure HE was going to end up breaking Joe before Joe could break him. When you and your sister asked if you could work with him, I honestly didn’t think Golden Boy was going to let the two of ya get within ten feet of him, let alone get him into a bridle or slap a saddle on his back.”

Hoss smiled and shook his head. “Pa, I don’t know one bit about magic, except for what ya read t’ Joe ‘n me from that big book o’ faerie tales you read t’ the whole lotta us from when we was little, but, I can tell ya one thing.”

“Oh yeah?” Ben queried. “What’s that?”

“I know that Stacy ‘n I make a great team.”

“You sure do,” Ben immediately agreed. “Hoss?”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“How long before he’s ready for delivery to Mister Hansen?” Ben asked. “You know he’s got his eye on him as a birthday present for his daughter, Rachael.”

“Another couple of weeks o’ good solid work oughtta do it,” Hoss replied, “but there’s somethin’ Li’l Sister ‘n I’ve been meanin’ t’ tell ya . . . . ”

“What’s that, Son?”

“Stacy ‘n me . . . well, we’re both of the mind that Golden Boy’d be a better gift for Grace than Rachael.” Grace was the eldest of Clay Hansen’s five daughters, and Rachael was next to youngest.

“Oh?”

Hoss nodded. “He’s turnin’ out t’ be a real fine saddle horse, but he’s high spirited. He’s gonna need a rider with a firm hand,” he explained. “I know Rachael rides well enough for a li’l gal just startin’ out ‘n all— ”

“ . . . but Grace, being the accomplished horse woman she is AND the more experienced rider, is better able to handle a high-spirited mount,” Ben said.

“Yeah,” Hoss replied.

“I’ll pass your advice along to Mister Hansen,” Ben promised.

Stacy, meanwhile, circled the corral once again, waving at her father and brother in passing.

“Hey, Stacy,” Hoss turned and called to her across the corral, “y’ can start coolin’ him down now.”

Stacy smiled and gave an acknowledging wave. Before she could stop and dismount, however, Golden Boy stumbled. Her quick action prevented him from taking a bad, perhaps even fatal, collapse. In bringing the young gelding to an abrupt stop, however, Stacy felt something give. The saddle beneath her lurched, and began to slide. The next thing she knew, she had rolled off of Golden Boy’s back, and struck the muddy ground hard enough to drive the wind from her lungs.

With heart in mouth, Ben tore across the corral, beating a straight path towards its center, where Stacy lay, unmoving. Hoss followed close at his father’s heels. One of the hands, a young man, recently hired, had the presence of mind to take hold of Golden Boy’s lead and gently coax him well away from Stacy’s ominously still form, allowing Ben and Hoss easy access.

As he dropped down to his knees along side his daughter, Ben saw Joe’s mother, Marie, that terrible day she took a tumble from her horse, lying right out on front of the house, so ominously still, with arms and legs splayed, her head and neck oddly juxtaposed in relation to her shoulders . . . .

“No,” he whispered, vigorously shaking his head in denial. “No . . . . ”

“P-Pa?” The sound of Stacy’s voice drew Ben from his terrible reverie, back into the here and now. She tried to sit up.

“Stacy, no. Don’t move,” Ben said tersely. He placed his hands down onto her shoulders, effectively restraining her. “Not just yet.”

“I . . . I’m ok, Pa,” Stacy gasped. “Fall . . . knocked the w-wind outta me, ’s all.”

“Does it hurt when you breathe in?” Ben asked.

“A little.”

“How about your back?”

“It hurts some, but not real b-bad,” she replied.

“Can you move your legs?” Ben pressed anxiously.

Stacy very gingerly lifted her right leg, flexing her knee, then her foot and ankle. She lowered her leg back down to the ground, before raising her left leg and flexing her knee. Her attempt to flex her ankle brought forth a cry of pain.

“What is it, Stacy?” Ben snapped out the question.

“It’s m-my ankle, Pa. It hurts like the devil, and . . . and I feel like the boot’s suddenly grown t-too small.”

Ben slowly exhaled the breath he had been holding. He offered a silent, heartfelt prayer of thanks that from all indications, she had no internal injuries . . . she wasn’t paralyzed . . . or worse. So far, her worst injury might be a broken ankle, but given time, that would heal.

Stacy, meanwhile, studied her father’s face with an anxious frown. His complexion was a few shades paler than normal, and his dark eyes were round with alarm. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Are . . . YOU ok?”

“I’ll be alright, Young Woman,” Ben hastened to assure her. “Think you can sit up?”

“I . . . I don’t see why not,” she replied.

Ben carefully eased her from prone to sitting.

Stacy gasped, as she squeezed her eyes shut against an environment that suddenly began to spin and pulsate with nauseating intensity. “Pa, I . . . I . . . . ” she moaned softly, then collapsed against Ben, her body limp as a rag doll.

“HOSS!” Ben shouted, as he scooped Stacy’s inert form up into his arms, and rose to his feet, all in the same ungainly move.

“Right here, Pa.” Hoss appeared at his elbow, with Stacy’s saddle clasped tight in his arms.

“Send one of the men to town to fetch Doctor Martin,” Ben said tersely . . . .

“Ben, she’s a very lucky young woman,” Paul Martin said candidly, as he stepped out into the upstairs hallway with his young patient’s father. “No broken ribs as far as I can tell . . . and no internal bleeding. She’s going to be very stiff and sore for the next few days, but the worst of her injuries appear to be a badly sprained ankle, and that knot on the back of her head.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies,” Ben murmured gratefully.

“I’ve bandaged her ankle,” Paul continued. “An ice pack three to five times a day, over the course of the next few days will help keep the swelling down. Stacy should also keep her ankle elevated whenever she’s sitting or lying down. If her toes begin to feel cold, or turn blue, loosen the bandage.”

Ben nodded.

“I’m most concerned about that head injury,” Paul said gravely. “How long was she unconscious?”

“Not long . . . ten minutes perhaps . . . fifteen at the very outside,” Ben replied. “Though she was conscious after she initially fell off the horse. She didn’t pass out until she tried to sit up.”

Paul took a moment to mull over what Ben had just told him. “That’s good,” he said guardedly. “At the moment, Stacy’s resting comfortably enough. If she later complains of nausea and vomiting . . . dizziness . . . blurred or double vision, send for me at once. I’ll be at home all this evening and tonight . . . barring any unforeseen emergencies of course . . . . ”

“Of course,” Ben murmured quietly.

“If by supper time, she hasn’t suffered any significant bouts of nausea and vomiting, go ahead and give her broth . . . chicken is best, of course, tea, and maybe a slice of toast with jelly,” Paul continued. “If that stays down tonight, she can have solid food tomorrow, just keep it bland. After that, you can play it by ear.”

“Thank you for coming out, Paul,” Ben said gratefully. “I’ll see you to the door.”

Paul nodded and fell in step alongside the Cartwright clan patriarch. “How’s my OTHER patient doing?” he asked.

“Physically . . . about the same, near as I can tell,” Ben replied. “She didn’t sleep well her first night here, but she DID make up for it yesterday. She also has no appetite, much to Hop Sing’s consternation. But . . . that’s not what concerns me.”

“What DOES concern you, Ben?”

“Her state of mind,” Ben replied. He somberly related the details of what had transpired the previous afternoon. “One minute Paris and I were talking about Stacy, and the next . . . she’s crying, and screaming at me to go away and leave her alone. I . . . I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to do . . . or say.”

“As I recall, she was something of a mercurial woman,” Paul said quietly.

“True, but . . . nothing like this, Paul.”

“How was she today?”

“This morning, I stopped in long enough to tell her that I would be away from the house most of the day . . . that Hop Sing would be here to look after her,” Ben replied. “She was very subdued, and . . . it seemed to me she was very relieved.”

“If you’d like, I’ll look in on her, since I’m here,” Paul said.

“Thank you, Paul. I would appreciate that very much,” Ben said gratefully.

“In the meantime, why don’t you g’won in and see Stacy. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to leave.”

After showing Paul to the guest room, occupied by Paris McKenna, Ben continued on down the hall to his daughter’s room. Stacy was lying under several layers of bedclothes, a sheet, a light blanket, and her favorite quilt, clad in the oversized nightshirt she customarily wore to bed. The bedclothes had been pulled away from her injured ankle, which was propped up on a couple of spare downy pillows. Hoss was seated in a chair on the other side of her bed, facing the door.

As Ben entered the room, Stacy turned and wordlessly held out her hand. Ben quickly crossed the room, and gently took her outstretched hand, as he seated himself on the edge of her bed.

“What did the doctor say, Pa?” Stacy asked, punctuating her words with a great big yawn.

“He said with plenty of rest, you’re going to be just fine,” Ben replied.

“Including my ankle?” she queried anxiously.

“Including your ankle,” Ben said. “It was sprained, not broken.”

Stacy exhaled a long, slow sigh of relief.

“You’re still going to have to take it easy for the next few days,” Ben said gently, yet very firmly. “The doctor said you’re to keep off of it as much as you can, and keep it elevated, when you’re sitting or lying down as you are now.”

“I’m just glad it’s not broken,” Stacy said gratefully.

“How do you feel?” Ben asked.

“I kinda hurt all over . . . especially my head and my ankle, but otherwise I feel ok,” Stacy replied. “I don’t understand how the cinch on my saddle came apart like that, though . . . . I buckled it on tight enough, Pa. I KNOW I did.”

“I know ya did, too, Li’l Sister,” Hoss said grimly.

“That saddle IS an old one,” Ben said slowly. “The leather’s worn in some places. Could be the cinch straps were more worn than we realized.”

“No, Pa,” Hoss declared, shaking his head in adamant denial. “That strap didn’t wear out . . . it was deliberately CUT.”

“Hoss, are you sure?!”

“I’m sure, Pa,” Hoss said, with a dark angry scowl. “Whoever did it . . . cut the strap almost all the way through from the side that’s up next t’ the horse. He counted on Stacy ridin’ to work the cut all the way through.”

“Me?!” Stacy queried.

“ ‘Fraid so, Li’l Sister.”

“What makes you think he was after me?”

“ ‘Cause you always use that saddle,” Hoss replied, “ ‘n everyone knows it.”

The fear that always accompanied her terrible recurring dream suddenly rose with a ferocious intensity that threatened to inundate her. Her first instinct was to jump up out of bed and run . . . it didn’t matter much where . . . just someplace away . . . FAR away . . . as fast as her legs could carry her. As she struggled to hold her ground, to not give into that first instinct, Stacy slowly became aware of anger rising within her. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to embrace that anger, to draw from it the strength, the courage, and the will to stand and fight. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

She opened her eyes. Neither Ben nor Hoss could ever remember having seen her eyes burn with such raw fury, almost primal in its intensity.

“ . . . so HELP me . . . if I EVER find out who cut that strap . . . I’m gonna beat the hell out of him!”

“Hey, Pa . . . . ”

Ben started out of his light doze and glanced up sharply, just as the grandfather clock struck the quarter hour past midnight.

“ . . . what’re YOU doing up?”

It was Joe. He stepped through the front door, pausing beside the credenza to remove his hat and gun belt.

Candy, the junior foreman and close family friend, followed Joe into the house. He removed his hat, as he moved around Joe, but didn’t stop to remove his gun belt.

“It’s been a long time since I came home in the wee hours of the morning and found you still up,” Joe said with a grin, as he placed his gun belt on the credenza, next to the door, and removed his jacket.

“The last time was the night before your twenty-first birthday,” Ben said, stifling a yawn. “Tonight . . . I was having trouble getting to sleep, so I decided to come down and read for a little while.”

“One of the men told us about Stacy,” Joe said, turning serious. “She alright?”

“She will be,” Ben replied. He, then, filled Joe and Candy in on everything Paul Martin had told him. “I . . . think the danger of concussion has passed. She kept her supper down tonight . . . and hasn’t complained of feeling dizzy, nauseated, or of having any problems with her vision.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Joe said, the relief evident in his voice. “She’s gonna be one stiff ‘n sore li’l kid for awhile, though . . . . ”

“Indeed she is,” Ben said. “I’m just thankful her injuries weren’t any worse.”

“Amen to that!” Joe agreed. “Any idea who did it?”

“None,” Ben shook his head. “Hoss questioned everyone who was in the corral today. No one seemed to know anything about it.”

“Mister Cartwright, is it possible that whoever cut that strap did it as . . . well . . . as some kind of practical joke?” Candy asked.

“That practical joke could have very easily killed her,” Ben said coldly. “I, for one, don’t find that the least bit funny.”

“Agreed,” Joe said grimly, “and if I ever find out who the joker is, I’m gonna to cheerfully wring his neck.”

“Not if Stacy gets to him first,” Ben said soberly, remembering the fury he had seen in his daughter’s eyes earlier. “All I can say is God help him if she does.”

“You’ve got that right, Pa,” Joe said gravely. “That kid can be a real spitfire when she’s of a mind to be.”

“Mister Cartwright,” Candy said slowly, “in light of this business concerning Stacy’s saddle, I . . . think there’s something I ought to tell you.”

“What is it, Candy?” Ben asked.

“While I was in town yesterday picking up the mail, I found out that someone . . . a stranger . . . spent the better part of the afternoon day BEFORE yesterday asking folks questions about your family in general, Stacy in particular,” Candy reported.

“A stranger?!” Ben found Candy’s news deeply unsettling. “Were you able to find out anything about him? Anything at all?!”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” Candy replied apologetically. “The general consensus was that he came from a big city back east. Sam over at the Silver Dollar said it kinda ran in HIS mind that the man asking questions was from either New York or Philadelphia,” Candy replied, “and Miss Mudgely . . . . ” He sighed and sarcastically rolled his eyes heavenward. “ . . . Miss Mudgely daggoned near talked my ear off, with her explanation as to why the man could have ONLY come from Boston.”

Miss Clara Mudgely was the church organist. When of a more kindly disposition, her acquaintances and neighbors referred to her as Virginia City’s walking newspaper.

“Where you able to get the man’s name?” Ben pressed.

“No, Sir.” Candy ruefully shook his head.

“ . . . and you say this man was asking questions about Stacy in particular?”

Candy nodded.

“Now what possible interest could a . . . a stranger . . . possibly have in an orphaned young girl with no blood kin to speak of?” Ben wondered aloud with an anxious frown.

“Could be a Pinkerton man,” Candy suggested.

“If so that still begs the question of who hired him . . . and why,” Ben said grimly. He silently resolved to ride into Virginia City first thing in the morning and start making some inquiries of his own.

End of Part 1

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