Cinnamon Rose
Part 1

By Kathleen T. Berney

“So! Who are YOU askin’ to the big dance next Saturday, Hoss?”

“I dunno, Apollo. I guess with the spring round up just over, ‘n Adam about t’ graduate from college, I ain’t had time t’ give it much thought,” Hoss replied.

“How about Margie Owens? i You’ve been sweet on HER since she’s . . . . ” Grinning, Apollo raised both hands to eye level and lowered them slowly, tracing the hour glass outlines of a trim woman’s figure.

Hoss, his entire face and neck flaming beet red, quickly bowed his head, averting his eyes to his knees. He bit his lower lip in a desperate attempt to keep back the smile trying to burst forth. “She . . . she HAS turned into a right pretty li’l filly at that, hasn’t she?”

Hoss Cartwright and his best friend, Apollo Nikolas, sat together on the bench just outside the general store, waiting for the former’s father to finish up his business inside. At the age of fifteen, both boys, at nearly six and a half feet, towered head and shoulders above all their peers and their parents as well.

Apollo’s body, though still reed slender, already showed signs of a burgeoning Adonis figure with broad shoulders, tapering down to a narrow waist and flat stomach. Hoss, by contrast, had inherited the build of his Swedish maternal grandfather, with a massive, barrel chest and torso that fell in a straight line from his broad, beefy shoulders to a thick waist.

“Well?” Apollo pressed. “Are you gonna ASK her?”

“Ask WHO?”

Apollo sighed and rolled his eyes. “Margie!”

Hoss shook his head.

“Why NOT?” Apollo pressed.

“She wouldn’t want t’ go with me,” Hoss murmured dejectedly.

“Why WOULDN’T she?”

Exhaling a short, exasperated curt sigh, Hoss raised his head and favored Apollo with an angry scowl. “Aw, come on, Apollo. Do I hafta spell it out for ya?”

“Spell WHAT out for me?”

“Margie Owens is one o’ the prettiest gals in Virginia City, if not THE prettiest,” Hoss said disparagingly. “She can have her pick o’ any fella she wants.”

“So?”

“So look at me, Apollo! You take a good long, hard look.”

“I am!” A bewildered frown creased Apollo’s smooth, unlined brow. “So what?”

“Y’ know? For a smart fella, you can be real thick sometimes,” Hoss retorted with a touch of annoyance. “I ain’t exactly what anyone’d call handsome. Why in the world would ANY gal . . . ‘specially a gal like Margie Owens, want t’ go to the dance with a big, ugly so ‘n so like ME?”

“Damn it, Hoss Cartwright, in the first place, you’re NOT ugly, and in the SECOND place, looks aren’t everything!” Apollo exploded, his hot Mediterranean temper getting the better of him. “The IMPORTANT thing is what a guy’s like in HERE!” He thumped on his own chest with his hand clasped in a tight fist, at the approximate location of his heart for emphasis. “In here, you’re one of the best . . . if not THE best!”

“Now you’re startin’ t’ sound like my pa,” Hoss growled.

“Oh yeah? Maybe you oughtta listen to him, then.”

“Apollo, I’m not askin’ Margie, an’ that’s THAT!”

“Hoss . . . . ”

“Just drop it, Apollo, OK?”

A sigh, borne of pure and simple frustration, exploded from between Apollo’s lips. “I’d sure like to drop YOU,” he retorted, “right on your head. Maybe THAT way, I could pound some sense into ya.”

“You guys gonna fight, Big Brother?”

Hoss looked up and saw his ten-year-old younger brother standing directly in front of him, gazing from him to Apollo and back, his hazel eyes shining with excitement. Joe’s two closest friends, Lotus O’Toole and Mitch Devlin, ages ten and nine almost ten respectively, flanked him on either side. Hoss shook his head. “No, Li’l Buddy, Apollo ‘n I ain’t gonna fight.”

The three children’s excitement and eager anticipation quickly gave way to intense disappointment.

“Aww, Hoss, why NOT?” Lotus demanded indignantly. She stood with feet placed shoulder width apart and arms folded across her chest glaring ferociously at Apollo and Hoss.

“ ‘Cause my pa’d kill me if he came outta the general store ‘n found me out here beatin’ up on Apollo, f’r no good reason,” Hoss replied.

“ . . . an’ my MA’ D kill ME!” Apollo added, in all sincerity.

“Let me pass, please . . . . ” The frantic voice of a young woman rose above the usual cacophony of horses, wagons, and people. Its strident note of urgency caught and drew Hoss’ attention like pungent bait in a trap inevitably draws its intended prey. At the end of the walk, he spotted Danny MacLowry, one of his and Apollo’s peers, with a young woman he had never seen before.

As Hoss watched, the young woman moved to step around Danny.

“Hey!” Danny immediately sidestepped, planting himself right smack in the middle of her intended path. “Where ya goin’?”

“Please!”

“I’m ONLY tryin’ t’ be FRIENDLY . . . . ” Danny whined.

“I’m sorry . . . . ” the girl cried out in anguish, “but I need to get back to my pa ‘n stepmother. Please?”

Two more times, she tried to step past by her tormentor. Each time, Danny moved with her, blocking her path.

“Joe, you ‘n your friends stay RIGHT here,” Hoss said tersely. He bolted to his feet with amazing speed and agility, given a boy of his height and bulk. “Apollo, YOU keep an eye on ‘em.” With that, he pulled himself up to the full height of his already impressive stature, and started walking briskly toward Danny MacLowry and the damsel in distress.

Apollo looked up into the trio of suddenly hopeful faces and smiled. “Looks like you kids are gonna get to see a fight after all,” he quipped.

Hoss, his mouth and lower jaw set with grim, stubborn determination, strode briskly down the length of the wood board walk, his intense, baleful glare riveted to Danny MacLowry’s back. He quickened his pace, when Danny reached out and pulled the girl into his arms.

For her part, the girl neither screamed nor did she put up any kind of struggle. She stood, unmoving, staring up into Danny’s leering face through eyes round with horror. Mistaking her immobilizing terror for consent, Danny pulled her closer and kissed her, triggering a sudden, powerful surge of adrenalin. With palms flat against his chest, she pushed and kept pushing with all her might.

“Well, well, well! The cold corpse has suddenly turned into a raging tigress!” Danny whispered, as he tightened his grip.

Sobbing, the terrified girl’s entire body began to writhe convulsively within the constricting circle of his arms, in her desperate struggle to free herself.

The instant Hoss reached Danny and the girl, he grabbed the former by the shirt collar, and pulled, forcing him to release his hold on the girl. He immediately followed through with a swift, powerful right cross that sent Danny flying out into the street.

Danny, his face nearly purple with rage, immediately scrambled to his feet, and with a primal bellow, lowered his head and charged Hoss like a bull. Hoss, acting on pure instinct, sidestepped, barely dodging the wiry, enraged juggernaut bearing down on him. Before Danny’s mind could even begin to register Hoss’ move, he plowed headlong into the wall, knocking himself senseless.

Hoss gently prodded Danny’s supine form with the toe of his boot, eliciting a faint moan. Satisfied that Danny was presently in no shape to continue the fight, he turned his attention to the frightened girl, huddled against the wall of the notions shop on his right. “Miss? Are you alright?”

“Joe?”

Meanwhile, the sound of his father’s voice drew young Joe Cartwright’s attention from the incident involving his older brother at the other end of the walk. “Yeah, Pa?”

“Where’s your brother?”

“There!” Joe pointed.

Ben’s eyes followed the direction of his youngest son’s extended arm and pointing finger. He stood rooted to the spot, watching as Hoss’ fist slammed hard enough against Danny MacLowry’s left cheek to literally send him flying from the sidewalk into the street. His initial shock quickly gave way to rising anger. “Joseph, you wait right here. No wondering off, you understand? I want you to stay put RIGHT HERE.”

“Y-yes, Pa . . . . ” Joe murmured, taken aback by his father’s angry tone of voice.

Ben paused. “I’m not mad at YOU, Joe,” he said, addressing his youngest son in a kindlier tone. “But I want you to wait right here while I go fetch your brother, alright?”

“Yes, Pa, I will,” the boy eagerly promised, feeling a measure of guilty relief that, this time, his father’s anger wasn’t directed at him.

“Eric Hoss Cartwright, I trust you have a good explanation for this?!”

Hoss, very slowly and very reluctantly turned upon hearing his full name spoken, and found himself staring down into his father’s face, its muscles taut and mouth thinned to a straight line. The furious intensity in Pa’s dark brown eyes seemed to bore straight into the very core of his being. Hoss quickly averted his eyes.

“ . . . uh, Mister?” the damsel in distress hesitantly spoke up for the first time.

Ben glanced up sharply.

“Please, Mister . . . don’t be too hard on ‘im,” the girl stammered, her eyes round with apprehension. “It’s . . . well, it’s really all MY fault, actually . . . . ”

“No, it ain’t, Pa,” Hoss said in a quiet, firm tone, upon finding his voice. “Danny MacLowry was . . . . ” He immediately bowed his head upon feeling once again the telltale tingling of blood rushing to his face. “H-he was botherin’ this gal, Pa.”

Ben looked down at Danny MacLowry, who had begun to stir in earnest, then over at the still frightened girl, with her back pressed hard against the wall, clutching a small hand bag tight against her chest. “I . . . believe you, Hoss,” he said finally, at length, as his anger began to dissipate. “We’ll discuss this further at home.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Miss, do you live here in town?” Ben asked, as he turned his attention back to the girl.

“We . . . my pa, stepmother, and I, that is . . . just arrived on the stage day before yesterday,” the girl replied. “For now, we’re staying at the Kirks’ boarding house.”

“Hoss, why don’t you see the young lady safely back to Mrs. Kirk’s place?” Ben suggested. “Your brother and I’ll pick you up there after Virgil and Walt finish loading our supplies on the buckboard.”

“Is . . . is your name really . . . Horse?” the girl asked, as they walked together toward C Street.

Hoss grinned and shook his head. “No, it’s HOSS . . . not horse. My pa once told me Hoss is a mountain word meanin’ a big friendly fella.”

“Hoss,” she quietly, almost reverently, spoke his name. “Big, friendly fella! It suits you!”

“Thank you,” he murmured shyly.

She was modestly attired in a simply tailored long brown skirt and a loose fitting long sleeved white blouse, buttoned all the way to the last button, just below her chin. Her regal bearing and slim, willowy build gave her the appearance of being very tall, when, in fact, the crown of her head barely reached the middle of Hoss’ chest.

Close up, Hoss thought her very pretty, with her clear, flawless complexion, her small, slightly upturned nose, and enormous brown eyes. However her long, blonde hair, worn pulled away from her face in a tight chignon, seemed to somehow clash with her rosy skin tones.

“My name’s Cindy, uh . . . Taylor,” the girl said by way of introduction. “Actually, my full, real, and true name’s Cinnamon. Cinnamon Rose.”

Hoss smiled. “That’s a real pretty name. How come you don’t have folks call ya Cinnamon, instead o’ Cindy?”

“ ‘Cause Pa gets real mad if I tell people what my real name is,” she said sadly. “I only told YOU because you saved me from that other boy back there . . . . ” She shuddered, “ . . . and sometimes . . . . well, sometimes, I just gotta tell somebody my full, real, and true name, or I feel like I’m gonna bust. You’ve gotta promise me you won’t tell anybody else, though. Pa says if too many folks find out my whole real name? There could be a lot of trouble.”

“What kind o’ trouble?”

Cindy frowned as she mulled the question over in her mind. “Tell you the truth, I don’t know,” she replied with a shrug. “I don’t think Pa’s ever said . . . exactly.”

“I won’t tell anyone else your whole name, Cindy, but I’m glad y’ told me. It IS a pretty name . . . a REAL pretty name.”

She smiled, as her pale cheeks deepened to a rosy hue. “Thank you, Hoss.”

The pair lapsed into a companionable silence as they crossed C Street, turning at the corner onto the street where Eloise Kirk’s boarding house, officially known as Kirk’s Hostelry, was located. Hoss and Cindy found themselves standing on the verandah, before the front door a scant few moments later.

“Thank you very much for coming to my rescue, Hoss,” Cindy murmured gratefully. With a boldness that seemed at odds with her reserved, almost timid demeanor, she rose up on her toes and planted a kiss firmly on his cheek. “My hero!”

His cheeks flushed an even deeper red. “Aww, Cindy, I ain’t no hero, dadburn it! I wouldda done the same f’r ANYONE in trouble.”

“You ARE a hero, Hoss,” Cindy protested vigorously. “You ARE! I honest and truly don’t know WHAT I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there.”

“Some one else would o’ stepped in,” Hoss hastened to assure her.

“Maybe,” she murmured doubtfully.

“Not everyone’s like Danny MacLowry, Cindy. After you ‘n your family’s been here awhile, you’ll see that most o’ the folks in Virginia City are honest, decent, and law abidin’ people.”

“What if Danny, or . . . someone ELSE bothers me, and NO one comes to help?”

“You just march yourself right on over to the sheriff’s office ‘n let Sheriff Coffee know. He won’t stand for any o’ the kind o’ shenanigans that Danny MacLowry was tryin’ t’ pull.”

She nodded. “Hoss?”

“Yeah, Cindy?”

“Do you think it was MY fault?”

“What?” Hoss queried. A puzzled frown knotted his brow.

“What happened with Danny MacLowry.”

“Now where’d you ever get an idea like that?”

“Some folks’d say so.”

“Then some folks are dead wrong!” Hoss declared stoutly, with an emphatic nod of his head. “Cindy, DANNY’S the one that acted like . . . well, like t’ back end of a horse, not you. From what I could see, you did everything y’ could to get away from him.”

Cindy quickly, furtively bowed her head, fixing her eyes on her hands clasped together in front of her.

Hoss knew by her excessively blinking eyes, and trembling lower lip that she was on the verge of tears. He immediately reached out, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You sure you’re alright, Cindy?”

She nodded vigorously. “I . . . I’m just glad y-you . . . well, that you don’t think what Danny did was m-my fault.” With that, she abruptly turned heel and fled into the house, leaving Hoss staring after her, shocked and completely dumbfounded.

“Hoss?”

No answer.

“Hoss.”

Still no answer.

“HOSS!” Little Joe finally shouted.

Hoss started violently, nearly tumbling into the supplies stacked in the back of the buckboard. “You just scared me outta ten years growth, Shortshanks,” he growled, favoring his younger brother, who sat sandwiched between himself and their father, with a dark glare.

Joe glared back, with equal ferocity. “I called you and called you, but you wouldn’t answer.”

Hoss sighed, his ire dissipating. “Sorry, Li’l Buddy. What were ya gonna ask me?

“I was gonna ask if you were taking that pretty lady to the dance comin’ up next Saturday,” Joe replied, as the trio rode toward home on their loaded buckboard.

Hoss stared down at his younger brother for moment, a puzzled frown knotting his brow. At length, he shrugged. “I . . . dunno . . . . Why do you ask?”

“Apollo said ya might. Take the pretty lady to the dance, that is.”

Hoss scowled. “Dadburn it, that Apollo’s got a big mouth,” he grumbled.

“Apollo MAY have a big mouth, but he’s got a good idea, Son,” Ben hastened to point out. “This gal . . . . ”

“Cindy, Pa,” Hoss said quietly. “Her name’s Cindy.”

“I know you and Cindy just met, but . . . do you like her? Is she someone you’d like to know better?” Ben probed carefully.

“Yeah, t’ BOTH questions, Pa,” Hoss said immediately.

“Taking her to the dance would sure give you an opportunity for getting to know her better,” Ben continued. “You could also give her a chance to meet other people her own age by introducing her to some of your friends.”

“I didn’t even think o’ that,” Hoss murmured thoughtfully.

Ben smiled. “Tell you what, Hoss. Monday morning, I’ll send YOU into town to do the banking, and pick up our mail. You can also take your brother here to school, and pick him up later.” He paused. “Of course, while you’re in town . . . . ”

Hoss heard his father’s unspoken message very loud and clear. “Thanks, Pa,” he murmured gratefully, returning his father’s smile.

“Hoss?”

“Yeah, Li’l Joe?”

“You could also invite Cindy to that big party we’re havin’ for Adam when he comes home from college next month,” Joe added, grinning from ear-to-ear.

“Y’ know, Shortshanks? For a li’l fella, you c’n sure come up with some real powerful good ideas,” Hoss said approvingly. “I’ll invite Cindy to Adam’s Homecomin’ Party on Monday, when I ask her t’ go to the dance with me.”

“Make sure Cindy’s parents know THEY’RE also invited to Adam’s homecoming party,” Ben said.

“I will, Pa,” Hoss eagerly promised. “I sure will!”

The following Monday morning, Ben rose and dressed early, heartily grateful that Monday morning had finally come. The past two days seemed more like two YEARS, with his normally laid back, easy going son chomping at the metaphorical bit with a wholly uncharacteristic impatience he might expect from Little Joe.

“Mister Cartwright!”

Ben glanced up sharply, groaning inwardly, upon seeing Hop Sing, glaring down at him with arms folded tight across his chest. He sat behind the massive desk that seemed to take up most of the space in the alcove designated his study, rereading Adam’s most recent letter.

“Breakfast ready!” Hop Sing snapped. “Third time I tell you!”

Ben placed the letter aside, then rose. “I’m coming . . . . ”

“Where Hoss and Little Joe?”

“Hoss isn’t down yet?” Ben gazed up at Hop Sing through eyes round with astonishment. He knew that his youngest son had a strong tendency to dawdle in the morning, especially on any given MONDAY morning, but Hoss? Never! Especially when Hop Sing fixed apple fritters for breakfast.

“Hoss not down! Little Joe not down! YOU here, not at ta—”

“PA! PA!” Joe shouted from the top landing, effectively nipping Hop Sing’s intended tirade in the bud.

Ben glanced upward. “Thank you,” he whispered gratefully.

“PA! HOP SING! GUESS WHAT?” Joe tore headlong down the stairs, fully dressed, his booted feet clattering against wood like an army of castanets.

“You’re a bundle of energy this morning,” Ben remarked, as he intercepted his young, exuberant son at the bottom of the steps. “What’s up?”

“Hoss is taking a bath, Pa,” the boy exclaimed, shocked and astonished, “and . . . it’s not even Saturday night!”

Hop Sing literally threw up his hands, then turned, and started back toward the kitchen, muttering under his breath in Chinese.

“Well, let’s you and I get ourselves to the table shall we?” Ben raised his voice slightly, while casting the occasional furtive glance at Hop Sing’s retreating back. “Hop Sing’s fixed up some apple fritters . . . . ”

Hoss appeared in the dining room much later, bathed, dressed in a pair of navy blue pants, a clean, pressed white shirt, a navy blue string tie, and boots, polished to a high gloss shine. Ben also noted the telltale sheen of hair cream, and a faint hint of his own Old Bay Rum after-shave. “ ‘Mornin’, Pa! ‘Morning, Li’l Joe! What’s for breakfast?” he asked, taking his usual place at the table.

An amused grin pulled at the corner of Ben’s mouth. “I think you mean what WAS for breakfast, actually . . . . ”

“We had apple fritters!” Joe blurted out, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Since YOU weren’t here, Pa ‘n I got to eat all we wanted.” He punctuated his words with a resounding belch, drawing a warning glare from his father. “Excuse me,” he murmured promptly.

“Sorry we didn’t save you any, Son,” Ben apologized.

“Just as well, Pa,” Hoss replied. “I ain’t hungry anyway.”

Upon hearing this, Little Joe’s jaw dropped, bringing his chin down close to his chest. For a moment, Ben half feared that the boy was going to faint right there on the spot. “Looks like Hoss has got it REAL bad,” he murmured softly.

“What did you say, Pa?” Joe demanded, regaining his sensibilities once again.

“I said you’d better get upstairs and get your schoolbooks together, Young Man,” Ben said very quickly. “You know what Miss Gibson said was going to happen if you were late to school one more time.”

After leaving his younger brother off at school ten minutes before the bell, much to the shocked amazement of the school teacher, Miss Gibson, Hoss picked up the mail at the post office and got his father’s banking business taken care of straight away. The time was a few minutes past eleven, according to the wall clock in Mister Owens’ office. Hoss turned and began to walk toward the street, on which Kirk’s Hostelry was located.

“HOSS!”

He paused, and turned.

“HOSS! IS THAT YOU?”

It was Cindy. Smiling, Hoss stopped to wait as she ran to catch up.

“I was hoping I’d bump into you again sometime soon,” she declared, falling in step alongside him.

“I was just headin’ over t’ Mrs. Kirk’s to see YOU,” Hoss said.

Cindy smiled back. “Were you, Hoss? Really?”

“Yep! Next Saturday night, there’s gonna be a big dance at the community center, an’ I was wonderin’ . . . . ” Two spots of bright scarlet appeared on his cheeks. “I was wonderin’ if . . . well, if you, uhh . . . might like to come with me?”

Cindy’s shy, hesitant smile faded into surprise, akin to awe. “You r-really want to take me to a dance, Hoss? Honest ‘n truly?”

“I sure do, Cindy, more ‘n just about anything,” Hoss replied with heartfelt sincerity.

“Oh, Hoss, yes! I’d love to go with you!” The smile that suddenly burst forth lit up her entire face with the dazzling brilliance of a summer sun hanging high over head in a brilliant, cloudless blue sky.

For a moment, Hoss stood, unable to move, his eyes riveted to her face, dumbstruck with awe and wonder.

“H-Hoss?” Cindy’s smile faded into a look of anxious concern. “Hoss, are you alright?”

“Cinnamon Rose Taylor,” he whispered softly, the minute he found his voice, “you are just about the prettiest gal I’ve EVER seen.”

“PA! MAMA CAROLYN! GUESS WHAT?” Cindy burst into the room she shared with her father and stepmother, smiling, her eyes shining with happy excitement.

Drew Taylor and his wife, Carolyn exchanged glances of surprise mixed with bewilderment.

“You remember that boy I told you about?” Cindy blissfully rambled on. “I ran into him just now and guess what?”

“What is it, Dear?” Carolyn queried gently, all the while doing her best to ignore the apprehension and dread slowly creeping into her husband’s eyes.

“He said there was going to be a dance next Saturday night, and . . . he wants ME to go with him! May I, Pa?” Cindy turned, toward her father, anxiously clasping her hands to her chest, her eyes guardedly hopeful. “May I please?”

“No!” Drew flatly declined permission.

Cindy’s face fell.

The crushing disappointment in his daughter’s face pierced Drew Taylor’s heart like a knife. “I’m sorry, Princess . . . . ”

“Pa, you PROMISED!” she wailed, utterly dismayed.

“I wish I COULD say yes, honestly, I DO! But, I can’t! It’s . . . it’s plain and simply OUT of the question.”

“Why?” Cindy sobbed. “Please . . . tell me why!”

“Cindy . . . .” Drew begged.

“Drew, I’d like to know why myself,” Carolyn said quietly, as she drew her weeping stepdaughter into the comforting circle of her arms.

“Carolyn, you KNOW why!” Drew snapped, angrily venting his anxiety and pain toward his wife.

“Drew, you DID promise,” Carolyn said quietly. “You promised Cindy and me both that we could stay here awhile, maybe even settle here. We could be part of a community again, even make friends.”

“It’s too risky!”

“There’s a whole country between us and them. You said so yourself right before we left Saint Jo.”

“I know, but . . . . ” Drew sighed and shook his head morosely. “No!” He looked over at his wife, his intense, blue eyes meeting her warm brown ones. “We can’t!”

“Drew, we’ve been moving around so much, I think it’s starting to affect your mind.” There was an anxious, pleading note in her voice. “There’s hundreds, thousands of miles between here and Boston. The three of us are strangers here. Why, I’ll bet anything that no one in Virginia City knows anything about . . . what happened.”

“I wish I had your confidence,” Drew murmured in a dull melancholy tone.

“P-Pa, please! Please let me g-go to the dance?” Cindy sobbed. “I really would like t-to . . . to know Hoss better.”

“Drew?”

He turned and looked over at his wife,

“I . . . when I went to the General Store on Saturday, I asked some of the ladies there about Hoss Cartwright. From what they said, he sounds like a real sweet young man.”

Drew’s eyes moved from Carolyn’s face to Cindy’s, then back again to Carolyn with the dull, hopeless look of a trapped, wild animal. “Even if I were to say yes, Cindy’s got nothing decent to wear, and . . . with what little I make cleaning up at the hotel and over at the Silver Dollar Saloon . . . that’s just enough to pay our lodging here and buy our food. A new dress . . . . ” He shrugged helplessly.

Carolyn smiled. “There’s the money I got squared away under the mattress.”

“M-Mama Carolyn . . . I can’t take your money,” Cindy protested.

“You’re not taking it, Young Lady, I’m giving it to you,” Carolyn said in a gentle, yet firm tone.

“What about all that talk about how important it is to have your own house on land you can call your own?” Drew asked, a bare hint of a smile now tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“It IS important, but Cindy’s happiness is important, too,” Carolyn said. She looked lovingly down into the face of the stepdaughter still cradled in her arms. “I think we got enough to buy some real nice material and a pattern.”

“Alright,” Drew sighed with great reluctance and a heavy heart. “I can’t fight the two of you. Cindy can go to the dance with Hoss Cartwright.”

Cindy gently slipped from Carolyn’s embrace, and ran across the room toward her father. “Thank you, Pa!” she squealed, as she threw her arms around her father’s neck with joyous abandon. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Drew hugged his daughter close, delighted to see once again the unbridled happiness that had been absent for far too long. He hoped and prayed fervently that he would have no cause for regret.

“She said yes, Pa!” Hoss murmured with a complacent smile. He sat in his customary place at the table, with head resting solidly on his hands, and elbows flanking either side of a plate heaped with his supper, largely untouched. The unfocused, dream like quality in his son’s intense, sky blue eyes told Ben that Hoss was many, many miles away, reliving over and over again, his meeting with Cindy Taylor.

“Hoss’ gotta girlfriend, Hoss’ gotta girlfriend,” Joe began to chant softly, all the while grinning from ear to ear.

“Joseph Francis, THAT will be quite enough,” Ben admonished his youngest son quietly, yet very firmly. The slight frown deepening the creases already present in his brow conveyed a silent and succinct message that he meant business.

“Yes, Sir,” Joe murmured, immediately picking up on the message.

“Hoss not eat?!” Hop Sing exclaimed, nonplused. A few clipped, terse Chinese syllables followed, as the Cartwright family’s number one chief cook set himself to the task of clearing away the remains of their supper. “Hop Sing not believe if Hop Sing not see with own eyes! Say one thing! Mister Hoss in love, his papa save big bucks buying groceries.”

Ben, safely ensconced behind his desk, in the alcove designated the study, smiled and shook his head. “Must be more to this gal than I thought,” he murmured to himself, as he reached for the mail.

“Pa?” It was Little Joe. “What did you think there WAS to Hoss’ new gal?”

“Have you finished your homework yet?” Ben asked immediately, without missing a beat.

“Well, uhhh . . . no!” he sighed reluctantly. Leave it to Pa to remember homework just when the conversation was about to get very interesting.

“Then, I’d suggest you march yourself right upstairs and get to it, Young Man,” Ben exhorted in a gentle yet firm tone. “Bedtime’s in one hour.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Ben watched and waited until his youngest son reached the top of the stairs and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway above. As he turned his attention to the stack of unopened mail Hoss had brought home from the post office, he noted the Boston postmark on the top envelope. His first thought was Adam, as he picked up a letter opener, and carefully sliced open the envelope. Had something happened to delay his homecoming, or worse, did he change his mind and decide to stay in Boston?

Ben slid the letter out of the envelope, opened it and smiled. It wasn’t from Adam. It was from Jedediah and Esther Alcott, old friends Ben had known when he, himself, lived in Boston many years ago:

Dear Ben,

Short and to the point, Old Friend! Esther and I will be arriving in Virginia City on Wednesday, June 10, at two o’clock in the afternoon. We have good reason to believe our missing granddaughter is there, or in the surrounding environs. I hope you and I might make time and place to get together, visit a while, perhaps at the best restaurant in Virginia City??

Though we have corresponded with regularity over the years, we have not laid eyes on each other since your oldest boy was born. Esther and I both look forward to seeing you.

Sincerely,
Jedediah Alcott.

“ ‘We have good reason to believe our missing granddaughter is there, or in the surrounding environs.’ ” Ben silently turned the salient point of his old friend’s correspondence over in his mind, marveling and shaking his head. “How long has it been? Seven years . . . eight?!”

Jedediah, Jed to family and close friends, and Esther had only one child, a daughter, named Donna Lorinda. Donna married a college professor, who taught American History at Harvard University, no less. Though he was somewhat older than Donna, something on the order of ten, maybe fifteen years, if Ben’s memory was correct, Jed and Esther were very happy about the match.

Jed had befriended the man who was to someday become his son-in-law, when he first arrived in Cambridge to begin his studies as a freshman at Harvard. Their interest in history, particularly American History, had drawn them together. Jed had been particularly interested in the young man’s view of history through the eyes and minds of the people who had lived it. Knowledge of dates, places, and events, though important, assumed a lesser priority.

Jed and his young friend spent many an evening discussing, debating, and ultimately sharing knowledge. Ben smiled, remembering Jed’s accounts of the many times the two of them had literally talked the night away . . . .

“You would think the pair of us would go through the next day, exhausted, sleep walking as dead men after having been up the entire night, but such is not the case. Speaking for myself, I feel curiously refreshed . . . . ”

Their interest and passionate love of history brought these two men together. Other common interests in art, literature, archaeology, and a good golf game, strengthened and cemented the bonds of friendship. Friendship deepened to family as yet another common bond made itself known and felt . . . Jed’s and the young man’s deep, abiding love for one Donna Lorinda Alcott.

Donna and the young man, by then a full tenured professor at Harvard, were married. The birth of a daughter, one year later, almost to the day, was the crowning joy of what should have been many years happiness to come, not only for Donna and her husband, but for Jed and Esther as well. Donna, whose health was oft described as delicate in Jed’s letters, had almost died bringing her daughter into the world. She survived, but the rigors of pregnancy, giving birth, and subsequent “child bed fever,” had extracted great tolls on her health. For the remaining three years of her life, she was a virtual invalid.

Her husband cared for her, “with a love and devotion far and above what can be considered the call of duty, taking wholly to heart the vows promised on their wedding day, particularly the one about abiding even ‘in sickness and in health,’ ” in the words of an awestruck father-in-law. After Donna’s tragic, though not unexpected death, Jed and Esther cared diligently for their young granddaughter and son-in-law, consumed with grief. The young man gradually worked through his grief, and had begun to take an interest in life again, especially the young daughter, who bore so much resemblance to her mother.

Dear Ben,

I constantly marvel at how a mere friendship, borne of insignificant commonalities, has deepened into the love of family, especially since the passing of our beloved daughter, Donna Lorinda. Our granddaughter, so very like her mother in appearance and temperament is a delight and comfort to us all . . . .

Jed had penned those very words in the last letter written before those strong bonds of love and family were ripped to pieces.

Jed and Esther’s son-in-law had remarried . . . .

“ . . . . a coarse, ill-mannered woman, far below our station and place in life,” Jed had angrily written, “wholly unworthy of assuming the place left vacant by the passing away of our beloved Donna Lorinda.”

Remembering those words penned by Jedediah Alcott, brought the words of his former father-in-law, Captain Abel Stoddard, back to mind, words spoken when he and Adam, then an infant, left Boston for good:

“Keep a warm place for her in your heart, but don’t carry her around. She wouldn’t want that . . . . ” ii

Those words rang very hallow, in the wake of the terse, angry reply from Captain Stoddard to the letter Ben had written him several years later, informing him of his marriage to Inger. Captain Stoddard refused to have anything at all to do with the Cartwright family, until Marie had taken it upon herself to contact him, on Adam’s behalf, shortly after he turned thirteen.

Jed, however, had taken matters much further than even Abel Stoddard would have dreamed. Seven years ago, he had petitioned the court for custody of his granddaughter, citing her father and stepmother as unfit parents. The judge granted his petition. His son-in-law had apparently seen the handwriting on the wall as to the verdict. The night before Jed and Esther were granted custody of the child, she, her father, and stepmother disappeared. Jed had been diligently searching for the girl ever since.

“Aww, dadburn it!”

“What’s the matter, Hoss?”

“Pa, my hands are shakin’ so bad . . . I’m making a big mess o’ this tie . . . . ”

“Allow me, Son,” Ben kindly offered, trying his best not to smile.

“Thanks, Pa. I sure do appreciate it.”

As Ben worked, he recalled with a knowing, wistful smile how, for this big, gentle son standing before him, the days remaining until the big Saturday Night Dance had passed with a dreadful, agonizing slowness that sorely taxed even his great abundance of patience. Three nights ago, when he had looked in on Hoss before retiring to his own room and bed . . . .

“Hoss?”

“Yeah, Pa?”

Ben smiled. “Can’t sleep?”

“Pa, I haven’t gotten much sleep at night ever since . . . since I asked Cindy t’ go with me to that dance.”

His eyes strayed over to his son’s nightstand, widening in mild surprise upon seeing all the scrap paper piled there, some of it spilling onto the floor. They were covered on both sides with cross hatches, four thrusts drawn with a pencil, with a fifth line crossing over at a diagonal. “Hoss, what’s all this?”

“Aww, dadburn it, Pa! Countin’ the days ‘til the dance was ‘way too slow, so I started countin’ the HOURS. Today, I started countin’ down MINUTES.”

“Hoss?” The sound of Joe’s voice drew Ben back to present time and place. His youngest son stood framed in the open door to the bathroom upstairs, watching his and Hoss’ preparations for the dance ahead with a mild interest.

“What is it, Shortshanks?” Hoss replied, as he turned back toward the mirror and started to comb his hair.

“What are ya so nervous for?”

“It’s the first time he’s taken Cindy anywhere, Son,” Ben answered the question, as he, also, turned toward the mirror and began to tie his own string tie. “Hoss just wants to make a nice impression, that’s all.”

“I thought Hoss ALREADY made a nice impression on Cindy, Pa . . . the day he pounded that mean ol’ Danny MacLowry’s face in the dirt,” Joe said with relish.

“This is different,” Ben said. “You’ll understand a little better when you’re old enough to start taking girls to dances yourself.”

“YUCK!” Joe declared emphatically, making a face. “NEVER! Girls stink, except for Lotus O’Toole, her ma, and her grandma.” He looked up at Hoss, watching as his big brother squeezed a drop of hair cream into his massive palm. “Your girl, Cindy’s ok, too . . . I guess,” the youngest Cartwright son added as an afterthought.

“I’m glad you approve o’ Cindy, Shortshanks,” Hoss declared with a smile, as he smoothed in the hair cream.

“That’s ‘cause she’s YOUR girl, and . . . she really makes you happy, doesn’t she, Hoss.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

“Yeah, she does,” Hoss replied immediately.

“Happier ‘n that ol’ Margie Owens?”

Hoss suddenly, much to his astonishment, realized that he hadn’t even thought of Margie Owens from the first moment he had met Cindy. “Yeah, Shortshanks. Cindy makes me a lot happier ‘n Margie Owens ever did. Y’ wanna know somethin’ else?”

“What’s that, Big Brother?”

“I think Cindy’s a whole heckuva a lot prettier.”

“I think she is, too,” Joe agreed solemnly.

“Well,” Ben declared, looking down at his youngest son in complete amazement. “That’s quite a compliment coming from YOU, Young Man . . . . ”

As father and son stepped out the front door, they found the buggy hitched to that new pair of magnificent browns, Ben had acquired at an auction in Carson City a couple of months ago. Buck was also saddled and ready to ride.

Hoss climbed up into the buggy and picked up the reins. “Pa?”

“Yes, Son?”

“Thanks for lettin’ me take the buggy tonight,” Hoss said gratefully.

Ben climbed up onto Buck, then turned and smiled down at Hoss, ensconced in the buggy, with reins in hand. “When a young man escorts a beautiful gal someplace nice for the first time, I think he should do it up in as fine a style as he possibly can.”

“Thanks, Pa.”

“This Cindy MUST be quite a gal to have made you forget Margie Owens so completely,” Ben mused, as his thoughts wandered back to his own first meeting with the girl. He admired Cindy for the way she had stepped right in and took up for Hoss, that day they all first met, despite being scared to death, not only as aftermath to that rude incident initiated by the MacLowry boy, but in the face of his own anger as well. Apart from that, however, the girl was plain, and wholly forgettable. So she had initially seemed to HIM.

“Cindy IS real special, Pa,” Hoss said quietly, his lips turning upward in a mysterious Mona Lisa type smile, “and when I’m with her? I kinda feel special myself.”

“Well, you’d best skedaddle, Young Man. You don’t want to be late picking Cindy up.”

“See ya at the dance, Pa.”

Within no time at all, Hoss found himself standing on the veranda of Kirk’s Hostelry, knocking on the front door. Eloise Kirk’s daughter, Rita Mae answered, gowned, coiffed, and bejeweled for the dance herself. She was a few years older, closer to Adam’s age, and nearly tall enough to look Hoss straight in the eye without high heels. “Good evening, Hoss! My don’t you look handsome.”

“I’m here t’ pick up Cindy Taylor, ‘n take her to the dance,” Hoss said, as the color in his cheeks deepened to a rose pink.

“Come on in.” Rita Mae gently took him by the hand and drew him inside. “If you’ll have a seat in the drawing room, I’ll let the Taylors know you’re here.”

A few moments later, Cindy entered the room, smiling, wearing a deep, rose pink dress that complimented her natural ruddy complexion. Its tailored bodice with cinched waist and rounded neckline tastefully accentuated her trim waist and rounded bosom. The full skirt with ruffled trim allowed for free and easy movement. White lace trimmed the edges of her short, slightly puffed sleeves, neckline, and place where ruffle joined skirt. A pair of pain white gloves, fastened at the wrist with a white round button, and a single strand pearl necklace, that once belonged to her mother, the mother who had given her life, completed her outfit.

Hoss rose to his feet slowly, knees trembling, thoroughly entranced by the lovely vision that had just entered the room.

Cindy’s smile faded into a look of concern as she quickly crossed the room to his side. “H-Hoss? Are you alright?”

A smile, shaky and uncertain, yet filled with absolute delight, slowly spread across his lips. “Cinnamon Rose Taylor,” he murmured, taking care to lower his voice. “Have I ever told you that . . . well . . . . ” He quickly averted his face as the color of his cheeks deepened from rose pink to scarlet. “Have I ever told you that you’ve got to be the prettiest gal I’ve ever seen?”

“Yes,” she said tenderly, with a warm smile. “The day you asked me to this dance.” She gently took him by the hand and led him toward the sitting room door. “Hoss?”

“Yeah, Cindy?”

“Have I ever told YOU that . . . except maybe for my pa, you’re the first man in my whole life who, somehow, makes me feel beautiful?”

Gazing down into her smiling face, and eyes glowing with the inner radiance of the warm, loving, and gracious spirit that animated them with life and light, Hoss longed so much to gently take her into his arms and kiss her. “No,” he silently chided himself, “not now. It wouldn’t be right.” He swallowed, then offered her his arm. “W-we’d best git goin’,” he said aloud, his voice unsteady. “Our folks’re probably at the dance by now, wonderin’ wh-what happened to the two of US.”

Cindy nodded and gently took his arm. Hoss cast a quick, sidelong glance at her face, as they turned to leave the sitting room at Kirk’s hostelry. For a brief, fleeting instant, he thought he saw disappointment.

Athena Nikolas, Apollo’s twin sister, watched with interest as Hoss Cartwright entered the community center, grinning from-ear-to-ear like that Cheshire Cat in Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, escorting a girl she had not, as yet anyway, had occasion to meet. She was a very pretty girl, with “curls and swells in all the exact right places,” as her twin brother, the would-be sailor, would say. That deep pink dress, with its simple tailored lines, and subtle ornamentation suited her perfectly. Best of all however, was the way she looked at Hoss, as if he were just about the only person in the world who mattered.

“Who’s the frump?”

Athena turned and found herself staring into the disdainful blue eyes of Margie Owens. “What frump?”

“That girl with Hoss Cartwright,” Margie replied, wrinkling her nose in disdain. “I mean, really! ANYONE can see that dress is home made!”

“Whoever made that girl’s dress sure did a fine job of it,” Athena murmured appreciatively. “Every bit as good as that new French woman who just opened up in town.”

“But, it’s so PLAIN!”

“Margie Dear, some people have a natural beauty all their own, and don’t need to draw peoples’ attention by way of a fancy-schmancy kind of dress,” Athena said, staring pointedly at Margie’s gown with its shimmering, glittering material, overlaid by fringe and lace.

Margie responded with a murderous glare, then turned heel and flounced off with Athena’s soft, derisive laughter echoing in her ears.

“Athena?”

She turned. It was Hoss Cartwright with his mystery girl.

“Athena, I’d like you t’ meet Cindy Taylor,” Hoss graciously made the introductions. “She ‘n her family just moved t’ Virginia City ‘bout a week ago. Cindy, this is Athena Nikolas. She’s Apollo’s sister.”

“Cindy, I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Athena offered her hand and a sincere smile this time. Anyone who could give Hoss Cartwright the kind of happiness she saw glowing in his face and in those bright, sky blue eyes, was top notch in HER book. Knocking the like of Miss Margie Owens clear off that high and lofty pedestal, mostly of her own making, only added to Athena Nikolas’ positive first impression.

“I’m very glad to meet you, too,” Cindy accepted Athena’s extended hand and returned her smile.

“Mister and Mrs. Taylor?”

Drew and Carolyn Taylor both turned their heads in unison and found themselves looking up into the warm, smiling face of a big man, with hair graying to silver. The former unconsciously stepped forward, interposing himself between the big, smiling stranger and his wife. “Wh-what can we do for you, Mister?”

“Cartwright,” Ben said, his smile broadening. He politely extended his hand. “Ben Cartwright. I’m Hoss’ father.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mister Cartwright,” Carolyn smiled. She stepped around her husband and took Ben’s hand. “Hoss is a wonderful young man and . . . . ” she gestured discreetly toward the dance floor, where Cartwright son and Taylor daughter danced together, completely oblivious to all but each other. “ . . . you can see Cindy thinks the absolute world of him.”

Ben returned Carolyn Taylor’s warm smile. “Your daughter, Cindy’s quite a gal,” he said quietly, with heartfelt sincerity. “Not only does HOSS think the world of her, but my youngest boy’s pretty taken with her, too . . . quite an accomplishment taking into account that Joe’s still at the age where girls stink.”

Carolyn laughed out loud. “That is indeed quite an accomplishment,” she agreed. “Are Hoss and Joe your only children?”

“I have an older boy, Adam,” Ben replied, warming immediately to Carolyn Taylor’s quiet warmth and charm. “He’s been away attending college for the past four years.”

“You must miss him terribly.”

“I do,” Ben admitted. “But, if my time calculations are correct, he should be finishing up with his finals, and getting ready to graduate . . . with high honors.”

“High honors? That’s wonderful, Mister Cartwright. You must be very proud of him.”

“You must indeed,” Drew Taylor spoke up for the first time, since Ben had introduced himself. “To graduate with high honors is no small accomplishment. May I inquire as to where your oldest son has been attending college?”

“Harvard University,” Ben replied, “Cambridge, Massachusetts.”

Drew Taylor’s face turned white as a sheet. His body, so rigid and still, and eyes round with alarm, reminded Ben of a deer mesmerized and rendered immobile by the light of a roaring campfire or brightly burning torch.

Carolyn Taylor, herself also stunned by the revelation of Adam Cartwright’s soon to be alma mater, was the first to find her voice. “H-Harvard.” She smiled, but with none of her previous warmth. “That makes your son’s scholastic accomplishments all the m-more . . . impressive.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Taylor,” Ben said, somewhat taken aback by their sudden reserve. “Adam will be coming home next month . . . for good.” He smiled. “I’m planning a welcome home party . . . nothing real big or fancy, just a cookout with friends and neighbors. I’d like to invite both of you, and your daughter.”

“Thank you, Mister Cartwright,” Carolyn murmured in as stead a voice as she could muster. “Drew and I would love to come, and Cindy . . . . ” She nodded again to the dance floor, toward his son and their daughter. “ . . . I think Cindy will be delighted to come, also.”

“Ben?”

The Cartwright clan patriarch turned and saw Roy Coffee heading in his direction. “Mister and Mrs. Taylor, if you would excuse me?”

“Certainly, Mister Cartwright,” Carolyn murmured a tad too quickly. “Good talking with you.”

The minute Ben Cartwright turned to leave, Drew Taylor seized his wife by the elbow and steered her off to a secluded alcove. “Carolyn, are you out of your mind?” he demanded, sotto voce, the minute he was certain they were alone.

“Drew . . . . ”

“You heard him. His oldest son has been attending Harvard for the past four years.”

“Drew, please, get hold of yourself.”

“We are NOT attending that party Mister Cartwright’s having for his son’s homecoming,” Drew declared, his voice shaking. “We are going to go home immediately, and pack our things. We’re leaving Virginia City first thing in the morning.”

“Drew, stop it!” Carolyn begged. “Just stop it right now!”

“We have to move on, Carolyn, don’t you see? This Adam Cartwright almost certainly knows. Chances are Mister Cartwright does, too.”

“So WHAT if they do?”

Drew stared down into his wife’s face, looking at her as he might someone who had suddenly, inexplicably gone completely insane.

“Ok, people talk. In the four years, Mister Cartwright’s son has been living in Boston and attending Harvard University, he, more than likely HAS heard something,” Carolyn reluctantly agreed. “But it would have been old gossip by the time he arrived there four years ago. A chain of events that happened to faceless strangers.”

“What if Adam, or one of his college buddies, knows them?”

“I don’t think that’s likely.”

“It’s STILL possible.”

“Drew, anything’s possible, but taking into account the fact that both Boston and Harvard University are very big places, the probability of Adam Cartwright knowing them directly or indirectly is pretty much nil.”

“We can’t take that chance, Carolyn.”

“Drew, I’m tired of running, and poor Cindy . . . . ” She cast a meaningful glance over toward the dance floor, where the music had just ended. There, Hoss and Cindy applauded the music, gazing contentedly into each other’s eyes. “I don’t want to take that away from her.”

Drew followed his wife’s line of vision, then abruptly turned away, heartsick. “I don’t either, Carolyn. Ever since she first met Hoss . . . well, she hasn’t been happy like that for a very long time.” He sighed. “What are we going to do?”

“We’re both going to stay put right here, and put down some roots,” Carolyn said firmly. “I’ve talked with a lot of the ladies in passing, met some of their husbands and children. Most of ‘em seem to be decent, friendly people. I also have a real strong feeling that they don’t much care what your past has been. They care a lot more about what you are and what you decide to make of yourself NOW. We’ll do fine here, Drew.”

“Alright,” he agreed reluctantly.

“Is . . . everything alright?”

Carolyn turned and found herself once more looking up into the face of Ben Cartwright. “Yes . . . and no,” she said quietly. “It seems my husband’s not feeling very well.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Ben said anxiously.

“No, just a mild stomach upset, but all the same, I’d best get him home,” Carolyn said. “Would you mind doing us a big favor, Mister Cartwright?”

“I’d be glad to.”

“Please let Cindy know that we’ve left, but tell her also that we both want her to stay and enjoy herself.”

“Hoss and I will certainly see that Cindy returns home safely,” Ben promised. “However, I have a buggy outside. I’d be more than happy to drive you home.”

“I don’t want to put you out, Mister Cartwright.”

“No trouble at all, Mrs. Taylor. Why don’t you both meet me out front? I’ll let Hoss and Cindy know were leaving.”

Ben diligently searched the dance floor, but could find neither hide nor hair of his son or the Taylors’ daughter.

“Mister Cartwright, have you lost something?” It was Athena Nikolas.

Ben turned and favored her with a rueful smile. “I was looking for Cindy Taylor and Hoss,” he replied. “Cindy’s father’s feeling a little under the weather, so I’m taking him and her mother home.”

She had spotted them a few moments before, quietly slipping out the back door. “If you’d like, Mister Cartwright, I’d be very happy to give them the message,” Athena immediately offered.

“Thank you, Athena,” Ben said with an amused grin, “and I hope Cindy wore a shawl, or some kind of wrap to the dance. It can still get pretty chilly outside after dark.”

Athena stared at Ben Cartwright’s retreating back, open mouthed with shock, wondering how in the ever lovin’ world did he possibly know.

Hoss gazed into her warm, dark brown eyes, reflecting back the silvery light of the near full moon, and glowing with her own inner light. The next thing he knew, their lips were touching, in a gentle whisper of a kiss. Hoss pulled back abruptly, eyes round with horror, both hands trembling. “C-Cindy, I . . . I’m s-sorry . . . . ”

“Oh, Hoss, I’m not,” she said softly, her hand caressing his cheek. She lowered her head, as two bright spots of red, discernable even in the subdued light of the moon, appeared on her cheeks. “I . . . I was hoping you would . . . even before we left Kirk’s.”

“Y-you were?” Hoss stammered, staring down at her in wonder. “Cindy?”

“Y-yes, Hoss?”

“Cindy, can I . . . may I . . . would you be mad at me if I . . . if I kissed you again?” Hoss, much to his chagrin, felt the sudden rush of blood to his own face.

“I-I’d be mad at you if . . . if you DIDN’T kiss me again . . . . ”

Hoss, his heart pounding, gently gathered her in his arms and kissed her. He was astonished and pleased when her arms, loosely encircling his waist, tightened and she began to kiss him back.

“Hoss . . . is this how two people feel when . . . when they love each other?”

“I don’t rightly know, Cindy,” Hoss murmured gazing down in wonder at the girl still clasped in his arms. “I only know one thing. I don’t want to be without you.”

“I don’t want to ever be without you, either, Hoss,” she half sobbed, as she buried her face against his broad shoulder.

“Well, well, well! Ain’t THIS cozy!”

Hoss and Cindy both turned their heads in unison and found Danny MacLowry standing in front of them, arms folded across his chest, leering balefully at both of them. Cindy, her eyes round with fear, tightened her arms around Hoss’ waist and pressed closer.

“What’re you doin’ here, Danny?” Hoss demanded. An angry, indignant scowl creased his forehead.

“I was gonna ask the purty lady to dance,” Danny replied, his voice generously laced with angry sarcasm. “But, when I turned to ask her? No purty lady!”

Drawing a measure of strength and courage from Hoss’ close proximity, Cindy pulled herself up to full height and cast a dark, withering glare of her own toward their antagonist. “For YOUR information, I don’t want to dance with YOU. Not now, not ever! In fact, if I never, ever see you again, that’ll be too soon.”

Danny laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, I get it! You think you’re somethin’ almighty special just ‘cause one o’ the great ‘n powerful Cartwrights stopped t’ notice ya,” he sneered, directing his words toward Cindy. “Well, ya AIN’T!”

“Come on, Cindy, let’s us g’won back inside.” Hoss, keeping one arm protectively around Cindy’s shoulders, moved to step around Danny.

Danny immediately sidestepped, placing himself directly in front of Hoss and Cindy once again. “That’s rude . . . leaving before I’ve had a chance to finish what I have t’ say.”

“Stand aside, Danny,” Hoss growled.

“Not ‘til I’ve finished sayin’ what I have t’ say.”

“Cindy ‘n I don’t wanna hear what you hafta say. Now stand aside!”

“Why don’t you let the lady speak for herself?”

“Alright, I WILL speak for myself!” Cindy said, her voice shaking with anger and fear. “I DON’T want to hear anything you have to say. I also don’t want to see you, dance with you, or have anything to do with you at all! Ever! Is THAT clear enough?”

“How do you know whether or not y’ wanna have anything t’ do with me?” Danny spat, his face contorting with a potent fury born out of wounded pride. “Ol’ Hoss ain’t exactly letcha spend any time with other guys!”

“Danny, that’s enough! Now you stand aside right now, ‘n let Cindy ‘n me git by.”

Danny laughed again, its sound harsh and grating. “The only reason you think an ugly cuss like Hoss is so much better ‘n a guy like me ‘s because I ain’t got all that Cartwright money! Ok, fine! Fine ‘n dandy! You just remember one thing, Gal! After ol’ Hoss here’s loved ya ‘n left ya, don’t you dare come crawlin’ back to me! ‘Cause Danny MacLowry don’t want none o’ Hoss Cartwright’s used up leftovers.”

Hoss immediately moved Cindy behind him, then followed through with a powerful right cross that connected solidly with Danny’s jaw. The MacLowry boy reeled back dizzily a couple of steps, before recovering a measure of his equilibrium. Before Hoss realized what was happened, Danny lowered his head and charged, slamming hard into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Hoss, his mouth open, gasping for breath, wavered, then fell over backwards. With a yowl of triumph, Danny leapt on his fallen opponent, raining down hard blows on his chest and face.

Cindy screamed.

Angelina Thundercloud Woman, full blooded Shoshone wife of Houston O’Brien, friend and neighbor of the Cartwrights, appeared at Cindy’s elbow with her daughter, Crystal.

“P-Please, Ma’am . . . y-you’ve got to help Hoss . . . he’s . . . he’s killing him!” Cindy turned to Angelina, with tears pouring down her cheeks like a swift running waterfall.

“Crystal, you run on inside and fetch Sheriff Coffee,” Angelina ordered, her face darkening in the spirit and manner of her namesake.

Crystal nodded, then set off, beating a straight path back to the community center.

Angelina, meanwhile, strode resolutely over toward Danny and Hoss, her back poker straight, and jaw set with grim, stubborn determination. She seized Danny MacLowry by the back of his shirt collar and pulled him away from Hoss with almost ridiculous ease. Then, in the same fluid movement, she threw the startled boy down onto the ground.

Danny MacLowry gazed up into the dark, angry face of Angelina Thundercloud Woman, stunned. Initial shock quickly gave way to rage. “Damn Squaw Woman!” he spat.

Angelina leaned over, and, grabbing him by the lapels, hauled him unceremoniously to his feet, bringing his face within less than an inch of her own. “I am NO squaw woman!” she literally spat in his face. “I am daughter of chief and granddaughter of many, many chiefs.” With that, she immediately followed through with a swift, hard punch that sent Danny MacLowry toppling to the ground a second time.

Cindy, meanwhile, with heart in mouth, ran to Hoss, half-falling, half-collapsing beside him. “H-Hoss?”

“I . . . I’m alright, Cindy,” he murmured.

Cindy immediately got behind him and helped him from a prone to sitting position. “Oh, Hoss . . . . ” She began to gently dab the bleeding places on his face with the edge of her light shawl. “ . . . y-you’re hurt.”

“I reckon I AM banged up a little,” Hoss said ruefully, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “But, I’ll be fine. How ‘bout you, Cindy? You alright?”

“I . . . I will be,” she sobbed, throwing her arms around Hoss’ neck. “Now that I know YOU’RE going to b-be alright.”

“What the Sam Hill is going on down here?” A familiar sonorous voice, tight with anger, fell upon Hoss’ ears.

Angelina Thundercloud Woman O’Brien turned to face Ben Cartwright, as he walked briskly toward then, his own face a veritable thundercloud. Sheriff Roy Coffee and her daughter, Crystal, followed close behind Ben. Clem Foster, newly appointed deputy, and Gerald Malone, carrying a white lace wrap that belonged to the lady he had escorted to the dance, brought up the rear.

“Ben, when Crystal and I came upon them, that ruffian . . . . ” Angelina directed a dark, menacing glare in Danny’s general direction, “ . . . had poor Hoss on the ground and was beating the stuffing out of him.”

“He started it!” Danny said, thrusting his arm with pointed finger toward Hoss.

“He’s lying!” Cindy shot back, her entire body trembling with the pent up fury growing within. “HE started it! Hoss and I stepped out for a breath of fresh air when he . . . he came up to us, started heckling us . . . we tried to go around him, but he wouldn’t let us pass!”

“Mister Cartwright . . . Sheriff Coffee . . . Hoss’ lady friend’s telling the truth,” Gerald said. “I went to the buggy to get Lucille’s wrap, and saw the whole thing. I was coming to help, but Mrs. O’Brien here beat me to the punch.”

“Sh-Sheriff Coffee?” Hoss ventured hesitantly, speaking for the first time.

“What is it, Hoss?”

“This ain’t the first time Danny’s bothered Cindy,” Hoss said. “First time happened ‘bout a week ago right outside the notions shop.” He took Cindy’s trembling hand in his and gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “He did the same thing to her then that he did t’ US now.”

“Miss Taylor ain’t the first gal he’s harassed either,” Roy said, favoring Danny MacLowry with a baleful glare. “With YOU runnin’ ‘round loose, it seems the streets o’ Virginia City ain’t safe no more f’r decent young ladies, ‘n I f’r one am sick ‘n tired of it. Ben . . . . ”

“Yes, Roy?”

“I honest ‘n truly hope t’ heaven you wanna swear out a complaint, so ‘s I can put this . . . this lowlife behind bars where he belongs,” Roy said tersely.

Danny’s eyes went round with genuine terror. “No! Y-You . . . you CAN’T put me in jail! My pa . . . he’ll KILL me.”

“Maybe y’ shouldda thought o’ THAT ‘fore y’ tried t’ force your attentions on Miss Taylor here,” Roy countered, his mouth stretched to a thin, angry line. “Ben?”

“You BET I’m going to swear out that complaint,” Ben replied, his voice tight with fury, barely controlled. “Mister and Mrs. Taylor, the young lady’s parents may want to swear out a complaint as well. I fully intend advising them to do so.”

“In THAT case, Danny MacLowry, you’re under arrest,” the sheriff informed the hapless youth with relish. “The charges are harassment, assault ‘n battery.”

“What is it THIS time, Sheriff?” Rob MacLowry demanded, as he strode briskly into the sheriff’s office, the Monday morning following the dance. The scowl on his face was darker than the black clouds, heralding the approach of a violent thunderstorm. “Did that Cartwright kid use my boy as a punching bag again, and scrape his soft knuckles?”

“No,” Roy replied sardonically. “Seems THIS time your boy used Hoss Cartwright as a punchin’ bag.”

A hard, mirthless smile spread across his lips. “Well good for Danny! ‘Bout time someone started puttin’ those high, almighty Cartwrights in their place!”

“Ben Cartwright’s worked very hard t’ earn the respect o’ folks hereabouts,” Roy said sternly, “an’ I can’t ever rightly recall a time when the parents o’ the young ladies livin’ in ‘n around Virginia City ever talked about lockin’ up their daughters ‘cause the Cartwright boys’re comin’ t’ town.”

“You referrin’ t’ that Taylor bitch?” Rob growled, bristling.

“From what I’VE seen of her, Miss Taylor seems t’ be a very fine young lady.”

“Fine young lady indeed!” Rob snorted derisively. “She led my boy on, y’ know! Bold as brass, she stood right out there on that sidewalk last week ‘n led him right on. She did the same thing at the dance!”

“Well, accordin’ to Hoss, the incident at the dance was the SECOND time your boy’s harassed Miss Taylor, ‘n tried t’ force his attentions on her,” Roy Coffee hastened to point out.

“Agggh! Who does Hoss Cartwright think he is anyway? Just ‘cause HE’S one o’ them high ‘n mighty Cartwrights . . . he probably thinks he OWNS that gal. He’s got no call t’ be so selfish ‘n take up ALL her time. He oughtta sit back ‘n let OTHER guys spend some time with her.”

“Mister MacLowry, did it ever occur t’ you that maybe Miss Taylor WANTS t’ spend all her time with Hoss?”

Rob MacLowry laughed out loud at the very notion. “Come ON, Sheriff! That gal’s a real looker! Why in t’ world would she WANT t’ spend time with the likes o’ Hoss Cartwright . . . ‘specially when she’s got a real man like Danny fawnin’ after her?”

“I c’n give ya a hundred reasons why Miss Taylor, or any other gal f’r that matter’d choose Hoss Cartwright over your boy in a heartbeat,” Roy Coffee stoutly took up for Hoss. “Looks ain’t everything!”

“Maybe not, but they sure count f’r an awful lot!”

“Not near as much as you think, Mister MacLowry. As I said before, what happened at the dance makes TWICE now, your boy’s tried t’ force his attentions on Miss Taylor.”

“He was ONLY trying t’ be FRIENDLY,” Rob vehemently protested.

“That AIN’T the way Miss Taylor saw it!”

“Ahh! Miss Taylor misunderstood and overreacted!”

“From t’ accounts given by OTHER witnesses . . . . ”

“OTHER witnesses? WHAT other witnesses? Hoss Cartwright ‘n his good buddy, Apollo Nikolas?”

“ . . . an’ you c’n add Mister Malone t’ that list, Mister MacLowry,” the sheriff said in a wry tone. “He went out to his buggy t’ fetch a wrap his gal’d left on the seat when the two of ‘em went in. He saw t’ whole thing. So did Mrs. O’Brien ‘n her daughter.”

“Damn’ squaw bitch ‘n her half-breed whelp?! Hah! Who in t’ ever lovin’ world’s gonna take the word o’ the like o’ THEM over a couple o’ decent honest ‘n true Americans like my boy ‘n me?”

“I would, for one, Mister MacLowry, ‘n Judge Faraday f’r another.”

“Aggh! Friends of the Cartwrights! Judge, sheriff, ‘n witnesses! The lot o’ ya will say anything Ben Cartwright tells ya to!” Rob snorted derisively.

“In the FIRST place, Ben Cartwright AIN’T that kind o’ man,” Roy Coffee stoutly defended his old friend. “He’d never ask his friends t’ lie for him. In the SECOND place, I got testimony from at least a dozen MORE witnesses who saw what happened outside the notions shop. There’s quite a few among ‘em who AIN’T friendly with the Cartwrights, and a couple who don’t even know the Cartwrights from Adam’s house cat!”

While his father and the sheriff argued, Danny MacLowry, seated against the wall running perpendicular to the sheriff’s desk turned and stared at the wanted posters tacked to the bulletin board above his head to his right. He quietly rose and walked over for a better look.

“Wanted . . . Andrew Ford Sandringham,” Danny softly read aloud the wanted poster that caught his eye first. “Boston Police Department . . . for kidnapping child. Known aliases . . . Andy Smith, Andy Ford . . . . ” He silently studied the picture, copied from an old daguerreotype. The man staring back from the wanted poster was clean-shaven, with dark eyes, and dark wavy hair cut short with sideburns. He had a cleft chin and wide jaw line.

Danny’s eyes dropped down to the picture of the girl Andrew Sandringham had allegedly kidnapped. She looked to be around the same age as his younger sister, Mary, who had turned eight her last birthday. Like Mary, this girl’s hair was also woven into a pair of braids that reached down to about the middle of her chest. He peered at the girl’s face, noting the wide jaw line, her small, down turned mouth and thin lips, the pixy-ish, upturned nose, and the eyes. Something about those eyes . . . .

“I’ve seen her before . . . . ” Danny murmured aloud. He frowned, trying hard to recall.

“ . . . alright, Sheriff, how much is the boy’s fine?”

“Assault ‘n battery, disturbin’ the peace, harassin’ Miss Taylor . . . all that comes to five dollars even.”

Rob MacLowry angrily slapped a five-dollar bill down onto the sheriff’s desk.

“Your boy’s free t’ go,” Roy said, as he picked up the single bill and placed it in the strong box, sitting in the middle of his desk. “You be sure t’ tell your boy t’ stay away from Miss Taylor, ‘cause if he don’t . . . OR, if I hear tell of him harassin’ any OTHER young lady, he’s gonna be keepin’ me company right here for a whole month o’ Sundays.”

Danny waited until his father turned his attention back to the sheriff, then deftly removed Andrew Sandringham’s wanted poster from the bulletin board. He turned his face back to the wall, and folded the poster down to a thick two-inch square.

“DANNY!” Rob MacLowry’s angry voice cracked sharply like a whip, startling the boy.

Danny quickly stuffed the purloined poster into his pants pocket. “Y-yes, Pa?”

“Come on!”

“Hop Sing, dinner was just wonderful,” Carolyn Taylor complimented the chef with a broad grin. “You’re a real genius in the kitchen . . . an absolute genius!”

“Hop Sing thank Mrs. Taylor very, very, VERY much,” the Cartwrights’ chief cook and bottle washer accepted the compliment as his due, grinning broadly from ear-to-ear.

“This apple pie’s especially good,” Drew added. “Hop Sing, is there any way I can persuade you to share your apple pie recipe with my wife?”

“Very sorry, apple pie recipe family secret.” Though Hop Sing adamantly shook his head, the smile in his face remained fixed very firmly in place. “Come all the way from China.”

“Shall we take coffee in the great room, over next to the fireplace?” Ben invited.

“Sounds like a wonderful idea to me,” Drew agreed.

“Hard to belief the Taylors have only been in Virginia City a month,” Ben mused silently, as the six of them rose from their places at the Cartwrights’ dining room table. The strong bonds of friendship and easy camaraderie between the Cartwright and Taylor families seemed more the stuff of a long, enduring friendship of many years, rather than an acquaintance that had begun a mere four weeks ago.

Hoss and Cindy had slipped into the patterns of a young courting couple, and as such, were virtually inseparable. If he wasn’t visiting the Taylors at Kirks’ Hostelry in town, she was here. Ben, himself, was captivated by her warmth and charm. In odd moments of silence and solitude, he found himself thinking of Cindy Taylor in terms of prospective daughter-in-law, much to his own amazement. Little Joe followed Cindy around the house like a loved starved puppy dog. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say young Joseph Francis has a king-sized crush on Cindy himself,” Ben mused silently.

“Pa?”

The sound of Hoss’ voice scattered Ben’s thoughts, and sent them stampeding back into the deep recesses of his brain, like frightened cattle, to be pondered later. “Yes, Son?”

“Would you . . . and you, too, Mister ‘n Mrs. Taylor . . . would it be alright if Cindy ‘n me took a short stroll outside to kinda let our food settle?” Hoss asked.

“It’s alright with Carolyn and me, if it’s alright with YOU, Ben,” Drew said quietly.

“You kids go ahead,” Ben gave his permission, “but don’t go far.”

“Cindy?”

“Yes, Mama Carolyn?”

“It’s probably gotten pretty chilly outside, if not out right cold,” Carolyn said, ever so slightly anxious. “You’d better take your wrap with you.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Cindy immediately went to the pegs next to the door to remove the light shawl, hand crocheted many years ago by her late mother.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“Can I go with Hoss ‘n Cindy?”

“I think YOUR time would be best spent upstairs in your room studying, Young Man,” Ben said in a very firm tone, that brooked no argument. “I understand you have a big history test coming up on Friday.”

Joe’s face fell. “Who told you that, Pa?”

“I ran into Miss Gibson last Saturday at the General Store,” Ben replied. “She also told me you’re on the verge of failing history.”

“Boy! Bad enough Miss Gibson has to be such a slave driver,” Joe groused. “NOW she’s turned into a tattletale.”

“Miss Gibson was absolutely right to tell me,” Ben said sternly. “You have a couple of hours before bed time. I’d strongly suggest you get yourself right upstairs and start hitting those books.”

“Aawww, Pa, it’s no use.”

“Joseph . . . . ” Ben’s tone held a definite threatening not.

“It’s TRUE, Pa! I’ll NEVER remember all those dates ‘n places, not ever, not in a million years!”

“Joe?”

“Yes, Mister Taylor?” The youngest of the Cartwright brothers turned toward Drew expectantly, grateful for any reprieve of having to go upstairs to his room and begin studying, no matter how slight.

“What are you studying in history class?”

“The War of 1812,” Joe sighed dejectedly.

“Ah yes. America’s SECOND war of independence,” Drew said quietly.

“It IS?”

“Yes, it is,” Drew replied with a smile. “Ben?”

“Yes, Drew?”

“May I share something with Joe? I promise, I won’t detain him very long.”

“Alright.”

“Joe, this is a poem written by a lawyer named Francis Scott Key, after he witnessed the British bombardment of Fort McHenry, in Baltimore,” Drew said as he reached into the right hand pocket of his pants and drew out his wallet. From his wallet, he extracted a sheet of paper that had been folded and unfolded many times. “Mister Key originally titled his poem “The Defense of Fort McHenry.”

He unfolded it with great care, and began to read:

“ ‘Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there.
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?’ ”

Ben listened closely as Drew Taylor read aloud the words to the poem in a clear voice. The rise and fall of his voice, the way he almost caressed the words as he read told the Cartwright family patriarch that this poem was a much loved one for the man who read it aloud. “I . . . think I know those words,” Ben said quietly, when Drew paused at the end of the first verse. “But, I think I remember them as a song.”

Drew looked over at him and smiled warmly. “You are absolutely right, Ben. These words WERE set to music, a popular tune at the time, and published in 1815 as ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ ” He, then, returned his attention to Joe Cartwright. “Francis Scott Key went to Baltimore in the company of a friend, a man by the name of Colonel John Stuart to meet with a couple of British officers, Major General Robert Ross and Rear Admiral Sir George Cockburn to request the release of a friend of theirs, a man by the name of Doctor William Beanes, who had been arrested by a detachment of British troops for imprisoning two of their own. Mister Key and Colonel Stuart were themselves taken into custody, and told they would be detained until the fighting was over.”

“Why?” Joe asked.

“During the course of their negotiations for the release of Doctor Beanes, both those gentlemen might have picked up information useful to the Americans, particularly with regard to the imminent Battle of Baltimore,” Drew replied. “To put it simply, Mister Key and Colonel Stuart very likely knew too much. So they watched the attack on Fort McHenry under British guard from eight miles away. Going back to the words of that first verse of the poem, Joe, what’s the first thing you notice?”

“Would you please read it again, Mister Taylor?”

Drew willingly complied.

“Sounds like he . . . Francis . . . . ?!”

“Francis Scott Key,” Drew prompted with a smile.

“Sounds like he’s asking a lot of questions.”

Drew nodded, his smile broadened. “The attack against Fort McHenry lasted about twenty-five hours, which meant it went on into the night. The Battle of Baltimore and attack on Fort McHenry were all part of a three part invasion plan. Had the British been victorious in Baltimore, it might very well have been the beginning of the end.”

“The end of WHAT, Mister Taylor?”

“The end of our nation.”

“Y-you mean . . . the end of America?” Joe’s eyes were the size of dinner plates as he posed his question, barely above the decibel level of an awed whisper.

Drew nodded. “Everyone knew that, I think, British and American alike,” he continued. “After darkness fell, Francis Scott Key and John Stuart had no way of knowing how the battle was going. They could hear the British warships firing, as well as the cannons at Fort McHenry firing back. Though out the night, by the occasional light of ‘the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,’ they saw the American flag . . . the American Star Spangled Banner . . . still flying from the fort.”

“That meant the Americans still had control of Fort McHenry?” Joe asked, thoroughly entranced.

“Yes,” Drew replied, the passionate intensity in his own eyes and face matching the growing keen interest in Joe Cartwright’s. “Had the British been victorious, they would have taken down the American stars and strips and hoisted their own Union Jack.”

“So all night long they didn’t know?” Joe asked. “Francis Scott Key and Colonel . . . is it Stuart?”

“Stuart it is.”

“What happened?” Joe pressed.

“Francis Scott Key’s very question throughout the first verse,” Drew replied. “It’s dawn . . . what happened? Does ANYONE know whether or not the American flag still waves over Fort McHenry? We saw it in the light from the fire exchanged, but with the sun not yet up and all the smoke from the fighting, we can’t see. He continues to ask the question through part of the second verse.”

Drew raised the sheet in hand and began once again to read:

“ ‘On the shore dimly seen thro’ the mists of the deep,
Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream:
‘Tis the star-spangled banner: O, long may it wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!’ ”

“It was the American flag still flying above Fort McHenry when the smoke cleared, wasn’t it.” Joe said, stating fact rather than posing a question.

Drew smiled and nodded again. “Yes, it was.”

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “When did Fort McHenry get attacked?”

“September 13, 1814.”

“1814?!” Joe looked over at Drew Taylor as if the man had suddenly sprouted a pair of purple antlers. “Why is it called the War of 1812?!”

“Congress declared war in 1812, on June 18th to be exact. Mister Madison’s war, they called it.”

“Why?”

“Tell you what, Joe. If it’s alright with your father AND my wife, perhaps you might fetch down your history book and we could return to the dining room table and discuss the War of 1812 further.”

“May I, Pa? May I PLEASE? PRETTY please?” Joe fervently begged, his eyes round and soulful as a young puppy begging scraps from the dinner table.

“It’s alright with me, IF Mrs. Taylor says yes,” Ben replied, delighted, yet thoroughly astonished to see his youngest son taking such a keen, if sudden, interest in American History.

Joe turned toward Carolyn Taylor, favoring her with the same smile that had already proven irresistible to women of all ages and would in years to come leave a long trail of broken hearts in its wake. “Can we, Mrs. Taylor?”

“You certainly may,” Carolyn replied, captivated more by the eager gleam she saw reflected in her husband’s eyes.

Joe let out a wild whoop at the top of his lungs. “Thank you, Pa! Thank you, Mrs. Taylor. I’ll be right back ‘soon as I get my history book.” With that the boy bolted up the steps, taking them two and three at a time.

“Thank you so much for a wonderful evening, Ben,” Carolyn Taylor said with a warm smile, when she, her husband, and stepdaughter, took their leave shortly after the grandfather clock downstairs had struck the half hour of ten-thirty.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, Carolyn,” Ben replied, returning her smile. “I’m sorry Joe monopolized so much of Drew’s time.”

“Oh, please . . . DON’T be sorry,” Carolyn said immediately. “Drew has always had a very keen interest in history, particularly the history of our country. It’s . . . well, it’s been a very, very long time since he’s had an opportunity to share his interest with so appreciative an audience.”

“The fact that Drew’s audience WAS so appreciative is in and of itself quite amazing,” Ben said, still not quite knowing what to make of things. “To say that Joe has little interest and even less patience when it comes to his school work, especially history, is understating the case.” He paused briefly. “Carolyn . . . . ”

“Yes, Ben?”

“Mrs. Georgianna Wilkens . . . she’s president of the Virginia City Literary Society as well as an old, very dear friend of mine,” Ben said quietly. “She’s also been the head librarian at the Virginia City Lending Library for the better part of the last decade or so. When I saw her in town the other day, she told me that she’s looking for someone to work as an assistant while she trains him, with the idea of stepping into the position of head librarian when she steps down next spring. I immediately thought of Drew. He’s always impressed me as being very intelligent . . . like someone who knows his way around books. And seeing him with Joe tonight . . . . ”

“That sounds like a wonderful opportunity,” Carolyn said gratefully.

“I have a feeling that the pay’s a lot better than what he’s making at the Silver Dollar Saloon and the International Hotel,” Ben added hopefully.

“I can’t answer for him of course, but I WILL speak to him about that opening in the library, Ben,” Carolyn eagerly promised. “Thank you so much for thinking of him.”

“Carolyn.” It was Drew. “Hoss and Cindy have finished saying good night,” he continued with a smile and a playful wink of the eye. “We’d best be moving along. It’s getting very late.”

“Indeed it is,” Carolyn agreed. “Good night, Ben.”

“Good night, Carolyn.” Ben turned and waved to Drew and Cindy, already waiting next to the buggy.

“Good night, Ben,” Drew called back, smiling. “Thank you for inviting us over this evening.”

“Class, please pass ALL of your assigned homework to the front of the room,” Hazel Gibson ordered in a brisk, no nonsense tone of voice. “Estelle?”

Estelle Perkins, aged sixteen going on seventeen, immediately rose. “Yes, Ma’am?”

“I would like you to take the first graders to the back of the room and read aloud to them the next two lessons in their history book,” Hazel instructed. “You will find questions at the end of each lesson. I want you to go over them with the first grade students at the end of each lesson.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“First Graders, please rise . . . quietly. No talking.”

A half dozen young students obediently rose and stood quietly beside their desks.

“You will accompany Miss Perkins to the empty desks in the back of the room for your history lesson this morning,” Hazel Gibson addressed the solemn group of first grade students still standing silently next to their desks. “You will listen quietly while she reads, and you will remain quiet, unless she calls on you to answer questions.”

“Yes, Miss Gibson,” the six immediately chorused in unison.

“The rest of you, please take out your history books,” Hazel turned her attention to the rest of the class. “Grades eight through twelve, read the next three chapters and answer ALL of the questions at the end of each chapter. You will have exactly forty-five minutes to complete this assignment, so I strongly suggest you get right to it, with NO talking.”

A smattering of ‘Yes, Ma’am’ and ‘Yes, Miss Gibson’ followed in response as the upper grade students got out their history books and set right to work.

“Grades two and three, I want you to read the next lesson in your books and answer the questions at the end,” Hazel continued. “If you have time, you may begin reading the lesson after that.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” a dozen students, all seated in the first three rows, against the wall on Miss Gibson’s left responded in unison.

“Grades four through seven, we will begin with you,” she said turning her attention to the students occupying the seats in the middle of the room. She was surprised to see Joe Cartwright eyes and face glowing with anticipation. “Your assignment last night was to read the chapter on what caused the War of 1812. So. Who can tell me what started the War of 1812?”

Five hands immediately shot up.

“Lotus O’Toole?”

Lotus quietly rose and stood next to her desk. “American sailors were being impressed by British sea captains and forced to serve on British ships,” she said.

Miss Gibson began a list on the blackboard. “Thank you, Lotus. You may sit down. Anyone else?”

“Miss Gibson?” Joe involuntarily called out as he waved his raised hand back and forth.

The schoolteacher was so surprised by Joe Cartwright’s sudden urge to participate in the class discussion, she entirely forgot to reprimand him for speaking out of turn. “Yes, Joe?”

Joe Cartwright immediately scrambled out of his chair and stood, ram rod straight beside his desk, grinning from ear-to-ear. “There’s two sides to every argument, Miss Gibson,” he began, repeating what Mister Taylor had told him the night before, when the two of them sat down at the dining room table after supper. “The British were at war with Napoleon and the French just before the War of 1812. In 1806, Napoleon wouldn’t let British goods into the rest of Europe. The British set up a blockade, and started grabbing American AND French ships.iii ”

“An excellent point, Joe,” Hazel replied as she listed the causes Joe had named on the black board.

“Miss Gibson?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“I guess America was kinda caught in the middle between things, right?”

“What do you mean by caught in the middle?” Miss Gibson asked, clearly intrigued.

“The French were our friends in the Revolutionary War, Miss Gibson,” Joe replied. “If the Americans decided to take Napoleon’s side in the war between him and the British, the British would’ve been in deep trouble, wouldn’t they.”

“Yes, that’s very possible,” Hazel replied.

“Maybe THAT’S why the British took American ships, too . . . with the French ships.”

“You’ve raised some very interesting points, Joe . . . . ”

“Mrs. Wilkens, I’ve re-shelved all of the books returned last night and this morning,” Drew Taylor, the new assistant librarian as of eight-thirty that very morning, reported to his immediate supervisor. “If you’d like, I can begin an inventory on the boxes in the store room and get those books out on the shelves.”

“Mister Taylor, my goodness! You are an absolute wonder!” Georgianna Wilkens exclaimed in a voice dripping with mint juleps and magnolias. She was a petite woman, aged in her late fifties, with iron gray hair, worn in a simple chignon and sharp gray-green eyes that missed absolutely nothing. “I declare, Ben Cartwright certainly showed himself the true friend he is by steerin’ YOU in my direction.”

“Amen to that,” Drew agreed. He had been reluctant to apply initially. In fact, when Carolyn had mentioned the opening, he had out and out refused. That, in turn, had led to a row loud enough to inspire an angry Eloise Kirk to come banging on their door shortly after one-thirty in the morning . . . .

“Drew, do you trust Ben Cartwright?” Carolyn asked in a very quiet voice, after Mrs. Kirk had left.

“I . . . . ” The question had taken him completely off guard. “I . . . well, I guess I have no reason NOT to trust him.”

“HE’S the one who mentioned the job to me, as we were leaving his house,” she pressed. “In fact, he thought of YOU for this job first. He told me so, himself. He also told me that the pay might be somewhat better than what you’re making now at the Silver Dollar and at the hotel.”

“I . . . I don’t know, Carolyn, I just plain don’t know.”

“It’s a good opportunity for you.”

“I know, but . . . . ”

“But, nothing, Drew Taylor! We’ve agreed that we want to stay here, and be part of this community. Well, if we’re going to settle down here, we can’t board with Mrs. Kirk forever. Sooner or later, we need to find ourselves a proper home, and we can’t do that unless you have good, steady work that pays decent.”

“Alright, Carolyn, alright! I’ll stop in at the lending library and see Mrs. Wilkens first thing in the morning . . . . ”

Drew Taylor had to admit that he was glad now beyond measure that he had applied for that job as assistant librarian. As Ben Cartwright had promised his wife, the pay WOULD be far more than what he had earned working at the Silver Dollar Saloon and the International Hotel. His new boss, Georgianna Wilkens, was an intelligent, charming, gracious force of nature crammed into a miniature package. He eagerly looked forward to working with her and getting to know her better.

“Good afternoon . . . Mister Taylor?”

Drew glanced up sharply, his dark eyes meeting the bright clear blue eyes of the tall, slender, blonde haired woman standing before the check out desk. He immediately rose and politely offered his hand. “Yes, Ma’am, I’m Mister Taylor.”

“My name is Hazel Gibson,” the woman said in a brisk, no nonsense tone of voice. Her handshake was firm and strong, especially for a woman. “I’m the school teacher here in Virginia City.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Gibson.”

“MISS Gibson,” she politely corrected him.

“What can I do for you, Miss Gibson?”

“I understand you and one of my students, Joseph Cartwright, have been having some interesting discussions about American history.”

“Oh dear! Miss Gibson, if our discussions have in ANY way compromised your curriculum . . . . ”

Hazel Gibson smiled and shook her head. “Mister Taylor, I’m not here to in any way censure you,” she said immediately. “Quite the opposite in fact.”

“Oh?” Drew queried, looking over at her, mildly surprised.

“Joseph Cartwright is, as I’m sure you yourself have realized, a very bright young man,” Hazel said. “Every bit as bright and intelligent as his oldest brother, Adam, who’s about to graduate magna cum laud from Harvard.”

“I’ve heard.” Mention of Adam Cartwright’s soon-to-be alma mater still stirred within him a nebulous, vague foreboding. “Your point, Miss Gibson?” Drew queried, in a sharp tone, suddenly wary and feeling oddly defensive.

“My point, Mister Taylor, is this. The interest young Joseph has shown in his school work has been grudging at best,” Hazel said. “Until now.”

“Oh?”

“To say that Joseph had no interest in history whatsoever was the understatement of the year,” Hazel Gibson continued, “until he started having these discussions with you. Now, he’s not only interested, but he’s contributed some thought provoking ideas to our class discussions. In my opinion, anyone who can stir that kind of interest in someone like Joseph Cartwright should be teaching himself.”

“I’m not a teacher, Miss Gibson,” Drew said very quickly.

“I disagree, Mister Taylor. The reason I came by today is to ask if you would consider tutoring,” she said.

“Tutoring?”

Hazel nodded.

“I don’t know, Miss Gibson . . . . ”

“Drew, I think it’s a wonderful idea!” Carolyn Taylor exclaimed, with a delighted smile.

“No.”

Carolyn’s face fell. “Drew . . . . ”

“I SAID NO!” Drew rounded on his wife furiously.

Carolyn paled in the face of his sudden ferocity. She stared back at him open mouthed, her eyes glistening with the bright sheen of newly forming tears, yet unshed.

“Carolyn, I . . . I’m sorry!” Drew apologized contritely. The look on her face stabbed him straight through the heart, dissipating his fury.

“Drew, I saw Joe’s face last night after we all had finished our supper,” Carolyn ventured slowly, haltingly. “When you told him about the War of 1812, the Battle of Baltimore, and Francis Scott Key. Joe was absolutely captivated . . . and I . . . well, I haven’t seen your eyes shining and face so all aglow since— ”

She suddenly broke off, and averted her eyes. A strained silence fell between herself and her husband.

“Carolyn?” Drew ventured hesitantly.

“Y-yes?”

“Truth be known? I . . . couldn’t help but notice the way Joe’s eyes lit up myself,” Drew said with a wistful smile.

“You have a gift, Drew, surely you see that.”

“I must confess, I was tempted to pounce on Miss Gibson’s suggestion . . . . ”

“Why don’t you?”

“Sadly, My Love, it’s completely out of the question. Taking on the job as librarian is risky enough,” Drew said, his tone filled with regret. “To actually do any teaching . . . . ” He adamantly shook his head. “No, Carolyn, as much as I would give anything to accept Miss Gibson’s offer, I . . . I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because sooner or later, someone’s bound to start asking questions. Where did he learn how to teach? What kind of educational background does he have? Where did he go to school? What are his credentials? Those are the kinds of questions that stir up curiosity. That kind of curiosity too often leads to the truth.”

“I don’t for the life of me see how,” Carolyn said morosely. “There’s nothing . . . absolutely nothing that can possibly connect Drew Taylor to . . . to what happened back there.”

“You’re probably right,” Drew agreed reluctantly. “Even so, people are going to ask those questions sooner or later, which means you, me, even Cindy would have to start living this . . . this tangled tissue of lies, always worrying about keeping the story straight . . . no! Carolyn, our lives are complicated enough.”

“I know. Drew?”

“Yes?”

“Are you sorry we stayed?”

“When I see Cindy with Hoss . . . with new found friends like Athena Nikolas and Colleen O’Hanlan, living the kind of life a young lady her age should be living . . . I’m not sorry in the least,” Drew replied. “Then I remember Mister Cartwright telling me his oldest son has been living in Boston for the last four years . . . that he’ll soon be graduating from Harvard and returning home for good . . . or the occasional patron who comes into the library, giving me that sidelong glance . . . knowing that he, or she’s, wondering how a man who spent the better part of his first month here cleaning up saloons, suddenly has the wherewithal to be librarian . . . those are all times I’m scared to death, Carolyn. Times I lie awake nights wondering when the other shoe’s going to drop.”

Carolyn stepped over to her husband and hugged him fiercely. “That other shoe’s NOT going to drop,” she said, her voice trembling. “The jump between saloon and librarian is easy to explain. We were new in town. You have a wife and daughter to support. That saloon job earned enough money for our room and board. That library job opening up as it did was an opportunity. An opportunity you took!”

“What of this Adam Cartwright?”

“He has absolutely no way of connecting Drew Taylor to what happened in Boston.”

“PA! HOSS! IT’S COMIN’! THE STAGE COACH IS COMIN’!” Joe shouted, his eyes shining with excitement and eager anticipation. He thrust his arm and pointing index finger out in the direction of the approaching stage, just rounding the corner.

“Y’ better move back off the street, Shortshanks,” Hoss warned, “or else that stage is gonna run ya right over.”

Joe took his big brother’s warning to heart and moved well out of the street. A moment later, he was standing alongside his father dancing from one foot to the other, back and forth. After what seemed an endless eternity to the youngest of the Cartwright brothers, the stagecoach finally rolled to a stop in front of the Overland Stage Depot.

Adam, clad in a dark blue suit, with matching string tie, and clean white shirt, was the first to disembark from the stagecoach.

“ADAM! ADAM! YOU’RE BACK!” Joe yelled as he broke from his father and beat a straight path directly toward his oldest brother, finally come home.

“Hey, Buddy! Good to see ya!” Adam greeted his younger brother with a big, if weary smile.

“I missed you, Adam,” Joe said as he threw his arms around Adam’s waist.

“I missed you, too, Little Joe,” Adam said, hugging the young boy back, “though I don’t think we’re going to be calling you LITTLE Joe too much longer.”

“Have I grown, Adam? A little?”

“No, Buddy, you haven’t grown a LITTLE! You’ve grown a whole LOT!”

“Welcome home, Son.” Though Ben’s greeting was far more subdued than that offered by his irrepressible youngest son, it was certainly no less warm. He put his arms around his oldest son and held on for a long moment.

“Glad to be back home again, Pa . . . finally,” Adam said, in all sincerity. “By the way, I ended up traveling from Boston with a couple friends of yours.” He turned and offered a hand to the elderly woman, who was having difficulty negotiating the climb down from the stagecoach to terra firma.

“Ben?” the woman said, turning to face the Cartwright clan patriarch. “After all these years, it that really you?”

“Esther?”

“It’s so wonderful seeing you again,” Esther Alcott murmured with a weary smile. She walked over and politely shook hands. “You look well, I must say.”

“Esther’s right, Ben. This climate out here seems to really agree with you,” Jed Alcott declared with a wan smile as he stepped down out of the stagecoach.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw Adam and Hoss greeting each other, then turning to include Little Joe. “Boys,” he turned and waved them over. “I understand you’ve met Adam.”

“Indeed we did, Ben,” Esther said. “I found him to be a delightful young man.”

“ . . . and so knowledgeable, especially about architecture,” Jed added. “We had a wonderful time talking the miles away.” He looked over and favored his wife with a weary, indulgent smile. “I’m afraid poor Esther couldn’t get much of a word in edgewise.”

Esther reached over and patted her husband’s wrist affectionately. “Oh, Jed, I didn’t mind one little bit. Why I haven’t seen you so animated since . . . since--- ” She abruptly fell silent.

“It was good talking to Adam,” Jed said curtly.

A strained silence fell between the Alcotts, as Esther, her cheeks flaming scarlet, turned and looked away.

“Pa?” It was Hoss. “You call us?”

“Jed . . . Esther, I’d like you to meet my other two sons,” Ben said, relieved to have a valid excuse to break that uncomfortable, prickly silence. “This is my middle son, Hoss, and this squirming bundle of energy is my youngest, Joe. Boys, this is Mister and Mrs. Alcott, old friends of mine. The three of us knew each other many years ago, when I was still living in Boston.”

“How do y’ do, Mister ‘n Mrs. Alcott?” Hoss politely offered his hand to Esther first, then her husband. “Welcome t’ Virginia City.”

“I’m pleased to meetcha, too, Mister and Mrs. Alcott,” Joe enthusiastically acknowledged the introduction, with a big smile.

“Ben, I’d love to stay around and visit, but we’re both pretty exhausted,” Jed said wearily. “If you could direct us to the International Hotel?”

“You’re both perfectly welcome to come, stay with us at the Ponderosa,” Ben invited.

“Perhaps later,” Jed replied. “I’ve got an appointment to see a Mister Lucas Milburn tomorrow morning. He’s the lawyer here, who has been working with a private investigator by the name of John Murphy. Perhaps you’re acquainted with these gentlemen?”

“I know Lucas Milburn quite well, Jed,” Ben replied. “He’s been my lawyer and a very good friend for many years. As for Mister Murphy, I know OF him, but I’m not really acquainted with him. I understand he has a fine reputation.”

“Your Mister Milburn been working with my lawyer, Edward Phillips, in Boston,” Jed said quietly. “Ed seems to be very favorably impressed with him AND Mister Murphy, as well. He told me that John Murphy is one of the best private investigators this side of the Mississippi, if not THE best. Esther and I are hopeful, Ben. VERY hopeful.”

“I hope things work out for the best, Jed,” Ben said quietly. “I know you’ve been searching for a very long time.”

“Thank you, Ben.”

“Pa?”

It was Adam. Ben turned and looked over at him expectantly.

“If I might make a suggestion, why don’t you drive Mister and Mrs. Alcott to the International Hotel? In the meantime, I’ll grab my smaller bags, make arrangements to have the three trunks delivered to the house, and . . . take my brothers to the C Street Café for a welcome home sarsaparilla.”

“Can we, Pa?” Joe begged. “Can we, please?”

“Is that alright with you?” Ben asked, looking over at his friends.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Esther agreed.

Jed Alcott arranged to have his and his wife’s trunks taken to the International Hotel later on that afternoon. After retrieving a carpetbag that belonged to Esther, and his own small, black leather valise, Jed and his wife rode over to the hotel with Ben in the buckboard.

“Thank you so much for the lift, Ben,” Esther murmured gratefully, upon reaching the International Hotel, located a few blocks down from the stage depot. “For me, it’s going to be a nice cool bath, a little supper, then bed.”

“Me, too,” Jed agreed wholeheartedly.

“Good luck tomorrow,” Ben said. He climbed down from the buckboard, then turned to give Esther a hand getting down. “Oh! Jed . . . Esther, next week, I’m having a welcome home party for Adam. Nothing real fancy, just a cook out, with some of our friends and neighbors. You’re both more than welcome to join us.”

“Thank you, Ben, we just might take you up on that,” Jed said with a wan smile. “Hopefully, by then, we’ll be reunited with our granddaughter.”

“If so, then by all means, bring her along, too.”

At Ben’s urging, Jed escorted his wife into the hotel lobby, to register and finally get settled in their room, leaving him to fetch down their carpet bag and valise from the back of the buckboard.

“Pa?”

Ben turned, and saw Adam approaching with a half drunk bottle of sarsaparilla in one hand and his jacket over the other. Hoss and Joe followed close behind.

“You get the Alcotts settled?”

“They’re inside registering,” Ben replied. “I just need to take in their luggage.”

Hoss downed his whole bottle of sarsaparilla in a single gulp, then placed the empty bottle in the back of the buckboard. “I’ll take ‘em in, Pa,” he volunteered, as he leaned over to pick them up.

“Thank you, Hoss. If the Alcotts have already gone to their room, take their bags to the desk and tell the clerk they belong to Mister and Mrs. Alcott.”

“Sure thing, Pa.” He turned to his younger brother. “Hey, Shortshanks, y’ wanna come along?”

“Can I, Pa?”

“Go ahead, Little Joe, but you make sure you behave yourself.”

“I will, Pa,” he promised, before running off to catch up with Hoss.

“Here y’ are, Pa,” Adam handed Ben a cold bottle of sarsaparilla. “We figured you’d be thirsty, too.”

“Thank you,” Ben said gratefully, accepting the proffered drink from his oldest son.

“You’ve talked about the Alcotts a lot, but I was under the impression they were closer to YOUR age,” Adam observed, his eyes on the retreating backs of his two younger brothers.

“They ARE my age, Adam,” Ben said quietly, “give or take a couple of years.”

“Really!?” Adam murmured, his eyes round with surprise. “To look at them, I’d guess them to be at least a good twenty years older, Pa, maybe even more.”

Ben opened his sarsaparilla bottle, and took a big, long swallow. “I haven’t seen the Alcotts since YOU were a baby, but if I was to hazard a guess, I’d say this seven year search for their missing granddaughter has taken its toll.”

“Mister Alcott told me the whole story on our way out here. From what he said, their son-in-law and his second wife sound pretty despicable.”

“You’ve only heard one side of the story, Adam,” Ben hastened to point out.

“You surprise me, Pa. I thought the Alcotts were your friends.”

“I consider them to be,” Ben replied. He took another gulp of sarsaparilla, then recapped the bottle. “I understand where Jed and Esther are coming from, but I can also understand where their son-in-law might be coming from, too.”

“Oh? How so, Pa?”

“I . . . can’t help but think how easily I might’ve been in the same shoes as the Alcotts’ son-in-law and his wife, had your grandfather, Abel Stoddard taken it into HIS head to seek custody of you, after I had married Inger,” Ben said soberly.

“From what you told me later, Grandfather WASN’T at all happy about that to say the least,” Adam observed.

“No. He wasn’t,” Ben affirmed in a somber tone of voice. “I was shocked and angry at first, that he would sever his ties with his own grandson because he didn’t approve of my marriage to Inger. Later, I felt sorry . . . for him, and you, most especially. It never occurred to me . . . until NOW . . . that I might have reason to be thankful your grandfather decided not to speak to us for a few years.”

End of Part 1.

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