Bloodlines
Part 2

By Kathleen T. Berney

“Good morning, Young Woman . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to wake you,” Ben immediately apologized upon finding his daughter lying in bed, wide-awake, the next morning. He had stopped in to check up on her before going into town.

“ ‘S ok, Pa . . . I was already awake,” Stacy said, noting that he was already washed, shaved, and dressed. He held a solid mahogany walking cane in his right hand, and had his jacket draped over his left arm. “Where are you going?”

“Into town,” Ben replied. “I have some business to take care of.”

“Oh. When are ya coming back?”

“I should be home around dinner time,” Ben said, as he walked over to her bed and sat down on the edge. “You want me to bring you back anything?”

“No thanks, Pa.” She yawned.

“Not even a bag of lemon drops?”

“Well . . . maybe. But you’d better make that TWO bags of lemon drops,” Stacy said. “Hoss loves ‘em every bit as much as I do.”

“Two bags of lemon drops it is,” Ben said, “and I’d better pick up a big bag of black licorice for Joe, while I’m at it.” He reached over and gently pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen down into her face. “How are you feeling this morning?” he asked.

“I . . . think the lump’s gone down, Pa.”

“Let me take a look at you. Can you sit up?”

Stacy gingerly eased herself up off the mound of pillows stacked behind her, wincing with each movement. “Careful, Pa . . . it’s still kinda tender back there.”

“I’ll be careful,” Ben promised. He examined the back of her head, noting with relief that the bump was indeed all but gone. “You were right about that lump. How do you feel otherwise?”

“My head doesn’t hurt very much . . . hardly at all, in fact,” Stacy replied, “but the rest of me . . . . Pa, I think I know what you mean now when you say you’re hurting in muscles you never knew you had.”

“The doc said you were going to be stiff and sore for a few days,” Ben said as he rose, and walked over to the other side of her bed. “How’s the ankle?”

“It actually hurts worse than it did yesterday,” she said with a puzzled frown.

“That’s the nature of the beast, I’m afraid,” Ben said sympathetically. “When you take a tumble like you did yesterday, more often than not you find yourself hurting worse the day after. Mind if I take a look at that ankle?”

“Go ahead,” she yawned.

Ben carefully moved aside the covers. He noted with satisfaction that, although still very swollen, her skin color was good, and that her toes remained warm to the touch.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?” Ben asked, as he carefully replaced the bedcovers back over her injured foot.

“Do I have to stay in bed all day today?”

“No,” Ben replied, “but I want you to promise me you’ll take it easy . . . and that you won’t try the steps unless someone’s walking down with you.”

Her face fell.

“Stacy, with a head injury like the one you suffered yesterday . . . problems can arise days . . . sometimes even weeks later,” Ben patiently explained. “If you’re walking down the stairs and happen to suffer a dizzy spell all of a sudden, you could fall and end up hurt a lot worse than you already are.”

Stacy silently digested his words, taking into account the possible consequences of not heeding them. She sighed. “Ok, Pa . . . I promise I’ll take it easy when I get up . . . AND I won’t use the stairs by myself.”

“ . . . and one more thing, Young Woman,” Ben said.

“What?”

“Even though I told you that you can get out of bed, you STILL need to stay off that ankle as much as possible,” Ben said firmly.

“Yes, Pa.”

“I brought you this . . . . ” Ben placed the walking cane he had brought into her room over next to her bed, within easy reach.

“Is that the one with the horse head?”

Ben smiled. “Yes . . . it’s the one with the horse head,” he replied. “I want you to use it when you’re up walking around. That’ll take some of the weight off your ankle.”

“Ok, Pa,” Stacy said, returning his smile. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Ben said. “Now I want you to behave yourself while I’m gone, Young Woman. Take things very easy and get some rest.”

“I will.”

Ben sat back down on the edge of her bed, then slipped his arms around her and hugged her close for a moment. “I love you, Li’l Gal,” he whispered, his voice catching on the last word.

It had been a long time since he had called her that . . . .

“I love you, too, Pa,” Stacy said, as she gave him an affectionate squeeze, “and . . . you don’t have to worry about me, I’ll be ok. I promise.”

“As your pa, it’s my job to worry about ya,” Ben’s tone was gentle, yet firm, “and I’m holding you to that promise.”

“You’d better!”

Ben kissed her forehead, then tucked her back in under the covers. “I’ll see you later,” he said in parting.

“Ok, Pa . . . . ” Stacy yawned again, then drifted off sleep.

Ben quietly let himself out of Stacy’s room and continued on down the hallway toward the stairs. He paused before the door to the guest room, debating as to whether or not he should stop in briefly and check up on Paris. He had neglected her shamefully yesterday, due in part to Stacy’s mishap . . . .

“You might as well admit it to yourself, Y’ Ol’ Coot!” Ben silently castigated himself. “Your REAL reason for avoiding Paris is . . . you’re afraid!”

Damn straight he was afraid. Her sudden, near hysterical outburst the day before yesterday had completely unnerved him. At his request, Paul Martin had looked in on her yesterday, after he had finished examining Stacy . . . .

“Physically, she’s the same,” Paul had reported. “I gave her a stern lecture about the importance of eating properly . . . especially if she wants to regain her strength and stamina.”

“Hop Sing will be very pleased . . . assuming, of course, she takes it to heart,” Ben had said.

“As for her emotional state . . . she seemed very subdued to me,” Paul continued, as they walked down the stairs toward the front door, “almost to the point of being depressed.” This last, he had added as an after thought.

“She was always so full of life, she was bursting at the seams,” Ben said morosely. “I wish I knew what was wrong.”

“When I examined her in town the day she arrived, she wasn’t exactly what I would call forthcoming, but . . . I don’t think life has been very kind to her since we saw her last,” Paul had said. “Physically . . . she’s in very poor shape. I’m surprised she didn’t collapse somewhere along the way . . . years ago. Poor physical condition CAN push a person to the edge emotionally, but apart from that . . . . ” He shrugged helplessly. “MY medical training was strictly in the realm of the physical, Ben. When faced with the mental and emotional, I’m very much like a fish out of water.”

“Hop Sing and Stacy both insist she’s heartsick,” Ben said.

“Could be there’s something to that,” Paul said thoughtfully. “I’ve dealt with countless patients over the years, whose mental and emotional state made all the difference between whether they got better . . . or not. Now as to what bearing this has on what’s ailing Miss McKenna . . . . ” He shrugged. “I just plain don’t know.”

“I appreciate you looking in on her, Paul . . . . ”

Ben raised his hand, intending to quietly knock on the door. “It IS early . . . . ” He winced against a sharp pang of conscience. “All right,” he groused silently. “All RIGHT! I’ll check on Paris when I come back from town.”

“Good morning, Ben,” Gretchen Braun greeted him warmly, as he stepped into the restaurant at the International Hotel. “Can I get you anything?”

“I could use a cup of coffee,” Ben replied, managing a weary smile, “and some information.”

“Coming right up,” Gretchen said, motioning to one of the waiters. She asked him for two cups of coffee and told him to serve them in the dining room. The young man nodded, and moved off. “This way, Ben,” she said gesturing toward the dining room. “What kind of information are you after?”

“Last night, Candy told me that someone was asking questions about my family two . . . three days ago,” Ben said as he and Gretchen seated themselves at a table near the door. “We think the man’s from somewhere back east . . . New York or maybe Philadelphia. That’s all we know.”

“Well, a man from New York DID check into the hotel three days ago,” Gretchen said slowly, “and yes . . . he asked about your family. General questions, Ben . . . how you, your sons, and daughter were doing . . . things of that nature. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, what with him claiming to be a friend of a friend, or some such.”

“Did he by chance give you the name of this friend?” Ben asked.

“No, and I didn’t think to ask,” Gretchen said ruefully.

“Did he ask you any questions about Stacy?”

“He asked her age, and how long she’d been living with you and your boys, but that was all,” Gretchen replied. “Oh dear! I . . . I hope I haven’t said or done anything wrong . . . . ”

“I’m sure you didn’t, Gretchen . . . . ”

“That Ponderosa of yours is known pretty far and wide, Ben,” she babbled, “more so than you realize. Now mind, not EVERY Tom, Dick, and Harry, who gets off that stage asks, but occasionally, some do.”

“Gretchen . . . Gretchen, please . . . don’t give it another thought,” Ben pleaded, as he reached over and gently patted her hand. “I’m sure there was no harm done.”

“I hope not,” Gretchen said somberly. “I’d never forgive myself if--- ”

“I’m sure the man didn’t have any sinister intentions,” Ben hastened to reassure the distraught woman seated across the table from him, speaking with a great deal more confidence that he felt himself, “and . . . seeing that he and I share a mutual friend, whoever that is, I’d thought getting in touch, maybe inviting him out to the Ponderosa for a visit might be the neighborly thing to do. Perhaps I can leave a message?”

“I don’t see why not, on the off chance he comes back,” Gretchen replied, deeply relieved upon hearing Ben’s words of reassurance.

“On the, ummm . . . off chance, he . . . that he . . . comes back?” Ben echoed with fast sinking heart.

“He checked out yesterday morning, Ben,” Gretchen said. “I’m so sorry you missed him.”

“Did he happen to mention where he was headed?” Ben asked.

“Not to me,” she replied. “You might check with Mister Thatcher at the front desk.”

“I will. Can you tell me what this man looked like?”

The waiter discreetly arrived, and served the coffee.

“Thank you,” Gretchen said quietly.

The waiter inclined his head, then withdrew.

“He’s about the same height and build as . . . as your oldest boy, Adam, when last I saw him,” she said slowly. “He’s also got the same dark, almost coal black hair. I’m almost certain he was a military man . . . perhaps a veteran of the war, judging from his age and the way he carried himself. He always dressed well enough, a suit and tie, white shirt, clothes clean and pressed, but not what I’d call fashionable.”

“A veteran, eh? How old would you say he was?”

“He wasn’t a young man,” Gretchen replied. “If I were to hazard a guess . . . I’d say he was . . . maybe . . . about the same age as Adam must be now.”

“Mid to late thirties?” Ben asked.

“At least.”

“Do you remember his name?”

Gretchen frowned. “It was . . . Hill . . . something . . . . ” She rose. “I’ll go get the registry.”

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

“It’s no trouble, Ben . . . no trouble at all,” she said briskly. “You finish your coffee. I’ll be right back.” She returned a few moments later, struggling under the weight of the large, unwieldy tome.

Ben immediately rose, and hurried to the dining room entrance where she had paused for a moment to catch her breath. “You should’ve asked ME to go fetch it,” he chided her gently, as he relieved her of the burden. “Shall I take it back to our table?”

“Yes, please,” Gretchen replied. “Thank you.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking YOU. I really appreciate this, Gretchen,” Ben said gratefully, as he fell in step behind her.

“Anything to help out an old friend,” Gretchen said, as they reached their table. She quickly moved aside their dishes, and the small vase of fresh cut flowers from its place at the center of the table. “You can put the registry down right here,” she said gesturing to the generous amount of space, just opened up.

Ben nodded and did as she had asked.

“Now let me see . . . . ” Gretchen murmured softly, as she opened the heavy book. She quickly turned back the pages to the date three days before, and glanced down the list of names. “Here it is, Ben,” she said, pointed to the name hastily scrawled on the line next to the date.

Ben picked up his cup and saucer, and took up position beside her. He glanced over her shoulder, his eyes following the line of her extended arm and pointing finger. “Zachary . . . Hilliard,” he softly read aloud the name, written neatly within the lines, to the left of the place where her finger lightly touched the page. “ . . . interesting . . . . ”

“Do you know him?”

Ben shook his head. “The name’s not familiar,” he replied. “I just thought it interesting that he checked into the hotel the same day Paris arrived.”

“Paris . . . is she the friend who took sick the other day?”

“Yes.” Ben nodded his head.

“She and Mister Hilliard arrived on the same stage, Ben,” Gretchen said. “Luis . . . the young man I sent to fetch the doctor? He told me later that he saw both of them getting off the stage.”

Ben found that piece of information very disturbing. He made a mental note to question Paris about her fellow passenger at the earliest opportunity. “Thank you, Gretchen . . . thank you very much. You’ve been a great help.”

“You’re welcome. Now I’d best get that registry back to the front desk before Mister Thatcher has a hissey fit.” She took a deep breath, then reach down to gather up the ponderous tome lying open on the table before them.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Ben chided her. “I’LL take the registry back to the front desk before Mister Thatcher has that hissey fit. It’s the least I can do.”

“You’ll get no argument from ME,” she said soberly. “For the life of me, I don’t know how in the world a wiry little man like Mister Thatcher’s able to heft these heavy things around all day.”

“Perhaps he’s stronger than he looks,” Ben suggested.

“He MUST be.”

Ben paid for both cups of coffee, despite Gretchen’s insistence they were on the house, and left a generous tip for the waiter. On his way out of the hotel, he stopped by the front desk. “Good morning, Mister Thatcher,” Ben greeted the short, wiry man standing behind the counter, impeccably attired in a black suit. “I’m returning your registry.”

“Thank you, Mister Cartwright,” Lawrence Thatcher said primly. “Just set it right there on the counter, please.”

Ben obliged him. “A quick question, if I may?” he queried.

“Certainly, Mister Cartwright.”

“A man named Zachary Hilliard checked out yesterday morning, early,” Ben said. “Did he happen to mention where he might be headed?”

“He said something about meeting a business associate in Carson City,” Lawrence replied, “then he asked for directions to the nearest livery stable.”

“Thank you, much obliged.”

“You’re quite welcome, Mister Cartwright.”

While Ben Cartwright made his inquiries in Virginia City, the subject of his investigation had just finished a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, toast, and coffee at Eleanor Gerard’s boarding house in Carson City.

“More coffee, Mister Hilliard?” Eleanor Gerard asked. She was a plump, motherly woman, aged in her early to mid-forties. The chestnut brown curls framing her face accentuated its roundness. She wore a light green housedress, that brought out the green highlights in her hazel eyes.

Zachary Hilliard smiled back, and shook his head. “No thank you, Mrs. Gerard,” he declined smoothly. “I’m stuffed. If I keep eating like this, I’m be having to go on a diet.”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Gerard scolded in a good-natured tone. “If anything, you’re too thin for a man of your height.”

He deftly removed the watch from his vest pocket and snapped up the cover. “I must be off, Mrs. Gerard,” Zachary said, rising. He closed the cover over his watch and slipped it back into his pocket. “Can you direct me to the Comstock Hotel? I’m supposed to meet a business associate of mine there at ten.”

Mrs. Gerard happily provided the directions.

Zachary thanked her politely, then set off. Mrs. Gerard’s directions proved clear and easy to follow. After locating the Comstock Hotel, he entered and walked over to the front desk.

“Good morning, Sir,” the clerk greeted him politely. “How may I help you?”

“I’m supposed to meet one of your guests,” Zachary replied.

“Your name, Sir?”

“Hilliard. Mister Zachary Hilliard.”

“Ah, yes,” the desk clerk said. “He’s expecting you. He’s in number 212, upstairs . . . turn right . . . go all the way down to the very end of the hall.”

Zachary thanked the desk clerk and went up the stairs. The corridor on the second floor was long and narrow, its width barely sufficient to allow two people, moving in opposite directions, to squeeze past each other. Its only illumination came through a small, square shaped window set into the outside wall, near the ceiling. Zachary paused briefly at the top landing to allow his eyes time to adjust themselves from the brightness of the sunshine outside.

As he made his way down the hall toward room 212, the thin veneer of outward calm quickly evaporated. His heart raced within, slamming against his ribcage and the muscles of his chest with the force of a sledgehammer wielded by a very strong man. With each step, he unconsciously drew his long fingers together, one by one, into a pair of tight, rock hard fists, in a desperate attempt to quell his hands’ trembling.

He found the room at the far end of the hall, just as the clerk had said. At the door, he paused for a moment to take a breath. “Remember those singing lessons,” he silently exhorted himself. “Remember those breath exercises . . . . ”

“In, one, two, three; HOLD one, two, three; now out one, two three . . . . ”

Zachary heard again the voice of one Adelia Margaret Mae O’Connor, the woman who had valiantly attempted to teach his youngest sister and himself to sing.

“Deep, EVEN breaths, Zachary,” she admonished him once again in that clear, firm, bell like tone. “Deep . . . EVEN . . . breaths.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Now again . . . IN . . . one . . . two . . . three, that’s MUCH better; now HOLD for one . . . two . . . three, and OUT. One . . . two . . . three . . . . ”

Zachary Hilliard brought to bear every ounce of will and determination he possessed to keep his breaths slow and even, to breathe in, to hold, and to breathe out once again, in cadence to Miss O’Connor’s instruction, chanted more than spoken. He allowed her to lead him through the exercise again, and again, until at last, he felt his heart slow, resuming its normal pace . . . and the trembling in his hands finally still.

For a moment after, he remained, with eyes closed, mustering what shreds of courage remained in the stillness that surrounded him. Then, suddenly, his eyes snapped wide open. Zachary Hilliard took another deep breath, then pulled himself up to full of his height, and knocked on the closed door before him.

“Who is it?” a masculine voice inquired curtly from within.

“Lieutenant Hilliard, Sir, reporting as ordered,” he responded, inwardly marveling at how clear, how firm and steady his voice sounded.

“Come in, Lieutenant.”

Zachary entered and saluted.

John McKenna crisply returned the salute. He was a tall man, standing well over six feet. His regal posture accentuated his height, gifting him with an intimidating air despite his thin, wiry build. He wore a custom made black three-piece suit and tie, with a starched white cotton shirt. He had a full head of dark brown, wavy hair and mustache, both neatly trimmed, and piercing sky blue eyes. “At ease, Lieutenant,” he said, as he stiffly made his way over to the nearest chair, with the aid of a solid oak cane. “Report.”

“The girl you seek lives with a man by the name of Benjamin Cartwright and his sons, on their ranch, the Ponderosa,” Zachary gave his report in crisp, measured tones. “According to the records filed in the Virginia City courthouse . . . records, accessible to the general public, Sir . . . this Mister Cartwright legally adopted her within two months of bringing her to his home four and one half years ago.”

A sardonic half smile tugged hard on the corner of John’s mouth. “Really?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“An ironic happenstance if ever there was one,” John remarked acerbically, the smile quickly fading. “You ARE certain about this, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Sir, absolutely certain.”

John McKenna took a moment to digest the information. “I . . . don’t suppose you’ve had the opportunity to . . . as yet . . . . ?”

Zachary closed his eyes and swallowed nervously. “I had the opportunity, Sir . . . and failed,” he replied, trying his best to focus his thoughts, his powers of concentration upon his words and the tone of voice by which he spoke them, rather than the uneasy churning deep in the pit of his stomach. “For that, I take full responsibility and . . . submit myself for disciplinary action.”

In the dreadful, interminable silence that followed, every muscle in Zachary Hilliard’s body tensed, as he mentally braced himself.

“To be perfectly honest, I’m glad your attempt failed,” John said slowly, finally, at long last, breaking the uneasy quiet. “No disciplinary action will be taken, Lieutenant. Not THIS time. There’s going to be a change of plans.” A nasty smile spread itself slowly across his thin lips. “I’ve just decided to kill TWO birds with one stone.”

“ . . . uhhh, t-two birds, Sir?” Zachary queried with fast sinking heart. “Who else besides—?!”

“The girl’s father, of course,” John replied in a tone of voice faintly condescending. “It’s a personal matter . . . a very shameful moment in my family’s history . . . one I do not feel at liberty to discuss.” This last he punctuated with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Is there anything ELSE to report, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Sir. There’s been an unexpected development,” Zachary said, openly flinching under the intense, malevolent glare that had suddenly appeared on John McKenna’s face. “The Cartwrights h-have an unexpected house guest. She and I arrived in Virginia City on the same stage, though at the time I did NOT recognize her. She has changed much, and not for the better.”

“ . . . and who is this unexpected guest?” John demanded, his scowl deepening.

“Paris McKenna,” Zachary replied. “Your sister, Captain.”

“Really!” John’s lips curved upward to form a tight, near lipless smile. “Did SHE recognize YOU?”

“I am reasonably sure she did not, Captain.”

“Well . . . well . . . well . . . . ” John murmured softly. “I have them all, Lieutenant . . . all three of them . . . right here . . . . ” He held out his hands, open, with palms turned upward, curling his fingers and tensing them, as he might if he were grasping hold of something tangible. “They’re as good as right here. All I have to do is reach out . . . and grab them.”

“Y-Yes, Sir,” Zachary stammered, frightened by the unholy, malevolent gleam in the eyes of his former commanding officer and his friend. “Your . . . orders?”

“Are the men still in place?”

“Yes, Sir. The men remain in their places . . . carrying out the duties assigned them . . . awaiting further orders.”

“I’ll . . . have to revise my plans, Lieutenant . . . . ” John said slowly. “My original plans could have been expanded upon to deal with Mister Cartwright in addition to the girl . . . . ” He grimaced. “But my sister . . . no! SHE’D, like as not, see through it in an instant. That bitch was always too damned smart for her own good . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir,” Zachary replied, not knowing what else to say.

“Tell Sergeant Collier that he and his men are NOT to take any further action against the girl,” John said curtly. “They are to continue keeping her and . . . and that . . . that entire misbegotten family under close surveillance, until I say otherwise.”

“I will inform Sergeant Collier, Sir.”

“ . . . and I want daily reports, Lieutenant.”

Zachary blanched. “D-Daily reports?!”

“Daily reports,” John snapped. He glared over at Zachary, through eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?” he queried in a low, menacing tone.

“No, Sir. No problem, Sir. I’ll see to everything,” Zachary responded, his voice a dead monotone. He silently wondered if condemned men, sentenced to hang by the neck until dead, felt as he did now, upon taking the very first steps of that long, final walk toward the gallows.

Stacy stood before the fast closed door to the guest room, leaning heavily for support on the cane Pa had left her earlier, furiously debating. The angry bravado she had felt yesterday, after taking that tumble off of Golden Boy’s back, had all but deserted her this morning. She swallowed nervously, then turned, with every intention of going back to her own room.

“Oh no you don’t, Stacy Louise . . . . ” she grimaced, “ . . . Cartwright! You can’t keep putting it off. Pa was absolutely right when he said you’ve gotta face what ever it is that’s scaring you.” Miss Paris seemed a logical place to start. Stacy closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Then, drawing herself up to full height, she raised her hand and knocked on the door.

“Come on in.” It was Hoss.

Relieved and grateful that she didn’t have to face Miss Paris alone, Stacy very cautiously opened the door. She saw Miss Paris lying on the bed, propped up by a mound of pillows. Her eyelids, nose, and upper lip were red, and swollen, and her hands trembled slightly. The dark circles beneath her eyes, and her sunken cheeks lent her careworn face an eerie, skull like appearance. Stacy shuddered, unable to help herself.

Hoss occupied a chair next to the bed. “Come on in, Li’l Sister,” he invited with a grin. “How’re YOU feelin’ this mornin’?”

“My head doesn’t hurt anymore, and the lump’s just about all gone,” she replied, as she started into the room.

Paris’ heart lurched upon seeing the girl enter the room so stiffly, and with such a pronounced limp. “Oh dear!” she gasped. “What happened to YOU?”

“Just a slight mishap, Miss Paris,” Stacy said, determined to make light of the entire incident. “The only thing badly hurt was my dignity.”

“Sit down here,” Hoss said, rising.

“Where are YOU gonna sit?” Stacy demanded, fearful that he was going to go off and leave her alone with this strange woman, who frightened her so very much.

“I’ll take that chair.” Hoss inclined his head toward an easy chair on the other side of Paris’ bed. “First off, though, I’m gonna get ya somethin’ prop up that sprained ankle o’ yours.”

“I’ll be ok, Hoss,” Stacy protested.

“The doc said for ya t’ keep it up as much as ya can,” Hoss reminded her, as he walked over to the ornate, French provincial vanity, set up against the wall facing the bed. It had belonged to Joe’s mother, Marie. Hoss slid the bench out from under the table and carried it over to the chair, occupied by Stacy. He, then, removed a spare pillow from the wardrobe and gently placed it under Stacy’s ankle. “How’s THAT?”

“I’ve gotta admit . . . it DOES feel a lot better when I prop it up,” Stacy confessed.

“Miss Paris ‘n me was just talkin’ about you.”

“Oh! So THAT’S why my ears were burning,” Stacy joked.

“Miss Paris . . . THIS is Stacy,” Hoss said, by way of making introductions. “I know ya met her the night y’ arrived . . . . ”

“That first night’s all pretty much a blur,” Paris said rueful, yet inwardly relieved. What little she did remember was enough to make her wince. “I’m afraid I . . . well . . . I WAS pretty far gone.” She favored Stacy with a weary smile, and held out a trembling hand. “How do you do, Stacy? I’m very pleased to meet you under more, ummm . . . shall we say favorable circumstances?”

“Thank you, Miss Paris. I’m pleased to meet you, too,” Stacy said as she leaned over and gently took the older woman’s extended hand.

“Hoss and I were just talking about horses.”

“Do YOU ride?” Stacy asked.

“Not anymore, I’m afraid,” Paris said wistfully. “But I did . . . a lot! When I was your age . . . . ”

“If I remember rightly, you were real fine horsewoman, yourself,” Hoss said. “Every bit as good as Li’l Sister here. Maybe when you’re a bit stronger--- ”

Paris shook her head. “It’s been too long, Eric,” she said, her voice filled with deep regret, “and my health these days is such that . . . . ” She sighed and dolefully shook her head.

“Y’ never forget,” Hoss said, favoring their guest with an encouraging smile. “Maybe . . . once y’ get t’ feeling better . . . . ”

“We’ll see, Eric,” Paris murmured softly, with an air of resignation and indifference.

“Miss Paris?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“When you used to ride, did you have a horse of your own?” Stacy asked.

“No,” Paris shook her head. “My father was in the Army then . . . stationed at Fort Charlotte.”

“Joe told me your pa was in charge of the horses there,” Stacy said, trying her best to ignore her growing apprehension.

“Our family lived in Mormon Springs. Back then, it was a nice, quiet little town about a mile or so from the fort,” Paris said. “I . . . didn’t have the place or the means to keep a horse of my own . . . but, I did have my pick of the cavalry horses.”

“Did you know that I . . . that I met Pa, Hoss, and Joe at Fort Charlotte?” Stacy asked.

“So I’ve been told,” Paris replied.

All of a sudden the room turned hot and stifling. Out of the corners of her eyes, Stacy could almost swear that she actually saw the walls moving in on her closer and closer.

Hoss studied his sister with an anxious frown. “I was tellin’ Miss Paris about Golden Boy,” he said quietly.

“H-He’s turned out to be a real good saddle horse, but he’s chock full of high spirits,” Stacy said, slowly warming to a favorite topic despite her escalating trepidation. “I’m . . . almost tempted to keep him myself.”

“I don’t think Mister Hansen’d care for THAT,” Hoss pointed out. “He’s got his heart set on givin’ him to his daughter.”

“Truth to tell, Blaze Face wouldn’t like it very much, either,” Stacy admitted.

“Blaze Face?!” Paris gasped, her eyes round with shock.

“Y-Yes, Ma’am,” Stacy said, taken aback by Paris’ reaction. “Blaze Face is my horse.”

“Isn’t that extraordinary,” Paris murmured. “MY favorite horse . . . when Da was stationed at Fort Charlotte . . . w-was also named . . . Blaze Face.”

That fact only served to increase Stacy’s anxiety. “Miss Paris . . . . ” she was afraid to ask, but knew she must. “Were you and your family at Fort Charlotte . . . when . . . when I was there?”

Paris shook her head. “My father retired from the Army . . . . ” she fell silent to do a bit of mental figuring, “ . . . that would have been a year perhaps . . . maybe two before you were born, if I . . . if I’m correct in assuming your age to be fifteen or sixteen?”

“I’m fifteen now,” Stacy replied.

“My family . . . my parents and two sisters . . . went out to California, right after we left Fort Charlotte,” Paris continued. “I . . . heard later that they eventually returned to Mormon Springs, and bought some farm land just outside of town.”

“Didn’t you go with your family?” Stacy asked.

“No. No, I didn’t,” Paris shook her head. “I was of age when we left Fort Charlotte, and chomping at the bit to be on my own. I came here, stayed for a time and left. But, I never went back home again. I DID visit them briefly . . . almost sixteen years ago now. After that, I never saw them again.”

“Why not?” Stacy asked.

“Stacy, I don’t think that’s any o’ your— ”

“No, Eric, it’s alright,” Paris intervened. She, then, turned her attention back to Stacy. “Y’ see . . . my family and I . . . by then, we weren’t getting on all that well. The very last time I went to visit them . . . my father and I got ourselves into a terrible row. The next morning, he and Mam . . . they ordered me to leave as soon as I could make the arrangements and to never come back.” She felt a sharp pang of envy, remembering the love Ben Cartwright had expressed for his daughter, the young woman seated before her.

“They died six years later, when their house caught fire one night and burned to the ground. My brother, John, told me that none of ‘em made it out.” Including poor Rose Miranda. “I figured . . . HOPED actually . . . that they all d-died mercifully . . . in their sleep.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Paris,” Stacy said quietly. On impulse she leaned over and covered one of Paris’ hands with her own.

Paris nodded mutely, genuinely touched by the gesture.

“I forgot y’ also have a brother,” Hoss said, intending to steer the course of conversation away from the tragic deaths of Miss Paris’ parents and sisters. “Y’ ever hear from him?”

“The less I hear FROM him or ABOUT him, the better I like it,” Paris snapped, as she furiously wiped away the tears from her eyes and cheeks with the heel of her hand.

The three fell into a discomfiting silence, broken, after what seemed an eternity, by a knock at the door. Before anyone could reply, the door opened and Hop Sing entered, bearing an enormous tray. “Good morning, good morning,” he greeted everyone with a big smile. “Hop Sing bring up everybody breakfast.”

“Thank you, Hop Sing,” Stacy said.

“For Miss Stacy tea and toast. Doctor say you eat light today,” Hop Sing said, as he handed her a plate with two pieces of toast, generously slathered with his special strawberry jam. “Mister Hoss . . . Miss Paris . . . Hop Sing make nice, big breakfast.”

“Oh dear! I’m not sure I can— ” Paris started to protest.

“Miss Paris need to eat,” Hop Sing admonished her severely, as he handed her a plate heaped high with flapjacks, stacked one on top of the other, dripping with butter and maple syrup. “Flapjacks good. Stick to ribs.”

“Do the best y’ can, Miss Paris,” Hoss exhorted her with a smile, as he accepted a plate with a stack twice as high as the one Hop Sing had just served Paris.

“Everybody eat,” Hop Sing said. “When Hop Sing come back, plate better be clean, or Hop Sing quit. Go back to China. AFTER Hop Sing make Miss Stacy go back to bed, take nice long nap.”

“Oh no,” Stacy groaned in complete and utter dismay. “Do I HAVE to?”

“Doctor say Miss Stacy need rest,” Hop Sing declared.

“But . . . PA said I could get up,” Stacy argued.

“Papa ALSO tell Miss Stacy behave. Make sure she get rest. Papa tell Hop Sing Miss Stacy promise.”

“Oh, all right!” Stacy ungraciously accepted the inevitable.

“Tell ya what, Li’l Sister,” Hoss said, after Hop Sing had left the room. “You g’won back t’ bed after y’ finish eatin’, ‘n have a real good nap. I gotta finish up with m’ mornin’ chores, but once I got that done, I’ll come up ‘n take ya downstairs. How’s THAT sound?”

“That sounds great,” Stacy said. “Think maybe we could play a few games of checkers?”

“Sure ‘nuff,” Hoss agreed with a smile. “It’ll be a real pleasure playin’ with someone who doesn’t cheat for a change.”

“ . . . and who is it among you that cheats at playing checkers?” Paris asked.

“Joe,” Hoss and Stacy said together, in unison.

At five minutes before noon, Ben trudged wearily through the front door, with head bowed and shoulders sagging. He quietly closed the door then divested himself of gun belt and hat.

“Pa . . . you’re back!” Hoss said by way of greeting, as he entered the great room from the direction of the kitchen with a freshly made powdered donut in hand. “Hop Sing says dinner’ll be ready in— ” He stopped abruptly upon getting a good look at his father’s face. Its lines and hollows seemed deeper, and his eyes were round with trepidation and fear. “Pa, what is it?”

“Well . . . the good news is, I have the name of the man who was asking questions about us . . . and about Stacy a few days ago,” Ben said. “His name is Zachary Hilliard, and he’s from New York.”

“Did ya get a chance to talk to him?”

Ben shook his head. “That’s the bad news. He checked out of the hotel yesterday, and went to Carson City . . . supposedly to take care of some business.”

“Y’ think maybe he’s one o’ Stacy’s blood kin?”

“The thought HAS crossed my mind, Hoss,” Ben replied, as they walked over to the settee together. “Either that or a Pinkerton man hired by her blood kin. I spoke to Lucas about this . . . . ” Lucas Milburn had been the Cartwright family’s attorney and a very good friend for many years.

“What’d HE say?”

“The bottom line is . . . her adoption is legal, and if contested, WILL stand up in court,” Ben replied. “As you know, the army made a good faith effort to locate whatever blood kin Stacy may have had. Lucas has an affidavit attesting to this AND attesting to the fact that no one ever came forward to claim her, signed by Major Baldwin, and properly notarized . . . on file in his office. He also told me that given the amount of time that’s passed . . . and Stacy’s age now, that she would more than likely be given her choice.”

“ . . . ‘n I know dang well she’d decide t’ stay right here,” Hoss declared with an emphatic nod of his head. “We were meant t’ be together, Pa . . . as a family . . . ‘n we knew it t’ very first time we ever laid eyes on each other.”

“We sure did,” Ben agreed. “Hoss . . . . ”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“Where’s Stacy now?”

“Last I saw, she was in talkin’ with Miss Paris,” Hoss replied. “You want me t’ go up ‘n fetch her down?”

Ben shook his head. “I need to speak with Paris, but it can wait.”

“What about? If y’ don’t mind me askin’ . . . . ”

“This Zachary Hilliard who was asking about us and about Stacy . . . Gretchen Braun told me he checked into the hotel the same day Paris arrived in town,” Ben said with an anxious frown. “She also said that Luis saw them get off the stage together. Do YOU recall seeing her with a man about the same age and build as your brother, Adam?”

“No, Sir.” Hoss shook his head. “When I bumped into Miss Paris, she was headed for the hotel . . . alone. I was comin’ up the street from the other way.”

“I told Roy about Zachary Hilliard . . . and about the incident with Stacy’s saddle,” Ben said. “He’s going to send wires to the New York City Police Department and to the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

Hoss frowned. “Y’ think the two may be related?”

“I don’t know, Son,” Ben replied. “But I can’t completely rule out the possibility either . . . not until I know more.”

“I think you’ll find this much more practical than just pulling your hair back, and tying it at the nape of your neck,” Paris said, as she deftly wove Stacy’s long hair into a single, thick French braid. “You’ll be able to ride with the wind in your hair . . . without all the bothersome tangles.”

Paris sat on the edge of her bed, clad in a plain white night gown and a pale blue bathrobe. The latter was worn, and frayed along the cuffs and hemline, but still in one piece. Stacy was dressed in what she normally wore at home on the Ponderosa: a pair of dungarees, with a loose fitting shirt. On her feet, she wore a pair of red and white striped socks, borrowed from Hoss. His were the only ones that fit comfortably over her swollen, bandaged ankle. She sat on the bed, with her back to Paris, and her injured leg stretched out before her.

“Did you braid your hair like this, too, when YOU went out riding?” Stacy asked.

“Yes, Stacy . . . exactly like this,” Paris replied as she wove the last plait and attached the fastener. “You’re getting the benefit of my experience.”

“Thank you, Miss Paris,” Stacy said with a shy smile.

“My pleasure,” Paris said, returning Stacy’s smile with a warm, friendly one of her own. “I sure hope lunch is going to be ready soon. I’m hungry as a bear.”

“Paris, THAT is going to be music to Hop Sing’s ears!”

Stacy and Paris turned, and found Ben standing framed in the open doorway between the hall and the guest room. Hoss stood behind him, a little to his right.

“Hi, Pa,” Stacy greeted him with a big smile, as she carefully slid off the edge of the bed onto her good foot. She held on to one of the end bedposts to keep her balance and for support. “Did you remember the lemon drops?”

“Yes, I did, but you don’t get a single one until AFTER dinner,” Ben said firmly.

Her face fell. “When’ll dinner be ready?” she asked.

“We got just enough time t’ get washed up, Li’l Sister,” Hoss said, as he stepped around his father, and entered the room. “Why don’t we g’won down to the kitchen?”

Paris retrieved the cane Stacy had been using from the narrow place between her bed and night table. “Here you are, Stacy.” She offered it to the girl with a smile.

“Thank you, Miss Paris,” Stacy said, as she accepted the cane, then turned to follow Hoss out of the room. She suddenly paused, mid-stride, in the center of the room. “Pa . . . . ”

Seeing Stacy as he did now, with her hair braided that way . . . standing straight and tall, regarding him with those bright blue eyes . . . she was the very image of a much younger Paris McKenna.

“ . . . are you and Miss Paris coming?”

All Ben could do was stare over at his young daughter, too shocked, too stunned to even speak.

“Pa?!” Stacy frowned. “Pa . . . are you alright?”

Ben squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head to clear it of the unsettling vision. “I . . . f-fine,” he stammered, as he slowly opened his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Stacy queried dubiously.

Ben offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, Young Woman,” he said in a steadier tone of voice. “Why don’t you g’won down with Hoss? Miss Paris and I will be along shortly.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Ben replied.

“So do I,” Paris added.

Ben waited until his son and daughter had left the room, closing the door behind them. “I want to apologize for neglecting you yesterday,” he began. “I really AM very sorry.”

“Ben, you DON’T owe me an apology,” Paris said, with her head bowed, her eyes glued to the hands folded loosely in her lap. “I certainly don’t begrudge your taking care of Stacy after that tumble she took off of her horse yesterday, and besides . . . it’s not like I’m a . . . a wanted guest . . . . ”

“Paris, if I hadn’t wanted you here, I certainly wouldn’t have invited you to come and stay with us,” Ben said gruffly. Though he looked her straight in the face, his eyes fell just short of meeting hers.

“You invited me here because you were forced to by circumstance,” Paris said curtly, “and while I AM very grateful, I certainly don’t expect— ”

“If I hadn’t wanted you to come here, I could have just as easily played the good Samaritan by putting you up at the International Hotel, and paying Doctor Martin to look in on ya,” Ben said tersely. “While it’s true that you’re the very last person in the world I ever expected to have drop in unexpectedly, I STILL consider you an old friend, and . . . I’m NOT going to turn away an old friend in need.”

A strained silence fell between them.

“Sorry,” Ben murmured contritely, at length.

“ ‘S ok.”

“Paris . . . . ”

“Yes, Ben?”

“I need to ask you a few questions . . . if I may?”

“Alright,” Paris agreed with an indifferent shrug.

“I . . . understand there was another passenger on the stage with you, when you arrived in Virginia City a couple of days ago,” Ben said. “A man, about my height . . . maybe a little taller . . . with dark hair, aged in his mid to late thirties.”

“I remember him . . . mainly because he and I were the only passengers on that stage,” Paris replied. “What about him?”

“That’s what I’m hoping YOU can tell ME.”

“He and I both got on in Freedonia,” Paris said slowly. “I remember him telling the driver he was from New York, that he was on his way out to San Francisco. Apart from that . . . . ” she shrugged.

“He said he was on his way out to San Francisco . . . yet he got off here . . . in Virginia City,” Ben said slowly. “That didn’t strike you as odd?”

“Of course not,” Paris snapped, feeling herself oddly on the defensive. “The stage pulled in at a little past noon, and wasn’t due to leave until somewhere around three . . . maybe three-thirty. I was headed for San Francisco, too, Ben . . . yet I got off here.”

“Had you NOT taken ill . . . you would’ve boarded the stage again whenever it was scheduled to leave, and continued on to San Francisco,” Ben hastened to point out. “Your fellow passenger . . . didn’t.”

“ . . . and just HOW . . . exactly . . . am I supposed to know this?!” Paris demanded indignantly. “I took ill and passed out, remember? When I finally came to, the stage had already left. There’s no possible way I could have known— ”

“Either the man changed his mind about going on to San Francisco . . . OR, he lied about his destination,” Ben said through clenched teeth. “Did he say anything to you about staying in Virginia City?”

“No,” Paris immediately replied in a voice, stone cold.

“What DID you two talk about?” Ben pressed.

“Nothing,” she snapped.

“Nothing?!”

“That’s right . . . nothing!”

“The entire way out from Freedonia?!”

“When we boarded the stage, we said hello,” she replied, annoyed and exasperated. “We may have commented on the weather, but I can’t remember for sure, and to be perfectly up front and honest, I don’t much care.”

“It’s a long way between Freedonia and Virginia City, Paris, and quite frankly, I find it difficult to believe— ”

“Are you calling me a liar, Ben?” she demanded, rudely cutting him off, mid-sentence.

“I just find it difficult the believe that two people could travel such a long way . . . without talking to each other,” Ben said bluntly.

“HE wasn’t the talkative sort, and I didn’t feel up to making conversation,” Paris replied. “That’s it, pure and simple.”

“He didn’t even tell you his name?”

“No . . . nor did I ask,” she returned acerbically. “Now, if you DON’T mind— ”

“I found out last night that your fellow passenger spent a good part of the afternoon, the day the two of ya arrived, asking the good people of Virginia City questions about my family, especially Stacy,” Ben said.

“Your family and the Ponderosa ARE well known in this neck of the woods, Ben,” Paris immediately pointed out. “That a stranger would ask questions about you, shouldn’t be all that surprising . . . though, I have to admit his interest in Stacy puzzles me, unless . . . . Is it possible he’s a blood relative?”

“If he is, he certainly took long enough to crawl out from behind the woodwork,” Ben said rancorously.

“Surely he can’t challenge the adoption at this late date,” Paris protested.

“No.” Ben shook his head. “I checked with my lawyer while I was in town. He said if a blood relative DID challenge the adoption, the choice, more than likely, would be Stacy’s, given her age now and the length of time that’s passed . . . among other things.”

“She’d choose to stay here with you, Hoss, and Joe,” Paris said with quiet conviction. “I hope you know that.”

“Yes,” Ben replied, his manner softening, as his thoughts drifted back to the day he signed the papers, making one Stacy Louise . . . her real last name unknown . . . legally his daughter . . . .

The entire family . . . himself, Hoss, Joe, Hop Sing . . . and Stacy . . . was gathered together in the chambers of Judge John Faraday,i along with his own lawyer, Lucas Milburn. Though Adam wasn’t able to be there, he had written Stacy a special letter, welcoming her into the family, and expressing his genuine delight at the prospect of finally, at long last, having a sister. He had also given Stacy a list of the most ticklish portions of his youngest brother’s anatomy, leastwise those, no doubt, grudgingly deemed by polite society as acceptable for an energetic, tomboyish young sister to ambush . . . much to Joe’s everlasting consternation.

“ . . . all that needs to be done now is for you to sign your name right here, Ben,” John said, pointing to the blank line at the bottom of the document, up against the right margin. “Lucas and I will sign over here as witnesses.”

“Before I sign, I want Stacy’s consent to be a matter of record,” Ben said quietly.

“Ben, legally, Stacy IS a minor,” John said. “As such, her consent is not required.”

“Be that as it may, John . . . I still want her consent to be a matter of record.” ii

“Alright . . . . ” John looked past Ben and made eye contact with Stacy, who stood behind her father, sandwiched between her brothers. Hop Sing stood on the other side of Joe. “Stacy, is it your will to be adopted into the Cartwright family?”

Stacy left her place between Hoss and Joe, and walked over to Ben. “Are you asking me if I want Pa . . . I mean Mister Cartwright to adopt me?” she asked very solemnly, as she slipped her small hand into Ben’s larger one.

Lucas smiled. “That’s exactly what we’re asking, Stacy.”

“My answer is yes,” she replied, without hesitation, “I DO want Mister Cartwright to adopt me . . . . ” She paused briefly, then added in a voice barely audible, “more than just about anything . . . . ”

“Paris,” Ben said quietly, as the memory faded, “I need to ask you one more question.”

“Alright . . . . ” she agreed warily.

“Does the name Zachary Hilliard mean anything to you?”

Her face had turned white as a sheet, even before he finished asking the question.

“Then . . . you DO know him,” Ben immediately pounced, his eyes flashing with anger.

“I know the NAME, damn it . . . NOT the passenger,” Paris hotly defended herself. She closed her eyes and took a deep ragged breath. “The Zachary Hilliard I know went to Westpoint with my brother,” she explained through clenched teeth. “John was a year ahead, but he and Zachary became close friends. He served under my brother during the war. I met him once . . . but THAT was years ago . . . while John was still at Westpoint.” She glared up at Ben, her eyes smoldering with fury. “Ben, I swear . . . on my mother’s grave, I SWEAR . . . I did NOT recognize the man on the stage with me as someone I know.”

“Paris . . . so HELP me . . . if I find out you’re lying— ”

“I’m NOT,” she snapped. “Ben— ”

“What?”

“Would you mind telling me exactly what the hell’s going on around here?!” Paris rounded on him furiously. “It’s the LEAST you can do, in return for subjecting me to . . . to . . . to what amounts to a damn’ bloody Spanish Inquisition— ”

“What happened to Stacy yesterday out in the corral was no accident,” Ben said in a voice that dripped icicles.

“I hope you’re not accusing ME of— ”

“No . . . I’m not,” Ben said curtly.

“What makes you so sure it WASN’T an accident?”

“The cinch strap was cut. Not ALL the way through . . . just enough for normal wear and tear to finish breaking it apart.”

For a moment, Paris was too stunned to speak, or even move. She sat there, clutching her quilt so tightly, her knuckles had turned white. Her eyes were round with horror.

“It happened during the time your fellow passenger was making inquiries about Stacy . . . and the rest of my family,” Ben continued.

“C-Coincidence, Ben,” Paris murmured upon finding her voice. “Coincidence. It HAS to be.”

“You’re probably right,” Ben said. “But, I can’t rule out the possibility that the two incidents are related . . . remote though the chances may be . . . until I know more.”

“I understand.”

“I . . . I’m sorry, Paris. It wasn’t my intention to upset you,” Ben continued, “but in the interests of keeping my daughter safe— ”

“I’d . . . forgotten how fierce you can be when it comes down to protecting your children,” Paris said wearily. “Your sons as w-well as your daughter. Times like now . . . you remind me of an old brooding mother hen.”

“Paul and Lily Martin liken me to a ferocious mother grizzly bear,” Ben said ruefully. “I’m . . . NOT sorry I asked the questions, but I AM sorry that I upset you so terribly.”

“I’ll get over it.”

“Paris . . . . ”

“What NOW, Ben?”

“Can you tell me how to get in touch with John?” Ben asked. There was a pleading note in his voice. “If the man who was asking about Stacy is indeed the Zachary Hilliard he knows, maybe he could shed some light on what the man’s up to.”

“I wish I could help you, Ben,” Paris said ruefully, “but the truth is . . . I have no idea in the world where he’s living now . . . what he’s doing . . . whether he’s alive or dead . . . and up until right now, this very minute, I’ve not much cared.”

“Where Miss Paris?” Hop Sing demanded indignantly, as Ben slowly descended the remaining half dozen steps. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, with his arms folded across his chest, his feet positioned shoulder width apart.

“Fighter’s stance . . . . ” Ben silently noted with dismay.

“She comin’ down?” Hoss asked, as he slowly rose to his feet. He had been sitting in the blue chair over next to the fireplace.

“No,” Ben replied.

Hoss’ face fell. “How come, Pa?” he asked. “She’d told Stacy ‘n me that she was hungry as a bear.”

“She’s . . . got a headache, Hoss— ” Ben began.

“Miss Paris headache very sudden,” Hop Sing growled, favoring his number one boss of the Ponderosa with a dark, angry scowl.

“She told me that she wants to sleep,” Ben said tersely, then softened. “Hop Sing, why don’t you fix her a plate and keep it warm?”

“Why you badger Miss Paris with question?!” Hop Sing snapped.

“Hop Sing, THAT will be enough!” Ben growled . . . .

Somewhere in the dark, two men argued. She was too far away to hear their words, but their bitter animosity came through loud and clear. She also heard the hushed drone of women’s voices in the dark, somewhere close by, striking a troubled discord against the men. No words, only voices. As the men’s anger escalated, their voices grew louder and louder. The women’s voices, however, grew softer, until they finally died away to a frightening silence. Sounds followed, of flesh striking flesh, a distant scream, footsteps, and the roar of a mighty, evil wind . . . .

Run, child . . . .

Run . . . .

Stacy.

She gasped, and started so violently, she nearly rolled right off the settee, upon which she found herself lying. For one brief, heart-stopping moment, she had no idea in the world where she was.

“Hey, Kid . . . you alright?”

Stacy turned and found herself staring up into Joe’s face. He was seated on the coffee table next to the settee, studying her with an anxious frown.

“Y-yeah . . . I’m ok . . . I think,” she stammered. “Where’d YOU come from?”

“I’ve been helping Candy and the other men with the horses,” Joe replied. “You and Hoss have sure done a great job with Golden Boy.”

“Thanks.”

“That must have been some dream just now,” Joe said, as he helped her sit up.

“Yeah . . . it was one of those dreams that seems so real while it’s happening, it’s a shock to wake up. In fact, I don’t even remember dozing off.”

“I know how you feel,” Joe said with a sympathetic smile. “I’ve had more than my share of those, too.”

“Strange dream . . . the only thing I can remember is these two men arguing.”

“Well . . . Pa and Hop Sing were kinda snapping at each other just now,” Joe said. “Could be that’s what triggered it.” He noted her pale face, her trembling hands, and her eyes round and staring, with concern. “You SURE you’re alright, Stace?”

“Yeah, I’m ok,” Stacy replied. “Just stiff ‘n sore as all get out . . . . ”

Joe flashed her a knowing grin. “Hop Sing’s got an ointment that loosens up those muscles and relieves the pain, quick as anything. Of course, it smells like a pair of Hoss’ dirty socks that have been sitting in a corner for a month of Sundays getting ripe . . . . ”

“It might STILL be a fair ‘n equitable trade off,” Stacy decided. “It seems every time I sit still for any length of time . . . . ”

“You?! Sit still??” Joe chortled. “Kiddo, you couldn’t sit still if your life depended on it . . . and don’t you dare stick your tongue out at me, either. You really oughtta have more respect for your elders, y’ know.”

“Yes, GRANDPA,” Stacy retorted good-naturedly.

“Smart aleck,” Joe quipped. “Come on . . . let’s us get out to the table before Hoss, Pa, ‘n Candy eat it all.”

“Joe . . . Candy . . . I need to speak with you,” Ben said quietly, after he and the family had finished a hearty, if quiet and subdued, dinner together.

The two young men exchanged puzzled glances.

“If we could step outside for a few moments?”

“Sure, Pa,” Joe said as he and Candy rose. The sharp glance Pa’s invitation to step out side had drawn from Stacy wasn’t lost on him. He and Candy fell in step behind Ben and silently followed him out through the front door.

“Hoss?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s going on?” Stacy demanded.

“I . . . dunno, Li’l Sister . . . . ” Hoss had his suspicions, but wisely decided not to voice them. “I think you’re gonna hafta ask Pa.”

Ben, meanwhile, silently led the way over toward the corral, well away from the house.

“Pa . . . what’s up?” Joe demanded, the minute the three of them reached the corral fence.

“As you both probably know, I went into town this morning to do some asking around of my own,” Ben began, taking care to keep his voice low.

“Concerning the man I told you about last night?” Candy asked.

“Yes,” Ben replied. “I found out that his name is Zachary Hilliard . . . he comes from New York City . . . and that he and Paris arrived on the same stage.”

“Coincidence?” Candy asked.

“That remains to be seen,” Ben said grimly. “When I questioned Paris before we sat down to dinner, she told me that her brother, John, knew a man by that name. The two of ‘em went to Westpoint together, and Zachary Hilliard served under John during the war.”

Joe let out a long, slow whistle.

“Zachary Hilliard checked out of the International Hotel early yesterday morning,” Ben continued. “He told the desk clerk that he had business in Carson City, then asked for directions to the livery stable.”

“Did you talk to Tony?” Joe asked.

“Yes, I did,” Ben replied. “He told me Mister Hilliard rented a buggy and a horse . . . AND that he was indeed headed for Carson City.”

“In a buggy, he would’ve been nearly all day yesterday getting there,” Candy said slowly. “Even if he managed to take care of whatever business he had today . . . it pretty much stands to reason he’s gonna stay overnight in Carson, and leave for Virginia City, or . . . wherever he’s going in the morning.”

“I was thinking the same thing, Candy,” Ben said. “If you boys hurry and get yourselves packed, you can reach town in time to make the four o’clock stage for Carson City.” He paused. “I want you boys to find this Mister Hilliard.”

“We will, Pa,” Joe promised, his voice filled with grim determination.

“You bet,” Candy voiced his wholehearted agreement, punctuating those words with an emphatic nod of his head.

“You boys get yourselves packed,” Ben said. “I’ll see that your horses are saddled.”

“Hop Sing . . . honest. I’m not hungry. Perhaps later . . . . ”

“No more later,” Hop Sing declared. “How Miss Paris get strength back if she not eat?”

“I SAID later— ” she returned peevishly.

“This three times now you say later,” Hop Sing admonished her with a dark, angry scowl. “Three times Hop Sing come, three times Miss Paris say later. This fourth time Hop Sing come. Fourth time, Hop Sing say NOW. Miss Paris eat right now.”

“There’s no arguing with him when he takes THAT tone of voice,” Stacy said, trying hard not to smile.

“Missy Stacy know what she talk about!” Hop Sing declared with an emphatic nod of his head. “When Hop Sing say Miss Paris eat right now . . . Miss Paris eat right now.”

“I’d completely forgotten what an overbearing ogre of a dictator you can be sometimes,” Paris growled, as she dipped her spoon into the generous bowl of chicken soup on the tray, now resting in her lap.

“Eat,” Hop Sing returned without missing a beat. “Miss Paris no talk. Miss Paris eat.”

Paris grudgingly swallowed the first spoonful, then a second, followed by a third. “There! Are you satisfied?” she demanded waspishly.

“Hop Sing happy when Miss Paris bowl empty . . . soup all gone. NOT before!”

Paris muttered a sting of colorful invectives under her breath as she angrily scooped up a fourth spoonful.

“That right,” Hop Sing declared with a smug, triumphant smile, and an approving nod of his head.

“**** . . . damn’ f— ****bloody . . . overbearing son-uva-sea cook!”

“Eat. No talk.”

Paris toyed with the idea of washing Hop Sing’s face in what remained of her bowl, then, with a melancholy sigh, discarded the notion. She was far too weak physically, and even if she wasn’t, like as not he would only go right back down to the kitchen and return with another full bowl. “ . . . and I’d have to start all over again,” she groused silently.

Hop Sing stood over Paris, watching closely as she finished up every bit of the soup in her bowl.

“There, y’ bloody **** blackguard,” Paris growled, as she thrust the empty bowl into Hop Sing’s face. “NOW are y’ happy?!”

“Hop Sing VERY happy,” Hop Sing said with a complacent smile, as he took the bowl. “Now you rest.”

“Can’t I visit with Stacy just a wee bit longer?” Paris begged.

“Miss Stacy need rest, too,” Hop Sing said.

“Hellfire and damnation, Man!” Paris exploded. “I ate every last bit o’ that damned bloody soup o’ yours. I should think THAT would be good enough t’ buy me another twenty minutes t’ visit with Stacy . . . . ”

“TEN minute,” Hop Sing said, before turning heel and walking out of the room.

“Miss Paris?” Stacy ventured after Hop Sing had gone.

“Yes, Stacy?”

“It’s a good thing you DIDN’T throw that bowl of soup at Hop Sing,” she said quietly.

Paris regarded the girl with mild surprise. “ . . . and what makes you think I was going to do any such childish thing?”

“I could tell by the look on your face,” Stacy replied.

“My mam always said I wore my feelings right out where all the world could see ‘em,” Paris sighed wearily. “That’s why I never took up poker.”

“Couldn’t bluff your way out of a paper bag?”

“Nope.”

“Neither can I,” Stacy admitted. “That’s why I only play with my brothers for matchsticks and pennies.”

“I see,” Paris murmured softly.

“Miss Paris?”

“Yes, Child?”

“Are you Irish?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I am,” Paris replied with a smile. “Born in County Roscommon to a poor tenant farmer and his wife. How did you guess?”

“I can hear a little of it in your voice sometimes,” Stacy said. “It almost sounds musical.”

Paris laughed with genuine mirth for the first time in many years. “You’re the first person I’ve ever heard call it musical,” she said warmly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have more than enough Irish blarney about yourself.”

Stacy responded with a puzzled frown. “What’s blarney?” she asked.

“It’s a magical way of words,” Paris explained. “My father once told me a man, or woman for that matter, well versed in the art of blarney can tell another to go to hell in such a way as to make that other actually look forward to the trip.”

Stacy laughed out loud, and Paris, much to her own delight, found herself laughing, too.

“Paris isn’t an Irish name, though, is it?” Stacy asked as the laughter died away.

“My father, when he was a young man, had grand dreams of wealth and travel,” Paris said with a dreamy smile. “One place he wanted to visit was Paris, France, also known as the city of lights. Mam told me once he chose the name Paris as a magic omen to insure we’d one day visit there.”

“Did you?”

Paris sadly shook her head. “Too many hardships,” she said. “My family was very poor, Stacy. Still and all, thanks in large part to Grandma McKenna, we took our lot in life pretty much in stride . . . all of us except for m’ poor mam, God rest her soul . . . . ” Paris glanced upward, and quickly crossed herself, “and through it all, though, Da held fast to his grand dreams. But all that changed, when Ireland was hit by terrible famine. I was a wee bit younger than you are right now.”

“Is that when you came to this country?” Stacy asked.

Paris nodded.

“What about the rest of your father’s family?” Stacy asked. “Did they come here, too?”

“No,” Paris replied.

“Why not?”

“My grandfather was already dead,” Paris explained. “He died peacefully in his sleep before I was born. My grandmother . . . may God rest her saintly soul . . . she was an old woman, and . . . she just couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the only home she ever knew, and . . . and taking her final rest in alien soil, thousands of miles away from the little church yard where my grandfather lies buried. Da’s younger brothers, Uncle Andrew and Uncle John, stayed behind with . . . with Grandma McKenna.”

Her lips curved upward, forming a sad, wistful smile. “She . . . was a very kind, very loving woman, Stacy. No matter what life brought her, Grandma McKenna NEVER let it make her bitter. She told me once . . . you have no say in what life’s going to throw at you, be it for good or ill, but you DO have a say in how you’re going to face it.”

“You miss her very much, don’t you, Miss Paris,” Stacy gently observed.

“Yes, I do, fey child that you are.”

“What’s fey?”

“It means touched by the faeries,” Paris explained. “Grandma McKenna called ‘em the gentlefolk. At any rate, the rare few mortals so blessed instinctively see and know things, without being told.”

“Like me knowing that you miss your Grandma McKenna without you saying so?”

Paris nodded.

“Pa’s like that, too, Miss Paris,” Stacy said with a smile. “Whenever we . . . Hoss, Joe, or me . . . are upset about something . . . he just knows. We almost never have to say so. Hoss and Joe are like that, too. So’s Hop Sing. Pa says it comes from living together as a family.”

“Yes . . . I suppose it can at that,” Paris said slowly, “in a family where there’s a lot of love . . . . ”

“Miss Paris?”

“Yes, Child?”

“What happened to your grandmother?”

“Last I saw her . . . it was at the American wake she and my uncles held for Mam, Da, my brother, my sisters . . . and me.”

Stacy frowned. “American wake?! What’s that?”

“A funeral.”

“What?!” Stacy cried, her eyes round with shocked horror. “How could your grandmother and uncles have a funeral for you and your family, when . . . when you were still ALIVE?!”

“All too often, Child, when a family member decides to leave, it’s very much like having him . . . or her . . . die,” Paris explained. “The distance and the time it takes to travel from Ireland to here . . . or Canada . . . or Australia . . . are very great, and the cost for passage very dear. People knew when a loved one left Ireland, chances were very good they’d never see or hear from that person again.”

“Did things get better after you and your family arrived here . . . in America?” Stacy asked, appalled yet fascinated.

“No . . . and yes, I suppose,” Paris answered. “When we reached America, my father couldn’t find steady work. An odd job here and there, IF he was lucky. There was plenty of work to be had, mind . . . but just about everywhere Da applied, there were signs in t’ windows saying, ‘No Irish need apply here.’ Da ended up joining the army. They sent him out to Fort Charlotte, and there he stayed for the duration.”

“You said before that he was the horse master there.”

“Aye, and a fine one,” Paris said. “After he left the army, he, Mam, and my younger sisters went out to California in search of gold. A few years later, they returned to Mormon Springs, and bought a bit of farmland. But . . . when last I saw him? He was an angry, bitter man. All of the lovely grand dreams he once had, apparently died over the years . . . one by one.”

“When people loose their dreams, they loose pieces of themselves,” Stacy said quietly. “They die inside when they stop dreaming altogether. That’s worse than the body dying.” She looked up, her eyes meeting those of the older woman. “I’m sorry, Miss Paris,” she said. “For your pa . . . and for you.”

Paris began to understand why Ben never ceased to marvel at this fey child, so young and at the same time so ancient. “You remember me telling you just now how I came by my n-name . . . . ”

Stacy nodded.

“I . . . understand Da made good success with the farm near Mormon Springs. He also made good money running the livery stable in town,” Paris continued, her voice trembling. “He and Mam could well have afforded to visit Paris, and in grand style, too. But, by then, they no longer WANTED to go.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Paris,” Stacy said, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. “It seems that somehow, I’m always saying something to make you sad.”

“This is a happy kind of sad, Stacy,” Paris said slowly. “I had long ago forgotten that my father was a dreamer, and why he gave me my name. You helped me remember, and for that I’m grateful, more than you can possibly realize.” Paris impulsively reached over and gave the girl a reassuring hug.

“Miss Paris . . . Miss Stacy, you stay up, talk too much.” It was Hop Sing. He stood in the open doorway with arms folded tight across his chest, glaring at both of them. “One hour before supper ready. Miss Stacy, you go to your room. You lie down, rest . . . let Miss Paris rest.”

“Aww, Hop Sing . . . I’m not the least bit tired,” Stacy immediately protested. “Do I HAVE to lie down?!”

“Miss Stacy go to room, lie down, rest,” Hop Sing reiterated, “or Hop Sing get rope, hog tie Miss Stacy like calf.”

“I . . . think he means it, Child,” Paris said wryly.

“I KNOW he means it,” Stacy said, favoring Hop Sing with a withering glare. She rose, and reached for the horse head cane her father had loaned her.

“Miss Stacy smart girl,” Hop Sing said with a smug triumphant smile, as he watched her limp across the room toward the hallway. “You rest, too, Miss Paris. Maybe take nap. Sleep good medicine. Almost as good as eat.”

“Well, Boys . . . it looks like the stage has finally arrived,” Hiram Peabody iii, the attendant at the Overland Stage office, said with a complacent smile.

“It’s about time,” Joe declared, as he, Candy, and Hiram watched the stagecoach turn the corner at the bottom of the hill. “It’s ONLY an hour and fifteen minutes late.”

“An hour and eighteen minutes late, Joe,” Hiram sighed. “Give the boys in the stable an hour or so to change the horses, and you fellas’ll be on your way. If you should need me for anything, I’ll be at home.”

“You’ll give Cissy our best?” Joe asked.

“I sure will,” Hiram promised. “Hope everything goes well for you in Carson City.”

“Thanks, Hiram . . . I know it will,” Joe declared with a confident smile.

John McKenna, captain, U. S. Army, now retired, slowly opened his eyes, as he felt the stage beginning to slow. He yawned, stretched, then edged his way across the seat into the deep shadows cast by the waning sunlight and the structure of the conveyance in which he rode. Moments later, the stagecoach came to a complete stop in front of the Virginia City Depot.

His sharp blue eyes immediately spotted two young men, each with a single bag in hand. A troubled frown deepened the lines already etched in the brittle, parchment thin flesh of his brow, as he studied the shorter man, clad in a green denim jacket.

His smile, the way he moved, the left handed holster . . . .

“ . . . left-handed holster . . . something about a left-handed hol— ” John murmured softly, as he slid even further under the cloak of lengthening shadows within the coach. “Virginia City . . . Cartwright . . . ah, yes! NOW I remember . . . . Ben’s youngest son, Joseph . . . HE was left handed,” he mused silently.

“Mister Grant?” The stagecoach driver addressed the sole passenger in an apologetic, contrite tone of voice, as he opened the door.

There was no reply. The man, known to the driver as simply Mister Grant, seemed to be lost in thought.

“Mister Grant.” The driver reached out and placed his hand solicitously on the passenger’s forearm, the minute his feet touched terra firma.

John McKenna started. As he turned to face the driver, his initial astonishment had that quickly given way to rage.

The driver shuddered, and stepped back upon catching sight of the murderous fury burning in John McKenna’s bright, sky blue eyes, now round and staring. “S-Sorry, Mister Grant,” he immediately apologized, “f-for startling you just now and . . . and for the delay. I . . . I tried to reach you, Sir, but . . . well, you must’ve been deep in thought. I . . . r-really AM very sorry . . . . ”

“No apologies necessary, Sir. After all . . . it’s certainly not YOUR fault we had to circumnavigate that rockslide,” John said, taking great care to keep his voice well measured, even. His face immediately returned to the stoic facade he normally presented in public, obliterating all trace of the fury, so tangibly present less than a moment before.

“Thank you, Mister Grant. That was most generous.” The driver took due note of the cane clasped tight in the passenger’s hand, the pronounced limp, and the absence of family, friend, or business associate coming to meet him. “Is there . . . someplace I can take you?” he ventured, hesitant and uncertain.

“Thank you. I can manage well enough on my own,” John replied, all the while inwardly castigating himself for that near disastrous slip. After having spent the better part of a week now, answering to Mister Smith, it had completely slipped his mind that he had purchased a one way ticket to Virginia City under the name of Sherman Grant, borrowing the names of two generals he had come to admire very much. “However . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir?”

“If you would be so kind as to direct me to your telegraph office, I would be very much obliged,” John said.

The driver was only too happy to supply the directions. “It’s . . . closed now, Sir, but if it’s an emergency— ”

For a moment, John debated. Young Cartwright and his companion were heading out on the stage returning to Carson City. That was a given. That they were traveling light suggested an overnight stay. Could it be that Ben Cartwright had guessed—?! No. No, that wasn’t possible. He shook his head, as if trying to physically dislodge that errant, and completely absurd, thought.

“Thank you, Sir, but morning will be soon enough to send that wire,” John decided. His associate knew to be cautious . . . after all, he had that scar on his chest now as a constant and everlasting reminder “ . . . and sending that wire to warn him might actually end up even more drawing unwanted attention,” he mused in silence.

John instructed the driver to send his luggage, consisting of a trunk and two carpet bags, over to the International Hotel, then left the depot, making sure he gave Joe Cartwright and his companion wide birth. It would not do for Ben Cartwright learn that he was in town before he was ready to make that fact known . . . .

“Mister Smith?”

John quickly brought his dark musings to an end, that he might give full attention to the present moment. A young man, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, stepped out from the doorway to a building, presently vacant, directly in his path. The skinny beanpole form John remembered had begun to fill out, and the boy’s round, cherubic face had nearly given way to the lean, muscular face of the man he would very soon become. Although the young man’s eyes were concealed by the shadows cast by the wood frame buildings surrounding them, John immediately recognized him as the unit’s former drummer boy by the sandy hair, cropped very short and the determined set of his mouth and jaw line.

“Private Jedidiah Matthews, Sir,” the young man continued. “Sergeant Collier told me to make certain this was hand delivered to you personally.” Though he did not salute, he respectfully stood with back straight, shoulders back, feet together. He presented John with an envelope addressed to Mister Smith.

“Thank you, Private,” John murmured softly, as he accepted the proffered envelope and deftly placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Was the sergeant able to secure the residence I requested?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jedidiah replied.

“Excellent. Have my wife and daughters arrived yet?”

“Yes, Sir. They arrived in Virginia City yesterday evening, and were immediately escorted to the residence secured by Sergeant Collier.”

“I . . . trust no undue attention was called to their arrival?”

“No, Sir,” Jedidiah replied. “Sergeant Collier timed the arrival of their buckboard to coincide with the arrival of several freight wagons, the stagecoach, and people coming into town to partake of last night’s entertainments.”

“Excellent,” John murmured softly. “My commendations to Sergeant Collier . . . and to yourself, Private . . . for a job well done.”

Jedidiah, much to his absolute horror and chagrin, felt the warm, prickly rush of blood to his cheeks, forehead, and neck. “I . . . th-thank you, Sir. I’ll . . . I’ll be sure to t-tell . . . to inform Sergeant Collier.”

“Thank you, Private. You’re dismissed.”

The young man acknowledged his captain’s dismissal with a curt nod of his head, before turning heel and heading away in the direction from whence he came.

“Ben . . . the last time I saw my brother . . . it was in Missouri . . . Saint Jo, about a year or so after the rest of our family died,” Paris said, her voice an odd mixture of sadness and anger. She had taken supper that evening in her room, a simple, yet tasty fare of chicken stew and dumplings, a large buttermilk biscuit, with a generous slab of butter on the side, and a big mug of hot herbal tea . . . .

“ . . . help make Miss Paris stomach feel batter,” Hop Sing had said, “make her not want to return meal back up. Also help her relax, maybe get good night sleep.”

When Ben came to collect the tray and dishes, she had invited him to sit down for a moment. She felt she owed him some kind of explanation as to why she had no idea where her brother was . . . .

“I was working for the Zimmerman family,” Paris continued. “Though not what you’d call rich, they WERE . . . and still are, I imagine . . . a well-to-do family, very well thought of by most of the people in their community. Mister Zimmerman’s mother-in-law was terminally ill. I had been hired to be her nurse and companion. It was a good job, Ben. Mister Zimmerman was a kind man . . . a fair employer, and Mrs. Putnam . . . she was an absolute jewel. Never once complained, though she certainly had much to complain about . . . always had a smile on her face, a kind word to say . . . .

“ . . . ah, but I digress.

“John came to see me at the Zimmermans’ home,” Paris continued, “supposedly to tell me that our parents’ house had burned to the ground . . . that they, our sisters,” . . . and poor Rose Miranda, “ . . . were all dead. At first, I . . . I thought he was joking.”

“Cruel joke,” Ben said archly.

“ . . . which John was, and I imagine still IS, very capable of, believe me,” Paris said grimly. “In fact, I refused to believe it, until Mister Zimmerman, bless his dear heart, had his secretary send a wire to the sheriff in Mormon Springs, where they were living, and . . . and he shared with me the return wire confirming it.”

“That must have been devastating for you,” Ben said gently.

“It was, but in all honesty, I can’t really blame John for telling me a year after the fact. He couldn’t have known where to find me,” Paris said. “It was only by odd happenstance he found out I was in Saint Jo, working for the Zimmermans. The thing I found disturbing was the way he incessantly badgered me about their will, of all things . . . AND for the name of their lawyer.”

“Their lawyer?!” Ben echoed, incredulous. “As I recall, Paris, your father swore up and down there were three kinds of men he couldn’t trust as far as he could throw them . . . doctors, bankers, and lawyers.”

“It’s possible he engaged a lawyer to help him draw up a will,” Paris said thoughtfully. “They DID have their farm and the livery stable in town . . . and I’m sure Mam had personal things that she wanted to pass on to John, Mattie, Elsie, and— ” Her words ended in a frightened gasp.

She had almost said Rose Miranda.

“ . . . and?” Ben prompted gently.

“ . . . and . . . to the children John had. Has. I . . . know that he’s taken a wife,” Paris said in a small voice. “Stands to reason they’d have children.”

Ben nodded.

“ . . . and Da, like as not had a respectable sum of money buried in a tin can somewhere,” Paris continued, anxious to move past what would have been a terrible blunder. “As I told Stacy earlier, he did quite well with the farm and the livery.

“But . . . where in the world John ever got the idea that I, of all people, had a copy of their will . . . . ” Paris wondered aloud, then shrugged. “It’s insane, Ben. Completely insane! Mam and Da disinherited ME years before. John KNEW that! The day he showed up on the Zimmermans’ doorstep looking for me . . . I hadn’t seen nor heard from my parents or my sisters for six . . . going on seven years. I tried to tell John that, but he wouldn’t hear it. He cursed me . . . threatened me with all manner of violence . . . . ” She shuddered. “ . . . and called me all kinds of vile names, none of which can be repeated in polite company. Mister Zimmerman’s secretary finally came and told him to leave.”

“Did he?” Ben asked.

“Grudgingly,” Paris replied. “It was that, or be arrested and fined for trespassing. But, he didn’t stay away. Three days later, I was alone in the house with Mrs. Putnam. The children were in school, Mister Zimmerman and his secretary had gone to the office, Mrs. Zimmerman was attending a meeting for some charity fund raiser, the cook was out doing the grocery shopping, and Flossie, their housekeeper, had the day off.”

“What happened?”

“First of all, John had found out that Mister Zimmerman sent that wire to Mormon Springs, asking about our family,” Paris continued. “He was angry about that. VERY angry. His face . . . . ” She shuddered. “His face didn’t even look human . . . and with him ranting and raving what amounted to utter nonsense . . . I was frightened, Ben . . . not only for myself, but for poor Mrs. Putnam, lying upstairs, completely helpless.

“John and I ended up having a royal row to end all rows. In the midst of all the shouting . . . he hit me, Ben. He . . . HIT me . . . over and over and over . . . . ” Paris shook her head, as shocked and astonished now as she had been then. “John would have killed me, I’m sure of it! Thank God his holster and gun were within my reach. I drew on him and told him he was dead if he didn’t back off.”

“Did he?” Ben asked.

“After I put a bullet in his leg to prove I meant business,” Paris said grimly. “John left. I don’t know how on one good leg, but he left. When Mister Zimmerman returned home, I told him what had happened, then turned in my resignation, effective immediately. With John as unhinged as he was, my continued presence in their home would have put the Zimmerman family in danger . . . especially Mrs. Putnam.

“In parting, Mister Zimmerman gave me excellent references. He also gave me severance and a very generous bonus over and above the wages he owed me. I left town the next morning. I didn’t even bother to stay long enough to find out whether John lived or died.” She paused. “I’ve not seen or heard from him since.”

Ben shook his head. “I . . . can’t believe it, Paris,” he said incredulously. “I remember John as being a young fella, full of himself as most young fellas are, all bluster and blow, but he never struck me as a man capable of that kind of violence. Did the war change him?”

“Ben . . . my chance meeting with John in Saint Jo happened roughly a year BEFORE the war broke out,” Paris said.

“Really?!”

Paris nodded.

“What in the world could have happened to that young man to have change him so much?” Ben wondered aloud, shocked and bewildered by this piece of information.

“I lay blame for the terrible changes in John at the door of one Parson Meriwether Lewis iv,” Paris declared, her lips curling with disgust as she said the parson’s name, “self proclaimed, self ordained man of . . . I don’t know which god, exactly, but you can be damned sure it’s NOT the one you and I are accustomed to worshipping . . . . ”

“You . . . met the man?” Ben asked.

“No . . . something for which I’m heartily thankful, believe me,” Paris replied soberly, with deep, heartfelt sincerity. “I did see his face once . . . on a wanted poster in the sheriff’s office in a little town up in Montana. I was working for the doctor at the time, a new man, not much more than a boy actually, fresh out of some medical school back east. Nurse . . . midwife . . . physical therapist . . . secretary, bookkeeper, HOUSEkeeper, occasional babysitter . . . you name it, I did it, if it was good honest work. But, once again, I digress.

“On the surface of things, the parson was such an innocuous looking man, with a dandified kind of a name t’ boot . . . but the look in his eyes . . . . ” She shuddered, then hurriedly crossed herself, murmuring a quick prayer for protection. “Oh, Ben . . . that man was nothing less than . . . than the very devil incarnate himself!”

“Was this parson wanted for murder?” Ben asked.

Paris’ jaw dropped. “Y-Yes . . . . ” she stammered, her voice barely audible. “How . . . how in the world did you know?”

“I met Parson Lewis, Paris,” Ben said through clenched teeth, his eyebrows coming together to form a dark, angry scowl. “I also met the man he’s no doubt accused of murdering . . . and both of his wives.”

“Wives?” Paris queried, with eyebrow slightly upraised.

“They were Mormon,” Ben explained. “Polygamy is part of their religious practice v and, I believe, was necessary for their survival. I . . . didn’t get the chance to know Heber Clawson and his wives, Susanna and Elizabeth, very well, but from what little I DID see of them . . . they were good people, Paris, and the three of them were very happy together.”

“The wanted poster said the parson was wanted for murdering a man and his wife,” Paris said. “Were you there when . . . . ?”

“Joe was,” Ben replied. “Hoss and I . . . well, by the time we got there, Mister Clawson was already dead, and his wife, Elizabeth, dying as she struggled to give birth to their son.”

“Dear God!” Paris murmured, horrified.

“That . . . that so called parson . . . . ” Ben angrily, contemptuously spat the word. “ . . . and another man incited the people of Beehive to hunt down the Clawsons, and my son, Joe, too . . . as if . . . as if they were wild animals. Heber Clawson was shot in the back and his wife, Elizabeth . . . her death came about as the result of being very close to her time to give birth, the chase, and I imagine, fear of what would happen to them all if the parson and the good citizens of Beehive caught up with them.” vi

“What happened to the baby and the other wife?” Paris asked, numb with shock and horror.

“I heard they eventually went to the Mormon community in Utah,” Ben replied.

“I . . . hope Susanna Clawson and the child found peace and safety among their own,” Paris murmured softly.

“I’m sure they did,” Ben said.

“Mam and Da were . . . well, let’s just say they weren’t happy to say the least about John, in their own minds, turning Protestant,” Paris continued. “Although Mam became Catholic when she and Da married, I don’t remember either one of them being much in the way of churchgoers. But they considered themselves staunch Catholics nonetheless, especially Da . . . and given all that they suffered because of it, I know Da would have seen John’s decision to cast in his lot with . . . this ‘parson’ . . . . ” again, she grimaced, “as the absolute worst act of betrayal against family . . . against the church . . . and I daresay against Mother Ireland herself.”

“Yes . . . Gerald McKenna WOULD have seen John’s decision to follow Parson Lewis in that way,” Ben agreed. “We can be thankful for one thing, however . . . . ”

“What’s that?” Paris asked.

“Parson Meriwether Lewis has been safely locked behind bars at the California State Prison for the better part of the last . . . six, or seven years now,” Ben said.

“I for one hope to heaven the warden had the bloody good sense to throw away the key.”

“Amen to THAT!” Ben wholeheartedly agreed. “I’ve never heard anyone spew out such venomous hatred and bitterness from a church pulpit in my life. I earnestly hope and pray I never do again. Ever.”

“I thank the Good Lord I’ve never had that dubious pleasure,” Paris declared with a wry roll of her eyes heaven ward. “I’m pretty sure I heard more of that so-called parson’s theology than I ever wanted to hear out of John’s mouth when I saw him in Saint Jo. The names he called me--- ” She broke off abruptly, and quickly averted her eyes. “I . . . I can’t bring myself to repeat them, Ben.”

“Did those names refer to the time you spent here . . . with me and my two younger boys?” Ben asked, noting the flush of deep crimson on her cheeks.

Paris nodded, unable to speak or look him in the face.

“Paris . . . please. Look at me?”

She swallowed nervously, then slowly, reluctantly lifted her head. The way she clutched the edge of her blanket and held it tight to her chest . . . the lower lip, gently clamped between her teeth to hide its trembling, and most especially the way she looked up at him through those enormous big blue eyes . . . she looked for all the world like a naughty little girl, who had just been caught with her hand deep in the cookie jar . . . .

. . . or sitting near the edge of the lake, with fishing pole in hand, on a beautiful spring morning, which also happened to be a school day . . . .

Ben once again saw Stacy’s face on that particular day, as she turned and peered up at him with the same great big blue eyes, filled with astonishment and a healthy measure of trepidation, biting her lower lip, as Paris did now . . . .

“How like . . . yet so very unlike,” Ben silently marveled. “Both so strong, so stubbornly independent, yet so terribly vulnerable.” He remembered Paris as a young woman, vivacious, passionate, and full of life . . . just like Stacy. It saddened him deeply to see her as she was now, a frail, sickly woman, aged long before her time, her spirit crushed, her zest for life gone, almost as if it had never been.

“Paris,” Ben said gently, speaking aloud, “if you never . . . ever . . . listen to another word I say, I want you to hear this.” He paused briefly, then continued. “I . . . can well imagine what John must have said to you . . . given what the two of us shared. I don’t need to know his exact words . . . and to tell you the honest truth, I don’t really WANT to know . . . because they’re lies. We LOVED each other, Paris. We DID. . . . and though I regret very much the way things ended between us, I feel no shame in the love we shared. Neither should YOU.”

“Oh, Ben . . . Ben, I . . . I’m so sorry, I— ” Paris sobbed.

Without thinking, Ben reached out and gathered her into his arms, as he would his sons and his daughter. Paris hesitated, then slipped her arms around his waist. Her head automatically dropped down onto his shoulder, and she gave release to a small measure of the grief, the anger, and the guilt she had carried around inside of her for so long. As he sat there, gently holding her, he felt the intervening years between the last time he saw Paris McKenna and the present moment, fall away. All of the bewilderment, the anger, and the deep, profound grief she had left in the wake of her abrupt departure had evaporated, like a drop of water on the dry desert sands, at the hottest part of the day.

“Don’t, Paris . . . please don’t,” Ben murmured softly. “Whatever your reasons for leaving . . . they don’t matter. Not now. Not anymore.”

Her heart soared upon hearing his words of forgiveness, then, in less than the space of a heartbeat, plunged to the agonizing depths of hopeless despair. It would be so easy to fall in love with him once again, and though she desired that more than anything in the world, she could never allow that to happen. A ghost stood between them, and would always stand between them. Her name was Rose Miranda.

The following morning, at Gerard’s Boarding House in Carson City, Joe woke very early to the heady aromas of bacon frying in the skillet and coffee, freshly made. He sat up and stretched. “Candy?! Hey, Candy . . . . ”

Candy snorted softly, then rolled over, pointedly turning his back to Joe.

“Candy.”

“ . . . uunnngghh?”

“Come on, Candy . . . wake up,” Joe urged. “I think breakfast is almost ready.”

Candy snorted again, louder this time, then drifted off.

“Alright, Buddy . . . YOU asked for it,” Joe muttered, as he climbed out of bed. He grabbed hold of his down pillow, then stepped over to the side of the bed Candy occupied. “Alright, Mister Canaday . . . up ‘n at ‘em.” With that, he cheerfully smacked his sleeping traveling companion square in the chest with the pillow in hand.

“Unngh?!” Candy snorted again, as his eyes flew wide open.

“Rise and shine, Fella,” Joe greeted Candy with a bright, sunny smile.

“Unnnhh!” Candy groaned, as he reached down and pulled the covers up over his head.

“Oh no you don’t!” Joe murmured, as he tore the covers away. “Time to get up, Candy. I smell breakfast cooking downstairs . . . and I want to get it while it’s still hot.”

“Can I ask ya a really STUPID question?” Candy groused, sparing no energy to conceal his displeasure.

“If you make it quick.”

“Who are YOU . . . and what have you done with my friend, Joe Cartwright?!”

“That was TWO stupid questions,” Joe quipped, “and the answer to both of ‘em is . . . I AM the real, honest-t’-gosh Joe Cartwright. Now up ‘n at ‘em.”

“Since when did YOU become such an early bird?”

“I turned over a new leaf this morning,” Joe snapped. “This Mister Hilliard’s already given us the slip once, be it intentional or mere coincidence . . . and if HE happens to be a firm believer in ‘early to bed and early to rise,’ well . . . he could be up, washed and dressed, hot footing it to the stage depot, with bags packed even as I speak.” He paused briefly. “Candy, please,” he begged. “We can’t let him get away again.”

“Alright,” Candy ruefully sighed as he threw aside his bedclothes . . . .

“Good morning, Mrs. Gerard,” Joe greeted the owner and manager of Gerard’s Boarding House with a big smile.

“ ‘Mornin’, Boys,” Mrs. Gerard chirped, looking from Joe to Candy, then back once more to Joe. “G’won in the dining room, and sit down. Breakfast will be ready in a jiffy.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Joe said with a cheerful smile.

Candy grunted, then yawned.

“Don’t mind my friend here,” Joe said affably. He placed one arm around Candy’s neck, and patted his cheek as if to revive or sober him up. “He’s no good in the morning, until he gets at least two cups of coffee in him.”

“G’won in and sit down, then,” Mrs. Gerard cheerfully shooed them out of the kitchen. “I’ll bring your coffee right in.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Joe said. He took Candy by the elbow and ushered him out of the kitchen.

“Sarah!” Mrs. Gerard stepped to the back stairs and called for her housekeeper, Sarah Perkins.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Please take the coffee on the stove out to the two gents waiting in the dining room. You’ll find clean mugs on the table.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Sarah murmured, as she entered the kitchen from the backstairs. She grabbed a potholder and removed the coffee pot from the stove. “ ‘Mornin’, Gentlemen,” she greeted Joe and Candy politely, upon entering the dining room. “Good strong coffee fresh and hot.”

Candy yawned again, as Joe picked up their mugs. He placed the first mug Sarah had filled down on the table in front of Candy, and kept the second for himself.

“You’ll find the sugar on the table,” Sarah said. “If you’d like milk, I’ll fetch it from the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Ma’am, but I like mine black,” Joe said.

“Me, too,” Candy murmured softly.

“So what brings you fellas to Carson City?” Sarah asked.

Joe took a big gulp from the mug in hand. “We heard that a buddy of ours was passing through,” he said.

“Oh yeah? What’s his name?”

“You probably never heard of him,” Candy said, with a big yawn. “He’s from New York.”

“Mister Hilliard?” Sarah queried.

“Yeah, that’s him!” Joe said, laboring valiantly to keep his voice calm and even. “Is he . . . by chance . . . still around?”

Sarah shook her head. “He left town late yesterday afternoon,” she replied. “On a horse from Baker’s Livery. You guys army buddies of his?”

“You might say that,” Candy said evasively.

“Did he say where he was headed?” Joe asked.

“I remember Mrs. Gerard saying something about him meeting a business associate of his down at the Comstock Hotel yesterday morning,” Sarah replied. “Other than that . . . . ” She shrugged. “Sorry.”

“It’s not YOUR fault,” Candy offered kindly.

“That’s a shame, you guys missin’ him so close,” Sarah said ruefully. “Tell you what. I’ll ask Mrs. Gerard. Maybe he told her where he was headed, after meeting his associate at the hotel.”

“Thank you,” Candy said. “We’d appreciate that very much.”

Sarah turned heel and left the dining room.

“I don’t believe this, Candy,” Joe groaned sotto voce. “We actually missed that guy by a few measly hours.”

“All is not yet lost,” Candy said, lowering his voice. “We may still catch up to him, if he happened to tell Mrs. Gerard where he was headed.”

Mrs. Gerard herself entered the dining room a few moments later, carrying a bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs and a plate of bacon. “Help yourself, Gents,” she said, placing the food on the table. “Sarah’ll be right in with fried potatoes and biscuits.” She paused. “I understand the two of you are army buddies of Mister Hilliard’s.”

“My friend and I heard he was here,” Candy said, favoring Mrs. Gerard with an affable grin, “and we thought it might be nice to stop in and say hello.”

“I’m afraid you boys missed him,” Mrs. Gerard said sympathetically.

“He didn’t happen to mention where he might be headed, did he?” Candy asked.

“Sorry, Boys,” Mrs. Gerard shook her head.

“Oh well, it WAS a spur of the moment kind of thing,” Candy shrugged, while Joe sat next to him seething with angry frustration. “Maybe next time.”

“You boys eat up now,” Mrs. Gerard admonished them.

“I could just scream,” Joe muttered through clenched teeth, after Mrs. Gerard had returned to the kitchen, and Sarah had come and gone, leaving the promised fried potatoes and biscuits behind on the table.

“Don’t scream, eat!” Candy said in a low voice. “After breakfast, we’ll mosey on down to the Comstock Hotel and ask around. At the very least, we should turn up the name of the business associate he came to meet . . . . ”

“ . . . Candy and I stopped at the Comstock Hotel, on our way to the stage depot,” Joe recounted in a melancholy tone for his father that night. He sat, perched on the edge of his father’s desk, his head bowed, shoulders slumped, and arms folded tight across his chest. Ben sat behind the desk, with folded hands resting atop its polished surface, listening intently to his youngest son’s report. The grandfather clock, over beside the front door, had chimed the quarter hour past midnight a few moments before.

“The hotel clerk remembered Zachary Hilliard,” Joe continued. “It seems he met with a guest at the hotel . . . a Mister Smith.”

“No first name?”

Joe wearily shook his head.

“You checked the register?”

“Of COURSE I checked the register, Pa,” Joe snapped, giving vent to the volatile emotions churning within, a potent mixture of worry for his young sister, angry frustration over having missed his intended quarry, and plain and simple fatigue. “The man signed in as Mister Smith. Period. No first name, no middle name, no initials. Just . . . plain . . . Mister Smith.”

A strained silence fell between father and son.

“Sorry,” Ben murmured contritely. “I didn’t mean to imply— ”

“I know, Pa,” Joe replied, equally contrite. “We’re BOTH worried about her.”

“Were you able to find out where Mister Hilliard was headed, after concluding his business with Mister Smith?” Ben asked.

Joe sighed, and dolefully shook his head. “The housekeeper at the boarding house where he stayed told Candy and me he went to Baker’s Livery. We stopped by there to see what we could find out, but the man in charge told us he had three customers day before yesterday: the deputy sheriff and the school teacher rented a horse and buggy for an afternoon drive and a scruffy looking old geezer . . . HIS words, Pa, not mine . . . who paid cash for a horse the owner of the livery had decided to put out to pasture. That was it.”

“Could be this Mister Hilliard changed his mind and went to another livery,” Ben quietly observed with a frown. “How about the man he went to see?”

“Mister Smith?”

Ben nodded.

“The desk clerk at the Comstock Hotel remembered Mister Smith well enough to give us a description of him,” Joe replied. “Said he was kind of on the tall side, skinny as a rail, with dark hair and blue eyes. He also walked with a very pronounced limp and he was a real snappy dresser.”

Ben dutifully wrote down the description Joe gave of Zachary Hilliard’s business partner on the back of an empty envelope.

“I’m . . . afraid . . . that’s ALL we got, Pa,” Joe concluded with a doleful sigh. “The desk clerk told Candy and me that Mister Smith checked out yesterday afternoon . . . and from there, he, too, disappears into thin air.”

“Did you check with the stage lines?” Ben asked.

Joe nodded glumly. “There were about half a dozen passengers on the stage that left Carson City at ten o’clock yesterday morning, and a fella named Grant on the two o’clock stage bound for Virginia City,” he replied. “But there was no one by the name of Smith or Hilliard listed.”

An uneasy silence settled over Ben and his youngest son.

“Pa, what do we do now?” Joe asked at length.

“First thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to ride into town and pay a visit to the livery stable where Mister Hilliard rented that rig for his trip to Carson City,” Ben said slowly. “If he left Carson City yesterday morning, after his meeting with Mister Smith . . . . ”

“ . . . then . . . he ought to have returned that horse and buggy to Grainger’s Livery some time today,” Joe finished with a feral grin.

“If not today, then almost certainly tomorrow morning, since he’s no doubt paying by the day,” Ben added. “It might be a good idea to ask Roy if he’ll send a wire to the sheriff over in Carson City. Perhaps HE can ask around . . . starting with the livery stables. If Zachary Hilliard didn’t go to Bakers’ Livery, he had to have gone to another. Simple as that.”

“ . . . AND if Mister Smith didn’t take the stage, perhaps he ALSO went to one of the other liveries.”

“Unless he remained in Carson City . . . staying somewhere other than the Comstock Hotel,” Ben said slowly.

“Why?” Joe queried with a bewildered frown. “What would be the point?”

“It would be an excellent way for a man to cover his tracks,” Ben said grimly.

Joe shuddered as an ice-cold shiver ran down the entire length of his spine. “The only reason a man would have for covering his tracks is . . . he’s expecting someone to come after him.”

“That’s right.”

“Meaning . . . whoever this Zachary Hilliard is . . . chances are real good that his intentions aren’t in our best interests?”

Ben nodded.

“It doesn’t make any sense, Pa,” Joe said.

“That someone might be out to harm us?” Ben queried. “I’ve made my share of enemies as well as friends over the years, Son . . . we ALL have. Surely you haven’t forgotten that.”

“Of course not,” Joe hotly defended himself, “but why The Kid? She was an orphan, for heaven’s sake, with no family . . . or even memories of family. What possible reason could anyone have for harming HER?!”

“Anyone who knows us well enough knows that by harming one of us, he’s harmed all of us,” Ben explained. “Think about it, Son. How would YOU feel, if someone hurt your sister . . . your brothers . . . Hop Sing . . . or me, for that matter, in revenge for something you did or something he thought you did?”

“Point taken,” Joe said soberly. “Pa?”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t I go into town tomorrow?” Joe suggested. “That way, I could give Sheriff Coffee a first hand account on what Candy and I found out in Carson City . . . or perhaps more to the point, what we DIDN’T find out in Carson City.”

Ben winced against the self-reproach he heard in his youngest son’s voice. “You did your best, Joe. You and Candy both! I KNOW you did,” he said quietly. He reached over and gave Joe’s shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“Thanks, Pa.”

“When you go into town tomorrow, ask Roy if he’s gotten any replies back from the wires he sent to the police department in New York City, and the Pinkerton Agency.”

“I will,” Joe promised. He eased himself off of his perch on the edge of the desk, and stretched. “I’m gonna turn in, Pa. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow, and I’m thinking I’d like to get an early start.”

“Good idea, Son,” Ben agreed. “I’m coming up right behind you. Oh . . . . ”

Joe paused mid-stride and turned. “Yeah, Pa?”

“Do you know whether or not Eddie Jones is back?”

“Back?” Joe echoed, mildly surprised. “Back from where?”

“He asked for the day off today,” Ben explained, as he and Joe started up the stairs.

“Eddie?!”

“Um hmm,” Ben replied. “Seems he got word a couple of old friends were passing through . . . . ”

Joe grinned. “Well whaddya know?” he murmured softly, as he and his father stepped onto the top landing. “I’m glad t’ hear the man’s not completely alone in the world . . . but I can’t tell ya whether or not he’s back yet.”

“Pa?”

Ben was surprised to find Stacy, still dressed, seated in the easy chair in his bedroom, with her injured foot propped up on a small footstool, borrowed from the room that had once belonged to Adam.

“Stacy Cartwright . . . what are you doing up? You should have been in bed hours ago,” he admonished her gently, as he seated himself on the edge of his bed.

“I can’t sleep,” she replied.

“Is it your ankle?” Ben asked.

“No,” Stacy shook her head. “Pa . . . . ”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“What’s going on? I’ve been wanting to ask you ever since you came home from town yesterday afternoon, but never got the chance. I figured tonight . . . if I waited long enough . . . . ”

“It’s late, Young Woman,” Ben said quietly, “and YOU need your rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Pa, I . . . I KNOW I’m not blood kin to you, Hoss, and Joe, but I AM still part of this family . . . right?”

Her question took him completely by surprise. “Of course you are,” Ben declared, with an emphatic nod of his head.

“Well . . . you’re always telling Hoss and Joe that whatever the problem is . . . we’ll face it together . . . as a family,” Stacy continued, her mouth, her chin set with fierce determination. “Well . . . how can I help you guys face whatever’s going on if I don’t even KNOW what’s going on?!”

“Stacy, I promise you . . . everything’s going to be all right,” Ben said earnestly. “In fact, I fully expect to have matters cleared up within the next few days.”

“Pa, I’m fifteen years old,” she said indignantly. “Next birthday . . . or the day we celebrate as my birthday . . . I’ll be SIXteen. I’m NOT a little kid anymore.”

“No . . . you’re not,” Ben admitted reluctantly.

“ . . . and if you’re worried about scaring me, I have to tell ya . . . knowing that something’s going on, but NOT knowing WHAT, exactly . . . scares me a whole lot more.”

“You . . . have me there,” Ben reluctantly allowed, knowing all too well how easily the imagination could concoct a story a hundred times worse than the plain and simple truth. He closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. “Last night, Candy told me there was a man in town . . . a stranger, who spent three days asking folks about our family . . . YOU in particular,” he began.

Stacy frowned. “Me?!” she queried, completely taken aback.

Ben nodded.

“Why in the world would anyone be asking questions about me?”

“I don’t know right now, but one way or another I intend to find out,” Ben said.

“Is THAT why you went into town yesterday morning?”

Ben nodded. “I found out the man’s name is Zachary Hilliard,” he continued, “and that he’s from New York City.”

“Zachary Hilliard,” Stacy said the name slowly. She, then, looked up at her father and shook her head. “Never heard of him.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“He could be family, you know.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean YOUR family.”

Her frown deepened. “Are you saying he could be one of the people I was with before Silver Moon?”

Ben nodded.

“Pa, let’s get one thing straight,” she said earnestly, her intense blue eyes meeting his dark brown ones. “You, Hoss, Joe, Hop Sing, and Adam . . . even though I haven’t met him yet . . . YOU guys are my family. Before you, Silver Moon, and the tribe of her father, Chief Soaring Eagle. No one else!” Her tone of voice was firm, resolute.

“You’re not even curious?” Ben asked.

“No,” Stacy said emphatically. “They never came for me, Pa . . . after all the time the commander out at Fort Charlotte spent trying to find them . . . they NEVER came. If . . . if it hadn’t been for YOU guys, I would’ve been sent out to Ohio with that . . . that horrible monster from hell.” Her voice was shaking, and her eyes gleaming with the watery brightness of unshed tears.

Ben silently patted the space on the bed next to him, then held out his arms. Without hesitation, Stacy rose. She paused just long enough to steady herself before crossing the short distance between the easy chair and bed, where she collapsed heavily down on the edge of the bed next to her father. Ben gathered his daughter in his arms and held her close.

Stacy buried her head against his shoulder, and clung tenaciously, as if for dear life. “I . . . I won’t g-go with them, Pa,” she sobbed, angry, fearful, and grief stricken. “I . . . I WON’T. I d-don’t care what ANYONE says— ”

“It’s all right, Stacy . . . you don’t have to,” Ben said, his own voice breaking.

“I don’t?” she queried, lifting her head, so that she might look him in the face.

“No,” Ben said gently. “Mister Milburn told me that because it’s been going on five years now . . . AND because you’re fifteen going on sixteen years old, the choice would be YOURS.”

“Good!” Stacy exhaled an audible sigh of relief, as her head came to rest heavily upon her father’s shoulder once again. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I meant what I said about you guys being my family.”

“ . . . and you’d better not ever forget it, either, Young Woman,” Ben declared, as he hugged her closer. “If anyone ever comes and tries to take you away from us . . . they’ll have to go through me, your brothers, AND Hop Sing.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

“I’m . . . I’m holding you to that, Pa.”

“You’d better.” On impulse, Ben placed a kiss on the top of her head.

“I love you, Pa.”

Ben smiled. “I love you, too, Stacy. You . . . feeling a little bit better about things?”

“A LOT better, now that I know that if this Zachary Hilliard IS one of the people I was with before . . . he can’t take me away from you . . . not now . . . not ever,” Stacy said. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“This Zachary Hilliard couldn’t have had anything to do with my saddle . . . could he?” she asked with a dark, angry scowl.

“I don’t know,” Ben said gravely. “That Zachary Hilliard WAS in Virginia City asking questions at the same time someone cut the cinch strap of your saddle could very well be a coincidence.”

“But . . . you don’t believe it is, do you.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

“I can’t dismiss the possibility of a connection between your saddle and Zachary Hilliard until I know more about him,” Ben said quietly.

“How long will that be?”

“As I said earlier, I hope to have matters cleared up within the next few days,” Ben replied. “Until then . . . I need you to do me a big favor.”

“What?”

Ben took a deep breath and steeled himself for an argument. “I hope you can forgive your worried pa for being overly protective, but I don’t want you going out by yourself.”

Stacy opened her mouth to protest, but the anxious look on his face stopped her cold. “O-Ok, Pa,” she acquiesced, “of course I won’t be able to ride Blaze Face for the next few days anyway . . . ‘cause of my ankle.”

“That’s true,” Ben agreed.

“I guess I can live with that,” Stacy decided.

“Good. You ready for sleep now?”

Stacy’s reply was a nod of her head, followed by a big yawn. She placed both hands down on the bed and pushed herself from sitting to standing, wincing against the painful protest of stiff and sore muscles.

Ben leaned over and retrieved the cane, he had given her, from its place on the floor along side the easy chair. “You want me to see you down the hall?” he asked, as he handed her the cane.

“Thanks for offering, but I can manage,” she said, yawning again. “Good night, Pa.”

“Good night, Stacy. See you in the morning.”

End of Part 2

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