The Wedding
Part 3
By Kathleen T. Berney

“Good evenin’ t’ ya, Boys.” Mick O’Flynn sauntered up to the bar, and took his place on the other side of Hoss. He silently studied Hoss and Apollo for a moment, then shook his head. “You fellas look low enough t’ walk upright under t’ belly of a rattler.”

Hoss nodded and tipped his hat by way of greeting. “Apollo ‘n me . . . we’ve gotta problem , Mister O’Flynn,” he sighed. “A BIG problem!” Suddenly, a smile appeared on his face. “Say, Mister O’Flynn, maybe ya c’n help us.”

Mick shrugged. “I c’n try, Hoss,” he said.

Sam came with Apollo Nikolas’ glass of whiskey and placed it on the bar before him. “ ‘Evenin’, Mister O’Flynn. Beer?”

“If you please,” Mick nodded solemnly.

“Another glass of whiskey for me, too, please,” Apollo said.

“You ain’t drunk that, Apollo,” Sam hastened to point out.

“By the time you come back with Mister O’Flynn’s beer I WILL have,” Apollo said.

Sam nodded and moved off.

“Now then, Boys, what’s worryin’ t’ two o’ YOU?” Mick asked turning his attention back to Hoss and Apollo.

“Well, it’s like this, Mister O’Flynn . . . . ”

Suddenly, a young patron, wearing a white hat down low over his face, bumped into Mick O’Flynn from behind. Mick lost his balance and fell hard against the bar. He groaned softly then crumpled to the floor.

Apollo watched as the young man made his way to the door. “That guy’s sure walking funny,” he remarked with a bewildered frown, “kinda bowlegged almost.”

“Never mind him,” Hoss said tersely. “We need t’ see t’ Mister O’Flynn here. He could be hurt bad.” He and Apollo knelt down on either side of the fallen man.

“H-Hoss . . . . ? Mister, uuhhh . . . Mister . . . .?”

“Nikolas, Sir. Apollo Nikolas.”

“Did t’ pair o’ ya know that y’ were TWINS?”

“We’d better get ‘im over to Doc Martin’s fast,” Apollo murmured, his dark eyes round with shocked horror.

“Don’t bother, Apollo.” It was Sam, the bartender. “ ‘By nightfall, he’s more often than not ALWAYS seein’ double. Just help him up to his feet, if you would.”

“Sure,” Hoss nodded. He took Mick O’Flynn by the left shoulder, Apollo took him by the right. Together, with ease, they lifted the elderly con man out from under the bar counter and stood him up between the two of them.

“Thank y’ kindly, Boys, I’m very much obliged,” Mick said with a lopsided smile.

“You’re bettin’ book fell outta your pocket, Mister O’Flynn,” Hoss said as he bent down to retrieve it.

“My accounting ledger, Hoss, please,” Mick corrected him loftily.

“Alright your accountin’ ledger, then,” Hoss muttered as he retrieved the black book lying open on the floor. He stood up, then glanced down at the book lying open in his hands.

Two entries caught his eye:

“Twenty dollars the Wedding of Matt Wilson and Colleen O’Hanlan will NOT take place. Another twenty dollars that Colleen will take up with Apollo Nikolas and Matt will get back together with Clarissa Starling,” Hoss read the entry in silence. “Signed Joseph Francis Cartwright!”

The entry directly below came as a very stunning surprise. “One dollar the Wedding of the Century will be . . . . ” Hoss whistled and shook his head. “Talk about your long shots,” he murmured. Upon seeing the NAME of the person placing that particular bet, his jaw dropped. “Stacy Rose Cartwright.”

“Well whaddya know!” Hoss slapped Mick O’Flynn’s accounting ledger closed. A big smile spread slowly across his face. “My li’l sister’s a genius!”

“Wha’ was that?” Mick demanded.

“Nothin’, Mister O’Flynn, nothin’ at all,” Hoss said, handing the man his accounting ledger. “Apollo, you come on with me. We got us a few things t’ talk about.”

“That’ll be fifty cents, Hoss,” Sam the bartender said, placing a full mug of beer in front of Mick O’Flynn. “Apollo, yours is a buck fifty.”

Hoss and Apollo paid their bill, then retired, drinks in hand to a secluded table in the back of the room.

“Mister O’Flynn! Mister O’Flynn!”

Mick O’Flynn glanced up sharply from his place at the bar, near the entrance, in time to see Barney Murphy stepping lively past the swinging doors. “Over here, Barney,” he called out, waving.

“Mister O’Flynn, you’ll never guess what?” Barney said, stepping up to the bar.

“What is it I’ll never guess what, now?” Mick asked.

“Sheriff Coffee’s going to be very busy this evening, very, very busy indeed,” Barney reported with a big, almost triumphant grin.

“Oh? Doin’ what?” Mick said. He lifted the mug to his lips and finished the remaining beer.

“He’s havin’ supper with the Widow Danvers!” Barney said. “I heard him tellin’ Sam before he left.”

Mick shuddered. “They ought to call that old battle axe the BLACK Widow Danvers,” he said, feeling a pang of sorrow for the good sheriff of Virginia City.

“I saw her when she invited the good sheriff to supper this mornin’,” Barney said, his eyes round with horror. “Ach, Mister O’Flynn, it was a horrible, blood curdlin’ sight to behold it was! The Widow Danvers was actually hidin’ out in an alley lyin’ in wait for the poor man, yes she was.” He paused, melodramatically. “She pounced on him, she did, fairly leapin’ from the shadows like a stalkin’ puma.”

“Holy Mary Mother of God,” Mick murmured, as he quickly crossed himself with trembling hand. “So the Widow Danvers has set her cap for Sheriff Coffee, eh?”

“Oh no,” Barney shook his head. “I overheard her talkin’ t’ other day with Mrs. O’Hanlan . . . . ”

Mick O’Flynn gasped. “Saints preserve us,” he muttered, crossing himself once again. “May the Holy and Blessed Saints preserve us all! If ever a deadly pair of harpies existed, there could be none deadlier that Myra Danvers and Myrna O’Hanlan.”

“It seems the Widow Danvers has set her cap for Ben Cartwright,” Barney said.

“BEN CARTWRIGHT?!” Mick cried out, as he turned to gaze upon his partner and protégé through eyes round with astonishment. “Agggh! Get ON with ya!”

“It’s the God’s honest truth!” Barney passionately declared.

“After t’ way Ben Cartwright ripped that schemin’ harpy up one side ‘n back down t’ other?!” Mick queried, shaking his head in utter disbelief. He had heard at least a dozen versions of the tale, each more colorful, exhilarating, and bloodthirsty than the last. What he wouldn’t give to have been a fly on the wall that day . . . .

“The Widow Danvers told Mrs. O’Hanlan and the bank president’s wife, too! . . . that Ben Cartwright was “so-ooooo very masterful . . . . ” this last Barney delivered with a scathing impersonation of Myra Danvers voice that brought amused smiles from the men standing nearest him and Mick O’Flynn at the bar, “ . . . with this . . . this . . . real sappy look on her face.” He grimaced.

Mick groaned loudly. “I can’t say as I had much likin’ for the LATE Mister High-‘n-Mighty Ben Cartwright, may t’ poor man rest in peace, but no one . . . NO ONE . . . be he man, woman, child, or mule . . . deserves t’ die so horrible a death!”

“Amen,” Barney piously intoned.

“But if t’ good Widow Danvers has set her cap for Ben Cartwright . . . why in t’ world is she takin’ supper with Sheriff Coffee?” Mick wondered aloud with a puzzled frown.

“Because Sheriff Coffee ‘n Ben Cartwright are good friends, and have been for a long time,” Barney replied. “I heard herself tell THAT to Mrs. O’Hanlan, too.”

“So . . . the Black Widow Spider’s out t’ pick the sheriff’s brains for t’ way t’ Ben Cartwright’s heart,” Mick mused with a shudder.

Barney nodded.

“ . . . an’ knowin’ the good Widow Danvers as I do, she’ll be havin’ Sheriff Coffee for supper . . . as the main course. May HE rest in peace, too.”

“ ‘Evenin’, Mister O’Flynn . . . Barney,” Sam greeted both affably. “Another beer, Mister O’Flynn?”

“Yes, please,” Mick answered, handing his empty mug back to the bartender.

“What would you like, Barney?”

“Beer, if you please.”

“Comin’ up,” Sam moved off to fill their orders.

“I can’t understand you one bit, Mister O’Flynn,” the younger man said, shaking his head in utter bewilderment.

“What’s not to understand, Barney?”

“You feelin’ sorry for Ben Cartwright now that he’s got the Widow Danvers hot on his trail,” Barney queried, looking over at his mentor as if the man had lost every ounce of good sense he may have ever possessed. “I’d’ve thought you’d see it as him gettin’ his comeuppance, especially after that incident with all them Chinese noodles.”

“Ah, the infamous Lo Mein Affair,” Mick said, as Sam quietly served up their mugs of beer.

Barney nodded.

“There’s a lot of circumstantial evidence an’ rumor, mind,” Mick said, “but, not a shred of cold hard proof at all at all of ANY of the Cartwrights bein’ directly connected to that fracas. Even if there was NO one deserves havin’ a gorgon like the Widow Danvers on his tail.”

“Mick?”

Mick O’Flynn turned and saw Macon Fitzhugh standing directly behind him.

“I done brung ya m’ church key,” he said, placing it into Mick O’Flynn’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you, in the name o’ free enterprisin’ business folk such as m’self,” Mick said, accepting the key. “Come along, Barney, m’ boy! You an’ I have a lot o’ work t’ do.”

“Just a moment, Mister O’Flynn.” It was Sam. “That’ll be a buck for the two beers.”

“Of course . . . Hey!” Mick gasped, as he fumbled through the back pocket of his pants. “Me wallet’s gone!”

“I need to ask ya one question,” Hoss said, as he and Apollo seated themselves at one of the more secluded tables lining the back wall of the public room. “If you had the chance would YOU be willin’ to take Matt Wilson’s place as the groom day after t’morrow?”

“I’d do it in a heartbeat, Hoss,” Apollo declared passionately. “You suggesting we kidnap Matt and tie him up somewhere ‘til the wedding’s over?”

“Only as a last resort,” Hoss said. “I was more thinkin’ along the lines o’ gettin’ Matt Wilson ‘n Clarissa Starling back together.”

Apollo’s face fell. “I . . . I’m . . . afraid I put the kabosh on THAT idea,” he sighed dolefully.

“What d’ya mean, Apollo?” Hoss asked, a bewildered frown knotting his brow.

Apollo ruefully recounted what had transpired earlier between Matt and Clarissa, and his own part in things.

“That ain’t necessarily a bad thing,” Hoss said smiling. “It tells me Matt must still care an awful lot about Clarissa, or else he wouldn’t be here tryin’ t’ explain things.”

“You have a point there, Hoss,” Apollo murmured thoughtfully.

“ . . . an’ accordin’ to the scuttlebutt goin’ around, Matt ‘n Clarissa were talkin’ about their own weddin’ b’fore he an’ Colleen got themselves back together,” Hoss continued.

“So how do we get Matt and CLARISSA back together?”

“That’s what we gotta figure out.”

“I was afraid of that!”

“Dadburn it, Apollo . . . don’t you DARE start losin’ hope ‘n getting’ all weak in the knees NOW! We can DO this, if ‘n the two of us really put on our thinkin’ caps.”

“ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three,” Ben and Stacy chanted together in unison, as father led daughter through the basic steps of the waltz. After supper, Ben and Hoss had moved the furniture from the center of the living room area, creating an ample dance floor. Now Adam sat behind the desk, with an ice pack pressed to his nose, while Teresa perched on its edge, and watched the dancing lesson progress with interest.

“Very good, Stacy,” Ben said with a smile. “Now let’s try it again WITHOUT you watching your feet.”

“WITHOUT watching my feet?” Stacy gulped, not sure she was ready for this next step.

“You can do it, Stacy,” Teresa said with an encouraging smile.

“All you have to do is relax and follow my lead,” Ben said.

“OK, Pa, I’ll try,” Stacy said, not without trepidation.

“Now just relax, and . . . ONE, two, three,” Ben led her around the makeshift ballroom once again.

“ONE, two, three,” Stacy counted along with her father.

“Look up at me, not down at your feet,” Ben urged her gently. “ONE, two, three, ONE, two three . . . . ”

“ONE, two, three,” Stacy once again joined in the counting. Within a short time, she began to relax in spite of herself, and follow Ben’s lead.

“Hey, Little Sister, I think you’ve got it,” Adam declared with a broad smile.

“I do?” Stacy queried in genuine amazement. “Really?”

“Yes, you do,” Ben affirmed with a proud smile. He turned to his eldest. “Adam?”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“I think Stacy’s ready to try it with music,” Ben said. “Did I see a guitar case among your luggage?”

“Yes, you did, Pa,” Adam said, removing the ice pack from his nose. His nose was still red and swollen, causing his speech to be slightly nasal, and the blue-violet bruising around both eyes gave him the appearance of a masked raccoon.

“You sit still, Adam,” Teresa said rising. “I’LL go get it.”

Teresa went up the stairs, and returned a few moments later with her husband’s guitar, and several pages of sheet music. “Adam, you must be getting psychic as you approach middle age,” she remarked with a smile. “This piece you’ve been working on for the last six weeks is the perfect piece.” She handed Adam the sheet music.

“Ah yes,” Adam smiled, as he spread the sheets out on the desk before him.

Teresa handed him the guitar. Adam took a moment to make certain everything was in tune, then played the first notes of “The Blue Danube Waltz.” Teresa began to hum along.

Ben turned to his daughter, smiling. “Stacy, may I have this dance?”

“Yes, you may, Pa,” she agreed readily, returning his smile.

“ONE, two, three . . . . ” Ben counted softly.

“ONE, two, three . . . . ” Stacy’s thoughts drifted back to a spring day, long ago, when she still lived with the Paiute clan of Chief Soaring Eagle. She and some of the other young children had picked wild flowers growing in the meadow, where the tribe had set up camp, along the banks a creek, that flowed through the open sunlit meadow into deep forest. One of children had accidentally dropped her flowers into the swift running waters of the creek, swollen by winter melt from the surrounding mountains.

Borne aloft on the surface of the water, the flowers danced, moving and circling to the tempo set by the swift flowing currents. The counting faded to silence as the flow of melody slowly and steadily permeated her spirit, moving her body in time with its gentle rhythm, as the waters of the creek moved the flowers on that spring day, so long ago. Thus entranced, her awkward self-consciousness ebbed, leaving behind a confident, even graceful dancer.

“Music!” Ben exclaimed with a smile, when the last strains of the waltz faded into silence. “Stacy, that’s just what you needed to take you from someone who couldn’t take her eyes off her feet to the beautiful dancer you really are!”

“Thanks, Pa,” Stacy said, still reeling from the effects of the potent spell cast by the music. She turned and impulsively gave Ben a big, affectionate hug. “Having a good teacher helps a lot, too.”

“Well, I’ll be a pole cat’s first cousin!” It was Joe. He stood leaning against the front door, divested of jacket, gun belt, and hat, with his arms folded across his chest. He smiled. “The Kid actually dances as well as she fences!”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment, Baby Brother?” Adam demanded.

“Yes, it IS supposed to be a compliment,” Stacy said smiling. “This morning, after we finished with my fencing lessons, he told me I was a natural.”

Joe looked back at Adam with an annoying, smug cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, and thumbed up his nose.

Adam favored his youngest brother with a disdainful withering glare, then stuck out his tongue.

“I DO have an ulterior motive for teaching you how to dance, Young Woman,” Ben confessed.

“Oh? What’s that, Pa?”

“The Widow Danvers is going to be at The Wedding and the reception,” Ben said gravely. “I expect you to protect me by saving all your dances for me.”

Stacy frowned. “That no good, brazen bi---er, uhhh . . . HUSSY! . . . sure has HER nerve!” she said indignantly.

“Those were pretty strong words, Stacy . . . almost,” Teresa observed quietly. “What did this Widow Danvers do to deserve them?”

“That, Teresa, is a very long and very complicate story,” Ben said quietly.

“As for the words, I’m being overly polite,” Stacy said grimly. “Pa won’t let me use the words that say what I REALLY think of her.”

“In English OR in Paiute,” Ben added meaningfully.

“Not to mention a few Irish slang variations,” Joe added remembering a time when Colleen O’Hanlan had occasion to ream the ‘good’ Widow Danvers out royally, using words that would have made her once and former love, Apollo the sailor, blush.

“Don’t you worry about a thing, Pa,” Stacy said. “I won’t let Mrs. Danvers anywhere NEAR you. If she tries to cut in, I’ll tell her to go take a long walk off a of real short plank.”

“If that fails, Stacy can always follow through with that deadly right cross of hers,” Joe added.

“If it comes down to THAT, Stacy, I promise to protect YOU from Sheriff Coffee, after Mrs. Danvers presses charges,” Ben said with a smile.

“Pa . . . Adam . . . you mind if I borrow Stacy and Teresa?” Joe asked. “It’ll only be for a moment or two . . . . ”

“Would it be too much to ask you WHY you want to borrow Stacy add Teresa?” Adam asked, his eyes narrowing.

“To be up front and perfectly honest . . . yes! It WOULD be too much to ask,” Joe quipped with an affable grin. “Anyone ever tell you you’re overly suspicious, Oldest Brother?”

“If he is, he takes after his father,” Ben said.

“Oh yeah?” Joe asked. “How do you figure?”

“Because I’D like to know the answer to that question myself,” Ben replied.

Joe flinched away from the dark, suspicious glares his father and oldest brother leveled in his direction. “Alright, Pa . . . Adam . . . . ” he sighed, resigned, “if you MUST know . . . . ”

“We must!” Ben said very quietly.

Adam nodded in complete agreement.

“Stacy, Teresa, and I have decided to spend tomorrow night in town together, while the two of you and Hoss go to that bachelor party,” Joe said.

Teresa and Stacy briefly exchanged glances. This was the first time either one had even heard of such plans.

“We thought we’d have dinner, and maybe take in that poetry reading at the public library,” Joe blithely continued. “We just need to finalize some of the details.”

“I think that’s a fine idea,” Ben approved. “You three go ahead and talk. I need to sit down and rest a bit, anyway.”

“We’ll just step outside a minute,” Joe said, motioning for his sister and sister-in-law to follow.

“We’ll be right back,” Teresa said with a smile, as she and Stacy followed Joe out through the front door.

“Pa, Little Joe’s up to something,” Adam said, frowning. “You know that . . . don’t you?”

“Yes, I know,” Ben sighed. “Your youngest brother’s as transparent as a pane of glass. But, whatever it is, I’m more than confident that a mature, no nonsense woman like Teresa is more than able put a stop to any and all wild shenanigans Joe and Stacy are capable of dreaming up.”

Adam opened his mouth to speak, only to change his mind and close it completely. He didn’t quite have the heart to remind his father that he had only seen Teresa’s no nonsense maturity when she dealt with the shenanigans of young Benjy and Dio. Adam knew all too well that his loving wife Teresa had her own wild, playful side. Although he thoroughly enjoyed that part of her, he also knew that his wife was more than capable of leading Joe and Stacy into wild adventures the like of which neither had ever dreamed.

“What’s up, Grandpa?” Stacy turned and demanded, the instant they had put a discreet distance between themselves and the house. “This is the first WE’VE heard about any plans for Friday night.”

“Ssshhh! Would you keep your voice down?” Joe cast a quick, furtive glance in the direction of the house. “I now know for absolute certain where the O’Hanlans’ music box is,” he said, taking great care to keep his voice low.

“You do?” Stacy asked, sotto voce. “Where?”

“It’s in the clutches of one Miss Clarissa Starling,” Joe said with a dark scowl, remembering the beer she had dashed in his face earlier. “She’s got it hidden upstairs in her room at the Silver Dollar.”

“How do YOU know?” Stacy asked.

“I stopped by to see Lotus O’Toole this evening,” Joe explained.

“Who’s Lotus O’Toole?” Teresa asked.

“She’s the lady who offered to buy me a drink at the Silver Dollar this afternoon,” Joe replied. “She told me THEN that she had her SUSPICIONS about Clarissa having that music box in her possession, but she wasn’t sure. She told me she’d have more information tonight.”

“So THAT’S why you all of a sudden told Pa that you and Hoss were meeting Apollo Nikolas tonight,” Stacy said grinning. “I just hope you know what kind of dreadful example you’re setting for a sweet, innocent, impressionable child like me.”

“Right,” Joe returned with a touch of sarcasm. “This from the kid who hauled off and kicked a well known master thief and con man in the shins, and like as not could teach the likes of the Earps and Doc Holiday some new tricks.”

Stacy responded by sticking out her tongue.

Joe immediately returned the gesture.

“What did Lotus O’Toole have to say when you went to see her this evening?” Teresa asked, pulling their conversation back on track.

Joe told his sister and sister-in-law everything that Lotus O’Toole had learned concerning the whereabouts of the O’Hanlans’ music box.

“That’s kind of strange,” Teresa said thoughtfully.

“What’s that?” Joe asked.

“If I had stolen a music box, the LAST thing I’D do would be to brag about it,” Teresa said. “I’d want to sell it, get the cash, and run.”

“Teresa’s right about THAT, Grandpa,” Stacy said. “Did Lotus say WHY Clarissa’s keeping the music box?”

“All we have is theory, actually,” Joe replied. “The last three or four times Matt and Colleen called off the wedding, he took up with Clarissa Starling. Lotus said this LAST time there was talk of Matt and Clarissa planning their own wedding, before HE got back with Colleen and THEY started planning for The Wedding of the Century.”

“I see,” Teresa murmured.

“You sound like you agree with Clarissa,” Stacy looked over at her sister-in-law with a mixture of shock and outrage.

“Not at all,” Teresa said quietly. “Yes . . . I CAN understand Clarissa’s motives for keeping it, but doing so presumably to spite Matt isn’t fair to Molly, or Frankie either, even if he WAS careless. I saw how upset Molly was in the dress shop.”

“After Hoss took you and Adam to see Doctor Martin, Molly was so grief-stricken, she almost had ME crying,” Stacy said.

“Poor Frankie was pretty devastated, too,” Joe added.

“You got a plan to get it back?” Teresa asked, noting the wild, anticipatory gleam in her young brother-in-law’s hazel eyes for the first time.

“Yes,” Joe replied, “but I can’t it manage alone.”

“Whatever it is, you can count ME in, Grandpa,” Stacy said, her eyes shining with her own growing excitement. “When do we do the deed?”

“Tomorrow night, while that bachelor party for Matt’s in full swing,” Joe replied.

“Why during the bachelor party?” Stacy asked.

“The second reason for waiting until the bachelor party is Lotus told me that Sally Tyler’s been pressuring Clarissa to do the right thing and return the music box to the O’Hanlans,” Joe replied. “I promised Lotus to give Sally until the start of the bachelor party to do that.”

“Does this Sally Tyler know about your plan to retrieve the music box?” Teresa asked.

Joe shook his head. “Only Lotus.”

“OK, Grandpa, what’s your FIRST reason for pulling off the music box raid during the bachelor party?” Stacy asked.

“Pa, Adam, and Hoss will be at the party,” Joe replied with a smug grin. “That leaves US free to go out tomorrow night without running the risk of being asked a lot of embarrassing questions.”

“Sounds like you have all the bases covered, Joe,” Teresa said approvingly.

“Pretty much,” Joe replied with confidence. “You in with Stacy and me?”

“You bet I am!” Teresa said, with a smile of pure devilment. “I have a feeling that whatever you’ve got in the works is sure going to beat spending a nice, quiet evening at home.”

“Stacy?”

“Yeah, Grandpa?”

“When do you see Molly next?” Joe asked.

“Oh, I imagine we’ll all see them first thing in the morning,” Stacy replied, “when they take Pa and me up on our invitation!”

“What invitation?” Teresa asked.

“Stacy and Pa invited Molly and her brother to come visit when things got tense at home,” Joe explained. “Tomorrow being the day before The Wedding, it’s not gonna take all that much to get Mrs. O’Hanlan tense.”

“Hmpf!” Stacy snorted. “I think that woman was BORN tense!”

“We’ll talk to Frankie and Molly when they come tomorrow,” Joe said. “Hopefully, they’ll join us in our little caper.”

“I know Molly will,” Stacy said.

“She’s become quite the adventurer in the five going on six years you’ve known her, Little Sister,” Joe remarked with a smile.

“According to Mrs. O’Hanlan, that can be directly blamed, on not only MY bad influence, but the bad influence of my family as well,” Stacy said proudly, grinning from ear to ear.

“Good for you, Stacy,” Teresa said candidly.

“I think we’d better go in before Pa and Adam think of trying to sneak up on us under the cover of surrounding rocks and bushes,” Joe suggested, glancing over his shoulder at the house. “When we get back inside . . . just act casual.”

“Well?” Ben pressed. “Can you hear anything?”

“No . . . not a thing,” Adam replied, shaking his head.

Father and his oldest son stood next to the front door, ever so slightly ajar, with their ears pressed hard against the opening.

“Can they see the house?” Ben asked.

“Joe and Teresa are facing away from the house,” Adam replied. “Stacy’s focused on them mostly, but she keeps an occasional eye on the front door.”

“Maybe, when Stacy’s not looking, we can sneak out to that large rock over there,” Ben suggested.

“Too late for that, Pa!” Adam hissed. “They’re coming!”

“Back to the settee! Now!” Ben ordered sotto voce. “And act casual!”

When Joe, Stacy and Teresa reentered the house, they found Ben and Adam seated together on the settee, side by side, postures stiffly erect, hands folded in their laps, and eyes fixed on the massive fireplace directly in front of them.

“Y’know, I could’ve SWORN I closed the front door when we went out,” Joe said pointedly, his lips curving upward to form a secretive Mona Lisa smile.

“Hey! What are ya looking at ME for?” Adam demanded when Ben turned to glare at him.

“Adam, really! Were you brought up in a barn or something?” Joe quipped.

Adam responded with a ferocious glare leveled in the general direction of his youngest brother, who, in his own humble opinion seemed to be finding too much enjoyment in the discomfiture of his elders.

“Come on,” Joe cajoled with a big, smug, cat-that-ate-the-cream smile. “I asked Stacy and Teresa to step outside so we wouldn’t bore you with our plans for next Friday. We have no secrets here, none at all.”

“None?!” Adam queried, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“None, honest!” Joe said earnestly, with that wide eyed much too innocent look on his face that ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent of the time warned that mischief of a significant nature was in the offing. “You didn’t have to go through all that trouble trying to listen through the door, OLDEST BROTHER.”

Adam turned and glared over at his father. “I wasn’t the only one,” he growled.

“ . . . if you really want to know what we were talking about, all you have to do is ASK,” Joe invited.

“Alright, Baby Brother,” Adam eagerly pounced on the invitation with both feet. “I’m asking. What ARE your plans for next Friday night?”

“Poetry, Oldest Brother, sheer poetry,” Joe replied.

“Oh dear,” Molly murmured, as her brother, Frankie brought the buggy and horse, both rented from the livery stable in town, to a halt in front of the Cartwrights’ house the following morning. “I hope we’re not too early . . . . ”

“If we are, Molly, I’d rather have to wake up Mister Cartwright than go back home and face Ma,” Frankie said soberly.

The front door opened.

“Hey, Molly . . . Frankie, y’ better git a move on!” It was Hoss, already up and dressed. “You’ve got just enough time to wash up ‘n git to the table in time for breakfast.”

“Oh good, you folks haven’t eaten yet,” Frankie said, leaping down from the buggy. “I’m starving.”

“Hoss, I hope Frankie and I aren’t putting you out,” Molly said doubtfully.

Hoss gently lifted Molly from the buggy and set her down lightly on her feet. “You’re not puttin’ us out one li’l bit,” he hastened to assure her. “But, ya gotta move. Y’ know how Hop Sing is about eatin’ while it’s hot.”

“Aren’t you coming in to breakfast with us, Hoss?” Molly asked, as she and her brother stopped at the pump outside to wash their hands and splash the cold water on their faces.

“I got up ‘n ate a couple o’ hours ago,” Hoss replied. “Now I’m fixin’ to head on into town an’ run a few errands. You two g’won inside. Stacy’ll be down shortly, if she ain’t down already. I’ll have one of the men see t’ your horse ‘n buggy.”

“Thanks, Hoss,” Frankie said gratefully.

“ ‘Morning, Molly,” Joe greeted his sister’s best friend with a warm smile, “you, too, Frankie.” He turned and cast a quick glance toward the stairs. “We gotta talk,” he said lowering his voice to a mere whisper, “privately, after breakfast. It’s about the music box.”

“The music box?” Frankie queried, normal volume.

“Sshhh!” Joe quickly shushed him. “I’ll fill you in later.”

“You mean to tell me you found it?” Molly asked, taking great care to keep her voice low.

Joe nodded. “We’ll talk later,” he promised.

“Hi, Molly . . . hi, Frankie!” Stacy greeted her friends, as she bounded down the stairs, two and three at a time.

“ ‘Bout time you hauled your lazy bones outta bed, Kid,” Joe chided her with mock severity.

“I’d have been up a lot earlier if I had gotten to sleep before you did,” Stacy retorted with an impish grin. She turned her attention to Molly and Frankie. “Around here, anyone unfortunate enough NOT to get to sleep before Grandpa here, is kept awake all night by his snoring.”

“I do NOT snore,” Joe protested.

“Oh yes, you do!”

“Do not!”

“Do SO!” Stacy retorted. “What’s more, you snore louder than the lowing of a whole herd of sick cattle.”

“You exaggerate, Kid.”

“Of course I do, Grandpa,” Stacy replied. “If I told people what you REALLY sound like, no one’d believe me.”

“I know I’m gonna hate myself for asking this, but . . . what DO I really sound like?”

“You actually snore louder than the lowing of TEN herds of sick cattle,” Stacy answered with a smug grin.

“Har de har har!” Joe seized one of the cushions from the settee and lobbed it at Stacy’s head.

Stacy ducked. The cushion sailed over her head toward the stairs.

A strangled deep baritone cry from the direction of the steps froze the blood in the veins of not only the younger Cartwright offspring, but of the O’Hanlans as well.

“Uh . . . oh . . . . ” Joe squeaked, his eyes round with horror.

“Joseph Francis Cartwright, is THIS yours?” It was Ben Cartwright, standing at the first landing, holding the cushion his youngest son had thrown at Stacy.

“N-no, Sir,” Joe replied. “I, uh . . . think it belongs on the settee, actually . . . . ”

Ben tossed the cushion back to Joe. “See that you return it,” he said with an indignant scowl.

“Breakfast ready!” Hop Sing announced. “Come eat while hot!” He turned to the O’Hanlans, and smiled. “Good morning, Miss Molly . . . Mister Frankie. Come, eat! Where Mister Adam, and Mrs. Teresa?”

“Adam and Teresa will be along in a few moments,” Ben replied. He turned to the O’Hanlans, and smiled. “Good morning, Molly . . . Frankie. We’d better move along to the table. If we don’t eat while it’s hot . . . . ”

“ . . . things get very ugly around here very quickly,” Stacy said, as she ushered Frankie and Molly toward the table. Ben and Joe followed close behind.

“ . . . and in Chinese, no less,” Joe added with a grin.

“How’s Adam doing this morning, Mister Cartwright?” Molly asked, remembering the incident with the thief the previous day.

“The swelling’s gone down and he’s not talking as nasal as he was last night,” Ben said, taking his place at the head of the table, “but he’s sporting a couple of real shiners this morning.”

“Hop Sing says poor Adam reminds him of a Chinese robber baron,” Stacy said, trying hard not to smile. This morning, she sat down in the chair to her father’s right. Molly took the chair between Stacy and her brother, who sat at the end of the table.

“Pa, where’s Hoss?” Joe asked, taking the chair directly across from his sister, Stacy. “Isn’t HE coming for breakfast?”

“He got up and ate earlier,” Ben replied.

Joe’s eyes went round with exaggerated, melodramatic horror. “Oh no!” he gasped. “I hope there’s food for the rest of us . . . . ”

“No worry, Little Joe,” Hop Sing hastened to reassure the youngest of the Cartwright sons, as he entered the dining area, carrying an enormous tray, piled high with flapjacks, smothered in fresh churned butter and maple syrup. “Plenty food in kitchen.” He placed the tray directly in front of Ben. “Eat. I come back with sausage, bacon, and eggs.”

“Hoss said something about going into town to finish setting up for the party tonight,” Ben said thoughtfully, while spearing a half dozen pancakes from the serving tray with his fork. He frowned. “That’s odd! I thought we’d FINISHED setting up for that party last night.”

Stacy and Joe exchanged puzzled glances. Was it possible that their ever open and above board big brother had a clandestine contrivance of his own afoot? “Nah,” they said in unison, shaking their heads.

“Stacy? Joseph? Did you say something?” Ben asked, looking from one to the other.

“Just thinking out loud, Pa,” Stacy said quickly.

“Me, too,” Joe said.

“Good morning, Everyone,” Teresa greeted the assembly at the dining room table with a big smile. She sat down in the empty chair beside Joe. “Good morning, Molly . . . Frankie. I’m glad you both could join us.”

“Good morning, Teresa,” Ben greeted his daughter-in-law with a smile. “Is Adam coming?”

“He WAS right behind me . . . . ”

“Here, Pa.” All eyes turned toward Adam, who stood stiffly behind the empty chair next to Teresa. Though the swelling in his nose had decreased markedly, his eyelids and cheeks were a livid blue-black-purple color.

Joe burst out laughing. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t PONDEROSA Robber Baron!”

“Grandpa, you’re cruel!” Stacy declared, laboring valiantly to stifle her own onset of the giggles.

“The Ponderosa Robber Baron?” Adam queried in an ice-cold tone. “WHO may I ask is the Ponderosa Robber Baron?”

“That raccoon Hop Sing finally trapped in the garbage last week,” Joe laughed uproariously. “He’s been a nuisance ever since he woke up from hibernation.”

“The Ponderosa. Robber Baron!” Adam muttered through clenched teeth. Without further ado, he marched resolutely over to the chair Joe occupied and seized his youngest brother by the collar and belt. With strength born of indignant outrage, Adam lifted Joe from his chair and marched toward the door.

“HEY!” Joe protested at the top of his voice. “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

Teresa bit her lip to keep from giggling herself, and pointedly stared down at her hands clasped in her lap. Ben and Stacy exchanged glances, before rising abruptly from the table and following. Molly, too, rose and followed close at Ben and Stacy’s heels. The three of them stopped at the open front door and watched as Adam dragged Joe, literally kicking and screaming toward the horse trough, filled with water.

“WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU?” Joe yelled. “CAN’T CHA TAKE A JOKE? COME ON, ADAM, PUT ME DOWN!”

“What was that, Little Joe?” Adam queried with a malicious grin.

“I SAID PUT ME DOWN!!”

“Happy to oblige!” Adam said, dropping Joe into the water trough with a tremendous splash.

Joe immediately surfaced coughing and sputtering. “Two mornings in a row! This is getting OLD, Adam . . . really OLD!”

“I’ve been saying for years that you’re all wet, Baby Brother.”

“Stacy, is breakfast ALWAYS like this?” Molly queried sotto voce, as they returned to the breakfast table.

“Not at all,” Stacy replied glibly. “We’re on our best behavior today because we have company.”

“Pruella . . . Grace . . . you call THIS a clean floor?” Myra Danvers demanded, taking no pains what so ever to mask her growing vexation. She, the other members of the Virginia City Christian Church Ladies’ Guild, and their daughters had spent the better part of the morning, cleaning out the church basement for the reception following the much-anticipated Wedding of the Century. Pruella, her own daughter, and Grace Hansen, the eldest of five daughters born to the Cartwrights’ neighbors, Clay and Florence Hansen, were down on their hands and knees scrubbing vigorously to remove nearly two decades of dirt and grime from the basement floor of the church.

“Mother, Miss Hansen and I have been working for HOURS!” Pruella whined. “My back hurts, my legs hurt, my arms and shoulders hurt . . . . ”

“The exercise is good for you, especially after that enormous breakfast you wolfed down this morning,” Myra returned scathingly. She stood in front of her daughter, still down on her hands and knees on the stone basement floor, glaring with a mixture of disdain and revulsion at his daughter’s plump figure.

Pruella cringed away from her mother’s intense, withering glare.

“Yes . . . . ” Myra said slowly, “the exercise would be VERY good for you. Grace!”

Grace Hansen sat back on her knees and looked up at Myra Danvers expectantly.

“Go help your mother with the window washing,” Myra snapped out the order.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Grace murmured meekly. She quickly scrambled to her feet and ran across the room, where her mother was in the midst of scrubbing the grimy basement windows.

“As for YOU,” Myra turned with cold, disdainful fury on her daughter, “I want this floor so clean you can eat off it. Do I make myself clear?”

Pruella rose to her feet. “Fine,” she snapped, “do it yourself!” She slammed her scrub brush into the bucket with all her angry might, splashing the soapy water all over the floor and her mother’s long skirt.

“Pruella!”

The girl glared at her mother, then turned heel and began to walk resolutely toward the steps leading up out of the basement.

“Pruella, you come back here this instant!” Myra ordered indignantly. “Do you hear me? Right now!”

Pruella, her mouth set in a thin angry line continued her march toward the basement steps as if her mother had not spoken.

“PRUELLA!”

The girl paused, then turned facing her mother and tormenter. “Nothing I ever do is right,” Pruella returned, her tone and vocal inflections not unlike those of her mother, at HER most scathing. “Nothing I do ever satisfies or pleases you. Fine! I won’t do anything for you ever again.”

“Pruella, I will not tolerate such insolence!”

Pruella turned again, intending to run up the basement steps and as far away from her mother as her legs could possibly carry her. Instead, she collided headlong into Barney Murphy, assistant and protégé to Mick O’Flynn, causing him the loose his tenuous hold on tools and spare parts.

“Excuse me!” Pruella said, glaring down at the young man as if he were an insect that had just crawled out from under a rock. With that, she contemptuously pushed past Barney and continued her way up stairs.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Barney murmured, gazing appreciatively at her retreating form.

“ . . . and what, may I ask, is YOUR business here?”

Barney turned and found himself looking up into the scowling, angry face of Myra Danvers.

“Good morning, Ma’am!” It was Mick O’Flynn, this morning attired in a pair of clean overalls, and a cream colored linen shirt, its sleeves rolled to the elbows. “Mrs. Danvers, I presume?”

“Yes,” she replied, eyeing Mick O’Flynn and Barney Murphy suspiciously. “Who are YOU?”

“We’ve come to install the new woodstove,” Mick said smoothly, with an affable grin.

“The new woodstove?!” Myra echoed incredulously.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Mick nodded ascent.

“Well, being president of the Virginia City Church Ladies Guild, I know for fact that the church hasn’t ordered a new woodstove,” Myra said scathingly.

“You are quite right, Ma’am,” Mick said smoothly. “The church has NOT ordered a new woodstove. THIS woodstove is a donation from a wealthy parishioner.”

“A wealthy parishioner, eh?” Myra queried.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And who, may I ask, IS this wealthy parishioner?”

“He wishes to remain anonymous.”

The thought of an unknown wealthy parishioner making so great a donation to the church anonymously without her notice, clearly intrigued her. “This wealthy parishioner . . . does he live in Virginia City proper?”

“I can’t say he does, Mrs. Danvers, and I won’t say he DOES not.”

“I see. Does he own one of the ranches in the area?”

“I’m not at all at liberty to say one way or t’ other.”

A slow predatory smile spread across her lips. “Is it one of the larger ranches in the area?”

“You didn’t hear such a thing from me, Dear Lady.”

“Thank you so very much, Mister . . . .?”

“O’Flynn, Ma’am. Mister Mick O’Flynn, at your service.”

“You’ve been very informative, Mister O’Flynn,” Myra said. “Very informative indeed!” The ranch that he had just “described” in such glowing terms could only be the Ponderosa, and THAT could only mean the identity of the anonymous donor in question was none other than Ben Cartwright. She made a mental note to craft a glowing letter of thanks and appreciation at the earliest opportunity. “Mister O’Flynn?”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“I hope THAT’S not the woodstove,” Myra said pointing to the collection of spare parts, Barney had just finished retrieving from the floor.

“No, Ma’am,” Mick shook his head. “I dropped off the stove last night actually.” He gestured grandly toward the basement fireplace. There on the brick hearth sat Matilda, his still.

Myra Danvers walked over toward the still, frowning. “THAT’S the woodstove?” she queried, with a bewildered frown. “It’s so small!”

“One of the new, compact models,” Mick replied.

“And what’s THAT?” she demanded, pointing to the wood and coal carefully arranged beneath the still.

“The very latest thing, Mrs. Danvers,” Mick replied without missing a beat. “Y’ burn the wood THERE, it boils water inside the stove, which, in turn sends heat through piping laid out over the entire church.”

Myra grimaced. “You m-mean . . . we’re going to have a . . . a maze of unsightly piping winding its way through our church?!”

“I promise y’, Ma’am, ye’ll not see one single, solitary pipe, unsightly or otherwise,” Mick promised solemnly. “They’ll be placed behind the ceilin’s, the walls, and under the floors. We’ll drill small, tiny, tiny holes, so tiny, y’ won’t be able to see ‘em, to let the heat out.”

“ . . . and this is the very latest?”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am.”

Leave it to Ben Cartwright to purchase the latest in new technology and the best. “Mister O’Flynn, can you have that woodstove installed in time for The Wedding ?” Myra asked.

“I’ll have that baby installed by this afternoon.”

“Excellent!” Myra exclaimed with glee. Surely a prominent personage like Ben Cartwright would be attending the big Wedding and reception as an invited guest. After all, his oldest son was to be the best man. Yes, Ben would definitely be attending. Myra planned to see to it that the first thing the Cartwright patriarch saw was his anonymous gift, bright and shining, there for one and all to see.

Pruella Danvers, her face a veritable thunderstorm, stomped up the three wooden steps leading to the front door of the home she and her mother shared. She stomped across the porch and entered the house, slamming the door shut behind her.

“Mrs. Danvers?” It was Estella Hastings, their housekeeper. She flounced down the front stairs, dressed in a blue-gray traveling suit, carrying a carpetbag in each hand.

“No . . . . ” Pruella looked over at the tall thin woman, her face a mask of righteous indignation. “Mother’s still over at the church.”

“Well, Miss Pruella, you can tell her for me that I QUIT!” Estella declared with an emphatic nod of her head.

Pruella gazed over at the housekeeper, very soon to be FORMER housekeeper, her eyes round with shocked stupefaction.

“As of today, Mrs. Danvers owes me two months wages, of which I have yet to see so much as a penny,” Estella continued. She placed her bags on the floor, and opened her purse. “All I get is empty promises. I can’t live on empty promises.” She pulled an envelope from her purse and presented it to Pruella. “My letter of resignation, effective immediately, and the address where she can send the wages to which I am owed.”

Pruella took the envelope. It was sealed, and marked, “Mrs. M. Danvers.”

Estella angrily closed her purse, and bent down to pick up her bags. “Good bye, Miss Pruella,” she said, the tone of her voice suggesting more of a good riddance. “I have a stage to catch.” She rudely pushed her way past Pruella and flounced angrily out the front door.

“Oh great, here we go again!” Pruella sighed, as she carelessly tossed the envelope in hand onto the marble and cherry wood half circle table in the vestibule. When Mother returned home and found out that Miss Hastings had quit, she would be fit to be tied. Miss Hastings was the tenth in a long line of housekeepers to leave her mother’s employ in the space of the past year.

An insistent knock on the door drew Pruella from her less than happy musings. She turned and flung the door open, favoring the caller with a dark, angry glare. It was Harlan Hurley, the eldest of Jack and Athena Hurley’s twin boys. “What do YOU want?” Pruella demanded, taking no pains to mask her irritation.

Harlan stood, his posture ramrod straight, with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a jewelry box in the other. “Flowers for the fair,” he said, wincing, “and pearls for a princess.” He presented the gifts with a flourish.

“Come in,” Pruella invited, accepting the gifts. She led him to the formal parlor, noting that he walked slightly bow legged. “Please, sit down . . . . ”

“I’d prefer to stand,” Harlan said very quickly.

“Suit yourself,” Pruella sighed indifferently. She left the parlor, heading for the kitchen. The flowers, making up the bouquet, came from that new shop on main street. That alone told her they were costly. The flowers were out-of-season, force grown in that small green house behind the shop. That fact doubled, sometimes even tripled the cost. She stepped into the kitchen, and placed the flowers on the counter running the length of the east wall beneath the line of windows. Pruella quickly located a vase, and filled it at the kitchen pump. She, then, carefully arranged the flowers in the vase, smiling down at them with a measure of awe and respect.

After seeing to the flowers, Pruella opened the jewelry box, and found a pearl necklace, made of luminous white pearls of near equal size and shape, lying inside against a backdrop of deep, black velvet. This necklace alone had to have cost a small fortune. Add to that the cost of having ordered it from New York, Boston, or perhaps Philadelphia back east . . . .

Pruella returned to the parlor and her caller a few moments later, carrying the vase of flowers. “Thank you so much for these lovely gifts,” she purred, taking note of the suite he wore. It was a three-piece black suit, custom tailored from the way it fit, and brand new. “What’d you do, Harlan? Rob a stage?”

“N-no . . . . ” Harlan vigorously shook his head.

“It seems you’ve come into a great deal of money recently,” she remarked, taking great care to keep her voice sounding casual.

“I, uuhh, got a job,” he stammered.

“Obviously one that pays well,” she said, her face illuminated with a smile, concealing a sudden flash of inspiration. “Harlan, seeing as how YOU’RE in your Sunday best, ‘n all . . . and with money to spend, how ‘bout you going to the livery and renting one o’ those fancy buggies for the day?”

Harlan paled, and swallowed. The last thing in the world he wanted to do today was spend a lot of time sitting.

“We can go out . . . somewhere . . . ANYwhere . . . just YOU ‘n ME . . . . ” As long as it was far away from this house when her mother came home to discover that Miss Hastings had quit this afternoon, and left bag and baggage.

The prospect of spending an entire afternoon alone with Pruella Danvers brought a smile to his lips. “OK,” he agreed, forcing all thoughts of the time he would be forced to spend sitting in a buggy from his mind.

“While you’re at the livery, I’ll run up ‘n change to MY Sunday best, too,” she promised. “I’ll even have cook fix a picnic lunch . . . . ”

“Why don’t I stop off at the International Hotel and ask Mrs. Braun to put together a box lunch?” he suggested quickly. The Danvers’ cook was known far and wide for her lack of culinary ability.

“That’s a splendid idea!” Pruella declared with delight. She lifted her head and kissed his cheek. “Hurry back, Harlan Dear. I’ll be impatiently waiting.”

“This is all part of the Ponderosa, too?”

“Sure is, Molly,” Stacy replied, with a proud smile, “as far as the eye can see.”

“ . . . and farther than THAT!” Joe added.

“Wow! I had no idea the Ponderosa was so large!” Molly exclaimed. She stood on the shore of Lake Tahoe, gazing out over the deep blue water toward the mountains rising in the distance. Joe Cartwright stood on her left gallantly holding the reins for her mount, a gentle bay mare named Bayou Belle, along with same for his pinto, Cochise. Stacy stood on her right, absently stroking Blaze Face’s neck.

“What’s on the other side of the lake?” Molly asked.

“California,” Stacy replied with a smile.

“Hey, Frankie, come on and join the rest of us,” Joe invited with a big grin and a wave of the hand.

Frankie O’Hanlan remained in the saddle of his borrowed horse, a gelding named Gentleman Jim, with a temperament more docile and gentle than the horse on which his sister Molly had ridden. He sat stiffly erect clutching the reins so hard, his knuckles had turned white.

Stacy turned and whispered in Blaze Face’s ear. He flicked both ears and nickered in response. Confident that her horse would remain where he was and not wander away, she turned and ran over toward Gentleman Jim and Frankie. She took Gentleman Jim’s bridle firmly in hand and gently stroked his muzzle. “I have him, Frankie,” she said.

“Th-thanks, Stacy,” Frankie said gratefully, as he pried his right hand loose from the reins first, then his left. With heart in mouth, he gracelessly swung his leg over and dismounted.

“Are you alright, Frankie?” Stacy asked, noting that his complexion was a few shades paler than normal.

“I-I don’t know why I ever l-let you and Joe talk m-me into this,” he murmured, falling in line behind Stacy, who had taken the reins of Gentleman Jim.

“Probably the fresh air, the breath taking scenery, the fact that the four of us need to talk privately . . . . ” Stacy replied.

“What are we gonna talk about?” Frankie asked, as he, Stacy, and Gentleman Jim reached the spot where Joe and Molly stood.

“Your music box,” Joe said.

“Oh yeah!” Molly exclaimed, turning her attention to Joe. “You said right before breakfast you had found out something about our music box.”

“I couldn’t say much of anything in front of Pa at the breakfast table,” Joe said, “but, I found out where it is.”

“You did?” Molly queried, looking over at him hopefully.

“Yes, I did,” Joe said grinning from ear to ear, “and what’s more, we’re gonna get it back.”

“W-we are?” Frankie murmured, all of a sudden feeling apprehensive. He had no liking at all for the wild gleam in Joe Cartwright’s hazel eyes.

“Yes, we are,” Joe said firmly.

“When?” asked Frankie with fast sinking heart.

“Tonight,” Joe replied.

“T-To . . . To . . . night?!” Frankie queried as the blood drained right out of his face.

“Tonight,” Joe reiterated, with an emphatic nod of his head.

“Where IS the music box?” Molly asked.

“At the Silver Dollar,” Joe replied. “Clarissa Starling has it.”

“WHAT?!” Molly cried in outrage.

“No! That can’t be true!” Frankie protested. “Clarissa wouldn’t!”

“Oh yes she would, Frankie,” Stacy said gravely. “Not only would, but COULD and DID!”

“No! I can’t believe that! I . . . I WON’T believe that!” Frankie shook his head vigorously. “Clarissa’s such a sweet, wonderful girl, she’d never--- ”

“Look, Frankie, I hate to be the guy to burst your bubble, but I’m afraid it IS true,” Joe said, not completely without sympathy for the younger man. He remembered all too well how it felt not only to be on the giving end of an unrequited mad, passionate crush, but to learn that the person on the receiving end was all too human.

“How can you be so sure Clarissa has it?” Frankie asked.

“Lotus O’Toole told me,” Joe replied. He told the O’Hanlans everything he had told his sister and sister-in-law the night before.

“Why that . . . that . . . no good . . . . ”

“Molly, please!” Joe admonished her with mock severity. “Language!”

“I didn’t say anything,” Molly protested.

“You were about to,” Joe said, grinning.

“You’re right!” Molly admitted, smiling back.

“Oh, Molly, you weren’t!” Frankie exclaimed, looking thoroughly scandalized. He wasn’t at all sure what horrified him the most: the thought of his baby sister, with her reputation for being so nice actually using words he had to date only heard his father and older sister use, or the fact that she had been about to direct those invectives at his beloved Clarissa.

“Oh yes, I was,” Molly declared stoutly, with balled fists stubbornly placed on hips. “Because that Clarissa is every last one of the words that went through my head.”

“It’s a mistake,” Frankie said, “it’s gotta be.”

“It’s a mistake alright,” Stacy said sarcastically, “and Clarissa’s the one who made it.”

“Joe, you got an idea as to how we’re going to get that music box back?” Molly asked.

“You bet I do, Molly,” Joe replied, “but, I’m going to need a lot of help.”

“Teresa and I are in,” Stacy added.

“Teresa’s in on this?” Molly queried. “Really?”

“Yep,” Joe confirmed, as he and Stacy both nodded their heads.

Adam’s wife suddenly rose a few notches on Molly’s private, unwritten list of awesome individuals. “Then you can definitely count on Frankie and me, too, Joe,” she declared.

Frankie blanched. He had no liking at all for adventures of any kind, and this promised to be a wild one, if the audacious gleam in Joe Cartwright’s eyes was any indication. “ . . . uhh, Molly, can’t we, uh, well . . . talk about this first?” he stammered.

“No,” Molly said sternly. “Frankie, I know you didn’t mean to, but you still lost that music box. It’s only fair that you help us get it back.”

“But, Molly, I--- ”

“Frankie O’Hanlan, you listen to me and you listen good!” Molly cried in outrage, as her quick temper got the better of her. “If you so much as try to weasel out of this, so help me, I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll mop up the whole of Virginia City with you from one end to the other and back again.”

Frankie looked like he was on the verge of fainting. He turned and grasped the saddle horn in one hand and draped the other arm over the saddle, hanging on to both for dear life.

“ . . . and don’t you dare, for one moment think I can’t do it either,” Molly added, shaking a balled fist in his face for emphasis.

“Alright, alright, I’m in,” Frankie agreed, with much reluctance.

“Don’t worry, Frankie, it’ll be real easy,” Joe said smoothly. “We create a bit of a diversion, go in, get the music box, make our escape through the back door into the alley.”

“That’s it?” Frankie queried. “Just . . . in and out . . . that quick?”

“They’ll never even know we were there,” Joe declared with confidence.

“When do we strike?” Molly asked, her own blue eyes glistening with anticipation.

“Tonight, after the bachelor party for Matt Wilson gets underway,” Joe replied. “Now, I’ve, uuhhh . . . told Pa that Stacy, Teresa, and I have plans for tonight, but I not really given him any details. If the two of you can stay here until this evening . . . . ”

“Ma’s going to be so busy getting all the last minute wedding details together, she won’t miss Frankie and me at all,” Molly said. “Pa told us this morning that, deep down, she’s probably be relieved to have us out of her hair.”

“Good,” Joe said. “We’ll tell Pa that were all going to spend the evening together. He’s uhh, SOMEHOW gotten the idea that we’re attending a poetry reading at the library tonight . . . . ”

“A poetry reading?” A bewildered frown knotted Frankie’s brow. “I thought we were going to get the music box back.”

Molly rolled her eyes, exhaling a curt sigh of impatience and exasperation. “We ARE, Frankie.”

“But, Joe just got through saying that we’re going to a poetry reading at the library tonight,” Frankie protested.

“No, Frankie,” Joe explained things slowly. Very slowly. “My pa THINKS were going to a poetry reading at the library tonight. A slight misunderstanding, but it would be better all the way around if he just goes right on thinking that we’re going to a poetry reading at the library.”

“Y-you’re not asking me t-to . . . to lie . . . are you?” Frankie’s normally pasty complexion lost what little color it had in the natural course of things.

“Of course not, Frankie,” Joe said.

“That’s good!” Frankie heaved a long sigh of relief. “I’m no good at lying! No good at all!”

“He’s right about that, I afraid,” Molly said apprehensively.

“In spades, Grandpa,” Stacy added.

“OK, tell you what, Frankie,” Joe said. “If any awkward questions arise, you just let Stacy and me handle them.”

“Y-you and Stacy are gonna lie?” Frankie was horrified at the prospect.

“For the record, the only time Stacy and I EVER lie is when we take naps or when we go to bed at night,” Joe in tones of exaggerated righteous indignation.

“That’s right!” Stacy agreed with an emphatic nod of her head. “ . . . and besides, lying is such a harsh word . . . . ” She grimaced.

“We prefer to think of it more in terms of taking creative liberties with the truth,” Joe added with a sly grin.

“Hey, Grandpa, four horses and riders approaching from a slight northeasterly direction,” Stacy noted with a frown.

“I recognize your father, Teresa, and Hop Sing,” Molly noted, “but I can’t make out who the fourth is.”

“I can make out a huge picnic basket fastened to the back of Hop Sing’s horse,” Joe said.

“Good, I’m starved!” Frankie said, licking his lips.

“But who IS that masked man?” Molly asked.

“It looks like Adam,” Stacy observed.

“If it’s Adam, then ix-nay on the cracks about him wearing a mask,” Joe warned. “He almost drowned me in the trough out front early this morning when I called him a raccoon.”

Colleen O’Hanlan, clutching the cloth shopping bag with last minute purchases, mostly toiletries for her impending wedding night, in one hand and her handbag in the other, stood for a time, unmoving, her eyes fixed on the Silver Dollar Saloon across the street. Finally, she swallowed, took a deep breath, then marched resolutely across the street, her face set with grim, rock hard determination.

“Good afternoon, Miss O’Hanlan,” Sam, the bartender greeted her with mild surprise. “Can I, uuhh . . . can I getcha something?”

“Yes,” Colleen replied. “A bottle of whiskey and a glass.” She whipped open her handbag, fished out the necessary money and slapped it down on the bar in front of Sam. She could feel every eye in the place fixed on her, boring holes in her back, but she had already made up her mind not to give a tinker’s damn, as her maternal grandmother was wont to say from time to time.

“I don’t usually see YOU in here, Miss O’Hanlan,” Sam remarked, as he set a bottle of whiskey and clean glass on the bar in front of her. “Wedding day jitters?”

“Yes, you MIGHT say that,” Colleen allowed, pouring herself a generous serving. She raised her glass. “Cheers, Sam!” Colleen drained the entire glass in a single swallow, then poured herself another.

“Sam, isn’t that the bride-to-be?” Lotus O’Toole asked, while pouring two mugs of draft beer for a couple of customers seated at one of the tables.

Sam nodded. “Wedding day jitters,” he said, lowering his voice.

Lotus set the two filled beer mugs on a tray, then turned to grab a whiskey bottle and glass. “Wedding day jitters, eh?” she remarked archly. “Hmm! If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was having a lot of second thoughts.” She picked up the tray and stepped from behind the bar, narrowly missing a head on collision with Clarissa Starling.

“Oh my gosh, Lotus, I’m so sorry!” Clarissa apologized at once.

“S’ ok, Clarissa,” Lotus replied, flashing her a reassuring smile. “No harm done.” She paused for a moment, noting that Clarissa’s face looked a bit paler than normal, and that she seemed unusually preoccupied. “You alright, Clarissa?” she asked gently.

Clarissa nodded. “Fine, just kinda lost in thought’s all . . . . ”

On impulse, Lotus reached over and gave Clarissa’s hand a gentle, affectionate squeeze, then moved on to serve three elderly gentlemen, occupying on of the tables near the back of the room.

Clarissa Starling, keeping herself well within the shadows, watched as Colleen chug-a-lugged her second glass of whiskey, and followed it up immediately with a third.

“Clarissa?” It was Sally Tyler.

No answer. Clarissa stood as if rooted to the spot, glaring over at Colleen O’Hanlan, who had just poured her fourth glass of whiskey. If looks could have killed, they would all be attending the Funeral of the Century tomorrow afternoon.

“Clarissa . . . . ” Sally reached out and gently touched her shoulder.

Clarissa started violently.

“Sorry I startled you,” Sally quickly apologized. She waited for the flustered younger woman to recollect her wits. “You ok, Honey?”

“Fine, S-Sally . . . just . . . fine!” Clarissa stammered. “Say! What’s up with that woman anyway?”

“Sam said it’s wedding day jitters,” Sally said. She watched in almost raft fascination as Colleen swallowed her fourth glass of whiskey, then shook her head. “Wow! If brides usually get that jittery, I’m sure glad I stayed single.”

“Wedding jitters my ass,” Clarissa growled, remembering Lotus O’Toole’s words to Sam.

“What did you say, Clarissa?” Sally asked.

“Nothing,” Clarissa replied curtly. “Excuse me!” She walked the entire length of the bar toward the door, where Colleen O’Hanlan stood, contemplating the nearly empty bottle of whiskey. Drawing along side Colleen, Clarissa reached out and tapped her shoulder forcefully.

Colleen turned. The abrupt motion of her body caused her to loose balance. She made a wild grab for the bar, and missing the mark, ended up sprawled ungracefully on the floor at Clarissa’s feet.

“What the hell is your problem, Lady?” Clarissa demanded, growing angrier by the minute.

Colleen rose unsteadily to her feet. “My probl’m is none o’ yer damn business,” she replied belligerently, while clinging to the edge of the bar for dear life.

“You really think you’re hot donkey puck, don’tcha?” Clarissa rounded on Colleen, giving full vent to the fury that had been growing inside since the latter and Matt announced their engagement last month for the umpteenth time. “Well you ain’t! You’re nothin’ but a pile o’ cold cattle crud!”

“Maybe I oughtta be askin’ YOU wha’ da hell YOUR problem is,” Colleen said, leveling a murderous glare at Clarissa.

“YOU, you no good drunken bitch!” Clarissa’s angry voice rose several notches in volume. “YOU’RE my problem!”

Colleen stared over at her ranting antagonist, her mouth open in shock.

“Either marry Matt Wilson or turn ‘im loose,” Clarissa continued, her voice rising with each word. “It ain’t fair you stringin’ ‘im on year after year, while ya try an’ make up your mind.”

“I tol’ja b’fore, this is none o’ yer business,” Colleen pointedly turned her back.

“Hey, don’t you dare . . . . ” Clarissa reached out with both hands, fully intending to turn Colleen back around to face her. The instant she made contact, Colleen turned and lashed out with a hard, powerful right cross. Clarissa stumbled backwards and fell.

“If it’s a fight y’ want, then by golly it’s a fight y’ll get,” Colleen declared, before leaping on her opponent with a primal banshee’s wail of pure rage.

Outside, Hoss and Apollo froze mid-stride a few feet past the Silver Dollar door. “That sounds like Colleen,” the latter murmured with a puzzled frown.

“BITCH!”

“GOBSHITE”

“Hoss! That WAS Colleen!” Apollo gasped, horrified.

A split second later, Clarissa Starling literally flew out through the swinging doors of the Silver Dollar Saloon, and landed half on the sidewalk, half in the dirt road. Colleen staggered out of the door. She stumbled across the side walk, and fell into the one of the support poles propping up the overhanging roof, sheltering the walk way. Colleen spotted Clarissa in an instant. With a cry of pure rage, the former leapt upon the latter. In a flurry of name-calling and obscenities, shouted at the very top of their voices, the pair rolled in the street, each wrestling for supremacy over the other. A crowd began to gather.

Hoss immediately ran over to the embattled women, and grabbing each by the forearm, hauled both unceremoniously to their feet. “Apollo, I could use your help!” he said tersely, while valiantly laboring to keep Colleen and Clarissa apart.

Apollo elbowed his way past a trio of elderly men, all known to be town gossips, and made a beeline for Hoss, and the two women. He grabbed hold of Colleen and pulled her, kicking and screaming away from Hoss and Clarissa. Though the women were unable to physically reach each other, verbal assaults flew fast and furious. The sound of someone firing a pistol froze everyone in his or her tracks.

“Alright, Folks, move along,” Roy Coffee ordered the people gathered to watch the brawl. “Fight’s over, time to git on about yer business.”

“Stinkin’ gobshite!”

“Jezebel!”

As the crowd slowly dispersed, Roy turned and glared at both Colleen and Clarissa, still in the restraining grasps of Apollo and Hoss respectively.

“Sheriff Coffee, I demand that you arrest that woman,” Clarissa cried, pointing her finger at Colleen.
“She threw the first punch.”

“Which I wouldna done, if ya’d minded yur own business, y’ stupid guttersnipe!” Colleen argued.

“Sot!” Clarissa spat. “You’re so filthy, falling down drunk . . . . ”

“Bitch!”

“Ladies, THAT will be enough!” Roy said sternly, the minute he could get a word in edgewise. “Hoss, Apollo, let ‘em go.”

“You . . . think that’s, uuhhh, WISE, Sheriff Coffee?” Apollo asked.

“Let ‘em go,” Roy said again.

Hoss and Apollo looked at each other, shrugged, then did as Roy had asked.

“Call me a gobshite ‘n a guttersnipe, willya?” Clarissa growled.

“You c’n add bleached blonde shrew t’ da list, too!” Colleen returned without missing a beat.

“Why you . . . . ” Clarissa started moving toward Colleen, her hands balled into a pair of tight fists.

“That’s it! I’m placin’ BOTH o’ ya under arrest!” Sheriff Coffee quickly interposed himself between the two women. “Hoss, Apollo, do ya both swear to uphold ‘n defend the laws o’ Virginia City ‘n Story County t’ the best o’ your ability?”

“Yeah . . . . ” Hoss said.

“I . . . I guess so,” Apollo said looking uncertain.

“Consider yourselves both sworn in as deputies,” Roy said tersely. “Hoss, you grab Clarissa, and you, Apollo, grab hold o’ Colleen. I’m tossin’ ‘em BOTH in the pokey ‘til they calm down.”

“Hoss, please! You’ve got to get me out of here!” Clarissa begged for the thousandth time. “I’m late for work now!”

“Keep it down over there, y’ whining horse’s arse ya!” Colleen growled from the adjoining cell. The effects of the whiskey, hastily consumed, had dissipated, leaving her feeling sick and irritable.

“I will NOT keep it down!” Clarissa cried, angrily stamping her foot. “SOME of us have to work for a living, y’ know. Not ALL of us have a wealthy pa t’ keep us ‘til we can marry a decent man!”

“If I had a violin, I’d play it!” Colleen snapped.

“Colleen . . . Clarissa, none o’ this is gonna help gittin’ the two o’ ya outta here,” Hoss said sternly.

“It’s not fair!” Clarissa declared, glaring murderously over at Colleen. “SHE hit me first.”

“Well if you’d have minded your OWN business--- ”

“Clarissa, an’ YOU, too Colleen. This ain’t gettin’ us anywhere!” Hoss said firmly. He glared at both of them for a long moment. “What set the two of ya off, anyways?”

“SHE hit me!” Clarissa said.

“Well if you’d left me alone . . . . ”

“I just couldn’t stand it!” Clarissa groaned. “Hoss, she came into the Silver Dollar earlier to get herself falling down stinkin’ drunk. You wanna know why?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell us,” Apollo said in a wry tone.

“Durn tootin’!” Clarissa said, glaring over at Apollo. “It was because SHE’S having second thoughts again about gettin’ hitched to . . . to . . . to the man I love with all my heart!” Her last words ended on a stifled sob.

Colleen looked over at her askance. “YOU love Matt?”

“Yes, I do!” Clarissa sobbed angrily. “You gonna throw THAT in my face, too?”

“No,” Colleen said. “Because I love Apollo here with all MY heart, and would give just about anything for HIM to be the groom at my wedding tomorrow.”

“Now hold on a minute!” Hoss said, looking from Colleen to Clarissa, then back once again to Colleen. A smile slowly spread across the lower portion of his face. “Now lemme git this straight! Clarissa, you’re in love with Matt Wilson . . . . ”

“Yes,” she replied in a small, sad voice.

“ . . . . and I’m pretty sure Matt’s still in love with you.”

“What?” Colleen looked over at Hoss in complete and utter astonishment.

“H-Hoss . . . . you sure ‘bout that?” Clarissa asked, hardly daring to hope.

“I heard ‘bout that fight between Matt ‘n Apollo,” Hoss said quietly. “If ‘n he didn’t care ‘bout you at all, Clarissa, he wouldn’a been tryin’ so hard to explain things to ya.”

“I . . . I was so upset, I . . . well, I wouldn’t have figured that out in a million years,” Clarissa said slowly, very thoughtfully. Then, all of a sudden, she burst into tears.

Hoss, his face mirroring the despair and misery heard clearly in Clarissa’s weeping, reached out and gently touched her shoulder. “Dadburn it,” he said in a gloomy tone, his own voice breaking, “Apollo ‘n I’ve spent all day rackin’ our brains tryin’ t’ come up with a way so’s Colleen ‘n Matt wouldn’t hafta get married tomorrow . . . . ”

“ . . . and we haven’t been able to think of anything,” Apollo sadly shook his head.

Hoss suddenly remembered the bet his sister, Stacy had placed with Mick O’Flynn. “If only there was a way t’ substitute Apollo for Matt t’morrow . . . . ”

“Hoss, my dear old friend, you’re a genius!” Colleen cried. “An absolute genius!”

Hoss stared over at her, with a bewildered frown on his face.

“There IS a way!” Colleen’s face lit up with a dazzling smile.

“What do you have in mind, Colleen?” Apollo asked.

“Gather ‘round, Folks,” Colleen invited. The four moved into as close to a huddle as the bars between adjoining cells would permit. Smiling, Colleen O’Hanlan revealed her plan.

“Colleen . . . . ” Hoss looked over at her, wondering if that large amount of whiskey she had consumed in so short a time hadn’t somehow permanently left her mentally unhinged. “Y-you can’t DO that!”

“Colleen, he’s right! You CAN’T do that!” Apollo’s normally robust Mediterranean complexion was several shades paler.

“ . . . and why not?” Colleen demanded. “It would hardly be the first time that sort of thing’s happened, and it sure as shootin’ won’t be the last.”

“But, your reputation--- ”

“You have any BETTER ideas, Hoss?” Colleen asked.

Hoss reluctantly shook his head.

“It’s a wonderful idea,” Clarissa said slowly. “You’d have Apollo, and I’d at least have a shot at snagging Matt, but I think I’D better be the one.”

“Why you?” Colleen asked.

“Apollo just arrived a couple o’ days ago,” Clarissa hastened to point out. “That’s hardly enough time for . . . for . . . uuhhh, well . . . you know . . . and then to find out . . . . ” She sighed. “Besides, I’D be more believable.”

“I . . . hate to say this, but you may be right,” Colleen said remorsefully.

“S’ok, it’s true,” Clarissa said.

“Clarissa?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I hit you.”

“I’m sorry I made you mad enough to hit me.”

The two women reached out and shook hands.

“It’s all set, then,” Clarissa said. “At the right time, I’ll do what I gotta. When I do, you’re gonna have to make it look good, Colleen.”

“I will, don’t you worry about that,” Colleen promised with relish. “You know, I can’t wait to see the look on the face o’ that stuffed shirt I almost ended up havin’ as a mother-in-law.”

“Me neither!” Clarissa declared with a feral grin.

“Well, you know that they say about paybacks . . . . ” Colleen said. She, then turned to Hoss. “I’m curious. Wherever did you get the idea of changing Apollo for Matt?”

“Well, truth t’ tell it was really m’ sister’s idea,” Hoss admitted with a smile.

“Well you give her a big hug and a kiss from the four of us,” Colleen said.

“Amen to that,” Clarissa agreed.

“Me, too,” Apollo said.

“I sure will,” Hoss promised. “Now that things are patched up, I’d best fetch the sheriff to let the pair o’ you outta there.”

Ben sighed contentedly, as he eased himself down into the warm water, then settled himself back to relax and soak. The waning light of day streaming in through the bathroom window, casting its brilliance upon the surface of his bath water gently stirred the memory of bright sunlight dancing across the placid surface of Lake Tahoe this afternoon, under a bright, blue cloudless sky.

“Hey, Grandpa, race ya!”

Ben heard his daughter’s voice, saw her eyes, the same brilliant blue as the sky overhead, sparkling with excitement.

“You’re on, Little Sister!” His youngest son eagerly accepted her challenge, his normally gray-green eyes mirroring the blue of lake and sky.

“On your mark . . . . ”

“Get set . . . . ”

“GO!” Stacy and Joe shouted in unison as two of them surged forward on Blaze Face and Cochise respectively.

“YAH!” Adam shouted, urging his own mount forward, a surprise contender eagerly joining the race.

Teresa cupped her hands to her mouth and raucously cheered Adam on. Molly O’Hanlan, much to his astonishment, established herself as Joe’s boisterous rooting section, while Hop Sing cheered Stacy on. Frankie, Molly’s older brother, watched the race through eyes round with sheer terror, gripping the reins of his own mount so tight, his knuckles had literally turned white.

Horse hooves pounded the earth, and splashed through lake water, as Blaze Face, Cochise, and Sport II, caught and claimed the excitement of their riders. Joe’s high pitched, highly infectious rapid fire laughter mixed with Stacy’s surprised, “LOOK OUT, GRANDPA, IT’S ADAM! HE’S GAINING ON US!”

Hoss studied his father with a bemused look on his face, as he stood before the mirror whipping his shaving soap into a frothy lather. “Hey, Pa, whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“That race this afternoon . . . . ”

“If it’s all the same to YOU, Pa, I’d just as soon forget all about that race,” Adam said with a grimace. He looked over at Hoss, his dark eyes meeting his brother’s pale blue ones. “It wasn’t a race, Hoss,” he explained, with a wry grin, “it was an embarrassment! Stacy and Joe had me beat by a mile.”

“Aw, it wasn’t THAT bad, Adam,” Ben said, smiling. “You may have finished third out of three, but you sure gave the pair of ‘em a good run for their money.”

“All the same, I’m woefully out of practice,” Adam confessed as he reached for his own shaving mug, soap, and brush.

“Well, I know how t’ gitcha back IN practice real quick, Adam,” Hoss said as he dabbled the foamy shaving soap lather across the lower portion of his face with his brush.

“How’s that, Big Brother?”

“We’ll be moving the herds out t’ summer pasture startin’ Monday mornin’ next week,” Hoss said. “An extra warm body’d be more ‘n welcome.”

“We’ll see,” Adam said evasively.

A smile spread slowly across Ben’s lips as he slid down deeper into the tub. Hop Sing, with Teresa’s able assistance, had outdone himself preparing the picnic lunch. The memory of that fried chicken lingered blissfully on his lips and tongue, even now. Best of all, there had been none of the clandestine plotting and intrigue that seemed to be going on the night before. Just plain, old-fashioned good food and good fun shared with even better company.

Ben closed his eyes again, and turned this thoughts to the evening ahead. He could almost see that line of long-legged French can-can gals now, wearing very short skirts, dancing energetically against the dark backdrop of his eye lids.

“Hey, Older Brother, y’ better go easy on that aftershave cologne,” Hoss teased, as he deftly scraped the razor blade across his face one last time. “A married man shouldn’t be showin’ up at a party with all them pretty dancing gals smellin’ too pretty himself.”

Adam responded with a melancholy sigh.

Hoss cast a sidelong glance over at his older brother. “You alright, Adam?” he asked. “F’r someone who was all gung ho ‘n excited ‘bout this shindig, you’ve pert near turned into a party pooper.”

“Adam?” Ben glanced up at his eldest son with concern. “You sure you’re alright? That WAS a very bad hit you took on the nose yesterday, then racing Joe and Stacy this afternoon . . . . ”

“I’m fine, Pa,” Adam said testily. “The nose and eyes LOOK worse than they actually are.” He shook a few more drops of his father’s Old Bay Rum aftershave cologne into his left palm, then gingerly patted his neck and chin. “I guess I’m a little concerned about Teresa and the two babies of the family being turned loose on the town tonight.”

“Adam, for the life of me, I can’t understand WHY you’re so worried,” Ben said, his lips curving upward to form an amused smile.

“You sure that knock y’ took on the nose didn’t addle your noggin?” Hoss asked. “If ‘n I didn’t know better, I’d almost swear you was mistakin’ Joe ‘n Stacy for Benjy ‘n Dio.”

“The comparison is apt,” Adam admitted.

Ben laughed. “Now, Son, I know Joe and Stacy together can be a little high spirited sometimes . . . . ”

“THAT is the understatement of the century,” Adam said in a wry tone.

“But, TERESA will be with them,” Ben pointed out.

“I KNOW that, Pa.”

“Well, I think you and I both know she’s very much a down to earth, no nonsense woman,” Ben continued. “If I’ve said this once, I’ve said it a hundred times, the presence of her wisdom and maturity will quell any of the wilder notions that may come into Joe’s or Stacy’s heads.”

“What about some of the wilder notions that may come into the O’Hanlans’ heads?” Adam demanded.

Ben and Hoss looked over at one another, then simultaneously burst into hearty, gut wrenching laughter.

“Would you two mind telling ME what’s so funny?”

“Adam, I don’t think the O’Hanlans could come up with a wild idea to save their lives,” Hoss explained. “That Frankie . . . . ” he shook his head, chuckling, “I’ve NEVER seen anyone more inept, clumsy, ‘n absent-minded in my whole life. That boy couldn’t git into trouble if ‘n he TRIED.”

“ . . . and Molly?”

“Adam, Molly’s the most gentle, soft spoken, well-mannered, young lady it’s ever been my pleasure to meet,” Ben said with a smile. “I think some of that’s rubbed off on your sister . . . . ” he flinched against his oldest son’s intense, dubious glare, “ . . . well, a little . . . I think . . . . ”

Adam screwed the lid back onto the bottle of after shave cologne and replaced it in the shelf underneath the mirror. “Pa, what, exactly, are they planning to do in Virginia City this evening?” he tried a different track.

“Well, I think Teresa said something about doing a little shopping . . . . ”

“Pa, the only kind of shopping Teresa really enjoys is shopping for books,” Adam said archly.

“So?”

“So, you and I BOTH know there is a dearth of bookstores in Virginia City.”

“Adam, maybe Teresa needs, uh . . . you know . . . whatever kind o’ things women, uuhh need!?” Hoss suggested. Two bright spots of red appeared on his cheeks.

“I hardly think Teresa would take our baby brother and a young man she just met yesterday with her to shop for whatever kind of things women have need of,” Adam argued.

“No, I don’t suppose she would,” Hoss murmured as two bright spots on his cheeks, deepened to scarlet.

“ . . . and besides, Big Brother, my wife has enough of . . . THAT stuff to last her the next ten years!”

Hoss’ entire face flushed crimson. “Adam, h-how do you--- ?”

“You’ll just have to trust me on this one,” Adam said quickly.

“It’s still possible Teresa has need of SOMETHING,” Ben suggested reasonably, “and last night, Joe talked about attending a poetry reading, or some such. In fact, it was HIS idea.”

“Joe . . . OUR Joe . . . suggested they attend a poetry reading?!!” Adam shot Ben a look that clearly asked what rock did he just crawl out from under. “You ARE aware we’re talking about the same guy who considers bawdy limericks and sea chanties great poetry?”

“Aww come on, Adam, how much trouble can our li’l brother . . . ‘n sister, too, for that matter . . . possibly get into with the O’Hanlans, and Teresa along?” Hoss asked.

“Lots!” Adam snapped.



An hour later, Adam descended the stairs, nattily attired in a pair of black slacks, a clean white shirt, freshly pressed and starched courtesy of Hop Sing. He wore his black tie loosely around his neck, and carried a black jacket over his arm. His own family and their friends, the O’Hanlans, were gathered together over next to the fireplace. Pa sat in the middle of the settee, clad in a pair of light gray pants, white shirt, and black tie already neatly tied. Stacy and Teresa flanked him on either side. Adam noted with surprise that the youngest of his siblings were properly attired, as appropriate for dinner and a poetry reading. Joe’s beige slacks were clean and pressed, as was his white shirt. He wore a black tie, neatly tied, and had his green jacket in hand, casually slung over his shoulder. Stacy was also very conservatively attired in one of the full split skirts, she normally wore to school, hued in dark blue, with matching jacket, and white blouse.

Suddenly, all the concerns that had plagued him, that he’d tried to voice to his father and brother a short time before, rose to the forefront of his thoughts. Adam began to feel foolish for having entertained them.

“Hey, Oldest Brother, you’re lookin’ real spiffy tonight,” Joe complimented him with an affable grin.

Teresa studied her husband with a jaundiced eye. “Adam Cartwright, you’re looking a little TOO spiffy to suit ME,” she declared rising. “Here, let me give you a hand with that tie.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d rather have PA do the honors,” Adam teased. “With that look on your face, you’re more apt to STRANGLE me with my own tie.”

“We need to get movin’ anyway,” Joe said quickly.

“I want the five of you to enjoy yourselves tonight,” Ben said, rising along with Stacy and Teresa.

“Thanks, Pa, you guys, too,” Stacy replied, as she slipped her arms around his waist and gave him a quick, affectionate squeeze.

“You can count on it, Li’l Sister,” Hoss eagerly promised.

Ben planted a quick kiss on Stacy’s forehead. “Young Woman, I want you to be on your very best behavior this evening,” he exhorted her, while casting a meaningful, sidelong glance at Adam.

“OK, so I went a little overboard worrying,” Adam admitted reluctantly. “My apologies to offended parties, one and all.”

“ . . . and just who ARE the offended parties to whom you’re referring?” Teresa asked.

“Just about everyone present, with the exception of Pa, Hoss, and Hop Sing,” Adam sighed.

“Apology accepted, Oldest Brother,” Joe said with a grin.

“Ditto what Grandpa said,” Stacy agreed.

“Frankie and I accept your apology, too, Adam,” Molly said.

“Well and good for the lot of you! As for ME, however, I’D prefer to reserve judgment on that,” Teresa declared with a saucy grin.

“If it would please Your Honor, the counsel for the defense proposes a private meeting in The Judge’s chambers to, uummm . . . discuss the matter?!” Adam suggested, returning her saucy grin with a roguish one of his own. He slipped his arms loosely around her waist. “Counsel for the Defense is free to meet with the Judge . . . he can very truthfully say, first thing tomorrow morning?”

“The Council for the Defense may consider himself on the docket for first thing tomorrow morning,” Teresa said, as she slipped her own arms around his waist and gave him a gentle, very affectionate squeeze. “In the meantime, Adam, you enjoy yourself tonight, too.” She pulled him closer and kissed him soundly on the lips. “But not too much!”

Ben dutifully saw his youngest children, his daughter-in-law, and the O’Hanlans to the front door.

“Pa?”

“What is it, Hoss?” Ben asked, as he closed the front door behind the five who had just left.

“I plumb forgot . . . when I was in town earlier, Mrs. Danvers gave me this,” Hoss held up a pale lavender envelope, faintly scented with heather and vanilla. “She asked me t’ pass it on t’ you.”

Ben reluctantly accepted the sealed envelope from Hoss. On the front was his name, spelled out in the thin, spidery handwriting he immediately recognized as the hand of Mrs. Myra Danvers. He opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, perfectly folded in thirds, and written on paper perfectly matching the envelope. Ben opened the letter and read.

“So what does the good Widow Danvers have to say, Pa?” Adam asked, noting the puzzled frown on his father’s face.

Ben looked up, shaking his head in utter bewilderment. “The note says, ‘My Dear Benjamin . . . .’ ” He exhaled a short, exasperated sigh. “I am NOT her DEAR Benjamin!” he stated emphatically.

Adam deftly slipped the note out of his father’s hand. “Hmmm! ‘My Dear Benjamin, I want to thank you so very much for your generous donation of a wood stove to our fair church. Please rest assured that your anonymity will be carefully preserved. Your kind generosity is most appreciated. Affectionately . . . . ’ ” He looked up at his father with a bemused grin. “Affectionately, Pa? You haven’t been toying with this woman’s affections . . . have you?”

“Not hardly,” Ben growled. “I go out of my way to AVOID her!”

“You remember that visit we had from Cousin Clarissa?” Hoss asked, scowling.

“Thankfully, I wasn’t around,” Adam said.

“Well as bad as we toldja Cousin Clarissa was, this Widow Danvers is about a hundred times WORSE!” Hoss continued, “ . . . and she gives ME a doggoned case o’ the willies on top of that!”

“Where in the ever lovin’ world did she get the idea that I donated a wood stove to the church?” Ben demanded, addressing no one in particular.

“You mean you DIDN’T donate a wood stove to the church?” Adam queried with a puzzled frown.

“No, I most assuredly did NOT!” Ben declared vehemently.

Adam shrugged. “OBVIOUSLY, there’s been a misunderstanding somewhere.”

“OBVIOUSLY!” Ben growled through clenched teeth. “But you mark my words, I’m gonna straighten out that little misunderstanding at the wedding reception tomorrow, first thing . . . AND I’m going to straighten out a few OTHER things, as well . . . once and for all!”

“Come on, Pa,” Hoss said. “It’s gettin’ on time f’r US t’ leave. Why don’t we just plain forget about that woman, f’r tonight anyway, and think about havin’ a real good time.”

“Hoss, that’s the best idea I’ve heard this evening,” Ben agreed. “Let’s go.”



“Can I get you folks some dessert and coffee?”

The Cartwrights, Joe, Stacy, and Teresa, and the two younger O’Hanlan offspring had just finished a big supper of meatloaf, mashed potatoes with beef gravy, mixed vegetables, and light fluffy buttermilk biscuits, hot and fresh from the oven at the International Hotel restaurant.

Joe looked up at their waitress, attired this evening in a green dress that complimented her mane of red curls and her big, green luminous eyes. He smiled warmly at her, as his eyes flitted briefly to the wall clock above their heads, then back to the waitress’ face. “No thank you, Patty,” he said, noting the time was seven forty-two. The bachelor party should be well underway by the time they reached the Silver Dollar. “We need to be pushin’ on. Please tell the chef it was a real fine meal.”

“Yes, it was,” Teresa said, nodding.

“Y’ SURE I can’t interest you in some dessert?” Patty said with a coy smile. “We got cherry pie on special tonight, made by Mrs. Braun herself.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Frankie said. “I’ll have . . . . ”

“ . . . to pass, I’m afraid,” Joe said quickly, as Molly favored her brother with a dark, murderous glare. “As I said, we’ve got to push on. We’ll take the check please.”

Patty nodded. “I’ll be right back,” she promised.

“Frankie,” Molly hissed after Patty had left them to get the check, “what did you think you were doing?”

“Stalling for time, I guess,” Frankie said contritely, then sighed.

Joe, seeing the worried look on the younger man’s face, smiled. “Frankie, there’s absolutely nothing to worry about,” he said, placing a reassuring hand on Frankie’s shoulder. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder, then resumed, lowering his voice. “The plan is flawless, absolutely flawless. We’re gonna go in, get the music box, and go out. Just like that, easy as pie.”

“You sure, Joe?” Frankie asked anxiously.

“I’m positive,” Joe said with a confident smile. “It’s a simple, but effective strategy. In, grab music box, out. It’s that simple.”

“What if something goes wrong?”

“If we all work together, and do what we’re supposed to do . . . WHAT can possibly go wrong?” Joe asked.



Ten minutes later, the five would be raiders stood together in a close-knit circle at the corner where the side alley, leading to the rear of the Silver Dollar Saloon, met with C Street. Tonight, less now than twenty-four hours until the much-anticipated Colleen O’Hanlan-Matthew Wilson Wedding, the entire population of Virginia City and surrounding environs was in a festive mood. All six of Virginia City’s saloons did brisk business.

“Ok . . . I want the four of ya to wait here,” Joe quietly instructed his cohorts. “Before we do anything, I need to find out whether or not Sally Tyler convinced Clarissa Starling to give up the music box. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Dear God,” Frankie prayed softly and very earnestly, squeezing his eyes shut, “please make it so Sally Tyler convinced Clarissa to return our music box, please-please-please-please-please-puh-LEESE! Do this for me and I’ll give up cigarettes for as long as I live, and even longer than that.”

“Frankie, I didn’t know you smoked cigarettes,” Stacy whispered with an amused grin on her face.

“He DOESN’T,” Molly said in a wry tone.

Joe returned a few moments later, his face set with grim determination. “Lotus told me it was no dice,” he said. “We go ahead as planned.” He paused, and turned to his sister. “Stacy, your assignment is to create a diversion.”

“What KIND of diversion did you have in mind, Grandpa?” she asked.

“Doesn’t matter, Kid, any kind of diversion, as long as it . . . diverts attention,” Joe replied.

“Ok, but I need to give some thought to it,” Stacy said moving slightly apart from the others.

“Frankie, YOUR job is to keep an eye on Clarissa. Make sure she doesn’t under any circumstances go up to her room until Teresa and I come back down and give you the high sign,” Joe continued.

Frankie paled, and swallowed hard. “Gosh, Joe, maybe YOU should be the one to keep an eye on Clarissa,” he said. “YOU’RE the one who has a way with the ladies.”

“Frankie, you’ll be FINE,” Joe promised with an encouraging smile. “Just fine!”

“But, what’ll I say to her?” Frankie asked, horror stricken.

“Hey! Do I look like a script writer?” Joe demanded. “Look, if all goes well, you won’t have to say a thing to her. We’re gonna go in, grab the music box, and be right out faster ‘n striking rattler, like I keep tellin’ ya.”

“I hope so, Joe, I really gosh-a-roonies hope so.”

“Molly,” Joe said, turning to Frankie’s sister and Stacy’s best friend, “you’ll be in the saloon standing next to the back door. When you see Teresa and me coming with the music box, you’ll signal to Stacy and Frankie.”

Molly nodded.

Joe turned to his sister-in-law. “Teresa, you and I will go up to Clarissa’s room,” he said with gleeful relish. “You’ll stand guard in the hall, while I go into the lady’s room and fetch the music box.”

Teresa favored her young brother-in-law with the same knowing glare she turned on her own two children when she knew they were up to mischievous no good. “Slight change in plans, Joe,” she said with mock severity. “YOU will stand guard in the hall whilst I search the lady’s room.”

Joe knew better than to waste time and energy arguing the matter by the determined look on Teresa’s face. The disappointment on his face was a veritable comic relief.

“Ok, any questions?” Teresa aptly took the reins of leadership, while Joe nursed his momentary upset.

The others shook their heads.

“Stacy, are you ready?”

“Yes,” she replied, ignoring the sudden, sharp stab of conscience. She swallowed, reminded herself silently and firmly that what she was about to do was for a very good cause, then pulled herself up to full height. With her face set with stubborn resolve, she started walking toward the swinging saloon doors.

“Hold it, Kid,” Joe reasserted his role as head honcho. “What’re you planning to do?”

“Just keep your eyes peeled, Grandpa,” Stacy said, as she sauntered past him into the saloon.



Meanwhile, in the back room, the men who had arrived for Matthew Wilson’s bachelor party were clustered in a semi-circle around the make shift bar. The groom-to-be stood in the center, as the guest of honor, with his best man beside him on his right. Apollo Nikolas stood on the other side of Adam, grinning from ear to ear. Most of the other men in the room, knowing of the triangle involving the sailor, the prospective bride, and the groom-to-be, looked back and forth, from Matt to Apollo, their eyes shining with anticipation and excitement.

“Matthew, tomorrow, you and the lovely Colleen O’Hanlan will take the plunge into the deep, and sometimes HOT waters of holy matrimony,” Adam said, blissfully ignorant of the explosive potential existing between the two men flanking him on either side.

“Y’ got that right, Adam, m’ boy,” Francis O’Hanlan loudly voiced his agreement.

“After two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, your life will irrevocably change,” Adam continued. “No more women, no more drinking and carousing ‘til the wee hours of the morning, no more women, no more hunting and fishing trips off in to the woods alone or with others, no more women, no more poker games with your buddies . . . make that your FORMER buddies, and . . . did I already mention no more women?”

“NO!” the men chorused in loud, resounding unison.

“Ok, all you married men out there, let’s say it together,” Adam prompted.

“NO MORE WOMEN!!!”

“I didn’t heeeear you,” Adam said with a sly grin.

“NO MORE WOMEN!” they shouted at the very top of their lungs.

Adam raised his glass, filled to the brim with the best whiskey money could buy in Virginia City. “A toast,” he said. “To Matt, I wish you health, prosperity, good fortune, good luck, and an endless supply of good excuses for the rare occasions you DO come home late on Saturday night.”

“To Matt,” the others chorused in near unison, amid the ripple of amused laughter.

“Hey, Clem, that big guy standin’ on the other side o’ Adam Cartwright . . . is HE the sailor guy whut used t’ be in love with Colleen O’Hanlan, an’ is STILL in love with Colleen O’Hanlan?”

Clem Foster, the deputy, turned to the grizzled elderly man standing beside him. “Yep, that’s him,” he replied. “That’s Apollo Nikolas.”

“Man! I dunno ‘bout you, but the way he just stands there, smilin’ like he don’t have a care in t’ world, jus’ out ‘n out gives me the willies.” The old man shuddered.

“As father of the bride, I’d like to make a toast, but m’ glass is empty,” Francis O’Hanlan Senior said, holding his glass up for all to see.

Hoss picked up an open whiskey bottle from the bar and refilled his own glass. “Here, y’ are, Mister O’Hanlan,” he said, passing the bottle.

“Thanks, Hoss, you’re a good lad,” Francis said, taking the bottle. He quickly refilled his own glass, then held the bottle up for all to see. “Anyone else?”

A half dozen hands shot up. Francis lobbed the bottle in the general direction of Sheriff Roy Coffee.

“Ben, when are we gonna see them dancing girls?” the sheriff asked, as he refilled his glass.

End of Part 3

RETURN TO LIBRARY