Young Cartwrights In Love:
A Story In Three Vignettes
By Kathleen T. Berney

Ben Cartwright stepped put onto the porch, with cup and saucer in hand. As he lifted the cup to his lips to finish the remaining coffee, his dark eyes took in the vista spread out before him. The sky at zenith was a bright azure blue, gradually lightening to a luminous turquoise at the horizon, delineated by the jagged line of far distant mountains. There was not even the slightest wisp of cloud to mar its pristine appearance. Brilliant yellow aspens and rich golden cottonwoods stood out in stark contrast against the deep, forest green hue of the ponderosa pines. Ben could hear the gentle breezes singing softly among the high boughs of the pine trees and see them set the aspen leaves shimmering like the fall of gold dust. Smiling, he took a deep breath, savoring the clean, crisp taste of the early morning air.

“Mister Cartwright!”

Ben turned and saw Hop Sing standing framed in the open doorway, with arms folded across his chest, leveling a dark scowl in his general direction.

“What Mister Cartwright doing outside and no jacket?” Hop Sing demanded.

“Jacket?” Ben echoed, favoring Hop Sing with a look of complete and utter bewilderment. “Why in the world do I need a jacket? I just stepped outside for a breath of fresh air.”

“Cold this morning! VERY cold this morning!” Hop Sing sternly admonished the clan patriarch. “Mister Cartwright and no jacket catch death of pneumonia.”

An amused smile tugged at the corner of Ben’s lips. “Hop Sing, whatever happened to ‘good morning?’ ”

“That on coat rack in house with Mister Cartwright jacket!” Hop Sing replied without missing a beat.

“Well, not even YOUR scolding’s going to spoil such a beautiful morning,” Ben chuckled.

“Where IS everybody?” Hop Sing continued his tirade, as he followed Ben back into the house. “They turn invisible? Breakfast almost ready and Hop Sing see no hide or hair of anybody!”

“Did somebody say breakfast?” Stacy emerged onto the top landing, freshly bathed and fully dressed. This morning, she wore her brand new riding skirt, a brilliant royal blue, for the first time, with her favorite white blouse, clean, starched and freshly pressed. The jacket, matching the skirt was draped over her arm. Her long, luxuriant hair, hued as the raven’s wing, was neatly woven into a single French braid.

“Breakfast almost ready, Miss Stacy,” Hop Sing replied.

“Good! I’m about ready to keel over from starvation!” Stacy declared, as she bounded down the steps two and three at a time. “ ‘Morning, Pa . . . ‘Morning, Hop Sing.”

“Good morning, Miss Stacy,” Hop Sing greeted the youngest member of the Cartwright family with a warm smile.

“Hey! How come SHE gets the good morning, and all I get is a load of grief?” Ben demanded in mock tones of melodramatic outrage.

“Miss Stacy not go out in cold morning air and no jacket,” Hop Sing returned with a defiant glare. “Besides! Miss Stacy prettier!”

Ben laughed out loud. “I can’t argue with you there.”

“Thank you, Hop Sing,” Stacy said, as she impulsively gave the family’s chief cook and bottle wash washer, occasional physician, and second father a big hug.

“Rose perfume smell very nice on Miss Stacy,” Hop Sing said, returning the hug.

“Thank you, Hop Sing, except it’s not perfume,” Stacy said. “It’s that rose bath oil Teresa and Adam sent me last Christmas.”

“Nice,” Hop Sing murmured, as he made his way back to the kitchen. “Very, very nice!”

“You’re in a good mood this morning,” Ben observed as he and Stacy walked over to the dining room table together.

“How could I NOT be in a good mood this morning, Pa?” she queried, with a dreamy smile on her lips. “It’s such a gorgeous day outside . . . perfect for going into town.”

Ben strongly suspected that raging winds, a blinding snow storm, and sub-zero temperatures would also qualify as a perfect day for riding into town, ever since young Jason O’Brien started work at the Virginia City branch of the post office.

“Hop Sing’s right about one thing. That rose scent IS very nice,” Ben said, as he and Stacy took their places at the table.

“Thank you, Pa,” Stacy said. She reached over and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Any idea what’s keeping your brothers?”

“I heard Hoss moving around in his room,” Stacy replied, with a puzzled frown. “He sounded a little upset.”

“Oh? How can you be so sure Hoss was upset?”

“I heard him use ‘dadburn it’ three times in one sentence.”

Ben glanced over at her sharply. “Stacy Rose Cartwright, so help me, if you and Joseph were listening at the keyhole again . . . . ”

“It wasn’t necessary. I could hear him loud ‘n clear as I walked by.”

“How about Joe?”

“The door to HIS room was closed. If he’s in there, he’s being awfully quiet.”

Ben frowned. “Don’t tell me he’s not up yet.”

“I don’t know, Pa,” Stacy said with a shrug.

“He needs to get a move on, if he expects to ride into town with us,” Ben said. He rose, and set out on a direct course for the bottom of the stairs. “JOSEPH . . . . ” he bellowed. “RISE ‘N SHINE!”

“ ‘Morning, Pa,” Joe stepped out on the top landing, fully dressed, washed, and hair combed, “no need to shout! I was up bright ‘n early this morning.”

“So I see.”

Joe descended the stairs at a slower, and more dignified pace than his younger sister had a few moments earlier.

Ben quietly noted the clean, freshly pressed and starched white shirt, the faint sheen of hair cream, and scent of old bay rum after-shave, as Joe walked past him at the bottom of the stairs.

“I wonder what burr’s worked it’s way up under Hoss’ saddle?” Joe queried aloud, as he and Ben took their places at the dining room table. “I heard a whole long string of dadburns and doggones when I passed his room.”

“Joseph, I hope you haven’t been teasing him about Brunhilda Odinsdottir again,” Ben said sternly. “You went a little too far the last time.”

“Yeah, that crack about the baby carriage and HER being named Virginia City’s father of the year WAS a bit out of line,” Joe admitted ruefully, “but, I must’ve apologized for it at least a thousand times since.”

“Are you two SURE you haven’t said or done anything to get your brother riled up?” Ben asked, looking from one to the other.

“Not me, Pa,” Joe said.

“I can’t think of anything,” Stacy replied.

“Well, whatever it is, it must really be something to get your brother that riled up so quickly,” Ben said. “When he comes in, it might be a good idea for you both to be on your best behavior, until we get to the bottom of things.”

“Sure, Pa,” Stacy agreed.

Joe nodded solemnly.

Hoss, as if on cue, entered into the dining room, fully dressed, with a murderous scowl on his face. “Dadburn it, Stacy Rose Cartwright, the next daggum time you decide t’ use your dadburned rosy smellin’ bath oil, you’d better doggone sight be takin’ your bath LAST!”

“Oops! Sorry ‘bout that, Big Brother,” Stacy squeaked, as Joe burst out laughing.

Ben quickly raised his napkin to his mouth to cover the smile.

“You can just thank your lucky stars you’re my sister instead o’ my brother,” Hoss growled. “Otherwise, I’d be moppin’ up the corral with ya, ‘bout now.”

Ben wisely refrained from pointing out that if Stacy HAD been his brother instead of his sister, Hoss would not likely be sitting at the table now, literally smelling like a rose.

“Hoss, you want to know what I think?” Joe asked, grinning from ear to ear.

“No,” Hoss replied, seating himself in the chair between his brother and their father.

“I think that stuff smells even prettier on YOU than it does on The Kid,” Joe teased.

“Li’l Joe, Stacy may be my sister, but YOU sure as shootin’ ain’t!” Hoss rose very slowly. Then, drawing himself up to full height, he turned and glared menacingly down at his younger brother, still seated in the chair next to his.

“Oops!” Joe squeaked, as he tried unsuccessfully to slink under the table.

“Alright, Boys, that’s enough,” Ben said. “Hoss, sit down. Once you get out to the summer pasture and start rounding up calves, you’ll smell like beef cattle in no time.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hoss murmured reluctantly, as he dropped back down in his chair.

Hop Sing entered the dining room, carrying two large serving bowls, one filled with fluffy yellow scrambled eggs, the other with fried potatoes and sweet red peppers. Ben picked up the bowl of fried potatoes, while Hoss and Stacy made a grab for the scrambled eggs. Stacy successfully snagged the bowl of scrambled eggs a split second before Hoss could close his own massive hands around it, and spooned out a generous serving onto her plate.

“Daggum it, Li’l Brother, I’m confused,” Hoss said. There was an impish gleam in his eyes.

“Are you?” Joe queried, all wide-eyed and too innocent. “So tell me, Big Brother, WHY are you confused?”

“I thought sure that people head over heels in love were s’posed to LOSE their appetites,” Hoss teased, as he and his younger brother both turned their attention to their sister.

“Yeah, now that you mention it,” Joe agreed. A smile born of pure and simple mischief slowly spread across his face. “Little Sister, you’ve been packin’ it away like there’s no tomorrow.”

Hop Sing returned, carrying a large serving platter heaped with sausage, bacon, and strips of fried ham. “If love make Miss Stacy eat, I hope Miss Stacy stay in love for good long time,” he declared with a broad grin, as he placed the food on the table.

“I’m glad SOMEONE around here’s happy,” Stacy quipped, as she took the bowl of fried potatoes from her brother, Joe.

“You keep givin’ ol’ Hoss here a run for his money at mealtime, Kid, I’m gonna be calling you BIG sister, ‘fore long,” Joe retorted.

“With chi like Miss Stacy got, we call you BIG JOE first,” Hop Sing declared with an emphatic nod of his head. “Miss Stacy need more meat on her bones. She much too thin.”

“So THERE, Grandpa,” Stacy said sticking her tongue out at Joe.

Joe stuck his tongue out at her, then thumbed his nose for good measure. “Oh! I just now this very second remembered something . . . . ”

“What?” Stacy demanded warily.

“I have this letter addressed to Stacy Rose,” Joe said, with a devilish grin. He reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a folded blue envelope. “Jason gave it to me the other day and asked me to give it to YOU.”

“The OTHER DAY?” Stacy echoed, as delicious thoughts of drowning the youngest of her three older brothers in the trough outside began to dance merrily through her head. “You’ve had that all this time?”

“It . . . kinda . . . slipped my mind,” Joe said with a naughty grin.

“Forgetfulness is a sign of advancing old age, GRANDPA,” Stacy retorted. She made a mental note to tell Jason he could trust Hoss, or maybe even her father to deliver personal mail, but never Joe. “I’ll take the letter now.”

“Not so fast, Miss Stacy Rose . . . Sugar Lips!”

“Shu-Shu . . . Sugar Lips?” Hoss echoed, his face turning beet red.

Stacy, much to her chagrin, felt the sudden rush of blood to her own face. “Did he really . . . . ?”

“Surely you don’t think I’D call you Sugar Lips,” Joe replied, still grinning from ear to ear.

“Joseph Francis Cartwright, if you don’t give my letter right now, YOU are a DEAD MAN!”

“You’ll have to catch me first!” Joe leapt to his feet and bolted for the stairs.

Stacy was out of her chair like a shot. “ . . . uuhhh, Pa, may I be excused . . . briefly . . . please?” she asked through clenched teeth, all the while glaring at Joe’s steadily retreating form.

“Alright, but keep it very brief,” Ben said nonchalantly, while buttering his toast. “I don’t want your breakfast getting cold.”

“Thanks, Pa,” Stacy immediately set off after her fleeing brother at a dead run.

At the table, Ben and Hoss heard Joe’s infectious giggle burst forth like the rapid fire of a Gatling gun and echo through out the second story.

“GRANDPA, I WANT THAT LETTER, AND I WANT IT RIGHT NOW . . . OR ELSE!”

“OR ELSE WHAT, SUGAR LIPS?”

“Sugar Lips?” Hoss repeated the words again with a grimace of complete and utter distaste. Two large crimson dots still colored his cheeks. “Pa, Li’l Joe’s got no dadburn business readin’ Stacy’s, uuhhh . . . . PERSONAL mail.”

“He hasn’t,” Ben said.

“He hasn’t?!” Hoss echoed, looking over at his father incredulously.

“Nope.” Ben shook his head, and smiled.

“How c’n ya be so sure, Pa?”

“Well, in the second place, I know for a fact that Jason O’Brien has too much class to address the woman he loves as Sugar Lips,” Ben explained. “Leastwise, he’d better!”

“What’s in the first place, Pa?”

“The envelope was still sealed.”

Hoss grinned. “Ooh boy! When she finds THAT out, she’ll really kill ‘im,” he said chuckling.

“Oh well, you know what they say about pay backs, Hoss . . . . ”

“JOSEPH FRANCIS CARTWRIGHT,” Stacy’s voice could be heard loud and clear below, “IF YOU DON’T HAND OVER THAT LETTER RIGHT NOW THIS MINUTE, SO HELP ME, I’M GONNA BURY YOU SO DEEP, PA WILL NEVER FIND YOUR REMAINS.”

“Y’ GOTTA CATCH ME FIRST, SUGAR LIPS, HONEY!”

“I WILL . . . DON’T YOU WORRY ABOUT THAT . . . SWEET JOEY STUD MUFFIN!”

“HEY! HOW’D YOU . . . WHERE . . . ?”

Ben gazed up at the top of the steps, too stunned to speak. “Sweet . . . Joey . . . Stud Muffin?!” he echoed, upon finally finding his voice.

“Yeah,” Hoss affirmed, with an embarrassed grin. “That’s Lilly Beth’s pet name for ‘im.”

“You mean to say your brother’s girl actually calls him . . . . ?”

“Yep.” Hoss nodded.

Ben’s scowl deepened. “I’m beginning to think I’ve been overly protective of the wrong child,” he muttered.

Hop Sing entered the dining room with a pot of freshly brewed coffee. “Hey! Where Little Joe and Miss Stacy?” he demanded, with an indignant frown.

“Upstairs,” Hoss replied.

“They sound like dadburn cattle stampede!” Hop Sing declared, as he placed the coffee pot on the table between Hoss and Ben. He returned to the kitchen, shaking his head.

Ben laughed out loud. “Hoss, I think maybe enough’s enough,” he said, at length, as his mirth began to fade. “Would you mind going up and fetching them back down?”

“Sure thing, Pa,” Hoss said rising.

A sudden crash, followed by a sickening dull thud upstairs, froze Ben and Hoss in their places. They exchanged anxious glances, then turned their attention back toward the stairs in time to see Joe and Stacy descending, single file, with their faces averted to the floor.

“Joe? Stacy? You two alright?” Ben queried anxiously.

“Fine, Pa,” Joe said contritely, looking up. His right eye sported the beginnings of a potentially lurid black and blue shiner.

“I had nothing to do with it, Pa, honest,” Stacy said quickly.

“It was an accident,” Joe admitted. “I slipped on that throw rug in my room, fell, and hit the dresser.”

Hoss turned away from his younger brother, laughing uproariously. “Li’l Joe, ain’t nobody in the whole wide world’s gonna believe THAT story.”

“I just thought of something . . . . ” Stacy said, as she slipped back into her chair. She looked over at her big brother, seated at the table directly opposite. “You’re gonna spend all day rounding up calves, right?”

“I sure am,” Hoss affirmed with a curt nod, “and I’d better be daggoned sight be smellin’ like ‘em real quick!”

“Well, Big Brother, now I’M confused!”

Joe grinned. “I had no idea confusion was so contagious,” he quipped. “So tell me, Little Sister, why are YOU confused?”

“If Hoss’ gonna be smelling like beef cattle at the end of the day, why’d he even bother to take a bath this morning?”

“Ain’t none o’ yer business, Li’l Sister,” Hoss growled.

“Well, I, for one, happen to think it’s a real good question,” Joe said with a sly grin.

“I’ll tell YOU, like I just told her . . . it ain’t none o’ your business!”

“It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that Brunhilda Odinsdottir and some of HER hands are helping out with this round up, now . . . could it?”

“Dadburn it, Li’l Joe . . . . ”

??????



“ . . . that’s your usual order, Ben, plus the extra flour, sugar, and lard . . . that comes to a grand total of fifty two dollars and seventy-three cents,” Amelia Jared said. “Would you like me to add that to your tab?”

Ben nodded. “Then, if it’s not too much trouble, would you mind giving me a grand total as to how much I owe you?” he asked. “I’d like to get my tab paid up before I have to put in for winter supplies.”

“No trouble at all, Ben,” Amelia quipped with a saucy grin. “Especially when it comes to money.” Her smile faded. “I’ll fetch Virgil and Burt out here to help you load, whist I tally up your tab.”

“You don’t need to trouble Virgil and Burt,” Ben protested. “Joe and I can . . . . ” He glanced behind him, expecting to see his youngest son sitting in the driver’s seat of the buckboard. Joe was nowhere to be seen. Ben frowned. “Now where did that boy get himself off to?” he wondered aloud.

“I thought I saw Lilly Beth dragging him off in the direction of the parlor, while I was measurin’ out the corn meal, and YOU were talkin’ to the O’Brien boy,” Amelia replied with a smile . . . .



“Oh my poor Sweet Joey Stud Muffin, that eye looks horrible,” Lilly Beth Jared winced daintily. “Absolutely horrible! Does it . . . oh, My Sweet Darling, does it hurt very much?”

“Yeah, it still hurts, Lilly Beth,” Joe said, gazing longingly into her big green eyes. “Sometimes the pain is just . . . unbearable.”

“You have to be the absolute bravest person I know.”

“Fortunately for me Lilly Beth, you’re a real easy sight on sore eyes.”

Lilly Beth Jared had a thick mop of light brown ringlet curls that cascaded just beyond her shoulders. Today, she had combed her hair away from her face and secured it at the nape of her neck with a green ribbon that matched her dress. She had also been blessed with the enticing figure of a dance hall girl, with ample bosom, small waist, and curving hips that not even the simple housedress she wore could completely hide.

“Oh, my poor brave love stallion, that poor li’l eye o’ yours makes ME hurt, too, just lookin’ at you,” Lilly Beth murmured softly. She reached up and gently caressed his cheek.

“Y’ know, Lilly Beth, I think maybe a little more of that, umm . . . . painkiller of yours might help . . . . ”

Lilly Beth leaned over and kissed him soundly on the lips. Joe’s arms, impelled by instinct circled her waist and shoulders, pulling her closer. Lilly Beth willingly allowed him to draw her into his embrace. The heady combination of her lips on his, and her body, warm and pliant, pressed up real close, sent Joe’s senses reeling.

“How do you feel now?” Lilly Beth asked, as her lips moved to the nape of his neck.

Joe’s eyes went round with astonishment.

“Is the pain any better?” she purred.

“I . . . I’m n-not in pain any . . . any more,” Joe said, struggling to sit up. “I feel kinda dizzy— ”

“Then maybe you should lie back down, My Sweet Joey Stud Muffin.” Lilly Beth gently, yet very firmly, shoved Joe back down on the cushions. Before the youngest Cartwright son realized what was happening, she had started to unbutton his shirt.

“Lilly Beth, wh-what’re doing?” Joe demanded, his hazel eyes round with shocked astonishment and a healthy dose of sheer terror.

“You said you were dizzy, My Great Big Hunk of Handsome Stud Muffin,” she cooed as her deft fingers continued down the line. “I kinda thought maybe, if I, uh loosened your shirt, you could . . . well, you could BREATHE better, maybe NOT feel so dizzy?!”

“LILLY BETH?” It was her mother.

The pair immediately separated, each sliding to his or her own end of the settee. Joe, with heart slamming hard against his throat, labored to button his shirt. Beads of sweat dotted his brow, despite the cool temperature within.

On the other end of the settee, Lilly Beth’s entire body went limp, reminding Joe of his father’s description of ships’ sails when the wind suddenly dies. “YEAH, MA?” she yelled back.

“YOU ‘N JOE CARTWRIGHT FRONT ‘N CENTER!” Amelia bellowed. “HIS PA’S READY TO LOAD UP!”

“YES, MA’AM.” The girl made no effort to hide her regret.



Lilly Beth, with head bowed and shoulders sagging, stepped from the Jared domicile into the general store, with Joe Cartwright following close behind.

“It was nice visiting with ya, Joe,” she drawled, those big, wide, dewy green eyes stuck to his face like glue.

“It was WONDERFUL visiting with you, too, Lilly Beth,” Joe said, still grinning from ear to ear, as much from a profound sense of relief as from pleasure.

“Hate t’ see you go so soon.” She exhaled a long, melodramatic sigh.

Joe’s grin faded. “Yeah, Lilly Beth, me, too,” he said too quickly. “But, duty calls, I’m afraid. Pa can’t load the wagon all by himself.”

“Correction, Joseph Francis,” Ben said, his scowl deepening upon catching sight of lipstick smeared on his son’s shirt collar, “Pa absolutely refuses to load the supplies by himself. Let’s go!”

“When’ll I see you again, Sweet Joey Stud Muffin?”

“Lilly Beth! How many times do I have to tell ya NOT to call me that in front of my pa?” Joe hissed, his cheeks and the tip of his nose suddenly sporting a very healthy, ruddy complexion.

“But when’ll I see ya next?”

“I . . . g-guess I’ll, uuhh . . . see you . . . the . . . uummm, next time I’m in town, Lilly Beth,” Joe said evasively.

“When’ll THAT be?”

“The . . . next time . . . I’m . . . in . . . town.”

“See you then, My Dearest Darling Sweet Love Stallion.”

“Lilly Beth, please!” Joe was afraid to look over at his father.

Lilly Beth blew him a kiss. Her lips, sensuously puckered, were a standing open invitation.

“Come along, Joseph,” Ben said in a tone that brooked no discussion of any kind on the matter. “Good afternoon, Lilly Beth.”

“Good afternoon, Mister Cartwright.” Lilly Beth exhaled a long, melancholy sigh, then returned to her family’s domicile.

Ben and Joe loaded the buckboard in short order. “All that remains is the business I need to take care of at the bank,” the former said.

“What about the mail?” Joe asked.

“Stacy said SHE’D drop by the post office,” Ben replied.

“Jason works there, doesn’t he?” Joe asked, frowning.

Ben nodded. “So?”

“So . . . uuhhh, Pa, you want ME to g’won over to the post office and fetch Stacy?”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Ben replied, noting the murderous scowl on his son’s face.

“But, Pa . . . . ”

“Son, I trust Jason O’Brien,” Ben said quietly. “His family and ours have been friends and neighbors for many years. To be perfectly honest, I was very much relieved when it became clear that the first young man your sister’s fallen in love with turned out to be Jason.”

“I KNOW Jason’s a fine young man, Pa, but— ”

“Joe, let me ask you something,” Ben said. “Do you trust Stacy?”

“Of course I do! I’d trust her with my life!”

“If you’d trust her with YOUR life, doesn’t it make good sense to trust her with her own?”

“I . . . . ” Joe lapsed into silence, not quite knowing what to say. “Pa, I love Stacy very much,” he said finally.

“I know, Son,” Ben said quietly.

“I don’t want to see her hurt.”

“Neither do I, any more than I want to see you, Hoss, and Adam hurt,” Ben said. “But, you know . . . looking back, it seems all the times I tried my hardest to keep the four of you safe were the times I think I failed the most . . . and ended up hurting you far worse in many ways than you would have been if I hadn’t tried to be so protective.”

“Alright, Pa,” Joe said contritely. “I promise not to go within a hundred feet of the post office.” He sighed. “I guess, truth to tell, I’m probably telling more on me and Lilly Beth.”

“No comment,” Ben said with a smile.

“Thanks, Pa.” Joe returned his father’s smile. “I . . . appreciate you not pointing out the obvious.”

“I knew I didn’t need to,” Ben said. “Now Hop Sing, on the other hand, may NOT be so magnanimous when he sees that lipstick on your collar.”

“Oops!” Joe squeaked.

“You may yet end up buried so deep I’ll never find your remains, Young Man,” Ben said, chuckling. “Is there any business you need to take care of while we’re here?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Joe replied. “Adam and Teresa have an anniversary coming up. I thought I’d kinda look around, see what I can scare up in the way of a gift.”

“You go on ahead, Joe,” Ben said. “I have that banking to take care of, which shouldn’t take any more than an hour. Why don’t we meet back here then?” He paused. “If one or the other of us hasn’t caught up with your sister by THAT time, we’ll BOTH go to the post office.”

“That sounds like a plan to me, Pa,” Joe said, smiling. “See you later.”



Ben found Stacy waiting when he emerged from the bank an hour and fifteen minutes later, with mail in hand.

“So tell me . . . is Jason going to be your escort for the dance next Saturday night?” Ben asked, as they made their way back toward the general store and their buckboard.

Stacy froze mid-stride. “Pa, h-how did you know he w-was going to—?”

“I ran into him at the general store earlier, while Mrs. Jared was getting the flour and sugar together for me,” Ben replied with a smile, “though I think it more likely HE actually ran into ME, and not by accident either.” He paused. “Jason asked me if it was alright for him to ask you.”

“In answer to your question, yes, he IS going to be my escort for the dance on Saturday night,” Stacy replied. She slipped her arm through Ben’s as they walked and impulsively gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Thanks for letting him ask me, Pa.”

“To be honest, I didn’t have the heart to say no,” Ben confessed. “I’ll bet it’s taken him the better part of a month to work up the nerve to ask me.”

“Really? How do you figure?”

“I’ve been in Jason’s shoes a few times myself,” Ben replied. “You may not believe this, Young Woman, but I WAS his age ONCE, you know.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Pa,” Stacy said lightly.

Ben and Stacy walked together, arm in arm, in companionable silence for a few moments.

Jason O’Brien had been working at the Virginia City branch of the Post Office since the start of summer, putting by most of his earnings toward finishing his college education. He and his sisters, Crystal and Susannah, lived with their widowed father, Houston “Hugh” O’Brien. Susannah and Stacy were roughly the same age. Jason was a few years younger than Joe Cartwright, and Crystal, a young widow herself with two young sons, was the same age as Hoss. The O’Briens owned and ran a small, but lucrative cattle ranch, north of the Ponderosa, named Shoshone Queen in honor of Hugh’s late wife, Angelina Thundercloud Woman, a full blooded Shoshone, who had died from complications surrounding the birth of Susannah, the youngest.

“Anything interesting in the mail?” Ben asked, at length.

“Yes, there is,” Stacy replied. “In addition to the usual assortment of bills and advertisements, there’s a small package for Grandpa.”

“Good afternoon, Mister Cartwright . . . Stacy,” Kirk Sutcliff greeted father and daughter, as he strutted toward them from the opposite direction. He was a tall, well built young man, with broad shoulders, tapering down to a narrow waist and washboard flat stomach. His bright, blue eyes, cleft chin, square jaw line, that thick mane of sandy blonde hair were marred by an arrogant sneer, that seemed to have made a permanent mark on his lips.

Geoffrey Sutcliff, Kirk’s father, owned and collected rent on upwards of half the land and buildings in the business district along Virginia City’s Main Street. Kirk’s mother, Constance, was of a considerably wealthy family back east, old money as commonly referred to among the gentry of high society. Between the two family resources, the Sutcliffs numbered among the top five wealthiest families in the state.

“Good afternoon, Kirk,” Stacy returned the greeting in an ice-cold tone that sent an involuntary shiver down the length of her father’s spine.

Ben nodded politely.

Kirk fell in step along side the Cartwright daughter. “So, are you an’ your family going to dance on Saturday night?”

“Yes.”

“Then how’s about lettin’ ME be your escort for a change, instead o’ that half-breed you’re always hangin’ around with?”

“Pa,” Stacy turned toward her father speaking in that honey-sweet tone that generally bode no good for the immediate, foreseeable future, “would you mind holding these for me?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She placed the mail, and the bag containing her own purchases into Ben’s outstretched hands, then without further eloquence, she pivoted, and with the deadly swiftness of a striking rattler, lashed out, striking Kirk hard on the left cheek. The force of her blow sent the astonished young man reeling into the street, where he landed ignobly on his backside.

A dark, angry glare knotted Kirk’s brow. His hand quickly moved toward the inside pocket of his jacket.

Stacy, however, moved faster, pulling a pearl handled derringer that once belonged to her mother from her own pocket, and taking deadly aim at a central point of his anatomy, located directly below the belt buckle. “Don’t even think about it,” she said in a low, menacing tone.

Kirk blanched. His eyes went round with sheer horror.

“If I EVER hear you refer to Jason O’Brien, his sisters, OR his nephews by that particular turn of a phrase again, so help me, I WILL hurt you so badly, you’ll be singing soprano in the church choir again,” Stacy said, her eyes smoldering with white hot fury. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Cuh-cuh-cuh, uuhhh, clee, clee . . . . ”

Stacy accepted Kirk’s terrified babbling for an affirmative. “Be thankful you didn’t say that in front of Jason,” she added in a cold tone, as she returned the derringer once more to the pocket of her jacket. “HE wouldn’t have let you off with a warning.”

“Muh, muh, muh—Mister C-Cartwright, are you gonna l-let her guh-guh-guh get away w-with . . . . aren’t you gonna . . . ?!”

“No, I’m NOT going to reprimand or in any way censure my daughter,” Ben said, leveling a dark, thunderous scowl of his own at the young man still sitting in the street. “In this instance, I agree with her one hundred percent.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in. “I would also advise you to be mindful of who you insult in MY hearing as well. I’M not inclined to give warnings, either.”

Kirk Sutcliff remained where he was, rooted to the spot until the Cartwrights were long past and well out sight.

“I don’t think HE’S going to ask to escort you to the dance on Saturday night, or anywhere else, ever again,” Ben remarked wryly, as they continued on their way.

“That’s best news I’ve heard all day, Pa,” Stacy quipped with a grin.

“As for that derringer, Young Woman, I don’t recall giving you permission as yet to routinely carry a loaded weapon,” Ben said sternly.

“Who said it was loaded?” Stacy asked in all innocence. She fished it out of her jacket pocket and handed it to her father.

“Well, I’ll be . . . . ” Ben looked up at her astonished. “It’s . . . NOT . . . loaded.”

“I left it with Mister Simpson for some maintenance and repair a couple of weeks ago,” Stacy explained. “I picked it up today while you and Grandpa were at the general store.”

Ben laughed. “Stacy Rose Cartwright, I’m beginning to think you’re living proof of that old saying about the female of the species being more deadly than the male,” he said. “I sure hope young Jason knows what he’s letting himself in for.”

Stacy smiled. “I don’t think you need to worry about THAT, Pa. Don’t forget, he grew up with two sisters. Crystal and Susannah can be pretty feisty, too.”

“That’s very true,” Ben agreed, “especially when it comes to protecting those they love the most.” Between Hugh’s Shoshone Warrior Princesses and the Fighting Irish Knight Errant presently walking by his side, Ben couldn’t help but pity the poor fool who sought to bring any kind of harm to the O’Briens or the Cartwrights.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s find your brother, and go home,” he said, placing a fatherly arm about her shoulders.

“I’m ready,” Stacy agreed, placing her arm about his waist.



Ben and Stacy found Joe lounging against the side of the loaded buckboard, with arms folded across his chest.

“It’s about time you two showed up,” Joe said, as his father and sister approached. He uncrossed his arms and stretched. “You’re gonna end up getting Jason fired if you keep having these long conversations with him at the post office, Kid. Y’ know that don’t you?”

“ . . . and YOU’RE gonna get Lilly Beth grounded,” Stacy quipped, noting that the buttons of his shirt were in the buttonholes preceding.

“Oh geeze loo-weeze!” Joe exclaimed, as he glanced down at his shirt in utter dismay. He seized the lapels of his open jacket in both hands and pulled them together to cover his errantly buttoned shirt.

Ben pointedly cleared his throat. “End of conversation, subject closed . . . unless I choose to bring it up at a later time.” The warning glare on his face gave strong promise of such a possibility.

“So! What did we get in the mail today?” Joe asked, quickly changing the subject.

“There was a package for YOU, Grandpa,” Stacy said, trying her hardest to sound casual.

“Oh yeah? What was in it?” Joe queried with an impish grin.

“How should I know?” Stacy returned in mock outrage.

“You mean to tell me you didn’t take it to Mrs. Braun at the International Hotel Restaurant and bribe her to steam it open for you?”

“I most certainly assuredly did NOT!”

Smiling, Ben reached into the pocket of his jacket and drew out the package. “Here it is, Son,” he said, placing the small package in Joe’s hand.

“New York City,” he read the postmark with a bemused expression on his face, shrugged, then made move to pocket the package.

“You’re not going to open it?” Stacy demanded.

“Nope,” Joe’s eyes sparkled with impish delight, as he resolutely shook his head.

“Y-you’re not? Really?” Stacy began to regret NOT having bribed Mrs. Braun to steam it open.

“Well, maybe I’ll open it . . . later.”

“How MUCH later?”

“Oohhh . . . after supper . . . maybe.”

“After supper!?”

“Maybe.” It was all Joe could do to keep from laughing out loud at the comical look of disappointment on his baby sister’s face. On impulse he put his arm around Stacy and gave her a big bear hug, feeling a measure of relief in the knowledge that, despite the seemingly swift rate his sister seemed to be maturing into a beautiful young woman lately, something of the child yet remained. “Stacy Rose Cartwright, I love you!”

“You’re not going to let me see what’s in that package are you?”

“I will, but NOT today.”

“Why NOT today?” she pressed.

“Because, Little Sister, THIS happens to be a birthday present,” Joe said as he tucked the package safely into the inside pocket of his green jacket.

“For whom?”

“For YOU, Miss Nosey.”

“B-but . . . my birthday’s not until next month,” Stacy said dejectedly.

“That’s right,” Joe said, unable to quite keep back the amused smile trying so hard to break forth. “You’re just plain gonna have to wait until then to find out what it is.”

“Is it animal, mineral, or vegetable?”

“No hints,” Joe said firmly, then gave in and smiled. “But, I will tell you this, Little Sister. When you open it, you won’t be disappointed . . . . ”

??????



The deep, reverberating chime of the grandfather clock downstairs striking the hour of two . . . in the morning . . . roused Ben from a fitful slumber. He rolled over from his back onto his side, hunkering down under sheets, blanket, and quilt. Settling his head back down into the downy softness of his pillow, he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to claim him once again.

Downstairs, the clock chimed the quarter hour, then the half hour.

Ben threw aside the covers with a disgruntled sigh, and sat up, placing his feet down on the floor one at a time. He rose, and by the silver light of the near full moon, grabbed his dark maroon robe off the bedpost, from which it hung. He stepped into his slippers, kept on the small rug next to his bed, while slipping his robe on over his nightshirt.

If the stroke of midnight was the witching hour, then the stroke of two must be the father’s hour. Whenever his mind centered on his children, the sound of the grandfather’s clock downstairs, striking the hour of two a.m. never failed to rouse him from slumber, whether it be deep or light and fitful, as it had been tonight.

“Maybe a glass of brandy and a good book will help me back to sleep,” he mused silently, as he deftly tied the sash of his robe and stepped out into the hall. That new book Adam had sent him for his birthday a couple of months ago still sat on the coffee table, unread, except for a cursory glace at the preface.

As he made his way down the hallway toward the stairs, he paused in front of the door leading to Joe’s room, standing slightly ajar. Ben paused for a moment, his fingers lightly touching the door, debating. “Pa’s prerogative,” he decided, finally, with a smile. “Even if we BOTH live ‘til he’s a hundred, he’ll STILL be my baby boy.”

Stepping from hall into Joe’s bedroom, Ben’s nose immediately picked up the faint, lingering, aromas of hair cream and old bay rum after shave mixed with the pungent herbs Hop Sing had used to make up that poultice to ease the pain and bring down the swelling around Joe’s eye, the end result of slipping on a throw rug and banging his face against the edge of his dresser. The lamp on the night table burned low, as had been Joe’s custom since that terrible afternoon, they laid his mother to rest, nearly twenty-two years ago now.

Ben’s eyes strayed from the lamp to the small photograph of Marie, set in a frame of filigreed silver. An emerald green hair ribbon, one that Marie had given to her young son, had been carefully laced through the opening of the delicate, lacy filigree. Those fleeting thoughts of Marie brought to mind Joe’s current romantic interest, Lilly Beth Jared . . . .

“PIECE OF CAKE, SWEET JOEY STUD MUFFIN!”

Stacy’s words, part of the teasing banter she and Joe had exchanged yesterday now, just before breakfast, returned in the dark hours of nascent early morning to haunt him. Initially those words, that turn of phrase had left him so shocked, so flabbergasted, words momentarily deserted him.

Sweet Joey Stud Muffin?!

“Yeah.”

Hoss’ affirmation had also surprised and startled, for he had no awareness of having spoken aloud.

“That’s Lilly Beth’s pet name for ‘im.”

“Y-you mean to say your brother’s girl actually calls him—?”

“Yep.”

“I’m beginning to think I’ve been overly protective of the wrong child . . . . ”


Lilly Beth Jared.

She had a voluptuous, womanly figure, a mop of luxuriant, chestnut brown ringlets, that framed an elfin face with its slightly upturned, pixie nose, those great big, luminous emerald green, “come hither”, eyes, and a pair of full sensuous lips that seemed to be in a perpetual state of pouting or puckering, as in puckering up for a kiss, to commend her.

But little else.


“You’re gonna end up getting Jason fired if you keep having these long conversations with him at the post office, Kid . . . . ”

“ . . . and YOU’RE gonna get Lilly Beth grounded.”

“Oh geeze loo-weeze!”


An anxious frown deepened the creases of Ben’s brow as he remembered Joe’s shirt this afternoon, when he and Stacy caught up with him at their buckboard, fastened . . . or perhaps DONNED . . . in great haste, as evidenced by its buttons in the button holes preceding.

Fast.

That was his mother’s word for girls like Lilly Beth Jared.

Fast.

As in watch out for the fast ones, Benjamin.

He could hear her voice speaking very clearly, as she had spoken then, despite the passage of more years now than he cared to count . . . despite the fact that she had been laid to final rest a few years before Adam was born, in the same little cemetery where Elizabeth was buried.

“Watch out for the fast ones, Benjamin! You’ll find them waiting in every port. After many, many months at sea in the company of other men, they’ll seem to you a paradise. Just you remember even Paradise had its forbidden fruit and a serpent to guard it well. Watch out for the fast ones. They could be trouble.”

Trouble.

His mother’s euphemism for what most of the people with whom he was acquainted these days, referred to as a shotgun wedding.

Ben slowly, quietly crossed the expanse of floor between the bed where Joe slept blissfully, half wishing that he would take up with older women again, as he did when he was younger. At least the Julia Bulettes, the Lotta Crabtrees, the Julia Grants, and even the Adah Menkens of the world offered intelligence and a worldly sophistication that magnified and enhanced mere physical womanly beauty. Such women never grew old, they aged, like the finest vintage of wines.

Women like Lilly Beth Jared, however . . . grew old.

Ben stood for a moment gazing down on his youngest son, who lay on his back, head turned slightly toward the window, with mouth open, snoring softly. So much for that age-old assertion that the boy NEVER snored. He carefully pulled up the quilt, tucking it around Joe’s shoulders, and gently smoothed back that unruly lock of hair that seemed to be forever falling down into his face. Ben smiled, then, acting purely on impulse, leaned over and planted a quick kiss on Joe’s forehead.

Joe stirred. “G’night, Pa,” he murmured very softly, before once more settling back into the arms of deep slumber.

“Good night . . . Little Joe,” Ben whispered softly in response, noting that it had been a good long time since he had called his youngest son by that particular moniker.

Ben quietly let himself out of Joe’s room and moved down the hall, pausing a dozen steps later in front of the closed door to Stacy’s room. “If I’m going to check up on one . . . . ” He opened the door and stepped inside. The soft light of that near full moon shone in through the window, gilding the entire room with its silvery luminescence. Except for the absolute coldest of winter days, Stacy had insisted on sleeping with the curtains wide open, from the first night she had ever slept in this house . . . .


“The walls and the dark choke me, Pa,” he remembered her saying the morning after that first night. “I hafta see the sky, and Grandmother Moon, and the stars.”

“Chief Red Hawk, a very old friend of mine, once told me that the stars are the spirits of our ancestors and our descendants,” Ben replied with an indulgent smile. “He also told me that they watch over all of us, who live on the earth, from their place in heaven.”

“Silver Moon told me that, too, Pa!” She exclaimed, her entire face lighting up like that very first ray of sunshine that finally, inevitably pokes its way through the clouds after the last drops of rain have fallen . . . .


Ben also remembered Stacy’s words to Dio, Adam’s daughter, the day Adam and his family left to return to their home in Sacramento . . . .


“I don’t WANNA go!” Dio sobbed. She wrapped her small arms around Aunt Stacy’s waist and clung for dear life. “I don’t wanna leave Grandpa, ‘n Guinevere, ‘n Uncle Hoss, ‘n Uncle Joe . . . ‘n I ‘specially don’t wanna leave YOU, Aunt Stacy . . . . ”

“Dio, I want you to listen to me.”

Ben heard Stacy’s voice speaking to her distraught niece once again, quiet and gentle, yet very firm.

“No matter where we are . . . no matter how far apart we are from each other, every night, we can look up and see Grandmother Moon and the Stars, all Spirits of Those Who Came Before and Will Come After. Every night, they smile down on us and watch over us, too. So when you look up in the sky tonight and see them smiling down on YOU, remember that they smile down on Grandpa, Guinevere, Uncle Joe, Uncle Hoss, and me. That will keep us all close until you come back to visit next summer.”

“I’ll remember Aunt Stacy,” Dio had eagerly promised . . . .


Ben smiled, remembering the first letter he had received from Adam, after they had reached Sacramento:

“ . . . . that first night, when Dio said her prayers, after she said the Our Father, better known to you and me as The Lord’s Prayer, she offered a prayer to Grandmother Moon, asking her to send you, Uncle Hoss, Uncle Joe, Aunt Stacy, and Guinevere a smile for her . . . . ”

Ben realized then that whenever he had to be away, whether it was a few days on the trail, overseeing the vast Ponderosa, or on longer trips to places like San Francisco, that Stacy looked to the night sky and remembered him. Like Dio, Stacy, too, had no doubt offered prayers to a loving and benevolent Grandmother Moon asking her to smile down on him. Although she missed him very much when he was gone and was always very glad to see him when he returned, perhaps that explained why, she rarely feared his leaving, as Joe had for many years.

“Will she think of Jason O’Brien, after he returns to school, when she looks up the night sky?” Ben wondered silently. He would, frankly, be very surprised if she did NOT.

What will happen to Stacy and Jason when he does return to school? Will absence truly make their hearts grow fonder? Or would they gradually drift apart? What if hers was the heart that grew fonder, and his the one who forgot? Ben had known many young men, whose hearts, lured by the siren call of learning, of all the cultural offerings of a big city from its opera houses and art galleries to its saloons and brothels, and of meeting a great diversity of people from virtually all walks of life . . . ended up drifting irrevocably from the young women waiting for them back home. Granted, most of those young women recovered from their broken hearts, met, and married someone else, but the initial grief borne of that love lost still wounded deeply.

Stacy had suffered so much before coming to live here on the Ponderosa, having spent the formative years of her life among her mother’s family, who, by and large, looked upon her as little better than an intruder. They did what they felt to be their bounden duty by her, all the while making their resentment very clear. She had left them at the age of six, fleeing in fear of her own life into the night, after having witnessed their deaths at the hands of an angry, embittered, insane uncle.

Although her life among the Paiute clan of Chief Soaring Eagle was agreeable, she suffered the pain and grief of loss when forcibly separated from them, after the U. S. Calvary rounded them up and moved them on to a reservation. Nearly a month of what had to be frightening uncertainty followed, having no family, none that anyone knew of at the time, and facing the dread prospect of one Mrs. Vivian Crawleigh and the Lucia Churchill Hayes Home for Orphans and Foundlings in Ohio.

Now, she had come to care so much for and about Jason O’Brien. If, upon completing his education, he opted not to return home . . . to her . . . she would be devastated. Such hardly seemed fair, given all that she had suffered during her brief span of years on earth. Ben wished with all his heart that he might protect her from the agony of love unrequited . . . .


“Joe, let me ask you something.”

A conversation he had with Joe earlier, while they were in town, rose to mind and memory.

“Do you trust Stacy?”

“Of course I do! I’d trust her with my life!”

“If you’d trust her with YOUR life, doesn’t it make good sense to trust her with her own?”

“I . . . Pa, I love Stacy very much.”

“I know, Son.”

“I don’t want to see her hurt.”

“Neither do I . . . any more than I want to see you, Hoss, and Adam hurt. But, you know . . . looking back . . . it seems all the times I tried my hardest to keep the four of you safe were the times I think I failed the most, and ended up hurting you far worse in many ways than you would have been if I hadn’t tried to be so protective . . . . ”


“Nothing like having my own advice come back to haunt me,” Ben groused in silence, shivering in the chilled night air permeating Stacy’s room, an unavoidable consequence of always keeping the curtains open. He untied his sash and drew his robe closer about him, then walked over to the side of the bed where Stacy slept, on her side, facing the window. He picked up the heavy quilt, lying across the foot of her bed, still neatly folded, and carefully placed it over her. He pulled it up over her shoulder, then bent down to kiss her temple. Like her brother in the other room, she, too, stirred but did not waken.



After leaving Stacy’s room, and closing the door behind him, he stepped over in front of the closed door to Hoss’ room. He paused, with his hand on the doorknob. Tonight, Hoss would not be there. This morning, he and Candy had gone with most of the other hands out to the summer pasture to begin rounding up the calves for branding. Hugh O’Brien and Brunhilda Odinsdottir, from the Shoshone Queen and Valhalla ranches, respectively, had accompanied Hoss along with men from their spreads. Hoss, in turn, would give them a hand with their own round ups. He sighed softly, then turned and started for the top of the stairs a few yards away, at the end of the hall.

He had scarcely taken half a dozen steps before abruptly turning back, seized by a sudden, nearly overwhelming desire to in some way be with his second son. Ben opened the door and stepped across the threshold, pausing a moment to glance around the room. The massive bed, with its towering headboard and posts, hewn from oak and stained a dark cherry-mahogany, dominated the entire room. It was neatly made, with Hoss’ green and white gingham nightshirt hanging from the bedpost closest to the door. The hinged double frame sitting on his nightstand, on the other side of the bed held pictures of his own mother, Inger, and Marie, Ben’s third wife and the only mother Hoss had known. To this day, Hoss still referred to Marie as Mama.

Ben walked over toward the bed, drawn by the folded quilt, draped across the foot. It was made many, many years ago now, by Hoss’ maternal grandmother, when she was pregnant with Inger, Hoss’ mother. “This quilt has traveled across two continents and an intervening ocean . . . . through many, many years of joys and sorrows,” Ben mused silently as he sat down on the empty bed and gathered up the quilt in his arms. It had graced the bed in which he and Inger spent their first night together, as husband and wife, he remembered with a wistful smile. They and young Adam spent many nights huddled under it for warmth, as the three of them made the journey west. When he saw Hoss for the first time, he, his mother, and Adam were wrapped up in the shelter of this quilt.

Ben hugged the quilt close as Inger’s face, smiling, so full of hope, rose with crystal clarity before memory’s eyes. When he had knelt down and gathered all three of them . . . . Inger, Adam, and newly born Hoss . . . into his arms, the hope he had seen in her face mirrored the hope bursting in his own heart. The future, THEIR future together, as a family, loomed just beyond the next rise along with the immanent fulfillment of the dreams he had so carefully tended and nurtured through countless long sea voyages, the death of his first wife, Elizabeth, and the years he and Adam spent drifting. Inger, of course, never knew the fulfillment of that hope, of his dreams that she, during their all too brief time together, had come to share and embrace as her own. Less than a month later, she lay dead in his arms, with the shaft of an arrow still in her back. Yet a part of her gentle, indomitable spirit lived on in the person of their son, Hoss.

As Ben placed the quilt back where he had found it, across the foot of Hoss’ bed, carefully, almost reverently smoothing out the folds of the material, Inger’s face blurred, then faded, leaving behind the face of their neighbor, Brunhilda Odinsdottir. Hers was a strong face, the face of a Viking warrior, with its wide jaw, cleft chin, and sharp blue eyes, that mirrored the quiet, yet firm, rock like fortitude and strength that permeated her entire being.

Like himself, Brunhilda had also left Boston, where her father, Doctor Odin Björnson, taught courses in Norse mythology and the Icelandic Eddas at Harvard University, to travel west in search of a dream. While Ben’s dream grew from a desire to participate in the building of a new, and growing nation, Brunhilda Odinsdottir came seeking a place free of the many constraints placed on women, especially in the big cities back east, so that she might make her own mark on the world completely on her own terms. Though Valhalla, Brunhilda Odinsdottir’s spread, was smaller than most of her neighbors, it had in recent years become well known for its fine horse stock, second to none including the Ponderosa.

In Hoss, Brunhilda had quite literally met her match. Both genuinely loved the beautiful land surrounding them, with its mountains, lakes, and great diversity of life, plant and animal. They saw ownership of Ponderosa and Valhalla as a sacred trust to care and protect the lands placed in their care by virtue of deed and title. Hoss and Brunhilda also shared a rich Norse heritage, by virtue of Hoss’ Swedish mother and Brunhilda’s own Icelandic origins. Adam and Teresa met Brunhilda last summer, when they came to visit along with their two children and Teresa’s mother, Dolores di Cordova . . . .


“Hoss, she’s wonderful,” Ben overheard conversation between his son and daughter-in-law, just before the starting gun for the annual Virginia City Race was fired. “I hope I have the chance to get better acquainted with her.”

Hoss grinned. “If things work out the way I’m hopin’ . . . you ‘n Adam’ll have lots o’ time t’ get t’ know Brunhilda . . . . ”


Did Hoss at some point intend to ask Brunhilda to marry him? Ben remembered fretting over that question for the better part of the week following the race. As time passed, he had forgotten the incident, completely forgotten what he had overheard . . . until NOW.

Both Adam and Teresa were favorably impressed with Brunhilda Odinsdottir of Valhalla. Joe, was half in love with her, in the same way he was half in love with his sister–in-law, Teresa, and Stacy absolutely adored her, often looking to her as a role model. The only member of the Cartwright family with any sort of reservations regarding Brunhilda was himself. Those reservations centered on her son, Frey Brunhildson, who lived with her father back in Boston.


“Frey is a very intelligent, very studious young man, more given to CEREBRAL pursuits, Mister Cartwright,” he remembered her saying at a birthday celebration for one of their neighbors almost two years ago, now. “You know as well as I that Boston offers much, much more in the way of resources to pursue those ends. If I had brought Frey west with me, he would have been just as unhappy here as I was in Boston.”

“I . . . think I can see your point, Miss Odinsdottir, but . . . . ”

“From what Hoss has told me, Frey is very much like your oldest son, Adam,” she said very quietly, zeroing in on his thoughts with the same, uncanny precision Stacy did whenever he was troubled or worried. “For you . . . and for Adam . . . there was no alternative.”


Even if there HAD been an alternative, the thought of leaving Adam permanently behind in Boston was unthinkable.

Or WAS it?

Ben had to admit those early years of drifting and uncertainty, of not having a home to call their own, or knowing where their next meal would come from, the summers Adam was forced to go barefoot because he had outgrown one pair of shoes and Ben simply couldn’t afford another pair, had extracted a great toll, not only from himself, but from Adam as well. Furthermore, Adam’s intelligence, like Frey’s, made itself manifest early on. Ben had taught his oldest son his numbers, how to read, write and do simple arithmetic, but anything even remotely resembling a formal education was out of the question because of their constant moving about.

The thing Ben most regretted was having robbed Adam of his childhood. In the years before he had met and married Inger, Adam, more often than not, worked, too, upwards from eight to twelve hours daily, Monday through Saturday. By the time Sunday came around, both of them were far too exhausted to indulge in such frivolous extravagances as play. When Inger died, leaving behind an infant son, barely two months old, Adam, a few weeks shy of turning seven, had also stepped into the role of both father and mother, right along with Ben. Eight years later, when his third wife, Marie, was tragically killed in a riding accident, seventeen year old Adam stepped in and assumed full parental responsibilities for TWO younger brothers, when his father’s grief mushroomed into a deep, all consuming depression that stretched over the better part of the next two years.

Those early years had left deep, festering wounds some of which persisted even to this day. Adam had found a great measure of healing in going away to college, and in finally settling down in Sacramento several years later, where he had made for himself an excellent reputation as one of that city’s finest architects. His marriage to Teresa, and the subsequent births of Benjy and Dio, deepened that healing process, bringing in its wake a deep, abiding peace of mind and a measure of contentment Ben couldn’t recall having ever seen in Adam’s face in all the years he had lived on the Ponderosa.

But . . . had there been someone, his parents, or his older brother, John, available to take care of Adam, while he went west to make his own fortune, would he have made the same decision Brunhilda Odinsdottir did regarding her own son, Frey?

No! Absolutely not!

So HE liked to think, anyway . . . .

Not even if he had known in advance of all the hardships and the tragedy both would suffer in the intervening years to come?

The answer to THAT question didn’t come so easily.

Ben rose from his seat on the edge of Hoss’ bed and walked over toward the window, its curtains closed. He lifted one of the curtains and peered outside, looking up into the night sky. The moon hung low in the western sky as her path carried her toward the horizon, away from the coming light of dawn.

“Heavenly Father,” Ben prayed silently, “please watch over, keep, and protect Adam, Teresa, Benjy, and Dio, wherever they are, whatever they’re doing tonight. I also ask you to keep an eye on Hoss . . . AND Brunhilda. Keep THEM safe, too.”

He started to lower the curtain, intending to turn from the window and head on downstairs to that glass of brandy and book waiting on the coffee table downstairs. He paused, as his eyes fell once more on the moon, and lifted the curtain again. “Grandmother Moon, from your high vantage point you can see all of my loved ones, no matter how far away some of them may be tonight. Please smile down on all of them for me . . . and let them know that I love them very much.” With that, and a satisfied smile, he left Hoss’ room.





Epilogue



“Now where d’ya s’pose them two’ve been all night long?” Olaf Erikson, Vallhalla’s chief cook and bottle washer, wondered aloud, as the dark of night slowly gave way to the gray-silvery light of dawn.

“WHICH two?” Candy asked, after gulping down the last of his second cup of coffee.

“THEM two!” Olaf inclined his head toward Hoss, and his employer Brunhilda Odinsdottir, both seated together near the campfire, eating breakfast.

As he poured himself a third cup of coffee, Candy duly noted how close Hoss and Brunhilda sat beside each other, the natural way in which they touched, how quickly and often they seemed to smile at one another. “Well, I’ll tell ya something, Olaf,” he said, trying desperately to squelch the smile threatening to spread across his lips. “Ben Cartwright’s my employer, and I’ve come to consider Hoss a very good friend. Part of the joys of friendship includes knowing which things are plain and simply none of my business.”

“Yah, I kinda thought so,” Olaf said with a knowing smile.




The End

RETURN TO LIBRARY