Trial By Fire

Part 3

By Kathleen T. Berney

His eyes snapped wide open. For a time he just lay there, staring at the four walls and ceiling surrounding him, not knowing where he was. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glint of bright sunlight on something metallic. He turned toward his night stand, where he saw the sunshine on the silver frame that held a photograph of his mother, taken back when she as a young girl, younger even than his baby sister.

Then, he remembered.

He was home.

Back in his own bed, in his own room.

It had all been a bad dream, product of his fevered imagination. The fire, his abduction, Lady Chadwick . . . it had all been a dream. A terrible, horrible dream! He immediately rose, shot up from prone to sitting, as wave, upon wave or relief washed over him.

“PA? HEY, PA!” he shouted, as he threw aside his covers with joyful abandon. “PA! WAIT’LL YOU HEAR THIS WEIRD, INSANE NIGHTMARE I JUST HAD!”

No answer.

“PA? HOSS? STACY? HOP SING?”

Still no answer.

From anyone.

He whipped his legs over the side of his bed and sat up. “PA?! HOSS! STACY!! HOP SING??” He rose to his feet and stretched. “HEY, COM’N ! WHERE’D EVERYBODY GO?”

He suddenly realized all was somehow TOO quiet. He bounded across his bedroom toward the door, feeling suddenly, inexplicably afraid. As he stepped out into the hall, the silence surrounding him seemed an almost palpable thing, hanging heavy in the atmosphere and clinging to every square inch of wall, floor, and ceiling before him. He wanted so much to call out again to his father, his siblings, to the Chinese man who, for all of his life had been as a second father, but it seemed very wrong somehow, to cry out, to break this leaden silence. With heart thudding head against his rib cage, he very slowly, very reluctantly made his way toward the stairs.

He paused at the top of the steps. The great room below him was mobbed with people, men, women, even children, all dressed in jet black. His family was nowhere to be seen. As he descended the stairs, he became more and more aware of a sound from the gathered mass of humanity below, soft, rising on the air like incense, or the fine smoke from the embers of a dying camp fire. At first, it sounded like locusts in the summer. As he neared the bottom of the stairs, he realized it was the sound of all those people sobbing.

Upon reaching the great room below, he began to move through the crowd, frantically searching their faces. None seemed aware of his presence. They simply parted as he threaded his way, in and out, among them. Pa, Hoss, Stacy, and Hop Sing were absolutely no where to be found. With heart in mouth, he finally walked over to a woman, young, with hair the color of gold, that seemed to shine through the black veil she wore draped over her head. She stood next to the fireplace, with her back to the crowd.

As he reached out and gently tapped her shoulder, he suddenly realized he was completely naked, save for the white bandages wrapped around his right shoulder and bound about his chest. She turned expectantly, not seeming to notice either his nakedness or his beet red face.

“Yes?”

He found his mouth and tongue suddenly paralyzed for fear of asking the question he knew he must ask.

The woman waited patiently.

“ . . . uuhh, —Ma’am?” he ventured, his entire body quaking with fear, “can YOU tell me what’s going on here? Who are all these people and . . . and WHY are they crying?”

In answer, she mutely held out her gloved hand. His arm seemed to rise of its own accord, reaching out, his fingers wrapping themselves around her extended hand. She led, his legs and feet followed, until at last they came to a stop in the dining room. The chairs, china cabinet, dishes, and pictures were gone, and the window tightly shuttered. The woman pointed with her free hand toward a black box resting on the dining room table. “Come see,” she invited.

That was the absolute last thing in the world he wanted to do. Yet, he felt his feet, his legs moving, their momentum propelling him closer and closer to that black box.

“The reason all these people are crying is the youngest son of this family has died,” the woman said.

“NO!” he screamed, as he rushed toward the black box. “NO! THAT’S NOT TRUE! IT CAN’T BE TRUE!” He peered into the box and saw the body and face of Jack Murphy lying there, clad in brown clothing and green jacket, eyes closed in death.

He screamed, and screamed . . . .

. . . and woke up screaming to a strange room, blindingly illumined by the bright afternoon sunlight streaming in though the bare window panes, completely naked, and chained down to a bed . . . .


“What’s this all about?”

His own words, spoken upon realizing the identity of the woman who had taken him prisoner, echoed once again in his ears.

“Why are you kidnapping me? Why did you kill Jack Murphy?”

“I killed him because he is roughly the height and build YOU are, with the same color hair and lovely curls. Did you happen to notice that he was also dressed as you usually dress? Crippensworth will burn Jack’s body then, as soon as he can discreetly do so, he will place it somewhere in the smoking ruin of that once grand and glorious ranch house of your father’s.”

“Why?”

“I’m hoping Jack’s dead body, dressed as YOU dress will convince your father that you perished in the fire that consumed your house . . . . ”


Did her ruse really succeed as she had claimed earlier? Did Pa really find Jack Murphy’s body and mistakenly believe it to be HIM? That would explain why Pa had turned on her so viciously, if indeed she spoke the truth.

“Oh, Pa . . . . ” Joe moaned softly, as tears stung his eyes. “I . . . I wish there was s-some way . . . s-some way . . . some way t-to tell you . . . . ” His words were drowned by the sounds of his own heartbreaking sobbing.



“Good afternoon, Gents.” Carson City’s sheriff, Amos Dudley greeted Ben and Hoss politely, before biting off the end of the hand rolled cigar in his hand. He carelessly spit the minuscule piece out into a nearby trash basket, then returned his attention to his visitors.

“Howdy,” Hoss responded, holding out his hand. “I’m Hoss Cartwright, this here’s m’ pa, Ben Cartwright. Sheriff Coffee over in Virginia City wired you about us?”

Amos nodded. “Yes, indeed he did. Please, sit down.” He gestured to the pair of wood, straight backed chairs facing his desk, strategically positioned in front of the back wall enabling him to keep an eye on prisoners incarcerated in any in the three cells lined up along the east wall, and the front door, which opened toward the south.

“Thank you,” Hoss replied, as he directed his father toward the sheriff’s desk.

“Coffee? Just made up a fresh pot.”

“No, thank you, Mister Dudley. Pa ‘n me’d just as soon git down t’ business.”

Ben and Hoss arrived in Carson City during the late afternoon hours, and gone directly to the sheriff’s office, after checking in at the Comstock Hotel.

“As I recall, Sheriff Coffee said something about a fire out at your place, and a couple o’ men being killed,” Amos said, as he stepped behind his desk, and gestured for the Cartwrights to take the chairs, placed side by side in front of the desk.

“Yes, Sir,” Hoss replied, as he and his father sat down. “We’re pretty sure that one o’ the men who got killed was a young fella by the name o’ Jack Murphy. Sheriff Coffee found about a dozen or so letters in with his things. One o’ those letters came from someone livin’ at this address.” He drew the slip of paper on which Roy Coffee had written down the Carson City address, and handed it over to Amos Dudley.

Amos accepted the proffered slip of paper, curtly nodding his thanks.

“We think maybe it’s his MA livin’ at that address,” Hoss added.

“Ain’t never heard o’ no one by the name o’ Murphy, ‘cept ol’ Jake,” Amos said thoughtfully, “ ‘n ol’ Jake . . . well, as his name says, he ain’t no YOUNG fella, that’s f’r dang sure, ‘n while some folks might say he’s PICKLED most o’ the time, he’s still pretty much ALIVE.” His eyes moved down to the address written down on the slip of paper he held in both hands. “You say this young fella worked for ya?”

“Yes,” Ben replied. “My younger foreman and I hired him on a couple of months ago.”

“Kinda strange, that,” Amos said thoughtfully.

“How so, Sheriff?” Hoss asked.

“This house number lies over in the part o’ town where all the rich folks live,” Amos replied. “Ain’t too many young fellas from over that way who’d take a job as ranch hand, ‘cause the work’s too dang hard. Though . . . it’s possible one of ‘em might as t’ maybe prove himself.”

“Can you tell us who owns that house, Sheriff Dudley?” Ben asked, laboring mightily to remain calm, to keep his voice measured and even.

“I’ve heard tell the house belongs to a rich couple,” Amos said slowly, his eyes still on the slip of paper in hand. “Foreigners, leastwise the husband.”

“Do you know where this couple was from?” Ben asked.

Amos turned toward Ben, flinching immediately away from the intense glare of those dark brown, almost black eyes. “Sorry, Mister Cartwright, I can’t really say, seein’ as t’ how I never met ‘em.”

“Do you know their names?” Hoss asked.

“Sorry, can’t help ya there neither,” Amos shook his head. “The owners o’ the house ain’t lived in it f’r years, not since I been sheriff, anyways, though it’s sometimes been rented out to different folks passin’ through.”

“How about in the last month?” Ben demanded in a hard, stone cold voice.

“As a matter o’ fact, there’s a woman rentin’ the place now,” Amos replied. “A widow woman with her son and a couple o’ other men, accordin’ t’ Iva Mae Barnes over at the post office.”

“The son . . . you know what he looked like, Sheriff?”

“ ‘Fraid not, ‘cause I never seen ‘em,” Amos replied. “You’d have better luck talkin’ with Iva Mae. She’s what ya might call the town newspaper, if y’ git my drift?!”

“I do,” Hoss nodded. “If y’ can direct Pa ‘n me over to the post office, we’d be much obliged.”



“Good afternoon, Gentlemen, what can I do for you?” The postal clerk, a petite, willowy slim woman, with her hair, dark brown liberally mixed with iron gray, pulled back away from her face peered at the Cartwrights over the straight line along the top of a pair of half moon glasses, set in gold wire frames.

“Ma’am, my name’s Hoss Cartwright, this here’s m’ pa, Ben Cartwright— ”

“Ponderosa Cartwrights?” the woman queried with upraised eyebrow.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Hoss nodded.

“From over Virginia City way?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Her ruby red lips parted in a sunny smile that revealed a line of startlingly white teeth. “Perhaps you know my brother and sister-in-law. They have a small farm just outside of what you’d call Virginia City proper— ”

“Ma’am, my son and I are in a bit of a hurry,” Ben said, struggling valiantly to keep the exchange polite. “We’re looking for a Mrs. Iva Mae Barnes?”

“That’s MISS Iva Mae Barnes,” the woman said, her smile broadening. “You’ve found her.”

“Ma’am, we’re lookin’ for the folks livin’ at this address,” Hoss said, as he reached once again into the pocket of his shirt. He handed Iva Mae the folded slip of paper.

Iva Mae unfolded the paper and glanced down at the address. “Oh yes. Mrs. de Salle and her son, John.”

Hoss noted that the scowl on his father’s face deepened.

“Mrs. de Salle’s widowed, been so for a number of years now. John’s her only child,” Iva Mae continued. “She also had her secretary with her, older man with a delightfully charming English accent. Mister Montague.”

“Mister Montague’s her secretary?!” Ben queried, unable to believe his fantastic good fortune.

“I just said so, didn’t I?” Iva Mae drawled. “I haven’t seen Mister Montague around lately, though. For awhile her son came in and got the mail, least he did up until about two and half, maybe three months ago. Since then, it’s this big hulking creature named Crippensworth.” She grimaced and shuddered.

“That two and a half to three months would coincide with the time Jack Murphy’s been working for me on the Ponderosa,” Ben mused grimly, in silence. Aloud, he said, “Ma’am, there was a fire at my ranch a couple of nights ago—”

Iva Mae’s eyes went round with horror. “Oh my goodness! Mister Cartwright, I . . . I’m so sorry. I do hope it wasn’t a . . . a total loss.”

“Not at all, Ma’am,” Hoss said with genuine heartfelt sincerity. “The important thing is our whole family got out, safe ‘n sound for the most part. As f’r the rest IT c’n all be replaced.”

A tremulous smile slowly spread across her lips. “Bless your hearts, Both of You. If there’s anything you need, anything at all— ”

“Miss Barnes, my son and I ARE in need of some information,” Ben said, trying with all his might to keep his voice even. “Unfortunately, two of my men were killed trying to extinguish the blaze. One of them was a young man who’d only been working for me for the past couple of months. Though he gave his name to me as Jack Murphy, I have reason to believe he was John de Salle.”

“We found a whole bunch o’ letters in among his things that came from the lady livin’ at that address, Ma’am,” Hoss added, pointing to the slip of paper still in the postal clerk’s hand.

“Oh! That poor, poor, dear, sweet woman!” Iva Mae moaned. “He was all the family she had in this world.”

“My son and I are here to tell her about her son,” Ben said somberly. And maybe, just maybe locate his own.

“We’d also like t’ offer our help in makin’ funeral arrangements, or whatever else she might need,” Hoss said quietly.

“Would you do me a big favor, Mister Cartwright?”

“Sure thing, Miss Barnes,” Ben replied.

Iva Mae turned to the counter behind her and started to lift the sack, half full, sitting in its own corner.

“Here, Ma’am, let me git that!” Hoss immediately ran around behind the counter and picked up the bag with the same ease Iva Mae Barnes might lift a down pillow.

“Thank you, Young Man.” She turned to Ben with a big smile, and open, frank, appraising gaze. “You sure grow ‘em big ‘n strong, Mister Cartwright.”

“ . . . uhh, y-yes,” Ben murmured, averting his eyes away from her bold gaze.

“That’s all mail for the de Salles,” Iva Mae explained. “I’ve been collecting it here, oohh, I’d say for the better part of the last two . . . three weeks now. That’s how long it’s been since anyone’s come by to pick it up.”

“Be more ‘n happy t’ deliver it, Ma’am,” Hoss said morosely. Looking over at his father, he saw the same look of utter despair that he himself felt within his own sinking heart. “We’d be much obliged if y’ could give us directions.”

Iva Mae dutifully wrote down the directions. “Now that’s Bonne Street where you make your first left,” she cheerfully explained. “You’ll pass by Bonn-ER Street first, and believe you me, there’s plenty o’ folks who git confused.”

“I think we c’n find our way, Ma’am,” Hoss said, suddenly anxious to be on his way. “Much obliged.”



“It’s her!” Ben angrily muttered under his breath, as he stood holding Chubb’s reigns in order to allow Hoss to position the sack containing the de Salles’ mail. “de Salle! That’s Linda’s MAIDEN name.”

“Didn’t know she had a son, Pa,” Hoss said, feeling very sick at heart. He spread the contents of the tightly closed mail sack evenly across Chubb’s rump, directly behind the saddle, then fastened it down.

“Between you and me, do you really think this Jack Murphy, Candy and I hired, is the John de Salle Miss Barnes was talking about?”

“He wrote to her, Pa. We . . . Candy ‘n me, are pretty sure he helped in kidnappin’ Joe.” Hoss, then, turned and looked over earnestly into his father’s face. “Then . . . I ain’t sure whether I told ya this or not, but . . . Jack didn’t die in the fire. He was shot out back, by the folks he was helpin’ more ‘n likely.”

“I . . . can’t honestly remember whether you told me or not, with everything that’s been happening,” Ben said quietly. “You said Jack was shot out back?”

Hoss nodded, then told his father about Sheriff Coffee finding the large skull fragments, and of Doctor Martin piecing them into the skull of the man pulled from the charred remains of the house, along with Derek Wells. “Jack’s body was burned and put into the house later. Pa, this is gonna sound crazy as all get out— ”

“What’s that, Son?”

“Jack was runnin’ around, wearin’ the same kinda clothes Joe wears,” Hoss said. “Then with him bein’ shot ‘n killed, his body burned, put into what was left o’ the house . . . I can’t help thinkin’ that whoever took Joe maybe . . . just maybe . . . wants us t’ think he died in that fire.”

“You’re right, Hoss . . . it does sound crazy,” Ben said. “If Jack Murphy turns out to be John de Salle, that means . . . . ” He felt the blood drain right out of his face as the implications of what Hoss had just said, suddenly dawned on him. “Hoss, if . . . if what you just said is true . . . . ”

“I know, Pa. It means Lady Chadwick killed her own boy.”

“No!” Ben murmured, while vigorously shaking his head. “No! That’s . . . that’s . . . it’s impossible, no mother or father in their right minds would . . . would . . . . ”

“I don’t think Lady Chadwick’s in her right mind,” Hoss said, his own complexion a few shades paler than normal. “Remember what happened, after you found out what all she ‘n Montague’d been doin’, an’ you’d called her on it?”

“The painting?”

Hoss nodded.

“Yes,” Ben said, with a shudder, “I remember . . . . ”


After he had confronted Lady Chadwick, she denied everything, at first. Very convincingly, too! Had Ben not already known for certain that she was the master mind behind all his troubles, he might have actually believed her. When it became clear that neither he nor his sons were ever going to be convinced of her innocence, a vicious, bitter anger suddenly overwhelmed her sweetness and light.

Linda seized the poker from its place next to the fireplace and viciously attacked the portrait of the two of them together, again and again, ripping the painted canvas to shreds, screaming of her hatred for him, screaming for Montague to come and pack their things, until words were lost in the guttural shrieks and screams of an animal.


“I remember the engravings.”

Linda’s words, and the nostalgic smile accompanying them, rose to remembrance, amid her bestial screaming, now fading away to silence. He had taken her for a buggy ride, after having just received news of trouble brewing among the men working the Cartwrights’ mining operation.

“I remember the engravings.”

“What engravings?” Ben had asked, thoroughly perplexed.

“It’s a woman’s memory, Ben,” she said wistfully. “They were the engravings for our wedding invitations . . . . ”


“We NEVER had any invitations engraved,” Ben said softly, his heart filled with ever increasing dread.

“Pa?”

“Remember when she came to visit us out at the Ponderosa?”

“Yeah . . . . ”

“One morning, Linda and I went out for a ride,” Ben continued. “It was the day we got the news of trouble brewing in our mining operation. Do you remember?”

“Yeah.” Hoss scowled. “I remember.”

“Linda and I started out reminiscing about New Orleans . . . about our time there, together. She told me about remembering the engravings.”

“What engravings, Pa?”

“For our wedding invitations.”

“Wedding invitations?!” Hoss looked over at his father in complete bewilderment. “I thought you told li’l sister . . . ‘n told Adam, Joe, ‘n me, too . . . that she turned you down flat when y’ asked her t’ marry you.”

“She did.”

“Then . . . why in the world would the two o’ you have invitations printed up?”

“We DIDN’T! Like I told your sister last night . . . I asked her to marry me, she turned me down,” Ben reiterated, his voice shaking. “A week later, I learned that she had eloped with Lord Chadwick and sailed with him to England. Hoss— ”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“If . . . if L-Lady Chadwick’s sanity was THAT precarious when she visited us . . . . ” Ben felt the bone and muscle in his knees suddenly turn to water. He slipped his arm around Chubb’s neck and clung for dear life, “and she’s deteriorated to the point of killing her own son as a means of revenge . . . . ”

“There’s no tellin’ WHAT she’ll do to Joe,” Hoss said grimly. He looked over at his father, clinging so desperately to Chubb’s neck. “Pa? You gonna be able t’ ride?”

Ben squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to take deep, even breaths. “I-I’ll be alright, Hoss.”

Hoss gently, yet firmly, took his father’s elbow and steered him over to where Big Buck stood, tethered to the hitching post. “I think we’d best git out t’ this address soon as we can.”

“Yes . . . . ” Ben agreed as he climbed up onto Buck’s back, his legs and hands trembling. He doubted that they would find either Lady Chadwick or Joe there, not in the face of all that unclaimed mail. His only hope now was that Linda had left a clue, something . . . anything . . . pointing to where she had gone, and where she held Joe.



Ben and Hoss Cartwright reached the Carson City address in very good time.

The house sat atop a slight rise a fair distance from the road. Three steps built into the rise led up from the level of the road to the start of a long, straight brick walk, lined on either side by oak trees, numbering a dozen. Eight of the trees were dead, and had been for quite some time, given the grayed, weathered appearance of the wood. Of the four that yet remained alive, none could in any way be considered healthy. They were tall, and spindly, their leaves sparsely spread out over the bottom most branches.

Ben silently handed Buck’s reins over to Hoss, then climbed the steps to the brick walk above. He stood unmoving at the beginning of the walk, his body tense, with his arms at his sides, and right hand close to the gun resting in its holster. His eyes could barely make out the half dozen steps leading up to a porch and the entrance to the house, framed in the center of the sharp, jagged angles formed by the dead branches of the long row of oaks stretching out before him.

“Hoss . . . . ”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“Bring the horses.”

“All the way up to the house?”

Ben nodded. “I’ll feel a lot better having them close at hand,” he said grimly, his dark eyes searching among the trees and the entry up ahead for signs of life.

“You’ve got a real good point there, Pa,” Hoss agreed as he started up the steps from the street to the sidewalk above, leading Buck and Chubb behind him.

Father and son moved up the walk toward the house in silence. Ben, with gun in hand, led the way. Hoss followed, leading their horses with one hand, and holding his own gun in the other hand. Though they saw no one, neither could completely shake the uneasy feeling of someone hidden and invisible watching every step they took.

A few moments later, they stood at the end of the long walk before the half dozen steps leading up to the entrance and a wide verandah, stretching across the entire front of the house. Ben and Hoss quickly tethered their horses to the slats in the railing encircling the verandah, before starting up the steps.

“Sure don’t look like anybody’s home,” Hoss remarked, noting the tall grass in the front yard and the drawn curtains in the windows facing the front yard and the street beyond.

“I agree, Son, but we’d better keep alert. Looks can be very deceiving.”

Hoss mutely nodded in agreement as he crossed the wide expanse of porch between the top step and the entrance to the house. There, he curled his fingers together, forming a loose fist and pounded on the door.

There was no answer.

“HELLO!” Hoss yelled as he pounded on the door again. “MRS. DE SALLE? MISTER CRIPPENSWORTH? MISTER MONTAGUE! ANYONE HOME?” He pressed his ear close to the door, listening.

“Anything?” Ben asked.

Hoss pressed his ear flush up against the door and listened. “Nothin’, Pa,” he replied a few moments later, shaking his head.

“Try the door.”

Hoss nodded and loosely wrapped his fingers around the door knob.

Ben tensed. His dark brown eyes were glued to the door, and his gun was drawn and ready.

Hoss slowly turned the door knob and pushed. To his surprise the door opened slightly. “It ain’t locked, Pa,” Hoss said grimly. He stepped inside the tiled entry way first, his own gun in hand, every muscle in his body tensed. Ben followed closed behind. “HELLO! MRS. DE SALLE? ANYBODY HOME?”

The only answer was the faint echo of Hoss’ voice through out the house.

“I don’t think anybody’s here, Pa.”

“All the same, I don’t want to take any chances. I think the living room’s that way.” Ben pointed straight ahead through the entryway to an alcove framed by a double grand staircase leading up to the second floor. A pair of pocket doors, fast closed, faced the front entrance. Ben led the way, with Hoss following close at his heels.

The living room, approximately one third the size of the ranch house great room, seemed even smaller with its dark colors, and the amount of furniture, pictures, and bric-a-brac crammed within. Its four walls were covered by a deep burgundy hued wall paper, that seemed to devour the little sunlight able to reach the room through the tall, narrow windows. The fireplace, set into the wall directly opposite the pocket doors, was overwhelmed, rendered nearly invisible by the enormous, ornately carved mahogany mantle piece framing it.

Hoss’ eyes were immediately drawn to the oil portrait hanging above the mantle, surrounded by an ornately carved wood frame, painted gold. It depicted a young, vivacious woman, and a man much older, as evidenced the deep lines in his brow, his sagging chin line, and gray, thinning hair with receding hairline. The top of his head, barely came level with the line of the woman’s eyes.

“Hey, Pa?”

“Yes, Hoss?”

“Take a gander at THAT.”

The line of Hoss’ extended arm and pointing finger immediately drew Ben’s eyes to the oil portrait. He shuddered and gasped, as an ice cold chill shot down the entire length of his spine.

“Pa?!” Hoss queried with an anxious frown, upon noting his father’s sudden, alarmingly pale complexion, and eyes round with horror glued to the woman’s face in the painting, hanging up over the fireplace. “Pa . . . y-you alright?”

“It’s her!” Ben whispered. “Linda Lawrence . . . C-Countess of Chadwick.” In the painting, she wore what appeared to be a riding habit, hued a deep salmon, that accentuated her rosy cheeks, rose pink lips with the bare hint of a smile, just forming, and a flawless, milk white complexion. Her face was framed by a halo of brown wavy hair, and her hazel eyes, rendered a warm light brown, appeared flat, void of life, with no sparkle to animate them. She appeared in this portrait exactly as Ben remembered the first time he met her in New Orleans.

“The man with her . . . is he her pa?” Hoss asked.

Ben shook his head. “I met her father. That man with her in the painting is definitely not him.”

Hoss’ eyes widened a little, with mild surprise. “Lord Chadwick?”

“I assume so,” Ben replied. “I never the pleasure of meeting the late Lord Chadwick, so I couldn’t tell you for sure.” This last was spoken with thinly veiled sarcasm.

Hoss sighed and shook his head. “If that there’s Lord Chadwick, then Li’l Sister was right as rain when she said Lady Chadwick turned down the better man.”

Ben wearily closed his eyes and sagged heavily against the door jamb to his right. “I, for one, am very thankful Linda DID turn down the better man,” he muttered softly, under his breath.

“I guess that means Lady Chadwick ‘n her husband’re the owners Sheriff Dudley was tellin’ us about.”

Ben turned and favored the biggest of his three sons with a sharp glare.

“Y-You remember . . . don’t ya, Pa?” Hoss said, anxious, taken completely aback by the odd look on his father’s face. “He said they were foreign . . . leastwise the HUSBAND was.”

“Y-Yes, I . . . I remember.”

“Pa?”

“What is it, Son?”

“You alright?”

“I— ” Ben closed his eyes and shook his head. “No.” He turned, then, and looked Hoss straight in the eye, dark brown meeting and holding sky blue. “Hoss, if . . . if people here remember Lord Chadwick . . . . ”

“They do, from what the sheriff was sayin’,” Hoss said grimly.

“That means Linda’s maintained some sort of presence HERE . . . for a . . . very . . . very . . . long time,” Ben said slowly. “I know Carson City’s a fair distance from Virginia City and the Ponderosa . . . but, it’s still plenty close enough for her to keep tabs on US if she so chooses.”

“Pa, now you’re givin’ ME the willies,” Hoss said, casting a quick, furtive glance over his shoulder.

“I . . . I think I’m giving myself the willies,” Ben said, his hand automatically dropping down to his holstered revolver.

“So . . . what do we do NOW?” Hoss asked.

“I’m going to take a look at her mail,” Ben said. “I want to see if there’s anything more from Jack Murphy, and find out whether or not she’s been in contact with anyone else either in Virginia City or on the Ponderosa. If I can turn up something, it may lead us to wherever she’s holding Joe.”

“Where do ya want me t’ put this?” Hoss asked, as he leaned over and picked up the sack of mail given them by Iva Mae Barnes at the post office.

“I think I’ll sit down on the divan over there . . . . ” Ben pointed toward the corner on their left, where a massive secretary and equally ponderous divan seemed to meet together, “ . . . that’s assuming I can get from here to there without breaking my neck.” This last was said with a withering glare directed at the narrow path meandering through the furnishings crammed into so small a space.

“Will ya be alright by yourself for a li’l bit, Pa?”

“What’re you figuring on doing, Son?” Ben asked warily.

“I just thought whilst you were checkin’ through the mail, I’d have a look around.”

“Alright, but don’t venture upstairs or down into the cellar without me.”

“I won’t, Pa,” Hoss promised, as he set the mailbag down onto the divan.

“ . . . and, one more thing, Hoss . . . . ”

“What’s that, Pa?”

“Be careful.”

“You be careful, too.”



Hoss, with gun in hand, cautiously moved into the dining room, his body tensed, every sense alert. Though twice the size of the living room, it, too, appeared far smaller due to the dark forest green wall paper, the massive furniture, and fine porcelain pieces crammed onto every square inch of surface. The table, solid carved mahogany, wholly dominated the entire room. Only two chairs were at the table, one at its head, the other on the right. Eight of the remaining twelve lined the wall facing the pocket doors that opened into the dining room. The other two chairs sat flanking the dining room entrance. An eight day regulator, hanging on the wall sandwiched between two enormous paintings, had stopped at a few minutes before the hour of seven o’clock.

Hoss’ eye was drawn to a brandy decanter of cut crystal on the tall, imposing, mahogany buffet to his right. It sat on a highly polished inlaid wood tray, surrounded by seven matching crystal goblets. The decanter was half full. Hoss picked up the decanter and removed the stopper. He took a whiff of the contents, grimacing against the strong odor of overripe almonds.

“Hoo-wheee!” he murmured softly, under his breath, as he replaced the stopper in the decanter. “Never knew brandy could go bad!”

He returned the decanter to its place on the buffet, then stepped over toward the dining room table. After a quick, yet thorough glance around the room, Hoss holstered his gun briefly, just long enough to get down on his hands and knees for a look under the table and chairs. He found a pair of women’s shoes, deep purple with gold buckles, lying under the chair at the head of the table, a black string tie, and a cut glass goblet lying on its side. The goblet matched the seven and the decanter up on the buffet. Hoss retrieved the glass and lifted it to his nose.

“Not no where near as strong, but it smells bad like the brandy up on the buffet,” he muttered softly under his breath. With a loud grunt, he rose to his feet, with the brandy goblet in hand, and placed it on the tray with its mates.

A subsequent search of the butlers’ pantry off the dining room, a small parlor, and a drawing room, all yielded nothing. Hoss withdrew his gun once more from its holster and began moving through the small parlor toward a pair of French doors that opened onto what appeared to be an enclosed sun porch, surrounded by windows on all sides.



“PA! QUICK!” Hoss’ terrified voice echoed through out the house, drawing Ben’s attention from the stack of mail in hand. “COME HERE!”

Ben immediately threw the bundle of envelopes onto the divan beside him and leapt from his feet. “HOSS!” he shouted back, as he yanked his gun from its holster. “WHERE ARE YOU?”

“OUT BACK, PA!”

Ben, with heart thudding rapidly against his chest, followed the sound of Hoss’ voice from the living room, through the dining room and a small parlor. As he stepped through the French doors, from parlor to sun porch, he found his biggest son standing before what appeared to be an enormous canvas, propped up against a tall easel. Hoss clutched a dusty, grayish sheet in his left hand so hard, his knuckles had turned white. His face was several shades paler than normal and his eyes round and staring.

“Hoss?” Ben made his way around the canvas toward his son’s side. “Hoss, what’s the matter?”

“L-Look, Pa . . . . ” He pointed.

Ben’s eyes slowly followed the line of Hoss’ extended arm and pointing finger to the canvas. It was a painting, roughly sketched, the colors blocked in, of a bride and groom attired in their wedding finery. Though far from complete, the identity of the bride was unmistakable: Linda de Salle Lawrence, very much as she appeared in the formal portrait hanging in the living room above the fireplace mantle. Behind the bride, stood the groom, resplendent in black tux and pristine shirt, with his arms wrapped possessively around the bride’s waist. Ben’s gaze shifted from the demure face of the bride to the smiling groom. “Oh dear Lord . . . . . ” he groaned softly, his own eyes round with shock and astonishment.

The face of the groom, staring back from the large canvas looming before him, was none other than his own.



“I am telling you the truth, Little Joe.”

“No.”

“I was out for a morning drive. My man, Crippensworth had the reins. We saw the smoke from your home. Though your father and I didn’t part on the best of terms, but I still felt duty bound to go to him and offer whatever help I could.”

She had changed out of the skirt and blouse she had worn earlier into a long sleeved navy blue velvet dress with a rounded neckline. The bodice bagged slightly at her bosom, and seemed stretched a bit too tight across the middle. Her almond shaped nails, exquisitely manicured, were carefully painted the same shade of candy pink as her lipstick. As before, she paced slowly, back and forth, near the foot of Joe’s bed.

“I had Crippensworth drive in along that back road,” Linda continued in a bland monotone, as if she were speaking from a memorized script. As she paced, the thick, hard heels of her shoes beat an even cadence against the hard wood floor. “You know the one I mean . . . the one that runs along behind the kitchen. I saw you stumble out of the house. You were hurt. You collapsed. Crippensworth and I came to your aid.”

“You did NOT came to help me,” Joe said in a sullen tone of voice. “You came to kidnap me . . . to bring me here . . . wherever here is . . . so you could torture me.”

“Crippensworth and I . . . came . . . to . . . your . . . AID.” She slapped the riding crop hard against the palm of her hand as she spoke those last few words, for emphasis. “Crippensworth and I came to your aid.”

“You’re lying,” Joe said contemptuously.

“Little Joe, I am telling you the truth.”

“No! You told me so yourself, early this morning that you came to kidnap me for some . . . some sick, twisted plan of revenge against my father that you’ve cooked up in your nasty, spiteful little brain somewhere,” Joe spat.

Linda stopped abruptly, mid-stride, then pivoted. Stepping right up to the foot of the bed, she swung her arm back and struck Joe’s shins hard with the riding crop in hand, all in the same, swift fluid movement. A murderous scowl had replaced the smug complacency there scant seconds ago.

Joe cried out, despite his obstinate best intentions. “Y-you can beat me with that thing all you want. You can’t change the truth.”

“ . . . and what, pray IS the truth, Little Joe?”

Joe recoiled. That voice, so calm and placid, issuing forth from those pink lips curled back in a vicious sneer, frightened him.

“I asked you what the truth is, Little Joe. I expect an answer.”

“I left the house through Hop Sing’s room, and ended up in his garden,” Joe said. “I cut through the plowed soil, where he plants his vegetables and herbs, on a straight path to the garden gate. I knew Pa, Hoss, Stacy, Hop Sing . . . and everyone else would be worried. I wanted to let ‘em know that I was alright. That I’d made it out of the house.”

“You stumbled as you stepped through the garden gate,” Linda said, as she resumed her pacing, resumed tapping her left hand with her riding crop. “Crippensworth and I came to your aid.”

“No!” Joe protested vehemently.

“Yes, we did, Little Joe. Crippensworth and I came to your aid.”

“Jack Murphy was there . . . not you . . . or Crippensworth, either. When I stumbled through that gate, JACK MURPHY was there, waiting . . . with a rifle. He told me to stop. I stopped, and waited.”

“What were you waiting for?”

“My chance. My chance to overpower him and make my escape.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying, Little Joe, as you’ve been lying all along,” Linda chided him.

“I’m telling you the truth, Lady Chadwick.”

“You just told me that you overpowered Jack Murphy and made your escape,” she said, her lips curving upward to form a smug, triumphant smile. “But, you didn’t escape. You’re here.”

“That’s because your big ugly gorilla, Crippensworth, fired and winged me.”

“Crippensworth and I saw you stumble through the gate to Hop Sing’s garden. We came to your aid.”

“No. Jack Murphy was there, not you,” Joe argued. “I overpowered him, but Crippensworth shot me, tied me up . . . and put me in the buggy with you.”

Linda stopped abruptly, turned, and struck him on the shins with her riding crop, once, twice, three times. Joe bit down on his lip to keep from crying out.

“Little Joe, I will NOT tolerate lying in any way, shape, or form.” She smacked him on the shin once more for emphasis.

“I’m telling you the truth.”

Gritting her teeth, she thrust her arm upward and struck him again and again and again. “You . . . escaped . . . from the house . . . you were . . . badly . . . hurt. You stumbled . . . out . . . through . . . Hop Sing’s . . . garden gate.” Her words, some individually, others in groups were spoken in keeping with the rhythm of her riding crop striking Joe’s shins. “You collapsed. Crippensworth and I . . . came . . . to . . . your aid.”

“If . . . if you came to my aid . . . why don’t you just g-give me back my clothes . . . loan me a horse, and . . . and let me be on my way?” Joe demanded, wearied by the pain of having been struck by her riding crop and the tremendous expenditure of energy to keep from screaming. He was bound and determined now not to give her or Crippensworth the satisfaction.

“You are not fit to travel, due to the extent of your injuries.”

“Then send word to Pa. Let HIM know where I am, so he can come and get me.”

“He would come and get you, too,” she said. “He’d be here like a shot, demanding to take you home, but as I just said . . . such is impossible. You’re not yet fit to travel.”

An exasperated sigh exploded out from between his lips. “You could at least let Pa know I’m safe.”

“But, HE thinks you’re dead. Perished. Burned to a crisp in the fire.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“No! I know Pa! If HE’S not out scouring the whole country side looking for me, he’s got Hoss and every man working for him out looking,” Joe said, his lips curving upward in a tight mirthless smile. “Sooner or later, someone’s going to find me. And when they do? Well, I’d hate to be in YOUR shoes when he does.” He mentally braced himself for another whack across the shins with her riding crop.

“Far be it from me to interfere with another man’s delusions,” she countered with an indifferent shrug.

A frown of complete and utter bewilderment creased Joe’s forehead.

“I told you before your father believes you dead, Little Joe,” Linda said with a touch of exasperation, as she resumed her pacing, resumed the tap, tap, tap of riding crop against the palm of her hand, resumed the clack, clack, clack of her hard soled heels striking wood floor. “Remember?”

“I don’t believe for one minute they mistook Jack Murphy for me.”

“When Crippensworth and I found you, it was quite clear you were badly injured,” Linda said. “MY first thought was to take you around to the other side, where the rest of your family was. Crippensworth advised against it, and rightly so. He pointed out that you might’ve had severe internal injuries, and that our trying to move you alone could injure you further, or perhaps even kill you.”

“That doesn’t sound much like the Crippensworth I’VE come to know and love,” Joe countered, his tone generously laced with acid sarcasm. “The Crippensworth I know would have taken positive delight in injuring me further.”

“What a cruel and unkind thing to say.”

“You want cruel and unkind?!” Joe growled. “Well how about THIS! Your man, Crippensworth is a cruel, sadistic, MONSTER.”

Scowling, Linda snapped the riding crop up under her arm and flounced from the foot of the bed around to the side, where she stood for a time, towering over him. “You will apologize.”

“I sure will.”

A triumphant smile appeared on her face.

“When hell freezes over!”

At that, her pink mouth thinned to a straight, angry line. She drew back her arm and struck his face with her open palm. “You ingrate!” she spat. “You spoiled, ungrateful . . . . ” Linda pulled herself up to full height and glared down at him menacingly. “I’ll have you know, you insolent, spoiled young puppy, that Crippensworth tenderly carried you to my buggy, and placed you in it. He even walked back, so YOU could ride. After we arrived here, he reset that shoulder of yours and bound up those broken ribs.

“And all the while Crippensworth has been ceaselessly, tirelessly looking after you, your dear, precious, wonderful father . . . . ” Linda grimaced and spat, “has written you off as dead, with no second thought, not so much as a by-your-leave. You honestly and truly think he’s out looking for you? Well you are very sadly mistaken. I told you before, he spends night and day with your sister, while your brother, Hoss, makes your funeral arrangements.”

“If he’s with Stacy, then he’s got all the men who work for him out looking,” Joe angrily shot right beck.

“Suit yourself!” Linda snapped. She, then, turned heel and angrily flounced out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.



“Damn . . . DAMN . . . DAMN . . . DAMN . . . DAMN!” Linda screamed, as she stormed into the master bedroom. Her entire body trembled with pent up rage, and ever growing frustration. She turned to Crippensworth, who lay stretched out on the bed. “CRIPPENSWORTH, IT’S NOT WORKING!!!”

“Milady, I TOLD you . . . it takes TIME,” he said in a tone of voice insultingly condescending. “Even with the very best of subjects, it’s still a matter of WEEKS.”

“WEEKS?!”

“Yes, Milady . . . WEEKS! And THAT’S if your subject is very weak minded, and highly susceptible to suggestion,” Crippensworth said. “Young Cartwright is NOT weak minded. He’s got a strong will, stronger spirit, and a stubborn streak ten miles wide.” This last was spoken with a touch of grudging admiration. “He is not a man easily or quickly broken.”

“But he CAN be broken?!” Linda demanded.

“ANYONE can be broken, some sooner . . . some later. In the case of Young Cartwright . . . you’re talking later. Much, much, MUCH later.”

“How much later?” Linda demanded.

“It could take YEARS, Milady.”

“Alright, then it’ll take years.”

“To be honestly frank, Young Cartwright would outlive you before you could make even the slightest dent,” Crippensworth drawled. “I say do the sensible thing.”

“ . . . and what pray is the sensible thing?” she demanded in a voice, stone cold.

“The sensible thing would be to hit his old man with a ransom note for an exorbitant amount of money. If his father loves him as much as you say, he’ll pay any amount of money to get the boy back.”

“No.”

“One hundred thousand dollars, Milady. Think about it,” Crippensworth said in a smooth, oily tone. “One hundred thousand dollars evenly divided between the two of us. We could go anywhere we wished and live quite comfortably for a very long time.”

“NO!” Linda yelled. “NO, NO, NO, NO!” She punctuated her last no with an angry stamp of her foot that set the window panes rattling. “I don’t care how long it takes, Crippensworth, even if it takes me the next one hundred years, I am going to turn that young man against his father.”

“Given Young Cartwright’s strong, stubborn, bullheadedness, it just might take a hundred years,” Crippensworth said wryly.

“I left the house through Hop Sing’s room, ended up in his garden,” Joe, meanwhile, softly recounted all that had happened since his escape from the fire that burned down his family’s home. He spoke just loud enough for himself to hear.

Hopefully, any eavesdropper who might be standing outside his door wouldn’t hear him speaking to himself the words of truth. He had told himself over and over, countless times, what had really happened, ever since Linda walked out, slamming the door shut behind her. He repeated those words without stopping, as the fading sunshine of late afternoon slowly, gradually dimmed to evening, then to dusk.

“I beat a straight path across the garden to the gate. Wanted to get back. Back to Pa, to Hoss and Stacy, to Hop Sing, Candy . . . and everyone else. Don’t want them to worry . . . . ” Joe closed his eyes against the tears once more stinging his eyes. “Pa, I’m ALIVE! I’m alive! I . . . I wish I could get back to you, but I can’t. Please Pa, and you, too, Hoss! Please . . . don’t give up! Don’t stop looking for me, because I’m alive. Stacy . . . . ”


“Come on, Baby Brother . . . Li’l Sister . . . . ”

Joe heard big brother, Hoss’ terse command echoing once more through the depths of mind and memory.


“ . . . we gotta get outta here! NOW!”

The ceiling above their heads groaned ominously, setting off a long string of creaks and snaps, that started near the back of the house and moved down the entire length of the ceiling. Like Chinese firecrackers. Light one, it sets off another, then another, then another. There was an ear splitting pop, followed by another string of crackling. The ceiling over the hallway groaned and began to sag, raining down hot plaster on their heads as they fled down the burning upstairs hall toward the stairs . . . .

. . . another pop, loud, earsplitting like the last. A large chunk of plaster fell and struck Stacy’s head before he could act . . . before he could even think to call out a warning. She stumbled under the impact of the blow, crashing into the wall behind her, before crumpling to the floor in a limp, ungainly heap.

“STAAAA-AAAA-AAACCCCY!”

Joe stopped, pivoted, and, in his mind’s eyes, ran back into the smoke and plaster dust in maddening, dream like slow motion. He knelt down beside his sister.

“JOE! STACY!” It was Hoss. “WHAT’S WRONG?”

“STACY’S HURT!”

“I’M COMIN’ ON BACK TO— ”

“HOSS, NO! KEEP ON GOING! I’VE GOT THE KID NOW! WE’RE RIGHT BEHIND YOU!”

“JOE!” Hoss yelled again. “DADBURN IT, LI’L JOE, IF YOU ‘N STACY AIN’T AT THE TOP OF THE STEPS BY THE TIME I COUNT THREE, I’M— ” He was stricken by a near incapacitating fit of gagging, that literally doubled him over.

“YOU’LL WHAT?” Joe demanded indignantly, as he appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying Stacy.

“FORGET IT! COME ON!!”

Joe tightened his grip on Stacy, and started down the steps after Hoss. He was so intent on getting himself and his sister down the steps and out of the house, he never saw the ceiling collapse. All he remembered was falling, with Stacy, still unconscious, still clasped tight in his arms.

When the dust cleared, and his senses returned, the first person he saw was Hoss, down on his hands and knees, shaking his head.

“H-Hoss . . . . ?!”

“Here, Li’l Brother. Where are ya?”

“Behind you . . . Stacy, too. Buried . . . . ”

“K-keep talking, Joe . . . I’m c-comin’.”

“Behind you . . . Hoss, Stacy’s hurt . . . I think real bad . . . . ”


Stacy’s hurt. His own words echoed over and over and over, like the strident, staccato beat of a snare drum. Stacy’s hurt. Stacy’s hurt.

I think real bad.

How bad? HOW BAD?! Joe frantically wracked his brain, trying to remember. In the hazy blur of images that followed, he saw Hoss staggering through the thickening haze of smoke and plaster dust. Hoss taking the large wood beam that had Stacy and himself pinned, lifting it, tossing it aside with the same ridiculous ease he himself would toss a wad of paper into a waste basket, then helping him to his feet. Stacy, however, lay where she had fallen, face pale and eyes closed, so ominously still . . . .

Perhaps Lady Chadwick was right about that funeral after all.

Joe gasped as that new thought slammed into him with all the power and force of a sledge hammer, in the hands of someone like Sam Hill or even big brother, Hoss, striking his solar plexus.

The image of his sister lying so still amid the splintered remains of the staircase returning again and again to mind and memory. The same sister, who even at the brink of adulthood found it difficult to sit still for five minutes, lying so still . . . .

. . . so frighteningly still . . . .

Maybe Hoss WAS in town arranging a funeral, like Lady Chadwick said. But the funeral was not for him.

NO.

NO, NO, NO, NO, Joe told himself for what had to be the ten millionth time. Stacy was NOT dead. She couldn’t possibly be dead. He would know.

“HOW?” a strident inner voice demanded. “How would you know? How could you possibly know?”

He WOULD know, that’s all. He just would, the same way he would know if Pa, Hoss, or even Adam had died.

“What about the funeral Hoss was in town arranging?”

Lady Chadwick had told him that . . . about Hoss being in town to arrange a funeral. SHE claimed it was HIS funeral. Joe knew Lady Chadwick had lied about that. Maybe she had lied about Hoss arranging a funeral, too.

Another thought occurred to him. If Stacy had died of her injuries, Pa wouldn’t be spending day and night at her side. He would be with Hoss, helping to arrange her funeral, or out looking for the people responsible for setting their house on fire.

Unless . . . .

Unless Pa was so overwhelmed with grief . . . .


Sunlight.

Warm, bright sunlight, shining down through the canopy of aspen, oak, and pine, shimmering . . . sparkling . . . on the waters of the lake like thousands, upon thousands of diamonds.

He had no idea in the world how he had come to be here, in the woods, by the shores of the lake. Glancing down at himself, he was mildly surprised to find that he was completely naked, except for the bindings around his chest and right shoulder.

He turned and started to walk up the path . . . .

. . . before he had taken two steps, he found himself standing before a grave stone, carved in white marble, in the distinctive shape of a Celtic cross, vertical and horizontal lines converging in the midst of a circle. He knelt down to read the inscription aloud . . . .

. . . not that he needed to see the words.

He already knew them all by heart, because he was the author who had penned them.

“Paris McKenna
Beloved wife of Benjamin Cartwright
In heart and in spirit
Loving mother of Stacy Rose

In love and devotion
Sacrificed her own life
That her beloved ones
Stacy Rose
and Benjamin
might live.”

“Joe . . . this is beautiful.”

At the sound of Stacy’s voice, the Celtic cross faded into the shimmer of sun on the lake, which in turn became the shimmer of unshed tears welling up in his sister’s sky blue eyes.

“But . . . . ”

“But WHAT, Little Sister?”

“Pa and Miss Paris . . . Mother . . . they never married.”

“Not in the eyes of the church perhaps, or according to law, but . . . I think they were where it counts most of all.”

In heart and in spirit . . . .

His sister’s face vanished, faded into the hard marble face of a second tombstone, another Celtic cross standing straight, tall, and erect beside the one marking Paris McKenna’s final resting place. He stood, unmoving, staring down at the second stone with mounting dread, for a time. Then, suddenly, his feet began to move of their own volition, taking him closer to the second stone. He knelt down, and read aloud the inscription . . . .

Stacy Rose Cartwright
Beloved daughter of Benjamin Cartwright
and Paris McKenna
Much loved sister
of Adam, Eric, and Joseph.

Gone to her mother.

Sleep well,
Loving and much loved.

He stared at the inscription, numb with horror and despair, shaking his head, moaning no, over and over and over . . . .

He had vague awareness of the air stirring, moving all around him. A gentle breeze at first, growing, swelling to a mighty wind. The moaning of the wind swelled to a deafening cacophony. Joe, his face contorting in agony, ducked his head between his knees and clapped his hands tight over his ears, desperately trying to shut out the horrible screaming roar of that wind.

Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw a myriad of strange, dark, frightening shadows. He turned and found, much to his astonishment, they were legs and feet encased in jet black pants and boots. Looking up, he saw the faces of his brothers, Hoss and Adam, attired completely in black, their faces pale, their eyes red and swollen. Between them was the wan, pale face of their father, his dark eyes, pools of jet black, gazing down at the new stone . . . .

. . . at Stacy’s stone . . . .

. . . but not seeing, his mouth open slightly . . . .

Joe suddenly realized the deafening, ear-splitting sounds surrounding him were not the wind. They were the sounds of his brothers sobbing, his father, shaking his head, moaning, No.

No, No, No, No . . . .

His father’s and his brothers’ black pants and jackets started to swell, to grow, and expand, blotting out their faces, the trees, the sunlight, the shimmering waters of the lake, Paris McKenna’s Celtic cross . . . .

Day became night, and Stacy’s Celtic cross weathered. Tiny cracks appeared within the tall marble cross, and spread slowly across its surface. Then, suddenly, the tall cross and circle silently shattered into a million pieces, each one sparkling and twinkling like tiny stars as they fell, one by one to the ground. The trees and the lake suddenly looked different. Turning back to the tombstone, he realized that this wasn’t his sister’s, rather it was his mother’s, gleaming silver in the moonlight, the words, deeply, lovingly etched:

Marie Cartwright,
beloved wife of Benjamin,
beloved mother of Joseph,
loving mother to Adam and Eric

Heaven’s gain,
Earth
and those she left behind
all the more poor
in the wake of her passing.

Sleep well, Beloved
. . . until we meet again on heaven’s shores.

A second stone stood tall and erect along side hers. With heart in mouth, Joe knelt down, his entire body trembling with the terrible dread and fear that seized hold of his heart. It was a brand new stone, hand carved from marble . . . .

Joseph Francis Cartwright
Beloved son of Benjamin and Marie
Much loved brother of Adam, Eric, and Stacy

Gone to his mother.

Though his body sleeps here
‘neath this dark tomb of earth
his soul has awakened
in the bright light of heaven.

Sleep well, Most Beloved.

NO!

Images of a funeral passed before his eyes . . . .

. . . Hoss, weeping openly, his strong arms wrapped tight about their father, supporting him . . . holding him up.

. . . Pa’s head resting heavily against Hoss’ broad chest, his face pale, eyes closed, grieved far past the place of tears.

. . . Adam, eyes round with shock and astonishment, staring into the open hole in front of the new stone, this one bearing his own name.

. . . Hop Sing, standing next to his father with one hand resting on his shoulder, offering comfort his father was beyond knowing or feeling.

Candy . . . .

Roy Coffee, Mitch and Sally Devlin . . . .

. . . And beyond them a vast sea of faces. A coffin, with a bouquet of wild flowers resting on top, with the body of Jack Murphy inside, being laid to rest alongside his mother.

All he could do was stand by helplessly and watch the coffin being lowered into the ground . . . ,

. . . shovelful upon shovelful of dirt being tossed in . . . .

. . . filling the hole . . . .

. . . covering over . . . .

. . . hiding the truth . . . .

Then, they were all gone. Pa, Adam, Hoss, Hop Sing, everyone. He stood all alone on the shores of the lake in the company of three tombstones. Joe felt his body turn, his legs and feet move, carrying him toward that third stone, standing tall and erect on the other side of his mother’s stone. He tried to stop, to turn, to run, but his body continued moving slowly, steadily toward that third stone.

“Benjamin Cartwright,” the inscription read
“Beloved husband of Elizabeth, Inger, and Marie”

“NO!”

“Beloved companion to Paris”

“NO!”

“Loving and much loved father
Of Adam”

“Oh dear God, NO! Please . . . . ”

“Of Eric Hoss”

“NO!”

“Of Joseph Francis”

“NO!”

“Of Stacy Rose . . . . ”

His eyes at last came to rest on the final words of the inscription carved into his father’s tombstone:

“Tragically died of a broken heart
Wounded mortally with the passing of
his beloved daughter
and
best beloved
Joseph Francis”

“No!” He backed away, with tears streaming down his cheeks, his entire body trembling. “No! Please, God, no! No, No, No, No . . . . ”



“Hop Sing?”

“Miss Stacy should be sound sleep,” Hop Sing admonished her gently. “Past midnight, now very early morning.”

“I can’t sleep,” Stacy sighed dolefully.

“Miss Stacy leg hurt?”

“Some, but that’s not why I can’t sleep.”

“Miss Stacy worry about Little Joe.”

“Yeah,” she said in a small, scared voice. “I sure hope Pa and Hoss find him.”

“Miss Stacy not worry. Papa and Big Brother find Little Joe. Little Joe come home very, very soon, all safe and sound,” Hop Sing tried desperately to reassure her with a confidence he was very far from feeling himself.

“Hop Sing, would you do me a favor?”

“If not go against doctors’ orders,” Hop Sing warned.

“Would you please open the curtains, so I can see out?”

Hop Sing rose from the chair next to the her bed and walked the half dozen steps between the chair, and the window. He pulled back the drapes and lifted the shade, revealing a silvery white orb, shining brightly against an unfathomable sea of indigo-black, amid thousands upon countless thousands of stars sparkling like diamonds. The moon had already passed zenith, and had begun her inevitable descent toward the western horizon.

“Chang O and Hou Yi move apart now,” Hop Sing murmured softly, with a touch of melancholy. “Move more and more apart, until come together again next Moon Festival.”

“Hop Sing?”

He turned from the window. “Yes, Miss Stacy?”

“Who are Chang O and Hou Yi?”

Hop Sing returned to the chair next to her bed, frowning anxiously at the sight of the tiny beads of sweat dotting her forehead, glittering silver in the moonlight streaming in through the window. “Chang O moon. Hou Yi sun. Chang O and Hou Yi husband and wife.”

“How did they become moon and sun?”

“Once, long, long, many years ago, Earth have ten suns,” Hop Sing began his story. “These suns all sons of Jade Emperor. Each sun take turns going ‘round earth, but one day, all ten suns go around earth . . . same time. This very, very bad! Ten suns going ‘round all at once, together burn earth, burn all trees and grass, dry up rivers. Many people die.

“Wise Chinese emperor, name King Yao . . . he call for Hou Yi. Hou Yi archer. Very, very good archer. As good with bow and arrow as whole Cartwright family good with gun. Hou Yi very famous. King Yao tell Hou Yi kill suns, ALL suns, but one. This Hou Yi do. When Hou Yi kill nine suns, earth cool. Rains come, grass and trees turn green, rivers run. Plenty food and water again.

“King Yao offer Hou Yi hand of daughter . . . Hou Yi marry. Her name Chang O. Chang-O very beautiful woman, but she always ask questions . . . many, MANY questions all time.” Hop Sing favored Stacy with an affectionate, indulgent smile as he gently dabbed her forehead with the sleeve of his bathrobe. “Chang O very much like Miss Stacy.”

“Thank you, Hop Sing,” she said, returning his smile. “What happened next? Did Chang O and Hou Yi get married?”

“See? Miss Stacy ask too many questions,” he chided her gently. “No ask questions. Must let Hop Sing tell story.”

“Sorry, Hop Sing.”

“Where Hop Sing telling story?”

“The emperor, King Yao wanted to give Hou Yi the hand of his daughter, Chang O, in marriage,” Stacy replied. “As a reward for killing the nine suns and saving Earth.”

“Oh yes, Hop Sing remember!” he said. “Now Hou Yi love Chang O. Hou Yi say he marry Chang O, if Chang O love him. But, he have to find out. So, Hou Yi put on disguise, go meet Chang O when she go home after fetch water from stream. He ask her for drink. She recognize Hou Yi, know he save Earth from burning suns. Chang O give Hou Yi beautiful flower. Show respect. Hou Yi give Chang O silver fox fur, very beautiful, for gift. Hou Yi and Chang O . . . fall in love. Get married. But, King Yao and people . . . all afraid.”

“Why are they afraid, Hop Sing?”

“They afraid suns come back, burn Earth again, dry up rivers. They pray to Wang Mu.”

“Who’s Wang Mu?”

“Wang Mu Goddess of Heaven,” Hop Sing replied. “King Yao and people pray to Wang Mu, ask Wang Mu make Hou Yi immortal, so he always be there in case suns come back. Wang Mu answer prayers, give Hou Yi potion, elixir of life. It make immortal anyone who drink. Hou Yi go home, tell Chang O about potion. Hou Yi and Chang O decide to drink potion in eighth month, when moon full.

“But Jade Emperor still angry, very, VERY angry, because Hou Yi kill his sons. He want revenge, send Feng Meng to kill Hou Yi. Feng Meng enemy of Hou Yi. He also want potion, so HE drink, be immortal. Feng Meng watch Hou Yi, wait. One night, Feng Meng see Hou Yi go home from hunting trip. He bush whack Hou Yi, kill him.”

“Poor Chang O!” Stacy murmured sadly. “What happened to her after that?”

“Feng Meng go to Chang O, try to take potion. Chang O not give potion to Feng Meng. SHE drink it, then run to Hou Yi. Hou Yi dead. She cry over him until potion take effect. Chang O get lighter and lighter, until she light enough to fly. She rise up in sky, very, very high, until she reach moon.

“When Chang O reach moon, she cough because air on moon very cold. Chang O cough, and cough until she cough up potion. Now Chang O have no potion inside her. Make Chang O very sad because she no more can go back to Earth. But Hare, who live on moon, Hare feel sorry for Chang O because Chang O so sad. He gather up all potion Chang O cough up, work very had to make pill from potion, so Chang O take, go back to Earth. Moon Hare still working.”

“Hop Sing?”

“Yes, Miss Stacy?”

“How can Chang O meet Hou Yi if she’s immortal and trapped on the moon and . . . and HE’S dead?”

“You very bad, like Mister Hoss and Little Joe when Hop Sing tell THEM story!” he scolded her quietly, unable to completely hide the amused smile tugging hard at the corner of his mouth. “Little Joe . . . .” he sighed and shook his head. “Little Joe, he worst of lot!”

“I’m sorry I interrupted again, Hop Sing,” Stacy apologized contritely. “I just want to know what finally happened to Chang O and Hou Yi.”

“Wang Mu take pity on Hou Yi because he great hero, do many, many, many good deeds. More good deeds than stars up in sky. Wang Mu take Hou Yi spirit to sun, where he live even now. Hou Yi build great palace on sun.”

“When does he get to see Chang O?”

“Hou Yi and Chang O meet one time every year, eighth month when moon full,” Hop Sing replied. “When Chinese have big Moon Festival. Celebrate when Hou Yi and Chang O meet. That why full moon so very beautiful night of Moon Festival.”

“That’s a beautiful story, Hop Sing,” Stacy said quietly. “Is Chang-O like Grandmother Moon? Can she also see people we love . . . who are apart from us?”

“Chinese lovers . . . apart from each other, they pray to Chang-O on night of full moon, ask Chang O keep safe and bring together again,” Hop Sing replied. “Chang O feel very sorry for lovers, for husband . . . wife, all apart. She take pity because she apart from Hou Yi all rest of year.” He fell silent for a moment, then added, “Hop Sing also think Chang-O watch over papas and brothers, bring them home safe, too.”

“Like Grandmother Moon.”

“Yes,” Hop Sing nodded his head. “Like Grandmother Moon.”

Stacy wished, then, with all her heart that she could join her father and Hoss in their search for Joe. Due to the extent of her injuries, it would be a long time before she would be able to just plain walk again, let alone sit a horse. Tears, born of anger and frustration, welled up in her eyes. She ducked her head, in hopes that Hop Sing would not see.

“Miss Stacy?”

“Y-Yes, Hop Sing?” she replied in as steady a voice as she could muster.

“Remember when angels visit Ponderosa?”

“Yeah . . . . ”

“Angel, one who look like Little Joe . . . Miss Stacy remember what HE say night Miss Stacy saddle Blaze Face with ribs broken . . . to save Papa and Little Joe?”

“I remember,” she said slowly. “I told him I couldn’t just sit by and not do something to help Pa and Joe. He told me we WERE going to do something to help them. He told me we were going to pray.”

“Miss Stacy not able go with Papa and Mister Hoss, help search for Little Joe,” Hop Sing said, speaking to her unspoken fears and frustrations with the same uncanny precision as Pa. “Tonight, Miss Stacy and Hop Sing pray.”

Stacy reached out and took Hop Sing’s hand. “Hop Sing, would you . . . would you mind being the one to say the words out loud?”

Hop Sing gave her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze, then turned to face the window and the moon. Tonight, he could see Chang O’s friend, the Moon Hare very clearly. He took a deep breath and began his prayer in his native Chinese. Though Stacy understood none of the words, she nonetheless heard the heartfelt desire behind his petition in the tone of his voice, and knew it matched her own. The cadence, the almost musical rise and fall in note and pitch, began to soothe her own troubled spirit.

After he had finished praying in Chinese, Hop Sing quietly translated his words for the benefit of the youngest Cartwright presently entrusted to his care: “Dear Chang O, Lady of Moon, and Miss Stacy Grandma Moon, please watch over Mister Ben, Mister Hoss, and Little Joe. Keep safe, and bring home safe very soon . . . for Miss Stacy and Hop Sing.” He fell silent for a moment, then added, “Dear Mister Ben God-Is -My-Shepherd, Hop Sing and Miss Stacy ask you lead Little Joe safe through valley of death shadow. Amen.”

“Amen,” Stacy voiced her own whole hearted agreement.

“NO!”

Joe’s eyes snapped open in the same instant he finally found voice to scream. For a time he gazed dully at his surroundings, not knowing where he was or how he had come to be there. He tried to rise from the bed on which he found himself lying, only to find he could hardly move.

Then, he remembered . . . .

In a veritable flash flood of images rushing through his head, he remembered. Joe squeezed his eyes shut, hoping against hope to shut out of his mind the chaotic rush of memories and images with the same ease he could shut his surroundings out of his sight.

Then, suddenly, the words of an ancient prayer started to flow through his mind and thoughts, unlooked for, unbidden.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Joe was very much surprised to hear a woman’s voice speaking those words. In the next instant, he realized it was the voice of his mother, Marie, praying to the Mother of God, as was her custom each night before retiring for the evening, especially the nights Pa was away, whether it be looking after things on the Ponderosa, or in far away places, like San Francisco, on business. Many was the time Joe had crawled out of bed and tip toed to the top of the stairs just to hear his mother say those words:

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,
We turn to you for protection.
Listen to our prayers and help us in our needs.
Save us from every danger,
O, glorious and blessed Virgin. ”

Joe saw and heard his mother, just as clear, as if he were five years old once again, tip toeing down the hall to the top of the stairs, to hear her pray. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he found himself praying right along with Mama, “We turn to you for protection. Listen to our prayers and help us in our needs. Save us from every danger, O, glorious and blessed Virgin.”

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, I turn to you for protection. Listen to my prayers and help US . . . Pa, Hoss, Stacy, Hop Sing, and me . . . in our needs. Save us from every danger, O, glorious and blessed Virgin,” Joe prayed again, this time alone.

He opened his eyes, and upon seeing the moon shining in through the unadorned panes of glass in the French doors directly facing the foot of the bed, an indescribable feeling of peace seemed to flow over him. Like lying under a big shade tree, looking up at the canopy of leaves overhead, falling asleep, with cool, gentle breezes blowing over him, all around him.

In the shadows cast by craters and mountains, Joe immediately spotted Hop Sing’s Moon Hare, and the face of Stacy’s kindly Grandmother Moon. They in turn stirred up the memory of a statue, an icon that belonged to his mother. The statue was of stone, marble, if memory served, supposedly from the same quarry Michelangelo procured marble for his sculptures. It was of the Blessed Virgin, standing straight and tall, upon the crescent of the moon, cradling the Infant Christ in her arms.

This particular Blessed Virgin was not the typical willowy ethereal woman depicted in icons, like those he had seen in the O’Hanlans’ home. This Blessed Virgin was a rock solid, earthy woman with strong arms, generous well rounded breasts and hips. The Infant Christ lay within her protective embrace, nestled close to the place of her heart. For Joe and for his mother, too, this icon seemed to embody all that was Mother. The statue was lost now, probably crushed to so much powder when the roof finally collapsed, but the image remained strong in his heart.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Joe softly prayed once again, with his eyes fixed on the moon. “I turn to you for protection. Listen to my prayers and help Pa, Hoss, Stacy, Hop Sing, and me in our needs. Save us from every danger, O, glorious and blessed Virgin.” A wistful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And please, let my family know that I’m alive, that I love them, and I’m thinking about them.”



“Ready, Pa?” Hoss asked, rising from the place he had been warming on the settee in the lobby of the Comstock Hotel for the better part of the last half an hour.

“I will be as soon as I go upstairs and collect our saddle bags, and check us out.”

“Your saddle bags are right here.” Hoss pointed to the saddle bags belonging to himself and his father, lying on the floor at his feet. “I also picked up Buck ‘n Chubb from the Livery Stable. They’re saddled ‘n ready to go. Pa?”

“Yes, Son?”

Sight of his father’s face, still alarmingly pale, brought an anxious frown to Hoss’ face. “Pa, you sure you’re all right?”

Ben looked over at the biggest of his three sons, and ruefully shook his head. “That canvas . . . the one you found out in her sun room . . . I can’t get it out of my mind.”

“It gives ME a real case of the heebie-jeebies, too, whenever I think about it,” Hoss said soberly, in wholehearted agreement. “You gonna be able to ride all the way back to Virginia City, Pa? We can stay over another night, if we need to . . . . ”

Ben immediately shook his head. “I’ll manage, Hoss. Right now, I just want to put some distance between us and . . . and that painting.” He shuddered. “I’m also anxious to get back to your sister.”

“That why you couldn’t sleep last night?”

Ben looked over at Hoss, mildly surprised.

“I heard ya up ‘n down, pacin’ the floor,” Hoss said quietly. “I . . . I’m afraid I didn’t git much sleep last night, either.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you awake, Son.”

“It wasn’t YOU, Pa, it was . . . I’m worried, too!”

“Hoss, we’re gonna find Joe,” Ben said, his chin and mouth set with a firm rock solid determination. “No matter how long it takes . . . we’re going to find him! And Stacy’s going be alright, too!”

“You betcha, Pa!” Hoss declared, taking heart from his father’s sudden burst of stubborn, angry, and determined optimism. “We Cartwrights can be a bunch o’ stubborn ornery cusses when we hafta be . . . and it’ll take a heckuva lot more’n a fire, Lady Chadwick, ‘n a broken leg t’ keep the lot o’ US down.”

“ . . . and don’t you forget it!” Ben added with an emphatic nod of his head. He, then, favored Hoss with a wan smile. “Why don’t you go ahead, and take our saddle bags on out? I’ll be with you as soon as I check us out and settle up on the bill.”

Hoss nodded, then bent down to pick up the saddle bags belonging to himself and his father.

As Ben made his way across the lobby, toward the desk, he silently vowed that IF Joe turned up with so much as a scratch on him, and Stacy didn’t recover from the injuries inflicted as a result of the fire that had destroyed their home, he would personally hunt Linda Lawrence down, to the very ends of the earth if need be, and kill her, even if it meant strangling her with his bare hands.



After checking out of the Comstock Hotel in Carson City, father and son mounted their horses and set out for Virginia City and home.

For a time, they rode in silence, as Ben’s thoughts returned again and again to the unfinished oil portrait in Linda’s sun room studio, its paint still wet. “Why?” he asked himself again and again. Why would a woman who had so openly, and so bluntly declared her hatred for him on the occasion of their last meeting turn around and paint a near life-sized portrait of them together on a wedding day that never took place? His uneasy thoughts drifted back to New Orleans, many years ago, when Linda de Salle very closely resembled the bride in that portrait back in Carson City . . . .


The night was clear and though chilly, there was yet a bare hint of the warmth of springtime soon to come. Ben Cartwright and Linda de Salle strolled together, hand in hand, along the bank of the Mississippi River, its dark, brooding waters gilded by the silvery light of the full moon shining high over their heads. In the distance, music played from the ballroom of the grand home where both had spent the evening as invited guests to a lavish party to celebrate the fiftieth birthday of a very old, very dear mutual friend.

Ben couldn’t have asked for a more romantic setting for that all important question that had been burning in his heart for nearly a whole week now.

“Ben?”

“Yes, Linda?”

“I’m feeling chilly . . . . ” She shivered delicately, all the while favoring him with those luminous hazel eyes, tonight shining the same emerald green as her dress.

“Would you like to return to the house?” he queried, a trifle crestfallen.

“No.” Linda smiled and eased herself flush up against his side, deftly placing his arm about her bare shoulders. “There are OTHER ways for two people to keep warm.”

Ben smiled, lost in the heady scent of lemon verbena in her soft, luxurious, chestnut brown tresses and the feel of her body moving alongside his. He turned to kiss her, and in so doing, caught sight of the moonlight sparkling atop the black waters of the river.

Like diamonds.

Diamonds.

The question.

“Linda . . . . ”

“Yes, Ben?”

“Linda, I love you so much. So very, very much . . . . ”

“ . . . and I love YOU, Ben.”

“Will you marry me?” He was surprised at how easily, how naturally the question flowed from his lips.

Linda’s smile never wavered.

“I realize this is a very big, very important step for both of us,” he continued. “If you need time to consider . . . . ”

“I’ll give you my answer in the morning, Darling.”

That night, after seeing Linda de Salle home from the party, Ben Cartwright had gone to bed with a light, and happy heart. There was no doubt in his mind as to what her answer was going to be. No doubt at all . . . .

“Ben, I’ve given the matter considerable thought,” Linda said in a matter-of-fact, business like tone the following morning. They were alone together in the drawing room of her father’s home. He sat in the middle of the divan, the very same divan now in the living room of her home in Carson City, while she paced the floor before him, tapping out the cadence and rhythm of her footsteps against the palm of her free hand with her closed fan.

“And . . . . ?”

“My answer must be no.”

For the next few moments, he sat, as if rooted to the divan, staring up at her impassive face through eyes round with shock, and , with his mouth hanging open. “L-Linda . . . . ” he finally stammered, when, at long last he found voice once again to speak. “Linda, why? If . . . if you n-need more time . . . . ”

“Ben Darling, even if you gave me all the time in the world, my answer would remain the same,” she replied in a tone slightly patronizing. “I’m sorry.”

“I . . . I’m sorry, too,” Ben murmured as he rose slowly from the divan. “May I . . . may I continue to see you?”

“I don’t think that would be wise, Darling. If we continued to see each other . . . . ” she quickly averted her eyes to the fan, still closed, now clasped in both hands. “I don’t want to raise any false hope, Ben.”

“I see,” he replied in a stone cold voice.

“I’m sorry, Ben. I really am, truly, very sorry . . . . ”


His memory skipped ahead one week to a chance encounter with Emily de Salle, Linda’s mother, at the time out shopping in the company of her younger daughter, Geraldine, and her personal maid.

“I’m afraid . . . Linda’s away, Mister Cartwright,” Emily said, quickly averting her eyes. Those last four words tumbled from her mouth a beat too fast.

“Oh?” he queried, taken slightly aback. Linda had never, not once, made any mention of an impending trip.

“England.”

“When will she be back?”

“I . . . not for a long time, Mister Cartwright.”

“Never!” Geraldine angrily spat out the word, as she lifted her head and met his gaze with her own bold, unflinching stare. Ben noted for the first time that the girl’s eyelids were red and puffy, the whites of her eyes bloodshot, as if from a prolonged bout of weeping. “That’s when Linda’s coming back. Never!”

“Geraldine, you hush!” Her mother whispered, outraged.

“No!” the girl countered with an angry, defiant stamp of her foot. “Mister Cartwright, Linda’s gone to England with her husband, and she’s never coming back. Never, EVER!”

Ben stared from angry, infuriated daughter to horrified, outraged mother, numb with shock.

“Mister Cartwright, I am so terribly sorry you had to find out this way,” Emily said, drawing herself up to full height. She turned and favored the daughter at her side with a dark, murderous glare. “Linda and this Englishman, Lord of Chadwick, she called him . . . they ran off and eloped last Saturday night.”

Ben felt the wind in his lungs leave him, as if he had taken a hard sucker punch to the pit of his stomach. Last Saturday EVENING he had asked her to marry him. It suddenly became all too crystal clear that Linda had been stringing him along, the way a deep sea fisherman plays out a big fish, like tuna or marlin, all the while allowing this Lord Chadwick to pay her court.

“They left by stage for New York this morning,” Mrs. de Salle continued, her cheeks flushed crimson with shame. “From there, they sail to England.”

“Thank you, Mrs. de Salle, for FINALLY deigning to let me know,” Ben responded in a tone dripping with acid sarcasm.

“I’m sorry, Mister Cartwright. Truly. I’m very sorry.” She, then turned to her daughter. “Come along, Geraldine . . . . ”


“SHE’S the one who rejected ME,” Ben mused in stony silence as remembrance faded once more back into the deepest recesses of mind and memory, “and . . . what? Fifteen years after she turned down my marriage proposal? Twenty?! . . . she came to the Ponderosa and tried to ruin me . . . ruin US . . . financially . . . and damn near succeeded. By all rights, I’M the one who should hate HER!”

Time, his two young sons, Adam and Hoss, the Ponderosa, and most important, meeting Marie di Marginy, a year later on another trip to New Orleans, all served as potent balms to heal the hurt left in the wake of Linda de Salle’s deception and marriage to another. Did she hate him because he had moved on with his life? Because he had fallen deeply in love with another, and found much happiness with her in the all too brief time they were together?

“Why?” Ben’s mind kept circling, returning over and over to that simple, one word, one syllable question.

Why?

Linda had the good fortune of having spent many years with a man wealthy enough by all appearances to have indulged her every whim. Together, they had brought a fine enough son into the world, assuming that Jack Murphy was, in fact, their son. Linda had also been left well provided for when Lord Chadwick had died. What possible reason could she have for being so bitterly angry, and for blaming him?

The image of her rose again in his thoughts, snarling like a wild animal, as she reduced her gift to him, another oil painting of them together done from memory, to tattered, paint covered, canvas rags with a fireplace poker. He saw that portrait, after she had finished destroying it fade into the portrait of bride and groom back in Carson City, painted so recently the paint remained wet. A chill shot down the entire length of his spine, causing an involuntary shudder.

“Pa?” Hoss’ voice brought blessed relief from the seemingly endless stream of troubled memories of years past.

“Yes, Son?”

“I had supper last night with Miss Barnes . . . . ”

“Oh?” Ben looked over at his son in mild surprise. He had opted to turn in early last night, declining supper. The long trip the day before, coming up empty handed, as far as Joe was concerned, his ongoing concern for Stacy, and the jolt of seeing that wedding portrait had all taken their toll on his stamina and appetite.

“I had some more questions I wanted to ask her.”

“Anything of interest?”

Hoss nodded. “She told me the Chadwicks . . . that’s what she insisted on callin’ ‘em . . . ARE the owners of that house, just like we thought. Miss Barnes said it was a belated weddin’ present from the mister to his wife.”

“Miss Barnes didn’t say HOW belated . . . did she?”

“The year she gave . . . I think it would’ve been three . . . maybe four years after they tied the knot.”

That piece of information was indeed very interesting, giving rise to a whole new string of unsettling questions. Why had Linda chosen a home here, in Carson City, of all places?

Coincidence?

Ben did some quick mental figuring.

By the time Lord Chadwick got around to buying that little belated wedding gift for his lady, he and Marie would have been married two, going on three years. Joe wouldn’t have been much more than a baby. Ben had purchased the first parcel of land that would comprise his vast holdings known as Ponderosa, nearly a year before he had met and courted Linda de Salle. He and his lawyer were negotiating on the purchase of the second parcel of land at around the time he asked her to be his wife. He almost certainly would have shared that knowledge with Linda.

Had Linda Lawrence picked out that house in Carson City to be a belated wedding gift because of its near proximity to Virginia City . . . AND the Ponderosa? The thought sent another cold chill racing down the length of Ben’s spine.

“Miss Barnes said Lord Chadwick was nice enough,” Hoss rambled on. “A lotta folks thought he was a bit stuck up ‘n aloof, but Miss Barnes figured he was on the shy side. She said he always conducted himself like a real fine gentleman, whenever she happened t’ meet up with him.” Hoss grinned with amusement. “She also said he, meanin’ Lord Chadwick, had a delightful, charmin’ way o’ speaking, just like Mister Montague. Didn’t think too highly o’ Lady Chadwick, though.”

“Oh? What did Miss Barnes have to say about Lady Chadwick?”

“The kindest things she said ‘bout Lady Chadwick was that the woman was real stuck-up ‘n vulgar.”

“Somehow, THAT doesn’t surprise me,” Ben said remembering all of the large, expensive porcelain bric-a-brac crammed onto the mantle piece and tables in the living room of the house in Carson City. “Did the Lawrences have any friends here in Carson City?”

Hoss shook his head. “Miss Barnes said they pretty much kept to themselves.”

“Did Miss Barnes happen to remember when they were last in residence in that house?”

“Yep! She said last time Lady Chadwick came was pert near twelve . . . maybe thirteen years ago . . . in the fall. She stayed through the winter ‘n left sometime in the spring,” Hoss replied. “That would’ve been right before she came t’ see US.”

“Yes, indeed it would,” Ben agreed with a scowl. “That, no doubt, gave her plenty of time to get her ducks in a row so she could begin setting me up to take that big fall she had planned the minute she and Montague arrived in Virginia City.”

“According t’ Miss Barnes, Lady Chadwick didn’t come back here after she left US,” Hoss continued. “But, Mister Montague did, ‘bout a year later. Seems he was in charge o’ overseein’ the house, ‘n lookin’ after whoever was rentin’ the place. Then ‘bout a year ago, Mister Montague quit workin’ for Lady Chadwick, ‘n went t’ work for this Mrs. de Salle.”

“That’s very interesting, especially considering how loyal Montague was to Linda.”

“That ain’t all that’s very interesting, Pa.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Seems that in the ten years since Lady Chadwick visited us, a pretty fair number o’ people rented out that house. All of ‘em women, widowed, an’ beginning ‘bout five years ago, all of ‘em had one son named John, Jack, or some such.”

“Did . . . Miss Barnes have anything to say about the women who rented the house over the past ten years?”

“I asked her ‘bout that, Pa . . . . ”

“ . . . and?”

“Miss Barnes said she never had much t’ do with any of ‘em, except for Mrs. de Salle,” Hoss replied. “Seems Mister Montague picked up their mail, did all their bankin’, ran their errands.”

Both father and son rode in uneasy silence for a time.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Hoss?”

“I been thinkin’ . . . . you s’pose all them renters were really Lady Chadwick?”

“Between you and me, I’m almost certain of it,” Ben said grimly. “I have no proof, however, just a real strong gut feeling.”

“Y-You don’t suppose Lady Chadwick’s been spyin’ on us all this time . . . do ya?”

“I’m beginning to think she HAS been spying on us, Hoss. With her man, Montague here supposedly to look after the house and its tenants . . . it would be real easy for her to send him over to Virginia City to check up on us,” Ben said uneasily, “especially if every last one of the tenants, who’ve rented that house since her visit to the Ponderosa, actually turn out to be Lady Chadwick herself.”

Hoss shook his head in utter bewilderment. “That’s a powerful long time t’ be carryin’ around a grudge.”

“I . . . think her feelings toward me go back even further, Hoss, all the way back to the day she turned down my proposal of marriage,” Ben said in a quiet, somber tone. “That’s probably the reason she had her husband buy her that house in Carson City . . . so she could keep tabs on us.”

Hoss looked over at his father, astonished and very much troubled. “Pa . . . that’s . . . it’s crazy! Just . . . plumb loco crazy! She didn’t even know you were here . . . did she?”

“I’m afraid she DID, Hoss,” Ben said grimly.

“How’d she find out?”

“I told her, while I was courting her.”

“It still don’t make one lick o’ sense,” Hoss declared, shaking his head. “She’s the one who turned you down, then she up ‘n married someone else, with one o’ them fancy European titles. Why in the world would she want t’ bother with checkin’ up on you, leastwise while Lord Chadwick was still alive?”

“I don’t know, Son. Like you just said, it makes no sense at all, whatsoever.”

“Pa, you remember yesterday when I said you were givin’ me a real case o’ the willies?”

“Yes . . . . ”

“Well that real case o’ the willies just got about a hundred times WORSE.”

“M-Miss Gibson.”

Joe saw Hazel Gibson once again, as she was back when he was in the fifth grade. She stood tall, her posture more straight, more regal than an Army general. Her sharp, all knowing, bright green eyes were trained right on him.

“I’m . . . I’m ten years old again . . . and I’m back in Miss Gibson’s class,” Joe Cartwright murmured very softly to himself. “It’s . . . it’s almost summertime. End of May. Hot . . . real, real hot. N-Not usually this hot this time of year. Inside the school house . . . with the sun beating down . . . it’s even hotter ‘n our kitchen on the hottest part of a summer’s day, with . . . with Hop Sing in there, cooking up a storm.”

Joe squeezed his eyes shut, and turned his head away from the window along side his bed, and the glaring sun beating down on him relentlessly through the bare glass window panes along the south wall, and through the French doors facing west. He had no clothing on, no bed linens, nothing to protect him from the unmerciful heat and blinding glare. His entire body was soaked with perspiration, and his hair lay plastered to his head and face.

“I’m h-hot . . . and so thirsty . . . s-so thirsty, I . . . God, I can’t stand it,” Joe continued, “just like when I . . . when I w-was ten years old . . . and . . . and back in the fifth grade . . . Miss Gibson’s class . . . arithmetic. All I gotta do is make it through arithmetic . . . that’s all, just m-make it through arithmetic. Recess is after arithmetic. I c-can get a drink of w-water . . . at recess.”

Joe had awakened that morning with a sore throat, which had steadily grown worse over the course of the last few hours. The insides of his cheeks felt like cotton, and his tongue kept sticking to the roof of his mouth. How long had it been since he last had food, or more important, water? The very last time HE could remember was at the supper table, the night of the fire. Three days ago now, if his own calculations were correct . . . .

“Fifth g-grade . . . . ” Joe kept telling himself, “I’m in the f-fifth gr-grade . . . back in M-Miss Gibson’s class . . . . ”

If he kept his eyes shut real tight, and concentrated, he could see it all again: the blackboard with simple addition and subtraction problems for the first and second graders, multiplication and division problems for the fifth and sixth grades. He could also hear once again the drone of locusts outside against the third and fourth graders chanting the multiplication table of seven, like a mantra.

“So h-hot . . . I’m so thirsty, but if I ask to be excused for a drink of water AGAIN . . . she . . . she said she’d k-keep me after school . . . for a week. A whole solid week! Pa s-said HE’LL . . . that he’ll c-confine me to . . . t-to my room . . . for another t-two weeks on top of that . . . if I have to stay after school one more time.

“So I gotta wait . . . gotta wait ‘til . . . ‘til ‘rithmetic class is over, and it’s time f-for recess. Arithmetic class will be over soon, real, real soon. It WILL! ‘Rithmetic class always . . . it always SEEMS to take a long time . . . that’s ‘c-cause I hate it so much. It’s never as long as I . . . as I think. So, it’ll be over . . . real soon. Then, it’ll be recess and I can go to the well . . . and . . . and get a drink . . . a l-long, c-cool drink of water . . . of clear, sweet, cold water. . . . ”

Joe heard the telltale creak of the door opening. He automatically turned to see, only to whip his face away the instant the harsh, blinding glare of the sun once more struck his eyes. “Who . . . who is it?”

“Crippensworth.”

Joe’s heart sank.

“I brought you some water.”

“Why don’t you and Lady Chadwick just kill me and get it over with?”

Crippensworth slowly made his way around to the other side of the bed. “Can’t do that, Mister Cartwright. Milady has plans for you.” He sat down on the bed, placing the canteen in hand within Joe’s line of vision.

“What . . . what do I have to do to get that drink of water?” Joe asked bitterly.

“Nothing, Boy. This one’s a freebie.” Crippensworth unscrewed the cap, then reached his hand under Joe’s neck and shoulders, in order to lift his head.

The instant Joe’s dry, parched lips touched the canteen, he began to gulp greedily, though the water was warm, with a slight musty odor.

“Not so fast, Boy,” Crippensworth admonished him severely. He yanked the canteen away from Joe’s lips with a powerful thrust of his arm.

“M-More, please . . . . ” Joe begged. “Please? J-just a little more.”

“A little more, but SLOWLY, Boy. You keep on gulping it down like you just did, you’re going to make yourself sick.”

“Alright . . . I promise . . . I’ll take it s-slow.”

Crippensworth brought the canteen once more to Joe’s lips. Joe, true to his word, forced himself to slip slowly from the canteen. It took nearly every ounce of his strong will to do so.

“CRIPPENSWORTH!” It was Lady Chadwick, standing just inside the door, with arms folded tight across her chest, directing a venomous glare at both of them. “Just what the HELL do you think you’re doing?”

“What does it LOOK like, Milady?”

“If you think for one minute I’m going to tolerate such insolence . . . . ” Linda started around to the side of the bed where Crippensworth still sat, giving Joe water.

“Milady, you raise your hand to me again, so help me . . . as God is my witness, I WILL break it.”

Linda stopped mid-stride just before she reached the foot of the bed. “My orders were no food OR water until he stops lying.”

“You want the boy dead?”

“No, of course not!”

“Another day, maybe two . . . three at the very outside of no food OR water, the intended instrument of your revenge would be a cold corpse.” Crippensworth moved the canteen away from Joe’s lips and placed his head back down on the mattress. “Is that what you want, Milady?”

“No,” Linda replied in a sullen tone of voice.

“Alright then.” Crippensworth replaced the cap on his canteen, then rose. “Now that our guest here’s had something to slack his thirst, he’s going to become more and more aware of his empty belly. I’m thinking that going to bed without supper again tonight might make him a little more amenable.”

“It had better,” Linda growled under her breath. She, then, turned heel and flounced angrily out of the room.

“You have the rest of the day to think things over, Kid,” Crippensworth taunted Joe, favoring him with a mirthless smile. “I’d strongly suggest you use it wisely. VERY wisely! Remember Jack Murphy.”



The streets of Virginia City were nearly deserted by the time Ben and Hoss Cartwright reached its environs. Homes, offices, and businesses, including the saloons, were closed, their windows dark, except for the dim light of a flickering oil lamp in the occasional upstairs window of the homes they passed. The waning moon, had passed zenith and begun her descent down toward the western horizon. Her light bathed the empty streets before them with a gentle, silver-white glow. Father and son continued up the main road in weary, anxious silence until they finally reached the home and office of Doctor Paul Martin.

“You gonna stay here the rest o’ the night, Pa?” Hoss asked, as they dismounted from their respective horses in front of the Martins’ home.

Ben nodded, as he and his son respectively tethered Buck and Chubb to the hitching post on the street. “How about you, Hoss?”

“I want to come in . . . see how Li’l Sister’s farin’,” Hoss replied. “After that, I was figurin’ on ridin’ down to the hotel ‘n gettin’ a room. If ya’d like, I can take Buck with me, ‘n stable him there with Chubb.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that very much. You’ll stop by here on your way out to the hou—the RANCH in the morning?”

“I will, Pa.”

They turned and started up the walk together. Upon reaching the stoop at the top of the steps, Ben and Hoss were mildly surprised to see the door open before either had a chance to knock. Hop Sing stood just inside, with his hand on the door knob and an apprehensive look on his face.

“Good you get back, Mister Cartwright . . . Mister Hoss. Miss Stacy run fever. Very high, grow higher.”

“Where is she?” Ben demanded wearily, his heart sinking.

“In same room where we sleep.”

Ben stepped past Hop Sing and bounded past the stairs and down the narrow corridor toward the doctor’s examination room, with heart in mouth. There, he found Doctor and Mrs. Martin, with Doctor Johns, still fully dressed, their faces nearly identical masks of worry and concern. The two physicians were working on Stacy’s leg, while Lily Martin gently bathed Stacy’s forehead with cool water, laced with a mixture pungent herbs. Ben immediately recognized the aroma as one of Hop Sing’s remedies for fever.

“Ben, thank goodness!” Lily exclaimed, being the first to see him. “Please, come in.”

Ben was across the room, standing next to Lily Martin and the bed occupied by his daughter in less than a second. “I can do that for a while,” he said softly, nodding to the water on the bedside and cloth in the hands of the doctor’s wife.

Lily nodded and rose, allowing Ben to take her chair.

“Pa?” Stacy’s eyes opened the minute Ben sat down.

“I’m right here, Stacy.” Ben dipped the cloth in hand into the water and herb mix, then wrung it out. “You just lie still and rest.”

“Where’s Hoss?” she asked anxiously.

“I’m right here, Li’l Sister.”

Stacy’s eyes moved from her father’s anxious, weary face to her big brother standing behind him. “Where’s Joe? Did you find HIM?”

“No,” Hoss shook his head. “We didn’t find him THIS time, but we WILL. Don’t you worry none ‘bout that. You just worry ‘bout gettin’ yourself better.”

“Mister Cartwright?”

Ben glanced up sharply and found himself staring into the weary, careworn face of Doctor Michael Johns.

“We need to talk.”

“Not without ME you don’t,” Stacy said firmly, her lower jaw and mouth set with stubborn resolve.

“Mister Cartwright, YOU and I need to talk,” Michael reiterated, directing a dark glare toward his patient.

“Doctor Johns, anything you have to say about Stacy’s physical condition, you say to BOTH of us,” Ben said as he gently bathed her forehead with the water and herbal mix.

“Alright.” Doctor Johns straightened, then stretched to loosen up the muscles in his lower back, made stiff by having to bend over for long periods of time. “Mister Cartwright . . . Miss Cartwright, the leg is badly infected. Paul and I’ve drained off large amounts of pus, and infected blood and serum. That AND the high fever she’s running tell me the infection’s systemic, or damn’ near so.”

“What does systemic mean?” Stacy demanded in a weary, cantankerous tone.

“It means every part of your body’s infected. If we’re to have any chance at saving your LIFE, Miss Cartwright . . . any chance at all, I have to amputate your leg. Now!”

“Pa?”

“Y-Yes, Stacy?” Ben murmured, weary, shaken to the very core of his being, yet trying valiantly to hold on, to be the pillar of strength and courage he knew his daughter needed.

“Hop Sing told me he knows someone . . . she’s a Chinese doctor, does something called acu— ” Stacy frowned, trying to remember.

“Acu-puncture, Mister Cartwright,” Hop Sing said from his place next to Hoss.

Ben looked over and favored Hop Sing with a puzzled frown. “What’s this . . . acupuncture, Hop Sing?”

“Acupuncture medicine, practice in China, long time. Many, thousands years. Chi energy in Miss Stacy’s leg blocked. Leg infected. Make worse. Acupuncture Master use needles, stick in points along energy lines, move chi.”

“Pa, I want to give this acupuncture a try,” Stacy pleaded.

“Needles . . . . ? Energy . . . . ?! Superstitious poppycock!” Michael Johns snorted derisively.

“Ben . . . Michael, may I say something?” Paul Martin spoke up for the first time.

“Please do, Paul,” Ben invited anxiously.

“Doctor Tao An Li, the Acupuncture Master Hop Sing and Stacy mentioned IS a very knowledgeable physician, very well respected within the Chinese community here in Virginia City, and beyond,” Paul said. “I’ve been told she’s had patients come from places as far away as San Francisco. I don’t claim to understand all the hows, whys, and wherefores that makes acupuncture work, but I HAVE seen it work. As Hop Sing just said, its been practiced in China for thousands of years, and it DOES work.”

“Do you think it’ll work for Stacy?”

“I can’t give either of you any guarantees, but I have seen acupuncture make the difference between life and death on several occasions.”

“Perhaps Paul can’t give you any guarantees, Mister Cartwright, but I sure can,” Michael said severely. “At the rates we’re draining pus from her leg and her fever’s escalating, if I DON’T take her leg soon . . . within the next twelve hours . . . or LESS, I can guarantee that your daughter WILL die.”

“Pa, please! I want to try this,” Stacy begged.

“Stacy— ”

“Please.”

The fierce determination Ben heard in her voice and saw in her eyes, even in the set of her mouth and jaw, was not the pleading of a child. For the first time, he had a glimpse of the adult his young daughter was fast becoming, who had just made her own decision based on the information given her.

“Mister Cartwright?!” Michael pressed.

Ben swallowed, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to dam back the sudden flash flood of tears, borne of sheer terror mixed with a great measure of parental pride in his daughter’s strength, courage, and determination. He opened his eyes as Stacy slipped her hand in his and gave it a firm, reassuring squeeze.

“Mister Cartwright, I need a decision from you right now.”

With Stacy’s hand clasped tight in his own, Ben looked up into the weary, anxious faces of both doctors, one an old friend of long standing, the other an acquaintance to whom he owed a debt a gratitude that, by his way of thinking, could never, ever be fully repaid. “Paul . . . Doctor Johns,” he addressed both in a voice, surprisingly calm and steady. “My daughter is of age, and she has made her own decision.”

Paul looked over at Hop Sing. “Would you mind going to Doctor Tao’s home and asking her to come here?”

“You want right now?” Hop Sing asked.

“Yes,” Paul nodded vigorously, all the while pointedly ignoring the angry glare Doctor Johns leveled in his general direction. “Please ask Doctor Tao to come right now. You’ll find my buggy and horse out in my stable.”

“Come on, Hop Sing,” Hoss said. “I’ll help ya git that horse hitched up.”



He ran down the long, dark hallway, as fast as his chubby little legs could carry him, with his small, pudgy hands and fingers holding tight to his forearms, pressed tight against his chest, and his teeth chattering. He paused before the closed door to Mama’s and Papa’s room, suddenly, inexplicably afraid.

Mama make me warm.

With that comforting thought to momentarily blanket his fears, his apprehensions, he rose up on tip-toes, his left arm reached up as high as it possibly could, allowing his fingers to touch the white milk glass door knob enough to turn it . . . to open the door . . . .

The door opened with a soft creak. Inside, he could barely make out the lumpy forms of Mama and Papa snuggled up together under the covers.

“Mama, make me warm,” he cried as he bolted across the room toward the bed. “Mama, make me warm.”

He saw Mama stir and turn.

“Mama make me warm.”

“Come here, Darling. Mama make you warm.”

He froze mid-stride. The voice . . . its pitch . . . the way the words rolled off the tongue, the way she said her vowels, her consonants . . . it was all wrong.

“Darling?”

He stood, rooted to the very spot by his fear, watching with a strange, morbid fascination as Mama moved aside the covers, the quilt, the blanket, and the sheets.

“Come here, Darling . . . . ”

She sat up, smiling, her arms open wide to receive him, to gather him up and hold him close. Her eyes, veiled in two nearly round pools of darkness, and the stark whiteness of her skin in the pale moonlight shining in through the window, lent her head, her face the eerie appearance of a skull. There was no love, no warmth in the smile that stretched painfully from one side of her face to the other, with lips parted, thinned to a barely discernable pink line, revealing big teeth, white as her skin.

“Come here, Darling . . . . ”

He recoiled physically against this false, grotesque travesty.

“Come here, Darling. Mama will make you warm.”

He screamed . . . .

. . . and woke up screaming to a cold, dark room. It’s chill reached very deep into the core of his entire physical being, to the very marrow of his bones. His teeth chattered, and his body shook and trembled violently, rattling the bed on which he lay. Joe tried to sit up, that he might grab the quilt lying across the foot of his bed, and curl up under its warming depths.

At first he was shocked and bewildered that he couldn’t rise . . . .

. . . couldn’t sit up . . . .

Then, he remembered. He was being held somewhere . . . where, he had no idea . . . lying spread eagle on a bed, his ankles and wrists firmly lashed to the posts of the head and foot boards. The night chill in the room had settled into his bones, making more acute the aching pain of his fractured ribs and dislocated shoulder.

“It’s ok, Grandpa . . . . ”

Joe heard his sister’s voice, speaking softly, anxiously.

“It’s gonna be ok. Pa’s coming . . . you just hang on.”

It was a few days before Christmas, two, maybe three years ago. He had gone to Placerville to finish up his Christmas shopping. The most important gift had been a watch he and Stacy had chipped in to buy for their father. One the way home, his horse was spooked by, more than likely, a lone wolf or cougar desperately seeking food. It reared, tossing him into a deep ravine, leaving him dazed, with a badly sprained ankle.

A foot of snow covered the ground, with more falling from the skies, piling higher and higher with each passing second. He had no idea how long he had lain there, dreaming strange dreams of his mother, Marie, when suddenly he opened his eyes to find his sister kneeling beside him, trying desperately to brush away the snow that had left him nearly buried, the hotness of her febrile hands and body giving him warmth, desperately needed.

“It’s ok, Grandpa,” she said again, kneeling down beside him as she did before. :It’s gonna be ok. Pa’s coming . . . . ”

He frowned. She seemed older than the fifteen year old sister he remembered, and she was wearing a white nightshirt, instead of the clothing she had donned that night in obvious haste. Her hands, the closeness of her body kneeling down so close warmed him now as they had then. He noted with alarm and dismay that something seemed to be terribly wrong with her right leg . . . .

Stacy?

“No, D-Darling. Not Stacy,” a voice, choked with agonized sobbing spoke to him out of the darkness. “It’s . . . it’s MAMA.”

Joe, now wide awake, felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

“It’s Mama, Darling.”

Trembling as much from fear now, as the cold, Joe peered hard into the thick, nearly opaque veil of darkness surrounding him, searching desperately for a face, for the mouth from whence those words issued. “Who ARE you?” he demanded.

“It’s . . . it’s M-Mama.”

The speaker, a woman stepped into the dim shaft of moonlight, shining in through the open window. The outlines of her body . . . her long curls, now worn loosely about her neck and shoulders . . . it was Lady Chadwick.

“Oh, Darling . . . D-Dearest Darling,” she wept. “Why? Why do you have to be so naughty? Don’t you know . . . d-don’t you realize h-how . . . how very much this . . . b-breaks my heart?”

Joe watched, numb with horror, as she moved to the side of his bed.

“Please, Darling?” she begged. “Please? If you . . . if y-you tell me the truth now, I . . . I think I c-can reason with you father . . . . ”

“The truth?! The truth about what?”

“The t-t-truth about what h-happened,” she sobbed. “Please, Darling . . . p-please tell me . . . I . . . I can’t stand t-to see your father p-punish you like this. Please!”

“What are you talking about?” Joe demanded, his words clipped, his tone of voice terse. Inside he was frightened. More than he could ever recall having been frightened in his entire life.

“What happened at . . . at the fire. Please . . . f-for the love of G-God, please . . . tell me the TRUTH. Tell m-me what really happened.”

“So THAT’S it!” Joe muttered, as fear quickly turned to anger.

Linda made her way across the room, still sobbing, her gait slow and halting. Upon reaching the side of the bed, she sat down, and reached out to touch his cheek.

Joe angrily turned his face away. “I’ve already TOLD you the truth . . . what really happened,” he said through clenched teeth. “Now why don’t you play this sick little game of yours with someone ELSE?”

“Oh, Darling, please. Please, d-don’t hate me . . . Little Joe, look at me?”

He kept his face turned away, and said nothing.

“Please? Look at me?”

“Go to hell!” Joe snapped.

“Why . . . you . . . you . . . . ” The gentle rise of the mattress and soft creak of bedsprings told him that she had risen from her seat on the edge of his bed. “You hateful, mean, spiteful, cruel . . . you’re father was RIGHT!” she snarled. “You . . . LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M SPEAKING TO YOU . . . .”

Joe said nothing, nor did he move his head.

Linda balled her hand, shaking with the enormous rage that seemed to have suddenly risen out of nowhere to possess her completely, body and soul, and struck him hard, with all her might. Joe winced, and bit down on his lip to keep from crying out. He squeezed his eyes shut, and braced himself, mentally and physically, for the beating sure to come. Instead, she leaned over, and seizing two fistfuls of his hair, forcibly turned his head, his face in her direction. Joe cried out in spite of himself.

“I told you to look at me . . . . ” she snarled, winding his unruly brown curls even tighter around her fingers.

“ . . . and I told YOU to go to hell . . . . ” His words ended in an agonized gasp, as she viciously tugged, with every intention of ripping the hair right out of his head by the roots.

“You . . . insolent . . . whelp! So help me . . . by the time your father gets through with you . . . you will regret the very day you were born . . . every bit as much as I bitterly regret it,” she whispered her rage, her hatred. With that, she abruptly turned heel and fled from the room, slamming the door behind her with all her strength.

Joe heard the hollow echoes throughout the length and breadth of the house for what seemed an eternity.

“It’s ok, Grandpa.”

His sister’s words, spoken that night he had nearly frozen to death, would have frozen to death, had his special guardian angel not told Stacy where to look for him, returned to the heavy, near deafening silence that finally swallowed up the echoes of the slamming door.

“It’s ok, Grandpa. It’s gonna be ok . . . Pa’s coming.”

Joe clung to her words, and the promise within them, as a drowning man clings hard to a life preserver.

“I’m hanging on, Stace,” Joe whispered. “I know he’s coming. Please . . . tell him to hurry.”

End of Part 3

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