Since posting my last Bonanza story in 2004, I’ve written one Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea story, 23 Starsky and Hutch stories, and one original novel. But no matter how far I stray, I always come back to my first love - - Bonanza! There are some references to my earlier stories, “Betrayal” and “Threshold” in this, but you don’t have to be familiar with them to follow the plot. All is explained in the story. I really enjoyed visiting with the Cartwrights and Shey Cutter again, and hope you like the results! This story is rated PG-13 and employs mild language.
Adam Cartwright hunched a little lower in his seat as a strong wind gusted into the stagecoach. It had increased steadily over the last few hours, kicking up road dust and scattered pine needles, moaning like the legendary Witch Winds of October. The temperature waffled between warm and cold, as indecisive as the brooding thunderheads massing on the horizon. One moment lightning streaked east to west, a jagged blue-white spear, the next the sky settled grim and silent. The brewing storm seemed altogether impossible for mid November, a circumstance that made their superstitious driver, Red Earl, edgy and anxious.
Adam frowned, thinking of the folktales he’d heard about Lightning, a small town tucked into the surrounding foothills. Their driver apparently believed the childish nonsense told around campfires concerning freak storms and hideous night creatures. It was evident from the way he was driving, he hoped to bypass the tiny town before nightfall.
Personally, Adam wouldn’t mind stopping. Joe had been feeling under the weather ever since they’d set out that morning. He knew his younger brother would silently endure the long journey without complaint, but he’d also benefit from a good night’s sleep.
For the last week they’d been celebrating the wedding of Shey Cutter’s ex-foreman, Rob Falcon and his bride, Julie Mason. A number of Ponderosa and Circle C hands had headed north toward Oregon for the ceremony. Even Ben had come, bringing well wishes and gifts. Like the majority of those in attendance, he’d headed home two days ago. The last to leave, Adam, Hoss, Joe and Shey Cutter had departed that morning, taking the stage back to Virginia City.
The week had been pleasant with only one ugly incident to mar its passing. Duke Nolan, Roper Crane’s cousin had shown up with two of his friends, intending to cause problems for Shey. A one-time hand at the Circle C, Roper had been shot and killed by Shey when he’d tried to murder Joe. A short scuffle had followed with the three troublemakers quickly booted from the celebration. Afterward, too angry to cool down, Shey had abandoned his beer and disappeared for a few hours. When Joe had readied to follow, Adam snagged his sleeve.
“Let him go. You talk to him now, you’re just going to push that unstable temper of his through the roof.” He’d shoved Shey’s beer into Joe’s hand, forcing him into a seat. “Drink up. If you’re worried, I’ll keep an eye on him.”
He hadn’t really known why he’d volunteered, except his brother’s unlikely relationship with his quarrelsome friend went beyond everyday camaraderie. That was evident even now, as Adam sat facing them in the stage, Hoss at his side, the wind shrieking through the windows.
Joe had slumped into his seat, turning sideways on the bench, the brim of his hat pulled low over his eyes. Fighting a low-grade fever, he kept his arms folded tight to his chest to trap warmth. Despite the jarring ride, he managed to drift in and out of sleep. His legs were completely off the floor, stretched across Shey’s lap. Sitting with one arm draped over Joe’s legs, Shey tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. Fully awake, he was also fully at ease. It struck Adam as being rather telling of their friendship. Not only was Shey comfortable with Joe encumbering his space, but Joe obviously thought nothing of doing it . . . as if he had done it many times in the past. Watching them, Adam was struck by the depth of that casual closeness.
Thunder rumbled on the horizon, making Hoss shift beside him. “Dadblame storm. It’s mid November. Don’t it know it’s unnatural to be gustin’ and rumblin’ like that?”
Ducking his head to peer through the window, Adam frowned up at the sky. “It’s getting darker. I think Red Earl’s going to have to stop for the night in Lightning rather than push through to the next depot.” His eyes shifted to Joe who turned his shoulder into the seat as the coach gave a lurch. “It’s just as well. I’m not sure how he can sleep like that with all this jostling going on.”
Leaning sideways, Shey pressed the back of his hand to Joe’s cheek. “Fever. I think it’s getting worse.” He shrugged out of his long black duster, careful not to unsettle Joe’s legs and draped it over his friend. “Cartwright, you awake?”
“Kind of hard not to be with you scrunching around, and the three of you yacking like a bunch of old crones.” Joe dragged the duster closer to his neck, burrowing into the corner of the seat. His voice came muffled: “How far are we from Lightning?”
“Maybe ten miles.” Adam didn’t like the way Joe’s health had taken such a quick downward spiral. His younger brother had been fine last night, but had awakened plagued by joint pain and a low-grade fever. If they did stop in Lightning, he planned on having the town doctor take a look at his brother. “Try to go back to sleep.”
Joe grunted. The wind shrieked through the window carrying a handful of dry leaves inside. Overhead the darkening sky turned bone-white, illuminated from horizon to crown by a blinding flash of lightning. Adam felt the coach buck then sway to the side. Hoss caught himself on the window and Joe nearly tumbled from the seat. He sat bolt upright.
“What is that idiot driver doing?”
“Running from ghosts, feels like,” Shey muttered. He leaned his head out the window. A gust of cool air snagged his long hair, sending it streaming and snapping behind him. Thunder rumbled from the rocky hills, a low guttural sound that sent the horses on a frenzied run. “I think Red Earl’s dead set on making that depot. Someone oughta have a chat with the man.”
“He’s gonna git us all killed if’n he don’t slow down,” Hoss complained.
“I think you’re right.” Deciding the driver was no longer thinking rationally, Adam reached through the window, gripping the rungs on the side of the coach.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Hoss called.
“To talk some sense into our driver. Like Shey said, someone needs to have a chat with him.” His voice was nearly drowned by the shrieking fury of the wind. It was far worse than the witch gales of October, buffeting the coach with such strength he thought it would strip him from the side. Hanging onto the rungs, his heavy beige coat offering protection from the stinging bits of debris kicked up from the road, Adam climbed on top of the stage then clambered down into the seat beside Red Earl. As he’d feared, the driver had whipped his horses into a frenzy, spurring them to a dangerous breakneck pace.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Adam demanded. He had to yell to be heard over the combined shriek of wind and thunder. Lightning flared overhead, blinding white and serpent-tongue quick. Caught in that quicksilver burst, he saw the black silhouette of horses and coach splayed against the road. Manes and tails snapped like living things, swallowed swiftly when darkness claimed the sky.
“Gotta make the depot,” Red Earl shouted back. He cracked the reins, urging his team to greater speed. “That storm’s coming fast.”
“All the more reason to stop in Lightning.”
The man shook his head, plainly terrified. “Not in that town. Not there.”
“My brother’s sick. He needs medicine . . . a doctor.”
“I don’t care if he’s dyin,’ I ain’t stoppin’ in that godforsaken hell hole. It’s cursed.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Adam made a grab for the reins, but Earl shoved him aside. Irritated, Adam rammed his elbow into the man’s ribs, jarring the breath from his lungs. At the same time he drew his gun. “Now look . . .” He pointed the barrel at Earl. “I’m not going to get killed just because you believe in some local superstition. It’s pitch black. The depot’s too far. You take this stage and pull it into Lightning, or I’ll do it for you.”
“Awright, awright!” Disgusted, Earl waved him aside. “I’ll put her in there, but come dawn, I’m leavin’ with or without you.” Grumbling, he pulled on the reins, slowing his team. Lightning flared again, illuminating a ridge of rocky hills. In the darkness, Adam hadn’t realized how close they gotten to the mammoth outcroppings. Grasslands and plains had been swallowed whole, replaced by rambling shelves of rock and thickets of fir. Trees and granite jutted from the soil, starkly obscene when illuminated by roving flashes of lightning.
Adam waited another ten minutes until he was certain Red Earl was headed in the right direction. Bursts of lightning, thunder and wind continued to buffet the stage, but the sky remained sealed, the land dry. For all the bluster of the storm, rain seemed as far off as spring.
Adam holstered his gun and climbed back inside. In the near-constant flicker of lightning, he could see that Joe had shifted, still huddled beneath Shey’s duster, but pillowed up against his friend’s shoulder now. “We should be in Lightning soon,” he said with a glance for Hoss and Shey. “I convinced Red Earl the depot’s too far.”
Shey laced his hands over his stomach. “I thought he was scared witless about settin’ foot in that town. Some hocus-pocus nonsense about a legend.”
“There are all kinds of folktales surrounding Lightning,” Adam told him. “One as ridiculous as the next. We’ll get some rooms and head out in the morning. Earl was pretty emphatic about leaving at the crack of dawn. While we’re there, maybe we can find a doctor to look at Joe.”
“I’m fine,” Joe mumbled, not bothering to open his eyes. “It’s just a cold or something.”
“You’ve got a fever, Cartwright,” Shey corrected.
Adam hadn’t even realized he was awake. Slumped against Shey, his cheek pressed to his friend’s shoulder, Joe looked anything but attentive. Once again Adam was struck by the effortless familiarity of their friendship. He’d always known Joe and Shey were close, but this near-brotherly casualness surprised even him. He found it hard to believe a man as crass as Shey Cutter, could be so openly indulgent with Joe.
Protective.
The word slithered into his mind, making him frown. Wasn’t that what Shey was being, exhibiting a safeguarding nature, allowing Joe to make himself as comfortable as possible? And yet he was nonchalant about it, seemingly more interested in the howling wind outside than the man slumped against his arm.
“Too much celebratin,’ little brother,” Hoss said with a toothy grin. “I seen you cozyin’ up to Julie Mason’s sister Ruthie, right fine. I thought fer sure her Pa was gonna demand a shot-gun weddin’.”
Joe gave a short snort of laughter, then immediately started coughing. Alarmed, Shey sat straighter. Lightning illuminated the interior of the coach, chased by thunder. In that brief quicksilver flash, Adam caught the look in Shey’s eyes, an uncharacteristic mixture of protectiveness and concern.
“Joe?” Shey gripped his shoulder. Winded, Joe leaned forward, coughing forcefully into his fist. Even Adam felt a twinge of alarm at the sudden, jarring hacking. The sound rattled through the coach, much like the ominous rumble of thunder overhead.
“Cartwright, if’n you spew your guts all over my duster I’m gonna be mighty ticked off.”
Adam looked up, startled. It was an impossibly crass thing to say, yet the sentiment behind the words was shockingly clear. Shey Cutter was worried.
“Don’t hold your breath, Boss,” Joe gasped.
Shey tugged him back into the seat. “Just some flighty cold, huh? Sounds like you picked up somethin’ far worse in fair Or-ee-gon. You sure all you and the fetchin’ Miz Ruthie shared were a few paltry kisses?”
Joe gave another bark of laughter. Slowly the coughing subsided. Tired, he dragged a hand over his face and slumped against Shey. In the scattered flickers of lightning, his skin gleamed with perspiration.
Adam felt his stomach clench, knifed through by sudden dread. Virginia City was still three days away. If they couldn’t find a doctor in Lightning, it was going to signal a miserably long trek for Joe.
“Remind me again, Shey . . .” Joe mumbled, his eyes drifting shut. The hint of a smile danced on his lips. “. . . why I invited you along in the first place?”
“Simple.” Shey shifted, angling his body so Joe could rest more comfortably against him. He wrapped an arm over Joe’s chest, holding the duster in place. When lightning flashed, he sent a broad wink to the other Cartwrights. “Adam would keep you on too short a leash and Hoss would get in your way. I’m the perfect balance of conscience and recklessness when you wanna have a good time.”
Adam couldn’t stop himself. “What conscience?”
Hoss guffawed.
The last week had followed much the same pattern, Shey and Joe engaging in effortless repartee, Adam occasionally inserting a sly aside. Originally he hadn’t been overly receptive to including Shey on the long trip, hoping the brash rancher would undertake the journey with his own crew, since Rob had been his foreman. But Joe had wanted to include Shey from the beginning and Hoss had liked the idea. Out voted, Adam had simply kept his reservations to himself. Lately he’d been able to handle Shey in small doses, but the thought of spending a few days cramped into a stagecoach had made him wary. Maybe it was simply Joe’s illness that made Shey so tolerable now. It was hard to be miffed at a man, who in his own crude way was comforting your brother.
In another fifteen minutes the stage pulled into Lightning. Adam was the first out the door followed by Hoss. Joe came more slowly with Shey behind him. Standing on the street, Joe passed him his duster. “Thanks for the use.”
“You didn’t dirty it up none, did’ya?” Flashing a sharp grin, Shey shrugged into the long coat. Behind him, Red Earl tossed their baggage down.
“This stage leaves crack ‘a dawn, boys. You ain’t here, I ain’t waitin.’”
“And you ain’t waitin’ on charm with that piss-poor attitude,” Shey countered. He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Before anyone could move, he did the same with Joe’s then nodded down the street. “I think I saw a sign for a hotel three doors down. Over there . . .” He gave a jut of his chin to indicate the way.
Adam followed his direction. The lightning was brighter, magnified by the hills around them, but wasn’t as frequent now. In the intermittent flashes, he deciphered a rectangular sign suspended on the front of a two-story building with a covered porch. Agitated by the wind, the sign swung on its hinges, creaking mournfully. Painted black letters read “Hostelry” in flowing script.
Red Earl had already disappeared, heading for the saloon across the street. The boardwalks were deserted, many of the buildings dark and empty looking. Light burned here and there through a few dusty windows and spilled from the entrance of the saloon in an elongated gold square. Shey took two steps in that direction, his long coat whipping around his ankles. “I see just the thing to get the dust outta my throat.”
“Hotel first,” Adam said.
“It doesn’t take all four of us to get rooms,” Joe countered. He yawned. “How ‘bout you and Hoss get the rooms while Shey and I save you a place at the bar? I could use something to take the edge off this cold.”
Shey frowned over his shoulder. “That ain’t such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because - - Joseph - - you ain’t exactly prime for a saloon right now. You should be drinkin’ some foul-tastin’ elixir, spoon-fed by the local sawbones.”
Joe shook his head and started past him. “Give Hoss the bags Shey, unless you want me to save all three of you a spot.”
Shey swore. “Cartwright - -”
“Go with him,” Adam said. “One of us needs to keep an eye on him.” There was no use arguing. Sick or not, his headstrong younger brother was going to damn well do what he pleased, and at the moment that included a visit to the local saloon.
With another curse for ornery lunkheads who were probably going to keel over from fever, Shey dropped the bags and sprinted to catch up. In the darkness his long hair gleamed moon bright, snapping behind him with the same wind-blown abandon as the flaps of his duster.
Hoss frowned. “They gonna be okay?”
Adam stooped to pick up the bags Shey had dropped. “The question is . . . is Joe going to be okay?” He didn’t want to think about it. Maybe the desk clerk could point them in the direction of the local doctor and they’d be able to rouse the man from his home. In all likelihood Joe had probably just contracted some fleeting illness, something to keep him miserable for a few days. There’d been a lot of people at Rob Falcon’s wedding celebration. Any one of them could have passed something on to Joe.
“Kinda eerie, huh?” Hoss commented as they walked down the street.
Wrapped in his thoughts, Adam gave an involuntary jerk. He’d been so consumed thinking about Joe, he hadn’t stopped to consider his surroundings. Lightning was small as far as towns went, but more than that it was oddly deserted . . . not just the kind of staying indoors that comes with night and a brewing storm, but a kind of permanent desolation. There was something about the street that felt empty and hollow, as if all life had been sucked dry.
“It’s just late,” he muttered.
A dog darted from the shadows and bolted across his path, tail tucked between its legs. Somewhere down the street a shutter banged loose in the wind. Adam had the uneasy sensation of being watched, as if wary eyes marked his progress from behind windows and curtains. He felt the hair prickle on his arms and silently berated himself. The abnormal storm, coupled with the strange desolation of Lightning itself was simply starting to play on his nerves. He’d be thankful when dawn rolled around and they could head out, unhindered by shrieking wind and the eerily unseasonable lightning.
The lobby of the hotel was deserted when they stepped inside. A lantern burned on a short wooden counter just inside the door, casting a tawny glow. The furnishings were threadbare and rickety, glimmers of a brighter age still apparent in heavy scarlet and gold drapes on the windows and a claw-footed sofa pushed against the far wall. The fabric on the latter had faded over time, once the rich ruby of gilded opera halls, now a washed-out pink not even its ornately tasseled pillows could redeem. Like everything else about Lightning, the hotel felt neglected and abandoned.
“Hello?” Adam banged on the counter. “Anyone around?”
The sound echoed back and was swallowed by the shriek of the wind against the front door. Hoss glanced uneasily over his shoulder. “Don’t know which is worse,” he grumbled. “That blasted wind or this infernal town.”
“There’s got to be someone here,” Adam told him. He frowned, disturbed to find his brother troubled by the same anxiety that plagued him. It’s just wind and lightning, he reminded himself. He was a sensible man, one who didn’t easily rattle. So why all of a sudden did he feel like he was sealing his own grave?
Irked by such an uncharacteristic thought, he pounded the counter harder. “Hey! We need rooms out here!”
At last he heard shuffling. A second later, a man’s face appeared at the corner of a hallway. “See?” Adam grinned over his shoulder at Hoss, more to appease himself than his brother. “I told you there was someone around.”
“Can I help you?” The man ventured two steps into the lobby but advanced no further. Delicately thin with an elongated face and ink-black hair, he looked almost undernourished, his bones a little too prominent, his skin curd-white as if it hadn’t felt the touch of sunlight in years. He clasped his hands in front of his chest, nervously eyeing them up and down, his manner as skittish as a newborn colt.
“Yup,” Hoss muttered behind Adam. “That’s a right friendly gent you found there, brother.”
Adam ignored him. “Are you the desk clerk?”
“I am, Sir.”
“Good. We need rooms for the night.”
The man fidgeted, shifting once from foot to foot and licking his lips. “Hotel’s closed . . . full up.”
Adam’s patience threatened to crack, the strange anxiety he’d experienced earlier smothered beneath growing frustration. “Now look . . .” He set his bags on the floor. “There’s four of us came in on the stage. We need two rooms, just for the night. We’ll be out of here come dawn. I haven’t seen another person or horse in this whole town. You can’t tell me you’re full up.”
“I’m sorry, Sir. It’s just that - -”
“Hoss, go upstairs and see if there are any vacant rooms.”
“Wait!” The clerk took a jerky step forward. He raised a hand and managed a fluttery smile. “That won’t be necessary. I think that perhaps . . . yes . . . I’m sure we can accommodate you.” More composed now, he walked swiftly behind the registration desk and located the guest book. Like everything else about the lobby it looked faded and worn, the pages yellowed at the edges. Flipping it open, he passed a pen to Adam. “If you’ll just sign here, Mister - - ?”
“Cartwright,” Adam supplied. He scribbled his name inside the ledger, noting most of the pages were blank. “That’s some capacity crowd you’ve got here.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry about the fib.” The man cleared his throat, nervously fingering his collar. “It’s just we don’t get many visitors in Lightning, and um . . .” He looked out the window, his smile growing fluttery again. “The storm . . .” His voice trailed off as if that should be explanation enough. Brightening, he passed Adam two keys. “Rooms 3 and 4, top of the stairs to the right, Mr. Cartwright.”
“Obliged.” Adam took the keys. He started to turn away then thought better of it. “Can you tell me if there’s a doctor in town?”
The man blanched. “Why would you need a doctor?”
Adam felt his frustration level ratchet up another notch. “It’s not for me. My brother’s not feeling well.”
“Oh.” The man eyed Hoss suspiciously.
“Not that brother.” Adam strove for patience. “The doctor?” he persisted tightly.
“Isaiah Shaw.” The clerk bobbed his head as if the answer was obvious. “But you won’t find him in town, at least not tonight. He rode out to visit Mrs. Lymond in the foothills. Make sure she’s all right with the storm and all. I suspect he’ll be back eventually, like the rest.”
“What does that mean . . . like the rest?”
“Nothing, of course.” The man fingered his collar again, his expression growing solicitous. “Is there anything else you need?”
“We need to be on that stage by dawn. It would help if you made sure it didn’t leave without us.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Cartwright.”
Adam grunted. It was all he could manage with the clerk’s demeanor constantly shifting between fawning and anxious. Rankled, he followed Hoss upstairs. He had hoped to find a doctor for Joe, but those aspirations were worthless now. By the time the doctor returned to town, they would be gone. Hopefully whatever ailment affected Joe it would be better come morning. Adam hated to think of his brother getting worse, yet something about the gloom-and-doom atmosphere of Lightning had his mind headed in that direction.
Praying he was wrong, he dropped his bags in Room 4. Hoss set Joe’s and Shey’s in the room across the hall then stepped in behind him. Adam lit a lantern, pausing to survey his surroundings. The room was better than he expected, even if a little on the small side. Two beds, a dresser, nightstand and washbowl all bore marks of neglect - - chips and scratches, but appeared sturdier than the hand-me-down furniture in the lobby. The bed dressings looked clean, at the moment the only thing he cared about. Shrugging out of his coat, he dropped it on the nearest bed. “I think I could sleep for a week.”
“Me too. What about Little Joe and Shey?”
Adam nodded. “I know. Just give me a minute, huh?” He checked the washbowl and found water in the pitcher. Deciding it looked fairly fresh, he dumped it in the bowl and rolled up his sleeves. Hoss fiddled around behind him, setting his bag on the bed and pausing to look out the window. A flash of lightning illuminated the room. The wind shrieked against the walls of the hotel and thunder rolled from the roof. The air felt charged, caged with natural elements as feral as the wind itself. Even Adam, not given to superstition, had to admit the abnormally savage storm and strange lack of rain was a little unnerving.
He splashed water on his face, hoping to wash away not only the grit of travel, but the peculiar anxiety stringing his nerves. It had made sense to stop in Lightning with the storm raging the way it was, but now he felt oddly unsettled. At least if he’d been able to find a doctor for Joe he would have felt better. As it was, his brother was throwing down beers in a saloon when he should have been sleeping. Leave it to Joe, willful as sin, to do the exact opposite of what any sane person would do.
“Why do you think the desk clerk lied about havin’ rooms?” Hoss asked behind him.
Adam towel-dried his face and hands, then tossed the towel aside. “I don’t know. I think the storm has him spooked.”
“Got me spooked too,” Hoss mumbled.
Adam shot him a sharp glance. They were all uneasy. The sooner dawn rolled around and they were back on the stage, the better. Right now all he wanted to do was collect Joe and Shey and call it a night. “Let’s go to the saloon,” he told his brother. “The sooner we get back here, the sooner we can get out of this town.” He grabbed his coat from the bed. At least in the saloon with some piano music and beer, things might feel semi-familiar again.
***********
Shey scowled into his beer mug. He’d been in some backwater towns before, but Lightning took the prize. Aside from him, Joe and Red Earl, the only other person in the saloon was the bartender, who didn’t seem all that keen on being there.
Red Earl sat hunched over a table in the back, a bottle of whiskey for company. From time to time, Shey could hear him muttering about the injustice of being saddled with know-it-all passengers.
It wasn’t exactly the phrase Shey would have used to label himself at the moment. He was starting to feel edgy, not so much from the desolation of the town, but his friend’s declining health. Joe just didn’t look good. And as the minutes continued to drag by, he looked even worse, a situation that had Shey drumming his fingers on the table in agitation.
“Cartwright, you should be in bed.”
Joe chuckled. “No offense, Shey, but you ain’t exactly my type. Quit playing mother-hen and drink your beer.”
“If’n you keel over, it’s gonna be your own fault for bein’ such a stick-in-the-mud mule. Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with admittin’ you’re under the weather.”
“Maybe.” Joe swallowed the last of his beer then motioned the bartender for another.
His color looked off to Shey, not exactly waxen, but gray under the eyes. Perspiration glistened on his cheeks and in the hollow of his throat. Shey didn’t need a doctor to tell him his friend was running a fever. He could almost feel the heat radiating from Joe in waves. Frowning, he leaned forward, folding his arms on the tabletop and lowering his voice. “I think you done had enough to drink. Let’s go to the hotel.”
“I’m not ready yet.”
“Cartwright, you better git ready, less’n you want me to cart your sorry ass outta here. I ain’t funnin’, Joe. If you could see yourself, you’d know why I’m ridin’ roughshod. More beer ain’t what you need.”
“Oh, and I suppose you know what I do need?” The bartender set a fresh mug in front of Joe who passed him a few coins. He leaned forward as the other man moved away, his smile breezy and bright. In the brassy lighting of the saloon, his green eyes looked strangely luminous, intensified by fever. Sweat glistened at his temples, trapped in the curling strands of his thick hair. “Don’t you just want to unwind for a minute? You know, enjoy a few beers and¾” His voice cut out abruptly, squelched by an intense fit of coughing. Shifting quickly to the side, he pressed his fist to his mouth, bending nearly double as the horrible hacking rattled through the saloon.
Shey half stood. “Cartwright - - ”
“I . . . I’m fine.” Joe held up a hand to ward him off. His breathing came ragged and fast. All color had fled his face, leaving him ashen and pale. A single drop of sweat tracked across his cheek, etching a sticky trail in its wake.
Shey felt his stomach contort. Reaching across the table, he gripped Joe by the sleeve. “Come on, Joseph. I’m takin’ you to the hotel. No arguments this time.”
Joe nodded. He stood, feeling a little lightheaded, his sense of balance suddenly wavering like the flickering lanterns in the saloon. He tasted blood in his mouth and realized with a jolt a smattering of drops were sprayed across his hand where he’d held it pressed to his mouth. Hastily he mopped his fingers against his thigh. “Okay,” he muttered. “So maybe coming here was a stupid idea.”
“Alcohol and fever don’t generally mix,” Shey told him bluntly.
Joe could hear irritation in his voice. Shey wasn’t just miffed, he was grinding-his-teeth together mad, a mood that was probably going to sour further as the night progressed. Joe knew his friend’s acid disposition was mostly his fault. Having a few beers on top of a high fever wasn’t one of his brighter ideas. He felt stupid being walked from the saloon like some sickly, frail kid, but the coughing fit had taken everything out of him. Leaning gratefully against Shey, he allowed himself to be steered outside. Fever was one thing, but coughing up blood just didn’t happen with an everyday cold. Thankfully he’d gotten rid of the evidence before Shey could see the blood on his hand.
Outside, the wind howled down the street, kicking up grit and stinging dust. Joe ducked his head, walking as quickly as he could in the direction of the hotel. Shey’s hand was wrapped around his upper arm like a vice, holding him upright. Halfway down the street they encountered Adam and Hoss headed in their direction. Knowing his brothers, they hadn’t planned on visiting the saloon for beer, but on dragging him back to the hotel.
“We got rooms.” Adam yelled to be heard above the wind. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, pointing behind him. “You’re both in number 3, top of the steps to the right.”
“Couldn’t happen quicker,” Shey snapped, still tugging Joe along at his side. His mouth thinned in a white line. “What about a doctor?”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Joe protested.
“Shut up, Cartwright.”
Okay, so maybe he did, but he didn’t like being discussed like he wasn’t there. He heard Adam say something about the man being out of town, but the wind whipped away most of his words. It didn’t matter. It was too hard to concentrate with his head pounding the way it was and the ache of fever settling into his bones. All he really needed was a few hours sleep. Come morning, he’d be fine, or close enough for the ride home. It had just been a little blood. The sooner Red Earl got them back to Virginia City, the better. Rob Falcon’s wedding had been a nice diversion, but he was ready for familiar territory again. Bleakly he glanced at his desolate surroundings.
Once in the room, Joe dropped to a seat on the edge of the bed. Adam and Hoss had said a brief goodnight before retreating to the room across the hall. Still obviously irritated, Shey shrugged out of his duster and dropped it in the nearest chair. Unbuckling his gunbelt, he shot a frowning glance over his shoulder. “You need anything? Water . . . extra blankets?”
A wan smile touched Joe’s lips. Even angry with him, Shey was still concerned. “Thanks, Boss. I’m fine.” Yawning, Joe laid back on the bed. He knew he should get up, take off his boots and undress, but he just wanted to rest. Shey lit the lantern on the nightstand between them, adjusting the wick to low. Someone, probably the desk clerk, had started a fire in a small pot-bellied stove. It warmed the room, making the gusting wind outside seem part of another realm.
Joe’s eyes drifted closed. Through slitted lashes he watched as Shey pulled off his boots and lay back on his bed, fully clothed. Folding his arms behind his head, his friend stared up at the ceiling.
“Cartwright, you awake?”
Joe grunted an acknowledgement.
“Red Earl will have us to the next depot by tomorrow noon,” Shey said evenly. “Like to reason there won’t be no doctor, but maybe some medicines. I’m thinkin’ anything will help at this point.”
“It’s just a cold, Shey.”
“Is that why you were hackin’ up blood in the saloon? I ain’t blind. I saw your hand.”
Joe looked at him startled. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“And have you deny it . . . or bite my head off for interferin’? Face it, Cartwright. What you got ain’t no cold.”
Joe fell silent. He couldn’t deny it. Chills, aches, fever . . . all of that he could handle, but the coppery tang of blood in his mouth had alarmed even him. Irked, feeling more than a little trapped, his hostility slipped through. “So what do you want me to do - - curl up and wait for it to pass?”
“Don’t be a snit, Cartwright.” Shey swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat upright. His eyes narrowed to angry slits as he stared across the empty space between them. “All I’m sayin’ is you need to quit actin’ like everything’s okay, ‘cause it ain’t. If’n that fever or whatever the hell it is gets worse, you gotta promise to say something. I don’t wanna be peelin’ you off the street.”
Joe sighed. He knew Shey was right; he just hated everyone fussing over him. For the most part his brothers made him carry his own weight, but let them think he was a little under the weather and they turned into tyrant mother-hens. And Shey was just as bad, sometimes even worse. “Okay,” he agreed a bit reluctantly. “If I feel the need to pass out, I’ll be sure to tell you first.”
“Cartwright - -”
Joe laughed. “Lighten up, Shey. Go to sleep now, huh? I could use the peace.”
Muttering, Shey lay back down on the bed. Joe didn’t bother undressing, but it was a little hard to think about getting comfortable with the freakish storm still wailing outside. Despite that clamor, he eventually drifted to sleep.
He woke a few hours later, shivering and plagued by multiple aches. Someone - - obviously Shey - - had pulled his boots off, removed his gunbelt and jacket, then tossed a blanket over him. Chilled, Joe got out of bed long enough to crawl beneath the covers. The pot-bellied stove in the corner was still blazing warmth but his skin felt like ice. He burrowed as deeply as he could under the blankets, wondering how much longer it was until dawn. The wind had died slightly and the thunder dwindled to a distant rumble. Weak flickers of lightning illuminated the room in sporadic flashes.
Unable to sleep Joe rolled onto his side, facing the wall. The aches in his body felt nothing like those he would have associated with fever. Intense and brittle-bright, fiery slivers of pain lanced into his arms and legs every few seconds. He started holding his breath, waiting for the next torturous stab until he realized his muscles were corded into rope-like knots. With effort, he tried to relax. Cold crept in and he shivered. He felt miserable, too chilled too sleep, too achy to get out of bed. Sweat trickled into his eyes, an absurdity that would have had him laughing his head off if he weren’t freezing. He never understood how someone could suffer chills while sweating. If only he’d fall asleep.
Pain flared in his stomach and he moaned into his pillow, afraid he’d wake Shey. Promise you’ll say something if it gets worse, his friend had insisted. Well, it was getting worse. Not just in tiny doses, but in one gargantuan swoop. What if whatever he had was contagious? The last thing he wanted was Shey or his brothers nearby, upping the chance they’d be infected too. Dragging in an uneven breath, he curled into a ball.
“Cartwright?”
Someone touched his shoulder and the contact, light as it was, sent hot pain spiraling down his arm. He moaned aloud, trying to pull away.
“Joe, what’s wrong?”
This time he recognized his friend’s voice. He thought about making his tongue move, but the effort of speech abandoned him. There was only sickle-sharp pain, hot and low in his stomach, coupled with the icy chill of rising fever. He coughed into his hand, tasting the bitter tang of copper in his mouth.
Blood.
“Shey . . .” He wet his lips, the residual taint of blood still clinging to his tongue. Fear knifed through him as withering and blade-cold as the rawboned pain itself. He felt the bed give behind him and tried to roll onto his side into that pocket of warmth. The coughing came again, harder this time so that he half raised up on one elbow.
“Easy, Joe.” Shey held him upright, pressing a kerchief to his mouth to collect the blood. When the spasm passed, Joe folded against him, slumping into his chest. He couldn’t stop shaking, his body spent and used from the excruciating hacking, his throat blistered and raw.
“I’m gonna go get your brothers,” Shey said.
“No.” Joe gripped his shirt. Even in the darkness he could see his hand was bloodstained . . . still taste the appallingly metallic coating on his tongue. He tried to suck down a breath, but it came broken and haggard, rat-a-tat fast. “D-Don’t . . . don’t go anywhere.”
“Cartwright, take it easy. You’re gonna hyperventilate.”
He couldn’t catch his breath. The tightness in his lungs made his chest feel like it was going to explode. Each breath came faster than the last, spurred by swiftly migrating pain and the icy clutch of fear. He dug his fingers into Shey’s shirt, felt sweat track down the side of his face. Each labored breath became critical, one painful inhalation after the next, his throat so raw he thought he’d scream from the shredding pain. Instead he hung his head.
“. . . c-can’t . . . c-can’t . . . can’t breathe,” he gasped.
“Joseph, listen to me.” Shey cupped his chin and drew his head up. “Slow breaths. One at a time. Concentrate, now.” His hand dropped to Joe’s chest, trying to slow down his breathing, to adjust the mercurial flow of precious oxygen by the weight of his hand. “That’s it . . .”
Joe felt a lessening of pressure. Air flowed into his lungs, longer this time, expanding without pain. His pulse thrummed in his throat, his heart pounding out the frenzied, heavy-footed clop of a horse. His bloodstained fingers were still hooked into Shey’s shirt, bunched in a vise-like grip. He didn’t want to let go, was more afraid to breathe.
“That’s it, Joe. You’re doin’ good.” Shey wiped a hand across his brow, mopping up cold sweat. “Keep concentrating. You’re gonna be fine.”
Slowly, Joe’s breathing returned to normal. Exhausted, he slumped against Shey. “What happened?”
“Don’t rightly know.” Shey wrapped an arm around his shoulders, tugging him close. He drew the blanket up around Joe’s neck. Only then did Joe realize he’d been trembling too. “I’m gonna wake your brothers.”
“No.” For the second time that night, Joe hung onto him. “There’s nothing anyone can do tonight.”
“You’re wrong about that. I can ride out and find that missin’ doctor. Bring him back here before the next bout of whatever you got strikes. That was more blood than last time. You ain’t well, Joe.”
“I know.” Joe sighed. He closed his eyes. If he were contagious he’d have infected Shey by now. He hated to think that his friend might suffer what he did, but the odds were against it. No one at Rob Falcon’s wedding had been sick, which meant he’d more likely picked up something on his own. Consumption ate at a man’s lungs. Was it possible he’d succumbed to the dread disease?
“Cartwright, you’re being awful quiet.”
“I just wanna rest, Shey.” At least the tremors had passed, the cold not nearly as bad now that he was nestled up against Shey. Given a few pain-free minutes, he might even fall asleep. “Just stay here for awhile, huh? Over the last few weeks I’ve gotten kind of used to you as a substitute pillow.”
Shey chuckled. “All right, go to sleep.” He paused, waiting a heartbeat before venturing ahead. “You ain’t hurtin’ none are you, Joe?”
“No, Boss.” Joe’s voice came out a sleepy murmur. The coughing fit, combined with nearly hyperventilating had sapped his limited reserves. He felt drained, too weak to keep his eyes open. Only half awake, he was vaguely aware of Shey’s long fingers massaging the back of his neck. Knots of tension melted from his shoulders. “You do that pretty good” he whispered.
“Then go to sleep, ‘cause it ain’t somethin’ I’d do for just anyone.”
Joe believed him. It was that sentiment, coupled with the warmth of Shey’s body and his own depleted energy that finally allowed Joe to drift into pain-free sleep.
***********
Adam was furious. Not only had the desk clerk failed to wake them as agreed, but the man had apparently skipped town during the night. As promised, Red Earl had vanished with the dawn, stranding them in Lightning. He was tossing a final few items into his travel bag when Hoss wandered into the room, his expression grim. Adam couldn’t fault him the sourness, but sensed his brother’s disposition had only grown worse since he’d left the room earlier.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“Aw, you ain’t gonna believe it, but there ain’t a fool horse to be had in this whole godforsaken town. The livery’s plum empty, not a mare, swayback or wagon in sight.”
“What?” Adam rounded on him, unable to believe what he’d heard. “Are you telling me it’s closed?”
“Not closed, just not in business.” Hoss frowned, working his large shoulders into a disgusted shrug. “It’s like this hotel . . . abandoned.”
Adam exhaled. Time to stay calm. It wouldn’t do good to rant and rave at his brother no matter how much he felt like spouting off. If he’d wakened on his own before dawn, none of this would have happened. As it stood, if he ever caught Red Earl he’d wring the scrawny driver’s neck.
Outside, he could hear the wind howling, shrieking against the windows. The sky remained bleak and gray, crowded with strings of angry low-lying clouds.
“All right, look . . .” Trying to salvage something of their plan, he fell back on logic. “Why don’t you go scout around and see who you can talk to? Someone’s got to have a few horses they’re willing to sell. In the meantime I’ll wake Joe and Shey. We’ll get some breakfast and make a plan to get out of here.”
Hoss nodded, though clearly not convinced. Once he’d left, Adam walked across the hall to the other room. Like he and Hoss, Joe and Shey had apparently overslept as well. He knocked on the door, but receiving no answer, opened it and stepped inside.
He came to a dead halt on the threshold, caught off guard by the sight before him. Looking dreadfully uncomfortable, Shey sat at the head of the far bed, his back supported by the headboard, his legs stretched over the mattress. Fully clothed, he had one arm wrapped around a bundle of blankets. His head was tilted back, cocked to the side, his face in profile.
The bundle of blankets was scrunched up against him. At first Adam wondered why Shey would be sitting the way he was then it dawned on him that Joe was burrowed under those blankets. That somewhere during the night Joe had gotten cold or sick or both, and Shey had climbed into bed to comfort him. Adam could just see the top of his brother’s head resting on Shey’s chest. Uncomfortable, he cleared his throat.
It took a moment. Shey twitched. Adam cleared his throat again, louder this time.
“Cartwright, you okay?” Shey’s eyes dropped to the pile of blankets. He was slow to realize the burden in his arms had not moved. Almost immediately, his eyes tracked across the room to the door. “Adam.” He blinked, noting the sunlight spilled across the floor. “What time is it?”
“After dawn. Red Earl’s already left if that’s what you’re worried about.” He clamped his teeth together and stepped closer to the bed. It unnerved him to find Joe so at ease with his friend. He knew he should be grateful to Shey, but the thing that had always kept them at odds threatened to erupt again. He’d never really been able to pinpoint what that feeling was. He just knew Cutter rubbed him the wrong way, and that somehow his unreasonable irritation was rooted in the man’s friendship with his brother.
Chagrined to find himself thinking about his own feelings when Joe was so obviously sick, he stepped closer to the bed. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He had a rough night.” Shey tried to sit straighter without disturbing Joe. It was clear from the stiffness of his movements, his limbs were cramped and painfully constricted. Wincing, he looked up at Adam. “We need to get that doctor. Your brother ain’t in good shape.”
Adam felt a prickly stab of vexation. Of course his brother was in bad shape. He knew that. He didn’t need to be told by some cocky rancher in bad need of a haircut.
“Shey?” Joe shifted, raising his head above the blankets. “What’s going on?”
“Nuthin’ you gotta worry about.” Shey eased out from under him, tucking the blankets close around his neck. “Go back to sleep, Cartwright. I’m gonna go out in the hall and chat with your brother.”
Joe blinked, trying to focus on the two men standing over him. “Adam?”
A flash of lightning illuminated the room, chased by a low-throated rumble of thunder.
“It’s all right.” Adam bent closer, stooping to brush a comforting hand through his hair. He wished he could offer more, but he’d never been exceptionally demonstrative. That realization cut more deeply now than ever before after witnessing Cutter’s extraordinary closeness with Joe. The two men weren’t even related by blood - - more than that, they’d once been bitter rivals and enemies. How was it possible they could so easily overcome such immense obstacles, their relationship radically changed in the process? “Go back to sleep, Joe,” he soothed.
Heavily lashed green eyes blinked up at him. “The stage . . .” Joe sputtered. “Red Earl . . .”
“No longer an issue,” Adam said evenly. He saw no sense in lying. The deception would only make Joe restless, thinking they needed to rush to leave Lightning. “Red Earl left without us. Looks like we’re going to be here awhile, buddy, so just go back to sleep.”
“Adam - -”
“Cartwright, will ya quit jawin’ and do what your brother says?” Scowling heavily, Shey adjusted the blankets around him yet again. His voice was sharp, his movements crisp, but the light in his eyes remained overly solicitous belying his anger. When Joe stilled, too tired to protest, the blond rancher motioned Adam into the hallway.
“Red Earl’s hide is crow bait if I ever get my hands on that cowardly snit,” Shey snapped the moment the bedroom door had closed behind them.
As much as Adam was inclined to agree, the only thing he wanted from Shey right now was an explanation. “Forget Red Earl. You should have told us Joe got worse during the night.” Sick with a cold was one thing, but Joe had clearly moved into a realm that flirted with danger.
“Maybe.” Agitated, Shey scraped a hand through his long hair, restless as a tethered coyote. “He didn’t want me to leave.”
“And since when do you do everything my brother tells you to?” Adam challenged. Something barbed and ugly wormed into his gut. He didn’t want me to leave. If he’d been forced to name the feeling that washed over him, he might have called it jealousy.
Heat flared in Shey’s amber eyes, wild and swift as summer lightning. “You got a problem with me, Adam, spit it out.”
“Now isn’t the time.”
“It ain’t never been the time,” Shey snapped. “Your brother’s been coughing up blood. As there ain’t no doctor in this godawful town, I did what I could which was gettin’ him to sleep. Call me local, but that seemed a hell of a lot more important than scurryin’ across the hall to tell you he was feelin’ piss-poor.”
Adam bit his tongue, overlooking Shey’s impertinence. As slender as Joe, the cocky rancher was only slightly taller yet he’d learned to use his lean stature to best effect. He’d perfected insolence in his teens, a characteristic he’d mastered with time rather than outgrow, despite now being a respected landowner. With his aggressive posture, too long hair, and grime-splattered clothing, he somehow managed to pull off the upper hand.
“He’s been coughing up blood?” Adam’s brows drew together in a concentrated crease. “For how long?”
“Since last night at the saloon. Wasn’t much at first, but it got worse when we got to the hotel. Without the stage, without a doctor . . .” Shey shook his head, a vehement curse spilling from his lips. “It ain’t good, Adam. You and Hoss stay with him. I’ll go buy myself a horse from someone in this stinkin’ hellhole. Money talks and I got plenty of it.”
“I already put Hoss on that.” Adam frowned, not ready to admit Shey’s fierce loyalty had caught him off guard. Given he’d stumbled on the blond rancher practically twined together with Joe, he knew that staunch devotion shouldn’t have surprised him, yet it left him waffling off balance. Who would have ever imagined one-time-town-bully Cutter would have such an intense capacity for friendship?
“He ain’t gonna be in any condition to ride,” Shey commented, apparently satisfied Adam had the search for horses under control. “Stay with him and I’ll go look for that missing doctor . . . drag his ass back here, kickin’ and screamin’ if I have to. Joe needs help and he needs it quick. He’s been on a steady decline ever since we left Rob’s reception.”
Grimly, Adam nodded. Whatever his personal reservations about Shey, all that mattered was Joe. With any luck, Hoss would be back soon with horses and Shey would follow with the doctor. It would be a rough ride for Joe back to the Ponderosa, but if Isaiah Shaw was able to provide them with medication, it just might make the trip bearable for the youngest Cartwright.
“The desk clerk said the doctor headed out to check on a Mrs. Lymond in the foothills. Hopefully, he’ll be back today, but I don’t want to take a chance on waiting. He might not show up until nightfall, for all we know. The man’s name is Isaiah Shaw.”
“I’ll find him,” Shey vowed. He pivoted on his heel, heading back into the room. Adam trailed behind him, watching as he slung his gunbelt around his hips.
Shey’s eyes tracked to the bed as he fastened the buckle, the blatant concern in his eyes as piercing as if he’d telegraphed the emotion aloud. It was clear he wanted to say something, do something, but Joe was sleeping and he seemed reluctant to wake him. Snagging his duster from a chair, Shey strode crisply past Adam toward the door.
“Take care of him ‘til I get back,” he said in a tight voice. A second later he was gone, an agitated swirl of black clothing and platinum hair, worry crackling on the air like a fingerprint behind him.
Adam frowned, finding it harder and harder to harbor resentment against a man who so obviously cared for his brother.
*********
Hoss didn’t return to the hotel until shortly after noon, his disposition as sour as the scowl he wore when he trundled into Joe’s room. Adam was seated in a chair drawn close to the bed, his gaze turned out the window, his expression oddly pensive. Huddled under a pile of blankets, Joe appeared lost in the clutch of deep sleep, his face drawn with a noticeable crease of pain.
“No luck,” Hoss said as way of greeting to his older brother. “Ain’t a horse to be had in this whole God forsaken town. I tried, Adam.” Swiping his hat from his head, he flailed it against his pant leg, slapping away six hours worth of dust. The bitter tang of failure stuck fast in his throat. “It’s like everybody done disappeared. No people, no animals, just a rat’s nest of tumbleweeds blowin’ from one end of town to the other. I tell you, it’s downright creepy.”
Adam’s head swiveled from the window, his expression darkening like a thunder cloud. “That’s impossible.” His hands tightened on the arms of the chair, his fingers turning white beneath the pressure. He levered himself to rise, but didn’t move as if the strain of improbability held him rooted rigidly in place. “You had to find someone, something - - a horse, a donkey, a mule.”
“Nothing.” Hoss tossed his hat aside, scarping nervous fingers through his thinning hair. He was more than a little unnerved, Red Earl’s talk and anxiety the previous night now like an ominous flag in his head. There’d been rumors of dark happenings in Lightning as far back as he could remember, but he’d never paid any true attention, chalking them up to silly superstition. Swallowing uneasily, he stepped closer to the bed, worriedly glancing at Joe.
“He’s getting worse, ain’t he? Seems might strange he got sick right ‘fore we hit this miserable town.”
“Don’t you start too.” Adam shoved from the chair, agitation rolling off him in waves. If Hoss had to guess, he’d say his usually implacable older brother was more than a little unsettled by their predicament. It would have been trying under normal circumstances, but Joe’s condition made everything that much worse.
“Shey went in search of the doctor,” Adam muttered. “Hopefully, he’ll have better luck. Joe’s fever is getting worse.”
Worried, Hoss wet his lips. Bending over the bed, he slid his hand onto his younger brother’s forehead. Joe moaned softly at the contact, shifting slightly. His skin was hot, soaked with a torrid infusion of heat. “We need to bathe him in some cool water,” he said quickly, his heartbeat ratcheting higher in alarm. “Get his fever down.”
“I’ve been doing that all morning.” Adam nodded to a basin of water and a sodden cloth on the nightstand. “What he needs is medication. Fever’s got a way of eating a man from the inside out.”
Hoss sobered, sickened by the words. His younger brother had always been overly energetic, reacting impulsively to almost any given situation. To see that infinite vigor tempered now by illness left him feeling nauseous. He would have given anything to see the flash of fire in Joe’s green eyes, hear his infectious laughter.
“Little Joe?” His throat closed up as he bent over the bed, peering close. His brother’s face was slack, blanched of color, the thick curls of his hair tipped with the cold dew of sweat. Hoss slid a hand over his shoulder and felt the sickly scorch of heat soak into his fingers. Rather than retreat, he inched closer, sliding a hip onto the edge of the bed. “Pass me that basin,” he told Adam. “I’ll take over for awhile.”
He wrung the cloth out in the tepid water, painfully aware when lightning flared against the hotel window. If it would only rain, he’d be able to stomach those bouts of white fire and thunder more readily, but the absence of a cloudburst made the constant barrage eerie and unnatural.
Refusing to dwell on the abnormality, he swiped the damp cloth over Joe’s forehead and down his cheek. “You’re gonna be fine little brother,” he murmured, but inside he felt the sharp fangs of doubt. Joe coughed weakly, twisting his head on the sweat-dampened pillow, his eyes closed.
Adam swore softly. Grabbing a ceramic pitcher from the nightstand, he headed for the door. “I’ll get some fresh water.”
“What about food?” Hoss suggested, his eyes never leaving Joe’s face as he continued to gently stroke the cloth over his skin. “Maybe he should try to eat something.”
Adam nodded. “I’ll check the kitchen. From the looks of things, we’ve got the entire hotel to ourselves. Just, uh . . .” He hesitated, his hand on the door knob. “I’m not sure how well food is going to settle for him. Shey said he was coughing up blood last night.”
Hoss felt an icy chill sweep through him. “Blood?” Joe twisted and moaned softly, sending the dread inside his gut churning higher. “Adam, that ain’t no common cold.”
“I know that. Start praying Shey gets back soon with that doctor, because it looks like we’re the only help Joe has.”
Hoss heard the door close as he left the room, the sound cutting through him with the finality of a knife. Outside, a blue-white flash of lightning split the sky from east to west, chased by a banshee gale of wind and thunder.
“It’s gonna be okay, Joe,” he vowed, squeezing his brother’s shoulder affectionately.
Somehow, no matter the cost, he would see that promise fulfilled.
*********
Shey was in a foul mood by the time he got back to the hotel. It was a little after noon and he’d wasted the morning going from building to building, searching out any sign of life. In the span of twelve overnight hours, the town had gone from desolate to tomb-deserted. He’d started to hike out to the foothills but quickly realized he’d never make it without a horse - - especially given the relentlessly howling wind which quickly churned the dry desert bed into a dustbowl. It was all he could do to see ten feet in front of him. Vehemently cursing every natural element he could think of, he’d grudgingly turned back, his mood plummeting with every step.
Throughout the sky had remained black and brooding, billowing with angry storm clouds. As a solid mass they huddled on the horizon, swollen into grotesque and fantastical shapes, never releasing a single drop of rain. Lightning forked intermittently in the background, the distant rumble of thunder a guttural vibration that rolled through rocky arroyos and empty canyons. Ducking into the hotel, Shey slapped away the clinging grime of the streets. His black pants and duster were mottled with sandy powder, his once white shirt, limp and soiled with dirt. Irritated, he stripped off his hat and flung it onto the registration counter with a quick snap of his wrist. Almost immediately, he spied Adam coming from the opposite hallway, carting a water pitcher.
“Well?” the dark-haired man demanded without preamble. “Any luck?”
Shey shook his head. He hated failing, especially when Adam was the one collecting the results. Screwed up again, but you already figured that didn’tcha, Mister-College-Bred-Look-Down-Your-Haughty-Nose-Cartwright? “There ain’t a horse to be had in this whole rat’s nest of a town,” he spat. It wasn’t just failure, it was failing Joe - - the man who’d come to mean more to him than any blood relative he’d ever had. The realization frightened and sobered him at the same time. If anything happened to his friend . . .
Shaken, he shoved the thought aside. Joe was tough. He’d survived a lot worse than illness, even if that sickness wasn’t just any the run-of-the-mill variety. “Couldn’t make it to the foothills without a ride,” Shey admitted reluctantly. “Keep you fingers crossed Shaw’ll meander back this way soon.”
“To a deserted town?” Adam set the pitcher on the registration desk. “Hoss had the same luck you did. He’s upstairs with Joe. I took some soup up a while ago. There’s plenty of food in the kitchen. One thing’s for sure - - we’re not going to starve.”
Shey frowned, hesitant to ask. “How’s Joe? Any improvement?” His friend had been on his mind all morning, his failure to locate a horse or the doctor increasing his already restless anxiety. Even now, he wanted to be upstairs checking on his friend, assuring himself Joe was fine, that’d he’d recover from whatever the strange ailment was that plagued him.
The tug on his heart was unsettling and distracting. He remembered a time not so long ago when Joe Cartwright hadn’t meant a hill of beans to him. Now, Shey found his whole world revolving around the man who’d once been his rival. Odd how time and circumstance changed a person.
“He’s the same,” he heard Adam reply flatly.
“Coughin’ up blood?”
“No. He’s been coughing, but nothing like that. Let’s hope whatever caused that has run its course.”
It was something, Shey supposed. He nodded, hoping for the best, his mind was still tripping over his raging emotions. Don’t do this to me, Joe. I ain’t good with all this sappy stuff, but I need you to pull your scrawny butt through this mess. “I checked for a telegraph office, but there ain’t one,” he told Adam. “It’s like Lightning is cut off from the outside world. You think Red Earl’ll do the decent thing and send a stage back when he gets to the next stop?’
Adam snatched the pitcher from the counter. “I think we better find our own help. You want to grab something to eat from the kitchen?”
“Later.” There was only one thing on his mind at the moment and that was checking on Joe. He headed for the steps, aware Adam followed behind. Halfway to the top of the landing, he heard a horrible hacking that turned his blood cold. Bolting down the hall, he threw open the door and barreled into the room. Hoss was bent over the bed, Joe white as a sheet, trying to hold himself upright as he leaned to the side, coughing up blood.
“Shit.” Shey could hear the familiar hitch in his friend’s tortured wheezing . . . knew in the next minute Joe was likely to start hyperventilating as he had last night. The sound sent him into overdrive. He didn’t stop to think, merely reacted on impulse, forcibly shoving Hoss aside as he caught Joe’s arm and spun him around.
“Joseph, stop it now,” he commanded sharply. “Slow breaths, like last night. Damn it, Joe!” Alarmed, he fumbled his kerchief from his pocket, pressing it to his friend’s lips as he slid onto the bed. The blue and white material was already soiled with rust-colored stains from the previous night, fresh blood turning the multi-colored fabric to deeper navy.
Joe blinked, orienting on him for the first time. “Shey . . . ughn . . .” The words stuck on his tongue, slick and coated with blood, his eyes clouded by pain. “Where ya been? . . . hurts.”
“I know, pal.” Something cold and scaled ripped through Shey’s gut. Using his free hand, he methodically kneaded the back of his friend’s neck - - gentle, firm strokes that conveyed what words couldn’t. “Had to go out for a while, but I’m here now. Slow breaths, Cartwright. We’ve been through this before. Do what I tell you, got that? Just take it easy and don’t fight it.” The constant coaching seemed to work. In a matter of minutes, Joe’s rapid breathing subsided, the harsh intermittent hacking fading to a weak cough.
Exhausted by the spell, Joe slumped against him, turning his face into his shoulder. He moaned softly. “Feel sick . . . stomach . . .”
Shey’s alarm spiked higher. “Don’t think that way.”
“Lay back,” Hoss said hurriedly, moving to the other side of the bed. “Give it a minute to pass, Little Joe. It’s probably all that blood you brought up.”
“Listen to your brother.” Shey wiped the kerchief across his friend’s lips, sopping up the last of the blood. His heart was still thundering, raging like the witch wind outside. He felt a belated twinge of remorse for shoving Hoss out of the way, but the bigger man didn’t seem upset at having been usurped - - probably because Shey’s actions had brought Joe’s seizure under control. Hell, if he couldn’t get his heartbeat to do the same. His concern for Joe had turned his nerves into a string of useless pulp. Crazily, he wanted to hit something just to assure himself he still had the strength. Gad, Cartwright, you’re turning me into an emotional sap.
Rather than ease back into the pillows, Joe burrowed close. “It’s worse . . . when I lie down,” he wheezed. One hand tightened over his stomach as he bit back a groan. Shey could feel him trembling, the muscles in his body drawn tight in painful constriction. “Shey . . .’m gonna be sick . . .”
“No, you ain’t.” Even as he said the words, Shey knew the denial was useless. The thought of his friend retching terrified him. Joe was already spitting up blood. How much worse might those convulsions become if he actually vomited? He would have given anything to stop that - - taken on the pain and misery himself, if only to spare Joe the agony.
Beside him, Adam grabbed the basin from the nightstand and crossed to the window long enough to fling the water outside. Returning to the bed, he shoved it into Shey’s hand.
“Keep it close,” he said grimly.
The room smelled of blood and perspiration, the underlying taint of debilitating sickness. Shey could feel the combined odor collect in his throat and tighten his gut. He knew he should step outside - - at the very least move away from the bed and let Hoss and Adam tend to Joe. Yet he couldn’t find the motivation, every instinct telling him to remain where he was.
Joe needed him. He needed the comfort and innate connection of being there for his friend. Over the last several months they’d grown exceptionally close. They’d been friends before, good friends given their once skewed background, but lately that relationship had crossed into a territory he would have thought reserved only for brothers.
Hell, he didn’t even know how he ended up there in the first place. Joe vexed him as often as they spent time laughing together. Or maybe it was the other way around - - maybe he was the one who was constantly vexing Joe. Whatever the outcome, he just knew their odd up and down friendship worked on levels he couldn’t explain. He’d never felt anything remotely similar with another human being, Chance included. He and Joe simply clicked.
Realistically, given their history and their temperaments, they should have been squaring off. Yet here he was with Joe huddled up against him, his stomach curdling at the thought of his friend sick and hurting. For the umpteenth time that day, he mentally cursed Red Earl.
Joe moaned again, the sound going through him like a knife.
“Easy,” he whispered. He tucked the basin onto the side of the bed, unwilling to think about what it signified. With steady pressure, he worked his fingers at the back of Joe’s neck. “Relax, Cartwright. I’ll stay here . . . like I did last night.” He shot a wary glance at Adam, watching as the older man turned away to pace at the foot of the bed. Hell with you, if you don’t like it. I ain’t leavin’ when your brother needs me.
Shey could feel the warmth of Joe’s breath against his neck, the icy dampness of his sweat-soaked hair pressed to the underside of his jaw. His friend squirmed, a gasp catching in his throat.