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.

 

 

Lightning

By Kate

 

 

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.

 

Or at least something remotely resembling habitation.

 

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.

 

“Joe - -” He felt fingers knot in his shirt as Joe attempted to leverage himself upright.

 

“Gonna be sick,” Joe wheezed. In the next second he folded over Shey’s lap, retching loudly.

 

“Damn it!” Shey got the basin under him just in time.

 

Joe tensed, his stomach convulsing as he heaved up blood and bile. Embarrassed by his lack of control, he tried to retreat. “I’m s-sorry.”

 

“Shit, Cartwright. Not you.” Mortified that his friend had felt the curse had been directed at him, Shey held tighter. Never you, though I’ll eat toads ‘fore you get me to say that out loud. “Just get it out.” He slid his hand through Joe’s hair, the touch firm yet warm. “Take your time, pal. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

 

“He can’t keep spittin’ up blood like that,” Hoss said. He found the cloth he’d been using earlier, dunked it in the fresh pitcher of water and passed it to Shey. “Here.” At the same time, he caught the basin, freeing Shey’s hand.

 

With one arm still braced around Joe’s shoulders, helping to support him, Shey pressed the cool cloth to his friend’s sweaty forehead. “Easy,” he coaxed. The worst of the seizure had passed, Joe’s retching reduced to a state of dry heaves. The stomach spasms made his breath come in ragged pants, each convulsion rocketing through his body like the blow of a giant fist. Shey wiped the cloth over his mouth, and felt more than heard a sigh of pain escape his lips.  

 

Just that quickly, his friend went limp, sprawling across his lap. Shey felt shock course through him.

 

“I think he’s passed out,” Hoss commented worriedly. Gently, he touched the back of his brother’s head. “Little Joe?”

 

“It’s probably for the best,” Adam injected when there was no response. Grim-faced, he clamped his lips together. “I think we have to face facts one of us is going to have to get him help.”

 

“Brilliant deduction,” Shey muttered, uncertain where his sudden venom came from. Joe was sick, passed out. Of course one of them was going to have to get help. “We’ve all just been sittin’ around with our thumbs up our asses, tryin’ to decide what to do. No telegraph, no stage, no horses. You wanna spell out how we’re gonna reach the outside world, Mister College Degree?”

 

He knew he was pushing it, arrogance and heat coming through in his voice. Maybe it was his rabid concern for Joe or the fact it was Adam calling the shots, but he couldn’t turn off his reactionary aggression. Yet despite that hostility, he kept his touch gentle as he threaded a hand through Joe’s hair. I ain’t gonna leave you sick, pal. I’m gonna get you help. Somehow, someway, I’m gonna make sure you get through this.

 

Adam’s glare bristled with belligerence and determination, but he chose to overlook Shey’s cutting insolence. “One of us is going to have to walk to the foothills outside of town . . . carry enough water, enough food. Our only chance is to find a horse or means of reaching the outside world. We’re cut off in this town and Joe is getting worse.”

 

“What about the doctor?” Hoss ventured.

 

“Who knows? At this point we don’t even know if he’s real. All we’ve got is the word of the desk clerk. We can’t bank on that.”

 

“Fine, I’ll go,” Shey volunteered. He needed to get away, hike off his agitation and the frustration of feeling helpless while his closest friend suffered. Who the hell am I kidding? My only friend. The only one who’ll ever matter. He’d do whatever was necessary to save Joe. If that included trekking through desolate scrub country, rocky terrain and desert, so be it. He simply didn’t allow people to get close to him, but Joe had broken through all those restrictive barriers until their lives were intricately, permanently entwined. As much as he wanted to stay with his friend, he’d feel more useful rounding up help.

 

“No.” He was surprised to hear the staunch refusal from Adam. “Joe responds to you better than he does to any of us. That’s obvious after last night and what just happened. I’ll go.”

 

“You’re both wrong - - I’m goin’,” Hoss inserted. “I got the double the stayin’ power either of you do. You know it makes sense,” he said when Adam moved to protest. “’Especially given how Joe responds to Shey. I don’t wanna waste time arguing about it. Let’s just agree on it and do it quick for Little Joe’s sake.”

 

There wasn’t much to say after that. Even Shey knew Hoss’ observation made the most sense. He was surprised however that both brothers agreed Joe reacted most favorably to him. He knew that couldn’t have been an easy concession for either of them, given how close a family they were. It made him wonder what that said about his friendship with Joe. Not for the first time, he found himself amazed he could bond so easily with a man who had once been a bitter enemy. 

 

Over the next hour he worked with Adam and Hoss to put their plan in motion. Eventually, he found himself downstairs, rummaging in a storeroom located off the kitchen with Joe’s middle brother. It was stocked with the usual supplies - - dry goods and perishables, including several barrels and crates and a generous quantity of burlap sacks containing potatoes, onions and flour. Cans and jars lined a series of shelves to the left and right of a double window. In the center, two stout rectangular tables served as a makeshift work space. 

 

Rolling up the sleeves of his grimy shirt, Shey weeded through the foodstores for something easy to transport. He had no idea how far Hoss would have to hike before reaching help in the foothills. The weight of his sidearm felt comfortably snug against his hip, insurance he was no longer willing to be without in the strangely deserted town. His only regret was that he couldn’t test it out on Red Earl for target practice. Continual lightning strikes and drumbeats of thunder worked on his nerves, the dry wind and vacant streets no different. It was almost like life had come to a shuddering stop in Lightning.

 

“What do you know about this town?” he asked Hoss suddenly. He’d never really paid attention to the rumors, writing most superstition off as hogwash. He was still inclined to take that stand, but couldn’t help thinking about an otherworldly Threshold that had once almost cost him his life. If not for Joe . . .

 

And now Joe’s life was in danger. Maybe it was time to open his mind and embrace every avenue, however crazy if it would help Joe.

 

“You mean the weird stuff?” Hoss paused in the process of bundling up a pack of dried beef. He scrunched his lips thoughtfully, searching his memory. “Mostly talk about freak storms . . . wind and lightning with no rain. You think that’s what spooked Red Earl?”

 

“I think that twit would spook at his own shadow,” Shey said bitterly. “ ‘Sides . . .wind and lightning ain’t the end of the world. What kind of stage driver turns yellow at a little storm, ‘specially one with no rain. Ain’t like he had to survive a flash flood or a downpour. Nah . . .” He shook his head. “Something else made that halfwit turn tail and run. He was spooked when we got here, almost like he was expectin’ something to happen.”

 

“You think he knew the town would empty out overnight? There weren’t many people around when we pulled in, and the desk clerk was scared witless.”

 

Shey bit his lip. He hated things he couldn’t put his finger on . . . metaphysical garbage wrapped around whatzihuzzits that went bump in the night. He was a practical rock-and-weed kind of guy. Something either was, or it wasn’t, end of discussion. Problems that required solving with a gun or a fist weren’t an issue for him, but anything that defied explanation left him floundering. 

 

It was a feeling he hated. When it came right down to it, he thrived on control, on calling the shots. At the moment, his best friend was coughing his stomach and lungs out and there was little he could do about it. That feeling of aggravating helplessness was a novel emotion for a man who routinely bullied his way through any given situation. 

 

He was about to spout off another slanderous remark about Red Earl and Lightning in general, when a hesitant rustling in the back of the room snagged his attention.

 

Hoss heard it too, shooting him a quick glance. Shey held up a hand to signal silence, easing in the direction of the noise. In three fluid steps, he’d covered the ground to a narrow pantry and wrenched it open. Reaching blindly inside, he closed his hand over a fistful of fabric and yanked hard, uncaring who or what he’d captured. With a startled squawk, a thin black-haired man stumbled into the room, frantically wind-milling his arms for balance as Shey pulled on his shirt.

 

“Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me!”

 

Finally! Someone he could intimidate and wrench answers from. As a first-class bully, Shey knew a cringing milksop when he saw one. He shoved hard, sending the man sprawling ignominiously to the floor. “Who the hell are you and why are you cowerin’ in the pantry?”

 

“He’s the desk clerk,” Hoss supplied, stepping to his side. “The one who was supposed to wake us up before Red Earl took off with the stage this morning.”

 

Shey’s eyes narrowed in a dangerous crease. “Oh. You mean that worthless sack of dung.”

 

“Wait! Wait! I can explain!” Holding his hands in front of him, signaling surrender, the man scrambled hastily to his feet. His clothing looked limp and slept in, his thinning hair sticking up in tufts at the back of his head. “I wanted to wake you . . . I-I really did, but the driver left early. Must have been hours before dawn. I was afraid to tell you.” Wringing his hands nervously, he looked between Shey and Hoss, his hunched posture and darting eyes giving him the appearance of a cornered weasel. “I wanted to leave too, but I needed a horse. Durmont over at the saloon was supposed to wait for me, but he took off and stranded me here. We’re all stranded - -” His voice lurched up an octave, quavering with fright. “We’re all doomed.”

 

“What the hell are you jabberin’ about?” Shey snapped.

 

“The Storm Riders . . . they’ll be here tonight.”

 

“Storm Riders?” Hoss scrunched his brows together. 

 

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about storms or riders, sun-up or sun-down,” Shey continued, perturbed. Something about the man’s whiny voice and cringing manner crept under his skin, eroding what little patience he had left. “What happened to all the yokels in this piss-poor excuse of a town? Except for your skinny carcass, there ain’t a body within miles or a horse to be had.”

 

“They know better,” the man said. He inched back against the wall as if shirking from some invisible terror. Sweat glistened on his face and left his clothes clinging damply to his body. Shey could smell the sour reek of fear rolling off him, but his temper was too brittle for sympathy.

 

More sensitive to the man’s plight, Hoss tried a gentler approach. “Take a breath,” he soothed calmly. “Slow down and get your bearings. We ain’t gonna rush you.”

 

“The hell we’re ain’t.” Impulsive as ever, Shey pulled his gun and plugged a shot between the man’s feet. The desk clerk jumped a mile, crashing into the wall, his skin blanching the anemic white of sour milk.

 

“Start talkin’.” Shey ordered. “This ain’t no quiltin’ bee or tea social. ‘Less’n you wanna limp the rest of your miserable life, you best get your mouth in gear and do some talkin’.”

 

“Shey - -” Hoss attempted.

 

“Stow it,” he spat, shooting an acid glance at the bigger man. “Your brother’s sick and that’s all that matters to me. I want answers!” Shey could feel a rush of heat on the back of his neck. He wanted to punch something, to hit something, to make someone or something pay for Joe’s suffering and his damn inability to help. Before he could so much as draw a breath, there was a pounding of feet behind him and Adam rushed into the room, gun drawn.

 

“Perfect,” Shey muttered in disgust. “The cavalry’s here.”

 

“I heard a shot.” Adam’s eyes darted between the three men, taking in the cowering desk clerk, Hoss’ uncertainty and Shey’s aggressive stance, gun drawn. He watched as the blond-haired rancher holstered his weapon, his expression dripping contempt.

 

“You two wanna dance around and play nice, that’s fine, but someone needs to start talkin’ soon.” Shey hooked a thumb behind him to the desk clerk. “This louse is the best shot we got at findin’ help for Joe. I say the gloves come off.”

 

It took Adam a moment to absorb the situation. Straightening from a semi-crouch, he holstered his pistol, stepping further into the room. He recognized the desk clerk immediately as the man he’d spoken with the previous night. Nervous then, the clerk now appeared to be a step shy of traumatized. Shey Cutter probably hadn’t helped, likely enflaming the situation, his temper as notorious as his rapid-fire arrogance.

 

“Shey got a little impatient,” Hoss explained with a nod for the blond rancher’s holstered gun. 

 

Adam nodded, the situation much as he expected. It wouldn’t do any good to get in an argument with Cutter, especially given he wasn’t likely to win. Truth be told, he wanted answers too, he just wasn’t ready to resort to force to obtain them.

 

“What’s your name?” he asked the clerk.

 

“Geller. Milton Geller.”

 

“Well, Milton Geller . . .” Adam kept his voice cool, his gaze hard as he sauntered closer. There were ways other than blunt force to get information, but some people, Cutter included, lacked that finesse. “Given everything that’s happened since we’ve arrived in this town, we’re running short on patience. My blond friend here wants to take that aggravation out on you, and I just might be inclined to let him.”

 

“No!” The man shook his head hastily, shooting Shey a terrified glance. “I tried to explain before . . . the Storm Riders will be here soon. Every time the wind and lightning comes without rain, they follow. It’s not often, once every few years, but we know to leave. That was the bargain - - leave the town to them. When the lightning stops, they’ll be gone.”

 

“What kind of mumbo-jumbo nonsense is that?” Shey demanded.

 

“It’s not nonsense, it’s the truth. I swear it!” The man’s eyes bobbled in his head, widening like those of a frightened horse. “I don’t understand it . . . just know it’s the way of things. They’ll come tonight for sure. It’s the third day of lightning and wind without rain. That’s the omen. Most of the townspeople left after the first night, but some stayed longer. Now everyone’s gone.”

 

“Except you. If you’re so terrified of these riders, why are you still here?” Adam challenged.

 

“I . . .I . . .” Geller licked his lips nervously. “I’m not supposed to leave,” he admitted, a sound like a sob catching in his throat. “One of us always has to stay. We drew straws, and I . . . I lost.” A mournful groan built in his chest as he wrung his hands, visibly trembling. “I offered Durmont money . . . he runs the saloon. I thought maybe he’d take it . . . that he’d wait, but he left me here. Please, you have to help - -” Desperate, he lurched forward, grabbing onto Adam’s shirt. “You have to protect me . . . get me out of here . . .”

 

“Protect you?” Shey had had enough. Hooking an arm across Geller’s chest, he threw him back against the wall. “Listen to me, you snivelin’ little - -”

 

“Shey!” Hoss caught him from behind and fought to pull him off. Stubbornly, Shey locked his hands, curling his fingers into the wilted fabric of Geller’s shirt, holding fast. 

 

“Let him go,” Adam commanded, gripping his other arm. 

 

“Not likely.” Rolling one hand into a fist, he drew his arm back. “When I’m done with this whiny sap, there ain’t gonna enough of him left to snore.” The creak of a floorboard behind him kept him from following through with the promise. Whirling in the direction of the sound, he wrenched his gun from its holster, acutely aware Adam and Hoss did the same.

 

Shey pressed his lips together, irked to find Joe in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the frame to hold him upright. His friend’s shirttails hung over his belt, the garment rumpled and unbuttoned. Perspiration glistened on his cheeks and lay trapped in the curling edges of his hair. The tip of his revolver dipped toward the floor, dragged by the crushing weight of fatigue. 

 

“I heard the shot . . . Adam didn’t come back . . .” Joe explained lamely. His legs started to buckle, his shoulder sliding over the doorframe as gravity pulled him toward earth.

 

Adam got to him first, looping his brother’s arm over his shoulder to keep him upright. A second later Hoss was at his side, the two men gingerly helping him to a chair. Shey ground his teeth together, watching as Joe folded onto a stool. The infusion of light from the window was scant and gargoyle gray, accentuating the unhealthy pallor of his complexion. 

 

Shey felt his gut contract. “Cartwright, ain’t you got anything north of your ears? You’re sick as a green ox. What the hell are you doin’ outta bed?”

 

“I told you.” Still clutching his gun, Joe swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, mopping up sweat. His fingers trembled. “I heard the shot . . .”

 

Adam flicked a disapproving glance at Shey. “That wasn’t anything. Just a little reckless intimidation on Shey’s part.”

 

Behind him, Shey sensed the desk clerk inching away, seeking a backdoor escape. “No you don’t.” Snagging the man by his collar, he wrenched Geller into place. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, you little weasel. You’re gonna stay here and explain all that hogwash nonsense you was yappin’ about. You see my friend over there - -” He jabbed a finger in Joe’s direction. “You’re gonna do whatever it takes to get him some help. And if’n you don’t come up with some answers real soon - - like finding me a horse or that doctor you mentioned  . . . explainin’ why this creepy little town turns into a tomb every time wind and lightning howls down from the rocks - - I’m gonna rattle your brains until there ain’t nuthin’ left in your head. You got that?”

 

“Shey.” Through his semi-delirium and the cramping pain that left his stomach raw and abused, Joe heard the heat in his friend’s threat. He could barely see the blond-haired man, his vision blurred and distorted at the edges, but he recognized the signs of impending disaster. Shey was reaching the end of his always limited patience. 

 

Pain rode over him in engulfing waves and crests, one moment making him shiver, the next battering him with a violent surge of nausea. Too weak to hold himself upright on the stool, he sagged heavily against Adam. “Don’t let him do anything stupid,” he mumbled. In some part of his misfiring brain, he found it ironic to place that burden on Adam. Of all the people to ride shotgun over Shey, Adam was the least likely to care what kind of hole the cocky rancher dug for himself.

 

Still, he felt Adam’s hand slide onto his back, rubbing gently, conveying through touch the affection he rarely shared with words. “Shey,” he said tersely. “Get over here and help Joe upstairs.”

 

“And let this chicken-livered jackal go?”

 

Hoss huffed out a breath. “We’ll finish up with Geller. Joe should be in bed.”

 

“I don’t need . . .” he tired to protest, but the words drifted off before he could finish the thought, the room starting a slow spin that made him moan softly. He heard a low curse followed by the click of Shey’s boots against the floorboards. The next thing he knew his arm was lifted, hooked over strong shoulders, his wrist locked in place. He felt Shey’s arm slide around his back.

 

“Come on, Cartwright.” The clipped heat was gone from the blond-haired man’s voice, a surprisingly gentle solicitousness in its place. Shey hauled him to his feet, giving him a moment to stand and get his bearings. “Don’t swoon on me now.” 

 

Joe gave a soft snort of laughter. Unable to focus, he let his head roll to the side, his cheek grazing Shey’s overly long hair. There was a time he never would have considered sagging against his friend, but he did it automatically now, that boundary of contact no longer an issue between them. “Give me a minute.”  

 

“Take your time, pal.” 

 

How’d we ever become so close? Joe wondered silently. He knew if he simply gave up and crumbled, Shey would catch him. That knowledge was a safety net, even if he had no intention of using it. Steeling himself, he gritted his teeth, forcing the spinning room still. “Okay, Boss. Help me upstairs.”

 

Shey eased him forward. “One step at a time, Joseph.”

 

“I’ll help,” Hoss said.

 

“No, I got him.” 

 

Joe felt more than saw Shey shake his head. He didn’t know why he didn’t protest, just that the pain left his mind numb and his body buffeted with aches. The room spun again, and for a time he moved in a haze, swallowing back a curdling fist of nausea. His next conscious thought was of Shey telling him to put his foot on the stairs. 

 

“. . . less’n you want me to sling you over my shoulder and carry you like some kinda damsel in distress,” the blond rancher said near his ear.

 

Joe grinned. “Cutter, I’m not so sick I can’t tell you what an ass you are.”

 

“Pleasant as always. That’s better. Now step up. We only got eleven more of these things to go.”

 

Joe felt for the banister, locking his fingers around the wood. It felt splintered and worn, the rough texture an oddity that lodged in the back of his brain. He remembered it being smoother with a warm satin-finish the previous night. “What happened to the banister?”

 

“Ain’t nothing happened to the banister. Take another step.”

 

“It’s rough.”

 

“Don’t that beat all?” Shey urged him up another step, the flippancy in his tone unmistakable. “Kinda like this whole cursed town.”

 

“But it was smooth,” Joe insisted.

 

“Cartwright, I don’t give a rat’s ass if it was gold. Now take another step while you still got the strength to function on your own. I can feel you tremblin’ like a day-old colt.”

 

He swallowed hard, unwilling to admit Shey was right. At the top of the stairs a rush of vertigo hit him and he sagged into his friend with a soft moan.

 

Shey tightened his grip. “It’s all right, Joe. I got you.”

 

“Shouldn’t  . . . be . . . sick . . . like this . . .”

 

“I know, pal.” Shey held onto him, supporting most of his weight as they shuffled down the hall. He heard Shey fumble with the knob, grunting a little as he shoved open the door. 

 

Joe blinked, noticing the green bedspread and drapes as if seeing them for the first time. The vibrancy of their color had faded, bled from rich moss to a paler pine, white-washed and frayed at the edges. Even the washstand and the dresser looked battered, once serviceable now almost rickety in appearance. “Aged,” he said, trying to make Shey understand. “It’s like everything is aging.”

 

Shey eased him onto the bed where he folded gratefully into the mattress with a groan. 

 

“Aging, huh?” Shey bent forward and pressed a hand to his forehead, testing for fever. The touch was firm, amazingly gentle at the same time. “You don’t look a day over twenty-three, Cartwright.” Shey swept his fingers lower, contouring his cheek before dropping his hand to lightly rub Joe’s shoulder. “You still feel warm though. How ‘bout some water?”

 

Joe shook his head, the thought of anything in his stomach making his gut cramp. “I just want to get outta here, Shey.” He shivered, curling onto his side for warmth.

 

“You ain’t the only one.” Crossing to a closet, Shey dug a fresh set of blankets from a single shelf wedged near the top. 

 

It was an odd sight to Joe - - watching his long-haired friend, Shey’s white-shirt grimy and dirt-stained, his black gunbelt slung low on his hips - - fussing with a pile of bedding like a chambermaid. A second later he was back at the bedside, unfurling a blanket to settle over Joe. “You still got your boots on.”

 

“Don’t care.” Catching the edge of the blanket, he hunkered deeper underneath, savoring the warmth. “. . . just wanna lay here, Shey.” He could feel his eyes growing heavy and blinked to fight off the fatigue. The pain was back in his abdomen, sun-bright and razor-sharp, making him bite his lip to stifle a whimper. 

 

Sensing his distress, Shey sat on the edge of the mattress, dragging one leg, bent at the knee onto the bed. “Cartwright, tell me what hurts.”

 

Joe gave a short bark of laughter, tight and stunted with pain. “How about what doesn’t?” This time his distress blundered through, more groan then whimper. “Just wish it would stop hurting.” He sucked in a breath, fighting for control. 

 

Shey gripped his wrist through the blanket. “Hang in there, Joe. Hoss is gonna hike out to the foothills . . . try to find that doctor the desk clerk was caterwaulin’ about. You’re gonna get through this, pal. I promise.”

 

Joe nodded, wished he could believe it, but the truth of the matter was a healthy twenty-three-year-old man just didn’t turn sickly overnight, not to the point of being incapacitated. Shey might not be voicing it, but Joe could read the worry in his amber eyes. Something was wrong - - seriously wrong - - and they both knew it. 

 

The hacking hit him next, driving everything but the thought of survival from his head. More punishing then the nausea, it made him curl into a ball, convulsions ripping through his body. Gagging, he brought his hand to his mouth, trying to catch the blood as it spilled over his lips. Terrified he would choke on the fluid in his throat, he clawed forward, thrusting his chest and shoulders over the edge of the bed.

 

“Joe - - shit!­” Shey’s voice lurched up on the exclamation, but he responded immediately, grabbing a hand towel from the nightstand to catch the blood.

 

Using Shey’s body for leverage, Joe sprawled over his friend’s leg, his fingers digging through the calf of Shey’s black trousers into the worn leather of his boot.

 

“Easy . . . easy,” Shey coaxed, supporting him with an arm around his shoulders. 

 

Joe gasped for breath, his mind consumed by the horror of the seizure. His throat and lungs felt on fire, his stomach contracting violently until it erupted in convulsions. There was nothing left inside him to bring up, the metallic tang of copper in his mouth making his head spin. Weakly, he sagged against Shey, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. “Ohgod . . .” It hadn’t been this bad before, the seizure plundering him with claws of pure agony. His breath came fast and hard, sending hot flame across his chest. He felt the sharp sting of tears in his eyes, each breath a brutal knife under his ribs.

 

Shey squeezed his shoulder, bending closer to speak near his ear. “Slow it down, Joseph . . . like before. Come on, pal, you’re scarin’ the shit outta me. Don’t do this.”

 

Somehow through the agony, Shey’s voice reached him. The feel of his friend’s fingers on his shoulder helped root in him the present, gave him the strength to focus. It took longer this time, but he managed to get his breathing under control. He sucked down a final shuddering gasp of air, collapsing over Shey’s lap, too exhausted to move. His throat felt enflamed, the tissue raw and swollen with blood.

 

Tentatively, Shey touched the back of his head. “Joe?”

 

He nodded, certain he’d never find his voice. For one blissful moment he was neither cold nor hot, content to lay huddled half under the blanket, his cheek pressed to Shey’s calf. He felt fingers stroke lightly through his hair and rummaged up the strength for a half-grin. “Your human side is showing, Cutter.”

 

Shey gave a wobbly snort. “Just don’t get the idea I care . . .’cuz I do.” His hand stilled, his fingers tangled in the back of Joe’s hair. “Can’t rightly figure how you turned into such a class-A friend when there was a time I woulda paid money to see someone pummel you.”

 

Exhausted from the seizure, Joe struggled to keep his eyes open but quickly lost the battle. The grin still flirted at his lips. “Probably did too.”

 

“Only when I didn’t wanna dirty my hands.”

 

Joe considered the statement. “Like that time with those two goons from the Silver Fir ranch?”

 

“Forgot about that one,” Shey said lightly. “Those crockheads didn’t come cheap. Cost me a sizable chunk of change.”

 

Joe felt himself drifting. “It cost me a three cracked ribs and a concussion,” he murmured. “You never played fair, Shey.” Odd how they could discuss it without animosity or a return to the bitter feelings of the past.

 

“You used to irk the hell out of me, Cartwright.”

 

It was a blatant understatement. “How ‘bout now?”

 

Shey chuckled. “Don’t let it go to your head none, but I guess I’d pummel anyone who thought about crossin’ you.” He paused, sliding his hand down to rest on Joe’s shoulder. “You wanna lay back . . . get comfortable?”

 

“Am comfortable. Don’t wanna move, Boss.”

 

“Fine. Go to sleep.”

 

Joe didn’t have to be told twice. He never heard the door open when forty minutes later Adam returned and found him still huddled up against Shey.

 

**********

 

Shey was certain his leg had fallen asleep, the faint ping of needles racing down his calf. His back had started to cramp from sitting in the same awkward position, Joe half sprawled over his lap. On the plus side, his friend had quickly fallen asleep, the seizure leaving him weak and exhausted. Lying with one arm hooked over Shey’s knee, his cheek pressed to the bend in Shey’s leg, he’d drifted off with his face turned in profile.

 

The exposed cheek looked gaunt, hollowed under the bone, a few dried flakes of blood still clinging to the corner of his mouth. A bruising hint of shadow smudged the skin under his eye, the discoloration made all the more prominent by the heavy fringe of his lashes.

 

Shey was tempted to try to ease out from beneath him, or at the very least straighten his leg. Before he could contemplate his options, the door opened and Adam stepped inside. The older man’s eyes flicked immediately from Shey to Joe, then back again. It wasn’t the first time the dark-haired man had entered the room to find Joe huddled up against him.

 

“He had another seizure,” Shey said as way of explanation then immediately felt his hackles rise. He didn’t owe Adam anything. Well, that wasn’t entirely true - - Joe was Adam’s brother - - but he certainly didn’t have to justify his friendship. 

 

Surprisingly, there was no censure in Adam’s eyes, just concern. “Blood?” he asked, closing the door behind him and crossing to the bedside.

 

Shey nodded. So maybe he’s halfway redeemable under all that prickly, uptight exterior after all. “Where’s Hoss?”

 

“He set out already. I don’t know how far he’s going to get before dark.” Adam hovered, clearly wanting to touch his brother, afraid of waking him. He settled for resting his hand on the blanket near Joe’s head.

 

“What about Geller?”

 

“Around somewhere. He really came up with a whopper of a story about this town.”

 

“Let me hear it.” Shey tried to straighten his leg, a cavalcade of needles racing into his thigh. Wincing, he braced his hands behind him and flexed his calf.

 

“How long have you been sitting like that?”

 

“Long enough.” Shey motioned to the top of the bed. “Grab that pillow, huh?”

 

Seeing what he was about, Adam curled a hand under Joe’s head to raise it up, sliding the pillow underneath as Shey eased his leg free. With a gasp for the ping of returning circulation, Shey tilted his head back, arms braced against the mattress as he waited for the sting to retreat. He shot a sideways glance at Joe, making sure his friend didn’t wake, but heard only a muffled grunt as Joe resettled against the pillow.

 

Carefully, Shey pushed from the bed and hobbled to the other side of the room. He paced off a small circle, working the blood back into his leg. “So tell me about Geller.”

 

Adam dragged a chair close to the bed, within touching distance should Joe need him. “Those Storm Riders he was talking about . . . he says they’re dead men brought back to life.”

 

Shey rolled his eyes. He’d expected some kind of superstition, but nothing so glaringly over the top. “Dead men?”

 

Adam nodded, wedging his elbows against the arms of his chair and lacing his hands in his lap. “Not just any dead men, but men who’ve committed unforgivable sins in life. He says Lightning is a sort of penance for them. Their spirits never make it to the afterlife, but become trapped in the foothills around the town. They’re invisible and powerless, except for every few years when the elements combine in a storm of wind and lightning. When that happens, they’re given flesh and can ride into town. They can’t leave Lightning, but they can do whatever they want for that single night when they’re allowed to walk the earth again. Geller says if they find a way to redeem themselves, they’re free and their spirits are released to the afterlife. Until that happens, they have to continue the cycle over and over.”

 

Shey looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “And that weasely sap was serious about this?”

 

“Deadly serious. According to him, one town member is left behind to interact with the Riders. It’s up to them what happens to him. If they’re merciful, he lives to see the dawn - - which in turn redeems one of them - - or they might choose to kill him and his spirit becomes trapped in the foothills.”

 

“That’s got to be the biggest load of horseshit I ever heard.”

 

“Maybe. But you saw Red Earl and you saw Geller. They believe it.”

 

“So?” Shey smiled thinly, unable to silence his natural instinct for fencing. “Don’t tell me a yellow-bellied stage driver and a whiny desk clerk got you spooked?”

 

Adam scowled, a clear sign Shey was pushing it. “You asked what Geller said. I’m telling you.”

 

“Yeah, well if all that nonsense was true, why the hell would any sensible rube live in Lightning in the first place? The whole thing don’t make sense. Did you ask the pansy-faced weasel that?”

 

Adam drew a breath as if striving for patience with a slow-witted child. “According to Geller, the pay-off is worth it. Wealth is abundant, people rarely get sick and live long lives, there’s an endless supply of food, good water and game. Look around you, Shey. This hotel is falling apart.”

 

“It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

 

“Geller says before the lightning started, everything looked brand new. When the storms come, everything in town reflects its true age . . .” He paused. “Even people.”

 

Shey gave a snort of contempt. “So what are you sayin’? I’m gonna turn into some old geezer?”

 

“Not you. You really are twenty-three. Geller said he’s 84. I swear I saw streaks of gray in his hair before I came upstairs.”

 

“You’re losin’ it, Adam. The only thing ancient about this town is the fact it shoulda been gutted long ago. If I never see or hear of it again, it’ll be too soon.” Scraping a hand through his long hair, Shey headed for the door. “I’ve had enough garbage for one day. I’m gonna get something to eat. I’ll be in the kitchen if Joe needs me.”

 

He shut the door behind him, severing any protest.

 

Dead men, storms and lightning. The whole thing reeked of superstition and he’d finished with that in the Threshold.

 

**********

 

Shey lost track of time. Somewhere between fixing something to eat and moodily mulling over their predicament, the hours got away from him. He returned upstairs to check briefly on Joe and found his friend still sleeping, Adam dosing in the chair by the bedside. Gathering his duster, he wandered outside for air, pausing on the boardwalk as he slipped into the long coat.

 

Geller had disappeared, but he no longer cared about the fidgety desk clerk. He was too absorbed thinking about Joe. The sudden onslaught and severity of his friend’s illness simply didn’t make sense. If Joe had contracted something from one of the guests at Rob Falcon’s wedding, it stood to reason they’d all been exposed to the same germ. And if that was the case, why was Joe the only one to become ill? A healthy twenty-three-year-old man just didn’t spit up blood like he was coughing out his lungs. 

 

Annoyed, Shey bit his lip convinced fate conspired against him. First, Roper Crane’s cousin, Duke Nolan, had shown up at Rob’s reception with two of his friends, ready to even the score over Roper’s death. A situation he could - - and did - - handle. Loudmouthed ruffians were no match for a man who’d spent a lifetime bullying and brawling. But Joe was another story.

 

It suddenly occurred to him that his friend was closer than any family he’d ever had. He’d never been one to make friends easily. He’d had plenty of likeminded cohorts over the years - - swaggering troublemakers like Roper and Eddie Wells who’d been just as good at bullying as he was. When it came right down to it there’d never been any true connection between them, just a mutual penchant for showboating. He’d always known they were in it for themselves and would just as quickly stab him in the back. In the end both had betrayed him, while the person he’d harassed most of his life had turned into a loyal and devoted friend. 

 

And now he’s coughin’ his lungs out and there ain’t a damn thing I can do about it.

 

He’d given up trying to decide why he clicked so easily with Joe . . . how he could have such an intense friendship with a man he’d once despised. They’d joked about that friction just a few hours ago, but sometimes those unsettling memories gnawed at Shey like a dog at a bone. He wasn’t too proud to admit he’d been a colossal ass. Probably still was. What bothered him most was that he really had paid a couple of goons from the Silver Fir to beat the crap out of Joe. 

 

Chagrined, he winced at the memory. Was it any wonder Adam didn’t like or trust him? Hell, half the time he didn’t even like himself. He had a repulsive past, checkered with ugliness and deeds he’d sooner forget. Yet despite that less than stellar reputation, Joe respected and trusted him. It was downright ironic when he thought about it. The one person who had every right to badmouth him from Sunday to Christmas had become his staunchest defender.

 

Swearing softly, he titled his head back to stare up at the sky. It had deepened to an oppressive gray, threatening darker black as afternoon bowed before evening. A serpent tongue of lightning flickered from east to west, chased by a rumble of thunder and a gust of dry wind. The breeze scraped through his long hair, sending the ends whipping around his collar, the tails of his black duster dancing around his boots. He heard the coat snap and flap in the air, cracking like the thunder overhead. A tumbleweed rolled down the street. From somewhere far away came the faint, rising drum of hoofs.

 

Frowning, Shey glanced to the horizon where a cloud of dust billowed up from the ground. He knew movement when he saw it . . . knew at least a half dozen riders were approaching at a fast clip. Riders meant horses and potential help. Part of him felt restless and edgy, glad for any contact in the deserted town. The other part was strangely cautious, whispers of curses and superstition making the hair prickle on the back of his neck. A rider or two or he could understand, but the sudden appearance of a large group felt wrong.

 

“Damn town’s spookin’ me now,” he muttered. Abruptly cautious, he drew back into the doorway of the hotel, keeping from sight. He needed help for Joe but he also wanted to make sure the approaching riders didn’t spell trouble. 

 

Overhead, the frequency of lightning increased, stark bursts illuminating a sky that had turned jet black. Massive storm clouds settled over the town, as dark and suffocating as the inside of a crypt. Across the street, the saloon was silhouetted in a blinding flash of green-white flame, peels of thunder rolling across its flat roof. 

 

Shey hung close to the doorway, keeping his body hidden behind the frame. The drum of hoofs grew deafening as the unknown riders hurtled into town. In the rapid flashes of lightning he caught a glimpse of flying hooves and manes, the icy glint of revolvers and spurs. He counted nine riders, watching as they drew abreast in front of the saloon. Gooseflesh danced up his arms. He didn’t know if it was Geller’s panicky caterwauling belatedly working on his nerves or his own reactionary instinct, but he sensed something unnatural about the men. It might have been the dead air that clung to them like a second skin or the way they didn’t speak as they dismounted, the rustle of coats, bridles and spurs the only sound carried by the cold wind.

 

The man closest to the street turned, pausing as if listening for something. Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating his features in stark profile.

 

Shey choked back a gasp, his blood running cold. “Shit!” 

 

He ducked back against the wall, breathing hard. The logical part of his mind told him what he’d seen simply wasn’t possible, but there was no mistaking the flat eyes and grimly chiseled face of his dead uncle. 

 

Abandoning sanity, he bolted for the stairs.

 

***********

 

Shey threw open the door and plowed into the room, his heart stuck in his throat. Adam stood by the window, hands braced on the sill as he gazed across the street to the saloon. Thankfully, all the lights were extinguished, nests of shadows seeping from the corners like the steely milk of pre-dawn. Clearly, the older Cartwright was playing it cautious too.

 

“Stay away from the window,” Shey warned. He grabbed Adam by the shoulder and wrenched him backward against the wall. Without waiting for a response, he snagged Joe’s jacket from a chair and hastened to the bed. “Come on, Cartwright. We gotta get outta here.” Slipping an arm under his friend’s shoulders, he raised him from the mattress. 

 

Joe groaned in protest.

 

“Sorry, pal. I know it hurts, but we gotta move quick.”

 

“What are you doing?” Adam demanded, across the room in a few short strides.

 

“I don’t got time to explain . . . don’t know if I could even if I wanted to.” Shey slid Joe’s left arm into the jacket, shooting Adam a distracted glance. “Those riders across the street spell trouble. We gotta get outta this hotel . . . find a place to hide until we can get horses.” 

 

Indecisive, Adam looked toward the window. Shey could tell he felt something wrong with the situation too, struggling to pinpoint that unnaturalness even as he weighed the validity of Shey’s words. “Joe’s too sick to move,” he decided at last.

 

Shey finished with the jacket, forcing silent an impulsive retort. Arguing with Adam would only put Joe in jeopardy, and his friend was his primary concern. Steadying Joe with a hand to the shoulder, he reached for his friend’s gun belt, snagging it from the back of a nearby chair. Ignoring Adam altogether, he hooked it over his shoulder then slid a finger under Joe’s chin, tipping his face up. “Joseph, listen. Nine men just rode into town - - bad sorts, all of ‘em. They’re across the street at the saloon but my gut says they’ll be comin’ this way. I need you to pull it together so we can get outta here. Think you can do that, pal?”

 

Joe drew a steadying breath, forcing himself to focus. “Sure thing, Boss.”

 

Shey cocked his head at Adam. He knew before he’d voiced the question Joe would do whatever he asked. When the chips were down, there was no question his friend would come through. He’d do the same if their positions were reversed. “There, you see?” he challenged. Bark all you wanna, but he’s gonna do whatever I ask him to. “Now help him downstairs and keep outta sight.”

 

Adam pressed his lips together, irked at being ordered. “And what are you going to do?”

 

Shey’s grin was fast and sharp, lacking humor. “Steal a few horses.” Immediately, he felt Joe’s fingers crimp over his sleeve.

 

“Don’t be an ass,” his friend protested. “They’ll kill you.”

 

“They gotta catch me first. We need a way outta this town and they just showed up with the ticket.”

 

Joe wet his lips. With effort he held himself upright and fumbled through buttoning his shirt. “Give me my gun.”

 

Shey scowled. “Cartwright, you can’t even see straight. You’re gonna --”

 

“Give me the gun, Shey.” Doggedly, Joe forced himself to his feet. The room bobbled and threatened to upend in a bottomless cauldron but he braced a hand against the foot post, waiting until the dizziness passed. Determined, he reached for the belt.

 

“You’re gonna fall flat on your face,” Shey groused, but surrendered the gun all the same. 

 

Joe ignored him, buckling the belt around his hips. He didn’t know if he was cold or hot, just that the trickle of sweat on the back of his neck made the underside of his hair heavy and damp with perspiration. He hadn’t seen the riders, but knew his friend and brother well enough to sense their caution came from experience and instinct. He had a vague dream-like memory of overhearing Adam and Shey discuss doomed souls and curses.

 

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he mumbled to Shey.

 

“I get that feeling too,” Adam seconded.

 

Shey shook his head. He wasn’t about to rattle on about hobgoblins and ghosts, about the man he thought he’d seen across the street. His uncle was dead, had been for over a year. “It don’t matter. Let’s just get outta here, huh? I got a bad feelin’ about those rubes in the saloon.”

Grabbing Joe’s hat from the nightstand, he pushed it into his friend’s hands. “Come on, Cartwright. There’s a back door to this place, and I think you and your brother better use it.”

 

***********

 

Joe sat scrunched against the rear wall of a haberdashery, partially hidden by a stack of empty crates. A cold wind blew through the narrow alley, making him yearn for a heavier coat or at the very least, the inside of a warm building. He’d been miserable in the hotel, alternately hot and cold, shivering under blankets one moment, twisting on sweat-soaked sheets the next. He knew he was still suffering from fever, a mind-numbing distortion that made his bones ache and his skin pulse with heightened sensitivity. Even the graze of air against his clothing hurt. He wanted to curl into a ball and sleep off the misery, but it simply wasn’t an option.

 

Shey had crept off ten minutes ago, promising to return with horses. Adam was further down the alley, keeping a lookout on the street. At least being outside made Joe feel marginally in control. He was functioning, sitting upright. Okay, so maybe he sagged against the crates, but at least he wasn’t balled up on a bed, coughing his lungs out.

 

The memory made him wince as a hot lick of pain forked across his chest. Sometimes it hurt just to breathe. More than once, he’d had to stifle the urge to cough. Coughing meant blood and that terrified him. He’d always considered himself too young and too healthy to contract tuberculosis, but he knew of no other illness that involved spitting up blood. All he’d done at Rob’s reception was eat, dance and drink beer, activities almost everyone had engaged in. 

 

Even Shey, though he was losing a foreman, had been in a celebratory mood. At least until Duke Nolan and his cronies had shown up, mouthing off about Roper’s death, swearing they were going to get even. Nolan had done most of the threatening, the other two hanging back by the banquet table where Shey had abandoned his beer, heatedly stalking off to confront Nolan.

 

And I finished it, Joe thought with sudden clarity. I drank Shey’s beer.

 

Was it possible one of Nolan’s saddle pals had dumped something in the glass? Could that be the revenge Nolan had been promising? All of it neatly planned and orchestrated, except that Joe had been the one to drink the ale and not their intended victim?

 

Poison.

 

He’d think he was losing his grip on reality except it made as much sense as anything that had happened since they’d left Oregon. And now on top of everything else, Shey was spooked. He wouldn’t admit it or even expound on it, but over the last year, Joe had grown extremely adept at reading his cocky friend’s mood swings. Shey being tight-lipped and cautious was equivalent to Shey being secretive and unnerved. For once, Joe wished his usually chatty friend had spilled his guts.

 

Instead, Shey had departed with little more than a quick assurance he’d be back. Joe didn’t doubt his ability. The blond rancher was as crafty and quick with a gun as he was boastful. For more years than he could count, he and Shey had gone fist-to-fist with one another. Joe had come out on the losing end almost as frequently as he’d been victorious. He’d never resorted to the crookedness Shey had, but he’d had a stricter upbringing. His father and brothers had always made sure he’d had plenty of love and support, but they’d defined a clear line between right and wrong too.

 

By contrast, Shey could still play dirty when he wanted, a skill Joe hoped would benefit his chameleon-like friend now. The Shey he knew was ethical, but the blond rancher had never lost his innate ability to be cunning and underhanded when circumstance warranted. In the blink of an eye, he could revert to being arrogant and manipulative. It was one of the reasons Adam had never warmed to him.

 

Thinking of his brother made Joe crane his neck to see down the alley. He felt isolated behind the crates, annoyingly useless. Hoss was off trekking through desolate country in a desperate attempt to find a doctor. Shey was risking his life over a few horses and Adam was standing guard, protecting him. In a matter of twenty-four hours, he’d gone from being fit to becoming a burden. 

 

He bit off a curse, aggravated when a cough bubbled into his throat. He pressed his fist to his lips to quiet the outburst and immediately tasted copper. Hastily, he wiped his mouth, mopping up blood. Even beneath a moonless sky, he could see the dark stain on his fingertips. His stomach curdled at the sight, convulsing in a tight fist. Shuddering, he hunkered down in his jacket, wiping the blood on his pants. 

 

When the next cough came, he turned his face against the crates, resisting the urge to gag. He couldn’t afford to throw up now. A bout of vomiting or coughing up blood was likely to leave him unconscious. His chest grew tight and he panted raggedly between his teeth, struggling to get his breathing under control. Shey had helped him through those spasms repeatedly, calming him until the knife blade in his chest eased from fiery to dull. He could almost hear his friend’s voice, coaching him through the seizure:  Slow breaths, Cartwright. You done this before . . .

 

But it grew harder, and Shey wasn’t around to help this time. He groaned, closing his eyes, doggedly fighting quiet the mushrooming panic in his chest. In a few seconds it was over. Shakily, he wiped blood from his mouth. No longer cold, he was drenched in sweat, his body trembling with fatigue. He knew he’d never be able to get on his feet, let alone sit a horse.

 

Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back. Hopefully, by the time Shey returned, he’d find the strength to move.

 

***********

 

Shey tried to convince himself he wasn’t crazy. There could be other men who looked like his uncle. Even more logically, his mind had simply played a trick on him. He’d whittled his nerves down to nothing, frustrated by his inability to help Joe. The combination of wind and lightning and his own aggravation, could have made him think he’d seen something he hadn’t. 

 

Most of the riders were still in the saloon but several had wandered into the town, roaming through buildings, including the hotel. He gave silent thanks to the gut instinct that had made him get Joe the hell out of there. He had no idea what the men expected to find in the deserted town, but he doubted they were up for anything pleasant. From somewhere off to his left he heard a frightened wail followed by a blubbering plea to be left alone.

 

Geller.

 

It stood to reason the man would be dragged back to the saloon which meant if he was going to do anything, he needed to do it now while the street was deserted.

 

Slipping from his hiding place, Shey darted to the string of horses tethered to the hitching post. Lightning illuminated the street in a flash-fire burst of white, sending his shadow leaping across the boardwalk. He shot a hasty glance at the saloon, the yellow glow of light within the only spot of color on the dark street. He could hear snatches of muted conversation, the voices grumbled and low. Creeping closer to the hitching post, he reached for the reins of a tall black horse. It gave an agitated snort, stepping backward.

 

“Easy,” he whispered. “I got greater need than those grim-faced yokels inside.” He almost had the reins free when he heard the creak of a board behind him.

 

“I don’t think so,” a flat voice countered.

 

Shey whirled, reaching for his gun. He caught a glimpse of chalky skin from the corner of his eye, then something slammed into the side of his head and his knees buckled beneath him.

 

He was out cold before he hit the ground.

 

***********

 

“Never thought you’d see me again, huh?”

 

The voice knifed into Shey’s head, prompting him to crack an eyelid. His perspective was skewed and it took him a moment to realize he was lying on the floor, his cheek pressed to rough pine boards. He could smell blood, stale whiskey and beer, a sour tangle that made his gut turn. There was a web of tables and chairs ringed around him, a sure sign he was in the saloon. The tacky wetness sealing a clump of hair to his cheek told him the blood was his own. He could feel more dribbling down the back of his head from an open cut on his skull. He thought about moving, but reconsidered, given the hot spike of agony pinging from his temple to his neck. Still . . . he knew the voice and that alone made him grit his teeth, dragging himself up on an elbow to look.

 

His uncle towered over him, a self-satisfied sneer plastered on his face. His skin was gray, almost fish-white, his eyes ringed by black crevices. Bloodless lips made his expression all the more macabre for their glaring lack of color.

 

“If you’re expectin’ me to cower and whine about you bein’ dead, don’t hold your breath,” Shey managed. Apparitions didn’t talk and they didn’t look solid, like flesh and bone. Either he was trapped in a nightmare which meant the whole thing was moot anyway, or he’d gotten caught up in something he didn’t understand. Having actually died once on a Threshold that shouldn’t have existed, bartered back to life by Joe, he knew the impossible was sometimes possible. All he cared about at the moment was that his friend was sick, and unless he got him help - - somehow, someway - - that illness was likely to turn fatal.    

 

Gooseflesh prickled down his spine, but he kept his wits about him and returned his uncle’s sneer. “You make one hell of an ugly cadaver, Uncle Amos.”

 

“Cocky as ever, aren’t you, boy?” Amos smiled toothily.

 

Shey recognized the look. He’d seen his uncle use it on Joe right before the bigger man had sadistically beaten his friend. He tensed, but wasn’t quick enough to dodge. Amos kicked hard, catching him solidly below the ribs with the tip of his boot. Dead or alive, he could still kick like a mule.

 

Lifted in the air, Shey grunted, thrown backward by the impact. He crashed into the table and chair behind him, hard wood cracking across his back. The chair shattered, already rickety and spindly, aged beyond its time. Before he could recover, Amos kicked him again. 

 

The sudden explosion of pain was staggering, ripping a strangled gasp from Shey’s throat. Sweat dripped into his eyes. Grinding his teeth together, he rolled onto his stomach, wedging his elbows beneath him in an attempt to inch away. He heard a chuckle, followed by the unhurried clack of boot heels against pine.

 

“I can keep this up all night, Shey.”

 

To prove his point, Amos booted him harder. Shey felt his rib crack, the sickening shudder reverberating through his body. Agony poured over him, fierce and kiln-hot, ripping a scream from his throat. “Bastard!” Swearing savagely, he curled onto his side. “What the hell do you want from me?” 

 

“About time you asked.” Amos hunkered down on his haunches, lacing his hands between spread knees. Despite the ghastly pallor of his face, he appeared irritatingly casual. “I know Geller told you all about Lightning and the curse that haunts the Storm Riders. I’m not interested in doing good deeds, nephew, so my soul can wander to the next life. The way I figure it, the next life isn’t gonna be all that cushy for me.”

 

Shey snickered, enjoying the thought. “Worried where you’re gonna spend eternity?” he goaded.

 

“I’m gonna spend it right here in these foothills, plaguing this miserable town whenever lightning and wind gives me flesh. Can’t kill someone who’s already dead, but as you’ve just felt, I can damn well hurt anyone I come across - - long as I do it before the sun comes up. When that happens, its back to dust for me. I ain’t going there tonight, Shey. Not without settling some scores. ”

 

Shey wiped blood from his cheek. “You can settle with Hades for all I care.”

 

“You got a sharp tongue on you boy. Always did. I had high hopes for you. ‘Course, I would have had to kill you sooner or later to get the ranch, but you two-timed me when you sided with Cartwright. I don’t forget backstabbing like that.”

 

“Don’t rightly care. I’d do it again.” It suddenly dawned on Shey that they were alone in the saloon. Now that he had a moment’s respite, he could focus past the pain in his head, the fiery agony banded over his ribs. 

 

His uncle had never been a forgiving man. After his father’s death, Shey had taken more than a few punches from Amos in the form of discipline. The man had never beaten him like he had just moments ago, but he’d been far from lenient when displeased. Shey had been nineteen when his father died, temporary ownership of the Circle C passing to Amos to hold in Trust until Shey reached his twenty-fifth birthday. All of that had changed with Amos’ death just a year ago, an event triggered when he’d kidnapped and beaten Joe. It was at that moment Shey had been forced to choose sides - - stand with his unscrupulous uncle or help his longtime rival. 

 

In saving Joe, he’d saved himself. And gained an irreplaceable friend.

 

“Where are the rest of those pasty-faced cadavers you rode in with?” he asked, a nagging suspicion crawling to life at the back of his mind. 

 

Amos stood and confirmed it. “Searching the town. Geller told us all about you being here . . . along with the Cartwrights.” The dead man smiled grimly. “That was like finding a gold mine. I want Joe, Shey.”

 

He should have known the desk clerk would spill his guts. “Well you can’t have him.”

 

“Still protecting him, huh?” Amos shook his head. “You just don’t learn, do you boy?”

 

“Guess not.” Shey pressed his lips together. Before his uncle could move, he lashed out with his foot, hooking Amos around the ankle. He gave one desperate yank, spilling the bigger man to the floor. Stumbling, he propelled himself to his feet and lurched for the door.

 

He was halfway there when Amos caught him.

 

***********

 

“Joe? Come on, buddy, I need you to stay alert.” Adam pressed his hand to his brother’s brow, worried by the infusion of heat he felt trapped there. Joe’s eyes were too bright, fired like glass in a furnace.

 

Sluggish with fatigue, the younger man blinked and nodded. “I’m okay, Adam. You need to find Shey. Something’s gone wrong.”

 

They both knew it. The Circle C’s owner had been missing too long, an absence made all the more glaring by the men they’d witnessed moving up and down the street, searching building after building. A body, dressed in Geller’s clothing had been dumped on the boardwalk outside the hotel, eyes sightlessly staring up at the sky. Adam knew the man was dead, Geller’s hair stark white, his face lined and weathered with old age. Given that fragility, he could almost believe the man’s heart had simply given out, overtaxed by fright. Yet despite the impossible transformation of his physical appearance, Adam knew the broken body belonged to the same man who’d nervously greeted them the previous night.

 

Watching the town age around him, the buildings sag and fall into disrepair, he started to believe the wild tale Geller had told him. He’d never believed in superstition or ghost tales, but it was hard to discount the obvious when it unfolded in front of his eyes. If nothing else, he knew the men searching the streets spelled danger.

 

He and Joe had already moved three times, ducking through alleyways, keeping close to the buildings for concealment. His brother stumbled more often than he walked, but he’d kept moving. Once or twice, he’d hacked into his hand, coughing up blood, but hadn’t complained. Adam knew he was having a hard time staying on his feet, his skin anemic and doughy-looking, heavy shadows slashed under his cheekbones. It was only when they stopped, crouching in the shadows nestled against the mercantile that Joe sagged bonelessly against the wall.

 

Gnawing on his bottom lip, Adam debated the wisdom of leaving him alone. Joe had his gun, but his fingers trembled with the effort of holding it upright, and every few minutes his ragged breathing gave way to a weak cough.

 

“Joe, I’m going to try to get some horses.”

 

“Find Shey,” his brother ordered stubbornly.

 

“I’ll do what I can. I’m more concerned with getting you out of here.”

 

“I’m not leaving without Shey.”

 

He should have expected the answer. If Joe were fully coherent, he would have heatedly laid down the law. As it was, his willfulness came through in the sharp glance of his eyes.

 

“All right.” There was no sense arguing. He’d do what he could, but in the end if it amounted to snatching horses and throwing his semi-conscious brother over the saddle, he’d do that too. Shey was fully capable of fending for himself. “Keep out of sight,” he told Joe. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

 

Pivoting away, Adam darted into the night.

 

***********

 

Shey’s head snapped to the side, driven by the blunt force of the blow. When he’d come to this time, he’d found himself seated in a chair, each wrist bound separately to the frame, secured with sturdy lengths of rope. He’d kept up his insolence for as long as he could, but repeated blows had left even him unable to snap back. His long hair hung in curtains over his face, grimy with sweat and blood. Fatalistic enough to realize Amos was going to kill him, he spat a wad of blood onto the floor. “You’re wastin’ your time,” he said bitterly.

 

“Don’t be stupid, boy.” Amos moved in front of him, bracing his legs apart. Deliberately, he flexed the fingers of his right hand, the knuckles wet and stained with Shey’s blood. “All I want is Cartwright.”

 

“Told you before, jackass - - you can’t have him.”

 

Amos backhanded him across the face. His head rocked to the side, making him wonder how long it would be before his body simply gave up and he passed out. He’d been beaten before, but his gut told him he wasn’t going to survive this one.

 

“Cartwright’s not worth the pain, Shey.”

 

He gave a lazy snort, unsure if it came from bitter amusement or desperation. “He is to me.” He forced his head up, his eyes steely as he met Amos’ gaze. “Go ahead . . . beat the shit outta me.” He tasted blood in his mouth, felt his battered right cheek throb painfully. “I ain’t tellin’ you where Joe is.”

 

“And if I kill you?”

 

“You’re gonna kill me anyway. But I guarantee you ain’t gonna touch my friend, long as I got something to say about it.”

 

“Friend?” Amos scoffed at the idea. “You’ve gone soft in the head, boy. I remember the day you hated Joe Cartwright.”

 

“Maybe. But it ain’t like that anymore.” It hurt just to talk, his ribs on fire from the kicks he’d taken earlier, his head ringing from repeated blows. Inhaling too deeply made it feel like someone thrust a steel blade into his chest. The only saving grace in his agony was the knowledge Joe was safe. “You’re gonna have to kill me, you sick sonuvabitch, ‘cause I ain’t givin’ you Joe.”

 

Amos pressed his fleshy lips together, his expression turning thunderous. “I’ll give you ten minutes to think it over,” he spat. “Ten minutes to come to your senses. Tell me where that rich pup is hiding, and I’ll let you walk out of here alive. Refuse, and you’re gonna wish you’d never been born.” A second later, he was gone, the saloon doors swinging shut behind him as he stepped outside.

 

Shey drew a laborious breath and hung his head, praying his friend and Adam were far from Lightning.

 

***********

 

The hand on his shoulder jarred Shey back to consciousness. He lifted his head with a groan, barely cognizant of Adam crouched at his side. He felt the rope binding his wrists loosen and instinctively hissed in a breath. The skin beneath the binding was abraded and raw. Circulation pinged into his hands, a frenzied rush of cold air drawing stinging needles from his lacerated wrists.

 

“Who did this to you?” Adam asked.

 

He worked his lips, sticky with blood, tasting the tang of dry chalk and bitter copper. “Don’t matter. He wanted Joe.”

 

“What’d you tell him?”

 

“What do you think?” Shey twisted his head, feeling the sudden fierce burn of anger. He was used to taking guff from Adam, but he’d just been beaten within an inch of his life and the ugly suspicion hit hard. Adam thought he was alone because his captor had gotten the information he wanted and was now out searching for Joe. 

 

“You think I’d dime out my friend?’ The last bit of rope fell away. Before he could think it through, he propelled himself from the chair, using his forward momentum to drive his fist against Adam’s jaw. The crack of knuckles on flesh was satisfying, but he was far too weak to support himself and crumbled on top of the other man. Together, they plummeted to the ground, Shey’s anger pushing him past reason. “You think I’d sell my friend? Save my own hide?” Incensed, he struck again, catching Adam across the cheek. “You self-righteous snit. You’ve had this coming for the last year - -” He threw a right hook, but his balance was off and he swung wide.

 

Adam caught his wrist and wrenched his arm to the side. “Knock it off, Cutter!”

 

Somehow he ended up on his back, Adam kneeling over him, his dark eyes blazing fury. The room was spinning, taking his stomach with it. “God . . .” He couldn’t catch his breath, knew that somewhere among the reel of craziness and pain, his wellbeing didn’t mater. There was only one person who mattered. “Where’s Joe?” He felt panic creep closer. “Adam, we gotta get outta here. He’ll be back . . . Amos. He wants Joe.”

 

He doubted his words made sense, but if nothing else, the danger came through. Adam fisted a hand in the back of his duster and hauled him to his feet. He couldn’t think after that, just stumbled numbly one foot in front of the other until he was outside, the air icy and brittle against his battered face. Adam shoved him up against a horse, pushing his unresponsive body into the saddle. Shey swallowed hard, clinging to the reins. He knew Amos was somewhere about, knew if the riders bore down on them, they’d never make it out of town. “Joe,” he gasped.

 

“I’ll take care of my brother,” Adam said. He whacked his hand against the flank of the horse. It was all Shey could do to hold on as the animal bolted for the foothills.

 

*********

Joe tucked deeper into the alley at the sound of approaching footsteps. Using his right arm as a brace, he steadied his left wrist across the top and took aim with his revolver. The six-gun wavered, his targeting ability as off as his alarmingly blurred vision. Desperate, he dragged the back of his hand across his eyes, mopping up sweat. Gradually, the person emerging from the shadows solidified into a familiar face.

 

“Adam.” He struggled to focus, vaguely aware his brother trailed a horse, led by the reins. 

 

“Joe . . . hurry.” Adam motioned him forward, hastily drawing the stallion to a halt. With a black flowing mane and sooty coat, it seemed part of the night itself. “I’ll help you mount.”

 

“Where’s Shey?” Clumsily, he holstered his gun, staggering a step as he moved away from the building. The wind howled around the corner, gusting a plume of dry dust from the street. He felt it catch in his throat, coaxing alive a cough.

 

“Don’t worry about Shey.” Adam snagged his arm, tugging him forward until he bumped into the horse. 

 

He smelled leather and animal, felt a shock of warmth against his cheek as he pressed into the stallion’s side. Grateful for the support, he locked a hand over the saddle horn, holding fast when his knees threatened to buckle. “I’m not leaving without Shey.”

 

“He’s already headed out of town. I put him on a horse myself.” Grim-faced, Adam hooked him under the arm. “Now get up.”

 

“You’ll leave him be if you know what’s good for you,” a new voice said.

 

Quiet, but firm, the words cut through Joe with the icy shock of frigid water. He was unable to place the voice, but knew it was rooted somewhere in the muddle of his past. Still clinging to the horse, he turned to face the speaker. At his side, Adam drew his gun in one swift, fluid motion.

 

A low chuckle came from the darkness. “That pistol won’t do you a lick of good, Adam,” the gratingly familiar voice said. “Can’t kill a man who’s already dead.”

 

Joe tried to blink away the haze clouding his mind, but there was no mistaking Amos Cutter when he stepped from the shadows into the open alley. “You’re dead,” he said stupidly, wishing his sluggishly-firing brain would cooperate. He was dreaming, more likely hallucinating, the debilitating illness affecting his thoughts. 

 

“As a doornail,” Cutter agreed. “And you’re partly to thank for that, whelp. The way I see it, we got a score to settle.”

 

“I don’t know who you are or what you want,” Adam said quickly. “But you take another step and I’ll blow a hole through you large enough to see daylight.”

 

“And bring eight other riders crashing down on you with the noise of that gunshot?” Amos shook his head. “I don’t think so. Besides - -” Smiling indulgently, he withdrew a buck knife from the folds of his coat. Even from a distance, the lethally curved blade was visible, six inches of solid steel. “Let’s just prove my point and get this over with.”

 

Hefting his hand in the air, he buried the blade hilt-deep in his chest. A soft hiss of air escaped his bloodless lips, but otherwise he gave no sign of discomfort. “Convinced now?” Smiling wickedly, he lowered his hand and took a step forward, the knife handle protruding like a grisly decoration. 

 

Joe swallowed hard, unable to grasp what he was seeing. Amos Cutter was dead. Corpses didn’t rise from the grave and walk around like the flesh-and-blood living. And a man with breath in his lungs didn’t stab himself in the heart then act as if it was nothing more than a minor distraction. He had to be dreaming, trapped in a nightmare. Terror built in his throat, but he forced it silent, clenching his hand on the saddle horn until his knuckles were white with the pressure. “Adam,” he said weakly.

 

“I see the same thing you do,” his brother returned quietly, his voice controlled. Adam betrayed no hint of panic or fear, a calm assurance that gave Joe the strength to stand stronger.   

 

“Lightning isn’t what it seems,” Adam continued in a measured tone. “The town has some kind of curse on it.”

 

“That’s right.” Amos clearly thrived on being center stage. “The spirits of men who commit heinous sins in life are sent here to wander the streets. Some of us actually enjoy it.”

 

“You deserve to rot for what you did to Joe,” Adam snapped.

 

Cutter laughed, looking much like a freakish demon, the knife still jutting from his chest. “Kidnapping and beating? Hell, I ain’t here for that paltry crime. My guess is I’m paying for my brother’s death. The swine always did come out on top no matter the stakes.”

 

Joe’s head spun. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay on his feet but he vowed he wouldn’t crumble in front of a vulture like Amos, dream or no dream. “Lincoln Cutter was thrown from a horse.” Even as he said the words doubt awakened in the back of his mind. He and Shey hadn’t been friends when Lincoln died, but he’d heard the story from his father - - how Amos and Lincoln had been riding back from Virginia City. They had almost reached the Circle C when Lincoln’s horse reared unexpectedly and he was thrown, his skull crushed in the fall.

 

“Thrown, huh?” Amos snickered. “My brother never fell from his horse. His damn mare stumbled but he was fine . . . was almost back to his feet when I picked up a rock and caved his skull in.” He smiled wolfishly, his teeth flashing like blunt chips of marble in the darkness. “It wasn’t right, him being so successful - - the ranch and all. I came west with the same ambition he had, but didn’t get the breaks.”

 

“He never got any breaks,” Joe spat, thinking of Shey and what the news would do to him, should he ever learn the truth. Was he just imagining the whole wretched thing, or was he really holding a discussion with a man who had been dead for over a year? A man who now admitted to killing his best friend’s father? “Lincoln Cutter worked hard to make the Circle C what it is. He did it through sweat and determination, the same way Shey does now.”

 

Amos snorted. “Save your sermons, whelp. I don’t care what my fool brother did. Fact is, I planned to take the ranch from him. It was just a matter of time ‘till I killed him. I would have killed Shey too before he could inherit, but he had to get all righteous on me before I got the chance. You corrupted my nephew. I could have made him into a killer.”

 

“Liar!” Incensed by the taunt, Joe lurched forward. He would have stumbled flat on his face if Adam hadn’t caught him, holding him upright as the sky threatened to tumble into the earth. His head was spinning, his stomach pushed into his throat by sweat-sticky sickness and fear. There was no question Shey had been unethical, even devious for most of his life, but Joe would never believe his friend’s penchant for bullying and skirting the law could have been twisted into killer instinct. Leaning heavily into Adam, he cast Amos a black glare. “You don’t know who Shey is.”

 

“I know you turned him into some kind of do-gooding sap,” the older man growled. “I like near beat that blond fool to death and he still wouldn’t tell me where you were hiding. Said I could beat the shit out of him for all he cared, but he wasn’t going to give you up, the stupid mongrel.” 

 

Joe felt his stomach convulse. “You bastard . . .” He’d known something was wrong when Shey hadn’t returned. Worried more for his friend than himself, he fumbled for his gun even as he tried to wrench away from Adam.

 

His brother held fast. “Don’t be an idiot,” he seethed.

 

Amos snickered. “I figured if I just vanished for awhile, sooner of later someone was gonna show up and attempt to rescue that vapid popinjay . . .” Wrapping his hand around the hilt of the knife, Amos jerked the grisly weapon from his chest. The blade gleamed with the sheen of silver, not a drop of blood marring its icy surface. “. . . then lead me right back to you, whelp. The way I figure it, you and I got unfinished business.” Waving the knife in the air, he advanced a step.

 

Joe came to the conclusion that the time for talk had passed, at precisely the same moment Adam did. “Get on the horse,” his brother shouted, shoving him toward the animal. Joe grasped the reins, trying to make his cumbersome body obey. At the mouth of the alley, he could hear the sudden, fierce pounding of hoofs. Light blazed into the darkness even as Adam propelled him into the saddle. Scrabbling to hang on, he turned quickly, shooting a glance over his shoulder.

 

Only one rider charged into the narrow alleyway, a blazing torch swung before him. Joe saw the flash of his friend’s long hair, white-gold and platinum in the darkness, Shey’s face made all the more grim for the flicker of firelight dancing over his battered features. Amos swore and spun even as Adam discharged his pistol. There was no use attempting secrecy now. But as Amos had predicted, the bullets did little except stagger him back a step.

 

The torch was another matter. He flung up his arms, shying from the flare of brightness. Shey looked the part of avenging angel, long black duster flapping behind him, blond hair streaming from his face. Lifting himself in the stirrups, he leaned forward over the neck of his horse, wielding the flaming brand of wood like a saber.

 

Joe felt Adam swing up behind him, the reins yanked from his numb fingers. “Hang on,” his brother said near his ear, then the horse was lurching forward, bursting from the alley as a rush of cold air hit him in the face. The suddenness and speed made his head spin, sent the world tilting crazily off balance. He felt his body sway to the side, his brother’s arms acting as a brace around him. He could hear the roar of hooves behind them . . . prayed it was his friend and not the other riders Amos had mentioned.

 

“Shey,” he croaked, his voice a pained rasp. He inhaled raggedly, the shuddery intake of cold air threatening to make him erupt in a fit of coughing. He felt Adam twist in the saddle, looking over his shoulder.

 

“Behind us,” his brother replied, indicating he understood Joe’s concern. “Hang on, buddy. Those other goons are back there too, coming fast.” Adam kicked his heels, urging the horse to greater speed.

 

With a loud groan, Joe leaned forward, coughing up blood. 

 

“I’m sorry, buddy, I’m sorry,” Adam said in a rush. “I can’t stop.”

 

“I . . . I know.” He choked on the words, pressing a hand to his mouth to catch the disgorging flow of blood. The taste made him sick, his head swimming with a mixture of light-headedness and nausea. He was afraid he might pass out and ground his teeth together, knotting his fingers into the horse’s coarse mane. A cold wind blasted the foothills chased by a dragon-tail of lightning. It illuminated the surroundings in a stark wash of daylight, sending shadows of stone, horse and riders leaping from the earth in a frenzied dance. He tensed, forcibly locking his knees and arms around the horse, certain he was going to plummet bonelessly to the ground. His body felt on fire, blazing with heat from the inside out. Sound grew muddied and distorted, a howling tangle of wind and thunder stripping his mind of all save raw sensation. In his confusion and pain he lost track of time, of reality itself. Minutes became hours and hours, minutes.

 

Had he dreamed the entire encounter in the alley? His head lolled to the side, the sky yawing overhead like the deck of sea-tossed ship. He was certain he would tumble into oblivion when it suddenly dawned on him that the horse had stopped. He tried to lift his head and make his body cooperate but everything evolved in a fog. He felt hands grip him and aid to the ground, his knees buckling instantaneously.

 

Adam murmured something assuring by his ear but he couldn’t concentrate enough to make sense of the words. He just knew the rich warmth of his brother’s baritone, the attentive touch of his hands. A few steps more and he curled up against a rock, Adam draping a blanket over him. He felt a hand ghost through his hair then drop to briefly rub his shoulder. He heard the trot of a horse and cracked his eyes enough to see Shey approach and dismount.

 

A weak smile touched his lips. His friend was safe.

 

Secure in that knowledge, Joe surrendered to exhaustion and welcomed sleep.

 

**********

 

Adam lowered his head and rubbed grit from his eyes. He wasn’t certain why the riders had given them a reprieve and turned back to town. The rational part of his mind argued it was all hogwash anyway, but the part that had just spent the night fleeing dead men reasoned they had safely crossed some sort of boundary. If the town truly was cursed, it was also likely governed by a set of rules. It was possible the Storm Riders were confined to the town the same way they were normally confined to the foothills.

 

Whatever the circumstance, he couldn’t deny he’d just come face-to-face with Amos Cutter. As much as he tried to find a logical explanation for the encounter, he knew there simply wasn’t one.

 

For the moment, he was glad for the respite, though he remained edgy and on guard. Joe was exhausted, evident from the way he’d crumbled the moment he’d set foot on the ground. Shey wasn’t much better, stiff and bruised from the ruthless beating Amos had given him. From the way he moved, Adam guessed a few of his ribs were cracked, but Shey had stubbornly insisted he didn’t want coddling.

 

He sat a few feet away, his back propped against a formation of rock, face tilted toward the sky, eyes closed. Joe lay balled up on the ground, curled on his side, his back to Shey. Both men shared the same blanket, though it only covered Shey’s lap since he was sitting upright. He kept one hand on Joe’s shoulder, an almost absent gesture that struck Adam as being protective all the same.

 

Exhaling noisily, Adam removed his hat long enough to drag a hand through his hair. He hadn’t really done anything wrong, but he felt like he owed Shey an apology. The man had taken one hell of a beating rather than surrender Joe to harm. He’d never been enamored of Joe’s friendship with the crass rancher, but it was growing harder to discount, the more he saw of the two together. There was no denying they had something unique and special. He felt bad leaving Shey under the impression he’d thought the other man had sold Joe out to Amos. He couldn’t deny the thought had crossed his mind, if only briefly.

 

“Shey. You awake?”

 

He was rewarded by a grunt. Visibly grimacing, Shey lifted his head, attempting to get comfortable. Cradling one arm across his midsection, he sat straighter. “For what it’s worth, I am now.” He glanced aside, checking on Joe, pausing to pull the blanket a little higher on his friend’s shoulder. “At least he’s asleep.”  

 

Adam nodded, secretly pleased to note Shey’s primary concern had been for Joe. Not for the first time, he couldn’t help questioning a relationship that had gone from brazenly antagonistic to staunchly loyal. All he had to do was close his eyes and go back two years to remember a Shey Cutter who thrived on locking horns with Joe.

 

As if sensing his thoughts, the blond rancher smiled thinly. “Can’t rightly figure me, can you, Cartwright? You keep gettin’ tangled up in all those memories of me and your brother buttin’ heads. All that book-smart logic of yours can’t make heads or tails of it.”

 

Disturbed to realize he was so shallow and Shey so accurately on the mark, Adam cleared his throat, sitting straighter. Cutter’s change of personality, but most especially his about-face regarding Joe, fell outside the realm of reason. “You hated his guts,” he said bluntly.

 

“To put it mildly.”

 

Irked that he didn’t even attempt to deny the issue, Adam frowned. “What changed?”

 

Shey shrugged, a lackadaisical roll of his shoulders, as aggravating as it was careless. “Don’t know.” He touched his jaw, fingering a sore spot as he considered the question. His hat cast half of his face in shadow, the other half illuminated by a weak flicker of emerging starlight. His long hair, inching past his shoulders was banner bright and ragged, making him seem every bit as rough and dangerous as the men they’d left behind in Lightning. “Your brother’s got a way about him,” he said at last, his eyes sliding to the side to settle on Joe. “I never paid it much mind ‘till Amos took his fists to him. I’d like to say I had some great revelation, but the truth is Joe and I just worked at it ‘till we got it right. He still knows how to get on my nerves and I know I rankle his, but I guess we found something more important. Yeah, we still butt heads on occasion, but it ain’t like before. All I know is . . . anyone wants to hurt him, they’re gonna have to go through me first and that ain’t gonna be easy.”

 

He paused, readjusting the blanket around Joe’s shoulder. His touch was deliberate and attentive, blatantly out of character for a man Adam had once likened to a scorpion.

 

“You keep waitin’ for us to hit rock bottom,” Shey observed. “That point when all the king’s men ain’t gonna be able to put our friendship back together again.” Grinning sharply, he let his eyes sweep back to Adam. “Hate to disappoint you, Cartwright, but it ain’t gonna happen. I ain’t goin’ back to the person I was. Your brother’s part of who I am now. I shoulda pounded you into yesterday for even thinkin’ I woulda dimed him out.” 

 

Adam grimaced, chagrined he’d entertained such shameful thoughts. As much as he wanted to deny it, he couldn’t help secretly acknowledging the depth of Shey’s friendship with Joe. Had it been anyone else in the same circumstance, he wouldn’t have even considered them capable of betrayal.

 

“I was wrong for thinking what I did,” he admitted, grudgingly. “It’s hard for me to say it, but . . . you are a good friend to Joe. Better than any he’s ever had.”

 

Shey grinned brashly. “But you still think I’m trash?”

 

“You’ve got a low opinion of yourself, Cutter.”

 

“It ain’t my opinion, Cartwright. It’s yours.” 

 

Adam was saved from replying when Joe stirred sluggishly and moaned. 

 

“Ssh. Take it easy.” Immediately attentive, Shey rubbed his shoulder. “Go back to sleep, Joseph. We still got several hours ‘till daylight.”

 

“Shey?” Only half coherent, Joe rolled onto his back, his lashes flickering against the heavy weight of fatigue.

 

“Right here, pal.” Leaning forward, Shey swept a hand over his brow, brushing aside the heavy fringe of his bangs. “Ain’t nuthin’ worth wakin’ up for, so soak up the sleep while you can.”

 

“Where’s Adam?”

 

“Here.” Adam moved closer, hunkering into his brother’s line of vision. Instinct made him want to touch, to relay assurances, playing the role of protector. But somewhere over the last few days he’d surrendered the mantle of guardian to Shey. He’d be blind and stupid to deny how Joe responded to the sharp-tongued rancher. It made him realize if one of them was going to stand guard, he was the one who should be haunting the perimeter of their camp.

 

“Take it easy, Little Joe.” He slid a hand over his brother’s forearm, squeezing gently. Joe was hunched under the blanket, shivering in the crisp night air, but Adam could still feel heat radiating from his skin. Fever. If it didn’t break soon, Joe was going to be in real trouble.

 

He made a concentrated effort not to let his worry show. “Listen, buddy . . . I’m going to scout around our camp . . . make sure everything is quiet out there. You stay here and rest.” He tracked his fingers over the inside of Joe’s arm, rubbing lightly. The taint of fever burned bright in Joe’s green eyes, turning the surface as translucent as colored crystal.

 

“Adam, no . . .” Joe choked on the words, making a feeble attempt to sit up. Weakly, he clutched his brother’s arm. “Amos --”

 

Adam shot a glance at Shey. “Don’t worry about that,” he said quickly. “Just rest.” He stroked his fingers over his brother’s cheek, his touch serving to quiet Joe more than his words did. Standing, he drew back a step and motioned Shey to join him.

 

The younger man wrapped an arm across his middle and forced himself to his feet. The flicker of pain in his eyes was unmistakable, but it was gone as quickly as it surfaced. White-faced, Shey tilted his head in an effort to appear cocky. “Ain’t just every two-bit rube I clamber to my feet for, Cartwright.”

 

Adam raised a brow, uncertain if he should address the barbed compliment or Shey’s obvious pain. He opted for the latter. “I know you’re not in the best of shape, but I also know you’ll guard him with your life. I’m going to scout around and make sure we don’t have any company lurking in the shadows.” He hesitated, noting the strain on Shey’s face, the thick trickle of sweat seeping down his jaw. “You going to be okay?”

 

“I ain’t gonna keel over if’n that’s what you mean.”

 

“You read too much into things, Shey. Like back there with Amos, in the saloon. I never thought - -”

      

“Hell, yes, you did.” Shey smiled faintly. “Truth is, you just can’t help yourself. When it comes to me and your brother, it’s your nature to be suspicious. Now quit jawin’ and go do something useful. I ain’t super human, you know. I don’t get off my feet soon, these ribs are gonna make me pass out, and that just ain’t an option when I’m standin’ in front of you.”

 

“Meaning you don’t want to appear weak?”

 

“Meaning it would take too much effort to get on my feet again, and you damn well better believe I’d do it.”

 

“I do.” Adam gave a crisp nod, the closest he could come to acknowledging a truce. Maybe Shey was redeemable after all. Whatever his own feelings about the impulsive rancher, he supposed it was time to start being a little more accepting - - and trusting - - of Shey’s relationship with Joe. For nearly a year-and-a-half, they’d maintained their highly unorthodox friendship with no sign of it souring, despite the frequency with which they butted heads. If anything, the two men had grown closer, defying logic and their notoriously hostile past.

 

“Stay with my brother,” Adam said simply, then slipped away into the night. He had no doubt Shey would remain doggedly alert until he returned.

 

*********

 

Joe sat straighter, scrunching up against the rock behind him. Abruptly overheated, he kicked the blanket aside, using the back of his hand to mop cold sweat from his brow. His shirt was plastered to his skin beneath his jacket, sticky with perspiration. Struggling to focus on his surroundings, he watched as Adam darted into the night. His memory of reaching the desolate camp, sequestered among scrub brush and ridges of stone, was vague at best. The image freshest in his mind was of Shey charging into the alley, waving a flaming torch over his head as he charged Amos.

 

Amos.

 

Had they really been threatened by a dead man or was that all just part of a fever-induced dream?

 

“Cartwright, you ain’t sleepin’.” Realizing he was awake, Shey strode toward him. 

 

It was the first good look Joe had of his friend since they’d separated at the hotel. His face was bruised and battered, the left side of his blond hair matted and crusted with blood. He walked stiffly, lacking his usual cocky ease. When he crouched down next to Joe, the rapid flicker of pain that crossed his face was unmistakable. 

 

“It wasn’t a dream,” Joe said, staring at him.

 

Shey arched a brow. “Huh?”

 

“In the alley . . . your uncle . . . Amos. He said he beat you near to death because you wouldn’t tell him where I was.”

 

“Oh, that.” With a grunt, Shey unfolded his legs and eased down beside him. “Even dead, the man jabbers like a magpie. Yeah, he smacked me around some, but he woulda done it anyway. You were just an excuse.”

 

“I don’t think so.” He looked at Shey earnestly, attempting to concentrate, but everything kept cluttering together in his head - - the impossibility of Amos walking around like flesh-and-bone, the remarkably noble thing Shey had done, the mad dash from Lightning on horseback, even the weak rumbles of thunder that still rolled through the foothills. He wet his lips, his mouth abruptly dry. It wasn’t just any friend who would have been so staunchly protective of him. “You should have told him where I was.”

 

Shey gave a snort, absently rubbing his ribs. “Your head ain’t on straight, Cartwright. We started this whole lopsided friendship when I hauled your ass clear of Amos the first time. Think I was gonna let him tromp on you now, when he’s deader and meaner than a starved polecat?” He grinned brashly. “ ‘Sides - - if anyone’s gonna lock horns with you, it’s gonna be me, not some pasty cadaver who should be six feet under, sealed in pine.” 

 

Too tired to hold his head up, Joe let it fall against the rock behind him. “Thanks, Boss,” he said simply. He dropped his hand on his friend’s forearm, giving a weak squeeze. “That’s one I owe you.”

 

“You woulda done the same for me, Joe. You already have. Now quit dwellin’ on the dang thing and get some rest. It ain’t like I never got beat up before, and it sure weren’t the first time I felt the crack of my uncle’s fist.”

 

Joe blinked, abruptly uncomfortable. In the three years separating Lincoln Cutter’s death from that of his brother, Amos, Joe had occasionally seen Shey sporting bruises. They’d hadn’t been friends at the time, and given Shey’s penchant for fighting, he’d just assumed Shey had gotten the marks in scuffles he’d initiated. Caught off guard by the flippant revelation, Joe struggled for something to say. “I . . . I didn’t know your uncle - -”

 

“Don’t sweat it, Cartwright,” Shey cut him off, saving him the verbal stumbling. “It wasn’t any big deal.” He shrugged in an effort to appear unaffected, but Joe had a feeling the memory bothered him more than he was willing to admit.

 

“Amos had his moments when he was runnin’ the ranch,” Shey explained. “He wanted things done when he wanted ‘em, and he wanted everything his way. You know me - -” He flashed a smile, barbed and lightning-quick. “ - - I ain’t always the most accommodatin’ gent, so naturally there were times when Amos felt the need to ‘drum some sense into me,’ as he used to say. The man weren’t at all like my Pa. He wouldn’t think twice about fightin’ a rattler and givin’ it the first bite. Thinkin’ back on it, I probably woulda ended up killin’ the bastard some day. Mitch Campbell did me a favor.”

 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me he hit you . . . after we became friends?”

 

“Dunno.” Shey considered his hands a moment before shooting him a sideways glance. “Maybe ‘cause of what you always had - - your Pa and your brothers. When you and I became friends, I saw firsthand what a great family you have, Joe. My Pa was a good man - - I know that now - - but he and I weren’t close. And Amos . . . well, I just told you how he was. He liked to use his fists. I guess I figured someone who’d been raised the way you were wouldn’t understand.”

 

“Shey, I’m your friend. You should have told me.”

 

“Just did. The timin’ seemed right. And uh  . . .” He trailed off and drew a breath. When he met Joe’s eyes, his glance was steady. “I wouldn’t share that scrap of memory with just any yahoo, Joe.”

 

“I know that.” Since their friendship began, Joe had come to realize he was the only person Shey allowed close to him. As private and guarded with his feelings as he was crass and outspoken on the surface, Joe knew Shey was still adapting to what it meant to trust. For the first time in his life, the high-strung rancher found himself with a friend he could count on and a relationship that actually mattered. As frustrating as it was for Joe, he understood part of the reason their relationship was so skewed at times, was because Shey was still learning how to be a friend. “I wish you’d told me sooner,” he mumbled.

 

“Why?”

 

“I don’t know.” Joe groped to explain the hole in the pit of his stomach. “So I could - -”

 

“What?” Shey cut him off quickly. “Don’t be drippin’ sympathy and syrup on me, Cartwright. I ain’t lookin’ for pity. I only told you ‘cause . . .”

 

“Why?”

 

“Hell, I don’t know!” Uncomfortable exposing himself to so much scrutiny, Shey bristled. “’Cause you’re my friend, you lunkhead. I wanted you to know, but if’n I thought tellin’ you was gonna result in a damn inquisition, I woulda kept my mouth shut. Now can we just drop it and move on?”

 

Joe chuckled. “Don’t make me laugh. I’ll start coughing.”

 

“That ain’t an option. Don’t even think about it.”

 

Still grinning, Joe let himself relax. His shoulder bumped Shey’s and without conscious thought, he sagged comfortably against his friend. They sat in silence a moment, each wrapped in their own thoughts. When Joe felt himself drifting, he groped for something to stay alert. “Do you think they’re out there? Those men who were chasing us?”

 

“You mean my dead uncle and his fellow goons?” 

 

“Well, if we’re hallucinating, at least we’re doing it together.”

 

“Hallucinations don’t beat you with their fists.”

 

Joe grimaced, recalling what his friend had gone through. “He stuck a knife in his chest, Shey and didn’t even flinch. How did you know a torch would keep him back?”

 

“I didn’t. But I managed to hook my foot around his ankle and trip him up in the saloon, so I knew he wasn’t a ghost. Dead or not, he has a body. He told me he had until sun-up to haunt the town, so I figured maybe he wasn’t too fond of brightness. I took a chance with the torch.”

 

“It paid off. I just wish I’d been more help to you and Adam.” Thinking back on how incapacitated he’d been through the whole struggle and flight, Joe sighed. “I’m so damn sick of being sick. If it weren’t for me, we wouldn’t have even ended up in this god-awful town.”

 

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Cartwright. Red Earl’s the snake who stranded us.”

 

“Given he was right about all the superstition, I guess we should have listened to him. We never found a doctor anyway.”

 

“Hoss is out tryin’ to find him, and Adam’s standin’ guard.” Shey shot him a frowning glance. “Which means you should be sleepin’, Joseph, ‘stead of sittin’ here, jawin’ with me.”

 

“I’m not tired, Shey.”

 

“Is that why you’re plastered against me?”

 

Joe gave a jerk, abruptly realizing he’d slid lower down the rock, leaning heavily into his friend’s side. He started to pull away, but Shey caught his arm and held him in place. 

 

“Stay where you’re at, Cartwright. I was just pointin’ out you should be sleepin.’ I can feel fever rollin’ off you like the desert.”

 

Joe grunted, unwilling to acknowledge the truth. Talking kept him from thinking about how he felt. Only moments before, he’d tossed the blanket aside, overcome by a flash-flood of sticky heat. Now he could feel himself starting to shiver, the drenching warmth of Shey’s body an oasis of blissful comfort. Ducking his head, he rolled his hand and coughed weakly against his fist.

 

Feeling him tremble, Shey snagged the blanket and dragged it up to his chest. “You ain’t hackin’ up blood, are you?”

 

Joe shook his head, turning his face away to hide the flecks of red splattered over his hand.

 

Shey swore. “You’re a piss-poor liar, Cartwright. What happened to all that talk you just fed me about friends not keepin’ things from each other?”

 

“You’re right.” Exhausted, Joe let his head fall back, pillowing himself against Shey’s shoulder. He wiped the blood from his lips, making no effort to hide it. “There’s something else too,” he said, deciding he had to be honest on all counts. He’d wanted Shey to share with him . . . had been discouraged to learn his friend had kept his volatile past with Amos a secret for fear Joe wouldn’t understand. Shey shouldn’t have had to carry that burden on his own, and while he knew what he had to tell his friend would hurt, it would hurt Shey far more to think Joe feared confiding in him. “There’s something Amos said, you should know about.”

 

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about that walkin’ corpse. He’s rotting here for what he did in life and deserves his fate. He wanted that land from your Pa so bad he was gonna kill you.”

 

“That’s not why he’s here,” Joe countered quickly. His teeth chattered against the cold, a force that burrowed beneath his skin and seeped into his veins. In the passing of a few heartbeats, he had gone from sweating to shivering. Wrapping his arms around his chest, he sat straighter, turning slightly to face Shey. “This isn’t going to be easy to hear, but Amos told me and Adam . . .” He trailed off, unable to finish, uncertain how to blurt the truth. The hole in his gut grew larger, making him wish the ugly reality was a dream.

 

Shey’s eyes narrowed. “Told you what?”

 

“That . . .” Joe drew a breath, forcing himself to plow ahead. Shey deserved to know. “Amos said he killed your pa, Shey . . . that your father’s horse only stumbled and that he . . . he crushed his skull with a rock.”

 

Something dark and angry swept over Shey’s face. “I knew it!” he spat. “My Pa was too good a horseman to take a greenhorn fall like that. I always suspected Amos wasn’t tellin’ the whole truth about that day, but - -” He ground his teeth together, one hand pumping into a white-knuckled fist. “That sonuvabitch wanted the ranch, all along. Probably woulda killed me too.”

 

“He said as much.” Joe admitted. “I’m sorry, Shey.”

 

“Why? ‘Cause I grew up with a cutthroat for an uncle or because my Pa was stupid enough to get himself killed?” Bitter, he shoved to his feet, wincing at a sudden stab of pain. If anything, the biting discomfort fed his anger. “Ain’t like life on the Ponderosa is it, Cartwright? My family always was a mess. Toss in my bounty hunter brother and cheatin’ half-Sioux Ma and you got one hell of a toxic bloodline. That’s my bloodline, Cartwright. No wonder Adam thinks I’m scum. ”

 

“He doesn’t,” Joe snapped, irked by Shey’s sudden belligerence. “And your father was a good man. He made the mistake of trusting your uncle - - something any brother would have done - - and it cost him his life.”

 

“Which is why I ain’t never gonna trust no one.”

 

Joe pressed his lips together. “What about me?”

 

And just like that, the boiling hostility drained from Shey. “Aw hell, Joe.” Deflated, he pulled his hat off and ran agitated fingers through his hair. Expelling a breath, he squatted on his haunches, resettling the hat on his head. “I know I got a bad habit of gettin’ horns-and-rattles, but I don’t mean half of what comes outta my mouth. I ain’t very good at this friend stuff, but you’re the only one I got and I ain’t gonna screw that up. I’m just mouthin’ off, that’s all. Hell, I just found out my pa was murdered.”

 

Joe flushed, overcome by guilt. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

 

“Damn straight you shoulda, and I ain’t gonna forget that. Roper woulda told me, then sat back like he was gleefully twistin’ a knife. Eddie Wells woulda told me hopin’ I’d go off half-cocked and end up in a fight with some hapless rube. Difference is, you told me and it tore you up, worryin’ over how it would make me feel.” Shaking his head, Shey settled cross-legged on the ground. “I ain’t never had a friend like that, Joe. I still ain’t used to it.” Cocking his head, he studied Joe openly. “Sure wish I woulda realized what a find you were all those years ago. It woulda saved me a lot of bruised jaws and banged up ribs from the scuffles we got into.”

 

Joe gave a short laugh. “I don’t know about that, Shey. I think half of the reason we click so well is that we didn’t in the past.” He paused, still uncomfortable with the information he’d had to divulge. “I’m sorry about your Pa.”

 

“Me too. But I can’t kill a snake who’s already dead, so I guess Amos is payin’ the price.”

 

Joe nodded, squirming to get more comfortable. If he faced up to facts, he was exhausted, existing on will power alone. He wished Shey would sit back so he could fold against him again. 

“Speaking of dead men, I was thinking about Roper Crane and how Duke Nolan and his saddle pals crashed Rob’s reception.”

 

“Jackals, the lot.”

 

“Maybe not.” Briefly, Joe told him his thoughts regarding Shey’s beer and his own unexplained illness.

 

“Poison?” Shey’s brows shot into his bangs. Unable to restrain himself, he jerked to his feet, pacing off short, brisk strides. “I’ll kill the lot of ‘em! If those dungheaps are responsible for you bein’ sick there ain’t gonna be a town large enough in all of Nevada to hide ‘em. The cowardly, conniving, skunk-faced - -”

 

“Shey, it’s just an observation,” Joe said quickly. “I’m not even sure - -”

 

“It makes sense,” his friend countered before he could finish. “And it’s just the kind of stunt a pack of spineless vermin would pull. If Hoss finds that doctor we’ll know for certain.”

 

“Someone mention a doctor?” Adam asked as he stepped back into the circle of their camp. “Look who I found . . .”

 

Joe jerked his head in the direction of his brother’s voice. Even fatigued and feverish, he couldn’t halt a sudden flood of elation. He grinned, watching as Hoss and a brown-haired man trailed Adam into the camp. “Hoss!”

 

“You didn’t have to ride all the way out here to meet me, little brother.” With a gap-toothed smile, Hoss motioned the other man forward. “This here’s Doc Isaiah Shaw. Doc - - my brother Joe and his friend, Shey.”

 

“Skip the introductions,” Shey said quickly. “Joe’s fever is spikin’ again.”

 

The doctor had already moved forward to squat at Joe’s side. “I know this isn’t the best place for an examination, young man, but I understand you’re in pretty bad shape.”

 

Joe exhaled in relief. “I’ve had better days,” he agreed. 

 

With his brothers reunited and a doctor to help, he could almost believe sunrise and recovery were just around the corner.

 

***********

 

Shey stooped to retrieve the bloodied curl of rope from the saloon floor. Proof he’d been tied up and beaten by his uncle, proof the whole ugly night hadn’t been a dream. 

 

Lightning was slowly coming back to life, people returning in straggles and droves, riding horses and hauling buckboards behind them. The man who took over the registration desk at the hotel showed no sign that Gellar had even existed or that anything out of the ordinary had taken place. All around him, the town slowly revived like a bud opening to spring. The buildings no longer looked so battered, the furnishings no longer threadbare and worn. Everything sparkled with fresh life as if a storm had passed. Shey supposed in a way it had, and although people smiled and acknowledged him with pleasant greetings, he couldn’t summon the goodwill to do the same. The sooner they were out of Lightning, the better.

 

He’d learned Isaiah Shaw had already been headed back to town, camped just outside the perimeter of Lightning, when Hoss stumbled over him. According to Shaw, legend decreed the Storm Riders couldn’t leave the boundaries of the town itself, which explained why Amos and the others hadn’t chased them into the foothills. In the long run, Shey didn’t care one way or the other. All that mattered was Joe and his rapidly declining health.

 

With Hoss and Adam hovering over their younger brother, he’d retreated, surrendering the mantle of protector to family. Yet despite that enforced distance, he couldn’t stop worrying. Even when Isaiah had wanted to look at his ribs, he’d turned the doctor away, telling him to concentrate on Joe instead. It was only come dawn, when they were safely in the hotel that he’d allowed himself to be examined. 

 

There wasn’t much Shaw could do except treat his wounds and bind his ribs, offering a salve to speed the healing. Shey had taken it in stride, pointedly asking if Joe had been poisoned. When Hoss and Adam balked at the idea, Shey relayed Joe’s theory and all three men had looked to the doctor for confirmation. 

 

“It’s not consumption,” the doctor had told them. “Joe is young and otherwise healthy, and this illness came out of the blue. Given its behavior, I’m inclined to agree it’s a deliberate form of poisoning, likely an herbal derivative. Fortunately, it’s a novice, if painful attempt. Whoever did this was inept in the dosage or I fear Joseph would be dead. Despite the extreme discomfort he’s suffered, you should be thankful it wasn’t worse. In the hands of an experienced herbalist, the dosage might have been fatal.”

 

Shey fumed, realizing the deadly cocktail had been intended for him. Just another reason for Adam to think the worst of me.

 

Irritated, he’d taken to wandering the streets, but the pleasantly polite people of Lightning only grated on his nerves. Cowards, every single one of ‘em. Eventually, he’d returned to the hotel, pacing off the hours while his best friend tossed and turned, struggling in the grip of a raging fever. Unable to stand the waiting, Shey had sat at his bedside, bathing Joe’s face and chest with a water-drenched cloth every few minutes. He took turns with Adam and Hoss, spooning some foul elixir, supplied by the doctor, between Joe’s lips twice a day. And when his friend came close to consciousness, moaning in his sleep, Shey whispered comforting assurances, stroking his brow or his arm, no longer caring what other’s thought.

 

Two days after they returned to Lightning, Joe’s fever broke. On the fourth day, they took horses to the next town then caught the stage for Virginia City. By then Joe was alert, though he still tired easily and relied heavily on draughts of Shaw’s medicinal elixir to keep him functioning. The fact that he was on the mend and had stopped spitting up blood had Shey in good spirits. Isaiah Shaw had felt confident Joe would fully recover given time.

 

“Just make sure he finishes all the medicine I gave him,” the doctor had told the Cartwright brothers and Shey. “Regardless of how good he says he’s feeling, he needs to finish every drop.”

 

“I promise you, Doc, he’s gonna do that,” Hoss had vowed. Of the three of them, he was the most likely to get Joe to comply. Healthy, Joe would stubbornly butt heads with Adam and fluff off Shey, but Hoss was harder to dismiss, given he was twice Joe’s size.

 

Joe managed the return trip to Virginia City with minimal discomfort, stretching out on the seat or pillowing up against Shey when fatigue took its toll. Strange, Shey thought, how Adam and Hoss gradually took their closeness in stride. Stranger, he supposed, that he did too. In the beginning, his friendship with Joe had been tenuous at best, each adjusting to the new and unlikely relationship. Now, it felt ingrained in his blood.  

 

Which made it all the worse, knowing the wretchedly debilitating illness Joe endured had been intended for him. Duke had wanted to kill him, not Joe, but he’d muffed up the dosage which resulted in sickness instead.

 

Shey clenched his fists. 

 

He had every intention of settling the score with Nolan the first chance he had.

 

**********

 

Joe swallowed the foul-tasting elixir and set the bottle aside. He’d been back in Virginia City three days, his health almost back to normal. Two more days of Shaw’s abhorrent medicine and he’d be free of his twice-daily dosages. He still coughed on occasion, but the spasms were blood-free and his fever had departed with the night.

 

Seated by the fireplace, he luxuriated in the warmth of the hearth, the blaze of heat from the crackling logs a blissful tonic in itself. He could almost believe Lightning and the heinous events that occurred there just part of a bizarre dream.

 

Shey had been to see him once since returning, but for the last two days the blond rancher had been strangely absent, a fact that worked at Joe’s nerves. He regretted ever telling Shey his suspicions about Duke Nolan and poison, but Isaiah Shaw had basically confirmed it. Adam and Hoss had relayed the whole incident to Roy upon returning to Virginia City with Shey aggressively backing them up, but they had no concrete proof. Although Roy had questioned Nolan and his cohorts, there was little else he could do with all men denying any wrong doing.

Shey had cursed a blue streak, vowing to get at the truth.

 

It was that vehemence that worried Joe. Shey Cutter on a normal day was as unstable as nitro glycerin. Shey Cutter in a quarrelsome mood was a cataclysmic disaster waiting to happen.

 

He only prayed that when he finally did see his friend, Shey would still be in one piece.

 

************

 

“I seen rats with more scruples than you got, Nolan,” Shey said to the robust man in the red and black plaid shirt. Thick-limbed and squat, Nolan had a nose like a beet and short brown hair as coarse as a groomer’s brush. Shey had tracked him down in the livery stable as he was reading to leave town for the night, the setting sun oozing blood and antique brass through chinks in the walls. With the smoke of twilight settling behind him, Shey stepped into the barn and closed the door. “Surprised I’m still walkin’ around, snake?”

 

Turning from his horse, Nolan flecked him a black glare. “Whoever beat the shit outta you didn’t take it far enough. We’ve already been down this road with the sheriff. I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, but I sure wouldn’t have no complaints if’n someone helped you into the afterlife premature-like.”

 

“And you’d let some other jackal take credit for it?” Shey smirked. “Figures a dolt stupid enough to screw up poisonin’ would be stupid enough to let someone else take a bow for doin’ the deed. If’n I was gonna off the owner of a spread like the Circle C, I’d damn well make sure I got credit. Probably set me up with a whole new level of respect in a realm I couldn’t touch before - - gunmen and outlaws, men who pay dollar-for-dollar, blood-for-blood.”

 

“I already got that kinda respect.”

 

“Think again, Nolan. You’re uglier than a burnt boot and wearin’ a ten cent Stetson on a five cent head. The only respect comin’ your way is when someone yells “sueee” and points you to the slop.”

 

“Why you - -” Nolan reached for his gun.

 

Lightning-quick, Shey beat him to the draw. It was almost too easy getting the upper hand on a dimwitted thug like Nolan. All wind and talk, the man had reflexes as slow as molasses in January. Smiling sharply, Shey stepped closer, motioning with the barrel of his six-shooter. “Move away from that dumb animal.”

 

“I ain’t movin’ anywhere, Cutter.”

 

“I was talkin’ to your horse, asshole. Wouldn’t want it gettin’ sideswiped by mistake. But since you opened your trap, pull out our gun and toss it over here.”

 

A flush of ugly color crept up Nolan’s neck, seeping into his jaw and cheeks. It made his nose stand out like a beefsteak tomato. He flexed his hands, anger bristling in every inch of his stocky frame.

 

Shey’s mouth thinned, his mood shifting from mildly amused and baiting to restless and dangerous. “I ain’t gonna tell you again. I’m in a piss-poor mood and runnin’ short on patience. Now toss your gun over here ‘fore I decide to shoot it off your mangy hip. I pull this trigger, I just might muff up and turn you into a eunuch.”

 

Sobering at the thought, Nolan complied. 

 

When his gun hit the ground, Shey kicked it out of the way. “That’s better. Makes my finger less itchy on the trigger so you and I can talk.”

 

“I told you I ain’t got nuthin’ to say, Cutter.”

 

“Fine. Then shut up and listen.” Pausing deliberately, Shey cocked his head, studying the other man as if he were a steer on an auction block. “You got a lotta beef on you, Nolan. Probably wouldn’t do good to be carryin’ around all that weight with a bum leg. You ever seen a man when he’s only got one good leg? A cripple can’t rightly do much. Usually ends up in the gutter, beggin’ for coin, or emptying spittoons just to get by. See, I’m bettin’ if I pumped a couple of rounds into your kneecap, ain’t no sawbones ever gonna put you back together again.”

 

For the first time since Shey entered the barn, Nolan looked genuinely unnerved. Flustered, he wet his lips. “You can’t just shoot me! You can’t just - -”

 

“Sure can. I’m the one holdin’ the gun.” Shey’s smile was sharp and biting. “You mighta wanted to kill me with that poison, but you put Joe through hell. Ain’t no one touches Joe Cartwright, who don’t answer to me. By my reckonin’ you deserve a bullet for every day he suffered. I ain’t gonna kill you, sap, just cripple you. Then when you go whinin’ to the sheriff, it’ll be your word against mine. I already bought off your pal Saddler. He’s gonna give me an alibi and say I was with him on Blind Dog Trail when you got shot.”

 

“Saddler wouldn’t do that! He’s the one dumped the poison in your beer in the first place. If the stupid yokel woulda got the dosage right like I told him, we wouldn’t even be havin’ this discussion.”

 

“So you did try to kill me?”

 

“Hell, yes, and I’d do it again! I don’t rightly mind sainted Cartwright pukin’ his guts out - - the do-goodin’ whelp - - but I’d rather see you rollin’ around in the dirt, gaspin’ for breath. You killed Roper. Maybe I didn’t get it right at Rob’s reception, but ‘fore all is said and done, I’m gonna see you dead, Cutter.”

 

Shey smiled broadly. “That a good enough confession for you, Roy?” he called, angling his head over his shoulder. Behind him, the barn door slid open.

 

“That’ll do,” Roy Coffee confirmed, striding inside, gun drawn. 

 

Clem Foster followed a step behind. Without pausing, the deputy moved forward, briskly motioning Nolan toward the door. “All right, let’s go. You’re going to jail, Nolan. I don’t want any grief.” 

 

Shey watched with a grin of satisfaction as the squat man was ushered from the barn. “That’s one of three,” he said to Roy. “I’m willin’ to bet Nolan is gonna spill his guts and try to finger Saddler and Hank Marlin.”

 

“Sure enough,” Roy agreed, “But Clem and I will take care of it. You did your part, Shey. You got him to confess, which is more than we had before. Leave the rest to the law.”

 

“I wouldn’t dream of interferin’.” With a cocky grin, Shey holstered his gun and pushed his hat back on his head. “I’m just gonna ride out to the Ponderosa and visit Joe. Ain’t my fault if that trek takes me past Saddler’s place and he sticks his nose into it.”

 

“Shey - -” Roy warned.

 

Enjoying himself, Shey held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Innocent,” he insisted, but both men knew he was far from it.

 

************

 

Feeling better than he had in some time, Joe relaxed in a rocker on the porch, enjoying the fresh air. Twilight had settled in a pearl cloak on the horizon, blotting all but the faintest trace of red from the hills and mountains. The surrounding trees were tipped in cool blue and silver, a smoky mesh echoed in the sloping lines of the barn and the expansive bowl of the sky. Enjoying the view, he was surprised to see Shey ride around the barn.

 

His friend dismounted at the hitching post and looped Reno’s reins over the rail. He’d discarded his black duster somewhere, but looked just as wilted and disheveled as before, his gray pants and red shirt covered with patches of road grime. He wore a waist-length black jacket and black hat, each as dust-splattered as the other. There were new bruises on his face and his shirt was unbuttoned nearly to the waist, as if ripped open in a scuffle.

 

“Cartwright,” he called as way of greeting. “I didn’t expect to find you sittin’ out here, plum as a peacock. You must be feelin’ better.”

 

“The best in days,” Joe agreed as Shey folded into the rocker beside him. He studied his friend openly, concerned to note the fresh discoloration angled over Shey’s cheek. “You’re sporting some new bruises there, Boss. I thought we were done with trouble in Lightning?”

 

Shey shrugged. Kicking back in the rocker, he plopped his feet on a small table in front of him, crossing his legs at the ankles. “Just tyin’ up loose ends, Joseph.”

 

“Such as?”

 

If Joe were a betting man, he would have put money on Shey’s answer. Something told him his volatile friend hadn’t been sitting idle since they’d returned to Virginia City.

 

“Turns out Nolan and his weasely cohorts decided to confess after all. Sheriff Coffee has the lot of ‘em in jail.”

 

Joe sat straighter. The last he’d heard, Nolan had denied everything vehemently, insisting he’d merely gone to Rob’s reception to share well wishes with the groom. “Shey what’d you do?”

 

“What makes you think I did anything, Cartwright?”

 

“Because I know you, and patient you aren’t.”

 

Shey grinned. “Okay, I’ll give you that. Let’s just say when I confronted him, Nolan wised up and recanted his story. It just so happened, I had Roy Coffee in the wings, listenin’ to every word of that jackal’s sorry-assed confession.”

 

“Is that how you got those bruises?”

 

“These?” Shey touched one of the offending spots on his cheek. “Hell, no. Nolan was a pansy and never landed a touch on me. I got these educatin’ Stan Saddler and Hank Marlin on the finer points of friendship. Ain’t no jackrabbit puts you through Purgatory without crossin’ paths with me, Joseph. Those two yokels took a little more convincin’ than their pal, Nolan, but I beat the daylights out of ‘em and soon had them whinin’ to Sheriff Coffee about their part in the whole mess. All three of the snakes are in jail, waitin’ trial.”

 

Joe wasn’t certain if he should feel gratitude or frustration. Part of him marveled over Shey’s staunch loyalty and how his friend had doggedly gone after the men responsible for his illness. The other part was irked Shey had taken the matter into his own hands without any assistance. As crass and cocky as he’d been growing up, Shey still played lone wolf when the mood suited him.   

 

“You should have left it alone,” he countered, but there was no true conviction in the words. How did you stay irked with a man who placed your welfare before his own? Growing up, he would have been the first to label Shey a bullying, sharp-tongued troublemaker. Now it was those very qualities - - his friend’s chameleon-like ease in shifting from rabble-rouser to respected rancher - - that made Joe appreciate him all the more.

 

“Nothin’ doin’, Cartwright. Jail ain’t enough for the scum. Not after what they did to you and what they put you through.”

 

Surprised, Joe looked at him steadily. “So it doesn’t bother you they tried to kill you? You’re more upset about what they did to me?”

 

Dropping his feet to the ground, Shey looked straight ahead and started to rock. “I thought you were gonna die, Joe,” he said quietly. “I don’t wanna think about that.”

 

Joe considered the set profile of his friend’s face. Shey’s expression was hard, his gaze turned resolutely on the horizon. He’d obviously gotten himself in a tussle with Saddler and Marlin but he’d come out on top, vindicated when the other two men, along with Nolan, had ended up in jail. He could have let the whole matter go and surrendered the outcome to the law, but his friendship with Joe had propelled him to go after the truth.    

 

“I’m going to be fine, Shey,” he assured. “I have you and Adam and Hoss to thank for that. I didn’t need you to go on a one man quest for revenge.”

 

Shey shot him a sideways glance. “Shows how much you know, Cartwright. Before we were friends, revenge woulda been the first thing on my mind, but you’ve done corrupted me with all your fine, upstandin’ morals. I didn’t go after Nolan and his cronies for vengeance. I went after them for justice. You taught me that difference.”

 

Joe looked at him, startled. There was a day Shey Cutter wouldn’t have cared about that difference, but that Shey didn’t exist any longer. The man who sat beside Joe on the porch might look as rough around the edges as always, his long hair disheveled and ragged, but his morals were far from scruffy. Over the last year and a half, he’d grown as a man, a person, and most especially a friend.

 

Joe flashed a quick smile. “Thanks, Boss.” He paused. “. . . for everything.”

 

Shey snorted, fluffing the observation aside. “Don’t get sappy, Cartwright. Just get your hind end back in gear, so we can have some fun in town. Hittin’ the saloon ain’t near as entertainin’ when it’s a solo run.”

 

“Is that all you think about?”

 

“Hell, no.” Shey stood, clapping his hands to his sides. “All that fightin’ works up an appetite. Think your Pa can squeeze me in for dinner?” 

 

Joe grinned, enjoying the thought of his friend spending the night. “I think we can make the exception, Shey.” Standing, he clapped his friend on the back. “You’re always welcome at the Ponderosa. You’re like part of the family.”

 

“I ain’t so sure Adam would agree with that.”

 

Laughing, Joe slung his arm around his friend’s neck and steered him toward the house. “Sure he would. Every family has a black sheep.”

 

“Wolf,” Shey corrected, falling in step beside him. “Ain’t no sheep involved when my name’s attached.”

 

“You got that right, Boss. But for a friend, you’re pure gold.”

 

 

*****End*****

 

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