Betrayal

by Kate

"Hey, Hoss."  Joe Cartwright tossed the coil of tightly corded rope onto the back of the buckboard and dusted his hands together.  The wide brim of his felt hat cast a wedge of shadow over the upper portion of his face, muting the luminous glitter of his green eyes.  He nodded across the wagon at his brother.  "I'm gonna go settle up with Linden while you finish loading the rest of that stuff."

"Huh?"  Hoss frowned as he looked at the small menagerie of items still waiting to be packed into the rear of the wagon: two fifty pound sacks of potatoes; a pile of coarse wool blankets; half a dozen oil lanterns; tack and wire for fencing; an assortment of crates containing various sundries requested by Hop-Sing.  "Come on, Joe . . ." Reaching down, Hoss hooked his fingers through the handles of all six lanterns.  Hefting them easily, he placed them behind the seat, ignoring the metallic clang they emitted, as they jangled together.  "Help me finish and we'll both settle with Linden." 

But Joe was already walking away.  With a backwards flip of his hand, he tossed Hoss a smile and quickly sprinted around the side of the General Store.  Dry dust from the alley waffled in small eddies, disturbed by the scuffed soles of his boots.  The powdery substance was tenacious, clinging to his slate gray pants, and creating a splatter-effect over the hem.  With an easy stride, Joe stepped lightly onto the raised boards outside the store and moved towards the doorway.  He was halfway across the threshold when he spied a familiar buggy parked around the corner.  Though the vehicle was empty, Joe felt his pulse quicken. 

"Thank you Mr. Linden, I'll wait."   

Joe heard her voice before he saw her.  It was darker inside the store, cool shadow blending with the smokey haze of later afternoon.  Sunlight slanted through the doorway at his back, trapping a cluster of dust motes in a beam of mustard gold.  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer surroundings.  His nose crinkled at the musty odor permeating the store--a smell reminiscent of wet leaves and old paper.  Hesitating on the threshold, he watched the woman at the counter.   

It had been almost a month since he'd last seen Lorna David.  Her long ebony hair was pulled back in a simple braid, secured by a lavender ribbon. A soft white blouse and fawn-colored skirt completed the outfit.  Though everything about her was sedate and unassuming, Joe found that very aspect oddly beguiling.  As Linden disappeared in the back, he walked slowly forward.  Lorna was half turned from him, idly inspecting a bolt of fabric on the wooden counter.  Joe lowered his eyes as he watched her slim fingers skim over the powder blue material.  "Hello, Lorna." 

"Oh!"  Wrapped in her own thoughts, Lorna David gave a guilty start.  "Joseph."  The name tangled on her tongue, dispelled with the shock of being caught unaware.  An awkward moment ensued.  Joe tipped his hat. 

"I haven't seen you in a while," he said evenly. 

"N-no."  Lorna plucked nervous fingers against the high collar of her pristine white blouse.  A nervous chuckle slipped from her lips.  "I don't get to the Ponderosa much any more, since Adam and I . . ." Once again the words tangled.  She cleared her throat.  "How are you feeling?" 

The change of topic was as awkward as the unsettled air between them.  Though Adam and Lorna had ended their relationship on good terms, Joe knew Lorna was still uneasy about the reason for its conclusion.  He also knew that since that relationship had ended, he'd been doing his best to deny his feelings for the woman his brother had almost married.  A woman who was a decade older than him, not to mention the widow of a notorious gunslinger.  At twenty-two, Joe was by no means naive, but he wasn't accustomed to courting women of Lorna's age, nor her somewhat checkered past. 

Joe propped an elbow against the counter.  "Lorna, it's been over a month since I took that bullet." An easy grin warmed his lips when he saw her eyes drop.  "Don't look so uncomfortable.  I've been shot before."  Though he could joke about it now, it'd been no laughing matter when Ben had tied him down, and dug Frank McCay's .38 caliber slug from his side. 

Lorna looked away.  "I still feel responsible." 

"Hey."  Lightly, Joe touched her arm.  She turned her head, glancing back over her shoulder, limpid eyes rising to his face.  Joe swallowed hard.  He could feel the cool linen of her blouse beneath his fingertips; smell the soft scent of rose-water clinging to her silky hair.  Dry-mouthed, he tried to silence his attraction for her.  "I thought we put all this behind us." 

Pulling her arm away, Lorna shook her head.  She clutched her blouse where his hand had rested, as though trying to banish the memory of his touch.  "I-I have to go."  

Joe heard the distress in her voice. "Lorna, wait." 

But she pushed past him, head bent as she hurried out the door.  

"Here you go, Miss David."  Ross Linden re-emerged from the back carrying a pair of cutting shears.  His eyes skimmed the store, then settled on Joe.  "Oh.  Hello, Joe."  Linden strode to the counter.  "You didn't happen to see Miss David, did you?  She wanted these shears."   

Joe slumped against the counter, trying not to let his frustration show.  "Sorry, Ross, she just left." 

"Hmm.  That's odd.  She seemed pretty set on needing them.  Said she lost her old pair." 

Joe straightened.  "I'm headed out that way.  Wrap them up and I'll take them for her." 

With a sideways glance, Ross Linden tilted his head.  Like most everyone else in Virginia City, he'd heard rumors about the youngest Cartwright and Miss David--quieted now, that the days had grown into weeks and new gossip rose to take its place.  "Sure you want to do that?" 

Joe grew exasperated.  "I just said I would, didn't I?  Now, come on--I want to settle my account.  Hoss and I have to get back to the ranch."  Reaching inside his jacket, Joe withdrew his wallet.  "How much do I owe you?" 

With an envious glance for the wad of paper money fattening Joe's billfold, Ross reached for a pencil and pad.  "Give me a minute." 

Frowning, Joe moved away.  The plank boards creaked beneath his feet, protesting like dry timbers in a crisp wind.  Unable to shake the encounter with Lorna David, Joe felt his frustration grow.  For weeks now they'd been avoiding one another, carefully denying their mutual attraction.  And Joe was certain it was mutual.  He'd seen the effect he'd had on Lorna.  For his part, ever since he'd defended her against Brian Lancaster, he'd been unable to court another woman.  The interest just wasn't there.  Every time he tried to flirt with one of the girls he'd sparked before, he found himself comparing her to Lorna. *Just admit it, Joe--the woman's got you hooked.* 

It was an uncomfortable feeling, causing him to squirm momentarily.  Fortunately, Linden's pronouncement that the bill was ready saved him from further discomfort.  Joe settled with the store owner, then had Linden wrap the shears in a sheaf of brown paper and secure the package with string.  Tucking the parcel beneath his arm, Joe headed for the buckboard. 

"You settle things?"  Hoss asked, when he saw his brother round the corner of the building.  He'd just put the last crate in the wagon and had been ready to go in search of his younger brother. 

Joe answered with a clipped nod. Wordlessly, he climbed into the buckboard.  A moment later, Hoss followed suit, taking a seat beside him and collecting the reins.   

"Hey, what's that?"  he asked, with a nod for the package in Joe's hand. 

"Nothing."  Joe set the item on the floorboard and shoved it beneath the seat. "Get going, will you?  We've got to get this wagon unloaded before dinner." 

The tight tone of Joe's voice made Hoss realize his temperamental younger brother had suddenly shifted gears.  Though he'd been moody and quiet of late, Joe had loosened up on the ride to town, talking easily with his brother.  Now it seemed he was withdrawing once again, re-erecting familiar walls.  Hoss gave the reins a practiced flick and the horse lurched forward, drawing the wagon behind it.  "Sure hope Hop Sing's got somethin' good fixed for dinner," he said conversationally.  "I'm plum starved." 

Joe grunted in reply.   

Frowning, Hoss ducked his head and hunched down further in the seat. It was going to be a long ride home. 

**** 

Ben Cartwright glanced up from his plate as he worked his knife through a piece of lean beef.  "Did you take care of that telegram to Milo Caine?" he asked his eldest son across the dinner table.  At his side, Hoss plopped a mound of mashed potatoes on his plate and smiled appreciatively at the sound it made.   

"Hey, Joe.  Pass me that there bread." 

Adam watched as the bread plate exchanged hands. "Sent it off this morning, Pa.  Told him we were interested in bidding--particulary on that black stud horse--and would have a representative at the auction."  Pausing, he glanced aside at Joe who sat quietly, contemplating the mostly untouched food on his plate.  Adam cleared his throat, before continuing.  "By the way--I saw Amos Cutter while I was in town." 

"Oh?"  Ben's brows crinkled in an annoyed frown.  Setting the knife aside, he shifted his fork to his right hand.  "What did he want?" 

Adam shrugged.  "The usual.  Said he'd up his price on that parcel of land he wants by five thousand dollars." 

"I don't care if he ups it twenty, it's not for sale."  Ben's voice was suddenly withering.  Hoss stopped chewing long enough to glance at his father and Ben noted both he and Adam were watching with wary expressions.  Exhaling sharply, Ben sat back in his chair.  "I don't mean to be short, but Cutter needs to learn when I say 'no' to a proposal, I mean no." 

Hoss scraped his fork over his plate using his potatoes to sop up gravy.  "Why do you think he wants it so much, Pa?  That land ain't worth nothin'." 

"Maybe not by itself," Adam inserted before his father could comment.  "But Cutter's trying to work a deal with the Thistlecreek Mine.  He'd save a lot of time and expense if he had that parcel, rather than hauling timber by way of the Firebox Trail." 

"If he can't turn the timber around fast enough," Ben continued, "Thistlecreek will go elsewhere.  Unfortunately for Cutter, that section of the Ponderosa supplies the only direct access to the mine, while still bordering his land." 

Hoss looked thoughtful, then his eyes flicked across the table to Joe.  "Say, Joe--don't your friend Mitch Campbell work for Cutter?" 

Joe glanced up to discover three pairs of eyes watching him expectantly.  He flushed slightly, for he hadn't truly been listening. "I'm sorry, Hoss.  What'd you say?" 

"Mitch Campbell," Hoss repeated.  "Don't he work for Amos Cutter on the Circle C?" 

Joe nodded.  "Couple months now.  He's one of the cowhands." 

"Wages must be good," Adam said dryly.  Picking up his fork he glanced again at Ben.  "Pa, getting back to the telegram--you want me to go to the auction and bid?   I've got a couple days free and--" 

"Hey, wait a minute," Joe said, showing the first signs of interest all evening.  "I'd like to do that for Pa.  Besides, if we're going to purchase a stud horse, I think I should have some say in it.  I seem to recall that part of the ranch operation belonging to me." 

Ben propped his elbows on the table and laced his hands together.  "He's right, Adam.  It does belong to him."  Ben turned his head slightly and regarded his youngest son. "You'd have to leave tomorrow.  Ridgeville's a long ride with at least two nights on the trail." 

"I know that." 

"Why don't you take the stage?" Ben suggested gently. 

Joe made a face.  "Pa, come on--I can get there a lot quicker on horseback." 

"You're going to be there for a few days, Joe.  You're going to need more luggage then you can carry on horseback. Besides, I owe Milo some gear.  You can take it for me." 

"Yes, Sir."  Sighing, Joe fell back against his chair.  He knew his father really didn't have anything to send Milo, he just wanted Joe to have the added protection of the stage line.  Though it had been almost six weeks since Joe's encounter with Frank McCay and Kent Rudy, Ben still hovered protectively when it came to his son's safety.  Digging that bullet from Joe's side had affected him more than it had Joe.  Though normally he would have argued the point, Joe let it drop.  He still had the shears to return to Lorna, and he was anxious to see her. 

Dropping his fork onto his plate, he pushed back from the table.  He'd barely touched his food.  "I've got some things to do in town.  Excuse me." 

Ben nodded, resisting the urge to remind him to be careful.  When the front door had closed signaling Joe's departure, Hoss gave a one-shouldered shrug.  "That's about as talkative as he's been since we left town.  I swear, Pa, he's as fickle as a cool wind on a hot day." 

"Well, Hoss, he's been through a rough ordeal." 

"It ain't that," Hoss scoffed.  "All you gotta do is look at him, and you can see he's actin' like a moonsick calf.  He's done stuck on that Lorna David and he don't know what to do about it.  Mostly because he don't want to admit it."  Hoss glanced sideways at Adam.  "You should talk to him." 

"Not me."  Adam held up his hands.  "Lorna and I ended our relationship weeks ago.  He's got to sort things out for himself." 

"Yeah, well I hope it's soon."  Hoss reached for the potatoes and plopped another mound on his plate, then reached for the platter of beef.  Ben watched, leaning back in his chair.  A faint sliver of anxiety danced at the edge of his nerves.  Perhaps the trip to Ridgeville would be good for Joe.  It would give him a chance to distance himself from Lorna and the things that had happened involving Rudy and McCay.  Though he didn't talk about it, Ben knew that trauma had to have effected him as well.  The trip might be just what Joe needed to put his emotions in perspective.   

Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Ben tried to relax.  His eyes settled pensively on Adam.  His eldest son had broken things off with Miss David, but how would he really feel if Joe started courting her? Ben sighed. 

He was convinced no good would come of the situation. **** 

Lorna started at the knock on her front door.  Dinner behind her, she'd just settled down to work on a dress alteration for the Widow Clark.   Frowning slightly, she set the garment on the couch and crossed to the door, drawing it wide.  

"Joe."  Lorna felt her heart lurch to her throat.  Joe Cartwright was the last person she expected to see.  He hadn't been back to her home since the incident involving Lancaster and McCay.  Though she'd seen him in town just a few hours ago, the shock of seeing him now--here in her home--left her momentarily bewildered.    

"May I come in?"  Joe asked.  

Quickly she sought to regain her composure.  Wordlessly she stood aside, granting him room to enter.   

Joe stepped past her and removed his hat.  "You forgot these when you left the store."  He offered the package Mr. Linden had wrapped earlier that day. "It's the cutting shears you wanted."  

Lorna wet her lips.  "Thank you."  Closing the door, she crossed to the table and set the package aside.  It gave her an excuse to keep her back turned.  Her hands trembled and she realized she was afraid to look at him--afraid she might glimpse the same emotion in his eyes, she felt welling in her heart. "Would you like some coffee?"  she asked.  It was force of habit, nothing more--a courtesy she hoped he wouldn't accept.  

Joe tossed his hat on the couch.  She felt him move nearer.  "I want to talk to you."   

Lorna glanced down, allowing her fingers to rest on the tabletop.  Strings of darker grain bled through the polished wood like ripples in a stream.  She smoothed her index finger over one undulating wave, needing the distraction to calm her racing heart.  She could feel him hovering at her back, the air crackling between them like dry heat on a summer day.   

"Lorna."  Joe caught her arm and tugged her gently about.  Against her will, her eyes were drawn upward to his face.  The ride had left him disheveled and slightly winded, and she realized belatedly, he had yet to regain his full strength.  Sweat-damp curls hung ragged over his collar, begging to be smoothed into place.  Most disturbing of all, his lips were parted, his eyes veiled by soft lashes as he gazed down at her.  

"Joe, please."  His touch blistered with heat and she tried to draw away.  Her eyes dropped to his chest and she noticed the top three buttons of his shirt were undone, the open fabric creating a deep "v". "You shouldn't have come here," she said with effort.  

Joe's fingers had started a slow, soft massage against her arm.  "We need to talk."  

Panicked by the surge of emotion his touch induced, Lorna pulled away.  "Joe, please just leave."  

"Why?"  She saw the sudden spark of anger in his eyes; felt her heart thrum against her ribs when he took a step forward.  "Lorna, I'm not going to play this game anymore."  

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said quickly, but the lie was evident in her eyes.  For a moment she was tempted to banish the restraints--he was young and handsome, and there was no denying the effect he had on her.  Yet each time she contemplated surrendering, she flashed back to an image of him tied to her bed, while his father cut into him with a knife.  She could still see the blood, ruby-red on Ben's hands, falling like fat dollops of rain against the milk- white sheets . . . hear the tortured rattle of Joe's breath; the pained plea of his screams.  Overcome by the memory, Lorna fell back against the table, gripping the scarred edge with trembling hands.  

"Lorna, what's wrong?"  Stepping forward, Joe touched her lightly on the shoulder.  Mutely, she shook her head.  "Lorna, please."  Joe lifted his hand, cupping her cheek.  A few strands of ebony hair had worked free from her braid and lay clinging to her face. With a gentle sweep of his hand, Joe smoothed the stray tresses into place.  His touch lingered, then fell away, the fiery path of his fingers dipping to her neck.  He lowered his head slightly and she felt his hair brush against her temple.  His arm slipped around her waist, coaxing her nearer, and Lorna found herself obeying.  She pressed against him and felt a delicious warmth cascade through her.  

"No . . ." One last feeble plea, and then his lips were on hers, coaxing her mouth apart beneath the velvety intrusion of his tongue.  Lorna gasped and tried to withdraw, but Joe's hands only urged her nearer, melding her body to his.  She could feel the hard plane of his chest, the muscled line of his thigh--the scent of him like desert and pine, tangled with the sweet, heady musk of sweat.  Lorna's head was spinning.  Despite her resolve to the contrary, she wilted in his embrace.  Raising her arms, she twined her fingers in the luxurious curls of his hair, the strands like silk beneath her fingertips.  One hand slid down his cheek, encountering the rough stubble of day-old beard.  Gripping his chin, she moved her mouth against his, the feelings she'd kept restrained for so long, tumbling free. Growing bolder, she skimmed her tongue over the outside of his mouth.  

Joe groaned, his breath coming faster as her lips slid across his cheek and dipped to his neck.  Lorna lowered one hand, allowing the fingers to caress his throat before slipping inside his shirt.  She could feel his heart thrum against her fingertips, the rapid pulse an enticement that beckoned her further.  Her hand skimmed across his chest, lightly grazing the nipple.  

"God, Lorna."  Joe hooked his arms around her waist and pulled her tighter.  He could feel the growing discomfort in his pants, attesting to how badly he wanted her.   He couldn't recall ever wanting a woman as much as he wanted Lorna. *As Adam had wanted her.*  

The thought came from nowhere, dousing his ardor with a wave of icy water.  Joe gasped, wrenching backwards.  He saw the wounded confusion in Lorna's eyes, and winced inwardly.  His arms were still tangled about her waist.  

"Joe, what's wrong?"  

"Nothing." He shook his head, vainly trying to quell the image of the woman he loved in his brother's arms.  

Lorna tried to pull away.  

"Don't."  His voice threatened to crack.  Recovering, Joe bent his head and lightly brushed his lips against hers.  

"This isn't going to work," Lorna murmured, but made no effort to withdraw.   Leaning into him, she rested her head against his chest.  "Joe, you're so young."  

Propping his chin on the top of her head, he moved his hands up her back.  "That didn't bother you a moment ago."  

She laughed softly, then drew back to gaze into his eyes.  "The more fault mine than yours.  Joe, my life is far too complex."  

"I know about your life," he said quickly.  "I know about Del.  About the Lancasters.  About how you survived when you left Texas."  

She shook her head, a haunted expression in her eyes.  "You don't know all of it."  

"I don't care.  I just . . ." Raising his hand, Joe traced a finger lightly against her bottom lip.  "Lorna, I've fallen in love with you."  

This time she did pull away.  Turning her back, she lowered her head.  She could feel the tide of conflicting emotion within her--the desire to have him near, to feel his warm flesh next to hers, and the reality that it would never work.  Miserably, she knotted her hands together.  "You'd better leave."  

Joe stared at her back.  The rebuke was mild, but it stung all the same.  "I'm taking the stage to Ridgeville tomorrow.  I'll be gone for almost two weeks.  We'll settle this when I get back."  

"There's nothing to settle."  

Joe's eyes narrowed.  "Oh, I think there is."  Leaning forward he hooked his arm around her waist and drew her back against him.  Surprised, Lorna gave a startled cry, both hands dropping instinctively to his arm.  Her fingers curled against his sleeve, her mind careening out of control.   She could feel the rough edge of his gunbelt pressed to her hips, the buckle digging into her lower back.  His hand splayed over her stomach, pinning her in place. "I'll be back by the end of next week," Joe whispered, his voice husky.  His lips dipped near her ear, and she felt the warm trickle of his breath against her cheek.  

Lorna closed her eyes, willing herself not to respond. His arm fell away and he released her.   With a guilty flush, Lorna turned and drank in the sight of him, watching as he collected his hat and moved towards the door.  

Joe's lips parted in a dazzling grin, revealing the even white line of his teeth.  "'Night, Lorna." A moment later the door closed behind him, emitting a soft swish as it fell into place.   

Trembling, she sank into the nearest chair.  "I won't let this happen."  She said the words aloud, as if somehow that would convince her--as if in giving voice to the situation, she would find the will to control it.  Slipping a hand into the pocket of her skirt, she withdrew a folded slip of paper.  The parchment rustled as she smoothed it back with her thumb.  Her eyes skimmed over the scrawled lines in the missive, settling near the bottom of the letter:  . . . *stage from Ridgeville on the 19th, should be in Virginia City by the 21st.*   

Lorna's mouth tightened as the time frame struck home:  the end of next week.  Her visitor would be arriving in Virginia City on the same stage as Joe.  

*** 

Joe pushed open the swinging doors to the Silver Dollar and stepped inside.  It was a Thursday night, and the saloon was filled near capacity.  A fluctuating mesh of voices and laughter created a comfortable din, as inviting as it was loud.  Stepping to the bar, Joe ordered a beer, then stood back to survey the room.  The usual assortment of cowpokes and miners clustered at the circular tables and bar--some already deep in the oblivion of alcohol, others just beginning the familiar ride.   

"Hey, Joe!"   

Mitch Campbell was seated at a table to the rear.  With an acknowledging wave, Joe pushed through the thick throng, feeling the jostling press of bodies.  Halfway through the crowd, he felt a feminine hand glide across his stomach, lightly skimming the top of his belt.  Joe grinned crookedly at the flirtatious advance of the red-haired bar maid, but otherwise never slowed his path.  

"How's it going, Mitch?"  

Mitch shifted uncomfortably.  He was in the middle of a poker hand, and had obviously run out of cash.  Joe glanced from the pot in the center of the table, to the somber faces of the other three players. Lifting his beer mug to his lips, Joe took a swallow of the lukewarm ale.  "Looks like you're running a little low on funds there, pal." He nodded at the glaringly empty space in front of Mitch.   

His friend wet his lips.  "How 'bout staking me, Joe?"  

"I don't know."  

"Come on, Joe, I can't lose."  Leaning back in the chair, Mitch flashed his hand at Joe, revealing a straight.   

"You bettin' or ain't you?"  a stocky man with thinning brown hair asked.  Seated across from Mitch, his face bore a high flush of color, indicating he was either intoxicated or growing angry.  Joe glanced at the almost full whiskey bottle at his elbow and decided it was the latter.   

"How much you need?"  he asked Mitch, withdrawing his wallet.  

"Fifty should do."  Mitch's eyes gleamed at the cash, Joe produced so effortlessly.  Tossing the bills in the pot, he called the hand, and laid his cards on the table.  There were grumbles and grunts, but in the end he took the winnings, raking the money close with a wide grin.  Joe's fifty was returned with a flourish.  "Thanks, pal.  You came by at just the right time."  

"One of these days you're going to be too far in the hole, Mitch." Joe caught his friend by the arm, and steered him towards the bar.  "Come on, I'll buy you a beer."  

"Hell, Cartwright, you're not the only one with money!"  Mitch grinned as he tucked his newly acquired winnings inside his shirt.  "I'm buying."  

"Sounds good to me." As Joe moved away, he was unaware of the two men in the far corner who watched his movements.   

"Ben Cartwright's whelp," Amos Cutter muttered to his foreman.  Corn-gold eyes narrowed as he watched the two friends move towards the bar.  "Mitch Campbell's pretty close with that kid, isn't he?"  

Wade Anderson shrugged.  "Tight enough that Cartwright's bailed him out of a few scrapes."  

"Oh?  How do you mean?"  

Anderson downed a shot of whiskey, then reached for the bottle in the center of the table.  Glass clicked against glass as he poured a jigger of the topaz liquid.  "Mitch likes to gamble, but he ain't really good at it.  He's dug himself kind of deep before, and Cartwright's bailed him out."  Anderson smirked as he raised the glass to his mouth.  "You can bet old Ben doesn't know his son's done that."  

Digesting the information, Cutter leaned back in his chair, neatly steepling his fingers together.  His gaze hovered on the two young men at the bar, his expression intent.  For a moment he said nothing, then a slow, relishing smile spread over his mouth. "I think we should invite Mr. Campbell to a high-stakes poker game.  An evening at home with the regular gents."  

Wade practically choked on his whiskey.  "Mr. Cutter, that kid doesn't have the kind of money for that type of game."  

"Exactly.  It could be useful to have him indebted to me.  Give him a bonus so his pockets are full, then wait a day and invite him to the house.  And just so it doesn't look odd, invite one or two of the other hands. Tell them I want a better relationship with my crew."  Cutter chuckled and waved a hand in snide dismissal.  "Or make up some tawdry explanation on your own.  Either way, I'll make sure I have a game set up to entertain us."

Anderson blinked, unable to follow the logic behind the move.  "Why?"  

Frowning, Cutter shook his head.  "You got rocks for brains, Anderson?  Didn't I just tell you, Campbell could prove useful?"  Disgusted, he blew air through his fleshy lips and reached for his whiskey glass.  "Now what about Shey?  When's he due back?"  

Inching forward, Anderson licked his lips, eager to make up for his lapse.  "The twenty-first. He's comin' in on the stage from Ridgeville right after the auction."  

"Good. I understand there's a black stud at the auction that should do the Circle C proud.  My nephew has a keen eye for breeding stock.  If that horse is anything it's rumored to be, he'll make sure we get it." With a savoring glance, Cutter's hooded eyes returned to the bar.  He lifted his glass in mock salute.  "If I can't take land from Ben Cartwright, I'll make damn sure I take everything else."  His lips thinned over his teeth and he drained the glass in a single gulp.  "Including his son." **** 

The noon sun inched ever higher in the sky--a mustard yellow ball, pinned in a field of cloudless blue.  Ben squinted at the shimmering orb, then glanced aside at Joe.  His son had been a knot of tightly leashed energy all morning--unusually anxious to be away, as though something nipped at his coattails.  Watching his young son shuffle from foot to foot, Ben had a fairly good idea of what that something was.  

Both men started at the loud rumble of the stage, as it appeared suddenly on the streets of Virginia City.  A team of four horses preceded the massive coach, their harness and reins jangling with each thunderous step.  Clouds of dust spewed in the air, kicked into existence by the resounding strike of shod hooves. For a moment, as the stage rounded the corner, the coach  appeared top-heavy--a lumbering box teetering on spindle-thin wheels.  The illusion passed and the vehicle righted itself, coming to halt before the two men.  Ben caught his son's arm and pulled him aside.  

"Joseph, I need to speak with you."  

The restrained energy tugged visibly at Joe.  He glanced from the stage to his father.  "Pa, I've got to go."  

"In a minute.  It'll be a while until they unload, then tie up the new luggage.  You sure you have everything for Milo?"  

Joe tried not to appear annoyed.  "Yes, Sir."  He didn't understand why his father was sending so much stable gear to his old friend--except as a convenient excuse to force his son into taking the stage.  Pressing his lips together, Joe brought his restlessness under control.  "What is it, Pa?"  

Ben tried not to let his uneasiness show.  His youngest son still tired easily and Ben didn't like the thought of having him so far from home.  He noted almost distractedly that his son had gotten a haircut within the last few days.  Softly shorn locks fell against Joe's neck and collar, still too long for Ben's taste, yet somehow making him seem younger.  "Joe, you're going to be gone for awhile, and it might be a good idea to use that time for matters other than the auction."  

Suddenly suspicious, Joe tilted his head.  "I don't follow you."  

Ben drew a breath.  The afternoon air was warm and abrasive, scratching his lungs like sandpaper. "You've been through an ordeal recently, and it could be affecting you . . . well, in ways you don't realize.  I want you to think about this situation with Miss David."

"Pa there is no situation."   

Ben could see the quick flare of suppressed anger in his son's expressive eyes.  "Joe, there is."  

Immediately, Joe grew defensive.  "I'm not going to discuss this.  We've been through it already-- weeks ago."  

"Yes, we have.  And since then, I think you've come to realize I was right--you do have feelings for the woman."  

"What if I do?"  Joe snapped, his annoyance slipping through, despite efforts to curb it.  "What if I told you, I loved her?  Would that be so terrible, Pa?"  Despite the bristling challenge in the words, there remained an uncertainty--a hidden plea for Ben's assurance that Joe couldn't mask.  Disgusted, he placed his hands on his hips and glanced away.  

"Joseph--" Ben tried to gauge the level of his son's volatile emotions.  "I'm not condemning either of you, but I am saying there's a lot to consider.  She's a good deal older than you--"  

Joe's eyes skewed sideways.  "And that should matter?"  

"There's more," Ben continued.  "She's been married before.  Her husband was . . . well . . . thus far she's managed to keep her past under wraps, but--"  

"Pa, you're not telling me anything I don't already know," Joe snapped, clearly hostile.  

"Then what about Adam?"  Ben demanded, his own patience wearing thin.  

"What about him?"  

"Have you considered how he'll feel?"  

"Pa, what was between Adam and Lorna has been over for weeks.  He told me so himself."  

"Yes, I know he told you, but that doesn't make the situation any less awkward."  

Joe raised his hands and turned away, clearly at a loss.  Ben could see the ridge of muscle constrict across his shoulders; the sudden tick of annoyance in his smooth cheek.   

"Little Joe."  The pet name had the desired effect.  Joe's eyes returned reluctantly, his expression still surly.  It was that flinty gaze that made Ben realize he didn't want to part on bad terms.  Stepping forward he laid his hand on his son's shoulder, the fingers tightening in an affectionate grip.  "Let's not argue, Joe.  You'll be gone too long as it is."

"Pa, it's only two weeks."  

Ben smiled, sensing the crack in his son's armor.  Behind him he could hear the stage master calling passengers to board.  "Guess that's your cue."   

"Yeah."  Joe was suddenly uncomfortable.  He'd been anxious to be away, but the argument made the parting seem odd, as though he left something unsettled behind.  Biting down on his bottom lip, he held out his hand.  "See ya, Pa."  

Ben's fingers curled around his son's black-gloved hand.  Raising his left hand, he gave a gentle squeeze to Joe's shoulder.  "Take care of yourself."  

Joe nodded, then sprinted quickly for the stage.  Sagging into the seat, he slid across to the far window, and hooked his arm over the rim.  A moment later another passenger boarded and took a seat beside him, effectively blocking his view of Ben.  With a sigh, Joe tilted his head back and stared at the roof of the carriage.  Two weeks.   

Ben wanted him to think about ending things with Miss David.  Joe wanted to think about marriage.

 ****  

The three day ride to Ridgeville was grueling.  The lumbering, jostling sway of the coach combined with the dry heat of the bordering desert to make life truly miserable. Narrow and winding, the road was festooned with potholes, each rut a beckoning invitation for the stage's stick-thin wheels.  A punishing afternoon was followed by a restless night at a way station.  The following morning, three additional passengers boarded from a connecting line, and the carriage became cramped for the duration of the trek.  On the second night, Joe endured a tasteless meal and wobbly cot--amenities he could easily have done with out.  By the time the bulky silhouette of Ridgeville appeared on the horizon, early the third day, he was only too thankful to put the stage behind him.  

Collecting his bags, he checked into the hotel, then set about locating Milo Caine.  His father's friend was to act as guide at the auction, providing any stray tidbits of information an out-of-town buyer may not have been privy to.  As Joe had suspected, Milo seemed surprised by the amount of gear Ben sent along with his son.   Appreciative over the gifts, Milo went out of his way to provide Joe with a detailed preview of the stock to be auctioned.  The horses were corralled in the center of town, with stats posted on a board nearby.  Milo rattled off a brief history on each, carefully pointing out the selling points of each individual animal.  "The roan's a dobbin, but the buttermilk would make a good peg pony.  That eel stripe's been Indian broke and the California sorrel's, prime for a steer horse."   

Joe nodded, listening, as his eyes roamed over the shuffling herd.  The air was thick with the pungent odor of horse and trampled earth; the reek of excrement and the burnt redolence of straw.  As expected, the black was the best of the bunch, but there was a nice claybank Joe judged would make a superior cutting horse, and a dapple, which while raw, might be groomed for range work.  

Joe spent the afternoon with Milo, and at his friend's insistence, had dinner with Milo's family.  Alone, later that evening, he wandered to the saloon, intent on a beer or two before retiring.  The auction brought buyers aplenty, and Joe found himself squeezed at the end of the bar.  He had just swallowed the lacy head off his beer, when a voice behind him drew his attention.  

"Well, well, well.  If it ain't Joe Cartwright, all the way from Virginia City."  

Surprised, Joe turned.  He was greeted by a casually dressed man, close to him in both age and build.  White-blonde hair framed a clean-shaven face, the pale tresses accentuating the whiskey- brown hue of the man's eyes.  As Joe watched, the newcomer's lips lifted in an insolent grin.  "A little far from home, aren't you, pup?"  

Joe ignored the jibe.  Taking another swallow of beer, he turned back to the bar.  "I could say the same about you, Cutter.  It's obvious why we're both here."  

"Hmm.  Got that right."  Shey Cutter stepped to the bar, elbowing into a spot beside Joe.  "Sure hope Daddy gave you his wallet, 'cause you ain't gonna outbid me on that black."  

"Who says I'm interested in the black?"  

Shey snorted.  "Come on, Cartwright.  That horse is the best in the string and you know it.  Tell me you've haven't already staked it for a Ponderosa stud?"  

Joe rolled his shoulders.  "Maybe."  He could feel Shey's eyes on him, quietly measuring.  It was a game they'd played most of their life.  Only months apart in age, they'd spent their youth in the same circle of friends and peers, mostly as rivals.  Shey's father had owned the second largest ranch in Nevada.   While only half the size of the Ponderosa, the Circle C was nonetheless a formidable holding.  When Shey's father had died four years ago, running of the ranch passed to his brother Amos, rather than Shey, who had been deemed too young at the time.  Content to assume the position of heir--Shey was to inherit full title on his twenty-fifth birthday--the blonde- haired man often brandished his wealth and status like a rooster among hens.  Yet the one person he'd never been able to effectively bully was Joe Cartwright.  Over the years that failure had led to numerous encounters with fisticuffs, continuing a rivalry began in the Virginia City schoolhouse.  

"I'm gonna enjoy bidding against you." Shey smiled thinly, obviously fishing for a rise.  When Joe didn't answer, he turned around, bracing his back against the bar and hooking his elbows on the edge.  His beer glass hung loosely in his right hand, the amber liquid inching towards the rim.  "Pretty lively place, ain't it Cartwright?  Women, whiskey and cards.  A man could lose his poke right easy."   

"If he's a fool, maybe."  

Shey Cutter titled his head, his pale hair banner-bright, in the dusty haze of the saloon. Dark brows narrowed over his eyes. "You calling me a fool, pup?"  

Joe closed his eyes briefly.  Cutter seemed determined that the confrontation turn ugly.  Setting his beer glass aside, Joe leaned sideways into the bar.  "I'm not calling you anything, Shey, but you sure seem eager to pin that name on yourself.  Must fit pretty good."  He grinned as he said the latter--a small, derisive curl of his lips, as insulting as it was goading.  Joe saw the fierce flood of anger in the other's eyes and knew instinctively that he'd struck a nerve.  It was that furtive flicker of hostility that gave him the warning.  He ducked even as Shey swung.   

The stray punch flew over Joe's head and connected with a lantern-jawed miner leaning against the bar.  Joe didn't wait to see what happened.  He barreled forward, hooking Shey about the waist and carrying him to the floor.  With an angry grunt, the miner reciprocated, his fist waffling through the empty air where Shey had stood.  The blow snagged a bearded cowboy, cranking his head sharply to the side.  

Joe meanwhile, scuffled with Shey.  He drove his fist into the other's face--once, twice--before being propelled off him.  Joe tumbled head over heels and collided with the wall, his shoulder smacking painfully against the baseboard.  He could hear the sounds of the fracas behind him, as it erupted into a full-fledge melee.  Someone he didn't know grabbed him and hauled him to his feet.  Almost immediately he felt knuckles scrape against his cheek, wrenching his head to the side.  Joe stumbled backwards, colliding with a table, nearly upending it.  Someone else grabbed his collar, but this time he got off the first punch.  He ducked a thrown chair and heard it batter the wall behind him.  An elbow clipped him in his injured side, and he grunted, bending double, as needles of pain skidded across his abdomen.  Drawing a breath, he tried to straighten.  He caught a  glimpse of the lantern-jawed miner and then a bottle cracked across the back of his neck, driving him to his knees.  He choked on the overpowering reek of whiskey.  Cold and wet, the spilled liquor trickled over his neck, seeping into his shirt.  The floor rose up to meet him, and he tumbled head first into the darkness. ****  

"Cartwright."  

The hand on his shoulder rattled him again.  Joe groaned, certain his head would roll off.  A blinding pain erupted at the base of his neck, insisting that he silence the abusive hand.  Weakly, he tried to push it away.  Strong fingers gripped his chin and drew his head up.  The pain in his neck traveled to his temples and splintered behind his eyes.  

"G'way . . ." he mumbled.  

"Come on, Cartwright."  

Groggily, he forced his eyes open, wincing as his vision see-sawed.  With concentrated effort, he narrowed a pain-dulled gaze on the owner of that torturous hand.  Shey Cutter exhaled noisily and sat back on his haunches.   

" 'Bout time.  It's like near to dawn.  If you wanna make the auction, you gotta bail us out of here quick."  

Joe swallowed uncomfortably.  He was lying on a cot, staring at the ceiling.  As his surroundings came into focus, he realized he was in a jail cell, the metal bars slanting long shadows across the dirty floor. Quickly, he sat forward, swinging his legs over the side of the cot in one fluid motion.  The movement induced a throbbing pain at the base of his skull, making him wish he'd stayed still.  Groaning, he dropped his head into his hands.  "What the hell am I doing in here with you, Cutter?"  

"I can answer that one," said a new voice.   

Joe lifted his head to see the sheriff of Ridgeville standing on the other side of the bars.  A tall man with skin like parchment, he had nut brown hair and a pencil-thin mustache. A glint of lamp- light danced on the five-pointed star pinned to his vest, kindling a glare from the battered tin.  

Joe licked his lips.  His clothing reeked of stale whiskey, the scent making his stomach turn.  "Sheriff?"  

"You boys were in a bit of a scuffle over at the Broken Bow."  

"There were a lot of folks in that scuffle," Shey Cutter said heatedly, striding towards the bars.   

"True.  But I have it from most everyone there, that you two started it."  

Joe hadn't moved.  "And?"  There was a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, telling him he didn't want to know the answer.  

"And--what's you're name, son?"  

"Cartwright.  Joe Cartwright."  

"Hmm.  Ponderosa Cartwright?"  

"Yes, Sir."  

The sheriff considered.  "Well, you see Mr. Cartwright, there was a lot of damage done, and someone's got to pay for it.  Since you and your friend were the initiators of the whole affair, it seems only just you should foot the bill."  

"That's not fair," Joe said quickly, feeling the first kindling stab of anger.  

"Not fair, eh?"  The sheriff's face was suddenly inscrutable.  "Tell you what--when you get back to the Ponderosa, you decide what's fair and what's not.  In my town, I make the call, and I say you two are staying put until someone comes up with the money."  

"We've got to make the horse auction," Shey protested.  "It'll be starting in a few hours."  

"Not my problem."  

Frustrated, Joe scraped a hand through his hair, smoothing down the unruly curls.  "What's the damage?" he asked at last.  

"Fourteen hundred should cover it."  

"What!"  Joe came quickly to his feet.  His face paled as a sharp conflagration of pain erupted in the back of his skull. Ignoring the needling discomfort, he walked stiffly to the bars.  "Sheriff, that's ludicrous.  There's got to be a mistake.  There's no way we could have done that much damage."  

"No mistake."  

Joe grew quiet.  He knew if he gave up the money, he'd never make the bid on the black.  Watching the heavily-lidded eyes of the other man, he suddenly understood what transpired.  With a sigh of understanding, he slumped against the bars.  "I see," he said quietly.  "The Ponderosa can afford seven hundred, is that it?"  

The sheriff's eyes narrowed.  "I don't take your point, Mr. Cartwright."  

"No I'm sure you don't."  Joe patted his jacket, surprised to find his wallet still on him. He withdrew the billfold and riffled through the money. "At least you don't take to robbery." His gaze was pointed. "Legitimately."  

"I'll overlook that remark, Mr. Cartwright, seeing as you're probably not feeling up to par."  

Joe smirked.  He withdrew a handful of bills and passed them through the bars.  "Seven hundred dollars--my share.  Now can I get out of here?"  

Flicking his fingers through the bills, the sheriff counted silently.  With a satisfied smile he stuffed the wad inside his shirt, then moved to collect the key ring.  Stepping back to the cot, Joe retrieved his hat.   

"Wait a minute."  Shey caught his arm.  "What about me?"  

 "What about you?"  Joe asked.  "Give him seven hundred and you're out of here."  

"If I give him seven hundred, I'll short myself on bidding."  

"That's not my problem."  

"It is your problem.  You started that fight."  

Joe was losing his patience.  "I'm not gonna argue with you, Shey."  Wrenching his arm free, he turned towards the door.  Keys jangled in the lock as the sheriff yanked the barrier open.  Wanting to put the experience behind him, Joe shouldered through--intent on getting a bath and washing the sour stink of whiskey from his skin.  He could feel Shey's eyes on him, boring into his back like molten fire.  As he passed the sheriff he couldn't resist a parting shot: "Thanks for the hospitality."  

He heard an appreciative chuckle, and then he was past the man, pushing outside into the early morning haze.  Yellow glare knifed beneath the brim of his hat, forcing him to narrow his eyes.  

 At the hotel he took a bath, and got a change of clothes.  Fully dressed, he stretched out on the bed and quietly contemplated the ceiling.  The auction was scheduled to start soon, and Joe had no idea how he was going to manage a bid on the black, after giving up seven hundred dollars.  Worse yet, would be explaining the situation to his father, when he returned to the Ponderosa.  Groaning, Joe folded his elbow over his eyes.  

The long stage ride and restless nights, coupled with the blow to his head, gradually took it's toll.  A velvety shroud of sleep hovered over his senses, lulling him to slumber.  Unaware, Joe drifted off, his mind funneling back to memories of Miss David.  Vivid images skirted at the edge of his mind--he could smell her perfume; feel the sensual brush of her silky hair against his arm; taste the sunflower sweetness of her lips on his.   

With a sudden start, Joe awoke to an uncomfortable tightness in his pants.  Sunlight slanted through the window, heralding late morning.  Cursing softly, Joe swung his legs over the side of the bed.  A quick adjustment to his trousers and a moment to collect his hat, was all it took before he bolted out the door.  As he feared, the auction was already in progress.  

Joe found Milo Caine near the corral.   

"The eel stripe, dapple and buttermilk are already gone," Milo said aside, after Joe apologized for keeping him waiting. "But they ain't got to the black yet."  

Joe breathed a sigh of relief.  It was a long shot he knew, but he still hoped he could pull off a bid on the stud horse.  Glancing over his shoulder, he glimpsed Shey Cutter on the opposite side of the corral.  The two men locked eyes.  Joe knew that Cutter was going to be at a similar disadvantage when bidding on the black.  There was no way he could have parted with seven hundred and still be competitive.   Yet when the black came on the auction block, Shey stepped to the forefront of the bidding.  

"Two hundred," he called.  

The auctioneer's gavel banged, coaxing two-fifty from the crowd.  With a sharp glance at Shey, Joe took the bid.  Someone behind him, upped it to three hundred.  Joe's eyes flicked to the corral where the spirited black pranced like a king among the other horses. 

"Three-fifty," he called.  

"Four hundred," Shey said immediately.  

Joe swallowed hard.  He knew he couldn't go much higher; didn't understand how Shey could.  

"Five hundred."  It was all he had left.  His mouth was dry.  He knew he was crazy to bid so much on a single animal, but the promise of that lineage on the Ponderosa, spurred him to it.  His father would surely skin him alive for wasting all his funds on one horse.  

Shey folded his arms across his chest.  "Five-fifty," he said, staring directly at Joe.  

The gavel banged--once, twice.  "Sold!"  the auctioneer cried, "To Shey Cutter of the Circle C Ranch, Virginia City."  

With a haughty grin, Shey moved forward, brushing past Joe.  Stepping to the pay booth, he withdrew his wallet and peeled off a string of bills.  When he was through, a wad of money still  remained.   

Joe felt his stomach sink as he witnessed the sight.  Somehow, Shey had managed to walk away from the jail with most of his funds intact.  There was no way Joe would ever outbid him now. The claybank was next--the only other horse that held any true interest for Joe.  He hoped to take it for a low amount, thus having money left over to buy a few range horses. Yet as soon as the bidding started, Shey drove up the amount, forcing Joe to bid higher or back off.  When the bid was at two-fifty, Shey withdrew, and Joe saw half his money go for one animal.  He bought a chestnut for one-hundred, plus a bay and a dun for sixty dollars each.  The auction was only half over and he was out of cash.  

Joe settled his account and tucked the bills of sale inside his jacket.  "I'll have the stock picked up next week," he told the pay master.  As he started away, Shey Cutter stepped forward, roughly bumping into his shoulder.  

"Out of cash already, Cartwright?"  He smiled indulgently.  "Too bad daddy doesn't trust you with more.  I was looking forward to bidding against you.  Taking that black wasn't near satisfying enough."  

Joe's gaze was flat.  "It's interesting how you have all that cash, Shey. I seem to recall you saying you wouldn't have enough, if you paid the damages for the saloon."  

Shey rolled his shoulders into a liquid shrug.  The smile grew by inches.  "Guess I must have miscalculated."  

"Yeah.  Guess so."  It was obvious Joe didn't believe him.  Either Shey had more funds than he originally let on, or he'd never paid his portion of the damages.  Either way, Joe had a feeling the ruckus in the saloon had been arranged for his sole benefit.  He didn't know how he was going to explain to Ben that he'd purchased a total of four horses, while going through almost twelve hundred dollars.  

He spent the next two days visiting with Milo, then boarded the morning stage back to Virginia City.  Three other passengers shared the coach with him: Shey Cutter, a young boy about fourteen, and a thin, almost spectral-looking gentleman with a whey face and meticulous appearance.  The boy spent his time scribbling in a notebook, while the man perused the local paper.  Seated across from Cutter, Joe did his best not to meet Shey's eyes.  He was still smarting from the auction and knew the slightest provocation was likely to set him off.  Training his gaze out the window, he watched the scenery roll by, and let his mind drift.  

He hadn't done an awful lot of thinking about Miss David, as his father had requested, but what he had done, reconfirmed his feelings--Joe knew he was in love with her.  Hopelessly, utterly, completely in love.  Looking back on the time he'd shared with her, before facing Brian Lancaster, he could see signs of that fondness growing.  He'd been blind to it then, or maybe as Ben indicated, he'd preferred not to face it.  Either way the end result was the same.  Bowing his head, he rubbed two fingers against his temple.  He had to square things with Adam--make sure there would be no resentment on the part of his brother.  More importantly, he had to talk to Lorna.  

The coach lurched suddenly, hitting a rut in the road.  Joe banged up against the side of the carriage.  He felt Shey's boot connect painfully with his leg.  

"Sorry, Cartwright."  Shey grinned boldly.  "I got jostled.  Foot must have slipped."   

Joe's fingers curled into his palms as he fought to control his erratic temper.  It would do no good to start a fight in the confined quarters of the carriage, but he knew Shey was pressing it.  From the corner of his eye he could see the boy watching him, his expression alert and worried.  Joe gave a clipped nod to his antagonizer and glanced out the window.  He heard Shey chuckle.  

"Rudy and McCay must have messed you up good."  

An icy cold sliced through Joe.  "What?"

Shey slouched back against his seat.  Lifting his feet, he plopped them on the bench beside Joe, crossing his legs at the ankles.  A brazen smile turned his lips.  "You don't rile like you used to, Cartwright.  Time was, you was on a hair-trigger.  I guess those saddletramps changed all that."  Lowering his eyes, he feigned interest in his fingernails.  "I heard tell they put three bullets in you, and your old man had to cut 'em out.  Must have been pretty painful, huh, Cartwright--daddy in there, digging around with a knife.  Is it true he tied you down first?"  

Incensed by the memory, Joe lurched forward, grabbing a fistful of Shey's shirt in his right hand.  With a vicious shove, he slammed him back against the seat.  Shey's head cracked against the wall, and Joe drew his gun, ramming the barrel beneath Cutter's chin.  "How's this for riled?  We can stop the stage and settle it outside--" 

"Mister, please!"  Seated beside Shey, the boy squirmed into the far corner, a look of pure terror on his face.   

The blood was pounding in Joe's head.  "What do you think you're doing?"  He heard the gaunt- looking gentleman demand.  Only Shey was quiet, the sickening curl of his lips telling Joe he'd succeeded in what he'd set out to do.  Realizing he'd let his temper get the best of him, Joe slumped back in his seat.  Lifting his gun, he scraped his knuckles across his mouth.  The Colt was still clutched in his hand.  His eyes shifted from the stricken boy to the annoyed gentleman.

"Sorry."  Joe shoved the pistol back in its holster.  

Shey unwound like a cat.  Once again he plunked his feet next to Joe.  Tipping his hat forward to shield his eyes, he folded his arms over his chest and slouched lower in the seat.  Turning his head, he glanced aside at the boy.  "Now, boy," he instructed.  "You keep a watch on that fella while I sleep--" A nod of his head indicated Joe. "He's a mean one, and he's liable to shoot me while I'm resting.  You watch him close now, and don't you fall asleep none, or he's likely to shoot you too."  

Joe scowled.  The boy nodded, his face white and crinkled with fear.  Smoke gray eyes settled on Joe, apprehensive as a hare in a wolf's trap.  For a moment Joe thought to correct the misconception.  But the foppish gentleman gave him a cold, withering stare, and he let the moment pass unchallenged.  With a resigned tightening of his lips, he turned his gaze resolutely out the window.  Day eased into evening as the stage drew near Virginia City. 

****  

Mitch Campbell ran a shaking hand through his hair.  Seated on the very edge of a claw-footed chair, he fidgeted nervously.  The elaborate furnishings in Amos Cutter's house made him uncomfortable.  From the rich brocade wing chairs, to the serpentine-backed sofa and filigree framed paintings--everything exuded an opulence that left him dry-mouthed and trembling. With sweat-sticky fingers, he shuffled his hat over his knee.  

"Mitch.  There you are."  

Jerking to his feet like a marionette on a string, Mitch watched Amos Cutter enter the room.  An imposing man of stocky build, he had salt-and-pepper hair and corn-colored eyes.  Mitch wet his lips nervously.  "Mr. Cutter, about that money . . . I-I'm gonna find a way to pay you back."  

"Hmm."  Cutter struck a match to a cigar, puffing thoughtfully.  The room was filled with the rich, dark smell of tobacco.  Easing into a chair, he motioned for Mitch to sit.  "Guess inviting you to the house for that poker game, was kind of unlucky.  Two thousand dollars is a lot of money to owe."  

Mitch swallowed.  His head bobbed up and down in agreement. "I know it is, Mr. Cutter, but if you'd just give me some time, I'll find a way to make it good."  He could feel the sweat seeping from beneath his hairline; the smoke of Cutter's cigar clogging his throat.  

Cutter sat back and crossed his legs.  "I don't know Mitch.  That's an awful lot of money for a cowpoke to come up with.  Why it would take you years, with the wages you're making here."  Cutter paused a beat and Mitch's eyes darted nervously to his face.  " 'Course there's always other work."  

Mitch licked his lips.  "Other work?"  

Cutter drew on the cigar.  In the velvety shadows of the room, the tip glowed bright red.  "From time to time I have jobs that require special handling."  

Mitch's interest was piqued.  "Could I make enough to pay you off?"  

"Probably."  Cutter twirled the cigar between his thick fingers.  "Probably even have some to spare."  

Mitch didn't hesitate. He knew it was unrealistic to think he could manage the debt on his own.  Even if he borrowed some from Joe, which wasn't too likely--his friend had been frowning on that lately--he'd never have the funds to pay it back.  "What do I need to do?"  

"Nothing now."  Cutter's lips thinned in an almost-smile.  "We'll let the debt rest until I need you, then we'll square it."  

"Mr. Cutter, it's a deal."  Mitch sprang to his feet, eagerly offering his hand.  Two nights ago when he'd been asked to Mr. Cutter's invitation-only poker game, he'd been too excited to think about losing.  It wasn't until he'd found himself two thousand dollars in the hole, that he'd realized his situation was dire.  Cutter could take what little he had, then have him jailed to work off the debt.  The solution offered by his employer seemed a lifeline.  

Only later when Mitch had left the house, did he begin to wonder what a *special job* might entail. 

****  

The sun had sank beneath the cradle of the tree line by the time the stage reached the way station.  A meal of bacon and collard greens, with a side of Boston brown bread was served to the passengers shortly after arrival.  Later, attempting to sleep, Joe lay on a cot, and listened to the sound of Reginald Kale snoring.  Mr. Kale--the gaunt-looking man from the coach--had pointedly ignored him all evening, but his air of superiority made it clear, he disapproved of Joe's "rough edges."  Across the room, Shey Cutter and the boy slumbered on cots opposite one another.  Joe folded his arms behind his head and contemplated the darkness.   

He realized abruptly that he missed his brothers and his father, and longed to see Lorna.  A slow smile touched his lips as he remembered the fire she had kindled in him at their last parting.  In the past, he had never considered pledging himself to one woman.  Now, he couldn't imagine doing anything less.   

He started suddenly at an unexpected shiver of sound.  Across the room, the boy sat forward on his cot, breathing heavily.  After a moment he stood, then padded barefoot from the room.  Joe heard the front door open and close, the swish of air as it fanned over the floor.  He lay still, wrapped in shadow, listening to the sound of his own breathing.  When the minutes wore on and the boy did not return, Joe began to grow worried.  Tugging on his boots, he trudged after the child.  

A draft of cool night air caressed his skin as he stepped outside.  The boy stood at the edge of the porch, his face upturned to the black bowl of the sky.  A full moon hugged the horizon, painting the ground with ripples of silver.  Joe stepped forward and the boy gave a startled jump.  

"Couldn't sleep?"  Joe asked.  

The boy's face was a disembodied shell in the darkness--an ivory mask offset by soot-black hair and pewter eyes.  

Joe gave a reassuring smile.  "Kevin, isn't it?"  

The boy nodded faintly.  

Stepping forward, Joe propped a hip against the railing and let his leg dangle free.  He could feel the boy's eyes on him, nervous and wary.  They'd gotten off to a bad start in the coach, and Joe wanted to correct it.  There was still another day of traveling and he didn't want Shey using the boy to needle him.  "I always find it hard to sleep at a way station," Joe said conversationally.  He tilted his head slightly and glanced out over the flat terrain.  "I'd rather be on the trail, with a bed roll and the open sky, then a strange roof and a cot."  When Kevin made no reply, but continued watching him, Joe leaned back against the post support and stretched his leg over the railing.  "Are you staying in Virginia City, Kevin, or taking another stage through?"  

"Staying," came the soft reply.  

"Family or friends?"  Joe asked.  

The boy hesitated, uncertainty etched on his face.  "Family," he managed at last.  He seemed to want to say more, but was unsure how to proceed.  Storm-colored eyes dipped to the porch before returning to Joe's face.  "Would you really have shot that other man in the coach?"  he blurted abruptly.     

Joe might have laughed, but for the seriousness on the boy's face.  "Heck, no, Kevin.  Shey and I have known each other since we were kids.  That's how we play--egging each other on, seeing who's gonna trip up first.  It's kind of a game between us."  

 "You looked pretty angry."  

"Yeah, well, I was at the time."  Joe chuckled.  "My Pa says I've got a real short temper.  Sometimes it gets the better of me.  I'm sorry if I scared you."

Kevin shrugged, obviously not wanting to admit to his earlier fear.  Though he clearly did not trust Joe, he appeared to relax slightly.  Leaning against the railing, he stared out into the darkness.  A soft breeze lifted the fringe of his ink-black hair, feathering it gently from his face.  For a moment, watching his profile, Joe thought there was something vaguely familiar about him.  

"Have you been to Virginia City before?"  he asked.  

Kevin shook his head.  A look of acute anxiety flitted over his features.  He swallowed hard.  "I ain't seen my . . ."  he wet his lips  " . . . family . . . in a long time.  I've been living with an aunt."  

Joe didn't want to pry.  "There's nothing to be nervous about, Kevin.  I'm sure your family's missed you.  Look--" he pushed away from the railing, "--it's getting late, and the stage rolls out pretty early tomorrow.  Why don't you try to get some sleep now?"  

"'kay."  The reply was soft--a whisper-thin wraith that the breeze swirled away.   

As Kevin stepped past, his face turned to the side, Joe again felt that niggling sense of familiarity.  Disturbed by something he couldn't place, he followed the boy inside.  In the darkened room, he pulled off his boots and rolled into the spindly cot.  Across the room, Kevin was a lumpy shadow, silhouetted by a pale halo of moonlight. The celestial glow streamed through an oblong window above the boy's bed, puddling on the floor with the icy sheen of silver.  As Joe watched, the moonlight faded, obscured by the passing cloud.  It was the last thing Joe remembered before drifting to sleep. ****  

"Dang, but you don't look like you rested much."  Once again, Shey Cutter lifted his legs and plunked his feet on the seat beside Joe.  As the coach jostled, he let his heel slide sideways and bang against Joe's thigh.  Clumps of dirt crumbled from the sole of his boot.  "Uh, Pardon me, Cartwright.  Looks like I dirtied your pants."  

Lowering his eyes, Joe scraped a gloved hand over the dirt clinging to his trousers.  As he swept the debris aside, he let the forward momentum carry his hand.  His forearm collided with Shey's legs, pushing them unceremoniously to the floor.  Joe smiled thinly.  "Sorry, Shey.  That was careless of me."  

Kevin watched the exchange silently, while Reginald Kale made a scoffing sound before taking interest in his newspaper.  Chuckling softly, Joe turned his gaze out the window.  Shey bored of the game quickly.  Tipping his hat over his eyes, he slouched in his seat and was soon snoring softly.  A second night spent at a way station brought Joe a little closer to home.  On the third day, the coach made good time and arrived early in Virginia City.  

Joe stepped from the carriage and stretched.  Pressing his hands to the small of his back, he tried to work the cricks from his stiff muscles.  The luggage handler tossed his bag at his feet, followed by those of the other passengers.  Shey was the first to retrieve his, pointedly bumping into Joe as he shouldered past.  With a frown and carefully restrained comment, Joe watched his rival depart.  A moment later,  Reginald Kale collected his suitcase and left.  That left Kevin and Joe standing beside the empty stage.  

Joe glanced down the street.  Ben was supposed to meet him, but the stage was early, leaving Joe with time to kill.  He turned a longing glance on the saloon, then gazed back to the dark-haired boy at his side.  

"Don't you have someone meeting you, Kevin?"  

Sullenly, the boy nodded.  "I'm early.  I'll just wait."  Holding the strap of his travel bag in both hands, he moved away to sit on a bench outside the stage depot.  With a sigh, Joe scrubbed a hand over his chin. He didn't feel right leaving the boy alone, but the thought of a cold beer was awfully appealing.  His gaze swivelled between the saloon and the boy.  Eventually he strode to the latter.  

"Want me to wait with you?"  

Kevin shook his head.  "I traveled from Texas by myself.  I can wait by myself."  

"Texas, huh?"  Joe smiled.  "That is a long way."  When the boy made no reply, merely lowered his head, Joe released a sigh.  "Okay, look Kevin--I live on a ranch southwest of here, called the Ponderosa.  Maybe when you get settled with your family, you'll come visit."  He didn't know why he was bothering with the child, just sensed there was something terribly morose about him, and that didn't seem right in one so young.  He gave the boy a gentle clap on the shoulder.  "You take care of yourself now."  

Once again the response was minimal--the barest hint of a nod.  Collecting his bag, Joe walked across the street to the saloon.  It was where Adam found him almost forty minutes later.  

"You're supposed to be at the stage depot," the elder Cartwright complained, joining his brother at the bar.  He motioned for a beer.  

Glancing, aside, Joe grinned crookedly.  "You've outdone yourself with that greeting, older brother.  Missed you too."  

Adam swallowed the head off his beer.  "Well don't go getting sentimental.  I missed that extra pair of hands around the ranch.   Who do you think's been doing your chores?"  

"My guess is nobody.  I'm sure they're all stacked up, waiting for me."  Joe laughed and clapped Adam on the back.  "Hey where's Pa?  I thought he was picking me up."  

Adam frowned.  "Yeah, he was supposed to, but things got out of hand at the ranch."  

"What do you mean out of hand?"  The frivolity slipped from Joe's tone, replaced by concern.    "Is something wrong?"  

"Not really."  Catching his brother's arm, Adam steered Joe aside to a table.  He could feel Joe's gaze on him, worried and uncertain.  When both had settled into barrel-back chairs, Adam took another swallow of beer, then leaned forward, hooking his elbows on the table.  "How'd you do at the auction?"  he asked.  

"Forget the auction," Joe said, and this time his tone was clipped.  "Is something the matter with Pa?"  

Adam shrugged.  "Nothing that a little cool-down time won't cure."  

"What's that supposed to mean?"