BLOODLINES
This is an edited and revised version of “Bloodlines,” first posted on Women Writers’ Block going on a few years ago. In this story, I introduce my take on “the Cartwright daughter,” her past, and how she came to be part of the Cartwright family.
“Careful, Ma’am, watch your step.”
“Thank you, Mister Dawson,” Paris McKenna said politely. Though the Irish lilt in her voice had diminished considerably after more than thirty years of living in the United States, a trace yet lingered. She accepted the stage coach driver’s proffered hand, and stepped gingerly from the stage coach to the dusty street. She, then, turned, her eyes easily meeting his, without having to tilt her head upward. “How long will we be in Virginia City?”
“The coach leaves at half past three, Ma’am,” Mister Dawson replied.
Paris wore a modest dark blue traveling suit with matching gloves and a plain white linen blouse. Her outfit had been long out of style when she purchased it second hand from a thrift store in Chicago ten years ago. Even so, the garments were well made and sturdy, proof borne out by a decade of nearly continuous wear. Her hair, dark brown laced liberally with strands of silver gray, was pulled severely back away from her face in a simple chignon. The lipstick and rouge, both sparingly applied, accentuated, rather than hid her lined, care worn face. Her eyes, the color of a clear summer sky at its zenith, were the only striking features in an otherwise commonplace appearance.
She glanced at the elegant gold watch pendant, the only ornamentation amid her severe attire. It was given to her, more years ago now than she cared to admit, by a man she once loved more than life itself. Though they had parted company long ago, the watch had become and would always remain a cherished keepsake. The time was a few minutes before noon. “One more question, Mister Dawson,” she ventured quietly, almost apologetically. “I-If I may?”
“Yes, Ma’am?”
“It’s been . . . well, let’s just say it’s been a fair number of years since I last . . . uh, VISITED . . . Virginia City. Can you tell me where I can go to eat lunch and maybe rest awhile before the stage leaves?”
“Yes, Ma’am, the International Hotel has a decent enough restaurant,” he replied, eying her with an apprehensive frown. “I’d be more than happy to escort you there, if you wish.”
“I appreciate your kind offer, but I can manage,” Paris said in a gentle, yet firm tone. “If you would be so kind as to direct me?”
“Yes, Ma’am. Just cross the street here and walk on down to the corner.”
“Thank you, Mister Dawson,” she said quickly, with a smile that never quite reached her eyes.
“You’re welcome, Ma’am,” Dawson replied, tipping his hat.
“Virginia City . . . ” Paris mused silently, as she made her way across the road. “Sixteen, almost seventeen years now since I last . . . ”
Memories of the past, of another life, began to rise, unwanted and uninvited, to the forefront of her thoughts. Two horses stood at the edge of a vast lake, surrounded on all sides by tall ponderosa pine. Their riders, a beautiful twenty year old, with a long thick mane of dark brown curls and sparkling sky blue eyes, and a handsome man old enough to have been her father, stood side by side at the edge of the water. Her quick, easy laughter, prompting a tender, indulgent smile; the quick, feathery seemingly accidental touch of a hand; a tender glance, followed by a warm embrace . . . .
With those memories rose all of the feelings, just as vibrant, warm, and intense as they had been then. Paris had unwittingly opened a Pandora’s box. She desperately tried to squelch the images and feelings of the past, but found doing so akin to trying to put water back after a dam has burst.
A sudden collision with what felt for all the world like a brick wall, finally brought her reverie to a screeching halt. Paris stumbled backwards a few steps and would have fallen had it not been for the steadying influence of a pair of massive hands and strong arms.
“Ma’am, are you alright?”
Paris cautiously opened her eyes and found herself staring into the beefy face of a large, muscular man, wearing a white ten-gallon hat. An anxious frown knotted his brow.
“Ma’am . . . ?”
“I-I’m fine,” Paris gasped. She shook her head, took a deep breath, and glanced up. “Please excuse me, it’s my fault, just silly bit of wool gathering . . . . ” As she glanced up, her words of apology suddenly died in her throat.
“M-Miss Paris?!” The concern for her well being on his face gave way to astonishment. “Miss Paris, is that really you?”
“Yes, uh . . . Eric?” Paris murmured in dismay.
“Yes, Ma’am,” astonishment, in turn, gave way to a smile of pure delight. “Well, I’ll be danged! When did you return to Virginia City?”
“I-I haven’t actually,” Paris replied. “I’m just passing through on my way to San Francisco.”
Delight faded into mild disappointment. “I sure hope you can get out to the Ponderosa while you’re here,” Hoss Cartwright said. “I know Pa and Joe would love to see you again.”
A cold, heavy lump began to coalesce in the pit of her stomach. His Pa was the very last person in the world she wanted to see. “Oh, Eric, I-I wish I could,” Paris stammered, lying through her teeth. “But, that won’t be possible. The stage leaves at half past three. I’ll only be here long enough for the driver to change horses, and p-pick up the mail. ”
“Well, maybe you can come out another time, when you can stay longer,” Hoss said affably. “Have you had lunch yet?”
“No,” Paris said quietly. “I was just going down to the International Hotel. The driver said they have a good enough restaurant.”
“That they do,” Hoss agreed. “But, not as good as Hop Sing.”
“I don’t think ANYBODY’s as good as Hop Sing,” Paris admitted. “Eric,” she had always called him by his first name, “why don’t you join me? That way . . . well, the two of US can have a brief visit before I leave.” As she uttered the words of invitation, she had the momentary, disorienting feeling of standing outside her body watching it move and talk like a marionette in the hands of a skilled puppeteer. How could own her voice and lips betray her so cruelly?
“Thank you, Ma’am, I will,” Hoss accepted the invitation eagerly. He gently took her arm and unobtrusively steered her across the street. Silence, a thoroughly unsettling one on her part, descended upon them.
**********
Ben Cartwright stepped out of the bank and found his youngest son, Joseph, and daughter, Stacy, waiting with the buckboard, its back loaded with enough dry goods to last out the next month.
“Ready to go when you are, Pa,” Joe declared with a grin.
“I’ll be ready as soon as we collect Hoss,” Ben said, glancing around. His middle son was no where in sight. “Do either of you happen to know where he is?”
“I saw him crossing the street, down there by the stage coach,” Stacy replied pointing. “He was with some lady.”
“Oh yeah?” Joe queried with a devilish gleam in his eyes. “A lady, eh? Anyone WE know, Stace?”
Stacy shook her head. “I think she’s a stranger in town,” she said. “I’m pretty sure I saw her get off the stage. She and Hoss were headed in the direction of the hotel.”
“When was this?” Ben asked.
“Just a few minutes ago,” Stacy replied.
“You want me to go get him, Pa?” Joe offered with a sly grin.
“No, I’LL go,” Ben decided, leveling a warning glare in the general direction of his youngest son. “You and Stacy wait here.”
**********
“So. How have you been, Eric . . . . ” Paris asked, after she and Hoss had been seated and placed their order, “since we . . . last saw each other?” The last four words tumbled out in an disconcerted rush.
“I’ve been fine, Miss Paris,” Hoss replied. His initial delight at running into an old friend literally, had slowly given way to uneasy concern. He had seen more meat on the corpse of a wild animal that had lain for weeks in the desert than his companion had on her bones. Her pale skin, thinned to an alarming translucence, the dark circles under her eyes, the halting step all belonged on a person at least twice her age. Had it not been for the watch pendant she wore around her neck, Hoss doubted he would have recognized her. How had the beautiful, warm, vivacious, loving, and passionate Paris McKenna he remembered turned into the old, sad, careworn, and distant woman seated across the table from him?
“How about Becky Sue?”
Hoss grinned in spite of himself. “Miss Paris, I can’t believe you actually remembered Becky Sue and me after all these years,” he chuckled. “She’s been married Ian McFarley for going on eleven years now.”
“Oh, Eric!” she cried in utter dismay. “I’m so sorry things didn’t work out between you.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, Miss Paris,” Hoss said quietly. “Becky Sue and me realized a long time ago we was better off as . . . well, as just good friends, if you get my meaning.”
“I do,” Paris replied. “How about the rest of the family? How have they been?”
“Adam’s living in Sacramento now,” Hoss replied, as a waiter set a cup of coffee before Hoss, and a cup of hot tea before Paris.
“Pursuing that career as an architect?” Paris queried, as she reached for the dainty porcelain creamer at the center of the table.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Hoss replied. “He’s with a real prestigious firm there, and, from what he says in his letters there’s plenty of work to do.”
“Grand! That’s grand,” Paris replied, unconsciously lapsing into her old ways of speaking. “Whatever happed to that woman he was so find of? The widow with a daughter?”
“She fell in love someone else, and ended up following HIM to San Francisco,” Hoss said. “Adam fell in love with someone else, too . . . and married her! A real fine gal he met out in Sacramento. I only met her once . . . when Pa, Joe, and me went to Sacramento for their wedding, but I really liked her.”
“Any children?”
“Yes, Ma’am, two fine, strapping, energetic young’uns, or so Adam says in his letters,” Hoss replied. “The boy was named Adam Benjamin, for his pa and grandpa. The girl was named for Dolores Elizabeth for both her grandmas.”
“That’s lovely,” Paris said with all sincerity, as she raised the creamer to pour a bit of its contents into her tea. Suddenly, her hand trembled. The creamer slipped from her fingers and crashed onto the table, drenching her dark blue suit with cream.
Hoss immediately grabbed his napkin and began to mop up the table, while Paris sat there, stunned. The waiter discreetly returned to the table with a pitcher of water and a handful of cloth napkins.
“Ma’am?” the waiter gently placed his hand on her shoulder.
Paris started violently, nearly hitting her head against the pitcher of water in his hand.
Hoss took the napkins from the waiter and quietly asked him to leave the pitcher of water. The waiter nodded and complied, then quickly withdrew.
“Miss Paris . . . . ?” Hoss frowned. Though she had her head bowed, he could plainly see that she was crying. “Miss Paris, are you alright?”
Paris swallowed, and sheepishly reached for one of the napkins in his hand. “I’m fine, Eric, really,” she said, forcing a smile. She wiped away the last of her tears, then started to work on her skirt. “I-I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s been a very long, arduous journey.”
“Are you sure that’s all it is?” Hoss queried doubtfully.
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said wearily.
**********
Ben Cartwright stepped quietly into the International Hotel restaurant and approached Gretchen Braun, the restaurant manager and an old friend. She was a buxom woman, about the same age as Ben. She wore a print dress, of blue flowers and ribbons on top of a field of white, and a fresh, clean white apron. Her salt and pepper hair was worn in a French twist. Since the death of her husband six years ago, she had run the restaurant with an iron hand, transforming it from a greasy spoon to the fine dining enjoyed by resident and visitor alike. “Gretchen?”
“Ben Cartwright, long time no see!” Gretchen Braun exclaimed in surprised delight. The soft accent of her native Bavaria had remained as it had been from the time she and her husband arrived on American shores four plus decades ago. “Would you like a table?”
“Not today, Gretchen,” Ben declined. “I’m looking for Hoss.”
“He came in a little while ago with a woman,” Gretchen replied. “They’re right over there, next to the window.”
Ben spotted them immediately. He studied the woman for a moment, frowning. Something about her struck a distressingly familiar chord within. “Gretchen . . . . ”
“What is it, Ben?”
“Do you know who that woman is?” he asked.
Gretchen shook her head and shrugged. “ ‘fraid not, Ben.”
He thanked Gretchen, and made his way across the room to the table occupied by his middle son, Hoss, and his companion. “Hoss, I . . . . ” Paris glanced up sharply at the sound of his voice. Their eyes met. Ben’s voice trailed away to stunned silence.
“Pa, you r-remember . . . Miss Paris . . . don’t you?” Hoss awkwardly tried to break the silence.
“Y-yes, yes, of course . . . . ” Ben stammered.
Paris rose none too steadily to her feet. “Eric, I think I’d better take a rain check on that lunch,” she murmured. “I-I just remembered some things I need to buy before the stage leaves.” She turned and favored Ben with a wan, embarrassed smile. “It . . . it was good seeing you, too, Ben . . . i-if only for a few minutes.”
“Sorry you hafta rush off, Miss Paris. Maybe next time . . . . ”
“Y-yes, Eric . . . m-maybe next time.” Paris turned, fully intending to walk out of the restaurant and find a notions shop to hide in until the stage left. As she turned, a wave of dizziness hit. She reached out an arm to steady herself.
Hoss gently stepped over and took her arm. “Miss Paris, are you sure you’re alright? Maybe you’d better sit down, and . . . . ”
Her eyes rolled up under her eyelids. With a soft moan, she collapsed and fell against Hoss in a dead faint.
“Hoss, take her up to room number 208.” Gretchen Braun was right there at his elbow. “The door’s unlocked. Ben, I’ve already sent Luis to fetch the doctor.”
“Thank you, Gretchen,” Ben said gratefully. “Hoss, you take Miss Paris and go on up. I’ll be back after I let Joe and Stacy know . . . . ”
“Let Joe and Stacy know . . . what?” It was Joe.
Ben turned and found himself staring into the anxious eyes of his two younger children.
“Pa, I know you asked us to wait . . . . ” Joe began. His eyes moved from Ben’s face to the limp form in Hoss’ arms. “Hoss, who— ”
“Miss Paris, Joe,” Hoss said.
Joe’s eyes went round with astonishment.
“Pa, who’s Miss Paris?” Stacy queried sotto voice, her sky blue eyes riveted to Paris’ face. For some inexplicable reason, she felt afraid.
“Miss Paris is an old friend of the family,” Ben said gently, hoping to quell the sudden anxiety he sensed in his daughter. “It seems she was passing through on the stage and suddenly took ill.”
“Anything we can do?” Joe queried.
“No,” Ben shook his head. “Mrs. Braun’s already sent for the doctor. Why don’t you and Stacy go on home and unload the supplies, then come back for Hoss and me?”
Joe nodded ascent. “Come on, Stace . . . . ”
No reply. Her eyes remained glued to Paris McKenna’s flaccid face.
“Stace . . . . ?” Joe took her by the shoulder and shook her gently.
Stacy started, and turned towards Joe.
“Come on, Stacy, let’s go.”
**********
Stacy Cartwright rode in the buckboard beside her brother in utter silence, her thoughts riveted to the face of Miss Paris. She had never so much as laid eyes the woman before this afternoon; never even heard of her. That last, in itself was odd, given that she was supposed to be an old friend of the family. But, there was something beyond all that. Something very compelling that had begun to stir up odd, unsettling feelings. Her trepidation deepened.
“Stacy LOUISE . . . . ”
The sound of the hated middle name stirred her abruptly from her troubled reverie. “Joseph Francis Cartwright, you know I hate it when you call me that!” she rounded on him furiously.
“What’s wrong with Louise? I kind of like it!” Joe teased. “In fact, I like it so much, I’m gonna start calling you LOO-WEESE instead of Stacy.”
Stacy stuck her tongue out at him, then lapsed into stony silence, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“S-sorry, Stace,” he apologized contritely, taken aback by her angry silent response. “I’ve been trying for the last half mile to get through to you, but you’ve been stuck somewhere on cloud nine. It was the only way I could think of to break through.”
“Oh,” she murmured contritely.
“You OK?” Joe queried, a worried frown knotting his brow. “You’ve been awfully quiet . . . . ”
“Joe, who’s this Miss Paris?” Stacy blurted out the question. “Besides being an old friend of the family?”
“Pa met her family many years ago out at Fort Charlotte.”
“F-Fort Charlotte?!” Stacy’s sense of foreboding deepened.
“Yeah! For a time, back when I was a kid myself, they were buying Ponderosa horses on a pretty regular basis,” Joe remembered, oblivious to his sister’s growing discomfiture. “Miss Paris’ pa, Captain Gerald McKenna, was the man in charge of the horses.
“When Captain McKenna retired his commission, the family decided to move to Chicago. Miss Paris and her sister ended up stopping over at the Ponderosa on their way out. Her sister had SUPPOSEDLY taken ill, and needed to rest.”
“Supposedly?”
Joe nodded. “Looking back, Miss Paris’ sister . . . . ” He frowned. “What was her name? Oh yeah, I remember now. It was Matilda!”
Stacy made a face. “Yuck! THAT’S even worse than Louise.”
Joe smiled, relieved to see Stacy behaving more in character. “As I recall, Matilda . . . . Mattie, as she preferred to be called . . . . didn’t look very sick to me. If she was, she sure made a rapid recovery.”
“You mean . . . Mattie McKenna FAKED being sick?” Stacy was intrigued, despite her uneasiness.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I’ll get to why . . . . IF you’ll stop interrupting me with questions every two seconds.”
Stacy responded by sticking out her tongue.
Joe returned the gesture. “Why should be obvious, Little Sister! The reason Mattie McKenna suddenly took ‘ill’ was, so she and Miss Paris could visit.”
“Why?”
“There was a special someone out there she wanted to see.”
“Miss Mattie?”
“No! Miss Paris.”
“Who did Miss Paris want to see?”
“Now just hold your horses, Miss Stacy LOO-WEESE! I’ll get to THAT in my own good time.”
“OK, LITTLE Joe! I’ll TRY to be patient!”
“What you’ll TRY, Little Sister, is the patience of a saint,” Joe retorted good naturedly. “Now where was I?”
“Miss Paris and her sister, Mattie, stopped off at the Ponderosa because Mattie was, umm SUPPOSEDLY ill.”
“Mattie ended up staying two weeks,” Joe resumed the tale. “Miss Paris stayed longer. In fact, SHE never even made it to Chicago.”
“Really? What happened?”
“Pa and Adam took them to the stage depot in Virginia City. Adam said later that Miss Paris insisted they go on about their business, that she and Mattie would be alright. So, they did. Miss Paris saw to it that her sister got on the stage, before returning to the Ponderosa, that very night. Pa, Hoss, and Adam . . . . ” Joe laughed with genuine mirth, remembering the comical astonished looks on their faces. “Oh, Stacy, it was priceless! I wish you could’ve seen it.”
“Me, too,” she said, grinning in spite of the anxiety she felt within. His infectious laughter had always had that effect on her since she had met and joined the Cartwright Family almost five years ago.
“As for me, I was delighted,” Joe continued, relieved to see the smile on Stacy’s face. “I was absolutely besotted with her.”
“What?!” Stacy queried, surprised. “You?”
“Why do I have the distinct feeling I’ve just been insulted?” Joe demanded with mock severity.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Stacy protested. “It’s just that I see you as more the romantic, debonair type who chases after the YOUNG ladies. I just can’t picture you falling for an older woman.”
“Miss Paris is not that much older than I am,” Joe said. “Eight or nine years, ten maybe at the outside.”
“Ten years?! That’s almost like robbing the grave!” Stacy exclaimed.
“It won’t seem so when you get older, Kid.”
“I thought she was closer to Pa’s age, actually . . . . ” Stacy said slowly.
***********
"That shocked me, too, Stace,” Joe said thoughtfully. “If Hoss hadn’t said who she was . . . well, I’d have never recognized her in a million years.”
“Why did she come back to the Ponderosa . . . after putting her sister on the stage for Chicago?” Stacy asked.
“She was a lady in love.”
“Not with you.”
“Now I KNOW I’ve been insulted,” Joe said, smiling at the memory, “but you’re right. Though the lady was very kind to a young kid who had fallen head over heels in love for the first time in his life, she didn’t return my feelings.”
“Did she fall in love with Hoss?” Stacy asked, remembering the gentle concern he had shown the woman at the hotel restaurant.
“Nope,” Joe shook his head. “And not Adam, either. The lady only had eyes for Pa.”
Stacy turned and glanced at him sharply. Somehow that nugget of information significantly increased her uneasiness.
“Hey, it wasn’t as bad as all that,” Joe said, unable to quite fathom the stricken look on her face. “Pa loved her, too. So much, in fact, I thought sure they were going to get married.”
“R-Really?”
“Really!”
“What happened? Why didn’t they?”
Joe shrugged. “I don’t know. She just, all of a sudden, up and left without even saying good-bye. We woke up one morning and she was gone.”
“Why?” Stacy pressed. “Did she and Pa have a fight or something?”
“I don’t know what happened between them,” Joe said somberly. “Pa never said. All I DO know is that her leaving like she did hurt Pa pretty badly. It took him a long time to get over her.” He fell silent for a moment. “Stacy . . . . ”
“You don’t have to worry, Joe,” Stacy said. “I won’t ask Pa any questions about Miss Paris.”
“Promise?”
A stinging, angry retort sprang to mind, but the earnest look on his face stopped her from uttering it. “I promise,” she said in a voice barely audible.
**********
“Pa, she’s coming around no.”
“Paris?”
Paris McKenna sighed contentedly. She was twenty years old again, visiting the Cartwright Family on the Ponderosa. All of the intervening years had ceased to be, like a bad dream in the face of morning sunshine. Her sister, Mattie, had gone on to Chicago. Adam, Hoss, and Joe were out on the range rounding up some of the stray cattle that had become separated when the rest of the herd was moved to summer pasture two weeks before. She was alone in the house, at long last, with the man she loved.
“Paris.”
The happy memory abruptly vanished, and the ensuing years now yawned between her and Ben Cartwright like an abyss, far too wide and deep to ever be crossed. Her eyelids flickered and opened, with resigned reluctance, and she found herself gazing up into the anxious faces of Ben and Eric Cartwright. “W-what happened?” Paris groaned softly.
“You and Hoss were about to have lunch when you passed out,” Ben said quietly.
“Yes, I was waiting for . . . . ” Suddenly, her eyes went round with horror. “Oh my goodness!” Paris exclaimed. “What time is it?” She abruptly sat up, and immediately set the room spinning before her eyes. With a soft, agonized moan, she collapsed back against the pillows.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” Ben chided her sternly. “When you DO get up, you’ll do it slow and easy, unless you want to risk the possibility of fainting again.” He paused, to allow her a moment to absorb his words. “As for the stage it left an hour and a half ago.”
“Oh no!” she moaned.
“Now, don’t you worry none, Miss Paris,” Hoss said. “I went down and got your luggage off. It’s downstairs in the hotel lobby.”
“Th-thank you, Eric,” she said in a small, barely audible voice. “When does the next stage leave?”
“There’s one leaving tomorrow morning, but you’re NOT going to be on it,” Ben said firmly.
“Ben, I HAVE to get to San Francisco, ” she said, “as soon as possible. I have a job waiting, and I’m already two days behind because of some unforeseen delays on the stage line.”
“Paris, you’re not fit to travel, let alone work,” Ben argued. “The doctor said . . . . ”
“Doctor!” Paris exclaimed weakly. “Oh, Ben, surely you didn’t call a doctor?!”
“Mrs. Braun, did,” Ben said. “But, if she hadn’t, I most certainly would have.”
“Why? I told you I’m just worn out from the trip,” Paris wailed. “That’s all!”
“No, that’s NOT all,” Ben argued. “The doctor said at the very least, you’re suffering from exhaustion and not eating properly. You need a long rest, and good food.”
“I’ll have plenty of time to eat and rest when I reach San Francisco.”
“You’re going to have plenty of time to eat and rest NOW,” Ben countered sternly. “You’re coming with us to the Ponderosa.”
Paris’ heart sank. “Oh no, Ben, no! I can’t!”
“Why not?”
“Well, it would be too much trouble,” Paris stammered. “I c-can’t put you and your boys out like that.”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble at all,” Ben argued. “We have plenty of room, more now that Adam’s living in Sacramento.”
“It would be charity, Ben,” she said adamantly. “I won’t take charity! Never! Never again!”
“You and that . . . that . . . damnable pride of yours!” Ben swore, his exasperation getting the better of him.
Paris recoiled as if he had struck her.
“Sorry,” Ben apologized contritely. He took a deep breath and continued in a more kindly tone, “Paris, I’m not offering charity. I’m extending an invitation to an old . . . and very dear friend.”
“Alright, Ben,” Paris acquiesced, her voice cracking on his name. His words had almost thrown open that Pandora’s Box once again. She sternly reminded herself that the time she and Ben Cartwright had together was long past and gone. To try and recapture it now would be monstrously unfair. He had obviously gotten over her and gone on with his life. She felt a measure of relief in that. Maybe, as the years passed, he had even found it within him to forgive her for her abrupt departure in the dead of night. She, however, would never forgive herself.
Paris silently and firmly resolved that she would to go to the Ponderosa, rest and eat, get back her strength. She would then go on to San Francisco and out of the lives of the Cartwright Family with all haste and speed.
“Pa, Joe and Stacy are back,” Hoss said, from his place at the window, the relief evident in his voice.
Ben glanced up at his second son sharply. He had entirely forgotten that Hoss was still in the room. “Why don’t you see Miss Paris downstairs, and get her settled in the buckboard with her things,” he said, feeling oddly embarrassed. “I’m going to go settle up with Mrs. Braun and the doctor.”
“Ben, I have some money,” Paris said, as Hoss gently helped her to sit up. “You’ll find it in my handbag. It w-won’t be . . . enough . . . . ” She had almost let slip that the little bit of money she had in her handbag was all she had in the world. “I can send more when I get to San Francisco.”
“Don’t worry about the money right now, Paris,” Ben said. “I have more than enough.”
“I meant what I said about taking charity, Ben,” Paris said, her anger rising. The only thing she had left these days was her pride, damnable though it maybe. She was determined to hold on to it at all costs. “I’ve ALWAYS paid my way,” she continued. “ALWAYS! I don’t aim to stop now.”
“Alright, Paris, I’ll consider it a loan,” Ben said wearily.
**********
Paris McKenna lay wide awake in the dark guestroom, listening to the grandfather’s clock downstairs strike three a.m. Outside, the moon had risen and set hours ago. A thick blanket of clouds rolled in, obscuring the light from the myriad of stars spread across the backdrop of indigo-black sky. There was a brief flash of light, followed a moment later by a distant rumble of thunder. Nearly every joint in her body ached; a sure sign of coming rain.
Paris gingerly rolled over on her side, and closed her eyes with an exasperated sigh. The stage coach journey, coupled with her chance meetings with Eric, then Ben, followed by the trip from Virginia City to the Ponderosa, had all taken far greater toll on her dwindling energy and stamina than she cared to admit. She had almost passed out again when they walked through the door of the Cartwrights’ home. Only through a supreme effort of will did she manage to walk to the settee. Now, she found herself lying in a comfortable bed, a far cry from the hard cots and pallets she had grown accustomed to over the course of the last sixteen years. By all rights she should be sawing wood, as her father, may God rest his soul, used to say, despite her joint pains.
Her first evening at the Ponderosa had passed by in a hazy blur, for which she was heartily thankful. She vaguely remembered Hop Sing at her elbow, trying to coerce her to eat. Eric kept up a lively, albeit nervous, stream of chatter about the weather, Adam and his family in Sacramento, and the local gossip. Apart from catching a few names she recognized, Paris remembered nothing of what he had said. Joe, on the other hand, was gracious enough, but seemed distant and remote, answering in monosyllables only when addressed. Ben added a word or two once in a while to Eric’s monolog, and occasionally tried to draw his daughter, Stacy into the conversation to no avail. The absolute worst were the strained silences, during the inevitable conversational lulls.
The faces of Eric, Joe, and Ben slowly faded into the face the youngest member of the Cartwright family, Stacy. Apart from acknowledging their introduction, the girl never said another word the entire evening. There was something strange and compelling about her. Paris felt drawn to her, yet terrified of her at the same time. Maybe it was Stacy’s eyes, the same sky blue color as her own. Or maybe it was the fact that Stacy now was around the same age poor Rose Miranda would have been, had she lived. Stacy’s face, framed by a thick halo of dark, wavy hair and those big blue eyes, faded into the face of Rose Miranda, as an infant; a pudgy face, with red cheeks, and enormous blue eyes, framed by a wispy halo of dark brown hair.
Suddenly, the lid of the Pandora’s Box within violently flew open. All the memories and feelings washed over her like a raging flash flood. Helpless against the onslaught, Paris turned and buried her face into the softness of the down pillow beneath her head and sobbed herself into a deep, exhausted sleep.
**********
Stacy woke with a jolt, heart pounding and forehead glistening with cold sweat. Her palms were clammy, and her breath came in short, ragged gasps. Sleep had been fitful, interrupted by the continuous replay of a dream filled with strange, shadowy people in a place she couldn’t remember, yet seemed horribly familiar. A glance at the clock on her dresser told her the time was a few minutes past five.
Stacy climbed out of bed, intending to dress and go for a ride before breakfast. A good, brisk ride in the bracing early morning air always worked at clearing out troublesome cobwebs from her head. She turned toward the window, and with dismay, saw that the pouring rain outside had just squelched her plans. She grabbed her robe and slipped it on as she crossed the room from bed to door. A good book from the library downstairs would help pass the time until breakfast. She noiselessly stepped from her bedroom to the hall and paused, allowing her eyes a moment to adjust to the diminished light. She, then, made her way silently towards the stairs, so as not to wake up anyone else.
When Stacy reached the second landing half way down the stairs, she noted with a start that her father was already up, and dressed. He sat on the sofa downstairs, staring morosely at the massive grey stone fireplace, that dominated the living room. A book lay open on the coffee table before him along side a glass, half full of whiskey. “Pa?!”
Ben Cartwright glanced up as Stacy continued down the stairs. “You’re up early,” he said, favoring her with a tired smile.
“Couldn’t get back to sleep,” she replied.
“From the look of you, I’d say you didn’t get any sleep at all,” Ben said, noting her still wet brow with concern. He motioned for her to come and sit down beside him on the sofa. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m not sick, if that’s what you’re asking,” Stacy said, as she sat down.
Ben blotted the sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief and touched it with the back of his hand. He was somewhat relieved to find her forehead cool as a cucumber.
“I said I wasn’t sick,” Stacy said irritably.
“Well, SOMETHING kept you awake most of the night,” Ben said quietly, “and you’re not usually as quiet as you were last night, unless you ARE sick.” He paused. “You want to talk about it?”
“Pa, how is it you always seem to know . . . . ?”
“Experience that comes from raising three sons and a daughter,” Ben replied.
Stacy forced herself to take a few deep, even breaths. “You remember that awful dream I kept having when I first came to the Ponderosa?”
“I remember,” Ben said sympathetically.
“It’s back,” she said, her voice breaking, “all night long! But, it’s changed.”
Ben wordlessly slipped a reassuring arm around her shoulders.
“The dream started out the same way,” Stacy continued. “First, I see the people, but not their faces. I feel like I should know them, but I can’t remember. I don’t want to, either. I just want to get away from them. Then, suddenly, I’m some WHERE, I’ve never been before, yet I know the place. I know where the roads lead, what lies over the hill, what’s around the next bend. That’s scary enough right there!” She shuddered.
“Yes,” Ben agreed. “Déja vu can be very disconcerting, to say the least.”
“Déja . . . what?”
“Déja vu,” Ben repeated the word. “What you went through in those dreams, being in a place you’ve never been . . . but knowing it, is called déja vu.”
“Has it ever happened to you?” she asked.
“A couple of times, in dreams,” Ben replied.
That disclosure made Stacy feel a little better. “In MY dream, I’m running for my life, but I don’t know who or what I’m running from,” she continued.
“How has the dream changed?” Ben asked.
“When I lived with the Paiutes, Silver Moon taught me to call on her namesake, the moon,” Stacy explained. “The moon would leave the sky and land on the road in front of me. I’d climb inside, and the moon would rise, taking me away from whoever was chasing me.” She lapsed into a long silence.
Ben waited patiently for her to continue.
“Pa, last night, the moon didn’t come,” she said at length, her voice breaking. “I called and called, just like Silver Moon taught me . . . but it didn’t come!” With that, she buried her face against Ben’s shoulder and allowed the tears to come.
Ben held her, his own heart aching along with her. He wanted so much to take away the fear, the pain, and the grief that always came with the dream, but knew full well he could not.
At length, Stacy’s tears subsided. “Pa?”
“Yes?”
“It’s been so long, I thought the dream had stopped,” she said in a melancholy tone. “Why has it come back?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said quietly, “but, I think I know why the moon didn’t come this time.”
“Why, Pa?” she asked, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her robe.
Ben handed her a handkerchief. “I think the moon didn’t come this time because the moon is Silver Moon. The moon can’t help you anymore because Silver Moon is no longer here to help you.”
Stacy was clearly frightened by that prospect. “What can I do?”
**********
“Sooner or later you’re going to have to stop running and face whoever is chasing you,” Ben said quietly. “I think you know that, deep down.”
“Pa, what if I can’t?”
“You can and you will,” Ben said. “It’ll take a lot of courage, but I know you have more than enough to see you through.”
“If I’m so courageous, why do I feel like such a ‘fraidy cat?” Stacy asked dejectedly.
“Courage has nothing to do with not being afraid,” Ben said. “Courage is facing up to something when you ARE afraid.”
“Like . . . facing up to whatever’s chasing me in the dreams?”
Ben nodded. “Miss Paris frightens you the same way the dream frightens you, doesn’t she.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.
For an uncertain moment, Stacy thought she was going to faint. “H-how did you know?”
“You’ve been edgy ever since you saw her at the restaurant in Virginia City yesterday,” Ben gently answered her question.
“I don’t know why, Pa,” Stacy said, feeling an almost giddy, guilty sense of relief that he knew. “I’ve never seen Miss Paris before in my life, until yesterday in Virginia City, but I can’t shake this feeling that somehow . . . somewhere I KNOW her.”
“Maybe Miss Paris reminds you of someone you know.”
Stacy mulled that over for a long moment, then shook her head. “I can’t think of anybody.”
“It’ll probably come to you later, when you’re not thinking so hard about it,” Ben said.
Stacy nodded, then turned impulsively and gave him a hug. “Thanks, Pa.”
Ben smiled. “For what?”
“For hearing me out,” she said earnestly, “for NOT telling me I’m being silly, and for not treating me like some kind of cry baby.”
“You’re not being silly, and you’re definitely not a cry baby,” Ben hastened to reassure her, “and anytime you want me to hear you out, I’m here.” He paused briefly, then added, “I’ll tell you something else. Seeing Miss Paris McKenna yesterday’s had me pretty spooked, too.”
“Is that why YOU’RE up so early?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m up so early,” Ben replied. “You’re very perceptive yourself, Young La–, er Young WOMAN.”
“Silver Moon once told me that comes from living with family,” Stacy said. “I wish there was some way you could meet her.”
“I do, too,” Ben said sincerely. “She sounds like a very wise woman.”
“Pa, Miss Paris is sick, isn’t she.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.
“Well, she’s not sick, exactly,” Ben explained. “The doctor said she’s suffering from exhaustion. She’ll be fine after she’s had plenty of rest and plenty to eat.”
Stacy shook her head. “Something’s eating her, from the inside,” she said. “I’ve seen it once before.”
“Oh?”
“My grandfather, Chief Soaring Eagle,” Stacy said sadly. “It was when the army had us surrounded, and we knew there was no way out.”
Most of the time, Stacy, by all appearances was a typical teenaged girl, who loved horses, delighted in teasing her older brothers, and needed occasional motivation to apply herself to her school work. She had yet to discover the merits of teenaged boys, something for which Ben was thankful, even though he knew that would change more than likely in the very near future. Then, there were the times like now, when the teenaged girl disappeared into an incredibly wise woman, more ancient than the mountains surrounding the Ponderosa. Ben knew that if he lived to be a hundred, this daughter of his would never cease to amaze him.
“Pa? I think I hear Hop Sing in the kitchen,” Stacy said, teenaged girl once again. “Maybe, for a change, you and I can get into the kitchen first and get our share of the bacon before Hoss and Joe wake up.”
“Then, you’d better shake a leg, Miss Stacy LOO-WEESE!” Joe called out from the landing at the top of the stairs. “I’m hungrier than a bear that just woke up after a long winter’s night.”
“So am I, LITTLE Joe, so am I!” Stacy retorted, as she leapt to her feet. “Last one to the kitchen forfeits HIS bacon to the first.”
“LITTLE Joe?! Hey! Where do YOU get off calling me Little Joe, LITTLE Sister?! I have a good mind turn you over my knee, and— ”
“You have to catch me first,” Stacy taunted. “Excuse me, Pa.” With the grace and powerful strength of a prowling cougar, she sprang from between the sofa and coffee table, and sprinted toward the kitchen as fast as she could.
“Hey! Come back here!” Joe yelled, giving chase.
“I won!” Stacy crowed triumphantly from the kitchen door. “Your bacon is mine.”
“It is not! You cheated!”
“Did not!”
“Did so!”
“Grandpa!”