The sun was well up by the time Ben Cartwright opened his eyes. He stretched, ignoring the creaking of tired bones and muscles as he luxuriated in a rare morning of sleeping late. It was his birthday, after all. Yesterday had been spent riding the pastures with his sons, rounding up errant cattle that had been missed the previous week. It wasn’t the easiest job anymore for a man of his years, but he would never let his boys know that. He smiled, thinking of how good it had been to be out on the range, alone with his family. All those endless acres without another soul in sight. Just him and the three boys.

Slowly he sat up, pushing the thick, soft quilt down to his waist. Reflectively he rubbed a hand through his gray hair, smoothing out any sleep rumples. His boys. He certainly was proud of them, even after yesterday and the contest they had dreamed up to see who could find the most strays. Towards the end they had spent more time trying to steal cows from each other that they didn’t notice their own father quietly rounding up a bunch from a dry creek bed. By the narrowest margin Ben had won that contest. Thankfully they had all taken it good naturedly for once. The oldest, Adam, had been fingering his rope and eyeing Joe’s string of five steers until the final count came in; then he just smiled philosophically and congratulated his father. Joe, a charming and energetic 20-year-old, sulked for a bit until he realized he had the next largest amount, and big, gentle Hoss was content with the knowledge he’d saved two from certain death, being trapped at the edge of a boggy pond. All in all it had been a good day.

Faint wisps of coffee aroma found their way around his partially closed door. Ben closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows, taking a deep breath. Morning was his favorite time of day; the anticipation of the many hours yet to come that were ripe with potential and full of promise. The signs of life from his son’s bedrooms, the ranch itself awakening and preparing to slide into daily activities, the subtle nuances that could sometimes be detected early enough in the calm of daybreak to head off disaster later on. Ben winced at that thought. The peace and tranquility of this morning had been shattered earlier, as the boys had non too quietly prepared to head out again, this time to bring the strays to the main herd. He wasn’t sure which had been worse, Hoss’ shushing the others, stridently commanding them to talk softer so their father could sleep, or Adam and Joe arguing over – what was it again? Did it matter anyway?

The coffee odor had gotten stronger, and taken on a slightly burned tinge. Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard Hop Sing yet this morning, which meant someone else had put the coffee on to boil, and most likely left it over the hottest part of the stove. Flinging the covers aside, Ben slid out of bed and put on his red silk robe. Before heading downstairs, he pulled open the curtains to let in the brilliant sunshine. The windows looked out over one of the most beautiful vistas of the ranch – miles and miles, acres upon acres of virgin land that so far had only felt the occasional hoof from a horse or cow. The thick, velvety green of grass and trees stretched unbroken up into the mountains beyond. Ben sighed and leaned against the wall, his dark eyes looking with pride over the land. No one would take axe or plow to it as long as he could help it.

The burnt aroma was starting to overtake the smell of coffee as Ben dug his slippers out from under the bed. He hurried downstairs into the kitchen, noticing that it was already 8:00, and Hop Sing was nowhere to be found. Sure enough, the coffee pot had been left on full boil and was now mostly a thick dark sludge. Not desperate enough to drink that, Ben dumped the remains in the slop bucket and efficiently set about making more. Years of dealing with well meaning but forgetful sons had taught him that much.

Hunger set in by the time the coffee was brewed, and it seemed the boys had also cleaned the pantry out of most of the readily available food. Ben scrounged a biscuit from the bottom of the bin and headed back out to the dining room. Light shining in from the window illuminated a small collection of carefully wrapped gifts waiting for him. Smiling, he set his cup on the heavy wood table and pulled out a chair. As he sank down into the seat, he dipped the biscuit in the coffee to soften it some, then contemplated the array in front of him.

Obviously the boys didn’t plan on making it back tonight, or they would have waited to present their gifts in person. The first thing he noticed was a short, squat bottle, a little dusty with age. Picking it up carefully, he blew off a bit of the dirt and closely inspected the label. It was a fine, expensive, aged bottle of brandy. Ben gave a low whistle under his breath. That would have set his sons back a pretty penny, to afford that. Considering the way his family went through this type of liquor, Ben wondered at their common sense. In the Cartwright household, brandy was used to treat everything from the sniffles to bleeding wounds. Ben set it back on the table carefully. Maybe this could be saved for the most serious injuries; its curative properties would undoubtedly be more potent.

Three wrapped packages still lay before him. It was easy to tell which came from which son. Adam’s was large, but very carefully and neatly wrapped, precise in every detail. Hoss’ was large as well, but the paper was more folded around it, held by some string. Ben surmised it was some type of food as a few grease stains were forming at the edges. Joe’s? Well, Joe’s was the smallest, and flattest, but had the fanciest paper and an elaborate bow. Ben’s youngest son had been smitten lately with a pretty girl who worked at the mercantile. Most likely he had gotten his latest love to do the honors of wrapping, and maybe even choosing, the gift. It was hard to decide which to open first.

Best to get Hoss’ dealt with, in case it was something that would need to be put back in the coolness of the root cellar. The wrapping nearly fell apart when he picked it up. As the crumpled paper fell to the oak floor, Ben was left holding a round of cheese. It was whitish in color, and soft. He took a cautious sniff. It smelled vaguely familiar, and a little rank, but some cheese was like that. Didn’t necessarily mean it was bad or sour. If Hop Sing ever showed up he could ask him what it was. The Chinese cook would invariably know. Until then, well, he’d play it safe.

Stiffly he bent over to retrieve the paper so he could re-wrap the cheese. A few prickles from sore, over used muscles shot through his back and he grimaced slightly. All this from one day in the saddle? Used to be he could spend weeks riding after cows, horses and mischievous sons and think nothing of it. With one hand he smoothed out the paper as best he could, smiling at the practicality of Hoss’ present. Trust this son to give a gift of food. As he folded the wrapping up, he noticed some slightly faded writing. Squinting at the shadowy ink, he could just make out the word "brie". With a chuckle he sat back again. Of course, brie cheese! How could he have forgotten? Last time he’d had any of that was over twenty years ago, when he was courting Joe’s mother. Or course Hoss would remember and take the time to find it and have it shipped to Virginia City, especially since Hoss didn’t care for cheese himself.

A quick trip back to the kitchen to find a knife, and Ben eagerly sliced into the cheese, putting it on the last of his biscuit. Oh, the memories it brought back, of a lively time in his life when he was young (more or less) and virile, squiring a beautiful woman all over the exotic city of New Orleans. He closed his eyes, sinking down into the chair as he allowed the thoughts to take over for a few minutes. Gorgeous, blonde Marie, with her sparkling green eyes and throaty, lusty laugh. The vision of her in his mind brought to life the image of their son, Little Joe, and also his gift.

He sat upright in the chair, eagerly reaching out for the colorful package. It seemed almost a shame to spoil the expensive and intricate wrapping. Whatever it was was solid and heavy, feeling almost like a picture frame. He turned it over and as carefully and delicately as he could undid the present. It was most definitely a picture frame; that much was obvious even from the back. Flipping the whole thing over, Ben stared in amazement at the photograph that looked back at him. It was Joe, but as he was rarely seen. Washed, cleaned, polished and dressed up to within an inch of his life, white teeth gleaming, hat perched jauntily on his head that was tipped just a little to one side, and was that a touch of makeup? Ben leaned a little closer to be sure. What exactly was this?

Down in the far corner, barely visible, were the words "Glamour Shots". That explained it. Ben had heard of a new business opening in Virginia City; the whole town practically was laughing about it. Apparently this new photographer gussied people up to make the women look like cheap saloon floozies and the men like hardened professional gamblers, then charged an exorbitant amount of money to take their picture. And, it seems, Joe had taken him up on his offer. Not that his son could ever look that sleazy, Ben thought to himself smugly. It was a darn good picture of his youngest son, showing off the few curls that refused to be tamed, the dimple in his chin and the eyes that were so much like his mother’s. Or would be, if the photograph was colored.

Ben rose to his feet, gazing about the great room just beyond the dining table. Now where would be the best place for this magnificent gift? His first thought was the desk, next to the pictures of his three wives. This frame would dwarf the others, though. It needed a position of honor. The coffee table? No, Adam was forever putting his feet up there and might kick it over and break it. It had to be a safe spot, where all could enjoy it equally. Ah yes, the mantle! He could take down the obnoxious steer horns and Little Joe’s picture could shine in its place. Satisfied with the solution, Ben walked over to the wooden mantle and set the frame down carefully. This would do for now, until he was dressed and could do the job properly.
That left only Adam’s gift to be opened. It wasn’t the right shape for a book, too heavy for a new shirt or jacket. Puzzled, Ben took a sip of his coffee and pulled the package closer for inspection. He accidentally knocked it into the brandy bottle and thought, why not? With a practiced hand he swiftly unwrapped the top and popped out the cork, pouring a hefty dollop into his mug. He took another sip and sighed contentedly. Much better.

It only took a moment to rip through the paper to reveal his oldest son’s gift. This was the one Ben was looking forward to; Adam had truly unique and personal ideas, and usually the most money to spend. Eagerly pulling away the last of the wrapping, Ben could only stare down in amazement. Adam had given him a rope. It was good and thick, made of strong fibers that would stand up to the orneriest bull, or whatever else might need to be hauled about.

Ben took long drink of his fortified coffee. Come to think of it, he had noticed that his rope was rather frayed and dirty, and he smiled. A small slip of paper fluttered from between the loops and settled on the floor by Ben’s red slippers. Only a few muscles protested this time as Ben leaned over to pick it up. Adam’s precise, neat handwriting was easy to read. "Pa," the note began, "last week when we were out assisting the settlers, I noticed your rope had several stress points in it that were in danger of breaking. As you have always said, any job worth doing is worth doing well. A broken rope at a critical moment would certainly not be a job well done. This is the finest that money could buy, guaranteed not to fray, stretch or break through at least a year of hard work. Happy Birthday. Love, Adam."

Ben chuckled and hefted the rope in his hands. It was fine and sturdy, exactly what they needed. Seems every week now he was manipulated into inviting somebody or other to come and stay on the ranch. Most times he would even be enticed to foolishly give away land along with the deal. Well, nobody could fault his good intentions; he always hoped those invited would respectfully decline. They rarely did. Most people would actually come and want to build a house, till the soil and graze some horses or cattle on Ponderosa land.

He paused to pour more brandy into the coffee, his dark eyes narrowing thoughtfully. It wasn’t enough that he had to constantly get rid of interfering ranch hands, now he had the added burden of driving away potential homesteaders. As if he would turn one acre of his hard won land over to strangers! Those people didn’t go easy, either. That’s where a rope came in handy.  Intimidation. Things could get a little ugly if the sight of four Cartwrights riding hell bent for leather down on some little claim shanty didn’t scare the interlopers away. Sometimes they’d have to catch the biggest one and drag him (or her; Ben remember one instance with a shudder) around a bit. They almost always ran when he or the boys fashioned a quick noose and slung it up over the nearest tree branch. Only had to actually hang one that Ben could remember. Or was it two? He shook his head and sipped more of his beverage. Must be getting old to forget a thing like that.

A stray shaft of sunlight shot through the window and illuminated the brandy bottle. Ben reached for it, intending to add it to his nearly empty cup, but shrugged instead and took a long pull straight from the neck.  It might be time to see if the latest bunch had found their way to the north pasture yet.  Hoss’ directions had been very vague as usual, but sometimes they got smart and figured them out anyway. It would be a glorious way to spend his birthday; the only thing that could make it better would be to have his three strapping sons by his side. It wasn’t near as much fun to go alone. He could always take Hop Sing if the man ever decided to put in an appearance. It added an interesting element when the little Chinese cook started hollering in a foreign tongue and waving a few huge knives around. Always made people sit up and take notice.

Ben stood up slowly, taking one last slice of the brie and one lingering look at the photo of his youngest child before heading up stairs to get dressed. While he missed the noise and confusion his three grown children brought even now to the house, he had to admit the silence was wonderful as well. On impulse he headed for the door, flinging it open and taking a deep breath of the cool crisp air. The only sound was the birds in the trees. Coiling the rope expertly in his hands, he stepped out onto the porch and with an easy flick of his wrist sent a loop sailing half way across the courtyard to settle around a barrel. Perfect. Ben smiled to himself. Today was going to be another good day.