Boys In The Attic
Scott brushed away cobwebs. They clung unpleasantly to his hand and he wrinkled his nose. He wondered uneasily where the spiders were but he still climbed up through the trapdoor into the attic.
The big room ran the length of the hacienda. It was quiet, muffled by a heavy layer of dust. Faint light filtered through small, filthy windows at both ends of the room. The air was unnaturally still.
Scott stood up, ducking his head to avoid hitting the low, rough-hewn beams that crossed the room under the roof, and held up his lantern. Teresa had told him she thought some of his mother's things were still up here, packed away 25 years ago after her death in childbirth.
There were two large steamer trunks, she said, brought back to the ranch from the little town where she died on her way home to Boston. Teresa thought they were near the far end of the attic.
The warped wooden floor creaked under Scott's weight as he crossed the room, and the lantern cast weird, bobbing shadows. A dressmaker's dummy leered at him. Next to it, there was a wooden rocking horse.
It must have been Johnny's, Scott realized, coming to a stop. He pushed it, watching it swing forward and back. It had a worn leather saddle, and its mane and ears were ragged. Scott could almost conjure an image of a dark-haired toddler with sparkling blue eyes. He'd bet his little brother had ridden the horse hard. He wondered if the horse had stood in the great room downstairs or in Johnny's room. His own toys were always kept in his rooms upstairs in his grandfather's house, where children were rarely seen or heard except at appointed times and prescribed places. But it might have been different here, on the ranch. The floor in a corner of the great room still had a double scar that could be the mark of the horse's wooden rockers. Scott had once asked about it but Teresa didn't know what caused it and Murdoch had changed the subject without answering.
There was a crib too, not far from the horse. He ran his hand over it, wiping away the dust. The wood was smooth under his fingers.
The middle of the room held discarded furniture and stacks of boxes. Scott jumped as something moved and realized that it was his own reflection in a cracked mirror. The mirror stood next to a peeling portrait of a stern Spanish gentleman and some dark mission furniture.
Something spooked him about the room. Too many memories were packed up here, brooding.
Nonsense, he told himself, moving farther into the room. He saw two large trunks and a pile of crates.
The trunks wouldn't open. Scott hesitated, disappointed. He didn't want to break the locks but he didn't want to ask Murdoch for the keys either. Perhaps Teresa would know where they were.
Scott found it easy enough to get along with his father, easier than his brother did. Johnny and Murdoch barely had to look at each other to set off sparks. Scott found himself in the middle, most of the time, trying to calm down both of them.
On the surface, Murdoch and Scott were fine. They were polite and respectful of each other. Murdoch was clearly proud of his son's education and military service. And Scott didn't challenge his father's authority, not like Johnny. They had common tastes and interests. They were both readers and they could always talk about books, or spend a quiet evening reading by the fire.
The trouble was there was little beyond that unruffled surface. They had never really talked about why Murdoch had left his older son in Boston or why there had been no contact while Scott was growing up. Murdoch had searched desperately for Johnny, for years. But he knew exactly where Scott was, all the time, and there had never been so much as a letter.
They had never talked about Scott's mother either, not since that first day when Murdoch said Scott had his mother's eyes and Johnny had his mother's temper.
They weren't strangers, not any more. But they were more like business partners than father and son, Scott thought.
Sometimes, he almost envied Johnny. Murdoch was hard on his younger son, a lot harder than he was on Scott. He never seemed to be satisfied, whatever Johnny did, always seemed to be pushing him. Their battles still raged, and Scott had gone after his brother more than once, afraid he wouldn't return, when Johnny took off during an argument with Murdoch. It was like living in a thunderstorm, loud and dangerously charged.
Even so, while Johnny might not realize it, Scott had no doubts their father loved his younger son and always had, even if he didn't have the slightest idea of how to handle him now. He wasn't so sure about his own place in Murdoch's heart.
The diffident Bostonian didn't know how to ask. It was ridiculous, really, Scott thought. He should simply sit down and ask Murdoch to explain what happened. There had to be an explanation.
Something rustled, and Scott's head went up. The shadows were growing in the attic as the sun went down. He shivered suddenly, and headed back toward the trapdoor.
"The keys were always in the locks," Teresa said later, downstairs in the kitchen. She was rolling out piecrust on the table, and flour dusted her hair and apron.
"They're not now," Scott said.
"Did you look on the floor?" she asked. "Maybe they fell out."
"No, they're not there either. I looked."
"Usually, no one goes up there," Teresa said. "The staff says it's haunted."
"Haunted?" Scott rejected the idea instantly. "There's no such thing, Teresa."
"Maybe not," she said. "But it is, well, it is strange up there. I don't like to go up there by myself. I've heard rustling noises, like women's skirts sweeping across the floor. And music. And, and once I heard a child crying."
"You probably heard sounds from the garden," Scott said.
"I don't think so." Teresa put down the rolling pin and transferred the round of dough to a waiting pan.
"Teresa, there is no such thing as ghosts," Scott said.
"I don't know," she said. "I still wouldn't go up there by myself, not if I could help it. I don't think Murdoch does either. That room has a lot of memories in it."
"I'd like to see my mother's things," he said stubbornly.
"You don't want to ask Murdoch about the keys, do you?" He hesitated and she gave him a smile, full of understanding. "I'll try to find them for you, if you really want them. But I wish you'd just talk to Murdoch, Scott."
"I can't, Teresa," he said.
"Then talk to Johnny," she said. "He'll understand. He'll be home tomorrow, Scott."
"I'll think about it," he said.
***
"Do you remember the horse?" Scott asked.
Both brothers had climbed up to the attic. Johnny stopped at the rocking horse, staring at it. There was a strange look on his face.
"I don't know," he said.
Johnny tore his gaze away from the rocking horse and walked forward into the middle of the attic. He stopped again at the portrait of the Spanish gentleman.
"Who do you suppose he was?" Scott asked.
Johnny shook his head and made a slight gesture with his hand. "Where are those trunks, Scott? Let's get this over with and get back downstairs."
"They're over here," Scott said. He shared his brother's uneasiness, although he didn't know why and he wasn't about to admit it. He knelt in front of the first trunk and reached in his pocket for the ring of old-fashioned keys that Teresa had found in a drawer in the great room. She wasn't sure what they opened.
"You don't need to try those," Johnny said. "The key's right here."
"What?" Scott said. Johnny reached down to the floor and picked up a tarnished key. "That wasn't there a few days ago."
"It's here now." Johnny held it out and Scott took it from him. He slid it into the lock and turned it, suddenly reluctant. He paused before he lifted the lid. The stiff hinges screeched in protest and both men jumped.
Scott felt foolish, looking down on the contents of the trunk. It was neatly packed, as if its owner was going on a long trip. She had been going on a long trip, he remembered, all the way home to Boston. He sniffed suddenly. "Lavender," he said.
Johnny's eyes were on the shadows at the other end of the room. His hand reached automatically for the place where his gun would be, if he were wearing it. That was one of the new rules he was trying to learn to live with, no guns in the house. He wasn't sure it was a good idea. He had a feeling, one he had learned a long time not to ignore, that someone was watching. And it didn't help to tell himself there was no one there, couldn't be.
"Scott," he said, his voice strained. "This going to take long?"
"I don't think so." Scott was intent on the contents of the trunk. It was mostly clothing, wrapped carefully in tissue. He unwrapped a blue silk scarf, one that matched his own bluish gray eyes. The slippery fabric slipped through his fingers. He felt like an intruder suddenly. The clothing in this trunk had nothing to do with him. He replaced the scarf, shut the lid and opened the second trunk.
This one wasn't so carefully packed. It looked like someone had rifled through it in a hurry, removed some of the contents, and dumped some other things in. Scott took a soft leather portfolio from the tray at the top of the trunk. It held writing paper, envelopes and stamps. He flipped idly through the blank sheets of paper and a piece of folded paper fell out. Scott opened it slowly and froze at the sight of the handwriting that filled about three-quarters of the page. He'd seen that handwriting before, at his grandfather's house.
"Scott?" Johnny said again.
"I'm coming." Scott tucked the letter back into the portfolio and took it with him. There was nothing else in the trunk but clothing. He closed the trunk. Neither brother lost any time crossing the attic. Johnny went through the trapdoor first. Scott was just following when he heard the rustling noise again. He swung his long legs down and slammed the door shut.
"I don't know about you but I could use a drink," he said to his brother.
One corner of Johnny's mouth tilted upward. "Me too."
Downstairs, Scott handed Johnny a glass of whisky and took a healthy gulp of his own. Johnny settled down on the rug by the fire. They were the only ones in the house. Murdoch and Teresa were visiting another ranch for a few days and Maria was spending the day at her niece's house, helping to take care of a new baby. Jelly had gone into town.
The two brothers were silent. Scott took another swallow before he looked over at Johnny's bowed head.
"It wasn't just my imagination," he stated. "Yours too, huh?"
Johnny said something in Spanish, too rapidly for Scott to follow any of it.
"You'll have to translate, brother," he said.
"No." Johnny's eyes were distant, as if he was miles away.
"Johnny," Scott said quietly. "Did you recognize that rocking horse?"
"No es importante," Johnny said, without thinking, and then caught himself. "Sorry."
"It is important. Did you, Johnny?"
There was a long pause. "I'm not sure," Johnny said at last. "Maybe."
He looked up at his older brother, his eyes dark. "Never mind that. You go ahead and read that letter you found."
"Do you think I should?"
Johnny flashed him a smile, the mischievous smile that made him look years younger. "You better not have dragged me up into that attic for nothing, Boston," he threatened. He got up and splashed more whisky into their glasses, then settled down again, leaning against the sofa. "Go ahead and read it."
"It's not addressed to me," Scott said.
"She was your mama. You have a right to know about her, Scott."
Scott opened the portfolio again and drew out the sheet of paper, staring at the clear handwriting that ran across the page. She crossed her Ts with a flourish.
My darling,
I'm sorry. I know you wanted our child to be born at Lancer just as much as I do, if not more, and you only sent us away because you love us. I know you're right, and it's not safe on the ranch for our baby.
I left you with angry words I never meant. I love you, Murdoch Lancer, with all my heart. And I know, as certainly as I know there are stars in the heaven, that you love me too, and our child, more than anything else. I can't wait until we're home again, and you can hold both of us in your arms. I want to spend the rest of my life with you on our ranch, watching our sons and daughters grow. Please, my love, please be careful.
The baby is kicking a bit today. I wouldn't be too surprised if your son insists on being born in California. He is your son, after all, and mine too. He is likely to be a stubborn child, like both his parents.
Forgive me, darling, for what I said in anger. I didn't mean it. I miss you more than I can tell you -
The letter broke off there. Scott read it twice and handed it over to Johnny, who hesitated.
"Scott, this is your business but it's not any of mine."
"You're my brother," Scott said. "And you're Murdoch's son too. I want you to read it and tell me what you think."
Johnny took the letter reluctantly, and read through it slowly. "They had a fight," he said, giving it back to Scott. "The last time they saw each other. And she wrote to tell him she was sorry."
"Yes," Scott said, his eyes fastened again on the faded ink.
"Do you think Murdoch ever saw that letter?" Johnny asked. Scott's head jerked up and he stared at his brother.
***
The horse reared up, high over Scott's head, then down again, faster and faster. The little boy on the back of the giant rocking horse was laughing at first. Then his face changed, and Scott could see that he was frightened. His small hands clutched the mane and his shadow swung up on the wall, larger than life, in a small circle of light cast by a lantern. The rockers creaked louder against the floor. Scott tried to speak and couldn't, couldn't move to snatch the child off the plunging horse.
There was a footstep and Scott swung around, trying to see into the shadows. The old Spanish gentleman from the portrait stepped out of the darkness into the light, his eyes focused on the little boy. The old man's face was full of hatred and Scott struggled to step between them, to block the angry man from reaching the child.
The little boy took one hand off the mane to draw a toy pistol, even while the horse still rocked, faster and faster. "No, Johnny," Scott screamed silently. "Johnny, hold on."
The boy fired the gun at the old man, who hesitated, but kept walking toward him. The child fired again, and then again, until the old man finally sank to his knees, his head bowed. He raised his face, and Scott was horrified to see that it was no longer the Spanish gentleman, but his father who knelt there and then collapsed, face forward.
The horse was still rocking. Scott looked over at the little boy, who dropped the gun. He wasn't dark-haired, but blond now. Scott recognized himself just as the horse reared backward, the child lost his grip and he started to fall into the darkness.
"No!" Scott screamed and woke up. Johnny was bending over him, shaking his shoulder lightly.
"It's a dream, Boston," he said, his voice gentle.
He straightened up and moved over to the windows as Scott sat up. One of them was loose and banging in the wind. Johnny pulled it shut and latched it. Rain was coming down in buckets. Barefoot and shirtless, Johnny sat down on the window ledge and gave his brother a small smile.
"Storm's rising," he said. "Wonder if Murdoch and Teresa will get back tomorrow."
Scott's heart still thumped and he was breathing hard. He ran his hands through his hair. "I don't think Murdoch is going to let rain stop him." He hesitated. "I'm sorry I woke you."
"It don't matter," Johnny said.
Scott looked curiously at his brother. Johnny hadn't asked any of the questions people usually asked or said any of the things they usually said. Scott had heard them all. Nightmares had haunted him for months after the end of the war, long after the hospital released him and sent him back to Boston to recuperate from his time in a Confederate prison. The dreams left him exhausted and afraid to sleep, which delayed his recovery. His grandfather was worried about him and that only made it worse, increasing Scott's feelings of guilt.
Finally, he found a measure of peace when an old friend from college visited, someone who had also served in the army. They talked out their experiences and their horror. Scott hadn't been able to tell anyone about the Confederate prison until then. He couldn't tell the doctors and he certainly couldn't tell his grandfather.
Talking about it helped. He started to sleep through the night for the first time since he'd enlisted in the cavalry and gone to war. The dreams still returned at times but they grew less frequent and Scott started to pick up the pieces of his life again.
Johnny hadn't even told him it was "just" a dream, Scott thought. An idea occurred to him and he studied his younger brother. He remembered Johnny's defiant claim, not long after they met, that he always slept soundly. He hadn't slept soundly at all when he was recovering from Pardee's bullet but they had put that down to fever and pain. Scott wondered if maybe Johnny knew as much about nightmares as he did, or even more.
He wasn't likely to admit it, Scott thought, a little sadly. In just a few months, he and Johnny had become closer than he ever would have believed possible that first day he learned the cocky, angry young gunfighter was his half-brother. There was so much more to Johnny than the gunfighter.
There was also more to Johnny's story than he was willing to tell either his father or brother. Johnny mostly wouldn't talk about the dark side of his past, not even to Scott. And he certainly wouldn't admit to nightmares, Scott knew. Johnny never admitted to being anything less than fine, not even when he was bleeding.
Scott sighed a little. "I dreamed about the rocking horse," he volunteered.
Johnny shot him a surprised look before his head dropped. He traced a pattern on the window with one hand. "How come that horse bothers you so much, Boston?"
"I'm not sure," Scott said slowly. "I knew you were born here and lived here until you were two. But there wasn't anything here to show it. I couldn't actually see a little boy playing on a wooden rocking horse, not until today."
Johnny was still tracing something. "It might not be mine."
"Oh? So why did you look like you had seen a ghost?" Scott said.
Johnny didn't raise his head. "There are lots of ghosts at Lancer, Scott," he said. "I don't know if this one's mine. I just don't remember. I don't remember any of it."
"There's no such thing as ghosts, Johnny," Scott said, but his voice wasn't quite as convinced as it had been when he talked to Teresa a few days ago in daylight, before he'd visited the attic again.
Johnny stood up and wandered over to the chessboard set up on the table, where Scott had been studying a problem. He played with the carved pieces, picking them up and setting them down again. Scott couldn't see his brother's face. He could see the scars on his lean back. Besides the recent scar left by the bullet, there were other scars on his brother's back, pale traces of old beatings. He'd been shocked the first time he saw them, the day he carried Johnny into the house with a bullet in his back. Murdoch had looked sick, but he hadn't said anything, not while he was busy tending to the new wound. Scott didn't know if his father had ever said anything to Johnny about those old scars.
"Scott, there's more than one kind of ghost," Johnny drawled.
***
Murdoch and Teresa arrived late in the morning. It was still raining hard. Johnny took the horses and buggy to the barn, while Scott carried their bags into the house.
Teresa disappeared into the kitchen to see how lunch was coming along and to tell Maria all about her visit. Murdoch settled behind his desk, in his favorite chair. He had enjoyed the visit too, but it was good to be home again.
"Did you and Johnny get that stream cleared out?" he asked. "We're likely to see some flooding if this rain keeps up."
"It's done," Scott said briefly. His mother's unfinished letter was upstairs on his dresser. He had decided he would show it to his father when he returned, and try to talk to him about his mother, but there wasn't enough time before lunch.
"What about that chestnut mare? Did she foal yet?"
"No, sir. Johnny says it will be soon."
"Did you move the herd from the east pasture?"
"Yes, sir," Scott said.
The front door slammed and Johnny appeared in the doorway. Water streamed off his slicker and his hair, plastered to his hatless head. He was smiling, though, and his eyes sparkled.
"That mare is starting to foal," he said. "I'm going to stay with her."
"Is she in any distress?" Murdoch asked.
"Nope, she looks good."
"Then you should have plenty of time to sit down at the table with us and eat your lunch," Murdoch said.
"That an order, Old Man?" Johnny challenged, his smile disappearing.
Murdoch opened his mouth to reply angrily and then closed it. "It's a request, John," he said, after a pause. "We've been away for two days and I would like the family to sit down together for a meal."
Johnny's eyes widened. He expected Murdoch to bellow. "OK," he said.
Maria produced bowls of hot, rich beef stew for lunch, along with cornbread fresh from the oven and thickly sliced tomatoes from the garden. Johnny polished off two bowls effortlessly while Scott was still pretending to eat his first helping.
Murdoch glanced at his older son curiously. Scott was usually quiet, especially compared to his brother, but not this quiet. He wondered what was wrong.
"You two didn't have any problems while we were gone, did you?" he asked.
"Nope," Johnny said, reaching for another piece of cornbread. "Everything's fine, Murdoch. We even finished the accounts."
"We did?" Scott said, his brows rising.
Johnny grinned at his brother. "Well, you did, mostly," he said. "But I helped."
"Yes," Scott said, smiling back at him. "You were a big help, little brother. You finally fell asleep on the sofa and gave me a few hours of peace and quiet."
Johnny just laughed. "Any time, Boston."
Murdoch was relieved to see that, whatever the problem was, it wasn't between the brothers. He still thought something was troubling Scott.
"Have you heard from your grandfather lately?" he asked his older son. He knew that Scott wrote regularly to his grandfather, and that his grandfather wrote back. He could just imagine what Harlan Garrett had to say.
"I had a letter from him yesterday."
"He's well?"
"Yes, sir," Scott said. "He's very busy but he's hoping to get away to pay us another visit. If that would be all right with you, sir?"
Wonderful, Murdoch thought. He looked over at Johnny and his lip twitched involuntarily at the expression on his younger son's face. Johnny and Harlan weren't likely to get along any better on the older man's next visit than they had on his first, when Johnny had stopped his plan to force his grandson to return to Boston.
"Of course," Murdoch said aloud.
Johnny headed for the barn as soon as the table was cleared, eager to see how the mare was coming along. Scott disappeared too, while Murdoch settled into his desk and started to go through the mail. Murdoch thought Scott had gone out to the barn with Johnny, and he was surprised when he appeared in the door of the great room.
"Sir, could I talk to you?"
"Of course, son," Murdoch said. He hoped Scott wasn't going to tell him he had changed his mind about staying on the ranch and wanted to go back to Boston. If Scott left, Johnny wouldn't stay long either, Murdoch thought. He had been surprised - and not too pleased at the time - when both of his sons came home together, on the same day. Since then, he had come to think it had been a blessing, even if he hadn't been prepared to face both of them at once. He didn't think either of them would have stayed at the ranch without the other.
Murdoch had been stunned when his sons became the best of friends, despite all the differences between them, but he was happy about it. Johnny desperately needed someone to steady him and slow him down, and Murdoch knew his younger son was far more likely to listen to his brother than his father. And Scott seemed to need Johnny just as much. He'd quickly slipped into the role of protective big brother, to Murdoch's amazement, and he apparently thrived on it. Harlan Garrett had raised his grandson well, giving him every advantage money could buy, but Murdoch knew there had never been much love or laughter in that Boston mansion. Murdoch suspected Scott had been hurt as badly as Johnny in some ways, emotionally if not physically.
"What's wrong, Scott?" he asked.
"I was up in the attic," Scott said, deciding to leave his brother out of this in case Murdoch became angry. "There are two trunks up there that belonged to my mother."
Murdoch froze. "Yes," he said after a minute. "I had forgotten about that. But there's nothing in them but some clothes, Scott. They were sent back to the ranch after she died."
"I hope you don't mind, sir, that I opened them. I was, well, I was curious."
Murdoch's face was impassive. "She was your mother. I guess that's only natural, Scott."
"I found this," Scott said, handing his father the letter.
***
Murdoch recognized the writing and his eyes widened. His hand trembled as he reached for it. He read it through, and his head dropped. Just like Johnny, Scott realized suddenly, when he didn't want anyone to see his eyes.
"Sir?" he said.
Murdoch was silent.
"It sounds as if she loved you very much," Scott said. "And she was sure that you loved her, and me too."
Murdoch looked up. Scott was shocked to see that his father's eyes were full of tears.
"I loved her more than life." Murdoch's voice was gruff. "Both of you. It was the hardest thing I've ever done, sending her back to Boston. But the land pirates were raiding every ranch in the valley, and I was afraid for both of you."
Scott hesitated. "From the letter, it sounds like you fought about it," he said slowly.
"We did fight about it," Murdoch said, his eyes far away. "She didn't want to leave. She was furious with me, that last day. It was the first time we'd ever really fought about anything, and we both ended up saying things we shouldn't have."
"And then she died."
"Yes." Murdoch swiveled his chair toward the windows, away from his son. "You arrived earlier than we expected, while they were still on the way to San Francisco. Your grandfather went ahead and took you back to Boston, just as we had planned. He had already sailed by the time I got his telegram about your mother."
He stared at the rain-blurred windows. "They had already buried her by the time I got there. I wish I had seen this letter. I always thought your mother was still angry with me when she died."
A few minutes ticked by. "Is that why you let my grandfather keep me, sir?" Scott asked.
"I didn't ever intend to let him keep you, Scott. Not without a fight."
"I don't understand. I mean, I do understand why you sent her away. And I understand why you couldn't get me back right away, especially if Grandfather had already sailed. But why didn't you want me later?"
Murdoch swiveled around at the pain in his son's voice. "I did want you, son. I always did. The night Johnny was born, I promised him, and myself too, that I'd go to Boston again and bring you home. I thought I finally had a real home again for you, with a mother and a little brother, and a chance of persuading your grandfather to let you come home."
"Grandfather said no?" Scott asked.
"I was going to fight him," Murdoch said. "I had already hired a lawyer in Boston."
Scott looked at his father and suddenly guessed what was coming next. "But then Johnny's mother left," he said.
"Johnny's mother left," Murdoch echoed sadly. "I knew you were safe, Scott, and that your grandfather would take good care of you. I didn't know where Johnny was. I didn't even know if he was still alive. I looked for them myself for nearly a year, down on the border. And when I came back, I spent every cent I could spare to hire the Pinkertons to keep looking for him. I didn't have anything left to fight your grandfather. I wasn't going to win even if I did, not after I lost another son."
It made sense, Scott admitted to himself. He just hoped his brother never heard this.
Murdoch finally met Scott's eyes. "It wasn't fair to you, son, but I can't honestly tell you I would make a different choice if I had to do it over again."
"I wouldn't either," Scott said. "I guess what I really don't understand is why you never wrote to me, sir, Couldn't you have written me a letter?"
There was a long silence.
"Scott," Murdoch said. "I'm sure your grandfather did what he thought was best for you."
Scott was puzzled. "What do you mean, sir?"
"He means he did write to you," another voice said. Scott looked up to see his brother leaning on the doorframe. "Didn't you, Murdoch?"
Murdoch frowned at his younger son. "John, I don't think this concerns you," he said, not answering the question.
"No?" Johnny said. "Scott's my brother, Old Man. How do you figure that something that hurts him don't concern me?"
"This is between your brother and me, John," Murdoch said.
"Might be," Johnny agreed. "Except you just told him that I'm the reason you didn't ever go and get him."
"Johnny, that's not what I said," Murdoch protested.
"Same thing," Johnny said. He looked at Scott. "I'm sorry, Boston. Guess my mama and me managed to hurt you too."
"It's not your fault, Johnny," Scott said quickly. "None of this was ever your fault."
Johnny's face was expressionless, but his eyes broke Scott's heart. Scott glared at Murdoch, wishing his father would speak up, but the older man was silent.
"Johnny," Scott said. His brother quickly took a step backwards.
"I'm going for a ride," he said. The door slammed behind him.
"Scott!" Murdoch said sharply as Scott started to follow his brother. "Let him go."
"What?" Scott whirled and looked at his father unbelievingly. "You can't be serious."
"He doesn't want either of us right now, Scott," Murdoch said. "Let him ride it out. It's best."
"Sir, it's still pouring outside."
"Johnny isn't going to melt in the rain, Scott," Murdoch said firmly. "Let him go. You and I still have some talking to do, son."
Scott was torn, but he knew Johnny wouldn't even notice it was raining, or welcome any company in one of his black moods. He'd bet Johnny was already streaking across the pasture on his palomino.
"Was he right, Murdoch?" he asked, although he could read the answer in his father's eyes. He already knew, as soon as Johnny had said it aloud. "Did you write to me?"
They were still talking when the door opened again. Jelly Hoskins stamped in, wearing rain gear. He looked around the room and frowned.
"Johnny ain't here?" the old handyman said, his face worried. "I thought he headed back to the house."
"He went out again," Scott said. "What's wrong, Jelly? Is it the chestnut mare's time already?"
"Didn't Johnny tell you?" Jelly said, puzzled.
"Tell us what?" Murdoch asked.
Jelly's face grew longer.
"We lost her, Boss," he said. "Johnny did everything he could, and more too, but her baby was turned the wrong way. It went sour fast and she bled to death. Wasn't nothing nobody could have done."
"What about the foal?" Scott asked, his heart sinking. He knew how Johnny felt about that mare and how excited he'd been about her foal. She had been bred to the ranch's lost stallion just before Pardee stole it, before they came home. Johnny was hoping for another palomino colt and Murdoch was too.
Jelly shook his head. "The foal didn't make it either," he said. "Damn shame. He was perfect, except he got twisted around. Where's Johnny, Scott?"
"He said he was going for a ride," Scott said, casting a sideways look at Murdoch.
"In the rain?" Jelly said. "And you two let him? Don't you have no sense?"
"It's my fault," Murdoch said quickly, before Scott could speak. "We didn't know about the foal, Jelly."
"When did he leave?" Jelly asked.
"About 15 minutes ago," Murdoch said. "You're not going to catch up with him, Jelly."
"Not in this rain, I'm not," Jelly agreed bitterly. "There ain't going to be enough of a trail to follow."
"He'll be back," Murdoch said, but his voice lacked conviction.
***
It was late when Scott heard the front door open and shut again. He looked over at the clock and swore. It was nearly midnight. He stood up and went to the door of the great room.
"It's about time," he said. "We were worried, Johnny."
"I can take care of myself, Scott," Johnny said from the stairs, not turning. "You don't have to worry."
"That's what big brothers do," Scott said. "Go on upstairs and get out of those wet clothes. Maria left your supper in the oven and I'll bring it up. You and I need to talk."
"I'm tired, Boston," Johnny said. "Can't it wait until morning?"
"No," Scott said. "It can't wait."
Johnny was flopped face down across his bed when Scott carried a tray upstairs. He'd dropped his wet clothes on the floor and pulled on a pair of jeans.
Scott hesitated, tempted to let his brother sleep, but he stepped inside the room and set the tray down on the table. Johnny moved with breathtaking speed, and Scott found himself staring into the barrel of his brother's Colt.
Johnny's vivid blue eyes met his, and dropped. "Sorry," he said, lowering the gun.
"I should know better by now," Scott said ruefully. "It's not your fault, Johnny."
"You keep saying that, Boston," Johnny said softly. "Doesn't make it true."
"Johnny," Scott started, and stopped. "Eat your supper, while it's still hot."
"I'm not hungry," Johnny said sulkily.
"Johnny, move, right now," Scott said in his best commanding officer voice. He should have known it wouldn't work. Johnny just gave him an incredulous look.
"Boston, have you lost your mind?" he asked.
"Please, Johnny," Scott said, trying another tactic.
His brother rolled his eyes, but he moved over to the table and sat down. Maria had left him a generous helping of hot chili, along with a plate of sandwiches.
Scott poured them both a whisky from the bottle he'd carried upstairs, and reached out and snagged one of Johnny's sandwiches. He hadn't eaten much supper himself.
"Murdoch and I talked," he said, biting hungrily into the sandwich and wondering how anyone could eat chili at midnight.
Johnny was stirring his chili with his spoon, but he hadn't actually eaten anything yet.
"It was your rocking horse," Scott said. "Up in the attic."
"That isn't what you and Murdoch talked about, is it?" Johnny said, making a face.
"No, not really," Scott said. "Mostly we talked about me, not you."
"Good," Johnny said, finally taking a spoonful of chili.
"Murdoch hadn't ever seen that letter," Scott said. "He said he just glanced through the trunks when they arrived back at the ranch and then moved them up to the attic. He said he always wondered if my mother was still mad at him when she died."
"So they did have a fight?"
"Yes," Scott said. "Murdoch said she was furious when he made her go. She wanted to stay here on the ranch."
Johnny didn't say anything.
"What are you thinking, little brother?" Scott said.
Johnny shrugged. "She wasn't much like my mama, was she?"
Scott let that one go. He didn't know what to say.
"Jelly told us about the mare and the foal," he said instead. "He said there was nothing that anyone could have done."
"No," Johnny agreed wearily, to his surprise. "Sometimes there's not, Boston. Was Murdoch mad?"
"I think he's sad," Scott said. "He wanted another palomino colt from that stallion just as much as you did. But he's not mad."
Johnny concentrated on his chili for a few minutes and Scott absently picked up another sandwich from the plate. He sat down on the bed and leaned back against the headboard.
"He would've been Barranca's brother," Johnny said.
"I know," Scott said.
Johnny finished the chili and pushed the bowl away. He wandered over to the window and looked out. The rain had finally stopped, and the moon was sailing out of ragged, dark clouds, washing the ranch with silver light and deep shadows. "Sure is pretty, ain't it?"
"It is," Scott agreed, yawning. "It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen."
"You mad at your grandfather?" Johnny asked.
"I don't know," Scott said. "I'm sure he did think he was doing what was best for me."
"At least now you know Murdoch did write to you," Johnny said.
"He didn't actually admit it," Scott said. "But I think you're right, and he did. I don't know why I didn't realize it myself."
"Maybe because you love your grandfather," Johnny said. "I believed my mama when she lied to me."
"Grandfather wouldn't lie to me," Scott objected.
Johnny cocked his head, his eyes on his brother. "What else would you call it?"
"I don't know," Scott said shortly. He had thought about this for hours, while he was waiting for his brother to come home, and he still didn't know how he felt. He wondered if Johnny had felt this confused when he came home to the ranch and Teresa told him his mother had lied to him about Murdoch. Scott didn't know what to believe or how he felt about it. It almost would be easier if he still thought that Murdoch had never tried to contact him. That was a familiar pain, one that he'd learned to live with a long time ago.
Johnny turned back to the window. "Did you ever write to Murdoch?"
"Once," Scott said. "I was 12. I always wondered about him, you know."
"Yeah, I know. Me too."
"Murdoch didn't get my letter. He did tell me that." He yawned again, and sank down deeper on Johnny's pillows. "You know, worrying about you is exhausting, little brother."
"Hey, don't fall asleep there," Johnny said, but it was too late. He looked at his older brother, his face bemused. Then he covered him with a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed and turned down the lamp. Johnny went out, closing the door behind him, and went across the hall to his brother's room.
***
Murdoch tapped on Scott's door early the next morning, and went inside without waiting for an answer. He looked at the bed, puzzled. It looked like a whirlwind had hit it. His son was curled up in the middle of the bed, still fast asleep, the hopelessly tangled quilt pulled up over his head.
"Scott, wake up," Murdoch said, shaking his shoulder. Johnny came up quickly, wide awake in an instant, and reached instinctively for the gun he'd left under the pillow in his own room.
"It's just me," Murdoch said hastily. He knew better than to startle his younger son when he was sleeping, but he hadn't expected to find Johnny in Scott's bed. "Why are you in your brother's room, John?"
Johnny rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his mussed hair. "Scott fell asleep in my room last night. It was easier to switch with him than to try to get him across the hall."
"It must have been late when you came in," Murdoch ventured.
"Mmmm," Johnny said. He peeked at his father through long lashes. "I'm sorry about that foal, Murdoch."
"Me too," Murdoch said. He knew Johnny wasn't just talking about the foal, and neither was he. "I know you did everything you could have done, son."
"Didn't make any difference," Johnny said.
"No one could have saved that foal or the mare either," Murdoch said, giving in to the temptation to swipe his son's dark hair out of his eyes. "Not in that position. I couldn't have done any better than you did."
Johnny's face was still full of regret. "The foal was perfect, Murdoch."
"That foal couldn't be saved and you know it, John," Murdoch said. "Don't you?"
"I guess so," Johnny said reluctantly.
"There will be other foals," Murdoch said. "Let's go wake up your brother and get some breakfast, all right?"
Johnny nodded faintly, pushed back the covers and stood up.
Scott was already awake and standing at Johnny's dresser, hunting through the jumble on the top.
"Brother, where is your razor?"
"Oh," Johnny said, reaching for something on the dresser. "I just use my knife." He flicked open a wicked, razor-sharp blade, and handed it to Scott.
"Um, no, thank you." Scott looked at the knife with something like horror on his fastidious face. It was clean and it was probably just as sharp as his English razor, but it was definitely a knife. He knew one thing Johnny would get for Christmas. No, make that his birthday, since it was a few days sooner. "Since you're finally awake, I'll just go to my own room and shave there."
"Hurry up, both of you," Murdoch said. "Breakfast will be on the table in 10 minutes."
He continued down the stairs while his sons washed up and got dressed. He was already sitting at the table in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, when they came down the stairs. Maria poured them both coffee, and Johnny gave her the smile he saved just for her. She patted his shoulder, and went back to the stove.
Murdoch looked cautiously at his older son. Scott's face was calm, as always, and his smoky eyes were reserved. Murdoch couldn't tell if he was angry or hurt, or both. It would be simpler if he just blew up, like Johnny. Murdoch smiled wryly to himself. He'd wished so many times that Johnny was more like his even-tempered brother, never the other way around.
Teresa came in with a basket of eggs and a bright smile for all of them. She went to help Maria before she sat down in her own place at the table.
"It's a beautiful morning," she said, picking up her fork. "The rain seems to have washed the air clean."
"I just hope it didn't wash out the north creek again too," Murdoch grumbled.
"Don't worry, we cleared it," Johnny said.
"I want you to check it anyway, right after breakfast," Murdoch said. "If it backs up, it will flood the pasture."
Teresa decided to change the subject. "Johnny, Scott said yesterday that you two found your old rocking horse in the attic the other day."
Johnny looked at his nearly empty plate. "I don't remember it," he said. "Not exactly."
Murdoch spoke up unexpectedly. "That's not surprising. It was your gift on your first birthday. I wanted to give you a pony, but Teresa's father persuaded me I should wait at least another year."
"He did?" Johnny looked at his father and his eyes started to dance wickedly. "And everyone's always told me that he was a good man," he complained.
Murdoch glanced at Teresa, but her face was untroubled. Scott had finally lifted his eyes from his plate and was listening, his coffee cup clasped loosely in his hand. He smiled at Murdoch and the older man felt a weight lift off his shoulders.
"He was, Johnny. He was a very good man and a good friend," Murdoch said. "And he was right. You weren't quite old enough yet for a pony, and you loved that rocking horse. You wore a groove in the floor downstairs from riding it. The marks are still there."
"I can't remember," Johnny said again.
"You wouldn't. You were too young," Murdoch said. "I guess I should tell you both more stories about the early days on the ranch."
"Instead of leaving the past locked up in the attic?" Scott said.
"Yes, son," Murdoch agreed. "Instead of leaving it in the attic."
He drained his coffee cup and set it down. "Come on, you two," he said. "We'll talk tonight. Daylight's wasting."
***
Something rustled, like silk, in the shadows and the rocking horse creaked. There was a sigh, and a baby murmured and started to cry. Footsteps moved quickly across the uneven floor and a voice started to sing an old lullaby softly in Spanish. Another voice joined it, just as softly, in English and the baby quieted down. The wind whistled around the adobe walls, and the old roof beams groaned a little.
"They're going to be all right," a clear voice said. "They don't need us to watch over them any more."
"Si," another voice said, a little sadly. "It is time for us to go."
THE END
Whistle, October 2004