Lancer stories by Whistle

Banished In Boston (AR)

This story takes place several years before High Riders, and is an alternative version of the Lancer story. It's the second in a set of three related stories. The set opens with He's My Brother and ends (really!) with Home On The Range

***

"He can't stay here," Murdoch Lancer said heavily. "It's not going to work."

Dr. Sam Jenkins shot a sharp look at his old friend. "Murdoch, Johnny's not badly hurt. It's just a graze. After a good night's sleep, he'll be back on his feet and pestering you to let him ride."

Murdoch stood up and filled his glass again. "Do you want another drink?" he asked. Sam shook his head and Murdoch settled back into his chair in the great room, brooding.

"Murdoch?" Sam still wasn't sure what the rancher had in mind.

The tall man sighed. "I can't keep him safe, Sam. Just about every time he rides into town, there's trouble from someone gunning for Madrid. And every time he wins, the legend just gets bigger. Johnny Madrid faced three more men today on the street and killed all of them."

"Johnny didn't do anything to start it," Sam began, but Murdoch held his hand up.

"I know," he said. "I'm not blaming him. But sooner or later, his luck is going to run out."

Sam looked thoughtful. "What's the alternative?"

"Scott is going back to Boston to finish up his education," Murdoch said. "He's been discharged from the army, now that the war is over, and he has two more years at Harvard. He wants Johnny to go with him.

"Johnny? In Boston?" Sam's jaw dropped.

"No one will be gunning for him in Boston," Murdoch said softly. "By the time he comes home, maybe Madrid will be forgotten and Johnny Lancer can live in peace."

"Murdoch, Johnny is only fifteen years old," Sam pointed out. "He needs his father and a settled home."

"I'm trying to be a good father." Murdoch's eyes were bleak. "It's not that I want to send him away, Sam. I don't. I just got him back a few months ago and this is going to be the hardest thing I've ever done. But I'm scared to death I'm going to end up burying him before he's sixteen."

Sam sighed. "You haven't told Johnny, have you?"

Murdoch shook his head. "I only made up my mind when you brought him home this afternoon," he said. "I said no when Scott first suggested it."

"He's not going to understand why you're sending him away," Sam said. "For most of his life, no one wanted that boy. He's not sure of you yet either."

"I know," Murdoch said. "That's why I'm hoping you'll agree to stay the night and help us talk to him."

"Me?" The doctor was dismayed.

"Johnny likes you and he trusts what you tell him. If you back me up on this, it may help."

Sam wasn't sure anything was going to help. He had a deep sense of foreboding. He didn't disagree with Murdoch, not exactly. He was right; one of these days, someone else would be faster or just luckier than Johnny and then it would be too late. But the doctor still hated the idea of banishing the boy from his newly found home and wished there was some other solution.

"I'm not going," Johnny said flatly the next morning at breakfast. He glared at his father and brother, his blue eyes defiant.

"You are going, young man." Murdoch's face was just as determined as his younger son's.

Johnny glanced at his brother, and found no help there. The blue eyes went next to the doctor's.

"Doc, tell them they're loco," Johnny said, giving the older man one of his infectious smiles. "I can't go to Boston."

Sam looked miserable. He glanced at Murdoch and back at the dark-haired boy. Johnny's arm was in a sling - at least, it was whenever he remembered to leave it there - but his blue eyes sparkled and the color had returned to his face. He looked young and full of energy.

Sam remembered yesterday afternoon when he drove his buggy into town after making his rounds. Johnny was standing alone in the street, facing three older men. Sam froze, afraid to call out to him for fear of distracting him. The sheriff, Val Crawford, was nowhere in sight and neither was Johnny's older brother.

Johnny really had tried to talk the men out of the gunfight. Sam heard him, as did half the population of Green River. Spectators lined the street by the time one of the strangers made the first move for his gun. Johnny shot all three of them before any of them managed to fire. Sam knew his reputation as a gunfighter but he hadn't seen the boy draw before and it chilled him. He'd never seen anyone so fast.

Johnny probably wouldn't even have been hurt if Scott hadn't come running up from the store and grabbed him. Two of the men had died in the street but Johnny had only wounded the third, the youngest of the trio. Scott was pulling his little brother away when the wounded man grabbed his gun. Johnny pushed Scott out of the line of fire and caught a bullet in his arm as he spun around and finished the man off.

Fortunately, it was only a flesh wound but it bled a lot. Sam cleaned and bandaged it in his office and insisted on driving the boy home instead of letting him ride his horse. He knew Murdoch was likely to be angry and didn't think Johnny needed another argument with his father that night.

"I think your father's right," Sam said slowly. Johnny looked stunned. Then he wiped all expression off his face, and they found themselves looking at the detached gunfighter, not the boy.

"Johnny," Scott said. "We're only thinking about what's best for you. And I'll be there with you. I have two more years of school left."

"Don't know why you want to go back to school, Boston," the younger boy drawled. "You know more than enough already."

Murdoch wished that topic hadn't come up so soon, since he preferred to fight one battle at a time, but it was there and he decided to tackle it head-on. "Johnny, you're going to school too."

"What?" The gunfighter's mask slipped to let through the boy's outrage. "I am not."

"It's not anything like the school here, with little kids, Johnny," Scott said hastily. "I'll find you a tutor in Boston, so you can catch up on some of what you've missed. And later, if you want to, maybe you can go to the same school for boys where I went before Harvard."

"No," Johnny said again. "I won't."

"John," Murdoch said sternly. "Even if education wasn't important in itself - and I think it is, son - you need more schooling to pull your weight here. You're good at the outside work, but there's more to running a ranch."

Johnny hesitated. "Then I'll go to school here," he said a little desperately.

Murdoch hid a rueful smile at the idea of Johnny in the Green River school with Teresa and the rest of the children from the local ranches. That was the way it should have been, the way it would be if Johnny's mother hadn't run away with him when he was two years old, but Murdoch knew it wasn't going to happen now. "I wish you could. But it won't work. You're going to Boston with your brother, and that's final."

For just a second, Murdoch could see deep hurt in the blue eyes before Johnny wiped his feelings off his face again.

"Johnny," he said, his tone pleading. "I'm just trying to keep you safe, son. This is for your own good."

***

Scott was rounding up strays with Paul O'Brien, the ranch foreman. They paused to take a break for lunch.

"Guess this will be your last day working the ranch," Paul said. "Your father says you're leaving for San Francisco tomorrow to catch the steamer. Just when you're shaping into a good hand too."

"I'll be back," Scott told him.

"Hope so," Paul said. "You've done real well in a few months, Scott. Made your father proud, I can tell you that, the way you've pitched right in."

Scott wasn't so sure of that. Murdoch Lancer made it clear he expected a lot of his sons. It wasn't always clear when they lived up to his expectations, only when they didn't. "Thanks, Paul. I appreciate all your help."

Paul looked over the range to where a rider was expertly chivvying a stray by himself. He had refused to stop for lunch. "Johnny isn't too happy about this trip, is he?" he said.

"No," Scott said with a sigh. "He's not. Has he talked to you at all?"

Paul shook his head. "That boy hasn't had more than two or three words to say to anyone all week. Looks like he's lost his last friend but he won't talk about it. Scott, are you really sure this is a good idea?"

"No, I'm not," Scott said honestly. "But I just don't know what else we can do."

"Reckon this is for the best," Paul said slowly, his eyes still on the rider. "But I sure wish it was different."

"Me too," Scott said.

An eerie quiet had settled over the house. Scott wondered how his father managed to stand it all those years by himself. He hadn't realized just how much life a 15-year-old boy could breathe into a house, between jingling spurs, slammed doors and laughter.

Scott missed the laughter the most. He hadn't even seen Johnny's dazzling smile for days. The boy was remote, as if he'd already left. He wasn't exactly sulking or angry, which would be easier to call him on. He simply wasn't there, Scott thought.

Johnny pushed his food around on his plate at dinner, even though he'd skipped lunch, and escaped as soon as he could. Most nights since the brothers arrived, the family gathered in the great room after the meal to talk, read aloud, or play chess or checkers. They had been reading Dickens most recently, working their way through "A Tale of Two Cities."

Johnny usually stretched out on the rug in front of the fireplace to listen while Murdoch, Scott, Paul and even Teresa took turns reading. The boy rarely opened a book himself, but Scott quickly realized his brother was listening, not sleeping, while they read and had his own ideas about what he heard. Johnny hadn't learned to read very well, but there was nothing wrong with his mind. He played a lightning fast, unpredictable game of chess, and even Scott was hard-pressed to beat him. There had been no games lately either.

Tonight, Scott excused himself too, not long after Johnny went out the door. Murdoch frowned at him and then nodded. Scott walked down to the barn. Johnny was in the dusky pasture with the palomino colt Murdoch had given him for his birthday. Barranca was too young for any real work, but not too young to begin riding and training. Johnny still rode his bay when he worked the range, but he spent hours with the palomino, grooming him, training him patiently and sometimes just playing, like two exuberant children.

He was riding tonight in circles around the pasture. Scott never tired of watching the two of them, so in tune to each other. Johnny sat in the saddle as if he'd been born there and the golden horse responded smoothly to his signals. They pranced across the grass, the palomino changing leads in response to some hidden command. Johnny leaned over Barranca's neck for a minute when they stopped and then slipped off his back. The horse nuzzled him affectionately and Johnny leaned against him.

Scott stayed in the shadows, reluctant to interrupt the communion between boy and horse. He should have known better. Johnny had a sixth sense, always on alert. He glanced over to where his older brother was standing and led Barranca into the barn without a word.

Johnny returned from the barn and went up the back stairs to his room without stopping in the great room. Scott knocked on his door but got no answer. The light was out when he pushed it open. Johnny was in bed.

Scott knew perfectly well he wasn't asleep. Johnny still usually woke at the slightest noise or motion, ready for flight or defense, but he didn't move now. Scott hesitated and backed out again quietly.

He was waiting for the sound of his brother's door. It came shortly after Murdoch went to bed, once his father's snores started to rumble down the hall. Scott got up from his chair, still fully dressed, and waited a few minutes before he followed Johnny down the stairs.

He caught up with the boy by the barn. Johnny was leading his bay outside, saddled and packed for the trail with a bedroll and saddlebags.

"Johnny," Scott said calmly. The boy turned. "Just where do you think you're going?"

"Mexico," Johnny said, just as coolly.

Scott had thought about this moment, knew it was coming and still wasn't quite sure he'd made the right decision about how to handle it.

"You're just going to leave? Without even saying goodbye?"

Johnny shrugged.

"I thought you had more guts than that," Scott said scornfully, watching the boy's stony face.

The blue eyes flickered and Scott restrained himself from breaking into a relieved grin. He had him. If he could only keep him on the line, he had him.

"What do you mean?" Johnny said.

"I mean you're running away, in the dark, like a scared child." Scott's voice was still scornful.

"I'm not scared of anything," Johnny shot back immediately.

"Oh, no? You're scared to go to Boston, aren't you? Afraid you can't make it there, Johnny?"

The blue eyes blazed. "I am not," Johnny said furiously.

"Prove it," Scott challenged him.

***

Johnny's face didn't wear its usual look of cocky confidence when he looked at the steamer sitting at the wharf. Scott glanced at his brother.

"You don't get seasick, do you?" he asked, teasing.

"Seasick? What do you mean?" Johnny asked uneasily.

"If you don't get sick on the stage, you should be fine on the steamer," Scott said. "Come on."

Johnny followed him up the gangplank warily. "Boston?"

"What is it, Johnny?" Scott asked.

"I do get sick sometimes on the stage," Johnny confessed.

He was green by the time the steamer left the harbor and moved into the bay, heading south. The swells lifted it effortlessly. It plunged forward, rising, and dropped abruptly, rolling a little as it stalled, until it caught the next wave and swooped up again. A following sea, the crew called it, and Johnny was following it.

"You coming to dinner?" Scott asked his brother, sticking his head into their cabin a few hours later. Johnny was huddled miserably on one of the bunks.

"Bastard!" Johnny hissed and threw a boot at him.

Scott ducked. "Trust me, you'll feel much better if you can manage to eat something."

Johnny moaned at the idea. "Leave me alone or I'll shoot you."

Scott went out and closed the door.

Johnny was fast asleep when he returned. Scott pulled a blanket over him, noting his brother had somehow managed to be sick again even though he would have sworn the boy had already heaved up everything in his stomach. Scott rang for the steward, who whisked the basin away.

"Perhaps some hot soup?" the steward suggested.

"I think we better just let him sleep tonight," Scott said. "But thank you."

"Good night, then, sir," the steward said.

Johnny refused to consider breakfast or lunch and stayed in his bunk the next day. Scott was beginning to worry. He had never known Johnny to stay in bed so long voluntarily, not even when he was seriously hurt. And he had never seen anyone get quite so thoroughly seasick. The steward brought him some clear broth but he wouldn't touch it.

"Johnny, try a sip," Scott coaxed. "You're going to get dehydrated and that's just going to make it worse."

"Go away," Johnny said into the pillow. "Just go away."

"Sit up and drink some water, at least. Then, I promise, I'll let you sleep."

Johnny sat up reluctantly. He managed to swallow half a glass of water and promptly lost it.

"Happy now?" Johnny asked his brother, exhausted.

Scott shook his head, frowning at the shadows under his brother's eyes. "I'm sorry. Look, suppose we try to get you up on deck. Maybe some fresh air would help."

"No," Johnny said, burrowing miserably under the blankets. "Leave me alone. You promised."

The wind veered around and freshened during their third day aboard, and the steamer began to pitch as rain swept across the decks. Scott worried about what he'd find in the cabin. If Johnny was so sick in a gentle swell, he couldn't imagine what a rising storm would do to him.

He went down below to check on him and was surprised to find the bunk empty.

"Have you seen my brother?" he asked the steward.

"No, sir," the man said. "I thought he was asleep in your cabin, sir."

Scott went up to the deck quickly and found Johnny hanging over the railing. He dragged him back into the safety of the passageway as a wave smashed into the steamer, soaking both of them. "Are you crazy?" he shouted. "You could get swept overboard."

"I was holding on," Johnny said.

"Down below," Scott ordered.

Back in the cabin, Johnny rubbed his hair with a towel and changed his shirt. Scott was surprised. "Are you actually feeling better?"

His brother gave him a lopsided smile. "As soon as it stopped that damn slow roll."

"Did you eat anything?" Scott asked.

"Let's not rush this too much, huh?" Johnny said, uncharacteristically cautious.

"Let's try some soup," Scott said. "It's been two full days now since you've eaten anything. You have to try."

Johnny sighed but he sipped the soup when the steward brought it and managed to keep it down.

"Crackers?" Scott asked him.

Johnny shook his head. "I'd rather have a steak," he said, giving his brother a slightly weak version of his cheeky grin.

The storm continued to build, but it didn't appear to bother Johnny. He went to the dining room with Scott for dinner and ate roast beef hungrily while he flirted with the teenage daughter of a lieutenant colonel. Her mother kept an eagle eye on the two of them. Scott began to wonder if it might be easier to keep an eye on his brother when he was sick in bed.

The lieutenant colonel's wife didn't prove to be nearly vigilant enough. Scott was preoccupied himself with a dancer traveling in second class, but he caught his brother and Alicia Parker kissing in a lifeboat as they approached Panama. There was a sudden flurry of movement and Johnny emerged first, a little flushed.

"Lieutenant colonels are allowed to carry their guns on board," Scott told his unrepentant brother later, after Alicia flounced back to her mother and Johnny tucked his shirt in.

Johnny's eyes danced. "Don't worry, he's not going to catch us," he said.

"Johnny, Alicia is a nice girl," Scott said.

"Yeah, she is." Johnny's smile grew.

"That is not what I meant." Scott battled to keep his face stern, like Murdoch would.

Johnny looked at him innocently. "What did you mean, Boston?"

It was definitely easier to keep an eye on his brother when he was sick, Scott thought.

"She is not the kind of girl you kiss in a lifeboat," he said. "You could get yourself into serious trouble."

"You can't get into trouble with a dancer, Scott?"

"That's different. We're both adults. You're only fifteen. And Alicia isn't more than seventeen or maybe eighteen." He stopped suddenly, as he thought about that. "Johnny, just whose idea was that lifeboat, anyway?"

"Alicia knew about it, from when they traveled out," Johnny said. "But I sure didn't object any."

Scott wondered if he might be able to argue he had lost his mind temporarily when he took over responsibility for his younger brother.

The train trip across Panama was uneventful and the Parkers headed for Havana, to Scott's relief, while he and Johnny caught the mail steamer to Jamaica.

The island fascinated Johnny. He wandered fearlessly through the marketplace, making new friends in the unlikeliest places. When they departed, a large black woman gave him a big hug at the quay and pressed something into his hand.

"Good gris-gris," she said. "You wear it, child. You will need it in the north. Bad gris-gris there."

He gave her one of his best smiles. "Thanks, Tante Cassie," he said, as Scott pushed him up the gangplank.

"You remember," she called after him. Johnny waved and slipped her gift around his neck. Scott examined it later in their cabin. It was a tiny pouch, made of buttery soft leather, fastened to a rawhide string. It was sewn shut, but he could feel something gritty inside when he rolled it in his fingers.

"Let's open it," Scott said curiously but Johnny shook his head and took it back.

The weather was calm as they started out, but Johnny seemed to be over his seasickness. There was no one near his age among the passengers and instead Johnny made friends with the crew.

He started to complain as they moved farther north and the weather turned colder. Boston was raw and damp when they finally came into the harbor, past the islands. Fog had lowered itself over the city, obscuring most of the buildings, even the golden State House dome.

"You really like this place?" Johnny asked, watching from the railing as they moved in toward the wharves.

"You will too," Scott said. "Give it a chance, Johnny."

Johnny looked at the gray city. "Very bad gris-gris," he said under his breath.

***

"Scotty!"

Scott froze. He had written to his grandfather to tell him he was returning to Harvard, but hadn't told him exactly when he was arriving or that Johnny was with him. He should have known Harlan would make it his business to find out. If his investigators could locate Johnny in Mexico, they could certainly manage to find out when Scott booked passage on the steamer.

Scott had never admitted to his father that Harlan knew for so long where Johnny was. He hadn't forgiven his grandfather for failing to tell Murdoch when he located Johnny years ago, but he thought there was no point in adding any more fuel to the bad feelings between two men.

Even without that information, Murdoch didn't want Johnny to stay with Harlan. He didn't say so, but Scott had quickly figured out what his father wasn't saying when he first suggested Johnny should go to Boston with him and Murdoch flatly rejected the idea.

Scott didn't think Johnny would be any happier in Harlan's formal household than Harlan would be about hosting him. He had another idea altogether.

"My godmother has a house in Chestnut Hill," he told Murdoch. "There's a lot of land, well, a lot for Boston, and she keeps a racing stable. I think she'll like Johnny and love to have the company. And he'd be a lot happier there than he would be in the middle of the city."

"We couldn't impose on a stranger," Murdoch said.

"Aunt Miranda isn't a stranger," Scott said. "She's my great-aunt, and she was my mother's godmother too, Murdoch."

"Is she Harlan's sister?" Murdoch asked cautiously.

"No, my grandmother was her sister," Scott said. "She and Grandfather don't really get along very well, sir."

"It's still too much of an imposition," Murdoch said later, when Johnny had been in a few more gunfights and he was beginning to seriously consider Scott's idea.

"Let me write to her," Scott said.

"You'll have to tell her the truth about your brother's background," Murdoch said. "And you should warn her he's probably not going to stop practicing with that damned gun."

Scott didn't actually think his brother should stop practicing. He'd seen too many men call him out in just a few months, looking to be the one who took down Johnny Madrid. Murdoch still couldn't accept the idea, but Scott realized Johnny would be dead if he didn't keep his speed and accuracy up.

"I don't think that will bother Aunt Miranda," he said confidently. "In fact, she's a good shot herself."

It hadn't bothered Aunt Miranda. She wrote back that she would be delighted to have Johnny stay with her.

Johnny, when he was finally informed of the plan, was less enthusiastic about staying in "some old lady's" house.

"Wait until you meet her, Johnny," Scott said. "She's not like any old lady you ever met. You'll like her, I promise."

"Scotty!" the voice called again, imperiously.

"Scotty?" A wide grin spread across Johnny's face. "Is that old man calling you?"

Scott sighed. "If you ever call me Scotty, I will make you very, very sorry," he told his brother. Then he turned to face his grandfather.

"Grandfather," he said politely. "I didn't expect to see you here. I hope you're well."

"I am, except that it's been far too long since I saw you, my boy," Harlan said, shaking his hand.

His eyes fell on Johnny, standing next to Scott with his hands in his pockets. "This must be John," he said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "How do you do?"

"Nice to meet you, sir," Johnny said politely without even a nudge from Scott.

"You're both coming to the house, of course," Harlan said. "Jefferson will get your baggage."

"Uh, no, thank you, Grandfather," Scott said. "We're booked at a hotel. We have to do some shopping and Aunt Miranda has invited Johnny to stay with her in Chestnut Hill while I'm at Harvard."

"A hotel? Nonsense, Scotty," Harlan said. "You'll come home, of course, and John too. Your rooms are all ready and I believe Mrs. Jefferson is cooking your favorite dishes for dinner."

Scott didn't like the idea and he was sure Murdoch would be furious, but he didn't see how he could decently avoid it. He glanced at Johnny, who seemed to be untroubled.

"What do you think, Johnny?" he asked. "You really wanted to stay at the hotel, didn't you?"

Johnny either didn't get his brother's signal or chose to ignore it. "I did?" he said blankly.

"You see." Harlan pounced. "I daresay John will be interested to see your home, Scott. Actually, there's no reason for him to go all the way to Chestnut Hill. He can stay with me while you're in Cambridge."

"That's kind of you, sir, but Aunt Miranda is looking forward to his visit," Scott said firmly.

"We'll see," Harlan said. "But you will, at least, stay with your old grandfather tonight, won't you?"

Scott was torn. His grandfather could have saved his father and his brother so much grief. Johnny could have grown up safe on the ranch. It was impossible to forget that. At the same time, Harlan had raised Scott and was the only family he had for so long. "Yes, sir," he said finally. "Thank you, sir."

An hour later, Johnny looked around the foyer of the tall house, hanging back as Harlan swept Scott into the library. He looked at Jefferson uncertainly.

The servant studied the boy curiously. He had overheard a lot about Scott's half-brother, none of it good, in the past few months. He hadn't expected him to look so young. Jefferson found himself melting at the lost look in those blue eyes.

"Would you like something to eat, sir? Dinner won't be served until seven-thirty." Johnny brightened and Jefferson smiled at him. "I'll show you to your room and bring a tray up."

"Don't want to be any trouble," Johnny drawled. "I'll just come along to the kitchen."

No one in the family ever visited the kitchen, not even Scott. Jefferson hesitated, but he wasn't proof against the boy's smile.

Mrs. Jefferson put a bowl of hot stew down on the table in front of Johnny and poured him a glass of milk.

"Have you worked here a long time?" he asked.

"Nearly 25 years now," she said.

"Really?" Johnny gulped some milk and tasted the stew. "So you must've known Scott ever since he was little."

"We have," she said. "He was a good boy, never a bit of trouble."

Johnny took another bite. "Hard to believe sometimes that he's my brother," he said cheerfully.

She gave him a stern look, but her eyes twinkled. "Finish that stew and I'll cut you a piece of pie, child."

***

Early the next morning, Scott gave his brother a gentle shove into a store. An elegantly dressed man immediately approached them.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"I'd like to see Mr. Tolliver, if he's free," Scott said.

"Certainly, sir," the man said, withdrawing. A small, dapper man appeared within a few minutes.

"Mr. Lancer," he said. "We haven't seen you in some time, sir. What can I do for you today?"

"This is my younger brother, Johnny," Scott said. "Johnny, this is Mr. Tolliver."

Johnny nodded cautiously.

"He's just come from California to go to school in Boston," Scott said. "He needs everything."

"Do not," Johnny said.

"Shirts, suits, ties, underclothing and shoes," Scott said, ignoring him. "He'll need a warm coat too, gloves and some hats."

"I have a perfectly good hat," Johnny objected. "And I'll wear my own boots."

"Of course." Tolliver said to Scott. He was used to dealing with recalcitrant young gentlemen. He turned briskly to Johnny. "If you'll step this way, young man, we'll just take some measurements first."

Two hours later, Johnny stalked out of Brooks Brothers in a dark suit, a starched white shirt, and a tie. He still wore his own hat and boots. Scott had quietly picked two pairs of new shoes, but left them to be delivered with the rest of their purchases.

"You're beginning to look more like a Bostonian," Scott said, appraising his brother.

"I'm not ever going to be a Bostonian," Johnny snarled.

"Of course, you could use a haircut too," Scott said.

"No!" Johnny said.

Scott smiled and hailed a cab, telling it to take them to Harvard Square.

Johnny watched the streets, his face still rebellious. Scott marveled a little at how handsome and grown up his brother looked in the well-cut suit. A tailor made a few speedy alterations, but it fit him nearly perfectly when he tried it on. His eyes looked even bluer, in contrast to the dark suit and his dark hair. Scott thought he had shot up an inch or so in the month since they left California.

Scott led the way across Harvard Yard and stopped to pick up his mail. There was no mail yet from California, of course, since they'd traveled on the mail steamer, but he did find two telegrams in the stack of letters waiting for him. He handed one to Johnny and opened his own.

"What is this?" Johnny said, looking at the envelope with his name on it.

"Telegram." Scott scanned his quickly. He relaxed. Nothing was wrong at the ranch. He smiled at the message from Murdoch. "Open it."

Johnny opened the envelope and read it through slowly. His face was expressionless.

"What did Murdoch say?" Scott asked.

Johnny shrugged. "Nothing much. Dunno why he bothered to wire."

"Probably because he misses us too," Scott suggested.

Johnny gave him a cool look and changed the subject. "Where are we going next?"

"I have to go see my advisor," Scott said. "His house isn't far from here."

"How long will it take?" Johnny asked.

"An hour, maybe," Scott said. "Then we'll go get some lunch."

"I'll meet you back here in an hour," Johnny suggested.

Scott was dubious. "Johnny, you don't know the city."

"Don't know anyplace until I've been there and looked it over."

"I'd rather you stayed with me. Besides, I'd like you to meet Professor Bradford. I'm hoping he'll have some ideas about where I can find a tutor for you."

Johnny made a face. "Boston, I need to stretch my legs. You go talk to your professor and I'll meet you later."

Scott supposed it was ridiculous to worry about his brother exploring Harvard Yard on his own, but he did just the same. Johnny had managed to survive the border towns on his own. He would be fine, Scott told himself, as he walked across the Yard and down a side street to a trim Greek Revival house.

The parlor maid showed him into the study.

"Scott, my boy," a baritone voice boomed. "I wondered if you would return to the college this September. It's good to see you."

"I'm glad to see you too, sir. I hope you're well."

"Very well," the professor said. "Sit down, sit down. I saw your grandfather recently and he told me you were in California, working on your father's cattle ranch. He seemed to feel it was a waste of your education."

"I don't know about that," Scott said, smiling. "Philosophy and theology seem a lot more alive on the open range than in my grandfather's counting house, sir."

"Oh? Tell me about it."

The time went by quickly. Scott looked up when the clock on the mantle chimed the quarter hour. "I'm afraid I have to go, sir," he said. "I'm supposed to meet my brother in the Yard in 15 minutes."

"Your brother? He came with you to Boston?"

"Not by choice, believe me," Scott said. "Murdoch thought he'd be safer here until the legend of Johnny Madrid fades a little. And he wants him to get some schooling too."

"I should like to meet him," the professor said. "I'm leaving this afternoon for the weekend, but I will be back Monday. Why don't you bring him to tea on Tuesday?"

"I'd like that, sir, thank you," Scott said. "I meant to ask if you knew of any students who might be interested in a job tutoring him. Johnny hasn't ever spent much time in school and we thought it would be better if he began with a tutor."

"I may," Bradford said thoughtfully. "Forgive me for asking, but can he read?"

"Some, in both English and Spanish," Scott said. "He doesn't read well enough to enjoy it, but I think he'll pick it up quickly if we can get him to sit still long enough. He beats me at chess about half the time."

"Indeed? Let me meet him, and then I may have some suggestions for you," Bradford said.

"Thank you, sir," Scott said. "I should really go. Johnny isn't very patient."

"I understand. I'll see you both at four o'clock Tuesday."

Scott ran down the street and into Harvard Yard. He was only a minute late. Johnny was even later. There was no sign of him near the statue of John Harvard, where they had agreed to meet.

Scott didn't really start to worry until 30 minutes passed and Johnny still hadn't appeared. He paced back and forth, unsure what to do. He didn't want to leave the meeting place, since Johnny might still turn up. And he didn't know where to begin to look for his brother anyway.

He waited a full hour before he hailed a cab to take him home. Johnny knew his grandfather's address and he might have headed there, figuring he was too late. Scott hoped so, anyway.

***

Johnny wandered curiously through Harvard Yard and emerged onto another busy street. He walked down it, looking at all the sights. All these people made him a little nervous, especially since he wasn't wearing his rig, but he wasn't entirely defenseless. He'd slipped a small derringer from its usual hiding place in his old jacket into his hat when he changed in the store dressing room. He moved it to a pocket as soon as he could escape from Tolliver's fussing over how the new trousers and coat fit. He also still had his throwing knife in a sheath in his boot.

He moved farther from the university, unaware two burly men were following him.

"Where do you think he's going?" one of them said.

"Who knows?" the other said. "Orders are to keep an eye on him, and report back on what he does."

"He's headed north, though, Davis. Kinda rough neighborhood for a kid dressed like that."

Davis shrugged. "From the sounds of it, this kid can take care of himself, Hughes. It's none of our business, anyway. We're just supposed to watch him. We don't have to mind him."

Johnny walked along briskly. He'd rather ride, any day, but walking was a whole lot better than just sitting around inside. It didn't bother him when the buildings became more rundown and the people along the street more roughly dressed.

Five boys, a little older than him, were standing on a corner. He glanced at them, but kept going.

"Hey, cowboy!" one shouted. "What's your hurry?"

"You talking to me?" Johnny drawled, slowing and meeting the challenger's eyes.

"Don't see no one else on this street wearing a stupid cowboy hat," the other boy sneered. He was about 18, Johnny guessed, a freckled towhead. "You see anyone else wearing a stupid cowboy hat?"

The corner of Johnny's mouth turned up, but there was no smile in the alert blue eyes. "I don't see anyone smart enough to know a good hat when he sees one."

The towhead scowled. He hated these rich kids from the college. They usually backed down when challenged by town boys, at least, they did when they were by themselves. He didn't like the way this boy was looking at him, with no fear at all.

"Maybe I'll just take that hat," he said, reaching for it. "What are you going to do about it, huh, Harvard?"

"Harvard?" Johnny's smile widened as he easily sidestepped the other boy. "You're not just stupid, you're loco."

The towhead's fists clenched and he swung. Johnny ducked and his own fist connected with the other boy's jaw. The entire gang closed in.

Five minutes later, Johnny was still on his feet, although a cut on his lip was bleeding and one eye was swelling shut. The towhead realized unbelievingly the dark-haired younger boy was actually enjoying the brawl, even though he was hopelessly outnumbered.

Johnny saw an opening and smashed his fist into the older boy's nose, feeling a satisfying crunch even as something popped in his wrist. The rest of the gang was hanging back now, increasingly wary of the stranger's hands and feet.

A police whistle blew shrilly and most of the boys scattered. A big, beefy hand grabbed Johnny's collar. The police officer gripped the towhead firmly in his other hand.

"What's all this?" the officer asked sternly. "Whitey, didn't I tell you I'd run you in if I caught you fighting again?"

"Yeah," Whitey said sullenly. "You told me."

"And you," the officer said to Johnny sharply. "What are you doing in this neighborhood?"

"Just taking a walk," Johnny said, his face expressionless. "No law against that here, is there?"

"Where do you live? You don't sound like you're from around here."

"California," Johnny said.

The officer frowned at him. "That would be a long walk, boy. Where are you staying in Boston?"

Johnny wondered uneasily what Scott was going to say if the rurales turned up on his grandfather's doorstep their first day in Boston. "Beacon Street," he said reluctantly.

"What's the number?"

Johnny told him. The officer's face didn't change but he was thinking furiously. He knew that number. Harlan Garrett carried a lot of weight in Boston.

"I think we'd better go talk to the sergeant," he said, keeping a tight grip on both boys.

At the station, the sergeant stared at the small, deadly derringer they found in the dark-haired boy's pocket. "You always carry a gun, boy?" he asked Johnny, who shrugged and didn't answer.

Whitey looked up, surprised, as an officer pushed Johnny into the cell and the door clanged behind him. "Didn't think they'd hold you," he said.

Johnny sat down on one of the narrow benches in the cell and leaned against the wall, heedless of his new jacket. "Why not?"

Whitey shrugged. "Rich kid," he said briefly.

Johnny smiled crookedly. "If you only knew," he said.

Whitey carefully touched his swollen nose, which had finally stopped bleeding. "You pack a pretty good punch. I think you busted my nose."

Johnny's smile tilted upward. "May have broke my hand."

"Hope so," Whitey said, grinning. "You really from California?"

"Yeah," Johnny said. "Well, lately, anyway. California and Mexico."

"How come you didn't pull that gun you were carrying?"

"Didn't need to," Johnny said.

"You couldn't take all of us," Whitey said. "You didn't have a chance."

"Think so?" Johnny's smile grew.

"I'm Whitey Howland. What's your name?"

"Johnny Lancer."

The rest of the prisoners were taken out to appear in court, but the officers left the two boys sitting in the holding cell.

"How come?" Johnny asked Whitey when they were alone.

Whitey made a face. "The sergeant is my uncle and one of my brothers is a cop too. They'll let me stew here awhile but most likely won't charge me.

"Yeah? What about me?"

"They're probably getting in touch with your family," Whitey said.

Johnny made a face of his own.

"Yeah," Whitey agreed. "Court would be lots easier than my family too."

***

Davis reported Johnny's whereabouts to Harlan Garrett's office while Hughes waited outside the Cambridge police station in case they released the boy.

Harlan rubbed his hands, thinking hard, after listening to Davis's report. He wasn't surprised at all that Johnny had landed in jail on his first day in Boston. That boy was nothing but trouble and the sooner Scott realized it, the better. The only question was the best way to handle this.

There was a knock on the door and his confidential clerk came in.

"Mr. Garrett, there's a Cambridge police captain asking if he could speak to you."

"Oh?" Harlan said.

"He seems to think they have your grandson in custody."

"Really," Harlan said. "Show him in, Burgess."

Harlan listened quietly to the police captain.

"I appreciate your bringing this to my attention, Captain Powers," he said. "The boy is not, in fact, any relation at all but I'm afraid he is staying at my house at the moment. Unfortunately, he is my grandson's half-brother."

The captain picked up Harlan's emphasis. "Unfortunately, sir?"

"I had actually thought of consulting the police when I realized my grandson was bringing this young man to Boston," Harlan said. "He's quite dangerous."

"He was carrying a derringer in his pocket," the captain said.

"That doesn't surprise me," Harlan sighed. "Out west, he's a notorious gunfighter."

"A gunfighter? He doesn't seem old enough," Powers said.

"Sad, isn't it?" Harlan said. "Bad blood there, I'm afraid, from his mother's side, of course."

"Of course, sir," Powers said.

"You say he was fighting in the street? Was anyone hurt?"

"Not really," Powers said. "He got into a brawl with some local boys. Chances are, knowing those boys, he didn't start this."

That was not what Harlan wanted to hear and he eyed the captain sternly.

"You don't know this boy," he said.

"Do you want us to charge him, sir?" the captain asked.

Harlan considered it. "No," he said slowly. "No, I don't think so. My grandson is loyal to a fault, and I'm afraid he would be quite upset."

"Some of the men might teach the boy a little lesson before we release him," Powers suggested. "Just enough so he stays out of trouble."

Harlan didn't want Johnny to stay out of trouble, not that he thought there was any chance of that even if the police beat him senseless. He liked the idea of the officers teaching the boy a lesson, but rejected it reluctantly. He made up his mind suddenly and rose.

"Thank you, but no," he said. "I think I'll return to Cambridge with you, if you'll be so good as to release him to my custody."

"Of course, sir," Powers said.

Johnny was dozing on the bench when the door opened. "Lancer!" the officer said.

Johnny looked across at Whitey. "What about him?"

"That's none of your business, boy," the officer said. "Move it."

"I'll be OK," Whitey said. "See you around maybe, Johnny? We usually hang on that corner. We could show you around the city."

Johnny grinned, certain he'd see a different, more interesting city than the one his brother knew. "Just might take you up on that. See you, Whitey."

"Hurry up," the officer growled. "I don't have all day."

Johnny expected to find his older brother waiting for him. His jaw dropped when he saw Harlan.

"Ah, there you are, John," Harlan said solicitously. "Are you all right? You're not badly hurt, are you?"

Johnny shook his head faintly. He didn't trust this old man, hadn't trusted him from the moment he first laid eyes on him. Johnny could size up a man quickly, and his instincts screamed Harlan was not the kindly grandfather he appeared to be. The old man smiled, but those pale blue eyes were ruthless. Johnny knew perfectly well that Harlan didn't like him and didn't want him near Scott. It was mutual, as far as he was concerned. He wasn't sure what Harlan was up to but he didn't think it was anything good for his brother.

"You should have a steak on that eye," Harlan said. "And your suit is ruined. Perhaps we should just step into the doctor's office on the way home."

"I'm fine," Johnny said. "Don't need a doctor."

"Well, I suppose you would know," Harlan said. "Tell me, where is Scotty?"

Johnny looked dismayed. He hadn't even thought of Scott. He hoped his brother wasn't still waiting for him.

"I was supposed to meet him in Harvard Yard," he said slowly. "He went to visit some professor and I wanted to look around."

"How long ago was that?" Harlan asked.

"Noon," Johnny admitted.

Harlan's brows rose. "It is well past three now. Scott must be quite concerned. I suppose we better go straight home after all."

Scott was wearing a new path in the library rug, pacing up and down. He heard the front door open and stepped into the hall.

"Johnny!" he said. "Where have you been?"

Johnny ducked his head. "Sorry, Scott."

Scott stepped closer and lifted his brother's chin up. "How did you get a black eye?" he demanded.

"John was involved in an altercation in Cambridge," Harlan said.

"An altercation?" Scott's eyes narrowed. "Are you all right? Where else are you hurt?"

"Nowhere. I'm fine," Johnny said.

"Jefferson, would you arrange for a hot bath for my brother, please?" Scott said. "Upstairs, Johnny. I want to hear all about this."

"Nothing much to tell," Johnny said, hanging back.

"Upstairs," Scott put his hand on Johnny's back and gave him a push. Johnny winced visibly before he could stop himself. "Jefferson, could you bring the liniment too?"

"Certainly, sir," Jefferson said.

***

"Mr. Tolliver wouldn't even recognize that suit," Scott said when Johnny dropped his new jacket on a chair in his room, after the servants brought a tub in and filled it from tall cans of hot water.

Johnny had stuffed his necktie in a pocket hours ago, in the jail cell. He unbuttoned his once-white shirt slowly and discarded it on top of the jacket. "Sorry," he said again, not looking at his brother.

Scott looked at him, shaking his head. Dark bruises marked Johnny's back and ribs. "What does the other guy look like?"

"There was more than one," Johnny said, pulling off his boots and socks before he unbuckled his belt. He put his hand in the steaming water to test it. "It's too hot."

"That's exactly what you need, little brother, a long, hot soak. You're still going to be stiff and sore from the look of you, but it should help."

Johnny looked down at his feet. Scott got up and moved over to the windows, his back to his brother, while Johnny dropped his trousers and eased himself painfully into the tub.

"So, what happened?" Scott asked.

Johnny leaned his head tiredly against the back of the tub. "I just went for a walk," he said.

"Where did you walk?"

"North," Johnny said.

Naturally, Scott thought, mentally kicking himself for failing to warn Johnny to stay away from the tough neighborhoods to the north of the college.

Johnny relaxed deeper into the tub. "There were some guys standing on a corner. One of them said something and I said something back."

"How many?" Scott sat down by the fire, his eyes on his brother.

"Five," Johnny said. "The police officer only grabbed two of us though, Whitey and me."

"Whitey?"

"Guy who started it. He's not so bad," Johnny said. "We did some talking while we were locked up."

And Johnny had no doubt made a new fast friend, Scott thought, amused. "Is he as banged up as you are?"

One corner of Johnny's mouth lifted. "Yeah. I busted his nose."

"Good."

"Only I might have busted something in my hand too," his brother admitted.

"Johnny!"

Johnny peeked at his brother out of his good eye. The other one was swollen shut.

Scott got up and went over to the bath. "Let's see." Johnny sighed and gave Scott his left hand. Scott checked it over carefully. "Can you move all of your fingers?"

Johnny nodded. "Wrist is what hurts," he said, flinching as Scott moved it.

"It's so swollen it's hard to tell," Scott said slowly. "You stay in that bath. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Jefferson was on his way down the hall with the liniment bottle, a raw beefsteak, a plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk. "Mrs. Jefferson thought your brother might be hungry, sir."

"He's always hungry," Scott said. "And I'm pretty sure he missed lunch, so I'm sure he'll thank her. Would you send a message to Dr. Cobb? Johnny's wrist may be broken and I'd like the doctor to stop in to check on it."

"Certainly, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"No, thank you."

Johnny was asleep in the bath, his nose just barely sticking out of the water, when Scott returned. His head drooped further and he started awake, sputtering.

"You better wash up and get out of that bath," Scott said, smiling. "I'm never going to be able to explain to Murdoch if I let you drown in your bath."

Johnny grinned back. He soaped himself, wincing when he reached up to wash his hair. Scott saw him glance at the pitcher of water on the table next to the tub and pause.

"I'll get it," he said, reaching for it and pouring it over his brother's head.

"You want to explain to Murdoch that you drowned me on purpose in the bath?" Johnny complained, water streaming down his face.

"He'll understand that completely." Scott put out a hand to help his brother up and gave him a towel and a robe, one of his own. It was too long, and dragged on the floor.

Johnny sat on the rug in front of the fire and Scott put the tray down next to him.

"Mrs. Jefferson?" Johnny guessed.

Scott nodded. "I don't know how you stay so thin," he teased. "Every cook you meet wants to feed you."

"I like her. Mr. Jefferson too."

"They've always been good to me. They also sent up a steak for your eye."

"Kinda late for that."

"It can't hurt," Scott said.

Johnny drank the milk but only finished half a sandwich. He fell asleep on the rug, the steak on his eye. Scott was wondering if he should try to get him to go to bed when Jefferson knocked and showed the doctor in.

Dr. Cobb smiled, quickly scanning Scott. "I can see your trip west was a success, my boy. You look a lot better than you did the last time I saw you."

"I'm fine, sir," Scott said. "I'd like you to take a look at my brother. Johnny was in a fight this afternoon and he injured his wrist. I can't tell if it's broken."

The doctor looked at the dark-haired teenage boy stretched out on the floor, fast asleep. "I didn't realize you had a brother, Scott."

"Neither did I, until just before I left Boston," Scott said. "My father remarried after my mother died."

"So he grew up in California?" Cobb asked.

"Um, no, not exactly, sir," Scott said. "I'll tell you about that later."

Cobb was puzzled. "Well, let's wake him up and see what we have."

The white-haired doctor decided Johnny's wrist was badly sprained, but not broken. He looked thoughtful when the boy refused to take any laudanum but didn't insist. He wrapped the wrist tightly and checked Johnny over carefully.

"Your ribs aren't broken either, but you may have cracked one and you're badly bruised at the least," he said, dropping his stethoscope back in his bag. "I want you to stay in bed tomorrow, young man. I'll drop in to see how you're doing in the afternoon. Are you sure you don't want some laudanum to help you sleep?"

Johnny shook his head. "Don't need it."

"Well, I'll leave some anyway in case you change your mind." He closed his bag and rose to his feet. "Scott, I'd like to talk to you."

Scott followed the doctor out into the hall. As soon as the door closed, Cobb turned on him.

"Scott, what happened to that boy?" he said furiously. "I've never seen so many scars on a boy his age. Gunshots, knife wounds and beatings that must have started when he was very young. Did your father do any of that to him?"

"No, sir," Scott said, startled. "Johnny didn't grow up on my father's ranch either."

"Where did he grow up?" the doctor fumed. "Because someone should be prosecuted for it!"

Scott sketched out Johnny's history for the doctor. He didn't intend to tell many people in Boston, but the doctor was an old friend, someone he'd known all his life and trusted. Besides, he figured the doctor would probably get to know his accident-prone brother quite well. They hadn't been in Boston for a full day and he'd already made a house call.

Cobb shook his head when Scott finished. "It's remarkable he survived."

"Johnny is remarkable," Scott said softly.

"You've become close to him, haven't you, son?"

Scott nodded. "You know I always wanted a little brother."

"I remember," Cobb said. "You need to be careful though. That boy's been abused, physically and emotionally too, from the sounds of it. It's bound to have some long-lasting effects. He may not be quite as stable as you think."

"Johnny would never hurt me, sir."

"I hope not," the doctor sighed.

Harlan had paused around the corner when he heard their voices in the hall. He listened carefully. This conversation might be useful, he thought. Yes, this might be very useful. He decided he'd have a long talk with the doctor, as soon as possible.

***

"Tell me, Nathaniel, what do you think of John?" Harlan asked a few nights later in an exclusive men's club.

"Johnny?" Dr. Cobb said, smiling. He had made a few more visits to his new patient at the Garrett house, one out of concern and the next out of growing curiosity. "He has a way with him, doesn't he? That boy could charm granite."

Harlan couldn't see it. He wasn't charmed at all. "He certainly seems to have cast a spell on Scotty," he said bitterly.

"I think it's good for Scott," Nathaniel said unexpectedly. "He was a lonely little boy, growing up."

"Scott never lacked for anything, including suitable companionship," Harlan said sharply.

Nathaniel glanced at his old acquaintance. He and Harlan were just that, he reflected, lifelong acquaintances, not friends. "I know you always did your best for him, Harlan, but it's still hard sometimes to be an only child. Scott has always wished for a brother, ever since he was very young."

"You never told me that," Harlan said, shocked. "And neither did he."

"It wasn't something you could give him," Nathaniel pointed out.

Harlan looked uneasy. It was something he could have given Scott after his investigators located Johnny, but the doctor didn't know that. At least, Harlan hoped the doctor didn't know it.

Scott knew it though, and he hadn't been the same since. Harlan wished, not for the first time, that he had burned that report before his grandson saw it.

"Has Scott told you what his half-brother does for a living?"

"He did tell me Johnny was a gunfighter," Nathaniel said. "It's hard to believe."

"Why?"

Nathaniel looked surprised. "You've met that scamp. He's only been in your house for three days and you've already acquired a stray mother cat and kittens."

"I have?" Harlan said. He had never allowed Scott to have pets in the house.

Nathaniel smiled. "You have," he said. "That boy has a good heart, Harlan, and he's very good for Scott. I admit, I was worried at first but I've changed my mind. I like him. If I'd only known he existed, I would have prescribed him when Scott was so ill."

It was late when Harlan went home and he was surprised to hear voices in the library.

He went to the open double doors and stopped. Scott and Johnny were playing chess on the floor in front of the fire, the blond and dark heads bent over the game board. They were arguing and Harlan felt hopeful for a minute.

His hope faded as he listened to them. They weren't fighting. They were squabbling like children and sounded like they were enjoying it.

"Tea?" Johnny said. "Scott, I don't drink tea. That's for old ladies."

"It won't hurt you for one afternoon. If you can drink tequila, you can choke anything down."

"I can't drink tequila right now," Johnny complained. "There isn't any, far as I can tell, in this whole damn city."

"And just when did you go looking, little brother? You're supposed to be taking it easy, remember?"

"My wrist is sprained, not my feet."

"Check!" Scott crowed and Harlan smiled proudly.

"Sure you want to do that, Boston?" Johnny's voice sounded amused.

"What do you mean? Of course I'm sure."

"If you say so," Johnny said.

"Aren't you even going to think about that move?" Scott's voice was uncertain.

"I already did," Johnny drawled. "Your turn again."

There was a lengthy pause. "Hell."

Johnny chuckled. "Give it up, Boston."

"Wait a minute," Scott said. "Let me think."

Harlan had started teaching Scott to play chess at the age of five. The boy was easily the best player in his class at Harvard before he left for war. Harlan could not believe Johnny had beaten his grandson. Where had he even learned to play chess?

He wanted to see the board. He stepped inside the library. Johnny glanced at him, the blue eyes wary, but Scott smiled.

"Hello, Grandfather," Scott said. "Come and see this."

Harlan moved across the room curiously. He looked at the game and his brows rose.

"Johnny never does anything the conventional way," Scott complained.

"I can see that," Harlan said. He had to admit it was ingenious.

Scott tipped his king over. "Want to play again?" he asked Johnny.

Johnny shook his head. "Think I'll turn in," he said, getting up.

Scott looked at him. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," Johnny said, rolling his eyes. "Night."

Scott started putting away the chess pieces after his brother ran lightly up the stairs. Harlan frowned.

"John should have helped you with those," he said.

"No," Scott said. "We have a deal. Loser puts away the pieces."

"Do you play often?" Harlan asked.

"A few times a week, at least, back at home," Scott said casually.

"Home?" Harlan's voice was sharp.

"Back at Lancer," Scott amended.

"Boston is your home, Scotty."

Scott looked uncomfortable. "Grandfather," he said and stopped.

"I didn't raise you to waste your time chasing cows," Harlan said. "Your place is here."

"I'm a partner in Lancer," Scott said.

"So you're one-third owner of 100,000 acres of land in the middle of nowhere. Some day, Scott, you will be the head of the Garrett Company. That's worth something. And you won't have to share it with any half-breed half-brother."

He knew he'd made a mistake, as soon as he said it. Scott's eyes were stormy and he pressed his lips together in a firm, straight line that reminded Harlan of the boy's mother and grandmother. He always hated it when Elizabeth and Catherine looked at him like that.

"I'm warning you, sir, don't call him that again."

"Scotty," Harlan said.

"I also wish you wouldn't call me Scotty. I'm twenty-one years old, Grandfather, not five."

He finished putting away the chess set. "I'm going to bed too. Good night, sir."

Harlan didn't answer. Scott hesitated for a minute, and then he went up the stairs.

Something mewed. Harlan turned, unbelievingly, as a small gray kitten peeked its head around the door. The animal scooted across the polished floor and pounced on his shoes, tugging at the shoelaces.

It had been a long day, one that had sorely tested his patience. Harlan no longer had to maintain a polite public veneer. He could do exactly as he pleased. He drew back his foot. The kitten yelped and skedaddled for the kitchen.

Harlan glanced at the portrait of a blond young woman over the mantel. She seemed to have drawn her mouth into a line, just like her son.

"That's nothing," he said to the portrait. "When I'm done with him, that boy will be lucky if he can manage to run back to wherever it was he came from."

***

Johnny jammed his hands into the pockets of a new pair of trousers. Scott hadn't succeeded yet in dragging him back to Brooks Brothers to replace his black suit, but the store delivered their other purchases Saturday, including a dark blue suit that looked just as good.

Scott had succeeded in getting his brother to the door of Professor Bradford's house for tea. It was simple, in the end. Johnny wanted a new derringer to replace the one the police and Harlan claimed they knew nothing about. He quickly discovered Boston gunsmiths wouldn't sell a derringer to a 15-year-old boy. He finally appealed to his older brother, who quickly brokered a deal. He would visit a gunsmith with Johnny on Monday; Johnny would get his hair trimmed and go to tea on Tuesday.

Johnny took his time picking out his gun and borrowed a few tools from the gunsmith to tinker with it before they left the shop.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing, sir?" the gunsmith asked Scott.

"I don't, but he does," Scott said.

The gunsmith watched what Johnny was doing. "Looks that way," he agreed. "But he's adjusting that thing to a hair trigger."

Scott was afraid of that. "It will be all right," he said, hoping it would be.

Tuesday, as promised, Johnny visited the barber in the morning and went to Cambridge for tea.

While they were in the neighborhood anyway, as Johnny put it, he insisted on strolling down the street to try to find Whitey.

"This is not a good idea," Scott told his brother.

"Why not?" Johnny said.

"It's a pretty rough area," Scott said.

"This?" Johnny looked around. "It doesn't look so bad. You should see some of the alleys on the border."

Scott wished his brother had never seen any of the alleys on the border.

"Do you have your derringer?" Scott asked.

"Always," Johnny said. "And my knife too. But I won't need them here. C'mon, Scott."

Scott knew he shouldn't have been surprised when Johnny waved to a tough-looking kid standing on a corner with some friends, and he waved back with a grin.

"Hey, Johnny," the other boy called. "I oughta belt you again."

"How come, Whitey?" Johnny said, one corner of his mouth going up.

"You did break my nose," Whitey said. Scott noticed it was crooked and the boy's face sported some fading bruises, just like Johnny's. He also noticed Whitey was older and larger than Johnny.

Johnny shrugged. "I only sprained my wrist," he said. "This is my brother, Scott."

Whitey nodded at Scott carelessly, his eyes sliding over him. He and Johnny stepped off the corner to talk. Scott eyed them dubiously and decided Johnny was going to Chestnut Hill tomorrow, before he could pull off whatever he was planning with his new friend.

He pulled out his watch, aware that Whitey's friends immediately locked their eyes on it. "Johnny, we're going to be late," he called. "Come on."

Johnny sighed, and said something else to Whitey, who laughed and went back to his friends while Johnny headed down the street with Scott.

"That was fun," Scott said.

"They're all right, Scott," Johnny said.

Professor Bradford hadn't invited anyone else to tea, to Scott's secret relief. Tea at the professor's house could be anything from two or three people to a hundred.

The professor also had the good sense to let Johnny wander around restlessly, looking over the room, while he chatted with Scott. Johnny spun the giant globe lightly, ran his fingers along the rows of books on the tall shelves, and looked carefully at all the paintings in the professor's study. He settled down by the time the parlor maid served tea on the polished round table by the windows.

"I have always enjoyed the English custom of high tea," Professor Bradford said, his eyes twinkling at the surprised look on Johnny's face. "Of course, I am too round these days to indulge myself daily, but I rather thought you two are still young enough and thin enough to enjoy my weekly splurge."

Johnny happily tucked into a plate of scrambled eggs, sausages and buttery muffins. Scott knew he didn't usually like the elaborate menu at Harlan's house. For once, he thought, his brother wouldn't have to visit the kitchen for a snack to fill him up after dinner.

Professor Bradford talked about the art in the room during the meal, recalling where he had acquired each piece or telling a story about the artist. Johnny listened quietly, and even asked a few questions by the time they cleared their plates and the maid brought in a tray of sweets.

"I understand you need to find a tutor, young man," the professor said when they moved away from the table and he lit his pipe.

Johnny looked up cautiously. "Scott thinks so," he drawled.

"You don't?" Caramel eyes met Johnny's blue ones. The boy flushed a little but he didn't drop his head, to Scott's surprise.

"I usually get by," he said.

The professor's mouth turned upward. "I imagine you do," he said. "But your father and your brother are hoping to give you an extra edge."

Johnny cocked his head thoughtfully, but didn't say anything.

"Education can be a tool to get a job done, John, just like the ability to ride a horse. It can also be a great pleasure, like the ability to ride a horse. Either way, it only makes sense to hone your skills."

Scott looked at his brother, wondering what was going through his head.

"End of lecture, I promise you," the professor said to Johnny, who gave him one of his best smiles, the contagious one that lit up his face. "I think I do know someone who might do very well. I shall send him over to talk to both of you by the end of the week."

"Thank you, sir," Scott said.

***

Johnny didn't object at all to leaving Harlan's house but he was still doubtful about staying with Scott's godmother.

"I could just get a room somewhere," he argued. "I've been on my own before, Boston."

"You're not on your own any more and you're not going to be," Scott said. "Forget it, Johnny. This is not open to discussion. Unless you'd rather stay with my grandfather?"

Johnny shook his head immediately.

"I didn't think so," Scott said, as the carriage swung off the road onto a long drive that wound up to a tall brick house with two wings. "Here we are."

Some young horses were running in a paddock and Johnny perked up at the sight.

"Maybe we can go for a ride this afternoon," Scott said as the carriage pulled up in front of the house.

"Scott!" Miranda Forbes hurried down the long double staircase in the front hall.

Scott returned her hug. "I'm glad to see you too, Aunt Miranda."

"You look well," she said, standing back and looking at him, holding his hands. She was small, but so straight-backed she seemed taller. "California seems to have been good for you."

"Yes, it is," Scott agreed. "Aunt Miranda, this is my brother, Johnny."

She turned to the dark-haired boy, green eyes searching the blue ones before she smiled warmly at him too. "I've been looking forward to finally meeting you, young man."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said cautiously.

"Let's not have any ma'ams," she said, a dimple peeking out. "Why don't you call me Aunt Miranda, like your brother, and I'll call you Johnny. Unless you prefer John?"

"No, it's Johnny."

"I thought it might be," she said. "Now, Johnny, I expect you'd like to stretch your legs after being cooped up in the city. Why don't you go look at the stable and see if there's a horse there you want to take for a ride after lunch."

Johnny's face lit up. "Could I?"

"Of course you can. Cross the terrace, and take the path to the right. You'll see the stable, across the lawn. Just make sure you're back here in an hour for lunch. Cook is roasting chickens for us and they won't wait."

Johnny disappeared through the French doors at the back of the hall, and Scott smiled.

"You didn't take long to find the way to his heart," he teased. "Not that you ever do."

The silver-haired woman smiled. "I raised two boys myself," she pointed out. "Johnny reminds me a little of your cousin Rob. You never knew him, of course, but Rob was a handsome young devil too. And he could never stay still."

Scott knew Rob Forbes had died in an accident when he was only a year or so older than Johnny, before either of them was born.

"Is it going to bring back bad memories to have Johnny here?" he asked, dismayed. "I could make other arrangements for him."

"Don't you dare," she scolded him. "They're not bad memories, Scott. I'm glad to have a boy here again. I always enjoyed it when I could persuade your grandfather to let you visit."

"I did too." Those visits had been wonderful and Scott was always reluctant to return to the house on Beacon Street, which seemed even emptier in contrast.

"That's settled then," she said. "Now, tell me all about the ranch and your father, Scott."

They were still talking when Johnny returned, his eyes sparkling.

"What did you think of my horses?" Miranda asked him, as they moved into the sunroom, where the table was set for lunch.

"You have some good ones," he said. "Best I've seen since we left the ranch."

"Scott tells me you're training a young palomino."

Some of the sparkle left Johnny's eyes. "I was," he said softly, his head drooping.

"He'll remember," she told him. "And it won't hurt him a bit, at his age, to run free awhile longer while he waits for you to come home."

"You think so?" Johnny asked.

"I was training horses for years before you were born, Johnny," she said. "Now, tell me, which horse do you want to ride this afternoon?"

He looked at her, his smile sliding up cheekily. "Can you guess?"

"I think so," she said, her own smile just as roguish. "I warn you, he's not easy to handle. In fact, none of the stable hands dare since he threw his own stable boy last week and put him out of commission with a broken leg."

"Then he needs a good run, don't he?" Johnny said.

Scott felt his first misgivings. "Johnny, remember you sprained your wrist last week. Maybe you should pick another horse for today. You have to get used to riding in an English saddle anyway."

"My wrist's fine now. And I could always ride him bareback."

"No!" Scott said, alarmed. "Absolutely not."

Johnny did fine with the English saddle, although Miranda insisted he try it first on a quiet mare before he took out the leggy young chestnut he had his eye on. Johnny walked the mare around the corral once, stopped to adjust the stirrups again, and took her over the fence and across the field.

"He certainly can ride," Miranda said, watching him.

"Yes, he can," Scott said. "Even so, I'm not sure you should let him ride that stallion yet. Isn't that your new three-year-old? The colt you bought in Saratoga last year?"

"He needs the exercise," Miranda said serenely.

"He's worth a lot," Scott said.

"So is your brother." Miranda watched Johnny float over another fence and turn the mare back toward the barn. "Johnny will do just fine. Now, are you going to go with him? What would you like to ride?"

Johnny was already fast asleep when Scott peeked into his room later that night. As usual, he had kicked all the covers off and Scott stepped inside quietly to pull them up over his brother. His Colt and holster hung over the bedpost, just as they did at Lancer. For the first time, it occurred to Scott to wonder where the derringer was when Johnny slept. The gunsmith said Johnny adjusted it to a hair trigger. Scott sincerely hoped anyone who slept as restlessly as his brother had the sense not to tuck a derringer under his pillow, but he couldn't be sure. He would have to talk to Johnny about that in the morning, before he returned to the city.

Johnny sighed and rolled over. Scott froze, but the boy's breath was still slow and deep. His long lashes rested on his cheeks and he looked years younger, his face completely unguarded.

"He'll be fine here," Miranda said softly when Scott had pulled Johnny's door shut and walked downstairs again. "Stop worrying. I'll take good care of your little brother."

Scott smiled at her. "You don't know yet how hard that can be," he said.

***

Harlan bided his time while both brothers settled into their new routines. Scott started classes and moved into his rooms at the college. Johnny spent his mornings with the tutor recommended by Professor Bradford and most of his afternoons riding Miranda's stallion.

He also spent a few afternoons practicing his draw until it was as fast and fluid as ever. He even let Miranda try his Colt, at her request, since she'd never tried a six-shooter. They spent an afternoon at target practice. Johnny was a better shot, but she was good enough to win his respect.

The two of them seemed to be as thick as thieves when Scott drove out to spend the weekend. In fact, Scott thought Miranda knew how to handle Johnny better than their father did. Maybe his idea would work out. He'd had his doubts, even before the day they boarded the steamer, but everything seemed to be fine now.

The newspaper article dropped like a bomb on his breakfast table Monday morning.

"Notorious gunfighter in city," Scott read unbelievingly. "Johnny Madrid rides in Chestnut Hill."

He slammed it down angrily. This was the last thing Johnny needed. Why couldn't that boy ever have any peace, like other 15-year-olds?

He picked the newspaper up again and read it. He could see his grandfather's hand somewhere, since there was no mention of Scott or Lancer, or any connection at all to the respectable Harlan Garrett. The story named Johnny only as Madrid and it didn't mention Miranda's name. Instead, it reported a Boston Brahmin had unwittingly taken the young killer into her home. Her neighbors would certainly know, Scott realized. Most of them had seen Johnny tearing across their fields on Miranda's stallion. The article described his wild rides in detail before it launched into a lurid recounting of his career along the border.

"Damn," Scott said when he'd finished and flung the paper across the room. "Damn, damn, damn."

"What's the matter?" His roommate strolled in, yawning, and picked the paper up from the floor.

"I have to go out to Chestnut Hill again," Scott said.

"But you just got back and you can't today," Sterling objected. "We have Bradford's lecture this morning, remember."

"He'll understand."

"But then we were going to lunch at the Union Oyster House and spend the afternoon and evening in the city. We haven't been out on the town, not properly, since we got back from the army."

"I can't, Sterling. Not today." Scott stepped into his bedroom to pack an overnight bag.

Out in the sitting room, Sterling whistled. "I wouldn't go anywhere near Chestnut Hill today if I were you. Did you see this in the paper, about the gunfighter? Every crackpot for miles around will be trying to get a look at him. Or worse."

"That gunfighter is my little brother," Scott snapped.

Sterling's jaw dropped. "It can't be."

"It is," Scott said, emerging from his room and grabbing his coat.

"Scott, you introduced him to my sister last week at Papanti's," Sterling said. "As Johnny Lancer, not Johnny Madrid."

"He is Johnny Lancer," Scott said. "Don't be an idiot, Sterling. You met him. Did you think he was dangerous?"

Sterling grinned suddenly. "Yes, actually, I thought he could be quite dangerous to little sisters. Seriously, though, is any of this true? Was he a gunfighter?"

"He was," Scott said grimly. "Past tense."

"Then it doesn't matter if he's dangerous or not. My mother is going to kill both of us," Sterling said.

Scott scowled at his childhood friend. "This isn't anything to joke about."

"I'm perfectly serious," Sterling protested. There was a pause and then he burst out laughing at the look on Scott's face. "All right, although I'm not exaggerating much. Seriously, sit down, finish your breakfast and I'll go with you."

"You don't have to do that."

"I suspect you're going to need some reinforcements, Lieutenant Lancer," Sterling said.

Sterling was right, Scott thought. He stared grimly at the carriages drawn up in Aunt Miranda's drive. Inside, a red-faced neighbor was waiting in the hall, along with a committee of ladies from the local church.

The neighbor recognized Scott. "See here, Lancer, I want to talk to your aunt, but you'll do."

Scott thought quickly. Johnny should be in the library with his tutor, if he was doing any lessons that morning. He guessed that Miranda was in the sunroom. He opened the front parlor door.

"In here, Carver," he said. "I can't give you more than five minutes."

"This won't take five minutes," Carver said.

Scott was sorely tempted to shoot the man himself before he finished talking.

"And don't forget, I don't want him near my property," Carver ended. "I'll tell my people to shoot first and ask questions later. A man has a right to defend himself."

"You might want to remember that's true for Johnny too," Scott said icily. "And I can assure you he's very, very good at it."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Not yet," Scott said.

Carver went out and there was a short pause. "Well, that went well," Sterling said brightly.

"This is impossible," Scott said. "What am I going to do, Sterling?"

"Nothing," a calm voice said. Scott turned as the double doors from the dining room opened into the parlor. He recognized his cousin Richard, Miranda's son. Richard was a judge on the state's highest court.

"Sir," Scott said, rising to his feet. "I'm truly sorry, sir."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Scott, not unless you had something to do with that newspaper story this morning and I doubt that."

"I shouldn't have brought Johnny here, sir," Scott said.

"Nonsense," Richard said. "My mother is enjoying his company. And I must say I like him too."

Scott relaxed a little. "Where is Johnny?"

"John is in the library with his tutor," Richard said. "Although I'm not sure exactly how much grammar or mathematics is being accomplished this morning."

"And Aunt Miranda?"

"Mother is in the sunroom, putting the fear of God into a misguided delegation of ladies from the local church," Richard said. "I'm sure she can handle them, Scott."

Scott thought about it. "I'm sure she can too."

"Tell me, Scott, don't you or Mr. Crocker have any classes yourselves today?"

"Yes, sir," Scott said. "Only, I thought I should be here."

"I would suggest you return to Harvard and go about your business as if nothing is wrong," Richard said. "This will blow over quickly, Scott."

"You think so?"

"Yes, I do think so," Richard said. "I am going to call on the publisher of the newspaper, who is an old friend, this afternoon. I also intend to visit your grandfather."

"I'd like to see Johnny, while I'm here," Scott said.

"If you insist, of course," Richard said. "But it certainly won't help my mother to convince him this is nothing to worry about."

Scott paused. "I guess I didn't think of that."

Richard smiled. "I'll keep an eye on both of them, Scott."

"Thank you, sir."

***

Miranda was reading on the chaise in her sitting room upstairs, dressed in a nightgown, slippers and her favorite robe. Firelight and lamplight glowed warmly, chasing the autumn chill away. She glanced up at a portrait of two boys over her mantel. The older boy had dark blond hair and watchful blue-gray eyes, but there was a hint of humor around the corners of his straight mouth and a gleam in his eye. The younger boy had auburn hair and green eyes that still danced wickedly with laughter, even in oil paint more than twenty-five years later.

Rob would be forty-two now, nearly forty-three. She still wondered what he might have done with those years. She'd wondered for a long time, picturing Rob at 20 and at 30, imagining a house filled with adventurous children wreaking innocent revenge on her heedless boy. There might even be some silver strands now in that tousled auburn hair. Her own auburn curls had turned silver long ago.

Richard and Rob. The brothers were so different, she mused, but they were such good friends, not just when they were little boys but later on too, when they were nearly men. For a long time, after Rob's death, Miranda worried about Richard. He was so alone and seemed so lost without the younger brother who teased him mercilessly.

Richard was at Harvard when his younger brother sailed his boat into a gale, but Miranda knew her older son blamed himself bitterly anyway. Richard claimed the job of looking after his brother when he was five years old, the night Rob was born. And he never gave it up, not until they held the memorial service for Rob and Richard went back to the college his brother would not enter that fall.

Miranda's lips curved, thinking of a younger pair of brothers. Scott and Johnny hadn't known each other long, sadly, had never shared birthdays and Christmases and bedtime stories, but she could see them falling into a familiar pattern.

It was good for Scott, she thought. He had been a quiet little boy, sweet but so serious. He looked like his mother, another sweet, too serious child. There was never much laughter in Harlan Garrett's house, not after her sister Elizabeth died when Catherine was just a baby.

Scott had come home from the war with empty eyes, refusing to care about anything or anybody. He needed to look after Johnny, Miranda thought, just as badly as Johnny needed a big brother to look after him. Maybe even more.

The book dropped and Miranda dozed off. Smoke woke her. The bitter, acrid smell curled through the room. She stared, puzzled, at the dying embers in the fireplace. She didn't understand why smoke filled with room, a hazy, shimmering presence. She coughed and pushed the afghan away from her legs, going to the door. She stared at the red glow at the end of the hall, not understanding for a minute. Then she slammed her door behind her and ran down the hall to the wing.

"Johnny! Fire! Wake up. Fire!"

Someone grabbed her in the dark, pulling her away from the burning wing, and hurried her down the front stairs and out the front door into blessedly crisp, clean air. The fire alarm rang, and more people hurried back and forth. The first fire engines arrived from the town, crushing the flowerbeds. People rushed forward and back. Miranda coughed and drew more sweet air into her squeezed lungs. Someone pulled her farther away from the house, and threw a heavy coat over her shoulders.

"Is everybody out?" she asked, plucking at his sleeve.

"I think so, ma'am," he said. "You just stay there and don't worry. We'll take care of it. You'll lose that wing, I'm afraid, but we should be able to save the rest of the house."

"Where's Johnny? He was sleeping in that wing. Please, where is he?"

"Johnny?"

"A dark-haired boy," she rasped. "Is he safe? His room is in the wing, on the second floor."

"There's a dark-haired boy helping to calm down the horses, ma'am," he said. "About sixteen?"

Her shoulders sagged with relief. It wasn't going to happen again. It couldn't happen again.

"Here, don't faint on me now, ma'am," the firefighter said, alarmed. He waved at one of the servants carrying furniture out of the wing and the man brought a chair over to them. "You sit down and just stay here, you understand. That boy is fine."

Flames poured from the windows, licking the red brick. Plumes of heavy smoke rose to the reddened sky. Every room in the north wing of the house was ablaze when Scott galloped down the driveway, Sterling right behind him. They had just left the theater when they heard about the fire in Chestnut Hill. Scott ran over to Newspaper Row to try to find out more, and then woke up the proprietor of a livery stable to get horses.

"Aunt Miranda!" he said, seeing his godmother in a group of people on the lawn. Soot smudged her face and her silver curls. She was wearing a heavy coat over her nightclothes and sitting on a chair rescued from the house.

"Thank God, you're all right." Scott gripped her shoulders. "What happened? And where's Johnny?"

"He's down at the stable," she said, coughing a little. "They told me he's helping with the horses."

"Trust my little brother to look after the horses first," Scott said. "Will you be all right here? I just want to check on him and then I'll be right back."

Miranda stared when she saw Scott running across the lawn a few minutes later, headed straight for the burning wing. A fireman tried to stop him and he knocked the man's arm away angrily. Someone tackled him and brought him down on the grass, just a few feet from the building, as a section of the roof collapsed.

"What's wrong?" she said faintly, rising to her feet. "What is Scott doing?"

Sterling appeared next to her and slipped an arm around her. "Johnny wasn't at the stable, Mrs. Forbes," he said, his voice sober. "I'm sorry. He hasn't been there at all. It was another boy, not Johnny."

"What?" Miranda stared at him, her eyes enormous. "No," she said. "No, it can't be."

She swung around as the last roof beams crashed through the ground floor of the wing and the greedy flames reached higher for the sky. Scott, struggling under the weight of two men trying to hold him back, slumped and went still.

***

The sun was just rising. Scott kicked at a smoldering beam. There was almost nothing left of the north wing of the house, nothing but charred beams, fallen bricks and ashes. The ruins still steamed and one of the fire engines stood by, pumping water from the small lake at the foot of the lawn. When he was a little boy, they went skating on that lake in the winter. Cousin Richard taught his son and Scott to skate on the lake one snowy December afternoon when the two boys were about six years old. They made a snowman too and had a snowball fight. Aunt Miranda had hot chocolate waiting when they trooped back to the house and they decorated the Christmas tree. Scott would never get to do any of those things with his own brother.

"Scott," Miranda said. She looked older this morning, older and tired and frail. Aunt Miranda had never looked frail before. "Come into the house. There's coffee and some food in the dining room."

"I'm not hungry."

"I know you're not," she said gently. "But you still need to eat, Scott."

"I have to send a wire to my father," Scott said. "I should have sent it already. What am I going to say to him, Aunt Miranda? I talked him into sending Johnny to Boston. I convinced Murdoch he'd be safer here."

"Perhaps he was, Scott," she said. "You will never know."

Scott's head was down. "They both hated this. It nearly killed Murdoch to let Johnny go, just after he got him back. And Johnny _ Johnny thought Murdoch didn't want him, just like his mother always told him. That's really the reason why he went along with it. I told myself it was because I dared him, but I knew it wasn't."

Miranda reached out and ran her hand through his hair. "Don't do this to yourself. You did what you thought was best."

"I'm not so sure about that," he said, raising haunted eyes. "I don't know if I did what was best for Johnny or if I did what was best for me."

"Scott." She continued to stroke his hair. "You loved your brother. He knew it, he loved you too, and he trusted you. Don't ruin that. Johnny would not have trusted you if he didn't know he could."

"Do you really think so?"

She smiled sadly. "Your brother was no fool. I found him to be a remarkably astute judge of character."

"Yes," Scott agreed. "Doc said it was a survival skill."

"Doc?"

"Doc Jenkins in Morro Coyo, the little town near Lancer," Scott said. "He's a good friend. I should send him a wire too."

He imagined Doc's face when he read that telegram and his head drooped down again, even lower.

"I can't do this," he said.

"Can't do what, Boston?" a familiar voice asked.

Scott's head came up abruptly and he stared at his brother. Johnny was looking up, just as stunned, at the ruined wing. He was wearing charcoal trousers and one of the shirts from Brooks Brothers, but his tie was loose, his old boots were on his feet, and he was bundled in his leather jacket instead of the tailored jacket and vest that went with the trousers. His hat had fallen back on its stampede strings, and his dark hair was tousled.

"Johnny?" Scott said.

Johnny gave them his crooked smile. "Didn't exactly expect to find anybody up yet, but I guess I couldn't sneak back into my room anyway."

"Johnny!" Scott grabbed his brother and gave him a bear hug. Then he held him back, his hands biting into the boy's shoulders, and looked into blue eyes he thought he'd never see again. "Where have you been? Do you have any idea what a scare you gave us? I thought you were dead!"

"Sorry," Johnny said, unabashed. His eyes went to the wing again and he tried another smile on his brother. "Maybe you should be glad that I wasn't here, Scott."

Miranda found her voice. "Both of you, come into the house," she said crisply. "I think you need some hot coffee and I know I do."

The smell of smoke filled the rooms inside the house, although the servants had been working for hours to air it out and clean up the mess. The fire had scorched the thick wall between the main house and the wing, but it still stood. They closed off the rooms closest to the ruined wing, but the rest of the house was inhabitable.

"I just went into town with some friends," Johnny said, polishing off a plate of bacon and eggs. "I haven't seen much of Boston yet."

"Whitey?" Scott said sharply. "You went out with Whitey, didn't you? Where did he take you?"

Johnny's face wore its most innocent look. "I don't remember the name of every place we went," he said.

Scott eyed him suspiciously. "Scollay Square, by any chance?"

"Could be," Johnny said. He still looked angelic. "What's Scollay Square, Scott? If you describe it, maybe I'll recognize it."

"Never mind," Scott said, deciding to continue this conversation another time.

Miranda's mouth twitched. She stood up, gave Johnny a quick hug and kissed his cheek. She tilted his chin up and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "I have never been so glad to see anyone, young man. But don't you dare scare me like that again."

"I won't," he said quickly. "Promise."

"I would hold you to that, if only I thought I could. Now, I would suggest you go upstairs to bed before you fall asleep in my dining room. For today, I'm afraid you'll have to share the guest room in the main house with Scott, until Thompson can get another ready for you."

"That's OK," he said and hesitated. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Johnny. I'm not angry with you. Go on upstairs now and sleep well, love."

Johnny disappeared up the stairs and Miranda turned to Scott. "You could use some sleep too. Don't be too hard on him, Scott. I'm afraid he's right and it really is a blessing he wasn't here."

"I know it was," Scott's face was rueful. "I just don't want him to get the idea that makes it all right. God knows what he was up to last night, or with whom. He's made friends with that roughneck from Cambridge who landed him in jail the first day."

Miranda laughed. "Then I definitely wouldn't ask too many questions, if I were you. Perhaps you had better take your brother on his next tour of the city, Scott."

"He may already know it better than I do," Scott grumbled.

***

Johnny was in bed when Scott came upstairs.

"Considering that you now only have one shirt and one pair of trousers to your name, you should take better care of them," Scott said, picking up his brother's scattered clothing.

Johnny blinked at him drowsily. "Don't need more than one, Boston," he said.

"You realize that Mr. Tolliver is going to have a nervous breakdown when you walk back in the door at Brooks Brothers?" Scott said. "You've probably set a new record for destroying their clothing."

Johnny didn't realize it. He was already asleep. Scott watched him for a few minutes. He was tired too, but still felt keyed up and didn't think he could sleep. Instead, he sat down in the chair by the fireplace and picked up a book.

He was dozing in the chair when he heard a carriage in the driveway. He glanced at the bed to reassure himself Johnny was still where he was supposed to be. Then he went down the hall and looked over the railing.

His grandfather was in the hall downstairs, his voice rising. "The newspapers said my grandson had collapsed, Thompson. Is he all right?"

"He's fine, sir," the butler said wearily. "He's asleep. They're all asleep. I'm sure you understand, sir."

"I wish to see Scotty immediately," Harlan said. "What did the doctor say?"

"It wasn't necessary for the doctor to visit," Thompson said. "Mr. Scott was not injured but he is fatigued. I will tell him you called, as soon as he wakes."

"I said I wished to see him immediately," Harlan said sharply.

"I'll tell him that too," Thompson said. "Good day, sir."

"How dare you!" Harlan said. "I can assure you my sister-in-law will hear of this, Thompson."

"Your sister-in-law can't help hearing of this," Miranda said from the top of the stairs in her most imperious voice. She looked at Scott, touched her finger to her lips and then swept down the staircase. "Thompson, thank you. You did very well and it's not your fault Mr. Garrett is so lacking in manners."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the butler said.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," she said. "You should be getting some rest too, Thompson."

"Miranda, I want to see Scott," Harlan said impatiently. "The newspapers said he was injured."

"The newspapers said he collapsed after his younger brother was killed in a fire," Miranda said. "Fortunately, everything you read in a newspaper is not true, Harlan."

"Scotty didn't collapse?" Harlan asked.

"Johnny wasn't killed in the fire," Miranda said.

Harlan's eyes narrowed. "Oh?" he said. "How did he escape, Miranda? The fire was in the wing where he slept, wasn't it?"

"That wasn't in the papers," she said. "Any of the papers."

Harlan shrugged. "The newspapers said the fire was in the north wing of the house. Scott must have mentioned to me that Johnny was using Robert's old room in that wing."

"Scott doesn't know it was Rob's room," she said. "How would he, Harlan? He never knew Rob."

Harlan's mouth opened and closed, like a fish.

Miranda looked at him, her green eyes glowing. "How did you know Johnny was in Rob's room?"

"I don't have to answer your questions," he said, finding his voice.

"No," she said. "And I don't suppose you'll answer Scott's questions either, any better than you've ever answered any of his questions. I think you better go now, Harlan."

"I came to see Scotty," he said. "He's my grandson, Miranda, and I'm concerned about him."

"I'm concerned too," Scott said, moving down the staircase to stand next to his godmother. "That's a question you do need to answer, Grandfather. Just how did you know where Johnny was sleeping? I never told you anything about where his room was."

"Scott," Harlan said. "Surely that's not important."

"I'm afraid it might be," Scott said sadly. "The firemen believe the fire was deliberately set, Grandfather."

"Then he set it," Harlan said immediately.

"Who?"

"That half-brother your father saddled you with," Harlan said. "He's dangerous. I told you that. I told you from the beginning that he was dangerous."

"Johnny wasn't even here last night," Scott said.

"What? Of course he was," Harlan said and stopped.

"You had men watching him, didn't you," Scott said, his eyes angry. "More of your investigators? Well, they slipped up this time, Grandfather. They must have missed him when he went out last night."

Harlan glared at Miranda, standing next to Scott. "This is your fault. You've turned him against me. You and that boy."

"You have no one to blame but yourself, Grandfather," Scott said. "Tell me, did you ever, even once, think of telling my father where Johnny was?"

"No, why should I?" Harlan said.

"It never mattered to you that he was only seven years old when you found him? It didn't matter he was hungry, or that his mother's men beat him?"

Miranda shot a look at Scott, whose voice was shaking a little, but she stayed silent.

"No," Harlan said. "I didn't care. I only cared about you."

"He's my brother," Scott said.

"Half-brother," Harlan corrected.

Scott's face was sad. He shook his head slightly, and looked at his grandfather. "He's my brother," he said firmly. "Goodbye, sir."

"What?"

"I don't want to see you again. Goodbye."

Scott went up the stairs without a backwards glance. Harlan watched him, his jaw working.

"Scotty?" he said. "Scott! Get back down here, at once."

Johnny was standing in the doorway of the guest room. Scott stopped in the hall, realizing he'd heard every word, and their eyes met.

"I think you should go, Harlan," Miranda said downstairs, her frosty voice carrying easily up the stairs. "And don't come back."

"Miranda, you can't be serious," Harlan said. "Scotty will get over this."

"I don't think Scott will ever get over this, nor do I think he should," she said. "He's figured out what really happened last night. You didn't just have someone watching Johnny. You had someone set that fire, didn't you?"

"You have no right to say that," he blustered. "I could sue you for slander."

"Go right ahead," she said coolly. "I shall be more than happy to prove it in court if you're so foolish."

Harlan suddenly pulled a small derringer out of his pocket. "Do you think Scott will forgive him if he's charged with shooting you?"

"Harlan, don't be an idiot," Miranda said scornfully. "This is over."

"No, it's not. This was John's derringer, Miranda, and I promise you I'm going to make sure he hangs for shooting you."

"Drop it," a deadly voice said. Johnny moved quickly to the top of the stairs and leveled his new derringer at Harlan's head. "You most likely can't hit anything with that gun, but I sure can."

Harlan looked up. His eyes went from Johnny to Scott, standing beside his brother.

"Grandfather," Scott said. "Put the gun down."

Harlan stared at his grandson. "Scotty. I did this for your own good," he said. "I was just trying to keep you safe."

***

Scott looked over at his brother, who was pretending to read a book. Johnny's restless fingers drummed on the page, and he was swinging his foot. He could read the book now, easily enough, but he rarely stayed still long enough to settle down with one. Some things didn't change.

Others did. Scott hadn't seen his grandfather since Harlan lowered the derringer, his shoulders sagging, and walked out the front door of Aunt Miranda's house three months ago.

Johnny had lowered his gun too, and headed for the stable. Scott found him huddled in a corner of the stallion's stall. His arms were wrapped around his knees and his head was down.

"Johnny?"

"Not now," Johnny said.

"I think we need to talk," Scott persisted.

"I don't." Johnny didn't lift his head.

Scott sat down on a hay bale. "You do understand the difference between my grandfather and Murdoch, don't you?"

There was no answer but Scott wasn't about to give up. "Murdoch didn't want to send you away, Johnny. He nearly bit my head off when I first suggested it. He finally agreed to give you up only because he was scared you were going to get killed in one of those shootouts."

Scott glanced over at his brother, but Johnny's head was still down. "Grandfather wouldn't give up anything he wanted, for anybody," he said. "He wanted to keep something. It was all about what he wanted, not what was best for me. I guess it always has been. There's a big difference. Murdoch cares about you, enough to give up something he really wanted. Grandfather only cares about a vision in his head of a perfect grandson who doesn't exist."

Johnny did look up at that and his mouth curved just a little. "Admitting you're not perfect, Boston?"

Scott grinned. "Not at all," he said immediately. "I might not be a perfect grandson, but I am definitely a perfect older brother and don't you forget it."

Johnny sighed. "Wish we could just go home."

"I do too," Scott said.

Scott went back to Harvard and Johnny settled down reluctantly to his own lessons, while Miranda rebuilt her wing. She sent Harlan a bill for it, amid much laughter, but Cousin Richard didn't think it was funny. To Scott's amazement, Richard handed Miranda a check from Harlan at Thanksgiving dinner, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. He refused to discuss how he persuaded his uncle to sign it.

Scott hadn't seen much of his brother since Thanksgiving. It was the end of the term and he was working hard. Some of Johnny's usual spark seemed to be missing when Scott arrived at Chestnut Hill for Christmas, his last examination completed.

"I'm going for a walk," Johnny announced, closing the book he wasn't reading and standing up.

"Want some company?" Scott asked.

"Nope."

Scott frowned. When the door closed behind Johnny - and when had Johnny stopped slamming doors - he went to find his godmother. She was in her sunroom, working on a puzzle.

"Aunt Miranda, does it seem to you that something's troubling Johnny?"

She gave him an enigmatic look. "What do you mean, Scott?"

"He's too quiet," he said. "He hasn't even been in any kind of trouble for more than a month, has he? It's not like him. Maybe he's coming down with something."

Miranda fitted another piece into her puzzle. "He'll be sixteen tomorrow. It's hard to believe it's already been four months since the two of you arrived."

"Do you think I should ask the doctor to stop by and take a look at him?"

"There's nothing wrong with your brother the doctor can cure," Miranda said.

"But there is something wrong, isn't there?" Scott pounced. "What is it?"

She hesitated. "I can't really be sure. He's not talking. But if I had to venture a guess, I would say he's homesick."

Scott thought about it all day long. He watched his brother closely, but Johnny wasn't giving anything away. He helped Miranda and Scott decorate the Christmas tree after dinner, but didn't seem interested, even though Scott didn't think his brother had ever seen a Christmas tree before. Scott tried to get him to play chess or checkers when they finished the tree, but Johnny said he was tired and wanted to go to bed.

"Perhaps that's a good idea," Scott said. "Tomorrow's a big day."

"Why?" Johnny said.

"It's your birthday," Scott said, and paused at the surprised look on his brother's face. Johnny clearly hadn't even thought of it.

"Johnny, what's wrong?" he asked suddenly. "Talk to me, little brother."

"I'm fine," Johnny said, turning away. "Night, Scott."

In the morning, he glanced at the pile of packages at his place at the table. "What's this?"

"Happy birthday, Johnny," Miranda said, smiling at him. "Open them up and see."

Johnny sat down. He looked uneasy, but he opened his gifts.

"What are these?" he asked Scott, running his hand across a curved piece of steel.

"Ice skates," Scott said. "We're going skating on the lake right after breakfast."

"I don't know how."

"I'll show you," Scott promised. "It's fun."

There was nothing from Murdoch, to Scott's surprise, not even a letter or a telegram. He didn't think their father would overlook Johnny's birthday. He'd missed too many of them, for too many years.

Johnny eyed the smooth black ice after Scott helped him fasten the blades to his shoes. "You have a strange idea of fun, Boston."

"Come on," Scott urged him.

Johnny stood up cautiously. Scott had never seen his younger brother make an ungraceful movement, but he looked out of his element now. Johnny slid a few feet, his ankles wobbling, and his feet went out from under him. He went down, hard.

"This is definitely not fun," he complained.

"Yes, it is," Scott glided over to him and offered him a hand. "You just have to get the knack of it."

Johnny quickly found his natural balance, after a few tentative passes, and shook Scott away. His face had the same intent look it wore when he practiced his draw. By the time they went back to the house, he was skating smoothly, although he still wasn't enthusiastic about any activity that required freezing temperatures.

"I have to finish my Christmas shopping, and I bet you do too," Scott said to him, after they warmed up by the fire. "Let's go into town. We'll get some lunch, do some shopping and stop in at Professor Bradford's open house."

"Just don't be late to dinner," Miranda told them. "I expect you to be here on the dot. I'm expecting a guest to join us tonight."

Miranda looked worried when Scott and Johnny finally arrived home, late in the afternoon. It had started to snow and the wind was rising.

"It's not that bad," Scott teased her. He loved snow. "You didn't think it would stop us?"

"No, of course not," she said. "But it may have stopped my guest."

"The roads are still fine," he said. "Whoever it is may not be able to get home again later, if this keeps up, but he shouldn't have any trouble getting here."

"It's not just the roads," she said, but refused to say anything more.

Miranda's guest didn't turn up and they went ahead and had dinner. Johnny excused himself early again.

"Who were you expecting?" Scott asked his godmother curiously. "He should have sent a message, at least, to say if he wasn't coming."

"He may not have been able to send a message," she said.

It was late and they were just going to bed when a sleigh came up the drive.

"Who can that be at this hour?" Scott said crossly, but Miranda's face brightened.

"I hope it's Johnny's birthday present," she said.

"What?"

Miranda smiled and headed for the hall. Thompson had already opened the front door and a very tall man was brushing snow off his overcoat.

"Murdoch!" Scott said.

***

Murdoch went upstairs quietly with Scott, and tapped on the door. There was no answer and they pushed it open cautiously. They had both learned quickly not to startle the youngest Lancer.

The bed was empty. "I'm fine, Boston," Johnny said wearily from the window, not turning. "I just don't feel like talking tonight, OK?"

"You sure about that?" a deep voice asked.

Johnny whirled, his eyes widening.

"Happy birthday, son," Murdoch said. "You didn't think I'd miss it again, did you?"

Johnny's face lit up, like any other boy. Murdoch crossed the room and grabbed him, hugging him tight. He reached out and pulled Scott in too.

"I've missed both of you," he said gruffly.

Johnny pulled back from the hug after a few minutes, a little embarrassed. "How did you get here, Murdoch? And what about the ranch?"

"I left on the steamer, just as soon as we got the cattle settled for the winter," Murdoch said. "Paul can handle whatever needs to be done for a few months, until we get back."

"We?" Johnny picked that up immediately. Murdoch smiled at him.

"You're coming home with me after the holidays, young man," he said. "If you want to, that is."

"Really?" A big smile appeared on Johnny's face.

Scott's eyes moved from his brother, who suddenly looked like a child on Christmas morning, to his father. He hesitated, but he had to ask. "Is that wise, sir?"

Murdoch smiled just as widely as Johnny. "I think it is. Johnny Madrid is gone."

"What do you mean, gone?" Johnny's eyes narrowed and his smile disappeared.

"The newspapers picked up a story from one of the Boston papers a few months ago," Murdoch said. "They reported that Madrid had gone east. And then someone put it together with another story, and they reported that Madrid died in a fire. It's all over the state now. No one's likely to come gunning for a dead man, Johnny."

Johnny's face wore a strange look, half relief and half something that looked like regret.

"There will still be people who will recognize him," Scott pointed out.

"Some," Murdoch said. "But nothing like it was. If Johnny is reasonably careful, I think it will be all right, Scott."

Reasonably careful were not words that Scott would normally apply to his brother. He looked at Johnny again. "Johnny?"

Johnny still looked uncertain.

"You're not sorry, are you?" Murdoch asked.

"Not exactly sorry," Johnny said slowly, sitting down on the bed. "I dunno. It's just, it's sort of strange, you know?"

"You're Johnny Lancer." Murdoch looked frustrated. "Not Madrid."

"Guess so." Johnny looked up. "I always knew someone would be faster, sooner or later. Never figured Madrid would die in a stupid fire. It doesn't seem right."

Murdoch was baffled and beginning to get angry. Scott recognized the signs and stepped in.

"Let's go downstairs," he said. "I'd like a drink."

"Me too," Johnny said and Murdoch glowered a little more.

Scott poured whiskey into three glasses, nevertheless, when they moved down to the library. "Happy birthday, Johnny Lancer," he said, clinking glasses with his brother. "I hope you have many more."

Johnny sipped his whiskey slowly, figuring from the look on Murdoch's face that he wasn't going to get any more. He also figured his father would explode if he just tossed it down, as he was inclined to do. He sighed. He still hadn't quite adjusted to life as Johnny Lancer, especially not the notion of following his father's rules instead of doing exactly as he pleased, when he pleased. And he definitely hadn't adjusted to the way they treated him sometimes, like he was a little kid.

Sometimes it got on his nerves, but sometimes he had to admit it wasn't so bad to have other people looking out for him. He'd been on his own for a long time. He didn't exactly want to go back to that old life, but he also didn't know what to think of the fact that it was gone now. He'd worked hard to create Johnny Madrid. He hadn't expected to live very long as Madrid, but he sure never expected to live without him.

Dios, you're loco, he told himself. It wasn't such a bad thing to be Johnny Lancer, with a father and a brother, to never wonder where your next meal was coming from or where you were going to find a safe place to sleep. And he loved the ranch. It was the most beautiful place he'd ever seen and he missed it desperately, in a way he'd never missed any place before.

"What are you thinking about, Johnny?" Scott asked.

"The hill over the hacienda, on a sunshiny day," Johnny said softly, finishing the last of his whiskey.

Murdoch looked surprised, but pleased. "We'll be back there by March, son," he said. "In time for calving and the spring round-up. By then, maybe there will be some sunshine."

Johnny smiled, his eyes faraway. Then he thought of something else and his face changed. He sat up and looked at his brother.

"What about you, Scott? You're not done at Harvard. You have another year and a half." His tone made it sound like a prison sentence.

"I'll be along in late June," Scott said. "Right after you finish up with the spring work."

"But then you'll have to leave again by the end of July," Johnny said. "For another whole year."

Scott shook his head, smiling.

"Son, you should finish your education," Murdoch said. "We'll miss you, but it's only one more year and I want you to get your degree."

"I intend to get it, sir," Scott said. "I wasn't going to tell either of you yet, but that's the reason why I haven't been to see you much during the term, Johnny. I'm taking a double course load and, if all goes well, I'll graduate this spring. And then I'll be home for good."

Two brilliant smiles greeted that news. Johnny felt relieved. He wanted to go home more than anything, but hadn't considered that would mean leaving his brother in this cold city, or living with his father without Scott there to smooth things over when they fought. Or, he faced it, living anywhere without his brother. Dios, he really was getting soft. He could manage a few months, but the idea of a whole year and a half away from his older brother stretched out like a nightmare.

Murdoch was beaming. "That's good news, son. I wish we could stay. I'd give just about anything to see you graduate."

"There's too much work to do in the spring," Scott said. "I understand, sir."

"Maybe Paul wouldn't mind..." Murdoch started thoughtfully, and Scott shook his head.

"No, really. I'm going to have to buckle down during the term so I would hardly see either of you if you did stay. You take Johnny home and I'll be along a few months later." He looked at his brother mischievously. "Besides, sir, it's your turn to take care of him on the steamer."

"I was only sick for a few days," Johnny said immediately.

"Believe me, that was more than enough," Scott said.

"He gets seasick?" Murdoch said. He looked thoughtful, like he was weighing something. "Maybe you should stay in Boston a little longer, John, and come home with your brother in June. You could get a few months more schooling too."

"No!" Johnny said. They both laughed at him and he realized his father was only teasing.

The firelight was warm and he stretched out lazily on the rug. Murdoch leaned back in a tall wingchair and Scott watched them both from another chair, still sipping his drink. Johnny felt his eyes close. He tried to keep them open, just a little bit longer, but he couldn't. It was safe to sleep by this fire, with his father and brother both right there. The last thing he saw was his father's face, smiling at something Scott said, and then he slipped into sleep, dreaming of a horse the color of sunshine.

THE END

Whistle, December 2004

The stories on this site are works of fiction, based on the 1968-1970 television series "Lancer" and were written purely for fun, not profit.