Common Scents
"Don't say it!" the dark-haired former gunfighter warned, his blue eyes narrowing. Scott Lancer lifted his hands slightly. He didn't let a smile curve the corners of his mouth. Johnny could be dangerous, he knew, when provoked. And the youngest Lancer definitely was provoked.
Scott looked his brother over, his face carefully expressionless. Johnny was wearing a towel around his waist and nothing else. He'd scrubbed himself in the tub for more than an hour, but it hadn't done much good as far as Scott could smell.
The Bostonian crossed the bathhouse and dropped an armful of clean clothing on the bench.
"Teresa doesn't have any more vinegar," he said, backing away from his brother, as far away as possible.
Johnny scowled. "Didn't help much anyway."
"No," Scott agreed, his nose quivering. "Um, Murdoch says it's all right if you skip dinner with the family tonight."
"I bet he does," Johnny said darkly. "He say anything else?"
"Well, he did say something about needing to reshingle the roof on the east line shack."
Johnny let out a long sigh and reached for his trousers. "That's probably a good idea."
"It is?" Scott was startled.
"If you and him go up there, I'm not as likely to shoot you for saying something stupid," Johnny drawled.
Scott looked at his brother again but Johnny's face didn't give anything away.
"I don't think that's exactly what Murdoch had in mind," he finally said while Johnny buttoned his shirt.
Johnny sat down on the bench to pull on his socks and boots. "No?" he said innocently. "Just what did he have in mind, Boston?"
Scott paused. Then he saw Johnny's mouth twitch, just a little bit. "Murdoch says it should wear off in a week."
Johnny tucked in his shirt and buckled his gun belt, adjusting it carefully and drawing his Colt. Scott took a step backwards. Maybe he had been wrong about that twitch.
Johnny checked his gun, spun it and slid it back into the holster. He glanced up. Scott hadn't been mistaken. The blue eyes danced with mischief. "Might take two."
Scott had a feeling he had missed something. He just wasn't quite sure what it was. In the months since he'd come west and met his father and brother, it was becoming an all too familiar feeling. "Jelly is hitching up the wagon and Teresa is packing some food. I'll get your stuff upstairs."
"Don't forget my rifle," Johnny said. "And spare ammunition."
"You're not expecting trouble, are you?" Scott asked sharply.
"Trouble?" Johnny wore his most angelic look. Jelly had cut his dark hair short before dousing him with all of the vinegar in the kitchen and storerooms, and he looked even younger than usual. His ears and the back of his neck were visible and vulnerable. "How could I get into trouble at the line shack, in the middle of nowhere?"
Twenty minutes later, Scott tied Barranca to the back of the wagon. The horse snorted at Johnny's approach, but nuzzled his shoulder anyway.
"Yeah, I know," Johnny said softly to the palomino, stroking its nose. "Sorry, compadre."
Scott sniffed involuntarily and Johnny glared at him.
"OK, I'm going," he said.
"Johnny," Scott protested. "I can't help it."
Johnny grinned. "I know," he admitted. "Can't hardly stand myself." He climbed up onto the wagon and picked up the reins.
Scott didn't know why, but he suddenly had a bad feeling about this. Johnny could certainly take care of himself. He had taken care of himself most of his life, left to fend for himself too soon and for too long. He would be the first to scoff at the idea that he shouldn't go by himself to the line shack.
But Scott still didn't feel right about it.
"Johnny," he said again. "Maybe you should just stay here. It's not that bad, really."
Johnny shook his head. "Yeah, it is."
Scott's misgivings grew. "Maybe I should go with you."
Johnny gave him a cheeky smile. There was no question now that those incredibly blue eyes were dancing. "You can't, Boston. You're going to be busy doing my chores."
He dropped his hands and the wagon rolled out of the yard. Scott watched it until it disappeared around a curve in the road.
Johnny was right, he realized. Their father most likely would expect him to do a lot of his brother's work as well as his own.
"This stinks," he said to himself. And he didn't mean the skunk Johnny had blown to smithereens.
***
Scott straightened his back and peered at the road. It was still empty. Heat shimmered off the sun-scorched land and the air was as heavy as a wool blanket.
He sighed and waggled his shoulders, trying to loosen bunched muscles. Sweat slid unpleasantly down his back under his cotton shirt. He was ready to wring his brother's neck when Johnny finally decided to come home again. It had been more than a week and there was still no sign of him. Scott wanted to wring his neck and give him a bear hug; he wasn't entirely sure which would come first.
The ranch wasn't an adventure so much as a never-ending chore without Johnny. Scott had been slightly shocked to discover just how much difference it made. A few months ago, he hadn't even known he had a brother and hadn't exactly been pleased when they did meet. The two of them had nothing in common.
But something about the younger man tugged at Scott. When Pardee shot Johnny off his horse, the fiercely protective feeling that surged through him stunned him. His brother was wild, cocky and more than a little exasperating. But Scott Garrett Lancer of Boston missed the gunfighter more than he would have ever dreamed possible.
He wrapped gloved hands around his shovel again and froze, seeing movement out of the corner of his eye.
Scott knew exactly what was about to happen. There wasn't a thing he could do about it. Even if he could make the shot, it wouldn't save him. Johnny had spun and fired in an instant.
He stood perfectly still, only his eyes following the black and white plume as it waved back and forth. He had enough time to hope there was plenty of hot water in the boiler and wonder if Teresa had replenished the vinegar yet.
Scott winced and threw his arm up protectively over his face as the odor hit him.
He was still scrubbing his skin when Murdoch banged on the bathhouse door and brought him clean clothing.
"The odor is quite pervasive," Scott said.
"Um, yes," Murdoch admitted. "Quite."
Scott picked up the soap again, weighing it in his hand. "It's no use, is it?"
"Not much." Murdoch hovered near the door. "Maybe you should join your brother."
Scott considered it for a few seconds. "Perhaps I should," he agreed gravely. "But you'll be short-handed, sir."
"It's been a week since Johnny was sprayed." Murdoch's voice was short. "More than a week. Send him home when you find him."
Scott found the wagon and horses at the line shack, located in a rugged section of the ranch close to the mountains. There was a pot of coffee on the stove in the shack and he helped himself, wondering where his brother was.
Johnny had slept there, from the look of the tangled blankets trailing off one of the bunks onto the floor. His saddlebags rested on another bunk and his rifle was propped against the wall next to the door.
Scott finished his coffee and went outside, walking around the shack. Johnny hadn't been idle. There were new shingles on the roof and freshly split logs were stacked neatly in the woodpile. Scott wandered toward the creek that ran down from the mountains.
Johnny lay stretched out in the sun on the bank of a pool, his hat shading his face. Scott approached as silently as he could, but the younger man was on guard even in his sleep. Almost before he realized that Johnny had moved, Scott found himself looking down the barrel of his brother's Colt.
Johnny holstered the gun, rubbed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair, still shorter than usual but already beginning to grow out. He sniffed suddenly, looking puzzled. "Damn. Thought that skunk had just about worn out."
"It's not you," Scott said gloomily.
Johnny's eyes widened and a smile flashed across his unshaven face. "You too, Boston?"
"Don't even think about saying it," Scott warned him. He sat down on the bank and skimmed a rock across the water, watching it skip four times before it disappeared.
Johnny whistled. "Murdoch mad?"
"He said I should send you home."
Johnny stretched lazily, like a cat, and settled back on the thick layer of pine needles that cushioned the ground. He tilted his hat down over his eyes again. "Not yet."
Scott glanced at him and then eyed the water. "Are there any fish in that pool?"
"Not so many as there were a week ago," Johnny said drowsily.
"Did you shoot them or catch them?" Scott asked, remembering the first time he went fishing with his impatient brother.
Johnny smiled.
***
Scott rolled trout in corn meal and dropped them into the hot skillet. Johnny was sitting by the open fire, cleaning his gun in the half-light.
They'd agreed tacitly to cook their supper outdoors, rather than inside the line shack. The odor of skunk still rolled off Scott.
As usual, Johnny concentrated on eating, not talking, during the meal. Scott waited until he had finished. "How long did it take?"
"Couple of days. Dunno if it wore off or I just got used to it."
"You should head home in the morning," Scott said. "I'll be fine."
"Didn't say you wouldn't be."
Scott frowned at his brother. "There's a lot of work to do."
Johnny's mouth curved. "Maybe that's why I'm not in any hurry."
Scott didn't think so. Murdoch might complain his younger son was irresponsible, but Scott knew better. No one on the ranch threw more of himself into a job than Johnny and everyone but Murdoch knew it.
"You've been out here by yourself for more than a week," he said. "Aren't you getting tired of your own cooking?"
Johnny ducked his head. "I'm used to my own cooking."
Scott let the silence stretch out between them. He had learned quickly that Johnny would talk when Johnny was ready, and not before. Pushing him didn't work. In fact, it had the opposite effect. Try to push him and he was all too likely to clam up stubbornly.
Unfortunately, Murdoch hadn't learned that lesson. Their father had a tendency to bellow, not bend, when he met any resistance, especially from his younger son.
Johnny finally spoke. "Sure are lots of stars."
Scott reached for the coffee pot and split its contents between their cups. "Yes."
"Do you know how many?"
"No one knows. There are too many to count." Scott knew Johnny could be circling around to whatever it was that was bothering him, or this could be purely a diversionary tactic. He waited patiently.
Johnny took a sip of coffee. "So you wouldn't even notice if one falls?"
Scott turned his head to look at his brother curiously. "You would if it's one you know."
"Maybe it's better not to get to know any of them too well."
"You think so?"
"Yeah," Johnny said.
Scott stopped to think. Johnny had been on his own for a long time, he knew, longer than he could imagine. Scott had been entirely on his own just once in his life, for one hellish year in an enemy prison. He still had nightmares about it, still kept that year tamped down tightly at the bottom of his memories. He hadn't told his father or brother about it.
They tended to assume his new life with a home and family was so much better for Johnny than his old, footloose life. But that didn't necessarily mean it was easier for him, Scott realized, looking at his brother's bowed head. Johnny was spooked and ready to bolt. The question was why. He thought about it for a few minutes.
"Johnny," he said at last. "I missed you last week."
Johnny was silent. Scott wished he could see the blue eyes. "Of course, I also wanted to wring your neck," he continued, keeping his tone light. "And Murdoch just may do that when he sees you. You should have come home days ago, brother. We were worried about you."
Johnny added some wood to the fire and it flared up, but his face was still shadowed. "No need. I can take care of myself."
"I know you can," Scott agreed. "But there are other people who care about you and miss you when you're not with us."
Johnny's head drooped. "That's stupid," he said.
"What is?"
Johnny hunched his shoulders and picked up a stick, turning it in restless fingers. "You can't ever count on anybody else."
"Yes, you can," Scott said firmly. "That's what families do, Johnny."
He knew he had made a mistake as soon as he said it. Johnny certainly hadn't been able to count on his mother, the only family he had ever known until recently. What was worse, Scott had come to realize, was that Johnny still felt he had let her down, even though he had only been a child at the time of her death.
Once he learned a little about his brother's life, Scott understood why the gunfighter was so stubbornly self-sufficient. But he thought the two of them, at least, had started to find their way past Johnny's distrust and his own New England reserve.
"You missed us too," Scott said suddenly. "And you don't know how to deal with that, do you?"
Johnny didn't look up or answer, but the stick in his hands snapped.
***
Rain swept across the roof of the line shack and thunder rumbled. Scott opened his eyes, wondering for a few disoriented minutes where he was. He sat up, pushing his blankets away, and moved to the blurred window. The world outside was gray and it was cold inside the shack. They had left the door open just a crack. Scott pulled his trousers up over his long johns and shrugged his shoulders into his shirt, crinkling his nose. He just wasn't getting used to the smell of skunk.
Johnny was still fast asleep. Scott wasn't surprised. Despite his brash claim that first morning that he always slept well, Johnny had passed a restless night, tossing and mumbling in Spanish until he gave up and went outside. Scott had been tempted to follow, but didn't think his brother would welcome company. Johnny had only slipped back inside as the first light appeared in the windows. Scott relaxed then and closed his own eyes until the thunder began and the first wave of rain slapped the roof.
The Bostonian lit the stove and brewed coffee. He had finished his first cup when Johnny finally stirred.
"Good morning," Scott said. Johnny's eyes cracked open and he sat up. Scott poured coffee for him.
"Thanks." Johnny wrapped his fingers around the battered mug. He didn't have much to say in the morning until he'd finished his first cup of coffee and most of his second. Just like their father, Scott thought, amused.
"You're welcome. It looks like you won't be heading back home this morning after all."
Johnny blew gently on his coffee to cool it and took a sip. There was an odd expression on his face as he looked at the window. Scott smiled to himself. The surest way to get his younger brother to do something was to tell him that he couldn't.
"It don't look so bad," Johnny ventured. "It's just rain."
Scott let his smile show. "Not a chance, brother," he said. "There's no way you can get the wagon down the road in the mud and Barranca doesn't deserve to be out in this."
Johnny sighed but Scott knew he'd never risk his palomino just because he hated the idea of being stuck indoors in a small space. Johnny didn't trust other people easily but he loved that horse without reservation.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the room, and thunder crashed a few seconds later. Scott couldn't hide a wince as the walls rattled. It sounded too much like artillery.
"You OK?" Johnny asked. Sometimes he was too damn observant.
Scott put his coffee cup down carefully. He refused to let the faint tremor in his hand blossom into a shake. "Yes," he said tersely. "I'll take care of the horses while you get breakfast."
Johnny had heated beans and brewed a fresh pot of coffee by the time Scott returned. The driving rain had plastered Scott's blond hair to his head and soaked through his oilskins. He changed into dry clothes and shaved carefully. He hadn't always been so fastidious, certainly not while camping in the Maine woods as a boy or, later, in the field with his cavalry unit, but he still hadn't completely washed away a year of living in unspeakable filth. Scott almost envied his brother's casual stubble and tousled hair, even as he combed his own hair precisely.
Johnny filled another plate with beans and Scott sat down at the table to eat, although he wasn't hungry. He rearranged the beans on his plate, his head down and his thoughts far away. Johnny had already finished his own breakfast and flopped back on his bunk.
Johnny was apparently asleep again when Scott finally gave up on the beans. He scraped them into the slop bucket and opened the door briefly to rinse his plate in the driving rain. He poured himself more coffee and pulled a book out of his saddlebags.
"What are you reading?" Johnny asked, not moving.
Scott didn't know why he was still surprised when Johnny played possum. "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, by Jules Verne. Want me to read it aloud?"
"What's it about?"
"The author imagines what it would be like to travel in a ship underneath the ocean."
"You don't have to," Johnny said.
"I don't mind." Scott had read to his brother for hours when Johnny was recovering from the bullet he'd taken in the battle for the ranch. He started from both a sense of duty and a lack of conversation, and found he enjoyed it. He thought Johnny had too.
From what Scott could gather, his vagabond brother hadn't spent much time in school. Someone had taught him to read and write and do sums, at least enough to get by, but Scott wasn't sure Johnny had ever opened a book for the pleasure of it. Mostly, from what he could gather, his brother read wanted posters.
Johnny was fascinated, though, when Scott read to him. That agile mind soaked up the words and came up with dozens of questions. Some were questions that hadn't ever occurred to his Harvard-educated brother.
Scott opened the book. He didn't think it necessary to mention it was in French and he would be translating as he read. "Chapter 1," he read. "The year 1866 was signalised by a remarkable incident, a mysterious and puzzling phenomenon, which doubtless no one has yet forgotten. Not to mention rumours which agitated the maritime population and excited the public mind, even in the interior of continents, seafaring men were particularly excited. Merchants, common sailors, captains of vessels, skippers, both of Europe and America, naval officers of all countries, and the Governments of several States on the two continents, were deeply interested in the matter."
The thunder receded into the background as Captain Nemo steered his strange ship. Scott didn't even realize the rain had stopped until he closed the book. Johnny was really asleep now, his breath slow and his face peaceful.
Scott stretched his arms and legs and opened the door. Sunlight was already burning the rain's mist out of the tall pines that towered over the roof. He went out to the shed to check again on the horses. When he returned, he yawned and decided he could use a nap himself.
***
Murdoch paced back and forth across the great room. He paused to look at the rain streaming down the windows.
"Rain won't bother your boys, neither of them, Boss." Jelly came in with an armload of wood. He built a fire quickly and lit it, fanning it gently until the kindling caught and flames licked the seasoned logs. The old handyman straightened up, rubbing his elbow. "It won't last neither, not near long enough to do any good. The land's dryer than a cowboy on Saturday night."
"Johnny should have been home days ago," Murdoch grumbled. "That boy has no sense of responsibility."
"That ain't true," Jelly protested immediately. "He's a good boy. Both of them are."
Murdoch looked down. In at least one case, he knew that was true. He wasn't so sure about his wayward younger son.
It was amazing Johnny had survived at all. He tried to keep telling himself that when his temper boiled over. He knew it wasn't fair to expect Johnny to behave anything like his brother. Scott had grown up with every advantage. Murdoch hated Scott's grandfather but couldn't deny that Harlan Garrett had done a good job raising his firstborn son.
Johnny, meanwhile, had run completely wild, unschooled, undernourished and unloved. The Pinkerton reports turned Murdoch's stomach.
Johnny wouldn't fill in the gaps in the reports. Murdoch wasn't really sure he could bear to hear the details, but it exasperated him when his son stubbornly refused to tell him anything. He could guess at parts of the story, but his guesses didn't make him feel any better.
Murdoch dropped heavily into his chair, his back aching. "Don't you have any work to do?" he asked Jelly.
The handyman huffed. "Don't you worry about me doing my job," he said. "Some people need to worry more about whether they're doing their own job."
"What job would that be, Jelly?" Murdoch's eyes kindled.
Jelly scowled. "You know," he said shortly and stomped out of the room without a backward look.
Murdoch's head dropped into his hands. He did know. He just didn't know how to do this job. He didn't know how to be Johnny's father. The boy desperately needed one but he flared up at Murdoch's efforts to settle him down.
His older son was adjusting fairly smoothly to his new life on the ranch. Scott still had a lot to learn about ranching but he was making steady progress and it was easy to get along with the reserved, courteous young man. Scott was a lot like his mother, in looks and temperament. Even if he didn't know much about cattle, not yet, this was the son Murdoch had always dreamed about, smart, well educated and well behaved.
Johnny was like his mother too and that was a big part of the trouble. Sparks fizzed between father and son. Murdoch sighed. He and Johnny could somehow manage to argue even when they did agree. Lately, it seemed every encounter between them turned into a shouting match and ended with Johnny storming out. Murdoch had been thinking of sending the boy to the line shack for a few days even before the skunk sprayed him. They both needed a break.
The house had certainly been quieter without him but it wasn't a peaceful quiet. Murdoch had lived for a long time in solitary silence. When his younger son jangled his nerves, he occasionally wished for silence again - until he got what he wished for.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He could see that handsome, willful face and the challenge in those blue eyes. Murdoch knew he'd pushed his son hard in the past few months, maybe too much, but Johnny had pushed right back.
Murdoch wasn't sure the boy wouldn't just ride away some day, like his mother, ride away or get himself killed with his reckless behavior. He told himself it was better for both of them if he kept his distance as far as he could. Johnny needed a strong hand, someone who wouldn't give into his charm and let him have his own way. The rancher was determined to do his duty this time.
But Johnny defied his father's efforts to rein him in. He knew at last that his mother had lied to him but that knowledge didn't leave him ready to put his trust in his new family or blindly follow his father's gruff orders. It left him with nothing at all to believe in, Murdoch realized bleakly. Johnny had thought his mother loved him, only to discover that everything she'd told him was a lie. He wouldn't easily trust anyone, least of all his father, after that betrayal.
And so they went in circles, Murdoch thought, afraid of where the uneasy dance might end.
***
The door banged and Scott woke. Johnny was already on his feet, pointing his gun at the doorway. No one was there.
"Must have been the wind," Johnny said, peering out. "Hey, the sun's out, Scott. Let's go hunting."
"Hunting?"
"Yeah, hunting." Johnny checked his gun. "Maybe we can find something better than beans for supper. I'm tired of fish."
"If you ride fast - and you always do - you could still have supper at Lancer tonight," Scott pointed out.
Johnny grinned at him. "I was thinking about rabbit. Or maybe partridge."
Scott sighed but followed his brother out the door.
They climbed along the creek toward the mountains. A deer and her fawn grazed near the edge of a meadow. Johnny stopped to watch them, but made no move for his gun.
They were a few miles above the line shack when they stopped for a drink of water.
"It's nice up here," Scott said, taking a deep breath of the clean air. The creek tumbled over the rocks, clear and cold.
"Yeah." Johnny flopped over on his back and chewed on a piece of grass. "You think there could really be such a thing as a ship that travels underwater?"
"The North and South both built submarines during the war."
"Did they work?"
"Most of them sank," Scott said. "But one did actually sink a warship in 1864 off Charleston."
Johnny thought about that. "What happened to it?"
"It apparently sank too, with all hands." Scott plucked an unfamiliar wildflower and examined it curiously.
"I'm glad you weren't in the navy."
Scott smiled. "I thought about it."
"You did?" Johnny looked surprised. "Instead of the cavalry?"
"I love to sail." Scott thought of dazzling days spent on the river and on the bay back in Boston.
"Better than you like to ride?" The idea was clearly alien.
"It is possible to enjoy both," Scott pointed out. Johnny's face was so dubious he nearly laughed.
There was a long pause. Scott knew Johnny wouldn't ask, not unless he signaled he was willing to talk about it. "It just seemed like I'd be more use in the cavalry," he said finally. "Most boys go to sea for the first time when they're younger than I was."
Johnny rolled onto his stomach. "How old were you?"
"Eighteen," Scott said. "I'd started my second year at Harvard. I wanted to enlist earlier, but Grandfather wouldn't allow it. I signed up on my birthday."
Scott glanced at his brother. Johnny had been on his own for years by the time he turned eighteen. He couldn't possibly understand. "I tried earlier. It didn't work. My grandfather knows a lot of people in Boston. Washington too."
"Bet he was mad when you did sign up." Johnny's voice was soft.
"He was furious." Scott figured he might be entitled to ask a question and get an answer. "What were you doing that year? You were nearly twelve when I enlisted in November."
"Dunno," Johnny said.
"It was 1862," Scott persisted. "The same year that General Sibley invaded New Mexico. You must have heard about that down on the border."
"Oh," Johnny said. "Him."
Scott's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I worked for them awhile. Taking care of their horses."
"What?" Scott was stunned.
Johnny shrugged. "It was a job. Didn't pay much but they fed me. Couldn't be too picky about jobs then, Boston."
Scott shook his head. "Were you at Glorieta Pass?"
"Nope," Johnny said. "Didn't get that far. I got shot at Canoncito."
"Shot?"
"It was only a graze. Bled a lot, though, and I guess I passed out. It was all over and they'd moved on by the time I woke up."
"Surely they didn't leave you?"
"Yeah." Johnny's voice was matter of fact. "Probably didn't even notice. I was just a kid who helped with the horses. I crawled into some rocks when I got hit and holed up for a few days. It wasn't so bad."
Scott stared at Johnny. He'd still been safe at Harvard, conjugating Latin and Greek verbs, when Sibley's army marched from Texas into New Mexico that spring to try to take Fort Union for the Confederacy. He couldn't believe his little brother had been in the bloody fight at Canoncito. He also had absolutely no doubt that Johnny had managed to get himself right into the middle of it.
"Where did you go after that?"
"Headed back to the border."
Scott knew from his father's Pinkerton reports that Johnny Madrid had fought his first gunfight a few years later. He wondered what had happened in between, but Johnny had already said more than he expected.
Johnny changed the subject. "Where were you when the submarine sunk that ship?"
"I was still in the cavalry." Scott realized he couldn't exactly complain that Johnny wouldn't talk about his past. He wasn't prepared to share either, at least, not that particular year. "I thought we were hunting."
Johnny gave him a crooked smile and got up. "We are, Boston."
***
Scott heard the rattle and froze. The shot echoed before he had time to be afraid. He stared at the headless snake. Its body still twitched.
"You all right?" Johnny demanded.
Scott turned to look at his brother. The Colt smoked in Johnny's hand.
"Johnny," Scott breathed. "That was an incredible shot."
Johnny slid the Colt back in his holster. "Bet you've never eaten snake for supper."
Scott made a face. "Yes, I have. But I'd just as soon have rabbit."
Johnny's brows rose. "You've eaten snake?"
"It's better than nothing," Scott said. "But it is not my first choice, brother."
"Mine either," Johnny admitted.
"Let's keep going then." Scott stepped past the snake and headed up the path. He ignored the curious look from his brother.
Johnny shot a fat rabbit in a sunlit meadow. Scott walked across to pick it up. "Roasted or stewed?" he asked.
"If you're going to cook, you get to choose," Johnny said promptly.
"I didn't say I was going to cook it," Scott countered. "It's your rabbit."
They had nearly reached the line shack, still bickering over who was going to cook supper, when Johnny stopped abruptly.
"What's wrong?" Scott asked.
Johnny lifted his head, sniffing. "Can't you smell it?"
"The only thing I can smell is skunk," Scott complained.
Johnny didn't smile. "Smoke." He leaned against a tree, pulling his boots off. "Gimme a hand up."
"Why?" Scott asked, even as he did what his brother asked. Johnny stepped lightly on Scott's clasped hands, grabbed a branch over his head and pulled himself up. He climbed quickly until he was high in the tree's crown.
Too high, Scott thought, watching the slender branches sway under Johnny's weight. "Be careful," he called. "Can you see anything?"
Johnny didn't answer immediately. Instead, he came down in a hurry and sat down to pull his boots on. "We need to get going."
"Is there a fire?"
Johnny nodded. "Looks like it's headed this way. It's a few miles west but the wind will push it pretty fast."
"West," Scott said thoughtfully. "Between us and the ranch."
"Yeah. Let's go."
Scott could smell the smoke too by the time they reached the shack. He ran inside for their gear while Johnny saddled their horses. Johnny left the wagon standing outside the shed and put the team on leading reins.
"Good idea," Scott said, mounting Charlemagne and taking the reins of one of the other horses. "Where to?"
Johnny looked at the smoke, all too visible now. There was an angry orange glow in the sky. "We could try to make a run for it and get up over the pass, but the trail isn't so good. Or we could try to light a back fire."
"A back fire?"
Johnny reached into the back of the wagon, pulling out a shovel. "You light another fire and hope that when they meet, they burn themselves out. Over on the other side of the creek, there's a clearing where it might work."
Scott nodded. He'd had enough of fire to last his lifetime but he was more familiar with starting fires than stopping them. The army burned a dark, ugly scar across the South, torching homes and barns and cultivated fields. He'd never seen a wild fire in the woods.
They tethered the horses securely by the creek. Scott had dismounted and ducked inside the shack to get the kerosene when Johnny explained what he intended. Johnny's eyes lit up immediately.
"Sometimes I like the way you think, Boston," he said. He walked across the sloping meadow on the opposite side of the creek and sloshed kerosene onto the underbrush. Scott watched curiously. He could see flames to the west now, a high, angry wall of fire advancing on them. The smoke darkened the sky.
Johnny shook the last drops out of the kerosene jug and discarded it. "You better go over to the horses," he called. "They're likely to spook."
"You better get yourself over to the horses too, just as soon as you light that fire." Scott thought back to that day when Johnny asked how he could possibly get into trouble at the line shack. "I mean it, Johnny."
His brother just grinned at him and took out a box of matches. Despite the danger - probably because of the danger, Scott thought ruefully - Johnny's eyes sparkled.
He lit a match. The dry, kerosene-soaked brush caught immediately but Johnny had already moved a few feet farther along and was lighting another match. By the time he'd finished, Scott could barely see him through the dense smoke.
The main fire was getting closer. Scott could hear a roar, could see flames rising behind the smaller fire his brother had set. He watched as Johnny's fire licked the stand of pines on the far side of the meadow. They went up with a whoosh, like torches, sparks raining down. Scott watched them burn open-mouthed. He untied his bandanna, soaked it in the creek and tied it over his nose and mouth as the flames leapt through the trees.
Barranca reared and he turned quickly to try to soothe him and the other horses. When he looked back, he couldn't see his brother in the smoky meadow.
"Johnny!" he shouted. "Johnny, damn it, where are you? Johnny!"
***
Johnny was down on his knees, coughing and choking helplessly. Scott stumbled over him by pure chance and grabbed him. He tugged at his brother, pulling him toward the creek. They both tumbled blindly into the orange-tinged water.
Scott wrapped his arms around Johnny, keeping his brother's face out of the creek. He held on as the two fires rose and met.
Behind him, he could hear the terrified horses scream until the roar of the fire and his pounding heart drowned out everything. He couldn't think, couldn't move in the inferno. The air was hot, even through the damp bandanna, and his lungs strained to get enough air.
And then, suddenly, it was quiet. Scott watched unbelievingly as the gates of hell dwindled and shrank away before his eyes.
"It worked," he said hoarsely through his bandanna. "It worked."
Johnny was still gagging. "It's all right," Scott said, holding on as his brother's shoulders heaved. "I've got you."
Johnny made a weak gesture with his hand and Scott tilted him forward as he threw up.
"Sorry," he said at last, his voice a painful whisper and his breath still rasping. "Guess I - got - lungful of smoke."
"Don't try to talk yet." Scott helped Johnny out of the creek and propped him up against a rock. Johnny's tan had drained away under the soot that streaked his face. Scott frowned at him. "You got a lot more than one lungful of smoke, little brother. I told you to hurry."
"Tried," Johnny gasped.
"I also just told you not to talk. You don't listen." Scott's tone was light, but his face was serious. He rose and went to get Johnny's canteen from Barranca. "Take a sip. Not too much."
Johnny drank obediently and leaned back, closing his eyes. Scott took a swallow of tepid water himself and both brothers rested in silence for a few minutes.
Johnny spoke first. "Scott?" he whispered. Scott eyed him sternly but that didn't stop Johnny. "Why?"
Scott was puzzled. "Why?"
"Why - come after me?" Johnny paused to catch his breath.
"You're my little brother. It's my job to look out for you," Scott said immediately. Johnny looked confused. Scott smiled faintly. "Are you telling me that you wouldn't have done the same for me?"
At that, the blue eyes dropped. "No, but that's different."
"Why is it any different?"
Johnny shrugged his shoulders. "Just is. But thanks."
Scott would have liked to throttle Johnny's mother. And he wouldn't mind giving his father a piece of his mind either. Scott knew perfectly well, although Johnny hadn't ever said it, that the young man didn't place much value on his own life. Perhaps that explained, in part, why he could be so careless with it.
Murdoch's constant faultfinding didn't help. Scott believed Murdoch had the best of intentions but he was going about the job of reclaiming this son the wrong way. Johnny needed a loose rein. Murdoch was trying to break him fast and hard, and it wasn't going to work.
He didn't, of course, say any of this aloud. "Do you think you can manage to ride?"
"Sure," Johnny said promptly. "I'm fine."
"I don't think so, but I do think we should head back to the ranch."
Johnny nodded. "They might be headed this way," he croaked. "Someone might have spotted the smoke."
"We'll meet them then," Scott said. He reached down, offering his brother a hand. Johnny stood, a little unsteadily, and Scott tightened his grip. "Maybe you better ride with me."
"I'm fine," Johnny insisted again. "Just give me a minute."
Scott knew the determined look on his brother's face. He settled for hovering nearby when Johnny mounted, putting a hand in the small of his back and giving him a slight boost.
"One good thing," Johnny said when he was in the saddle and had threaded his feet into the stirrups. The corners of his mouth turned up in an impish smile. "Can't smell that skunk any more, Boston. Just smoke."
Scott stared at him, laughter warring with exasperation. The laughter won. "Let's go home."
***
Murdoch lost what little appetite he had for his supper when a hand rode in to report that Cipriano had spotted smoke in the east that afternoon and taken his crew to check on it. He was alone in the hacienda. Teresa was in Green River, visiting a friend. Maria, the Mexican housekeeper, had left after serving the meal.
He fretted the rest of the evening. Finally, he dozed off over the book he couldn't seem to concentrate on reading. It was late, nearly midnight, when something woke him. He put the book down and went to investigate.
There were horses standing outside the barn and he could hear voices. Murdoch walked down and found Scott and Jelly arguing with Johnny, who wanted to take care of Barranca himself.
Murdoch paused outside the light cast by Jelly's lantern. Both of his sons were filthy and reeked of smoke. Both of them drooped with fatigue. But both of them were home safe.
"Jelly, take the horses," Murdoch ordered, limping into the light. "All of the horses. You two need to clean up. Did you have any supper?"
"No, sir." Scott realized they had forgotten about Johnny's rabbit.
"I'll find something in the kitchen," Murdoch said. His eyes rested on Johnny. "Are you all right, son?"
The question and the tone caught Johnny off balance. He'd expected Murdoch to be spitting mad when he finally returned to the ranch, but he couldn't hear anything but worry in the Old Man's voice.
"I'm fine," he said, biting back the flippant answer on his tongue, and broke into another coughing fit. His head spun and his knees buckled. Murdoch took two long strides and grabbed him. Johnny tried to pull away but Murdoch held onto him firmly.
"He breathed a lot of smoke," Scott said, answering the question in his father's eyes.
Murdoch nodded and steered Johnny toward the pump. "Jelly!"
The handyman appeared immediately in the barn door. "Yeah, Boss."
"Go and get a bucket of water from the boiler, please," Murdoch said. "And some soap."
Scott would have preferred to soak in a long, hot bath but his father's method was faster and equally effective. Fifteen minutes later, shivering slightly from the cold pump water sluiced over his head, Scott buttoned a clean shirt, rubbed his wet hair with a towel and followed his father and Johnny into the house. Murdoch poured Scotch and put a glass in his hand.
"Thanks," Scott said, sinking into a chair and taking a sip.
Johnny had settled in his favorite place on the rug in front of the fire. Scott watched as Murdoch offered him some Scotch but Johnny just shook his head. Murdoch frowned and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with a tall glass of milk.
"This may go down a sore throat a bit easier."
Johnny's face was uncertain but he took a sip of the milk. Murdoch and Scott both watched as he took a longer swallow. He set the glass down and leaned back against the sofa. Johnny usually had more energy than anyone Scott had ever known, but it looked like he'd used it all and then some. Murdoch moved the glass as Johnny's body relaxed completely and his eyes closed.
"He used to do that when he was a baby," the older man said aloud, almost to himself.
"Sir?"
Murdoch smiled. "Your brother ran us ragged, trying to keep him out of trouble, just as soon as he learned to walk. That boy was never still when he was awake. He'd finally go out like a light and just fall asleep wherever he happened to be."
Scott knew, of course, that Johnny had been born on the ranch and had spent his first two years here. Johnny said he didn't remember any of it but Murdoch obviously did. Scott felt a pang and suppressed it sternly. He had no reason at all to be jealous of this connection between his father and brother. He'd certainly fared better than Johnny had, even if his father had never bothered to chase after him when he was a toddler. If anything, he wished his father had managed to hold onto the two-year-old Johnny and keep him safe.
Scott took another sip of whisky. It burned a little, but he knew he'd need something stronger than milk to sleep. The fire had wakened memories he wanted fiercely to leave buried.
"Scott?" Murdoch's voice was concerned. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, sir." Scott didn't look at his father. "I didn't inhale nearly as much smoke as Johnny."
"I wasn't just talking about the smoke, son."
"I'm fine." Scott rose, carrying his glass. "Just tired, sir. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go upstairs to bed."
"Do you want me to bring you a sandwich? Or heat up some of the stew from supper?"
"No, thank you." Scott looked at his brother and hesitated. "We'd better get Johnny upstairs."
"I can take care of it."
"You're sure, sir?"
Murdoch smiled again. "It won't be the first time I've put your brother to bed."
Scott nodded wearily. "Good night, then."
"Good night, son."
***
"Scott, wake up." Someone shook him urgently. "It's just a dream. Wake up."
Scott, breathing hard, stared at his brother. Even as his heart thudded, he registered the fact that Johnny's voice still croaked.
"Why aren't you in bed?" he asked, finding his own voice.
"Cause you woke me up." Johnny's smile flickered over his face. "Your fault, Boston."
Scott sat up shakily, rubbing his eyes. He wasn't quite sure how he'd landed in his bed, in a nightshirt. He didn't usually wear a nightshirt.
"Me neither," Johnny said.
"What do you mean?"
Johnny wandered over to Scott's desk and lit the lamp. He was barefoot and dressed in pale long johns, unbuttoned nearly all the way down the front. His dark hair stuck up, still slightly damp from the pump. "I woke up in bed too," he admitted, sitting down at the desk. "Don't remember how I got there."
Scott frowned. "You fell asleep in the great room. Murdoch was reminiscing about your childhood."
"Huh?"
"He was telling me what you were like when you were just a little boy," Scott said.
Something shifted in Johnny's eyes and Scott kicked himself.
Johnny played with a bottle of ink. "He doesn't know much about it."
"That wasn't his choice," Scott said.
Johnny picked up a pen and scratched on the blotter. "Maybe not. But I'm not that little kid he remembers, Scott. Can't be."
"He doesn't expect that."
"No?" Johnny gave his brother a blue gaze.
"No." Scott met his brother's eyes squarely. "It's only natural for him to wish that things were different for you when you were growing up, Johnny. I wish that too. But that doesn't change how we feel about you."
Johnny's eyes dropped. "You don't know what I've done. If you did..."
"It wouldn't matter," Scott interrupted.
Johnny gave him another look and changed the subject. "That sounded like quite a dream. Are you OK?"
"I'm fine." Scott's voice was flat. "I'm sorry I woke you."
"I don't mind." Johnny fiddled with the pen.
Scott leaned back on his pillows. His breathing had slowed down but the nightmare was still all too real. He was glad Johnny had lit the lamp, glad for the warm light illuminating the writing desk he'd asked his grandfather to ship to California from Boston.
His eyes moved to other familiar objects. He'd taken his new book out of his saddlebags and left it on the desk, a letter from his grandfather slipped inside to mark his place. The photograph of Scott and General Sheridan rested on a shelf, along with a silver-framed miniature of his mother.
Scott sat up and lit the reading lamp next to his bed. "Hand me that book, will you?" he asked Johnny.
Johnny picked it up. His eyes rested on it for a moment, puzzled. "That's the book you were reading yesterday. But it's not in English."
"No, it's French," Scott said. "Want to hear more?"
"Sure," Johnny said. He sat down on the foot of the bed, opposite Scott.
"Ned Land was a Canadian, with an uncommon quickness of hand, and who knew no equal in his dangerous occupation," Scott read. "Skill, coolness, audacity, and cunning he possessed in a superior degree, and it must be a cunning whale to escape the stroke of his harpoon."
Scott paused and glanced at his brother. Johnny's face was expressionless. He read a few more paragraphs. "Little by little, Ned Land acquired a taste for chatting, and I loved to hear the recital of his adventures in the polar seas. He related his fishing, and his combats, with natural poetry of expression; his recital took the form of an epic poem, and I seemed to be listening to a Canadian Homer singing the Iliad of the regions of the North."
"What's an Iliad?" Johnny asked.
"It's another story," Scott said. "A very old one, by Homer. I'll read it to you some time."
"Is it French too?"
"The original is Greek," Scott said.
Johnny yawned and leaned against the footboard. His eyes were heavy. "Can you read Greek?"
Scott nodded. "I learned Latin, Greek and French in school. Too bad I never studied Spanish."
Johnny made a face at the idea of learning Spanish in a stuffy schoolroom instead of soaking it up in the sunshine. "You going to keep reading, Boston?"
Scott wondered what kind of southwestern epic his brother could spin if he ever acquired a taste for chatting. Maybe someday he'd find out. He picked up the book again.
Both brothers were asleep when Murdoch Lancer looked into the room at dawn. The lamps had burned low. He extinguished them and reached carefully for the book that had fallen from Scott's slack hands, setting it down on the table by the bed. He took a quilt from the chest at the foot of the bed and spread it so it covered Johnny, sprawled sideways across the foot of the bed.
Neither of his sons stirred. Murdoch watched the two of them sleep for a few minutes and then went out quietly, shutting the door behind him.
THE END
Whistle, May 2005