Good Night Ladies (PG-13)
"C'mon, Boston," Johnny said, after they'd finished supper and left the table. "Let's go."
Scott had already settled into a chair in the great room and picked up a book. He looked up lazily at his younger brother. "Go? Where?"
"Into town," Johnny said, buckling his gun belt. "It's Saturday night."
Scott looked at his father, who had opened a newspaper, and back at his brother. Johnny's blue eyes sparkled and he seemed to be as full of energy as he'd been in the morning, when they rode out to clear a stream. Looking at him, no one would ever guess he'd spent the last six weeks recovering from a gunshot wound that nearly killed him. The doctor had only lifted the last restrictions on him a day earlier.
"Aren't you tired?" Scott asked curiously. It had been hard work, clearing the tangled debris from the stream. He'd been glad to soak his aching muscles in a hot bath before supper.
"Nope," Johnny said. "C'mon."
Scott felt himself giving in to those blue eyes, despite his misgivings. Johnny was young and the doctor had confined him to the ranch for more than a month. It was only natural that he was eager for some fun. Besides, Scott had even more misgivings about letting his brother head into town alone. There was no telling what kind of trouble he might get into on his own.
"Go ahead, Scott," Murdoch said, amused, from behind his newspaper. "Most of the hands probably already left."
"If you say so, sir," Scott said. He stood up, and buckled his own gun belt around his waist. It was new, unlike Johnny's well-worn belt. Scott took his hat and jacket and followed his brother across the yard to the barn.
"Race you!" Johnny said when they'd passed under the arch. His golden horse leaped ahead, and Scott spurred his own horse. They thundered down the road, neck and neck until Johnny veered across a field and headed for a fence. The palomino sailed over it at full speed. Scott hesitated, and then put his own horse over the fence at a more controlled pace. Johnny was disappearing on the other side of the field and Scott kicked his horse to catch up with him. Johnny led the way cross-country, far off the road. Scott was beginning to wonder whether his brother really knew where he was going when they suddenly came down a steep hill onto the road again and Johnny pulled up.
"Are you trying to break your neck or mine, little brother?" Scott asked.
Johnny grinned at him cheekily. "It's just a shortcut, Boston," he said.
"No more shortcuts," Scott said firmly.
They headed for the saloon as soon as they arrived in Green River. Johnny paused at the door, scanning the room swiftly before he went in. Scott glanced at him, but followed him into the shadowy, smoky room.
Conversation stopped for a few seconds when they entered and faces swung around to look at them. The corner of Johnny's mouth turned up, and he headed confidently for the bar. Scott trailed after him, feeling self-conscious.
Johnny chose a seat with his back to the wall. A saloon girl immediately came over to them. She was young, Scott guessed, no more than 18, with burnished auburn hair, mischievous green eyes and lightly freckled skin. She was thin, but not at all scrawny. Her body curved in all the right places under a low-cut dress.
"Hey, cowboys," she said. "Buy a lady a drink?"
"Is there a grownup lady here?" Johnny asked innocently, his own eyes dancing.
"I'm full grown, cowboy," she purred. "And I bet you are too."
Johnny's crooked smile tilted upward. "Haven't had any complaints."
"I bet you haven't," she said, brushing the back of his neck lightly with her hand. "So do you want to buy me a drink - or something?"
"Let's start with a drink," Johnny said, that small smile still hovering on his lips. "And then maybe we'll see about something else we could do."
Her smile widened and she sat down. "My name's Cassie. What's yours?"
"Johnny. That's Scott."
Scott nodded at the girl and looked at his brother. It was none of his business if Johnny wanted to play with fire. He suspected their father wouldn't approve but it was really none of Murdoch's business either. It wasn't like they were children, although he suspected Murdoch sometimes forgot that, in Johnny's case, at least. Scott wasn't actually sure exactly how old his half-brother was, but he couldn't be more than 20 or 21.
Scott himself had first visited one of Boston's finest brothels on his 17th birthday, courtesy of an uncle who wasn't nearly as straight-laced as his grandfather. He had no objection to the idea, then or now, but his own taste ran to more mature charms than the red-haired girl possessed.
"I think I'll go watch the poker game," he said. "I'll see you later, Johnny."
"Sure, Boston," Johnny said. Cassie bent over to say something into his ear and he shook his head. She laughed and moved over to his lap.
***
At midnight, Scott was deep in a poker game with some of the Lancer hands and the local sheriff, Val Crawford. Johnny had disappeared from the room hours ago with the girl. Scott was beginning to wonder if his brother intended to return to the ranch that night when Johnny came down the stairs and got a drink at the bar before he came over to the table.
Scott studied him. Johnny looked relaxed and pleased with himself, but he still didn't look tired. He radiated that cocky arrogance that made heads turn when he entered a room.
"Boston, the whole idea of this game is to win some of their chips, not to give all yours away," he drawled, glancing at the table.
"Oh? You want to show me how it's done, brother?" Scott asked.
"Sure," Johnny said, grinning.
"Madrid!" a voice said. Scott froze.
A tall man, dressed all in black, strolled into the center of the room. He was older than Johnny, about Scott's age. A livid scar curved down the side of his face, from the corner of his eye down to his throat. He wore his gun low, as Johnny did, and his eyes were the coldest Scott had ever seen, like a shark's eyes. They fixed on Johnny.
"I heard you got killed in Mexico, Madrid."
"Can't believe everything you hear, Hasty," Johnny said, his face remote. He had taken a few steps away from Scott.
"I'm glad," Hasty said. "It means I can take you down myself, boy."
Johnny's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Not too likely."
The crowd in the room began to melt away as the two gunfighters faced each other.
"Johnny," Scott said.
"Stay out of this," Johnny said softly, not looking at him. Val put a hand on Scott's arm.
"Don't distract him," he said quietly. "If that's Bill Hasty, you could get him killed."
"Can't you stop this?" Scott asked.
"Wish I could. But they aren't doing anything illegal."
"Don't remember having any quarrel with you, Hasty," Johnny said easily.
"No quarrel," the other man agreed. "I just figure it's time to show who's fastest and that would be me."
"Don't matter any more," Johnny said. "I'm not in the game. I've stopped hiring out my gun."
"You're still wearing a gun, Madrid. Make your move."
Johnny shook his head. "Nope," he said. "You draw on me and I'll draw too. But I don't have any reason to fight with you and I don't want to do this any more. Why don't you just get yourself a drink and forget about it."
Hasty didn't answer. His hand was poised over his gun. Scott watched, his heart pounding and his throat dry. He knew his brother still practiced his draw whenever he got a chance, despite their father's open disapproval. Scott hoped desperately that Johnny had found enough time for practice to have a chance here. He would have to talk to Murdoch about that. Johnny hadn't gone looking for this fight, had even tried to get out of it, but Scott knew the other gunfighter wasn't going to back down.
Johnny knew too, Scott realized. His body was still loose but his eyes were very alert.
Scott suddenly made up his mind and stood up. "Mr. Hasty, surely we can discuss this like civilized men," he said.
"Boston, sit down and shut up," Johnny hissed, not taking his eyes off the other gunfighter. "This isn't anything to do with you."
Hasty's brows rose, pulling at the scar. "Who's he?"
"Nobody," Johnny said firmly. "Never mind him."
"I'm Johnny's brother," Scott said.
"Yeah?" Hasty looked Scott over with those empty eyes and Scott shivered, despite himself. "So if I shoot him, Madrid, maybe you'll quit wasting time and draw."
"You touch him and you're dead," Johnny said flatly.
Hasty suddenly went for his gun. Johnny, watching his eyes, saw the moment when he decided and made his own move. A shot ripped through the room.
***
Scott rode home with the Lancer hands, hoping Murdoch had already gone to bed and he wouldn't see him tonight. He wasn't ready yet to talk to his father about what had happened.
The hands were very quiet. They had been quiet since the gunfight in the saloon.
The smell of gunpowder was acrid, biting through the stale sweat, perfume and alcohol in the air. The room had gone absolutely quiet, even before the shot. Scott heard the body hit the wooden floor with a dull thud.
An excited buzz rose. Then voices emerged from it. "Did you see that?"
Scott heard the voices rising in the distance, as if they were far away. His own ears were still ringing with the sound of the gunshot.
He focused on his brother. Johnny had already slid his gun back in the holster. His head was down, his eyes fastened on the body on the floor. Hasty sprawled awkwardly on his back, arms and legs flung out stiffly. Johnny's bullet had taken him right between the eyes, before he fired a shot, and his gun had fallen harmlessly out of his nerveless hand.
Johnny finally looked up at his brother. All the laughter was gone from the blue eyes and his face was expressionless.
"Johnny," Scott said. "Thank God you're OK."
The corner of Johnny's mouth turned up but there was nothing happy about this smile. Earlier, he'd looked carefree and very young. Now he looked worn out. "Don't reckon God has a lot to do with it, Boston."
Scott reached for his brother but Johnny stepped back. "Think I'll go upstairs again," he said, his voice toneless. "You go on back to Lancer."
"Johnny," Scott said. "This was not your fault. You were just defending yourself."
"Yeah," Johnny said. "See you, Boston."
"Johnny!"
Johnny turned, halfway up the stairs.
"You are coming back to Lancer tomorrow, aren't you?" Scott asked.
Johnny sighed. "I don't know. I don't want to talk about it tonight."
Scott had already learned that when Johnny didn't want to talk about something, there was no way to make him. "Promise me you won't just disappear. You owe us that much, brother."
Johnny scuffed one boot on the stairs. "All right," he said at last.
Scott was beginning to be able to read his younger brother, and he didn't like what he could see. He wasn't sure exactly what was bothering Johnny, but he could tell something was seriously wrong.
It couldn't just be that he had killed a man. Scott knew his brother had killed men before, many times, and this was a clear-cut case of self-defense. The other gunfighter drew first. Johnny couldn't have done anything else and certainly had to realize that.
A light was still burning in the great room when Scott put his horse away and walked up to the house. He sighed and pushed the front door open as quietly as he could.
"Boys?" Murdoch's voice stopped Scott as he headed for the stairs. He moved into the doorway reluctantly.
"Did you have a good time?" Murdoch asked from his chair by the fireplace. "Where's your brother?"
Scott moved over to the cabinet and poured himself a drink. "Do you want some, sir?"
"No." Murdoch closed his book. "Where is Johnny?"
"He's still in town," Scott said. "There was a little trouble tonight."
"What kind of trouble?" Murdoch asked sharply.
Scott looked at his drink. "A gunfighter named Bill Hasty came into the saloon," he said. "He recognized Johnny and insisted on shooting it out with him. Johnny tried to talk him out of it, Murdoch. He didn't have any choice when Hasty drew on him."
"Is Johnny hurt?" Murdoch asked.
Scott shook his head. "Johnny was faster. Hasty's dead."
Murdoch's face was bleak. "Did anyone else get hurt?"
"No," Scott said.
"Well, thank God for that," Murdoch said. "So, where is your brother? The sheriff didn't lock him up, did he?"
"No," Scott said. "Val was in the saloon and he saw the whole thing. He knows it was self-defense. Johnny just decided to spend the rest of the night in town."
Murdoch frowned. "You realize this could happen every time he goes into town? Or even right here, on the ranch, if word gets out that he's here? Someone could get hurt."
"Johnny could get killed," Scott said.
"Someone else too," Murdoch said. "You, for example, or Teresa."
Scott was afraid his brother had thought of that too.
"What's the alternative, sir?" he said. "You don't want him to leave, do you?"
There was a pause but Murdoch shook his head. "No, I don't. This is where he belongs. I just wish he'd never picked up that damn gun."
"He can't just put it down," Scott said. "If he doesn't stay in practice, he will get killed, sir."
"I don't like it, Scott."
"I don't think Johnny does much either," Scott said softly.
***
Johnny woke at dawn. Cassie was already awake and had pushed herself up against him.
"Morning, cowboy," she murmured, kissing him. Her loose hair streamed down over her bare shoulders. She bit lightly on his lip, her hands sliding to the thatch of dark hair on his chest and then down.
He looked blank, at first, but his body quickly responded to hers. Cassie giggled as he rolled her over onto her back. Soon they were breathing hard and fully intent on what they were doing, not another thought in their heads.
"This was good," Cassie sighed at last, when they finished. The sun was up all the way now and she was on her side, facing him. She traced his face with one finger. "Real good, cowboy. So why do you look so sad?"
"I have to go," he said.
"Will you be back in town next Saturday?" she asked.
"Don't know. I don't think so."
"I thought you lived around here," she said. "On one of the ranches."
Johnny rolled out of the bed and retrieved his clothes, scattered across the floor. "I've been staying on a ranch. But it's time to move on."
"That's too bad," she said. "You wouldn't want some company on the trail, would you?"
Johnny smiled at her. "Nope," he said, buttoning his trousers and picking up his gun belt. "Bye, Cassie."
"Bye, Johnny," she said. "You take care, huh?"
"Yeah. You too."
He bent down to kiss her gently one last time and then went out the door. He finished tucking in his shirt in the hallway and buckled his gun belt. He stopped at the store to pick up some extra ammunition and trail supplies before he went to the livery stable for Barranca. He had to go back to Lancer, since he had promised Scott, but he didn't intend to stay longer than it took to pick up his rifle and a few other belongings.
Johnny sighed a little as he swung up on his palomino and headed out of town. He didn't know why he'd ever agreed to stay at Lancer in the first place. He should have known better. He'd made his choices a long time ago, and they weren't choices you could turn your back on. They sure weren't choices that he could land on his family. As long as he stayed at Lancer, they were all at risk every time someone like Hasty rode into town.
It had been loco to think he could just hang up his gun and live happily ever after with his family, like Johnny Madrid never existed. Gunfighters didn't have fathers, brothers and little sisters. Gunfighters had girls like Cassie, for a night or two, and then moved on. Nobody cared too much and nobody got hurt.
Johnny stopped at the house and ran upstairs to get his rifle and a few other things from his room.
Murdoch had told him this had always been his room, even when he was little. It was strange to think it waited for him, all those years when he and his mama were living so rough in a series of rooms and shacks and sometimes outside on the streets. He didn't understand how she could have left the ranch or why she'd taken him with her. He never would understand. It wasn't like her life had been happy or easy after she left.
No matter what had happened between his mother and Murdoch, Johnny doubted now that the old man ever treated her as badly as most of her other men. Murdoch's bark was a lot worse than his bite and Johnny had never even heard him bark at any of the women on the ranch.
He looked around the room one last time, and went out.
"Juanito," a voice said, when he had nearly reached the front door. He turned around reluctantly. The Mexican housekeeper waved her wooden spoon at him from the end of the hallway, scolding him at length in rapid Spanish before she ordered him into the kitchen to eat some breakfast.
"I had something in town," he lied. "I have to go. I'm already late and I bet Murdoch's mad."
"Town," Maria said scornfully. "You come into the kitchen and I will feed you properly. And your papa will be angry if you do not do as I say. Do you want to make yourself sick again?"
"I'm fine," Johnny protested. "And I really don't have time, not today."
Her eyes fell on his rifle and saddlebags, and her eyes widened. "You're leaving," she said sharply, her face stricken. "No, Juanito, you must not. No, no, no."
He hung his head and she advanced on him to give him a little shake. "Why? Why would you leave? You are finally home where you belong."
"I don't," he said. "Johnny Lancer might've belonged here, but not Johnny Madrid."
"You are wrong. Juanito, you must not do this without talking first to your papa and your brother. Listen to me, please, little one."
"I'm going to talk to Scott now. I promised him."
"And your father?" she said. "You cannot leave without talking to your father. It would kill him to lose you a second time without a word."
"I don't think so," Johnny said. "He isn't going to mind all that much, not after what happened last night."
"It will kill him," she repeated, her dark eyes fierce.
***
As it turned out, Johnny found Scott and Murdoch together, inspecting a washed-out bridge. He watched them for a few minutes, just as he'd looked around his room one last time.
Scott was talking, his back and shoulders straight. He waved his hands, and started to draw a plan in the dirt with a stick. Murdoch listened to him gravely, then shook his head and pointed out something else. Scott laughed and revised his plan. Murdoch nodded approvingly.
Johnny wished his father would listen to him, just once, so attentively. Murdoch and Scott could talk easily about so many things, books and politics and all kinds of things Johnny didn't know anything about. Even when they disagreed, they didn't fight. Murdoch and Johnny usually ended up shouting at each other. He figured there might be some shouting ahead of them now, but he rode down to the bridge anyway.
"Johnny!" Scott was relieved. "It's about time you turned up, brother."
"Sorry," Johnny said. "I stopped at the house and Maria wanted to feed me."
"Good," Murdoch growled. "You shouldn't be missing meals right now or your sleep either. Doc said it's all right for you to work full days on the ranch but he also told you to take care of yourself."
"I'm fine," Johnny said impatiently.
"You are not fine, not yet," Murdoch insisted. "And I won't allow you to jeopardize your health, John. You will do exactly what the doctor says. Is that understood?"
Johnny scowled, lifting his chin rebelliously. Scott stepped smoothly between Murdoch and Johnny before his brother could speak.
"You don't have to treat him like a child. Johnny knows what he's supposed to do, sir," he said. "Don't you, Johnny?"
The two of them glowered at him. Scott smiled. "We were just talking about what to do about replacing the bridge," he said to Johnny, changing the subject. "Murdoch says it washes out just about every spring with the run-off from the mountains. What do you think we should do?"
Johnny looked at the bridge and then at the terrain. "Make a pond," he said briefly.
"What?" Scott said, startled. Murdoch's head came up too.
"There's a hollow over there," Johnny said, pointing. "You wouldn't have to do much digging to make it hold a lot of water. Just dig a ditch through that rise, to let some of the water out of the stream when it's running high and it won't hit the bridge. We could use the pond to water the cattle anyway."
Murdoch looked at the land thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the possibilities. "That's not such a bad idea," he said slowly.
"It's a good idea," Scott said, wondering why he hadn't seen it himself. It looked so obvious, now that Johnny had suggested it.
Johnny hesitated and decided to get it over with. "Um, I stopped to tell both of you that I'm leaving."
"No," Scott swung around, staring at his brother.
"Absolutely not," Murdoch said flatly.
"What?" Johnny looked confused.
"I said no," Murdoch said. "You're not going anywhere, son. You're not well enough yet."
"Doc cleared me," Johnny argued.
"Sam said you could work on the ranch, where he knows we're going to keep an eye on you. That's not the same as saying you're ready to hit the trail on your own. You're not and you know it."
Johnny flushed. "I can take care of myself. I always have."
"I know you have," Murdoch said. "But you're not on your own any more. When Sam says it's all right, if you really want to leave, I won't stop you. Until then, you're not going anywhere."
"You can't stop me," Johnny said.
"Yes, I can," Murdoch said stubbornly. "You're not 21 yet and I'm your father. If I have to, I'll get Val to lock you up. I mean it, Johnny."
Johnny looked at Scott, and found no help there.
"He's right," Scott said. "The only thing he didn't say is that both of us want you to stay, even when you are well enough to leave."
"It's too dangerous," Johnny protested. "You saw what happened last night."
"It's mostly dangerous for you, brother," Scott said. "Especially if you're out of practice. Everyone is talking about how fast you drew last night. Only you don't think you were fast enough, do you?"
Johnny shook his head. "I was slow," he admitted. "Almost too slow."
***
Murdoch listened to the gunfire and closed his eyes. Johnny was in the meadow out beyond the house, firing at targets. Murdoch knew his son was hitting them too. He'd sneaked out of the house and watched from the trees almost every day as Johnny drilled more holes in a line of battered tin cans. He'd also watched the boy practice his draw endlessly.
They had reached a compromise Sunday at the bridge. Johnny would stay at Lancer for now, until Sam Jenkins said he was completely recovered. Murdoch would not object when he spent an hour or so practicing every day.
Murdoch knew Scott was right and Johnny needed to stay in practice. But he hated it. The sound of the gunfire irritated him, every shot echoing his failures as a father.
Johnny seemed to have infinite patience when it came to that gun, far more than he had with the tasks his father assigned to him. The easy way he used the gun, as if it were an extension of his hand, chilled Murdoch. Murdoch thought it was nonsense when Johnny said he was too slow but the older man had watched this week as he practiced, quickly becoming faster and even more fluid. Johnny had been telling the truth, to his father's sorrow.
Now they were running out of time. Sam would cooperate, especially when it came to keeping the youngest Lancer on the ranch, but he wouldn't lie to a patient. Johnny had bounced back quicker than any of them expected and Murdoch suspected Sam would have to give him a clean bill of health within days.
And then he'd be gone again unless Murdoch could find a way to persuade his son to stay.
They hadn't said much to each other these past few days. Johnny was quiet, far too quiet. For the last few weeks, he, Scott and Teresa had teased each other at the table, like children. They sounded like siblings, very young siblings at times. Murdoch growled occasionally when they went too far, but he had enjoyed listening to his sons and ward banter back and forth.
That had changed this week. Scott and Teresa had tried but couldn't get more than a few words out of Johnny. They had fallen silent too.
Murdoch had assigned his sons to work together every day. If anyone could persuade Johnny to stay, it would be Scott, he figured.
But Murdoch had miscalculated, realizing his mistake when it was nearly too late. They suspected Johnny was worried one of them would get hurt if he stayed. He wasn't about to let his older brother get any closer to him.
By now, Murdoch had heard about how Scott had tried to intervene in the gunfight Saturday night, although neither of his sons chose to tell him about it. He had been horrified. He could have lost both of them.
He wondered, sadly, if maybe Johnny was right. Maybe it was just too dangerous for him to stay on the ranch.
Murdoch had thought about that even before Johnny came home. Faced with losing the ranch, he'd decided to take the chance. He hadn't dared to hope Johnny would have any interest in staying permanently, despite his offer of a share in the ranch. He'd expected a cold-eyed, hardened gunfighter. He hadn't bargained for the wild, cocky boy with blue eyes that could light up with laughter, or break his heart when Johnny forgot to guard their sadness.
He was so damn young and so alone. And if he rode away, he didn't have any future. Time would run out too quickly for Johnny Madrid, no matter how good he was with that gun. It already had, before the Pinkertons intervened. It would again, probably before Johnny even turned 21.
Murdoch hated the idea but he also knew it wasn't going to be smooth sailing if Johnny stayed at Lancer. Johnny didn't have to ride out to find his past; it could ride into town again, or into the ranch. Murdoch could accept the danger for himself, but he wasn't sure it was fair to Scott or Teresa.
"Sir?" Murdoch looked up as his older son appeared in the doorway. "Could I speak to you?"
"Of course." Murdoch turned away from the French doors and walked over to his desk, dropping into his chair. "What's on your mind, son?"
More shots sounded. They both paused, listening.
"Johnny is," Scott finally said. "You have to talk to him, sir."
"Your brother and I don't talk very well," Murdoch pointed out.
"You're going to have to find a way," Scott said bluntly. "Or you won't get another chance. None of us will."
"You think he's going to leave." It wasn't a question.
Scott nodded. "Just as soon as Sam tells him he can, and that's not going to be much longer."
Murdoch looked down. "Scott, you know if he stays here, someone could get hurt because of him. Probably you, judging from that stunt you pulled Saturday."
"If he goes, it's going to hurt more," Scott said immediately. "I just found out I have a brother. I don't know him well yet but I do know I don't want to lose him."
Murdoch dropped his head, tracing a pattern on the blotter with one finger. Scott watched him for a few minutes before he spoke again.
"What about you, sir?" he asked. "Do you want to lose your son again?"
"No," Murdoch said, not looking up. "I don't."
"Then please talk to him, sir, before it's too late."
***
The gunfire had stopped. Murdoch found his younger son in the paddock, watching Barranca lope around in circles. The palomino was just as restless and full of energy as its owner.
"John?" Murdoch said, knowing better than to come up suddenly behind this son.
"I heard you on the path," Johnny said, not moving.
Murdoch came up to the railing and watched the horse for a few minutes. "He sure is a beauty."
"Yeah." Johnny glanced at his father uncertainly. "He's the best horse I ever rode. If it's OK, I'd like to take him with me."
"He's yours, whether you stay or go," Murdoch said. "But I wish you'd stay, son. All of us do."
"It's not safe," Johnny said, his face closed.
"Nothing in life is safe," Murdoch said. "I didn't keep you safe when you were two years old. If I had, we wouldn't have to worry about this. It's my fault at least as much as it's yours, maybe more."
Johnny shook his head. "I didn't have to pick up a gun."
"Didn't you?" Murdoch's face was sad. "According to the Pinkerton report, you had to pick up a gun when you were only ten years old and you'd almost certainly be dead if you hadn't."
"You know about that?" Johnny said, his eyes widening. "About what happened to my mother?"
Murdoch nodded. "I'm sorry, son."
"Why are you sorry? It didn't have anything to do with you."
"It was my job to take care of you when you were little and I didn't," Murdoch said.
"I managed."
"Yes, you did. But you shouldn't have had to manage. You should have been here."
Johnny looked impatient. "That's all done. Like you said, that first day, it doesn't matter any more."
"I said it was done. I didn't mean to say it didn't matter," Murdoch said. "I don't like some of the things you've done, son, but I also know you didn't have other choices. That was my fault and your mother's fault, not yours."
Johnny's eyes fastened on his horse. Murdoch reached over and turned his head, tilting his face up.
"Look at me, John. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
The sadness showed, just for a second, before Johnny got control of his face again.
"Don't," Murdoch said.
A flash of anger crossed Johnny's face. "Don't what, Old Man!"
"And that's not going to work either," Murdoch said, refusing to rise to Johnny's challenge. "Not this time."
Johnny stared at him. Then, to Murdoch's amazement, a faint grin appeared on his son's face.
"You aren't going to get mad and start hollering?"
"Not yet," Murdoch said, trying not to smile himself. "What about you?"
"Guess not," Johnny said.
"Johnny, do you really want to leave Lancer or do you just think you should because it's safer for the rest of us?"
Johnny looked at his boots. "I really want to leave," he said at last. Murdoch could barely hear him.
"Then look me in the eye and tell me that. That's not too much to ask, is it?"
Johnny didn't move. Murdoch figured that was the real answer to the question. He just had to figure out how to keep his son and both of their tempers.
"I didn't think you were scared of anything," he remarked, his voice calm.
Johnny's head came up then. "I'm not!"
"You're afraid to tell me the truth," Murdoch said. "Maybe you're even afraid to admit it to yourself. It's easier if you can pretend you don't care, isn't it, Johnny? And you're good at it. You've practiced it just as much as you practice with that gun, maybe even more."
The blue eyes were stormy now. "Why should I care?"
Murdoch smiled sadly. "I don't know, Johnny. I don't know how you managed to grow up the way you did and still care about anything or anybody. But you do, don't you? You care about Scott and Teresa and maybe even about me. And that is what's really scaring you off."
Johnny turned to look at Barranca again. "It never lasts," he said quietly.
Murdoch paused. Then he put his hands on Johnny's slumped shoulders, feeling the boy tense as soon as he touched him.
"Give it a chance, Johnny," he said quietly. "Please. We won't let you down."
"I might let you down," Johnny said.
"I don't think so, son."
***
A few days later, Scott swatted his brother with his hat. "What are you doing? Come on."
Johnny, stretched out on the sofa in front of the fire, rolled over lazily. "Go 'way," he said sleepily.
"Johnny, it's Saturday night," Scott said. "Come on. We're going into town."
Johnny opened one eye. "Boston, you're loco," he complained. "It's pouring. I just finally got dried off and I'm not going outside again."
"I had no idea westerners melt in a little rain," Scott said. "You do have rain gear, Johnny, even if you didn't have the sense to wear it today."
"Wouldn't have done any good," Johnny grumbled. "I spent most of the day in and out of mud holes, chasing those damn strays."
"All the more reason to go to town and warm up," Scott said. "Come on, Johnny."
Murdoch chuckled to himself, listening to his sons.
Johnny gave an exaggerated sigh and sat up reluctantly. "You buying, Boston?"
"Not me," Scott said cheerfully. "I was just about cleaned out in the poker game last week, remember. While you were, ah, busy."
Johnny shot a look at Murdoch and had the grace to flush slightly. The older man concentrated on his book but his shoulders shook. He had no doubt about what had occupied his younger son if he hadn't been playing poker. He prayed Johnny had the sense to be careful, but thought it was probably far too late to lecture either of his sons on that topic.
"Never mind that. Let's go if we're going," Johnny said.
"Be careful, boys," Murdoch said mildly.
"Yes, sir," Scott said. "Good night, sir."
Johnny's redhead was nowhere in sight when they entered the saloon but a dark-haired girl, about the same age, came over to their table.
"Hi," she said, her eyes on Johnny. "You're Johnny, right?"
"Yeah," he said cautiously, looking into a pair of impish caramel eyes.
She smiled at him, running her hand up his arm. "Cassie told me all about you, sugar," she said. "And she told me to be sure to take good care of you if you came back, even though she didn't think there was much chance of it."
Johnny looked wary. "What happened to Cassie? And what's your name?"
"I'm Amanda. And Cassie is gone."
"Gone where?" Johnny asked.
"Her aunt came for her, to take her home to St. Louis. Cassie sure was surprised, but she didn't mind. She said she was getting tired of this game. But she also said it was worth playing with you. She told all of us about you before she left."
Scott realized more than one of the saloon girls was looking at his brother and some of them were casting dagger looks at Amanda. Johnny realized it too, from the dismayed expression on his face.
Amanda whispered something to Johnny and he brightened. He stood up.
"Just where are you going?" Scott asked.
"Upstairs," Johnny said, picking up his bottle of tequila from the table. "I'll see you later, Boston. Don't lose the rest of your pay at poker."
Scott sipped his beer, bemused. A shadow fell across the table and he looked up. A pair of enormous, knowing dark eyes met his. She was a few years older than Cassie or Amanda, maybe even a few years older than Scott, with a generous body that filled out her dress nicely and threatened to spill out of its low-cut bodice.
"You're Johnny's brother, aren't you?" she asked. She had black hair, golden skin and an accent that Scott couldn't quite place, with a lilt of French and something else.
Scott cleared his throat and dragged his eyes away from her neckline. "That's right. My name is Scott."
She smiled and sat down next to him, very close. He caught the faint scent of peaches, ripe, juicy peaches. "Mine is Dominique. Tell me, Scott, are you Johnny's big brother or his little brother?"
"I'm his big brother," Scott said absently. "Can't you tell?"
"Not really, not here." A dimple appeared and her eyes held his, a challenge in them. "Shall we go upstairs to my room and see what I think?"
Scott stared at her and suddenly grinned devilishly. He stood up and held her chair, taking her arm when she rose.
"Why don't we," he said.
THE END
Whistle, February 2005