Headwinds
A WHN for High Riders
"Though skies are black and headwinds whistle loud..."
- James Russell Lowell, Fragments Of An Unfinished Poem
Johnny realized hazily he was in a bed but didn't know where or why. A wave of pain slammed him, threatening to cut him in half, when he tried to shift his head. He screwed his eyes tight and fought for control.
"Johnny?" The deep voice just above his ear was vaguely familiar. A hand ruffled his hair. "Are you awake?"
Johnny tried to think, but his brain seemed to be as leaden as his arms and legs. He remembered being on a horse, a golden horse. They were racing somewhere. Maybe he'd just fallen off his horse. He wished he believed it, but had little real hope this was anything so simple as a fall.
"Any change?" another voice asked from farther away. That voice, not so deep, tickled his memory too. Johnny kept his eyes shut, cautious about revealing he was awake until he could figure out just what kind of trouble he was in this time.
"I thought he was coming around just now." The first voice sounded disappointed. "He's a little feverish."
"The doctor said to expect that, didn't he? I'll sit with him awhile, sir. Why don't you go down and get some breakfast and a few hours of sleep?"
"I'm fine." The voice was gruff. "I'll get something later."
The other voice persisted, calm but determined. "It won't help if you make yourself sick too. Yesterday was a long day and you were up with him all night."
Johnny heard someone let out a deep, gusty sigh. "I suppose you're right."
"Go on," the second voice urged.
Johnny heard heavy steps move slowly across the floor. The two men said something else to each other he couldn't quite catch. Then a door shut and lighter steps approached him. He heard a chair scrape. He could feel a faint breeze, just a breath of fresh air, but none of the usual noises or smells of a town came into the room. This couldn't be a hotel, and it wasn't like any doctor's office where he'd ever landed. The sheets were fragrant with lavender, not carbolic.
"Well, brother, that was a hell of a plan." The other man's voice wasn't angry. It almost sounded sad. Johnny was curious enough to make the effort to push his eyes open, just a crack. He was on his side in a big bed, facing an open window. A blond man sat in a chair between the bed and the window. Johnny recognized his new half-brother and memory came flooding back. Lancer. He must be at Lancer. The image of a tree flashed through his head, a tree, and the smell of gunpowder and blood. His blood. Another wave of pain surged through him and he fought to ride it out.
Scott Lancer looked over at the bed. He couldn't tell if his brother's eyes were open under that thatch of dark hair but Johnny's mouth was firmly closed and his jaw clenched, as if he was concentrating hard on something. Scott stood up and strolled over to the dresser, pouring water into a glass and adding laudanum. The sound was loud in the quiet room. "I know you're awake," he said, walking over to the bed. "And I know it hurts. This will help."
The incredibly blue eyes looked up, half shuttered by dark lashes. "Don't want it." Johnny's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Could use some plain water."
"No." Scott stirred the contents of the glass. "This will help you rest and that's what you need right now."
Johnny looked at the glass and shook his head slightly. He winced at the movement and closed his eyes again. Scott watched him fight the pain, puzzled. He'd seen men wounded in the war, less seriously, and heard their cries. Johnny had barely made a sound. Scott couldn't imagine what the effort was costing him, or why his brother thought it necessary.
"Come on, Johnny," he said after a minute. "You are going to swallow the medicine the doctor left for you, one way or another. I'll pour it down your throat if I have to and there's not a thing that you can do about it right now, so let's just do this the easy way."
The eyes opened again. Scott was surprised to see a ghost of a smile on the boy's pale face. "You're awful bossy, Boston."
"That's what big brothers are for." Scott lifted Johnny's head carefully and held the glass to his mouth. "Just drink it and get it over with."
Johnny took a small sip and made a face.
"All of it," Scott said firmly. Johnny sighed but he swallowed the medicine.
"Do you want some plain water now?" Scott asked when it was gone.
"No." Johnny's voice was barely audible. The drug took effect almost at once. Scott watched his brother's eyes get heavier and slide shut. Johnny's breathing slowed down and evened out.
Scott pulled the covers up and settled back in the chair, picking up a book.
Johnny slept heavily for hours. He swallowed his next dose of medicine without waking enough to object. His face was flushed, he felt increasingly hot and his eyes were bright with fever.
"He's pretty sick," Teresa said in the afternoon, soaking a cloth in cool water and bathing Johnny's face. "Do you think we should wake Murdoch?"
Scott looked at his brother. "Maybe we should send for the doctor."
Teresa shook her head. "That wouldn't get him here any faster. Doc will be out visiting other patients. By the time we find him, he'll probably be on his way. He said he'd stop back here tonight if he can."
"What's wrong?" Murdoch asked from the doorway. He moved toward the bed and put a huge hand on Johnny's forehead. "He's burning up. Why didn't you wake me earlier?"
"There's nothing you can do for him that we didn't, and you needed the rest," Scott said.
"He's my son," Murdoch said.
"He's my brother." Scott was suddenly furious. The boy in the bed was too thin, and he had bruises and scars that hadn't come from the tumble he'd taken off his horse when Pardee shot him. "And it certainly doesn't look like anyone's ever bothered to take care of him up to now."
Murdoch's eyes sparked and Teresa stepped between them.
"Please," she said. "He needs both of you right now."
Murdoch's broad shoulders dropped. "You're right, sweetheart. I'm sorry."
"You sit with Johnny awhile. Scott and I will be downstairs if you need any help." Scott opened his mouth to object, only to get an angry glare from the girl, who seemed to be fighting tears. His good manners reasserted themselves and he opened the door for her, but he vowed to discuss this later with his father, in private, not in front of a teenage girl.
The doctor arrived just before supper, and chased them all out of the room while he looked at Johnny. He emerged to find them waiting in the hallway.
"Well?" Murdoch said, his eyes fastening on the doctor as soon as he came through the door. "How is he doing, Sam?"
Sam Jenkins looked at his old friend. "Yes, Murdoch, I'd love a drink before supper. And I think I'll stay the night if you don't mind."
The eager look faded from Murdoch's face. "He's a lot worse."
"He's just about as sick as you might expect him to be with a serious bullet wound," Sam said. "Not any more, but not any less either. We'll go downstairs and talk about it. Teresa, can you sit with John until supper? Just keep doing what you've been doing. Cool compresses to try to keep that fever down and keep him as quiet as you can. Call right away if you think he needs me. I'll ask Maria to come up to spell you when it's time for supper."
"I'm not hungry. I can stay with Johnny."
Sam shook his head. "No, Teresa. I want you to come downstairs and eat your supper, and then get to bed early tonight. That young man is going to need some care and you won't be able to look after him properly if you don't take care of yourself."
Teresa nodded and went into the room.
"That goes for you too, Murdoch," Sam's voice was brisk, brooking no argument. "Let's go downstairs."
Murdoch looked after Teresa, clearly torn. He finally turned on his heel and went down the stairs. Scott followed his father and the doctor into the great room and poured drinks for all of them. Murdoch took his glass absently, fixing his eyes on the doctor again.
"Tell me straight, Sam. Will he be all right?"
"I wish I could tell you but it's too soon to say." The doctor diluted his drink with water before he took a small sip and set it down. "He's young and he's as stubborn as his father, or he wouldn't have made it this far. But he lost a lot of blood, and, well, he didn't have a lot of meat on his bones to start with. That boy doesn't look like he's been eating too regularly. Where did you find him?"
Murdoch hesitated. "He was in a Mexican prison," he said finally. "The Pinkertons snatched him away from a firing squad. A few more minutes and it would have been too late."
Scott's eyes widened. This was news to him.
"How long?" the doctor asked.
"About a month," Murdoch said. "He was working for some peons fighting to keep their farms. They were hopelessly outnumbered when the soldiers came to put down the uprising. "
"That doesn't sound like a very profitable job for a notorious gunfighter," Sam said.
Scott looked doubtfully at his father, but Murdoch didn't meet his eyes.
"So, when did the Pinkertons rescue him?" Scott noticed the doctor hadn't touched his drink again.
"It would have been a few weeks ago." Murdoch took a large gulp of his own whiskey, his hand trembling visibly. "Maybe three weeks."
"And he was in a Mexican prison for at least a month before that?"
"Yes," Murdoch said.
"Well, we better get as much beef tea into him as we can."
"Is that all you have to say?"
Sam studied his shoes before he spoke. "Murdoch, John is badly injured. You know that. From what you've just told me, and what I can see myself, he isn't going into this at full strength. I'll do whatever I can for him, but I won't lie to you and tell you it looks good. I'm sorry."
***
Scott was bursting with questions, but didn't feel he could ask his father for answers in front of the doctor. There was no opportunity after dinner to talk to Murdoch, who went back upstairs to Johnny's room with Dr. Jenkins. Teresa disappeared into the kitchen. Scott wandered outside and sat down on the verandah. The ranch was quiet and the stars glittered, brighter than they did over Boston's smoke-filled sky. He found the constellations, but didn't feel as comforted as he had when he picked them out in southern skies during the war. He was even farther from home now. And all of these people, despite the fact that Murdoch and Johnny were his closest relatives, were strangers. Murdoch wasn't anything like he'd imagined. And Johnny, well, he hadn't even known he had a brother, and never would have imagined this brother. A gunfighter, fresh from a Mexican prison.
Scott frowned. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the young man upstairs. Johnny had seemed dangerous when they first met on the stage, and even more so when they met their father. He appeared indifferent when Scott tangled with Pardee's men in town and blazed with anger when Scott hit him at the creek. He made it all too clear his only interest in Lancer was financial. But Scott also remembered their first day on the ranch when his brother had tamed the palomino, and Scott had taken it over the fence. Johnny's eyes sparkled and his smile lit up his whole face. And he remembered the way Johnny obstinately insisted on standing on his own two feet after the battle, despite his injury, and tried to walk to the house. His younger brother certainly didn't lack nerve or courage. Whether he had any sense was another question. That plan of his had been insanely reckless, practically guaranteed to get him killed. It might yet.
"Scott?" Teresa pushed open the door and looked outside. "It's cold. Come inside."
Scott hadn't realized it, but he was cold. Once the sun went down, the temperature dropped rapidly. He followed the girl into the great room and sat down by the fire. Teresa had made a pot of hot tea. He thanked her when she poured him a cup, and sipped it gratefully. "Teresa, do you know anything about what Johnny was doing before he came to the ranch?"
"Some," she said, her voice cautious.
"Murdoch told Dr. Jenkins he was in prison, just about to be executed, when the Pinkertons found him. And the doctor said something about him being a gunfighter."
Teresa looked sad. "That might be what he did, Scott," she said softly. "But it's not who he is."
"Who is he, then?"
"He's your brother," Teresa said simply. She got up and picked up the tray with the teapot. "Good night."
My brother, Scott thought. The idea was still strange. He headed upstairs. A light burned in Johnny's room and the door was ajar. He looked inside. Murdoch was sitting in the chair by the bed again, his big head bowed.
"Scott?" Murdoch looked up. "I thought you'd gone to bed."
"How is he, sir?"
"A little better," Murdoch said. "His fever's dropped some, although Sam said it may spike up again."
"Sir, I'm wondering about, about what you and the doctor were saying before dinner."
"About Johnny?"
"Yes, sir."
Murdoch's face grew longer. "I think Johnny should decide if he wants to tell you about it."
"But you said he was in a Mexican prison," Scott persisted. "And that they were going to execute him. I think I have a right to know what that's about, and the possible repercussions of his escape."
A flash of anger crossed Murdoch's face. "Your brother didn't grow up like you did, Scott, safe in Boston. I can't say I'm proud of some of his choices, but you don't have any right to judge him. Mexican justice is a sham and I doubt there will be any repercussions, but I'll take care of them if there are."
Scott clamped down his own anger. It certainly wasn't his choice to grow up safe in Boston, or even Johnny's choice to grow up in Mexico. He didn't intend to let Murdoch dismiss his concerns, but swiftly decided this wasn't the appropriate time or place to challenge his father. "We'll discuss this another time," he said coldly. "If you don't need any assistance, I think I'll go to bed."
"Scott."
Scott turned in the doorway.
"I didn't mean to snap at you, son," the older man said. "I'm tired, I guess, and I'm worried about your brother. I am glad you're here."
It wasn't the first time Murdoch had snapped at one of his sons, but it was the first time Scott had heard him express any kind of regret, or even any pleasure that they were at the ranch. Scott nodded stiffly, not completely appeased but still unwilling to start an argument in his brother's sickroom. "Good night, sir."
***
Murdoch's attention turned back to his other son as soon as the door closed. In a drugged sleep, his face relaxed, the boy looked impossibly young. He needed a haircut. He needed more than a haircut. Just for a few seconds that first day, Murdoch had seen a plea in those vivid blue eyes that haunted him now. It was so fleeting he wasn't sure at the time if he had imagined it, conjuring it out of his own churning emotions. He still wasn't certain.
He hadn't seen much of his beloved small son in the insolent gunfighter. Truth was, he admitted, he hadn't really wanted to see his laughing little boy in the angry, deadly young man. This Johnny was trouble, no question about that. It was simpler to make this a business transaction with a stranger who just happened to be his lost son.
Except it didn't work. Murdoch hadn't bargained for the hurt he felt when Johnny left the ranch, or his devastation when he watched the raiders shoot his son off the palomino. And now it looked like he was all too likely to lose Johnny again. He picked up the boy's limp hand and held it gently.
"I'm glad you're home, too, John," he said. "Stay with us, son, please. You have to fight to stay with us. Only this time you won't have to fight alone. I promise, this time you won't be alone."
The next days were a fevered, drugged blur for Johnny. He slid into a kaleidoscope of splintered, terrifying nightmares that spun him crazily between dark and light, fire and ice, memories and monsters. Insistent voices kept calling him all the time. Someone was always there. He wanted to tell them to go away, to just let him alone, but couldn't seem to move or speak. The nightmares gripped him, and the voices grew more urgent.
His father's deep voice was getting hoarse but kept right on talking. The sound reminded Johnny of something, just on the distant edge of his memory, but he couldn't quite reach it. He felt like a child, stretching for something that dangled tantalizingly just beyond his fingers. Murdoch's voice finally faltered and broke but another voice picked up without a pause. He recognized his brother's fancy Eastern accent and smiled to himself. Boston sure didn't give up easy when he set his mind to something. Johnny couldn't figure out why the other man would care one way or another, but that serious voice soothed him for some reason. He sighed and relaxed, letting the sound of his brother's voice carry him out of the nightmares into a deep, peaceful sleep.
It was late in the afternoon, from the light that came through the window, when he finally opened his eyes. He caught his breath at the pain that shot up his back. His stomach lurched and he swallowed painfully.
"Shhh, it's all right, Johnny."
Desperately confused, Johnny lifted groggy eyes at the sound of his father's voice and tried to assess the big rancher's mood. Murdoch didn't look mad. He had a huge smile on his face, something Johnny hadn't seen before. It confused him more.
Murdoch trickled a spoonful of cool water into Johnny's dry mouth. "Just take it easy. Everything's all right. You gave us quite a scare but your fever finally broke this morning."
"Pardee?" Johnny croaked.
"He's dead." Murdoch gave Johnny more water. "You need to sleep now. We'll tell you all about it later."
Johnny had a dozen questions but his eyes were so heavy he couldn't keep them open. He slid back to sleep, and found Teresa in the room when he woke again. "Hello," she said, her smile bright. "Do you think you could drink some beef tea for me?"
The next time, his brother was there and made him swallow more beef tea, as well as a large spoonful of cod liver oil that was the worst thing Johnny had ever tasted. Johnny listened to them talk and drowsily did as he was told. He was too tired to argue, even about the cod liver oil.
A stranger sat on the edge of the bed, holding Johnny's wrist, when he woke again. "Stay still, young man," he warned. Johnny couldn't remember ever meeting the man, but he'd heard that voice somewhere.
He forced his hazy brain to concentrate and figured it out. "You the doc?"
"That's right. My name's Sam Jenkins." The doctor dropped Johnny's wrist and pulled down the bedcovers to check the bandages wrapped around his torso. He used his stethoscope to listen to Johnny's chest. "I've seen a lot of you in the last few days but you probably don't remember. How are you feeling?"
There was a pause. "Better," Johnny said.
Sam's lips twitched. "That's still not very good though, is it?"
"Been worse," Johnny said indomitably.
The doctor laughed. "You know, your father used to be my most difficult patient."
"I'm OK," Johnny said. "When can I get up?"
Sam snorted as he replaced the covers. "You are not OK. Not yet. And if you even think about trying to get out of that bed before I tell you that you can, I'll dose you with enough laudanum so you can't move. Do you understand me?"
Johnny set his jaw stubbornly. "No more laudanum. Don't need it." He hated the way the drug slowed him down. He could tell, from the way his head ached, that they'd given him a lot of it.
"Yes, you do, John," the doctor said, just as firmly. "Not as much, but you do still need some for now to take the edge off the pain. I won't give you any more than absolutely necessary as long as you behave. Deal?"
The blue eyes measured him and the corner of Johnny's mouth suddenly turned up irrepressibly. "I might shoot you when I do get up, Doc."
"I doubt it." Sam smiled back, surprised by the impish mischief in those blue eyes. That was the last thing he expected from Murdoch's gunfighter son, but so far this boy wasn't what he expected at all. "Go back to sleep now. You're going to need a lot of sleep this week."
"Haven't done anything else," Johnny grumbled.
"Just see that you don't," Sam advised him, his eyes twinkling.
***
Johnny slept through most of the next few days, as Sam told them he would, even after the doctor decreased his doses of laudanum. He didn't say much when he was awake. The blue eyes were watchful and, Scott realized, a little puzzled.
"Johnny?" he said one afternoon, going into his brother's room to spell Teresa. "You awake?"
Johnny didn't answer right away. "Yeah," he finally admitted. He tried to hitch himself up higher, and bit his lip.
"Wait." Scott moved quickly to the side of the bed. "I'll help you."
"I can do it."
"Maybe, but you don't have to do it," Scott said.
Johnny looked up at him, startled, and then his eyes dropped. "Yeah, I do, Boston. I been taking care of myself a long time."
"Not too well, from what I can see, brother," Scott said, carefully settling Johnny against the pillows.
There was a short silence. Scott watched his brother. The blue eyes flickered at him, and dropped again. Scott hesitated and then sat down in the chair by the bed. "I know you were in prison in Mexico just before you came here."
"And you want to know why?"
"No." Pink tinged Scott's fair skin. "I know why. Murdoch let me read the Pinkerton report last week."
"Well, then you must know everything about it," Johnny drawled, his voice sarcastic. "What more could I tell a man who's read a Pinkerton report?"
Scott met the stormy blue eyes. "Johnny, according to the report, you were actually standing in front of a firing squad when the Pinkerton agent arrived."
"Lucky for me he didn't stop to take a leak or something, huh?"
Scott ignored his brother's attempt at flippancy. "That had to be a difficult experience. It might help if you talked to someone about it."
"Someone like who? You just dyin' to hear all about it, Boston?" Johnny leaned on the third word a little.
Scott refused to let the boy bait him. This was too important. "After I left the army, I found it difficult to deal with some of the things that happened during the war. It became easier once I found someone I could discuss it with. I don't care if you talk to me, Murdoch, or someone else. But you do need to talk it out, brother."
"I don't want to talk about it. I'm fine."
"You're so fine that you're having nightmares about it."
Johnny's eyes simmered. "I'm getting real tired of people watching me sleep."
"No one is trying to spy on you, Johnny. You were seriously ill, you know, and you're still not well. We're just trying to look out for you."
"I don't need anyone to look out for me." Johnny rolled over on his side, shutting his eyes, and Scott knew the conversation was over.
He sighed and wondered again if he should tell Johnny he had been a prisoner of war. He'd decided against it earlier. It wasn't just that he had worked so hard to put that year behind him. The two of them didn't know each other well enough. Scott was afraid Johnny might think he was trying to outdo his experience, or even that Johnny might reason a month was nothing compared to nearly a year in an enemy prison. But Scott knew a month was enough to do a lot of damage. Murdoch had finally given him the Pinkerton report one night when Johnny was so sick it didn't look like he'd make it until morning. What he read made Scott's blood run cold. He didn't think anyone could manage to walk away from the experience with a shrug, as Johnny appeared to be attempting to do. It wasn't just the firing squad, although that was horrific enough. The Pinkertons had also reported on conditions in the prison and the special attention the rurales had given the half-gringo gunfighter. They'd done their best, or rather their worst, to break him. In most cases, it would have been more than enough.
He glanced at his stubbornly silent brother. He didn't think for a minute that Johnny was really asleep. Scott let his breath out slowly and opened the book he'd been reading aloud for the last few afternoons, now that Johnny could manage to keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time.
"Chapter 5," he said aloud. "Wednesday, November 5th. The weather was fine during the previous night, and we had a clear view of the Magellan Clouds, and of the Southern Cross. The Magellan Clouds consist of three small nebulae in the southern part of the heavens - two bright, like the milky-way, and one dark. These are first seen, just above the horizon, soon after crossing the southern tropic. When off Cape Horn, they are nearly over head. The cross is composed of four stars in that form, and is said to be the brightest constellation in the heavens.
"During the first part of this day (Wednesday) the wind was light, but after noon it came on fresh, and we furled the royals. We still kept the studding-sails out, and the captain said he should go round with them, if he could. Just before eight o'clock (then about sundown, in that latitude) the cry of `All hands ahoy!' was sounded down the fore scuttle and the after hatchway, and hurrying upon deck, we found a large black cloud rolling on toward us from the south-west, and blackening the whole heavens."
He read on, following the journey of another Bostonian on the brig Pilgrim, headed around Cape Horn on its way to California in 1834. Johnny didn't move and didn't interrupt with any questions. Scott finished the chapter and set the book down on the table. He thought his brother was really asleep by now, not just playing possum. Scott stared out the window at the ranch, peaceful in the late afternoon sunshine. He could see Johnny's palomino restlessly circling one of the paddocks. A now-familiar buggy approached the arch and he considered whether he should speak to the doctor and see what he had to suggest. He looked again at his brother and made his decision. It should be safe enough to leave Johnny alone for a few minutes.
***
Sam Jenkins listened thoughtfully, his eyes alert. "I wouldn't push him too hard if I were you," he advised when Scott had finished.
"Somebody has to push him, for his own good." Scott was exasperated. "He can't possibly just bury all this as if it never happened."
Sam hesitated, choosing his words. "For now, at least, that may be the best way for him to handle it, Scott. It's not his fault or yours, but you and your brother have lived very different lives. Johnny's been in trouble before and he's found his own way of protecting himself and surviving. I'm not so sure this is the time to try to force him to let down his guard. If he decides to let it drop, that's fine, but there's more to this than you know."
"You mean there's more to this than my father or brother are willing to tell me." Scott's voice was bitter.
Sam sighed. "I agree that the three of you do need to talk, about a lot of things. But this definitely isn't the time for that. Johnny's just not ready, son. He's much better, but he's still a long way from recovering from a serious physical injury. That boy needs some peace just now, more than anything else."
Scott had to admit that made a certain amount of sense. He watched the doctor go upstairs and then headed outside toward the barn. There was still a lot of work to do, repairing the damage caused by the raids and getting on with the regular spring work. The hands had been busy but he and Murdoch had both stayed fairly close to the house since Johnny was hurt. Scott hadn't even seen much of the ranch yet.
Upstairs, Sam pushed Johnny's door open and his jaw dropped. "John Lancer!" he barked, moving quickly across the room. "What are you doing out of bed?" He grabbed his patient, who was teetering on unsteady feet, and sat him down.
"I'm all right, Doc," Johnny protested.
Sam swung Johnny's legs back onto the bed and pulled the covers up. Johnny's face had lost what little color he'd recovered and a thin layer of sweat glinted on his skin.
"You stay in that bed until I tell you different," Sam ordered. "I thought you and I had a deal, John."
Johnny's eyes were downcast. "That was days ago," he said, picking at the quilt. "I'm better now and I'm going to go loco cooped up in here."
Sam looked him over. He suspected one of the ways Johnny coped with his troubles was by channeling his excess energy into physical activity. Blood loss and fever had completely wiped him out, but he was getting stronger now and increasingly restless. He still wasn't well enough to be on his feet, though. Sam poured some water into a glass and handed it to him. Johnny looked at it suspiciously and Sam smiled.
"It's just water. I do keep my word."
Johnny looked embarrassed, to Sam's surprise. "Sorry," he said, taking a small sip. His hand shook a little and Sam reached out to steady the glass. Johnny looked even more embarrassed at that.
"More," Sam said. "You need fluids to replace the blood you lost."
"I'm likely to start gurgling like a creek if I drink any more water," Johnny complained but he took another swallow.
Sam pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and sat down. "So, young man, tell me what you were doing out of bed?"
Johnny didn't meet his eyes. "I wasn't going far."
"You're right about that. You were about to fall flat on your face."
Johnny rebelled instantly. "I'm not a little kid, Doc. I've been shot before, worse than this. I don't need all this fussing."
"You need to give yourself enough time to heal. That bullet tore up a lot of muscle. It's going to take a while. And it will take even longer if you fall and pull your stitches out."
Long fingers played with the empty glass. Sam took it and set it down on the table. Something was clearly bothering Johnny, but the doctor had no idea what it was. He wondered if Scott's theory was right.
"John? Is there anything you want to talk about?"
The boy slid down in the bed. "Like what?"
"Anything at all," Sam said.
Johnny flexed his right hand, holding his wrist with his other hand. "My arm's still stiff," he said, apparently casual.
"That's from the torn back muscles," Sam said. "Not to mention the bruises from falling off your horse. It will get better."
The blue eyes lifted suddenly. "Just as good as before?"
"It should be." Sam thought about the question and his own eyes narrowed. Johnny was a gunfighter, a right-handed gunfighter. His life depended on his arm, or had up until now. "If you behave yourself and don't do any more damage, you should get full movement again."
"How long is it likely to take?"
"It will probably be another month to six weeks." Sam didn't miss the alarm that crossed Johnny's face at the idea. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
Sam didn't believe him. "You won't have to stay in bed that long. By the end of the week, I think you'll be able to come downstairs with some help."
"When can I ride?"
"It will be a few more weeks before you ride anything besides that bed and the sofa downstairs." Sam reached out and tilted Johnny's chin up. "What are you worried about, son? And don't tell me it's nothing."
Johnny flinched involuntarily at the contact and Sam dropped his hand at once. The boy let his dark hair fall across his forehead, hiding his eyes. "It's no big deal."
Sam was increasingly concerned. "You know, your father hopes you're going to stay here, you and Scott, and help him run the ranch. You're not planning on riding out of here, are you?"
"It might be better."
"Better for whom?"
"Everyone," Johnny said quietly. "Especially if I can't shoot right for a month."
"It's not your gun that Murdoch wants, John."
Johnny's mouth twisted. "Not any more, maybe. But it's part of the deal, Doc. Sooner or later, if I stay, word's going to get out that I'm here and somebody's going to come looking to call me out."
"The newspapers reported that Johnny Madrid was killed in Mexico."
"The papers report lots of things. Doesn't mean they're true, or that everyone believes them."
"This could be true, if you want it to be. You can be Johnny Lancer again."
Johnny shook his head, his eyes darkening. "It's not that simple."
***
The puppy was Teresa's doing. Johnny, recovering slowly, was finally allowed downstairs for part of the day. Keeping him quiet, as the doctor ordered, was as difficult as the days when the youngest Lancer hovered between life and death. He was bored, he was not used to anyone telling him what to do and he constantly pushed the limits. Murdoch was at the bellowing stage and Johnny's temper flared right back. Finally, Murdoch threatened to tie him down if he didn't behave and Johnny headed shakily for the barn, saying he'd had enough.
"Let him go," Scott said, grabbing Murdoch's arm as the big man started after his younger son. "He won't get far and he needs to cool down. And so do you, sir."
Murdoch's eyes blazed. "He needs to learn some sense. Of all the stubborn..."
"Yes, sir," Scott agreed. "He seems to take after his father - sir."
Murdoch glared at his first son, who looked back at him coolly. The older man snorted. "All right, then, you tame this colt. If you can."
Johnny didn't get far. Scott found his brother sitting on a bale of hay outside Barranca's stall. He didn't have enough energy left to argue when Scott hauled him up and steered him back to the house.
Teresa needed a break, and she leaped at the opportunity to go into Green River with Murdoch the next morning for the mail and some supplies. Scott agreed to keep an eye on Johnny, who was still asleep upstairs when they left in the buckboard. Murdoch looked in on him before they left, put a hand on his forehead to check for fever, and tucked the covers around his son's shoulders. "Damn fool," he said gruffly. "He's worn himself out."
"He's not the only one," Teresa thought, but she didn't say it aloud.
Teresa had finished her errands and was waiting for Murdoch outside the general store when she heard voices and a puppy yelp. She went out back to investigate and found a group of boys throwing stones at a small puppy. It couldn't be much more than a month old, she judged. One of the stones found its mark and the puppy cried out.
"Boys!" she shouted. "Stop that right now!"
The boys scattered as the brown-haired fury advanced, and the puppy sat down on its haunches. Teresa scooped it up, checking it for injuries.
"Poor thing," she crooned as the puppy nibbled delicately on her fingers. "You're not quite old enough to be away from your mother, are you? Let's go find her."
That didn't prove to be possible. The storekeeper said he'd sold some supplies earlier to a man with a big dog in his wagon, but he'd never seen him before and thought he was just passing through.
"You want I should get rid of it for you, Miss?" he offered.
Teresa recoiled when she realized what he meant. "No," she said. "We'll take him home to Johnny."
"What?" Murdoch was startled. "No, Teresa. Johnny doesn't need a puppy."
"It will give him something to do." Teresa clutched the puppy and turned big, innocent eyes on her guardian. "Something besides fighting with you over doing what the doctor says. Let's get back to the ranch."
Scott was reading in the great room when they arrived. His eyes fell on the puppy that Teresa was carrying and he put down his book. "What's that?"
"That is Johnny's dog," Murdoch said.
"What?"
Murdoch rolled his eyes. "Ask your sister. Is Johnny OK?"
"He's fine. He's still sleeping. What do you mean, it's Johnny's dog? It's filthy!"
"You can give him a bath while I see about lunch," Teresa suggested.
"What? Me?"
"Well, I certainly can't give him to Johnny like this," she pointed out. "Please, Scott, you'll help, won't you?"
The puppy, once Scott scrubbed him, proved to be silver and gray, with a darker mask around his caramel eyes and inquisitive nose. The tips of his ears flopped over, and his paws were about four sizes too big for him.
"That is going to be a large dog," Murdoch said, watching as the puppy dipped its muzzle in a bowl of milk that Teresa had set on the floor. It sneezed and backed up abruptly, tipping over the bowl. Milk ran across the floor.
"Hey!" Scott said. "I just finished cleaning you up."
"You're going to have to let him lick the milk off your fingers, or maybe a rag," Murdoch said. "He doesn't know how to drink from a bowl yet. It's going to be a lot of work, Teresa."
"Johnny can do it," she said briskly, picking the puppy up and taking it out to the pantry to wipe its face with a washrag.
"Johnny can't do anything," a voice drawled from the doorway as Teresa disappeared. "Haven't we all heard that?"
Murdoch turned, stung by something bitter in that quiet voice. Johnny was leaning on the doorframe, dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt. The clothing hung loosely on him and there were shadows under his eyes. He hadn't been able to get his boots on by himself, and only had socks on his feet. Murdoch looked at him, and took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry, John," he said. "That's not what I meant."
Johnny's eyes flew to his father's face, and his head dropped. "Me too," he said. "Don't mean to be so much trouble."
"It's no trouble." Murdoch resisted the temptation to tell his son to go sit down on the sofa. He's not a little boy, he told himself. The little boy, the one he remembered, was gone. This young man had been on his own for a long time. Too long, Murdoch thought grimly.
"Johnny!" Teresa peered out from the pantry. "Wait 'til you see what I brought back from town for you. Sit down, and close your eyes."
Johnny smiled at the girl in the doorway, a smile that transformed his face. Murdoch watched, fascinated, as the boy and girl bantered easily, and remembered that Johnny was only a few years older than his foster daughter. They might really have been brother and sister instead of strangers who only met a few weeks ago. Those days when Johnny had been so sick and Teresa had watched over him so fiercely seemed to have cemented a bond between them.
Johnny stopped smiling when Teresa put the puppy into his arms. For a moment, he looked incredibly sad, and then one corner of his mouth turned up.
"What is it?" he said.
"What do you mean, what is it? It's a dog!" Teresa said.
Johnny let the puppy sniff his fingers. It snuggled up to him immediately. "Sure don't look like a dog," he drawled. "I've seen bigger rats."
Teresa looked at him anxiously, and hit him lightly as she realized that he was teasing. The puppy yipped at her, and they all laughed.
***
A week later, Johnny was sitting on the rug in front of the fire, teasing the dog with a piece of knotted rope. The puppy growled and tugged on it. Johnny chuckled and let him worry it, then flipped it across the room. The dog pounced on it, and brought it back to him. Murdoch watched, silently, from the door. Johnny was good with the dog, as good as he was with that palomino he had tamed so easily on his first day at the ranch. Murdoch had been surprised. He hadn't known what to expect from this son, still didn't. He certainly hadn't expected him to be endlessly patient and gentle with a wild horse, or to play with a puppy as joyfully as a child.
They'd named the puppy Bandit because of the mask on its face. The dog already followed Johnny around like a shadow. The Mexican housekeeper scolded "Bandito" loudly and spoiled him outrageously - much as she treated Johnny, Murdoch thought.
"You're back late, Murdoch," Johnny said, not turning. Murdoch sighed. The boy was very aware of his surroundings. He was always on guard. Murdoch understood why, and hated it even more because he did understand why.
"A little," Murdoch said, coming in. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Johnny said automatically. Murdoch restrained a smile. If he'd learned anything in the past weeks, it was that his younger son never admitted to any weakness, from bullet holes to fever. But there was no question that Johnny was, finally, getting better. He had started to gain some weight back, there was color in his face again, and he didn't tire so quickly, although that wasn't necessarily an advantage when it came to looking after him.
Johnny changed the subject. "Where's Scott?"
"He went into town. He should be back in time for supper. Where's Teresa?"
"Somewhere out back. Want me to go find her?"
"No hurry." Murdoch poured himself a brandy. "Do you want some?"
"No, thanks."
Murdoch settled into his chair, easing his aching back, and sipped his drink. He had a question, had worried over it for days, and couldn't figure out how to get an answer without offending his touchy younger son. Johnny looked over at him.
"Something bothering you?" he asked.
"No, it's nothing," Murdoch said. "I'm just a little tired, that's all."
Johnny's long fingers stroked the puppy, which immediately settled down. His dark head was down and Murdoch couldn't see his eyes. "Just ask and get it over with." His voice sounded weary. "Whichever question it is. Which one is it, anyway? How many men I've killed or how old I was the first time?"
"No," Murdoch said, surprised. "I mean, I'd like it if you told me more about your life. But that's not it."
"What is it, then?" Johnny asked.
Murdoch flushed and suddenly made up his mind. Johnny had been downstairs for more than a week with nothing to do. In all that restless time, he hadn't pulled a single one of his father's books off the shelves that lined the wall in the great room. A horrible thought had occurred to Murdoch, who treasured his books nearly as much as his ranch. He'd fretted over it for days. "John, can you, did anyone ever teach you how to read?"
Johnny looked up, his eyes widening. "What?"
"It's not your fault if you can't," Murdoch said quickly. "I just, well, I wondered and I didn't want to ask you in front of your brother. Apart from anything else, you're going to be a partner in the ranch and you need to learn how to keep the accounts so you know where we stand."
Johnny looked stunned. He bent his head over the puppy again.
"Yeah, I can read," he said finally. "Some, anyway. A friend of my mama taught me some, and I went to school almost six months in - almost six months once."
Almost six months, Murdoch thought bitterly. His younger son had gone to school for almost six months in a mission orphanage after his mother died. He knew more about that than Johnny realized from his Pinkerton reports. The detectives couldn't trace many details of his son's life but their report fully described that orphanage and the ways the priests dealt with any disobedience. Johnny had run away when he was barely eleven. A few years later, Johnny Madrid first surfaced in a gunfight.
How could Maria do this to our son, Murdoch wondered, not for the first time.
"I don't know anything about the books you and Scott talk about," Johnny admitted, still not looking up. "Don't much care either. It's OK with me if Scott does all the figuring."
Murdoch bit back his anger and forced himself to speak lightly. "I doubt if it would be all right with your brother," he said. "And it's not all right with me either. You're not getting out of that chore, son."
"I might mess it up," Johnny said.
"I have, more than a few times," Murdoch admitted. "You'll learn."
Johnny looked up, and a smile flashed across his face. "Reckon it was worth a try, anyway," he drawled.
Dr. Jenkins came in from town with Scott and stayed the night, on his way out to make his rounds of the outlying ranches. He and Scott argued over a new book over supper while Johnny pushed around the food on his plate. Murdoch was initially grateful that Johnny hadn't flared up when he'd asked if he could read, but he didn't know why his younger son had been so quiet ever since and it made him uneasy. Scott and Sam moved onto a lively discussion of evolution, and then Scott challenged the doctor to a game of chess. Johnny watched the game silently.
"Ever played, John?" Sam asked, when Scott had checkmated him in less than 20 minutes.
Johnny shrugged. "Some."
"You play the next game, then," the doctor said.
Johnny shook his head. "No, thanks."
"Come on, Johnny," Scott said confidently, setting up the board again. "It won't take long."
Johnny looked at his brother and over at his father. That small, crooked smile appeared, the one the family was beginning to recognize. "OK," he said. "If you're sure about that, Boston."
Murdoch thought Sam had lost his mind. Scott had played chess at Harvard, had been carefully coached for years. Johnny couldn't possibly be any match for him - and Murdoch didn't know how his younger son would react if he lost badly to his brother. Scott had no idea of just how dangerous Johnny could be, but Sam knew.
Murdoch only relaxed when he realized Johnny was quite familiar with the game. Then he got interested. Johnny played recklessly, but he was holding his own against his brother, who waited far too long to begin to take the game seriously.
More than an hour later, Scott was frowning at the board and taking longer over every move.
"You're not getting too tired, are you?" Scott asked his brother, after he finally decided to move his remaining bishop.
Johnny yawned, looked at the game board casually, and moved one of his knights, apparently without thought. "I'm fine, Boston," he said. "We're just about done anyway."
"We are not," Scott hissed, focusing on the board again.
Murdoch bit back a chuckle. He'd never dreamed that Scott would be the one who would be taking this badly. Scott stared at the board and chewed on his lip. He reached out reluctantly to tip over his king.
"I want a rematch, little brother," he said.
"Sure," Johnny said. "Manana."
Scott looked at his brother, and his lips twitched. No one in Boston would ever believe the sleepy cowboy had beaten him at chess. He didn't quite believe it himself.
"Come on," he said to Johnny. "Upstairs, before I have to carry you."
The blue eyes opened. "I can make it," Johnny protested.
Scott laughed. "I've heard that before."
***
Upstairs, after he got ready for bed himself, Scott realized that he'd left his book in the great room. He went down the stairs to get it and was surprised to see the lights were still burning and voices murmuring.
"I like that boy, Murdoch," the doctor said.
"Scott is a fine young man," Murdoch agreed.
"Yes, he is," Sam said dryly. "But I was talking about your other boy."
"Johnny?" Murdoch said. He sounded surprised.
The doctor smiled. "So far, at least, that's the son that I've seen the most of," he said. "And I'd say you're a lucky man, Murdoch. Most men would give anything in the world for a son with even half the guts of that one."
"Sam," Murdoch started, and stopped. "You know what he is."
The doctor shrugged. "I'd guess that he's done what he needed to do to survive," he said. "And that it wasn't easy."
Murdoch's head drooped, a little bit like his son's.
"It's not your fault, Murdoch," Sam said.
"I should have found him. I shouldn't have let his mother take him away in the first place, but I should have found him."
"You tried, " the doctor said.
"Not hard enough." Murdoch stared at the flames in the fireplace. "He talked about it when he was feverish."
"He was pretty sick," Sam said gently. "Like you said, that was the fever. And the drugs."
"Yes," Murdoch agreed. "But while he was so sick that he couldn't hide anything, my son begged some bastard not to hit him again, or his mother. And - and he asked his mother why his father didn't want him."
"Murdoch, stop it. Seems to me that you told your sons there's no point in dwelling on what's past."
"Maybe it's because I'm not prepared to face it," Murdoch said.
"You can't do anything about it now. It's done."
Murdoch was silent for a few minutes.
"Not for Johnny," he said slowly. "Sam, I didn't think his mother would ever tell him I didn't want him. Even if she was mad at me, I don't understand how she could hurt him like that. Johnny grew up thinking that I kicked them out. He's still angry about it."
"You've told him it's not true, haven't you?"
Murdoch paused uncomfortably. "Teresa told him."
"You don't think he might need to hear that directly from you?"
"I don't know how to talk to him about it," Murdoch said.
"You have to talk to him about it," Sam insisted. "You can't let him keep carrying that around."
"I don't know if it will make things any better," Murdoch said slowly. "Maria was his mother, the only family he remembers. Does it really do any good to rub his face in the fact that she lied to him?"
Sam frowned. "I think you have to tell him the truth, Murdoch. You need to talk to both of your sons."
"What?"
"Scott is angry too."
"It's not the same," Murdoch protested. "Scott never missed a meal in his life and no one ever hit him. I knew his grandfather hated me, but I also knew that he'd take damned good care of his grandson - and he did. Scott had everything he could possibly want. More than I could have given him here."
"He didn't have a father," the doctor said. "I know that wasn't your choice, but your sons don't, either of them. And they have to wonder, both of them. My god, Murdoch, wouldn't you wonder?"
Scott did wonder, frozen in place in the hall. He had always wondered. He wanted to march in and demand an explanation from his father, but he couldn't. Johnny would, he thought wryly, but he just couldn't leave behind a lifetime of New England reserve. He turned around and headed quietly back up the stairs, his book forgotten.
What did the doctor mean, it wasn't Murdoch's choice? Murdoch hadn't wanted him. His grandfather had told him so. Murdoch had known, all those years, exactly where Scott was and he'd never even sent a letter. It was clear that he'd searched for Johnny, but he'd never bothered with Scott. It still hurt and Scott did want to know why.
He also wanted to know more about his new brother. Johnny hadn't said much and neither had Murdoch. Murdoch had finally told him that Johnny had been on his own since his mother died when he was only ten, but hadn't been willing to say much beyond that. The rancher had handed over the Pinkerton report on the Mexican prison earlier, but there was a thick stack of other reports he hadn't shared.
After a sleepless night, Scott headed for his brother's room in the morning. He paused at the door and looked in. The puppy lifted its head from the floor, and its tail thumped. Johnny rolled over in the bed and Scott stared, shocked, down the steel barrel of his brother's Colt.
Johnny sighed, and lowered the gun, slipping it back under his pillow. "Boston, you could get yourself killed waking people up sudden out here," he complained, rubbing his eyes.
Scott was stunned by the fact that his brother slept with a pistol under his pillow and by how quickly it had appeared in his hand.
"Since when have you been sleeping with a gun?" he asked.
"I dunno. Since I was thirteen, maybe," Johnny said casually, sliding himself up in bed. He stretched out his arm, wincing. "I'm outta practice. Damn."
"I suppose I can see it if you were out on the trail, but surely it's not necessary in the house," Scott said.
"Yeah, it is," Johnny said flatly. Scott felt chilled. It was like his brother's face had turned into a mask, cold and remote.
"Johnny," he said. "What's wrong?"
Johnny shook his head, and the mask disappeared. Scott was looking again at a tousle-headed kid who needed a haircut, not a dangerous stranger. "Hey, what did you wake me up for anyway?" Johnny complained.
"Sorry," Scott said. "I didn't mean to wake you. Guess we've gotten into the habit of checking on you."
Johnny looked up at him from under long lashes. "Thanks, I guess, but I'm OK now and that could be kind of a dangerous habit."
"So I see," Scott said dryly. "It's time for breakfast. You need any help?"
"Nope."
Scott went downstairs slowly. Had his brother been serious when he said he'd been sleeping with a gun since he was thirteen? He was quick with it, that was sure. Plus, there was what Murdoch and the doctor had said. Scott had wondered why Johnny was so wary, but if someone had really beaten him when he was a child... Scott grimaced at the idea and then shook his head. Three weeks ago, you didn't even know you had a brother, he told himself. And when you did meet him, you didn't particularly like him. You even hit him yourself.
Scott had been safe in Boston. Maybe it was understandable why Murdoch hadn't worried about him.
But he still could have written to me, Scott thought, the old resentment surfacing, just as strong as ever.
Murdoch had finished eating but was still drinking coffee at the big table in the kitchen where the housekeeper served breakfast. Maria poured coffee for Scott and put a heaping plate in front of him. "Thank you," he said. "Um, gracias."
She smiled, and Murdoch said something to her in fluent Spanish. They laughed while Scott sipped his coffee. "What's the joke?" he asked coldly. "Sir?"
Murdoch looked at him, surprised at the anger in his voice. "I told Maria that you'd be demanding tortillas next, like your brother. We weren't laughing at you, Scott."
Scott flushed. "How would I know that? You know I don't speak Spanish, sir."
"It's good that you're trying to learn it," Murdoch said. "Maybe you can get Johnny to help you with it, while he's laid up."
Johnny had been teaching Scott some Spanish words, but for some reason the suggestion from Murdoch rankled. "Maybe," Scott said. "Maybe, in his spare time, he'll teach me how to play chess too, since Harvard seems to have failed me there as well."
"Maybe he'll teach you how to make the best of whatever hand you're dealt," Murdoch said, suddenly angry too. "Without feeling sorry for yourself."
"Maybe he'll teach me the secret of making Murdoch Lancer care about at least one of his sons," Scott snapped, and stalked out of the room.
"That went well," the doctor said from the doorway.
Murdoch scowled at him. "Didn't you say you have rounds to make?"
"I thought I'd check on your younger son again before I left," Sam said. "So he's not exactly in a good mood either. I did tell him that he can ride for a half hour tomorrow, at no more than a walk, on a nice, quiet horse - not that wild palomino he's so crazy about."
"Are you sure he's ready, Sam?"
"No. But he's not used to staying still and he's going to do something worse if we don't lighten up the reins a little. Just make sure you keep an eye on him, Murdoch. That boy will push himself too hard if you let him."
***
Scott saddled the sorrel gelding he'd been riding since he arrived on the ranch, and led it out of the barn into the yard. He was still angry, still didn't know exactly what he was most angry about. He mounted and swore under his breath as a wagon rolled into the yard, its canvas cover flapping in the wind. The sorrel reared up just as Bandit burst out of the house. The puppy barked, apparently prepared to play a wonderful new game, while Scott fought to bring the panicked horse under control. It reared up again, and the dog dashed under its feet. Scott wrenched desperately at the reins, trying to pull the sorrel away, to put those deadly, flying hooves safely back on the ground. There was a strangled yelp, and then silence. Scott finally got the horse under control and looked across the yard at his brother, who was standing on the porch.
"Johnny, I'm sorry," Scott said again, an hour later, after he buried Bandit in a little meadow behind the house.
Johnny had watched silently, his face expressionless. Dr. Jenkins had left on his rounds and Murdoch had headed out to check on the fence crews, after delivering a blistering lecture to the hand who had failed to secure the cover on the wagon. Teresa wrapped the puppy's limp body in a blanket and cried quietly while Scott dug the hole. She fled back to the house when Scott laid the small bundle inside the grave and began to fill it in.
Johnny shrugged. "Not your fault. The dog ran under the horse. Nothin' you could have done."
"I'm still sorry," Scott said. "I'm going to miss him too."
Johnny looked at him blankly. "You shouldn't ever get too attached to anything, Boston."
Scott suddenly realized something. "Anything, brother? Or anybody?"
"Same thing," Johnny said, turning to go back to the house.
"No, it's not," Scott said. "Johnny, wait."
"You'd better get going or Murdoch is going to have another fit," Johnny said over his shoulder, not pausing.
Scott watched his younger brother cross to the house and go inside. He didn't believe that Johnny was as indifferent to his dog's death as he was trying to let on. But Johnny was wearing the same mask he'd glimpsed earlier in the morning. It was almost as if he'd pulled down shutters, closing out everyone else.
He frowned, and decided that maybe he'd go find his father after all.
"Sir, we need to talk," he said when he'd located his father out in the north pasture, watching a fence crew.
"We've got work to do, Scott," Murdoch said. "We can talk tonight."
"No, sir," Scott insisted. "We need to talk now. I need to know about my brother."
Murdoch paused. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know," Scott said. "That's the problem. He's not telling me anything and you're not telling me anything."
"It's not my story to tell, Scott," Murdoch said.
"It's our story, sir," Scott said. "Not yours, not Johnny's, not mine. If we're ever going to be a family, it's our story."
Murdoch looked at his first son. "You may be right," he said slowly. "We'll talk about it tonight."
"After we finish with the fences," Scott said.
"Yes," Murdoch said.
Scott shook his head. "I guess that's the answer right there," he said sadly. "Your fences are more important than your family."
"Scott," Murdoch protested. "That's not what I said."
"Sir, that is exactly what you just said," Scott said, wheeling his horse away from his father.
"Scott!" Murdoch shouted. He hesitated, looking back at the crew, and spurred his own horse, following his son back toward the house.
***
Johnny was tired of taking it slow, tired of being watched, tired of people telling him what to do and fussing over him. Compared to that hellhole in Mexico, Lancer was a comfortable prison, but he still felt trapped and hated it. Murdoch might plan on calling the tune when it came to the ranch, but Johnny sure didn't intend to let his father or anyone else call his tune. If he wanted to ride, he was damn well going to ride and it was nobody else's business.
He leaned over the corral railing and his new palomino came racing up, prancing.
"Hey, boy. Time to go for a ride," Johnny said softly, as the horse bumped his shoulder a bit too enthusiastically.
He was frustrated and tempted to just ride bareback by the time he finally managed to get the saddle on the palomino's back and tighten the cinch. Barranca was restive and Johnny soothed him before he climbed up on the rail and hauled himself painfully into the saddle.
His back pulled sharply, but he quickly forgot his aches and pains in the sheer joy of being back on a horse, a wonderful horse. Barranca quivered under him, his ears flickering. The palomino was eager to run, just as eager as his young rider. Johnny truly intended to take it easy this first time, even if he had ignored the doctor's orders to ride another horse and wait another day, but he forgot every word the doctor had said within seconds.
Murdoch pulled up his horse abruptly. Scott followed his father's eyes and his mouth dropped open as he saw the golden horse head across the meadow at a straight-out gallop. The horse floated over a fence and stumbled a little. Scott and Murdoch both held their breaths as it gained its feet.
"That damn fool," Murdoch said. "If he falls..."
"I think he knows what he's doing, sir." Scott watched his brother. He had been in the cavalry and praised all his life for how well he rode, but he knew perfectly well he didn't ride anything like Johnny. The younger man looked like he had been born on a horse, like he was part of the golden energy thundering across the field.
"Scott, you know he's supposed to be taking it easy. We almost lost him."
"I know," Scott said.
The palomino soared over another fence. Scott knew Murdoch was thinking of the morning Johnny was shot, just as he cleared another fence, and tumbled to the ground. He was thinking about it too.
"Sir?" he said.
"Let's cut across," Murdoch said grimly. "We'll meet him at the gate."
Johnny had slowed down by the time he reached the gate. He looked at the two riders waiting for him, and pulled up.
"Good ride, John?" Murdoch asked, seething.
"Yeah." Johnny's eyes moved to Scott, who shook his head sternly. He wasn't about to defend Johnny this time. He was more inclined to turn his reckless little brother over his own knee, and wouldn't blame their father if he succumbed to the temptation.
"Let's get back to the house," Murdoch snapped, stepping out at a walk. Johnny hesitated, and then followed. The energy that had surged through him when he got on Barranca had drained away, and he slumped in the saddle. Scott noticed, but didn't say anything, just kept his horse close to the palomino.
By the time they came into the yard, Johnny had no energy left at all. Barranca seemed to know, and was being very careful with his rider. Johnny's knees buckled as he dismounted, and Scott grabbed him.
"I'll look after the horses," Murdoch said, snatching the reins. "Take your brother into the house."
Johnny leaned against Scott and watched their father head toward the barn. "He's kind of mad, isn't he?"
Scott didn't know whether to be pleased that Johnny was apparently content to lean on him, or even more worried. "Shouldn't he be?" he asked.
Johnny looked down and Scott relented a little. "Come on, let's get inside." He turned his brother around and gave him a little push.
Murdoch stomped into the house, still furious, and Scott quickly put up his hand. Johnny had collapsed onto the sofa, fast asleep as soon as his head hit the cushions.
"Is he all right?" Murdoch said.
"I think so. I think he's just exhausted, sir."
"Of all the fool stunts," Murdoch fumed.
"He had a difficult morning," Scott said.
"Yes." Murdoch reached down and plucked Bandit's rope toy from the rug by the fire. He carried it over to his desk and sat down, heavily.
"It wasn't your fault, Scott."
"That's what Johnny said."
"Did he?" Murdoch glanced again at his younger son.
"He also told me that I shouldn't ever get too attached to anything," Scott said. "He was like ice, Murdoch. Not like a twenty-two-year-old kid."
Murdoch rubbed his face. "He's only twenty. He won't be twenty-one until the end of the year."
"He told me he was twenty-two."
"I suppose, well, he might not know," Murdoch said.
"How could he not know how old he is?"
Murdoch sighed. "He probably lost track along the way."
Johnny stirred and mumbled something. They both looked over at him, but he settled down without opening his eyes.
"Maybe we should get him upstairs," Scott said. "I think he's had enough for today."
"More than enough," Murdoch agreed.
***
Johnny slept straight through the rest of the afternoon and the night. He opened his eyes mid-morning and stretched his arms and legs. His back ached and he shifted uncomfortably. Maybe it hadn't really been such a great idea to take Barranca out.
"Sore?" a calm voice asked.
Johnny rolled over in the bed and looked at his brother. "I'm fine."
Scott had heard that before and didn't believe it. His mouth wanted to twitch but he kept it firmly under control. "Really," he said mildly. "I shall look forward to hearing you try to convince our father of that."
Johnny made a face. "Is he still mad?"
"I'm not sure mad is exactly the right word."
Johnny glanced at him. "You're mad at me too."
"No," Scott said. "I'm not mad."
"No?"
"No," Scott said. "I'm not mad, Johnny. I am exasperated. I am frustrated. I am furious. Do you understand me?"
The blue eyes lifted, and then looked away uneasily. "No," Johnny said.
Scott suppressed a smile again. "I think you will understand a little more the next time our father sees you, and I want you to know that I agree with him this time. If it were up to me, you wouldn't be able to sit down for at least a week after that stunt you pulled yesterday, brother."
"I'm not a kid," Johnny protested.
"Then stop acting like one," Scott shot back. "You know perfectly well you had no business on that horse."
Johnny flared up. "That's my business."
"It's not just your business. You're part of a family now. In case you haven't noticed, we've spent the last three weeks taking care of you."
"I didn't ask you to."
"You didn't need to ask us," Scott retorted. "That's what families do. Didn't your mother take care of you when you were little?"
"Sure," Johnny said after a long pause.
Scott wondered about that pause, but wasn't going to be distracted now. "You know you aren't ready to ride yet."
"Doc said I could ride today."
"Oh? And did he say you could gallop that palomino?"
"Not exactly," Johnny admitted.
"What did he say?" Scott persisted.
Johnny's fingers traced a pattern on the quilt. He didn't answer.
The door opened abruptly and both brothers looked up. Murdoch towered in the doorway, his eyes on Johnny.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yeah." Johnny wiped all expression off his face.
Murdoch stepped inside the door, indicating that Scott should go out. Scott hesitated but Johnny gave him a small nod too. The Bostonian stood up reluctantly and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. He knew Johnny deserved whatever it was their father had to say but Scott wasn't so sure his brother was up to hearing it yet.
Murdoch didn't say anything right away and Johnny sneaked a look at him. His father's face was grim. Johnny looked over at his clothes wistfully. Someone had folded his jeans, hung his shirt on the back of a straight-backed chair, and lined up his boots precisely. He recognized his brother's handiwork. Scott must have put him to bed yesterday.
Johnny made a decision and pushed the covers back, reaching painfully for his pants. If he and the old man were finally going to have it out, he preferred to be on his feet and dressed. Murdoch still didn't speak. He waited while Johnny pulled on his shirt and buttoned it. Johnny eyed his boots. He wasn't too sure he could manage to put them on, not the way his back felt this morning. He was positive he didn't want Murdoch's help.
Murdoch stepped in before Johnny made up his mind about the boots. "Sit," he said curtly, nodding at the chair. "You and I have some things to discuss, young man."
Johnny didn't know why, but he sat without even thinking about it. Murdoch crossed his arms. He still looked angry but his voice was calm when he spoke.
"Do you have any idea how much work it takes to run this ranch, John? Or the kind of responsibility involved?"
This was not the direction or the tone Johnny expected this conversation to take. "I've worked on ranches before," he said cautiously.
"You're not a hired hand here, boy," Murdoch growled. "You agreed to be a partner. That means you share the responsibility for the ranch with your brother and me. There are a lot of people who depend on Lancer for their livelihood, not just the family, but our employees too. They depend on us to make the right decisions about how to run the place and to keep them safe. I need to be able to depend on you. Do you think I can do that, based on your decisions so far?"
Johnny ducked his head.
"I asked you a question."
Johnny glanced up. "No one else got hurt," he said defensively.
"Not this time," Murdoch agreed. "But you nearly got yourself killed, and we've spent most of our time since then taking care of you instead of tending to the ranch. And yesterday, despite everything Sam told you, you deliberately disobeyed his orders and put yourself at risk again, for no good reason at all."
Johnny didn't know what to say to that. Murdoch let him stew before he spoke again.
"Can I trust you to do what the doctor says from now on?" he asked. "Or do we have to watch you every minute as if you were a child?"
Johnny's eyes kindled. "No one has to watch me. No one ever has, not even when I was a kid."
That stung, but Murdoch didn't let it show. "I want your word on this, Johnny."
"Yeah, Old Man? You didn't seem to think it meant too much when you asked me if I was going to hook up with Pardee."
Murdoch, irked by his son's disrespect, struggled to keep his temper. He wasn't going to let Johnny goad him into saying something he'd later regret, not this time. "I was wrong," he said evenly.
Johnny's mouth dropped slightly. Murdoch felt some satisfaction at the crack in the gunfighter's mask. The boy put on a very good front, but his father didn't think he was really quite so tough as he tried to appear.
"Do I have your word?" the older man asked again. "You'll do what the doctor says?"
Johnny looked up at him, searching for something in his father's eyes. Murdoch met his gaze steadily, aware of the question but not sure what it was. Johnny dropped his lashes first, breaking the contact. "Yeah," he said sulkily.
"Good." Murdoch looked at the boots on the floor, wondering if he should offer to help, but decided Johnny's pride was already bruised enough. Besides, if Johnny couldn't get his boots on, he might stay inside the house today and take it easy. "Maria is upset that you missed supper and breakfast. Do you want something on a tray or do you feel up to going downstairs?"
"I can go downstairs," Johnny said. "Just have to get cleaned up first."
"I'll tell her to expect you, then." Murdoch started to go and then hesitated. There was something else they hadn't discussed yet. "Johnny," he said, his voice gentler. "I meant to tell you I'm sorry about your dog."
Johnny's eyes widened before he turned quickly toward the washstand. "Thanks."
Murdoch watched him pour water into the basin, using both hands to hold the pitcher. The boy's guard was up again. "A dog can be good company, son." Murdoch said quietly. "It's hard when you lose one."
Johnny froze, almost imperceptibly. He didn't turn around. "It was just a dog."
***
Johnny was moving stiffly when he came down the stairs but Murdoch refrained from comment. Maria, waiting for him in the kitchen, felt no such restraint. Murdoch stepped into the back hall to listen as the housekeeper scolded the boy in Spanish while she simultaneously urged him to eat. She was still yelling, banging pans for emphasis, when Scott came in the door. Murdoch, grinning, signaled to Scott to be quiet and they both moved into the great room.
"What was Maria saying to him?" Scott asked, awed.
"She was threatening to take her wooden spoon to him the next time he does anything so idiotic," Murdoch said. "And telling him that she's spanked him before, which is true."
Scott doubted whether his brother felt particularly threatened by the housekeeper's wooden spoon. "Did the two of you talk, sir?"
"Some," Murdoch said. "Johnny promised he'll follow the doctor's orders from now on."
"Really? It must have gone fairly well, then?" Scott was surprised. Most of Murdoch and Johnny's discussions, so far, ended with shouting.
"Better than I expected," Murdoch admitted.
Scott sat down. "I wondered if we could talk, sir."
Murdoch went still. He knew this was coming. "Yes, of course."
"I've been thinking," Scott said. "Although you're our father and Johnny is my brother, the three of us are still strangers to each other. It's not so surprising that we are reluctant to share many details of our lives with strangers. Particularly details that may be painful."
The smoky eyes held Murdoch's, more gray than blue this morning. "I meant what I said yesterday, sir, that we won't be a family until we are able to share our stories. But I don't think we can force that to happen. Either it will, as we get to know each other, or it won't."
Murdoch was slightly ashamed at his feeling of relief. He knew Scott had questions for him too, probably even more questions than he did about his brother. Murdoch just didn't know how to answer them. Better to leave the past behind them and go on from here.
"I think that's wise," Murdoch said aloud.
Scott hadn't missed his father's relief. He had more doubts that he and Murdoch would ever have anything like a father and son relationship than he did about his brother. He'd wished for a brother all his life. Johnny wasn't the brother he'd once imagined as a child, wasn't like anyone he had ever met before, but Scott already felt strangely protective of him. A brother was more than he had before, and might have to be enough. And despite the differences in their backgrounds, he and Johnny did share one experience in common. Both of Murdoch Lancer's sons had grown up fatherless.
"This may turn out to be nothing more than a business partnership for some of us," Scott said coolly. "Still, there's no reason why we shouldn't all profit from it."
Murdoch wasn't so sure he liked the sound of that, although a business transaction was what he originally had in mind himself. "You are still planning on signing the partnership agreement then? And staying here?"
"Yes," Scott said.
"It's going to be a while yet before Johnny can ride into town. Maybe I should ask the lawyer to come out here."
"It would be wise to formalize our agreement," Scott agreed. "I would also like to begin learning about the operation. Perhaps, while Johnny is still recovering, we could start by going over the books."
Murdoch looked at the ledgers on his desk. "Yes," he said reluctantly.
"I assume you use a double-entry system," Scott said briskly.
"Yes, of course." Somewhere inside, disappointment stirred in Murdoch. He'd dreamed for a long time of sharing Lancer with his sons. His dreams usually involved days out on the land he loved, the two boys at his side. Occasionally, they even reached as far as grandchildren growing up on the land. He had never daydreamed about bookkeeping with his sons. Surely Scott didn't really see the ranch as simply a business enterprise.
He wondered suddenly if his older son was pulling his leg and shot him a suspicious look, but those eyes seemed to be perfectly serious.
"I'll just see if Johnny has finished his breakfast and would like to join us," Scott said.
Murdoch watched his older son cross the room. He chewed on his lip. This was exactly what he'd said he wanted. There was no reason to feel like he'd just lost something.
Scott didn't return immediately, and Murdoch began to worry after a few minutes. He limped down the hall to the kitchen and stopped. The door was wide open and there was no sign of either of his sons, or Maria. He frowned. They couldn't have gone far, especially since Johnny still wasn't wearing boots.
Laughter sounded out in the garden and Murdoch went to the door. Maria was standing on the terrace, beaming. Scott and Johnny were kneeling over a box with a boy. Murdoch recognized one of Cipriano's young nephews. His father had a small piece of land just outside Morro Coyo.
"What's in the box?" he asked Maria curiously.
She glanced at him. "Una camada de cachorros."
"Ow, her teeth are sharp." Scott pulled his hand out of the box and examined his fingers.
"She's a boy, Boston," Johnny drawled. "Didn't they teach you anything at that fancy school?"
Scott swatted at his brother, who laughed and dodged him. "Which one do you want, Johnny?"
"You can pick it." Johnny's face was deadpan, but Murdoch noticed he hadn't touched any of the puppies.
Scott reached back into the box, a bit gingerly, and lifted out a wiggling black and white pup. He held it awkwardly.
"Not like that," Johnny said, moving Scott's hand to support the puppy. "That's better. You didn't ever have a dog when you were a kid?"
"No. Grandfather wouldn't allow pets." Scott patted the puppy tentatively. "Did you have a dog when you were little?"
"Yeah." An odd look crossed Johnny's face. "For a while, anyway."
Scott set the puppy down carefully and it wobbled toward Johnny. "I think he likes you."
Johnny groaned. "This one is a girl. You and me are going to have to have a talk real soon, Boston."
"Thank you," Murdoch said softly to Maria.
"De nada, Senor." She lifted her voice and addressed Johnny in Spanish.
"What did she say?" Scott asked.
Murdoch answered for Johnny. "She said your brother shouldn't stay outside too long in his stocking feet. She wants you to bring the puppy inside and says she'll hold both of you responsible for cleaning up if it dirties her nice clean floors."
"Oh." Scott wrinkled his nose fastidiously, thinking about that. "I could go upstairs and get Johnny's boots and we could stay outside awhile. If you don't mind, perhaps the three of us could go over the books later on, sir?"
Murdoch just nodded. It occurred to him to wonder if his elder son had ever played poker back in Boston, or, perhaps, in the cavalry. Scott disappeared and the puppy sniffed at Johnny, who finally gave in and picked it up.
"If that puppy is one of Jose's herd dogs, it's worth something," Murdoch said to Maria, without taking his eyes off his younger son. "I want to pay him."
She shook her head. "No, Senor. Jose is honored to give your sons one of his dogs. He would be most offended."
Scott came outside with Johnny's boots and jacket. He paid no attention to Murdoch. "I'll give you a hand with your boots," he said to Johnny.
"I can do it."
Scott smiled. "I know you can, brother. Just let me help anyway."
Johnny's face was uncertain. Murdoch waited, unaware that he was holding his breath. Johnny nodded, at last, and gave his hand to his brother. Scott pulled him to his feet, and settled him on a bench.
"Come inside, Patron," Maria said. "Your ninos will be all right by themselves. Senor Scott will look out for his hermano."
Murdoch thought so too, looking at the blond and dark heads bent together. He let his eyes linger on them, feeling strangely alone for some reason he didn't quite understand. Then he squared his shoulders, turned and followed the housekeeper inside.
THE END
Note: Scott was reading aloud from "Two Years Before the Mast" by Richard Henry Dana Jr. (1815-1882), a Bostonian who left Harvard in 1834 to sail as a crewman on the brig Pilgrim to California. He later completed his studies at Harvard and passed the bar in 1840, the same year the first edition was published. Dana published a second edition in 1869, after he regained control over the copyright. His son published a third edition in 1911, available online as an e-text from Project Gutenburg. Scott could have been reading from the 1869 edition, but I couldn't find it online, so he's reading from the 1840 edition. (He probably found a copy on his father's bookshelves downstairs.)
Whistle, July 2005