Interlude
Sweat trickled down his back under the cotton shirt. He was hot, tired and filthy. His hair clung damply to his head and he smelled like a horse.
His younger brother peeled off his clothes and plunged into the pond without a second thought. His tan didn't stop at his collar, or even at the waist of his trousers. Johnny seemed to have no modesty at all.
Scott splashed water on his hot face.
"Aren't you coming in?" Johnny's head popped up and he shook the water from his hair.
"No," Scott said. "I'll wait for a proper bath when we get back to the house."
Johnny was still splashing when the buckboard approached. Murdoch pulled up the horses and set the brake, an odd expression on his face.
"Boys. I didn't expect to see you here."
"Sir," Scott said. "We finished the fence earlier than we expected."
His brows rose. "You must have worked hard."
"Yes, sir."
Murdoch sighed. His younger son was too casual and the older one was too polite. In both cases, it emphasized the fact that they didn't know each other very well. He didn't know which made him feel more inadequate as a father.
Johnny was treading water, a wary expression on his face. He'd loved this place when he was a baby, but he'd been much too small to go in the water by himself. Murdoch wondered who had taught his boy to swim, or if he'd just picked it up on his own like too many other things. He pushed away the thought and climbed down, joining Scott in the grass under the cottonwoods.
"A hot day," he ventured.
"Yes," Scott agreed.
"You don't swim?"
"I know how to swim, of course." Scott gave his father a puzzled look. "Were you looking for us, sir?"
"No. I thought you'd still be stringing wire." Murdoch eyed the water thoughtfully. Johnny had ducked under the surface. The swimming hole was spring-fed and its water was always cool.
"Is there a work crew in the area?" Scott asked.
"No." Johnny's head appeared briefly on the other side, where the water was deepest, before he dove again. Murdoch sighed and loosened his bandana. He used it to mop his face. "It's hot," he said again.
Scott's eyes narrowed. He looked from his father to the water. "You weren't - were you thinking of going for a swim, sir?"
"Well, just a quick dip," Murdoch admitted. He looked out at the swimming hole and frowned. "Your brother hasn't come up for a long time."
Scott scanned the water too, frowning. The surface sparkled in the sun. It suddenly seemed awfully quiet. Scott got to his feet.
Murdoch had already unbuckled his gun belt and was pulling off his boots. He dropped his watch into a boot and waded into the water in his shirt and trousers, his heart thudding. "Johnny!" he shouted. "John!"
Silence.
Scott dove in and took off across the pond. Murdoch followed, but Scott outpaced him easily. When the younger man reached the far end, he disappeared underwater. A minute later, he surfaced and wiped his streaming hair out of his eyes. "I don't see him anywhere."
"I'm right here, Boston." A mischievous smile played across Johnny's mouth as he looked at them from the reeds near the water's edge. "You two always swim in your clothes?"
Scott ducked him when he left the refuge of the reeds. Johnny came up spluttering, and promptly tried to do the same thing to his brother but Murdoch pushed him under again.
When they finished playing in the water, all three of them collapsed on the grass. Johnny's skin dried faster than his father and brother's clothing. He pulled on his calzoneras and settled his gun belt on his hips, adjusting it carefully. He was still barefoot and shirtless. The light burnished his skin.
"We used to come here for picnics," Murdoch said, his usual reserve melted by sun and memories.
Both young men were quiet.
He addressed Scott first. "When she was expecting you, your mother liked to sit on that rock and paddle her feet. That summer was a scorcher, but this pool never goes dry. Until the raids started, she'd pack our supper and we'd drive here after I came in from the range."
Scott looked at the ledge that hung over the water. He didn't comment.
"Your mother didn't know how to swim when she came here." Murdoch turned toward Johnny. "I taught her, but she was a little nervous when I took you into the water. You loved it, though. I'd float on my back with you on my chest. You were only six months old the first time we brought you here and you cried when we went home."
Johnny's eyes widened before he dropped his head.
They were all quiet awhile. Birds sang and a squirrel chattered from a branch. Murdoch's thoughts drifted away, imagining sunlit days here with two children, a serious blond and a smaller, dark-haired imp. He'd lost the opportunity to teach his sons to swim, fish, and ride their first ponies. Other men had taken his place in their lives.
He glanced at the two young men sprawled on the grass. When he sent for them, he didn't know what to expect. He hadn't been sure he wasn't buying even more trouble and grief, and hadn't much cared. He was going to lose the ranch without them, so what difference?
He never bargained for the way he felt when they walked into the house together. Just the sight of the two of them was enough to stop his heart, twist his guts and tie his tongue. He occasionally wondered if he was getting daft in his middle years.
His younger son was watching him through half-closed eyes shielded by long lashes. Scott snored lightly, but Johnny was on guard, always on guard. If anything, he was more suspicious of kindness than cruelty.
Murdoch remembered this one as a happy toddler. He shifted to get more comfortable and spoke again, his voice quiet. "You ran all over the place the last time we were here together. It was just the two of us. The women were busy with spring cleaning, and I took you for a ride to try to keep you out of trouble."
"I got in trouble a lot, huh?"
He chuckled. "You were never still unless you were asleep, you were curious about everything and you had absolutely no fear of anything or anyone. Yes, Johnny my boy, you kept us busy."
The tone of his father's voice surprised him. Johnny lifted his lashes and saw that Murdoch was smiling. That confused him.
Murdoch spoke again. "It was too early in the spring to swim, and I probably shouldn't have brought you here, but you liked to dig in the sand over there. We waded in the shallows and built a sandcastle. I thought I'd finally worn you out and we could both take a little nap."
Johnny tried to picture it and failed.
"I woke up when I heard the splash," Murdoch said.
"I fell in?"
The rancher snorted. "More like you jumped in, trying to catch a frog."
A grin tugged on his mouth. "Guess you were mad."
"I was scared to death," Murdoch said. "But you weren't, not a bit. I fished you out, but you wanted to go right back in after the frog."
"What did you do?"
"I caught a frog," Murdoch said, as if that was a perfectly normal response. His smile grew. "Then I had to persuade you to let it go when we left, instead of bringing it home to your mother."
Johnny stared at him, but he seemed to be serious.
Scott was awake and listening too. He closed his eyes again, conscious of a jealous pang that did him no credit. It was ridiculous for him to resent this. Johnny didn't even remember Murdoch or the ranch. He hadn't said much about it, but clearly hadn't enjoyed a privileged childhood.
Just now, Johnny had a baffled expression on his face that admitted more than he ever would. He didn't seem to know what to make of Murdoch's story.
Murdoch looked at his watch and began to pull his boots on. "We should get back." His voice was gruff. It was almost as if he were embarrassed.
Johnny's palomino danced when he mounted, and he shot off ahead of them. Murdoch and Scott followed more sedately. Johnny ran the palomino in a wide circle and came up behind them, falling in on Murdoch's other side as they headed toward the ranch. Scott glanced over at his brother. The lost look was gone and the cockiness was back. Murdoch's face was like granite again, his thoughts hidden.
The air was still heavy, but Scott felt cooler, lighter and cleaner as they rode. He used to sneak into his grandfather's paneled library to look at the formal portrait of his mother. Now he had another image of her with her skirts hiked up and her bare toes in the water. And he could see a long-legged man playing with a small boy on the shore and that made him smile too, even if Murdoch had never played with him.
Maybe it was better to let the past bubble up gently instead of releasing a torrent.
The arch came into view, the house behind it, and Johnny let the palomino have its head. Scott dropped his hands and went with his brother, galloping toward home.
THE END
Whistle, February 2008