Lancer stories by Whistle

Old Fiends

"Murdoch Lancer!" The voice boomed across the dusky camp, as resonant as Murdoch's own. A tall, rangy man strode across the clearing.

"Coop McGregor," Murdoch said, his face lighting up. "How many years has it been?"

"Too many," the other man said, clapping Murdoch on the back.

From the other side of the fire, Scott Lancer watched the two men talk, their hands waving. Murdoch had lost his dour expression, the one he wore when his back ached or his younger son irritated him. He didn't even seem to mind that hearty clap on his back, to his elder son's amazement.

Scott sat near the chuck wagon, drinking coffee and eating his supper. Jelly, serving as cook for the drive, had handed him a heaping plate of hot stew and biscuits as soon as he walked up to the fire. The handyman waited impatiently to dish up some food and a scolding for Johnny, who had wandered off, most likely to check on his palomino.

The brothers had been chasing strays. They rode into camp late, hours after the rest of the crew finished supper and settled down or went to visit the other camps strung along the river. Scott could see fires and hear voices and guitars in the gathering darkness.

They'd been on the trail for weeks, driving the herd to Sacramento. Scott had mostly enjoyed the experience but he was more than ready now for a hot bath and a real bed, not a wash in a tepid river and a bedroll on hard ground. They all were. Even his inexhaustible little brother looked tired when they finally dragged the last stray out of a mud hole.

"Coop, I want you to meet my son, Scott." Scott put his tin plate down and rose courteously as his father and his friend advanced. "Scott, this is an old friend of mine, Coop McGregor. He used to be a Texas Ranger, when I first met him, and now he has a ranch near El Paso, the Four Aces."

"How do you do, sir?" Scott had heard of the legendary Texas Rangers even before he came to California, and he'd heard of Four Aces horses since. He looked at the man with interest.

"Pleased to meet you, son. Real pleased." The Texan had a firm handshake and watchful gray eyes. He was as tall as Murdoch, but leaner. A brown moustache, just going silver, hid his mouth. "Last I heard you were living back East."

"It's a long story, Coop," Murdoch said. "Scott came home just a few months ago. This is his first cattle drive but he's done very well."

"Better than his old man on his first cattle drive?"

Murdoch laughed, to his son's surprise. "Don't remind me."

Scott was intrigued. "It sounds like you two have known each other a long time."

"More than twenty years," Murdoch said. Spurs jingled lightly and Johnny came around the chuck wagon, stopping abruptly when he saw McGregor. Murdoch beckoned him forward. "Coop, there's someone else here I want you to meet."

The Texan was stiff with shock. "Johnny," McGregor breathed.

Murdoch's face froze. He looked quickly from his friend to his younger son.

"Coop," Johnny drawled.

McGregor shook his head slightly. "Damn it, boy, I thought you were dead. Heard a few months ago that you'd been killed in Mexico."

"Nope." Scott couldn't read the expression on his brother's face but Johnny's hand hadn't drifted toward his gun, as it usually did when he felt any threat.

McGregor did something Murdoch Lancer had never dared in the months since his sons came home. He stepped forward and pulled Johnny into a bear hug, then straightened him out and held him, searching the blue eyes intently. A wide grin split his sunburned face. "I'm glad, boy. Look at you, all grown up. I sure didn't think that would ever happen."

Murdoch was bewildered. "You already know my son, Coop?"

"Your son?" McGregor's jaw dropped. He released Johnny's shoulders and spun to stare at Murdoch. "You're Johnny Madrid's father?"

"It's Lancer now, Coop," Johnny said. His voice was soft, nearly inaudible. "Turns out it wasn't exactly the way Mama said."

"Dear Lord almighty," the Texan said blankly.

***

"I was working along the border when I first met Johnny, back when I was with the Rangers," Coop said later.

Johnny had insisted on riding out to take his turn on night watch as soon as he finished his supper. Scott was in his bedroll, but couldn't sleep. He was listening to Murdoch and Coop, still drinking coffee and talking by the fire.

"He was only five or maybe six years old. I was in Juarez, trying to track down some rustlers, and met his mama in a cantina."

The Texan paused. "I just don't know what to say to you, Murdoch. I had no idea she was your wife, or that Johnny was the boy you were trying to track down. I never even thought of it. She said the boy's father didn't want a mestizo kid and threw them out when he was just a baby. Said he beat up on both of them and she was scared he'd hurt the boy."

"Maria could be very convincing," Murdoch said. His voice was bitter. "It wasn't your fault, Coop."

Coop let out a gusty breath. "I was a damn fool. I should have made her tell me the name, or gotten it out of the boy."

"What was Johnny like then?" Murdoch's eyes were hungry.

"Cute." Coop broke into a smile at the picture in his mind. "Real cute. Big blue eyes, the bluest eyes I ever saw, a mop of black hair, and a smile that could stop your heart, just like his mama's."

Murdoch drummed his fingers on his leg and looked his friend straight in the eye. "Did she - did his mother take care of him?"

"Some," Coop said cautiously, not sure exactly how much he should say about that. "She kept him clean mostly and I think she tried to see he got enough to eat, but she let him run pretty free for a boy that age. Sometimes it seemed like she just didn't realize how young he was, and neither did he. He wanted to take care of her. He was already doing odd jobs, anything to earn a few pennies, and he'd bring all his pay to his mama."

He hesitated. "I got to know him pretty well. I took a bullet when we caught those rustlers and stayed most of the winter there. Johnny ran errands for me while I was laid up, and we ended up spending a fair amount of time together. I taught him his letters and his numbers and how to do some figuring."

Murdoch's head went up. "You did?" He'd wondered how Johnny learned to read and write. The Pinkertons found no evidence the boy had ever been to school, apart from a few months in a mission orphanage after his mother's death. Murdoch doubted that Maria had the patience to teach him. It had been an unspeakable relief to find his son wasn't completely illiterate when he arrived at Lancer, but it had also raised one more unanswered question.

"He was a bright kid," Coop said. "That little cuss could beat me at checkers by the time I was ready to move on."

"Thank you," Murdoch said.

Coop frowned, uneasy. "No reason for you to thank me. I liked that boy, Murdoch. Wished more than once that he was mine. I tried to find them the next time I was in Juarez, but they'd moved on by then. Maria never stayed in one place too long."

He thought for a few minutes before he continued. "I ran into them every once in a while over the next couple of years. Things weren't going so good for them and I worried about the boy. I was pretty sure some of Maria's men knocked him around, but he wouldn't admit it. He never would say a word against his mama. He had it in his head that it was his fault, the way they lived. Kid always had a stubborn streak a mile wide."

"I took him with me to the mountains one summer when he was maybe eight. Taught him to shoot a rifle and to do some tracking and we spent a few months with some friends in an Indian camp. He had a fine time riding their ponies and playing with the other kids. Maria said she was poorly and begged me to take him awhile. Didn't have the heart to say no, especially since she asked right in front of the boy."

Coop suspected that Maria was a few months pregnant when he rode into town and she palmed her young son off on him, something else he hesitated to tell Murdoch. There was no point, surely. She hadn't been pregnant by the time he brought Johnny back in the fall, and the man she'd been living with had moved on. Coop supposed it was for the best since she could barely take care of one fatherless child, but he had been a little shocked. Maria's smile was still as irresistible as her son's, but Coop had started to wonder if the young woman would ever grow up. She was like a butterfly, beautiful but flimsy. Johnny adored her, but he couldn't count on her, not the way Coop thought a little boy should be able to count on his mother.

"Last time I saw Maria was about a year later, just before the war started. We all knew by then it was coming and I'd quit the Rangers and joined the cavalry. I was on my way to Fort Union. Went into a cantina in Nogales one night and there was Maria. She was with someone and I didn't talk to her much. I didn't see Johnny that time."

"Couple years later, I heard she was dead but no one seemed to know what happened to her boy. Figured he was dead too until one night when he tried to hold me up."

"Tried to hold you up?" Murdoch was horrified. "You're not serious."

"Yep," Coop said. "He was thirteen, I think, or thereabouts. I didn't recognize him right off and don't think he knew me either. It was nearly dark. I was on leave from the army and headed for the ranch. I stopped to make camp for the night, a day's ride from home. He stepped out of the trees and pointed a big old Colt at me, holding it with both hands to keep it from shaking."

"What happened?" Murdoch asked.

"My partner had ridden out to meet me," Coop said. "You remember Cal, right? He heard the voices, sneaked through the woods and got the drop on him."

***

Cal Jenkins didn't fire but the boy keeled over anyway, right after he dropped the gun. Coop rushed across the grass, flung the discarded gun out of reach, and then bent over the kid. He was out cold. His skin was hot, too hot, and his breathing was shallow. Coop noticed blood on his sleeve, unbuttoned his ragged shirt and frowned at the soiled, leaky bandage tied around the boy's arm.

"We've got trouble, Cal," he said, unwrapping it gingerly. "Kid has a bullet in him."

"That won't bother him any after they hang him," Cal said.

"He's just a kid," Coop protested. "Look at him. He looks half-starved and he's sick."

"Coop, you gotta stop picking up every stray," Cal complained. "When a kid is big enough to point a Colt at another man, he's big enough to take what's coming to him."

"I think I might know him," Coop said.

Cal sighed and got his saddlebags from his horse. "Bring him over to the fire and I'll see what I can do."

Cal removed the bullet and cleaned out the infected wound. The boy came around while he was still probing for the bullet, jammed against bone. Coop looked into incredibly blue eyes, just as he'd expected once he got a closer look at that young face.

"Easy," he said, tightening his grip on the thin shoulders. "I've got you, Johnny."

The blue eyes widened. "C-Coop?"

"It's OK, kid." Cal didn't stop working and the boy bit his lip, trying desperately to keep a moan from escaping. Coop stuffed a rolled-up rag in his mouth for him to bite down on and kept holding him, but was relieved when he finally passed out again.

"He does have guts," Cal conceded when he finished stitching and stood up to stretch his cramped muscles.

The next day, they took the boy with them to the ranch they'd acquired in a poker game right before the war, when they were both still in the Rangers. Coop held Johnny in front of him in the saddle, worried by the heat he could feel radiating off the skinny body.

The kid was unconscious when they pulled off his filthy clothes and put him to bed in the old bunkhouse. It was the only inhabitable building left on the place after years of neglect. Cal had lost his right leg just below the knee, fighting for the Confederacy, and had only recently returned to try to get the ranch going. Coop continued to serve the Union army but was on a long leave after being wounded himself.

The two of them hadn't met since the war started and they landed on opposite sides. Coop had wondered if their friendship could survive, let alone their partnership in the ranch, but they fell right back into old habits of working together as they took care of Johnny.

"Feels like his fever's still rising," Coop said, putting a hand on the boy's forehead.

"That bullet should have come out days ago," Cal said, his eyes dark. "May have been too late, Coop."

Johnny said something in Spanish, turning his head restlessly. Coop leaned over, calling to him, but Johnny's eyes were blurred and he clearly didn't recognize him.

"It didn't look like he was going to make it," Coop told Murdoch. "He was out of his head with fever for three days. Cal knew a lot about healing. He brewed some gawdawful tea and we just kept forcing it down his throat, but we didn't have much hope. You could have knocked me over with a feather when that boy opened his eyes one morning and started spitting sass at me when I stopped him from trying to get out of bed."

"That sounds like Johnny," Murdoch said glumly. "Did he stay with you long?"

Coop shook his head. "He wouldn't. Johnny had changed from the little boy I knew. He was still hurting, but he was angry now too. You know he saw his mama die, Murdoch?"

"I know he was there when she was killed, from one of the Pinkerton reports. He won't talk about it."

"He saw the whole thing," Coop said. "He didn't exactly tell me about it either but he kept reliving it when he was delirious, and it sounded like he was taking the blame again. That boy wasn't about to let anyone else get close to him. He was mad at the world and hell-bent on standing on his own two feet. I tried to talk to him about it, and so did Cal, but we couldn't get through to him."

"He worked on the ranch awhile, to pay us back for taking care of him, and then he rode out one morning on a wild pony he'd tamed and didn't come back."

***

Scott shifted in his bedroll. He suspected one of Murdoch's greatest fears was that Johnny would ride away from Lancer one day and not come back. The idea scared Scott too. He listened for his father's voice, wondering what he'd say to the Texan.

"Did you see him again after that?"

"Not right away. About a year later, I started to hear talk about a young gunfighter named Johnny Madrid, but I didn't know it was Johnny, not until after the war was over and I was home for good. He was maybe fifteen by then, and I saw him in a shootout in a little town. The kid was good. Too damn good. He outdrew two older gunslingers in the street and offered to buy me a drink, cool as you please, afterward."

Coop chuckled, to Scott's surprise. "He was a bit put out when I told him he was too young to be drinking and hustled him over to the doctor's office instead of the saloon. He had a graze on his leg, nothing too serious, but it needed more care than a bandanna tied around it to slow the bleeding. The doctor gave him a shot of morphine before he knew it and he was so mad the doc was afraid he was going to shoot him too."

"He didn't?"

"No," Coop said. "He wouldn't. The doc didn't know him, just his reputation. That kid went to a lot of trouble to make people think he was worse than he really was."

"Did he?" Murdoch didn't sound so certain.

"He was still just a kid," Coop said. "A hurt, angry kid. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying he wasn't dangerous. But he wouldn't have hurt the doc. He was a straight shooter, Murdoch, and he played by the rules. Not like most."

"That was some game for a fifteen-year-old," Murdoch said dryly.

"Yeah," Coop agreed. "Anyway, the morphine knocked him out and I took him over to the hotel to sleep it off after the doctor fixed him up. I tried, the next day, to get him to come back to the ranch with me but he wouldn't. He'd grown up some since the last time I saw him, and he wasn't mad at the whole world any more, but he was still too damn independent."

Murdoch's head bowed. "I wish he had gone with you."

"Me too. He did stop by a few times, but he'd never stay long. I hadn't seen him for more than a year, not since Cal died, when I heard that he'd ended up in front of a firing squad in Mexico." Coop paused. "I always told him he wouldn't last long if he stuck with gunfighting, and he knew it too, but I was real sorry to hear he was gone."

"The Pinkertons finally found him, just in time," Murdoch said.

"They got him away from the firing squad?"

Murdoch nodded. "Lancer was being squeezed by land pirates. I sent for both of my sons and offered them a partnership if they'd help save the ranch."

"Johnny agreed to that?" Coop sounded surprised. "Sorry, but he hated your guts, Murdoch."

"I know he did." Murdoch studied his boots, unable to look his old friend in the eye. "Sometimes he still does, Coop."

***

"Don't you two have anything better to talk about?" Johnny stalked into camp and lifted the coffee pot off the fire, but didn't pour any. He set the pot down again suddenly, drooping with fatigue.

Murdoch frowned at him. "Everything all right with the herd, son?"

"Yeah," Johnny said, his back to his father and Coop. "It's just fine. Everything's fine."

"You need some sleep," Murdoch said.

"That an order, Old Man?"

"It's a suggestion," Murdoch said mildly, ignoring the challenge in Johnny's voice. "It's late and you've had a long day. We all have."

Johnny glanced over at Coop and then turned away, unrolling his bedroll next to Scott's. He pulled off his boots and lay down, closing his eyes immediately.

Murdoch hadn't realized he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly, unsure whether Johnny had really fallen asleep so quickly or if he was playing possum.

"He's asleep," Coop said quietly, guessing what Murdoch was thinking. "The Indians started to teach him some of their ways that summer. And he went back to them later. Their warriors learn to control when they sleep."

Murdoch watched his son, his face full of regret. "I really don't know much about him. Just what it says in the Pinkerton reports."

"I'm sorry, Murdoch. Real sorry." Coop tossed out the rest of his coffee and stood. "I didn't realize it was so late. I should be getting back to my camp. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow in Sacramento."

"Meet us for supper at the hotel," Murdoch suggested. "We figured on spending a few days in town before heading home. We'll be at the Excelsior."

"I don't know. That might not be such a good idea."

Scott decided it was time for him to step into the conversation. "I think it's a good idea," he said. "Seven o'clock, Mr. McGregor?"

Coop looked at Murdoch. "Seven," he repeated. "And it's Coop, son, not Mr. McGregor."

"Yes, sir, I mean, Coop. We'll see you then," Scott said, rolling over. He wondered vaguely if his brother could teach him the technique to fall asleep in seconds.

Murdoch poured himself another cup of coffee after Coop left.

"You told Johnny to get some sleep," Scott pointed out from his bedroll.

"Have you been awake all this time?" Murdoch asked.

Scott sat up and yawned. "Most of it. I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to eavesdrop on your conversation, but I didn't want to interrupt you either. And I couldn't get to sleep. I think I may be too tired to sleep."

"I know what you mean," Murdoch said. "But you've done well on the drive, son. I've been proud of the way you've handled yourself. I know it's all new."

"Thank you, sir."

"Johnny too," Murdoch added, almost absently. "He's done a good job."

"You should tell him that," Scott suggested.

"I will."

They were silent for a few minutes. The trees rustled overhead. Scott could still hear voices murmuring in the dark and see other fires, burning low, but fewer of them. Most of the camps had settled for the night. The stars swung low, so low that Scott fancied he could reach up with his hand and unbuckle Orion's Belt.

"Murdoch?" he finally said.

"Yes, son."

"If Mr. McGregor - Coop - had asked Johnny your name when he was little, and Johnny had answered him, his whole life would have been different."

"Very different," Murdoch said.

"I hate to think about what he's been through," Scott said. "But, well, I also wouldn't want him to be any different from what he is."

Murdoch tried but couldn't honestly say that he agreed. He stared at his older son and his shoulders sagged some more. "No child should grow up the way he did. He should have been safe at Lancer, with enough to eat and a warm bed and people to look after him. He should have gone to school. And he never should have picked up that damn gun."

"No, sir," Scott agreed. His father's voice was getting louder and he shot a quick look at his brother to make sure Johnny was still asleep. "But there isn't any changing it. You said it yourself that first day. The past is done."

"Not Johnny's," Murdoch said bleakly. "I wish it was."

***

Scott ran his hand across his jaw, testing to see how smooth it was. The barber had shaved him in the bath and cut his blond hair. Johnny had agreed to a shave too, but hadn't let the man do more than trim his hair. Murdoch growled a little when he saw it.

The three of them were sitting in the hotel bar, waiting for McGregor before they went into the dining room. The cherry paneling and crystal chandeliers were pleasant surprises for Scott. Sacramento was far more civilized than he expected.

Johnny fidgeted and Murdoch frowned. He was drinking tequila, as usual, while his father and brother sipped bourbon. He tossed back a shot and bit into a wedge of lime. The bartender stepped up and poured him another.

"The night's still young," Murdoch said.

Johnny glared at him and tossed down the contents of his glass. The bartender promptly filled it again and left the bottle before he drifted down the bar.

"John, please," Murdoch said. "Just for once, humor your old man. Slow down."

Johnny scowled but didn't pick up his glass. Murdoch relaxed slightly.

Coop appeared in the doorway and made his way across the room to them. "Sorry I'm a little late," he said. "What are you drinking? Johnny, is that tequila? I think I'll join you."

Johnny smirked, his eyes going to his father.

They ate thick steaks in the dining room. Murdoch and Coop grumbled a little about the price of cattle. Then Coop asked Scott about his war service. Scott was reluctant to talk about the war, but managed to change the subject to reconstruction. That set both Murdoch and Coop off. Johnny ate hungrily and said almost nothing.

Scott's eyelids felt weighted by the time they finished wedges of warm apple pie, dusted with cinnamon. Murdoch and Coop went into the bar for a nightcap and Johnny looked at his brother expectantly. "Let's go see what else is going on in this town."

"Aren't you tired?" Scott asked.

"Nope. C'mon, Scott."

Scott thought longingly of the bed waiting for him upstairs, a real bed with clean sheets and a pillow. Then he followed his little brother out the door.

It was past midnight when they careened down the hallway. Scott's arm was over Johnny's shoulder and he was leaning heavily on the younger man, humming tunelessly. Johnny wasn't too steady either but he propped his brother against the wall while he fumbled for the key of the room they were sharing.

Murdoch hadn't been able to sleep, not until his sons returned. He opened his own door a crack and watched while Johnny searched through his pockets. He finally found the key, just as Scott started to list. Johnny grabbed his brother hastily.

"Do you need a hand, son?" Murdoch asked.

"No, I'm good." Johnny blinked at his father.

The corners of Murdoch's mouth twitched. Johnny was using both hands to hold Scott up. The key was on the floor, where he'd dropped it. "You're sure?"

Johnny glanced at the key. Scott's head lolled against his shoulder and he hitched him up again. Scott was taller than him, and heavier than Johnny expected. "Maybe you could get the door?"

Murdoch moved down the hall and picked up the key. He opened the door and followed his sons into their room. Johnny dropped Scott on one bed and sat down abruptly on the other.

"Are you all right?" Murdoch asked, lifting Scott's legs onto the bed and pulling off his boots. The Bostonian was out like a light, his face relaxed. Murdoch removed his belt, loosened his clothing and spread a blanket over him.

"I'm fine."

"It looks like you two had a fine time tonight." Murdoch's voice was amused and Johnny gave him a surprised look. He thought his father would be mad.

"We did," he said, rubbing one eye. A smile appeared on his face as he looked at his slumbering brother.

Murdoch moved over to Johnny's bed and tugged his boots off too. Johnny didn't object. He scooted backwards to lean against the headboard and started to unbutton his shirt. A stranger might not guess he was drunk, not right away, but the blue eyes didn't quite focus.

"You might want to take your gun belt off first," Murdoch suggested, still amused.

Johnny looked down. "I forgot." He unbuckled it with difficulty and hung it over the bedpost within easy reach.

***

"Madrid!"

Johnny immediately stepped away from his father and brother. Murdoch stared at his son. Johnny had been laughing at something Scott said, but now his face was remote, his eyes cold. Murdoch couldn't believe how quickly the laughing boy could shift into the deadly gunfighter.

A stranger, dressed in black, stood in the street. The sun was at his back and Murdoch squinted, trying to make out his features. He couldn't see much more than a dark, menacing shape, his hand hovering over the gun tied low on his hip.

Johnny was wearing his favorite shirt, sun-faded from red to pink. The color of that shirt was one of many affronts to his father's sensibilities, another shout of defiance. Murdoch looked at the man in black and back at his son, suddenly appreciating that quirky splash of color. It did shout defiance, but not necessarily at him.

"John," he said. Scott grabbed his arm as he started to step into the street.

"No, sir, stay out of this," the younger man ordered, pulling his father back.

"He's right." Coop McGregor came up behind them on the boardwalk. "Murdoch, if you can't stay quiet, get out of here, right now. You'll get him killed."

"He doesn't have to do this."

"It's his hand. Let him play it," Coop said.

"Johnny Madrid," the other gunfighter said, his voice cold. "Hoped I might meet you again."

"Don't have any fight with you, Charlie," Johnny drawled. "Not that I remember."

"I can take you, Madrid."

One corner of Johnny's mouth turned up. "You think?" His voice was calm and he looked relaxed.

"Who is he?" Scott whispered.

"Charlie Baker," Coop said. The name didn't mean anything to Scott but alarm crossed Murdoch's face.

"He can't do this," he fumed.

"Murdoch, don't you dare." Coop stepped in front of him hastily, putting a hand on his chest to push him back. "I mean it. He can't take his eyes off Baker now, not for a second."

"Is Baker fast?" Scott asked.

"Yeah," Coop said softly. "He's made quite a name for himself in the past year."

"As fast as Johnny?"

Coop's face was sad. "I don't know, son. Just as soon not find out, but I don't think that's one of the choices."

Scott looked at his brother a little desperately. "Why is Baker calling Johnny out, Coop? He hasn't been paid to do this?"

"Doubt it," Coop said. "More likely, he just wants to settle who's top dog. He may have heard that Johnny's been out of the game and figure he's slowed down."

Murdoch looked sick, and more than a little guilty. "We have to stop this," he insisted, pushing at Coop.

"You can't," Coop said. "You're likely to get him killed if you interfere now. That's not what you want, is it?"

"No," Murdoch said. "Of course it's not."

"Your move," Baker said to Johnny.

Johnny looked at him. "Charlie, this is stupid. I don't do this any more. You don't have to prove anything."

"Make your move," the other man insisted. "Or I will."

"Nope," Johnny said.

Scott hoped, for a minute, that Baker was going to change his mind. There was a long pause. Then he caught a flicker of movement as Baker reached for his gun with blinding speed. Johnny saw it too, even before Scott did. He drew and fired in less time than it took for Scott's heart to beat. Two shots echoed down the street.

Baker was on the ground when Scott started to breathe again. Scott's eyes swung to his brother. He was still standing, all by himself, his gun smoking. Scott and Murdoch started to go to him, but Johnny lifted his head, his eyes warning them off. There was no warmth in them at all.

"I'm fine," he said and walked by them, heading for Baker. Scott followed him. Johnny kicked Baker's gun away before he dropped onto his knees and lifted the gunfighter's head out of the dirt.

"Hey, Charlie," Johnny said softly.

A pair of hazel eyes opened. Scott was surprised to realize Baker wasn't very old, maybe his own age or a little younger. Blood spread across his chest. "Johnny." Baker's voice was weak. "Guess I should've listened to you."

"Take it easy," Johnny said.

A smile crossed Baker's face. "Reckon there's gonna be plenty of time for that," he said.

"You want me to let Elena know?"

Baker shook his head. "No. She got married last year, has a kid now." He grimaced and Johnny put his hand out. Baker grabbed it and held on tightly.

"Sorry to hear it," Johnny said softly.

"She's better off," Baker said. "You really quit, Johnny?"

Johnny nodded. "Trying, anyway."

"Elena - she wanted me to quit. Guess I shoulda listened to her too." Baker's eyes were glazed. He gasped and took a final, gurgling breath.

Scott gently disengaged his brother from the dead gunfighter and stood him up. "Are you hurt anywhere?" he demanded, worry sharpening his voice.

Johnny pulled away. "I told you, I'm fine. Just leave me alone." His eyes stopped his father, also advancing. "Both of you."

***

Coop talked to the sheriff and the undertaker. Johnny was mostly silent, answering the sheriff's questions with one or two words. He headed for a saloon as soon as they were finished. Scott caught his father's eyes and followed his brother. He got himself a beer at the bar and sat down at Johnny's table, not waiting for an invitation. Johnny sighed, but didn't object.

Scott sipped his beer, waiting. Johnny had swallowed a shot of tequila as soon as he sat down and poured another from the bottle, but he hadn't touched the second drink. Instead, he was just staring at his glass. He still hadn't touched it when Scott finished his beer and a saloon girl brought him another. He gave her a coin and waved her away.

"This is fun," Scott finally remarked.

Johnny glanced at him. "There's nothing keeping you here," he said.

"No? You're wrong about that, little brother. There's something very important keeping me here."

Johnny sighed. "I don't need a minder. I'm fine."

"That's why you're sitting in a bar, staring at your glass, right?"

Johnny's mouth turned up slightly. He took a sip from his glass, and then emptied it down his throat. "Feel better?"

"Not really," Scott said. "Talk to me, Johnny."

"What about?"

"Anything," Scott said. "Do you want to talk about Baker?"

"No," Johnny said quickly.

"How about Coop McGregor? Tell me about him."

Johnny shrugged. "What about him? He was a Texas Ranger, down near the border. Now he's a rancher. I've known him since I was a kid."

"You know he's kicking himself for never thinking that you might be Murdoch's son. He and Murdoch have known each other for more than 20 years."

"No reason why he ever should have," Johnny said. "Coop believed what Mama said. So did I." His voice turned bitter.

"He told Murdoch he met you when you were only five or six years old."

"Yeah," Johnny said, leaning forward and resting his head on his arms. "I guess that's right. I used to wish..."

"What?" Scott said when Johnny stopped.

"I used to wish he was my father." Johnny's voice was toneless.

"From the sounds of it, he did too."

Johnny looked up at that. "Maybe at first. Not later on. Boy, did he ever light into me when he found out I was hiring out my gun."

"Maybe that's because he cared about you. He said he tried to talk you into working on his ranch instead."

"Yeah, guess he did."

"Did you think about it?"

"Some."

"If Murdoch had found you then, would you have gone to Lancer?"

"Nope." Johnny's answer was prompt.

Scott looked at him. "Murdoch knows you hated him. He thinks you still do sometimes."

"I don't hate him." Johnny traced the glass with one finger. "Not like before. I know my mother lied, Scott."

"You also can't blame yourself for believing your mother," Scott said. "You were just a child."

Johnny looked up at that, surprised. A small smile flickered on his mouth but there was nothing happy about it. "Not for long."

Murdoch ordered supper sent up to his room that evening. Johnny had managed to slip away in the afternoon and take Barranca from the livery stable. He finally turned up just before dark. He still didn't have much to say. None of them did. They finished their meal and the brothers turned in early.

A few hours later, a terrified cry startled Murdoch, who was sitting in a chair by the window in his room, staring at a book.

"Johnny!" Murdoch opened the connecting door between the rooms and shook his younger son. "Wake up. It's just a dream. Wake up."

Johnny stared at his father, his eyes haunted. Murdoch's grip tightened as the boy fought breathlessly for control over his panic.

"Shhh." Murdoch released Johnny long enough to light the lamp and pour a glass of water. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "It's all right. Settle down now."

Johnny took a gulp of water. His hands shook and Murdoch steadied the glass. The boy drained it but shook his head when Murdoch silently offered him more. Scott was sitting up in his own bed. Johnny turned onto his side, away from his father and brother.

"Sorry," he said in a small voice, his breath still too rapid. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Murdoch reached out tentatively. He held his breath when he touched his son. Nothing happened and he moved his hand down to rub the boy's tense back. He could feel Johnny's heart pounding. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No," Johnny said, his voice muffled by the pillow. "It was just a dream."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, son." Murdoch gave Scott a helpless look.

"Sometimes it helps to talk it out," Scott said. "I had nightmares after the war and it helped me."

Johnny was still for a minute. "Did you tell your grandfather?" he asked.

"No," Scott said slowly. "Not Grandfather. I talked to a doctor. If you don't want to tell Murdoch or me, you should talk to Sam as soon as we get home."

"Yeah, maybe," Johnny said. His voice was half-hearted and his face was still hidden in the pillow.

"You have to talk to someone, Johnny," Scott insisted. "Do you want me to leave so you can talk to Murdoch?"

"No," Johnny said.

"I'll leave then and let you talk to Scott," Murdoch offered.

Johnny sighed. "It was just a stupid dream," he said again, his voice weary. "I don't want to talk. I want to go back to sleep."

Scott and Murdoch exchanged looks. Murdoch continued to rub Johnny's back and the boy relaxed a little into the bed.

"When you were nearly two, one of the hands filled you up with stories about a giant lizard that roamed the ranch at night, looking for naughty children to eat. You woke up screaming for a week." Murdoch's tone was easy. "I used to pick you up and hold you until you calmed down enough to go back to sleep. Sometimes I ended up spending the night in the chair in your room."

"Sorry," Johnny said.

Murdoch raised his eyebrows. "No need to be sorry," he said. "It was my job to look out for you, and I loved it."

"Really?" Johnny's voice was drowsy and he felt increasingly boneless.

"Really," Murdoch said.

***

Johnny was fast asleep, the covers tangled around his feet, when Scott woke the next morning. Scott washed and shaved gingerly, afraid to disturb him, but he didn't move, not even when Scott rearranged the blankets over him.

Murdoch was already eating his breakfast in the dining room. Scott sat down and a waitress came over to fill his coffee cup.

"Is Johnny still sleeping?" Murdoch asked.

"Yes, sir." Scott took a sip of the scalding hot coffee.

"Does he often have nightmares?"

"I think so," Scott said cautiously.

"Do you still have nightmares too?" Murdoch asked, his eyes fixed on his older son.

Scott flushed, slightly embarrassed. "Not very often."

Murdoch speared a forkful of eggs. "I wish," he began, and stopped.

Scott was puzzled. "Sir?"

"I should have been there," Murdoch said. "For both of you."

The waitress returned to plunk a plate down in front of Scott and he picked up his fork, cutting off a piece of sausage. He chewed carefully. This was the first time he'd ever heard Murdoch express any regret. He really didn't know what to say to his father. Yes, you should have been. Scott nearly smiled. His brother might have said that, might even have shouted it. Scott, carefully raised to respect his elders, never shouted at his father. Not aloud.

Johnny still hadn't appeared when Murdoch finished his breakfast. He set his cup down and stood up.

"Where are you going?" Scott asked.

"I need to talk to your brother."

Scott thought so too, but wasn't sure this was the time or the place. "Don't you think it would be better to let him sleep as long as he can?" he suggested.

Murdoch shook his head, his face determined.

Scott watched his father stride out of the dining room and put down his fork. He'd lost his appetite.

Coop was in the livery stable, examining the swollen feet of a tall bay, when Scott stopped to check on the horses. A young Mexican vaquero was with him.

"That's a good-looking horse," Scott said.

Coop nodded, looking worried. "He's a real fine cow pony," he said. "He got into some grain and went dead lame. Sure hope he hasn't done any permanent damage."

"Don't worry, Senor," the vaquero said, thrusting his chest out. "I will watch over him personally. My uncle himself would not take greater care of him. I swear it."

Coop didn't look too reassured. "Scott, this is Bernardo Guerra," he said. "His uncle is the segundo at Four Aces. Bernardo, this is Scott Lancer."

Scott offered the young man a hand. The vaquero hesitated briefly before taking it. His dark eyes were suspicious.

"Nice to meet you," Scott said politely.

"I have an appointment at the bank but I'll be back in a few hours, Bernardo," Coop said. "Stay with him and make sure you keep those feet cooled down, like I showed you. Are you sure you can handle it?"

"Of course," the vaquero said. "I will take care of everything, Senor."

Coop gave the bay a final pat. He walked down the row of stalls with Scott. "That palomino's pretty nice too," he said when Barranca whickered and nudged the young man, looking for the treat that Johnny usually brought him every morning. "And he sure is spoiled."

"Barranca is Johnny's horse," Scott explained.

Coop grinned. "I guessed that, son," he said. "Is Johnny all right?"

"I don't know," Scott admitted. "He slept late and I didn't wake him. Murdoch just went upstairs to talk to him."

"That worries you some," Coop said. "Why?"

Scott didn't meet his eyes. "Murdoch and Johnny don't always get along very well."

"Stubborn meets stubborn, huh?"

"Yes, sir, something like that."

"Murdoch probably wasn't too happy when he found out that Johnny hired out his gun," Coop said.

"No, sir. Johnny told me you weren't too happy about it either."

"I told him I'd warm his backside so he couldn't sit a horse for a month if he were mine," Coop said. "I was sorely tempted to do it anyway. Maybe I should have, but I reckoned it was already too late and partly my fault. I missed my chance to do that boy any good when he was younger."

"I heard you and Murdoch talking the other night, in camp," Scott said. "It sounds like you did do him a lot of good when he was little, and probably saved his life."

"I could have done more," Coop said.

"Most people did a lot less," Scott observed. "Including his mother. What was she like, sir?"

Coop leaned against a beam. "She was beautiful," he said. "More than that. There was something about her. When she came into a room, everyone looked at her and kept on looking as long as she was there, like critters stare at a flame. She had dark hair, like Johnny's, and that same smile he has. The boy is a lot like her, except for his eyes. I reckon it must have been a shock for Murdoch when he saw him."

"I believe you're right," Scott admitted, thinking back to that first meeting. Murdoch had told him he had his mother's eyes and Johnny that he had his mother's temper, but the older man had stared at the boy as if a ghost had walked into the room. "You told Murdoch she didn't seem to realize how young Johnny was?"

"That's right. She leaned on him, instead of the other way around. He always tried to look out for his mama, even when he was just a little mite. But it was too much for a boy that age. There was no way that he could take care of his mama. Especially not on the border."

"She worked in a cantina when you met her?"

"Yeah. She served drinks and danced and did some singing." Coop gave Scott a sharp look. "She wasn't a whore if that's what you're thinking, not then anyway. Maria always had to have a man and she met some of them in the cantina, but it wasn't like it sounds. Maybe later on, when things got tougher, but not when I first met them. She was out for a good time, and that was all."

"She must not have been very old," Scott said. "Murdoch said she was barely 18 when Johnny was born."

"Maria was never very old," Coop said. "She never grew up. Not even later."

"While my brother grew up too fast."

"Way too fast," Coop agreed.

***

Johnny lay on his side in the hotel bed. He wasn't asleep, hadn't been asleep when his brother went downstairs, but didn't feel like company and figured this was the only place he'd get any peace.

Sometimes he missed being on his own, free to just keep on riding until he could finally push his feelings down and lock them up tight. Scott and Murdoch kept worrying on the shootout yesterday, like dogs on a bone. Johnny would just as soon put yesterday away with all the other killings he'd done and leave it alone.

He sighed and rolled over, huddling under the covers. Lately, he'd had a hard time keeping his memories locked up. They had started to pop out in his dreams, worse than ever since he came to Lancer. He'd been scared the nightmares would come in camp during the cattle drive, and everyone would hear him carrying on like a child, but he'd slept like a log on the trail. Too tired, he reckoned, for even the dead to wake him.

Someone tapped on the connecting door between the rooms. Johnny was instantly alert, but he didn't answer. He reached under his pillow, his hand wrapping around the familiar weight of his gun.

The door opened and Murdoch looked in. Johnny's hand relaxed and moved away from the gun.

"John?"

"I'm awake," Johnny said reluctantly. "I'll be down in a few minutes."

Murdoch was carrying a tray with a coffee pot and two mugs. He put it down on the dresser and poured coffee. "There's no hurry. You've earned a few days off. We all have."

Johnny sat up in bed and accepted the steaming mug, not sure what to think. Murdoch had been clear, from the beginning, that he expected his sons to be up and doing before sunrise. He'd even yanked them out of their beds a few times when they overslept at the ranch. Johnny sipped the strong coffee, his eyes on his father. Murdoch poured himself a cup and sat down.

"You didn't sleep very well," he finally said.

Johnny dropped his head, just like his mother used to do. "Lo siento," he said softly. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"I told you last night there's no shame in it," Murdoch said, stifling his irritation at the reminder of Maria. "I don't mind that you woke us, Johnny. The only thing I mind is that you're having nightmares and won't let us help you."

"It doesn't happen that often," Johnny lied, still not looking up. "It's no big deal."

"I wish I believed that, son," Murdoch said.

Johnny set down his coffee and got out of bed, reaching for his pants. He buttoned them, his back to his father, and felt a little bit less like a scared child. He walked over to the washstand, splashed some water on his face, and rubbed his chin, considering whether he was going to shave. The room was closing in on him, airless and too small, and he desperately wanted to escape. He took a deep breath, summoning some of the lessons he'd learned from the Indians so long ago.

Murdoch watched as his son lathered his face with a steady hand and reached for his razor. For a moment, Johnny had looked so desolate that it frightened him. But then the boy straightened up and began to shave as if he hadn't a care in the world.

"Johnny," he said.

Johnny lifted one eyebrow, cool and collected again. "I'll just be a minute," he said. "Did you and Scott have breakfast already?"

***

Johnny groomed Barranca until the palomino's golden coat gleamed, losing himself in the job. He settled down on a nearby stack of hay bales when he'd finished. It was warm in the barn, warm and oddly peaceful. Occasionally, someone came in with a horse or took one away, but Barranca's box was at the far end and no one disturbed him. He breathed in the familiar smell of horses and hay, and relaxed.

He was half asleep when he felt a presence loom over him. "Coop," he said.

The Texan took a lump of sugar from his pocket and looked at Johnny for permission before he gave it to the palomino. "He's a beauty," he said.

"Best horse I ever had," Johnny said softly. "He kind of reminds me of Dusty sometimes."

Coop's eyes crinkled. "That's not too surprising," he said. "Murdoch bought one of Dusty's colts from me years ago. I wouldn't be too surprised if he was your horse's grandsire."

Johnny's eyes widened. "Really?" He thought about it and smiled. "Life sure is strange sometimes."

"Yep," Coop agreed.

Johnny fell silent, remembering Coop's stallion. Dusty was a legend, the foundation of the Four Aces stud, but Johnny remembered him as a wild thing, running free in the canyons. They'd captured the chestnut stallion and his herd the summer that Johnny was twelve. He was recovering from a gunshot wound and Cal was mad that Coop let him ride so soon, but Johnny wouldn't have missed it for anything. Even at twelve, it wasn't the first time he had stopped a bullet. It was the first time he chased wild horses.

No one but Coop ever rode Dusty. Johnny was eager to try but Cal threatened to make him sorry he was ever born, and Johnny knew the brusque, grim-faced man meant it.

Cal was always sterner than Coop, rarely even cracking a smile, but he'd tended Johnny carefully when he was sick and watched over him with an eagle eye as he got back onto his feet. Johnny, unused to anyone telling him what to do or looking out for him, chafed at Cal's strictness. At the same time, he quickly learned to respect the retired Ranger. Cal never laid a hand on him, but those deep-set eyes seemed to be able to look right through him and guess what he was thinking. Johnny could inveigle Coop, sometimes, into letting him have his own way but there was no getting around Cal.

Johnny sighed. Except once, he amended. Cal either didn't realize or didn't care when Johnny decided it was time to ride out.

Coop had left a week earlier to report back to the army, and they were alone on the ranch except for a crippled old vaquero and his wife, who did the cooking and washing in exchange for their room and board. The old man couldn't do much work, but he kept the tack in perfect order and spun long stories about Mexico's lost glory.

One of Dusty's wild mares birthed a colt the night before Johnny left. He still remembered watching, his smile splitting his face, as the little one took his first wobbly steps. The colt nibbled curiously at Johnny's fingers before pushing his way toward his mother.

Cal had been up all night too. Johnny felt the older man's mood shift as they watched the colt. "It's time you were in bed," he said tersely. "Past time. Go on, boy."

Johnny looked up. "I'm OK," he protested. "It's almost time to get up anyway."

"Go," Cal said. "I'll take care of the morning chores."

Johnny went. Cal's face wore a black look, one the boy recognized even if he hadn't seen it before on Cal. He felt that same bitter fury when his mama died. He still did. Johnny didn't think Cal was mad at him, but the older man sure was mad at somebody. And he had learned a long time ago, the hard way, to try to stay out of the way whenever his mother's men were angry.

He kicked at a stone in the yard as he headed for the bunkhouse. Coop and Cal hadn't bothered to start on repairs to the house that summer, not while they were busy with the corrals and barn and working with the wild horses they'd captured in the canyon. The old vaquero and his wife had fixed up their own quarters, still dark at this hour. Moonlight spilled over the adobe buildings, which cast strange black shadows on the silvery land. Johnny heard coyotes yip in the distance, hunting. He stopped briefly to rub the nose of one of the young horses in the main corral.

"Sorry," Johnny whispered. "Don't have anything for you tonight but I'll bring you something tomorrow."

He felt lonely as he crossed the yard to the bunkhouse. Coop and Cal had taken him in when he was hurt, but he was fine now and reckoned it was time to move on. They'd both told him he was welcome to stay but Cal sure didn't look like he wanted company. Johnny didn't want to count on them anyway. He didn't intend to count on anybody, not ever again.

It was afternoon, from the angle of the sun, before he woke in his bunk. Johnny blinked, confused. For a minute he thought he was still sick. He didn't even remember getting undressed or going to bed. Johnny stretched and got up. He was wearing cotton long johns. Coop had bought him socks and underwear, jeans, a couple of shirts, a hat and boots. The tall man just grinned when Johnny objected and told him not to be a damn fool. They'd burned his old clothes. If he wanted to do some chores to pay them back, once he was well enough, he'd need something to wear, wouldn't he?

Johnny scrambled into jeans and a shirt, and sat down again to put on socks and his boots. He secretly loved those boots, the first he'd ever owned. Mostly, he wore Indian moccasins or went barefoot. He'd been a little dismayed, at first, to discover that boots weren't nearly as comfortable as moccasins but the stiffness was worked out of them now. Coop made sure they fitted him right and taught him to take care of them. Boots were important, he told Johnny.

Johnny wished Coop hadn't had to go back to the army, and pushed the idea away. It definitely was time to move on. He was getting soft. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot that was always on the stove and grabbed a biscuit. It looked like Cal had been there and gone, while he slept like a little kid. He jammed the biscuit hastily into his mouth, gulped some coffee, and headed for the door to help with the chores.

He left the ranch late that night, waiting until Cal was snoring before he slipped outside.

***

Coop cocked an eye at him. "Penny for your thoughts," he said.

"Not worth it." Johnny gave him a fleeting grin.

"I was surprised to hear Murdoch's your father." Coop looked back steadily. "And even more surprised you went to Lancer when he sent for you, and stayed."

Johnny ducked his head. "I didn't exactly plan on staying. But I found out Mama lied, Coop."

"Your father told you that?"

Johnny didn't look up. "Nope. Murdoch hasn't told us much of anything, Scott or me. My sister told me. She says my mother ran off with another man."

Coop raised his eyebrows. "I knew about Scott but didn't know you have a sister too."

"A foster sister," Johnny said. "Teresa. Her father was Murdoch's foreman until Pardee killed him."

"Paul O'Brien?"

"Did you know him too?"

"Yeah. He was a good man. If he told Teresa about your mama, you can trust what he said."

"I do mostly," Johnny said. "Murdoch sure is set in his ways, but he isn't like what Mama said."

"No," Coop agreed. "I remember meeting him in Visalia when you were just a baby and that man was so proud of his new son it was a wonder he didn't bust something. He invited me to visit but I had to get back to Texas. By the time I went to Lancer, you were already gone."

"Scott said you've known Murdoch a long time." Johnny didn't ask but there was a question in the blue eyes.

Coop nodded. "Before you were born. He's a good man too, Johnny. I never even thought he might be your father, not from what your mama told me. Wish I had."

Johnny wrapped his arms around his knees.

"Johnny?" Coop said.

"I guess I know he didn't do what Mama said," Johnny said. "But I don't know what he did do. I don't know either of them, not my mama and not Murdoch either."

"Give it some time, son," Coop advised.

Johnny finally looked up, a hint of mischief in his eyes, and his mouth tilted up. "You've been telling me for years that I didn't have much time."

"Johnny Madrid didn't have much time," Coop said. "But Johnny Lancer, that's a whole new story."

The impish expression disappeared and Johnny shivered slightly. "Maybe."

The barn door creaked open, letting in a wide shaft of sunlight, and they both turned to look. Bernardo slouched inside and Coop straightened up.

"Bernardo! Is the bay all right? I told you to stay with him."

The vaquero's head jerked up. "Senor? He is much better. I just stepped outside for a moment."

Coop clamped his jaw tight, biting off his immediate reaction to the barefaced lie. "See to him," he ordered. "I'll be right there."

Bernardo promptly disappeared into the bay's box, at the opposite end of the barn. Coop looked exasperated. He opened his mouth but Bernardo popped out of the box again before he spoke.

"Senor!"

"What's wrong?"

"The bay, he is down, Senor."

Coop crossed the barn in a few long strides. Johnny snatched his hat and followed him. The bay was on its side, its eyes rolling. Sweat flecked its coat.

"Damn!" Coop said.

"I'm sorry, Senor," Bernardo said. "I-I thought he was better and it would do no harm to get a hot meal."

Coop ignored him, kneeling next to his horse. The bay trembled and took a labored breath.

"He's not so good," Johnny said, dropping down next to Coop. He murmured to the horse in a low singsong and its ears pricked forward a little.

"What do you think?" Coop said to Johnny. "He's pretty far gone. Might be time to put him out of his misery. He's a damn good horse and I don't want him to suffer."

Johnny shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "There's still something we could try." He looked up at Bernardo, and spoke to him in Spanish.

Bernardo responded sharply and Coop's lip twitched. He still had trouble wrapping his own tongue around Spanish, but he'd picked up enough to understand it, even rapid, highly idiomatic exchanges like the one between Johnny and his irresponsible vaquero.

"Enough! Do what Johnny says and stop arguing," he ordered.

Bernardo stalked out, sulking, and Coop scowled. "He's no good. I told him not to leave this horse. I was just going to check on them when I saw you."

Johnny took out his knife, all of his attention focused on the horse. "You OK with me trying to make him more comfortable?"

Coop looked at the knife. He nodded.

Two hours later, Johnny had removed the horse's shoes and carefully trimmed its inflamed hoofs. Bernardo had fetched ice, as Johnny ordered, and they packed it around the bay's hoofs, so it looked like it wore boots. The horse was standing again, still tender on its feet, but no longer wild-eyed with pain. The swelling had already diminished.

Bernardo fetched two more hands. They led the horse out of the stable slowly, headed for a pasture by the river where they could soak its feet.

"Thanks, Johnny," Coop said, dropping his hand on the back of the boy's neck.

"Don't know yet if he'll make it without being lamed," Johnny warned.

"At least he has a chance now," Coop said. "Come on, son. I know I could use a drink and I bet you could too."

Bernardo watched them leave the barn, his face sullen.

***

"Cal used to take care of all the horse doctoring," Coop said to Johnny in the bar at the hotel. "He taught Miguel a lot of what he knew, luckily. Miguel still looks after the horses on the ranch, now that he's back on his feet, but he's not up to riding the trail on a cattle drive. Don't know if he ever will be."

"What happened to Miguel?" Johnny asked. He knew the Four Aces segundo from his occasional visits to the ranch.

"He took a bad fall, out in the canyons, four months ago. He's walking again now but can't ride far."

"Sorry to hear it." Johnny liked the segundo and respected his skills as a horseman.

"Yeah," Coop said. He sighed. "It was just after Bernardo came back to the ranch. I don't know if you remember him. His mama was the housekeeper for a few years after old Nina died."

Johnny thought for a minute. "Consuela?" he asked.

Coop nodded. "She left to get married and took Bernardo with her a few years back. The boy got into some trouble and she asked Miguel to give him a job and keep an eye on him. Miguel hoped he'd settle down and start pulling his weight, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen. I should have known better than to leave him alone with that horse."

"He should have known better than to leave the horse," Johnny said, his blue eyes darkening.

Coop smiled at the boy's unforgiving tone. Johnny never shirked work himself, not even when he was just a little boy.

"You know, Cal and I always hoped maybe you'd quit gunslinging before you got yourself killed and come back to the ranch. We liked to think, both of us, that maybe you'd run it after we were gone."

"What?" Johnny was stunned.

"You're the closest to a son I'll ever have," Coop pointed out. "Betsy and me, we tried, but her babies never lived more than a few hours. And Cal never had the heart to marry again after his wife and son were killed."

"Cal had a son?"

"Long time ago," Coop said. "Before the war, when he was still a Ranger."

"I never knew."

"He didn't like to talk about it. They had a little place," Coop said. "Apache raiders hit it while Cal was away on a job, and burned it. Jen and Johnny were both killed."

"Johnny?" Johnny stared at Coop, shocked.

"He was almost twelve. When you first came to Four Aces, it brought back a lot of memories for Cal. And it near broke his heart when you left."

Johnny's eyes were enormous. "I thought he wanted me to leave."

"What?"

Johnny studied his boots. "It doesn't matter now."

"Cal didn't want you to leave," Coop said. "He told me that you and him sat up with a mare the night before you took off. He said the look on your face when you saw that new colt reminded him of his own boy."

"That must be why he got mad," Johnny said, his head bowed.

"If he was mad, he sure wasn't mad at you, son. That's not why you took off, is it?"

Johnny shook his head firmly. "I would've left anyway."

Coop's face was troubled. "Cal never did show how he felt, but he cared about you."

"I know," Johnny said. "Let it go, Coop. I wasn't ready to settle down then. It didn't have anything to do with you or Cal."

"Are you ready now?"

"I don't know." Johnny picked up Coop's gloves from the table and pulled at the fingers. "Sometimes it's hard. I'm not used to staying in one place or taking orders from anyone."

"Scott said you and your father don't always get along."

"No," Johnny admitted.

"What about you and Scott?"

Johnny smiled, the dazzling smile that lit up his face and made him look years younger. "We're good," he said. "We argue some too, but that's different. I couldn't ask for a better brother."

"Glad to hear it," Coop said.

"Did you ever meet Scott's mother?"

"No," Coop said. "She was already dead when I met Murdoch. He'd taken a job as a lawman to earn some cash money. He was trying to save up enough to go to Boston and get Scott from his grandfather."

"What was he like then?" Johnny asked curiously.

Coop grinned. "He sure wasn't afraid of trouble. First time I met him was in a brawl in a saloon. I had just arrested a man and his friends didn't like it much. It was six to one and I was beginning to get the worst of it when your father waded right in and started banging heads together."

Johnny's smile grew at the idea of his upright father brawling in a bar. "Did you win?"

"Not that time," Coop said. "When Murdoch jumped in, so did all the friends of a man he'd just arrested. We woke up locked in Murdoch's own jail, both prisoners long gone, with splitting headaches and an irate saloon keeper howling about the damage."

Johnny laughed. "Did you ever get your prisoners back?"

"Yup." A small smile crossed Coop's face too. "Eventually."

***

It happened quickly. Murdoch had gone to dinner with an old friend. Scott and Johnny were walking back to the hotel after meeting Coop in a cantina for supper. Johnny stopped suddenly.

"What's the matter?" Scott asked.

Johnny looked up and down the dark street uneasily. "Just a feeling."

"Indigestion, most likely," Scott said. "I can still taste those chili peppers."

Johnny's mouth tilted upward. "It wasn't a bad meal," he said. "Just a little mild."

"Mild?" Scott's mouth burned. "You call that mild?" He cuffed his little brother playfully and Johnny ducked away, his reflexes lightning fast. Scott fully expected his brother to retaliate, but Johnny just looked down the empty street again.

It was late, and most of the businesses had closed for the night. Across the street, the windows of a saloon were lit up and a piano jangled. Raucous voices drifted out the windows.

"Are you coming?" Scott asked. "Murdoch will be wondering where we are."

"Yeah." Johnny trailed a few steps after his brother.

Scott passed a narrow alley. He heard a noise behind him, but kept walking, lengthening his stride. "Hurry up," he called.

He heard another noise and turned impatiently. Johnny was on the ground, struggling with another man. Scott watched, horrified, as the man raised his arm. He recognized Bernardo as he found his voice. "Johnny! Look out!"

Bernardo struck viciously but Johnny rolled away, struggling to his feet and pulling something from his boot.

"Madrid," the vaquero said, his voice filled with loathing. "The blue-eyed boy, always in my way. You were supposed to be dead. Why couldn't you just stay dead?" He slashed again, and Johnny dodged him.

"Just a minute," Scott protested.

"Stay out of this, Scott," Johnny warned. He feinted with his own knife and Bernardo fell back. They circled, both on their guard, but Scott could see that Johnny wasn't moving with his usual fluid grace and suspected he was bleeding somewhere. Scott pulled his gun but didn't dare shoot for fear of hitting his brother. Instead he fired in the air, hoping the shot would bring help.

Bernardo lunged forward and Johnny spun away. He aimed a kick at the vaquero and Bernardo faltered, then slashed again. This time he connected, from the sound of Johnny's indrawn breath.

"Johnny!" Scott said.

"It's nothing," Johnny said breathlessly, straightening up in a hurry.

"The great Johnny Madrid," Bernard said in a fury. "Who the hell do you think you are, Madrid? You'd ride into the ranchero for just a few days and the senors couldn't see anyone else, not even after you left, you filthy mestizo."

Scott was furious too. "Maybe that's because he's worth something and you're not."

"Shut up, gringo!"

"Scott, stay out of this," Johnny ordered again.

"No." Scott advanced on the vaquero, his eyes on the knife. Bernardo snarled at him and started to raise his arm. Something flew through the air, whistling past Scott's ear. Bernardo's eyes opened wide. He sat down abruptly in the street as his hands went up to the knife buried to the hilt in his chest.

"Johnny!" Scott whirled and grabbed for his brother. Johnny staggered and collapsed into his arms.

Hours later, Scott watched wearily as Murdoch paced across the doctor's office, fuming. Coop sat next to Scott, his head bowed. He had turned up just after the sheriff let him know his employee was dead, and how. The three of them waited in silence. Finally, the door to the surgery opened and the doctor came out.

"Doctor?" Scott said, his mouth dry. "My brother?"

"He's alive," the doctor said.

Murdoch had to clear his throat before he could ask a question. "Will he be all right?"

The doctor unrolled his sleeves and fastened his cuffs. "The boy lost a lot of blood, too much, but nothing vital was damaged," he said. "I stopped the bleeding and stitched him up. He's going to be sore, and you'll need to watch him carefully to make sure he doesn't pull out his stitches, but he has a good chance as long as the wounds don't become infected."

"Can we see him?" Murdoch asked.

"Your son is unconscious, Mr. Lancer," the doctor warned. "And I intend to keep him sedated for at least 24 hours, possibly longer. He needs complete rest."

"I understand," Murdoch said. "But I still want to see him."

The doctor nodded. "This way," he said.

Johnny didn't stir when Murdoch touched his cheek and pushed his wayward hair out of his eyes. Thick bandages wound around his torso. There were more bandages on his arm, tied in a sling.

"You're sure he's going to be all right?" Murdoch asked the doctor, alarmed at Johnny's pallor and the coolness of his skin.

"I didn't say I was sure," the doctor corrected dryly. "He's badly injured, Mr. Lancer, but I said he has a good chance. I gave him a dose of laudanum and he'll sleep through the rest of the night, but someone should keep an eye on him."

"You gave Johnny laudanum?" Scott said, dismayed. "He doesn't like it."

"He needed it," the doctor said. "And he's going to need more. Those wounds are deep and he'll be in a lot of pain."

Scott looked at his father. "I'll stay with him tonight, sir," he offered.

"No," Murdoch said flatly. "I'll sit with him."

Scott argued, but Murdoch was adamant and he finally gave in reluctantly. Coop was still sitting in the front room, his head down, when Scott came out. The blond paused, and closed the door to the surgery behind him. "It wasn't your fault, sir."

"He could have been killed." Coop's voice was full of regret and he wouldn't look at Scott. "All those years when I hollered at him for gunslinging, and he nearly gets killed by one of my damn fool mistakes."

"He wasn't," Scott said. "He's going to be all right. You know Johnny. He's too stubborn to let Bernardo win. And even if he wasn't so stubborn, I can assure you that Murdoch and I are."

Coop measured him. "Johnny was right, son," he said quietly. "You are a good brother."

***

Scott sat by his brother's bed, watching him sleep. He'd arrived at the doctor's office at sunrise and chased Murdoch back to the hotel.

Fever flushed Johnny's face. Scott soaked a cloth with water and put it on his brother's forehead. The doctor said the fever was only to be expected, but it worried him.

Dr. Thompson had been in to check on Johnny and to offer Scott a cup of coffee, liberally laced with sugar. The doctor sat Johnny up and made him cough. Then he put his stethoscope on the boy's chest, listening thoughtfully, and checked his pulse.

"How is he doing?" Scott asked.

"He's holding his own," the doctor said. "Sit him up again. I want to get some more laudanum into him."

"Johnny really hates laudanum, Doctor."

"He doesn't get a choice, not this time," the doctor said briskly. "Sit him up and be careful."

Coop came in mid-morning. "He's running a fever," Coop said after one look. "What does the doc say?"

"He expected some fever, but not this much."

Coop frowned. "Johnny usually runs a pretty high fever when he's hurt. Scared the hell out of me a few times. Especially - did the doc give him laudanum?"

"He insisted." Scott's misgivings grew. "He says Johnny needs it for the pain."

"I wouldn't let him have any more," Coop suggested. "I sure don't have any right to tell you or Murdoch what to do, but Cal figured that it makes him sicker."

"I think so too," Scott agreed.

Coop reached out, unable to resist, and cupped Johnny's face in his big hand.

"I'm heading back home today," he said after a few minutes.

"What?" Scott's surprise showed.

"He's not my boy," Coop said, smoothing Johnny's hair. "Still wish he was, but he's not. I reckon it's better this way. Maybe Murdoch and him will get some talking done while he's laid up."

Scott thought about it and nodded slightly. "Thank you, sir - Coop."

"Just take good care of him, you hear?"

"I promise." Scott met Coop's eyes squarely. "We'll take very good care of him."

Coop sighed and withdrew his hand from Johnny's face.

"Tell him," he began and stopped. "Never mind. You stop by if you're ever near Four Aces, Scott."

"We will. Both of us."

Coop took another long look at Johnny and went out the door quickly, without a backward glance.

"Coop left?" Murdoch said at noon, when he returned to the doctor's office. Johnny was still in a drugged sleep.

"This morning," Scott said.

"I suppose he blames himself but he didn't have to do that."

"He thought it would be better," Scott said. "He hoped the two of you, you and Johnny, might talk and he didn't want to get in your way."

Murdoch flushed and turned away from his elder son's clear eyes. He hadn't wanted to admit it, not even to himself, but he was slightly jealous of Coop's relationship with Johnny. He looked down at the result of another man's unreasoning jealousy and swallowed hard.

"Has he been awake?"

"Not yet. Dr. Thompson gave him some more laudanum this morning. I don't think he should have any more, sir."

"I don't want him to be in pain, Scott," Murdoch protested.

"He can handle pain," Scott said. "I'm not so sure he can handle laudanum. Coop said his partner, Cal, thought it made Johnny sicker."

"He might be right," Murdoch conceded, thinking back. When Johnny was hurt in the battle for the ranch, he vehemently objected to the drug as soon as he fought his way back to consciousness. He'd clearly been in agony and Murdoch was inclined to pour the medicine down his throat, but their doctor had advised against it. The doctor hadn't stopped it altogether, not immediately, but he'd cut back, giving him as little as possible to take the edge off the pain. Johnny started to do better immediately.

"Are we agreed then?" Scott persisted.

"We'll try it," Murdoch said cautiously.

***

Johnny shifted his head on the pillow, murmuring something in Spanish. He was far too hot. Murdoch leaned over, trying to soothe him. He was tempted to give his younger son more laudanum, despite his agreement with Scott. Johnny had been increasingly restive for the last hour. Murdoch listened, horrified, as the boy begged someone not to hit his mother again.

"Shhh," Murdoch whispered, wishing he hadn't finally succeeded in persuading Scott to go and get some food and sleep. Johnny responded better to his brother. He had from the beginning. Scott and Johnny had been complete strangers when they arrived at Lancer, but they'd bonded somehow along the way. Now they were closer than Murdoch had ever dreamed possible, given the differences between them. He hadn't forged the same strong bonds with his sons, especially not this son.

He'd learned more about his younger son's life from occasional bouts of high fever and from Coop than Johnny had ever told him. Johnny wouldn't talk about it.

At first, Murdoch hadn't wanted to hear it. He shied away from knowing too much about how his toddler grew up into a gunfighter.

But his curiosity grew as weeks and then months went by. Johnny wasn't what he expected, nothing like it. There were so many Johnnys that it bewildered the older man. At times, Johnny didn't seem much older or less innocent than the little boy he remembered, not when those vivid eyes sparkled with mischief and that contagious smile flashed across his face. At other times, he looked so lost that Murdoch just wanted to hold him tight. And sometimes he was plain impossible, jumping recklessly into trouble and arguing furiously with his father over nothing at all. Murdoch wasn't sure who the real Johnny was. The boy was like quicksilver, slipping elusively out of his grasp. Murdoch was increasingly afraid he would slip away altogether, like his mother. He'd tried desperately to steel himself against caring too much and getting hurt again. He'd failed at that too.

Johnny whimpered in his sleep, something Murdoch knew his son would never, ever do if he were awake, and he bent over him. "It's all right," he said. "You're safe, John."

The blue eyes opened. They were dazed and Murdoch picked up Johnny's hand, squeezing it gently. Johnny stared at him blankly. "M-Murdoch," he finally whispered. Alarm filled his eyes and he tried to twist his head. "Where's Scott?"

"Scott is fine," Murdoch said calmly. "Stay still, son. You're the one who's hurt and you need to stay still."

"B-Bernardo," Johnny said.

"He's dead," Murdoch said. "You don't have to worry about him."

"Mad?" Johnny barely exhaled the word.

"Not at you." Murdoch's voice was deep and he looked into his son's eyes, trying to reassure him. He poured water into a glass and held it to Johnny's mouth, lifting his head. "It's just water. Take a sip."

Johnny sipped obediently. He still looked desperately confused. Murdoch set him back on the pillow and sat down carefully on the edge of the bed.

"It's all right," he said again, watching the boy fight to keep his eyes open. "You can rest easy, John. Scott or I will be right here, looking out for you."

Johnny was losing his battle with exhaustion. "You g-gonna keep the lizard away?" he said out of the blue as his eyes closed.

"You can count on it, son," Murdoch promised.

Johnny let out his breath and slid back into sleep.

***

The youngest Lancer was more alert the next time he woke. "No more laudanum," he said groggily, rubbing his eyes with his good hand. "Please."

"Scott and I already told the doctor," Murdoch agreed, offering him some more water. Johnny lay back and shut his eyes, his jaw clenched. His temperature had dropped, to Murdoch's relief. He still felt feverish, but nothing like before.

"Sorry," he said drowsily. "Didn't mean to make trouble for you again."

"What?" Murdoch stared at his son. "This is not your fault. Do you hear me, John?"

The long lashes fluttered and Johnny opened his sapphire eyes. Murdoch wondered how much trouble those blue eyes had caused and how often his son had been called a filthy mestizo, or worse. Scott had told him what Bernardo said during the fight.

"Johnny," he said. "I'm the one who's sorry."

Johnny was puzzled. "What for?"

"Your mother and I, we didn't think about what we were letting you in for."

A faint smile crossed Johnny's face, to Murdoch's amazement. "You're not telling me you're sorry I was ever born, are you?"

"No!" Murdoch said immediately. "I'd never tell you that. The night you were born was the happiest in my life."

Johnny gave him a skeptical look.

"It's true," Murdoch insisted. "I wasn't there when Scott was born. I didn't know what it really meant to be a father until the first time I held you in my arms. You were so tiny and so perfect, and I loved you so much."

Johnny dropped his lashes again, so Murdoch couldn't see his eyes.

"It is true, son," he said, a little embarrassed. "It always was, no matter what your mother told you later."

"Did you love her too?"

Murdoch sighed. That was harder. "I did. I fell in love with her the first time I saw her, and we married within a month."

He wondered how he could possibly explain to his son. He had courted Scott's mother for months, but they hadn't done much more than hold hands and talk for hours about everything under the sun. He and Maria spent little time on talk. They made love the night they met, under the moon, both of them bewitched and behaving like wild things. She was as eager for it as he was, and Murdoch always suspected they conceived Johnny during that first abandoned night. It had certainly happened before Maria agreed to marry him, something else Murdoch preferred not to tell his son.

Maria intoxicated Murdoch from the first time he set eyes on her. He hadn't come to his senses for a long time, not until months after Johnny was born. That was really when the arguments started. Maria wasn't nearly so besotted with their small son. She always resented the amount of time Murdoch spent working on the ranch and she quickly began to resent the time he spent with the baby, time she regarded as her own. But he couldn't possibly tell Johnny that either.

Murdoch adored Maria but he expected her to grow up when she became a wife and mother. And she hadn't, not at all. She was still the same enchanting, heedless girl he met in the moonlight at Matamoras. He wanted her to live up to her responsibilities to the ranch, to him and especially to their child. That hadn't happened. Instead, she'd finally run away. And she took Johnny with her, in a final, irrevocable act of irresponsibility.

Murdoch glanced at his son. "I knew your mother wasn't happy by the time she left," he said aloud. "I didn't realize how unhappy, not until it was too late. I wish I had."

Johnny shifted a little and couldn't hide his wince. Murdoch shot him a concerned look, but refrained from commenting on it. "I didn't kick her out, son," he said. "And I've never been ashamed that she was Mexican."

Johnny's eyes were still shuttered and Murdoch hoped he had fallen asleep. He was surprised when the boy spoke again, so softly that he could barely hear him. "That wasn't all she said."

"What else did she tell you, John?" Murdoch didn't think Maria could have thought of anything worse to tell their son, but he wasn't so sure now from the look on Johnny's face. "Tell me."

Johnny lifted his blue eyes suddenly. Fever, pain and the after-effects of the drug loosened his tongue and he found himself telling his father something he'd never admitted aloud before. "She said you didn't think I was really your son. She was sure but she said, she said you didn't believe her."

Murdoch felt like someone had punched him in the gut. "That's a lie," he said furiously when he trusted himself to speak again.

Johnny looked away. Murdoch took his son's face in both hands, turning it so he could gaze into Johnny's eyes. "No, John, look at me," he said firmly when the boy tried to pull away. "This is important. I'm angry, but not at you. You were not to blame, in any way, for what happened between your mother and me. I know you're mine, I always loved you and nothing will ever change that. Do you understand?"

"No." Johnny's voice was just barely above a mumble. "I don't understand."

Murdoch looked at his son's strained face and belatedly remembered Johnny had nearly bled to death from three knife wounds. He was supposed to be making sure the boy rested. But he couldn't leave this discussion here.

"I can't say I understand everything that happened either," he said cautiously. "Your mother and I, we both said a lot of things when we were angry at each other. But I never doubted that you're my son, or stopped caring about you. If I had realized she planned to leave, I would have tried to stop her. And I never would have let her take you away from Lancer. I would have given anything to prevent that."

He had said something wrong. He wasn't sure what it was, but he could see the doubt in Johnny's eyes and felt sick. He could also see that Johnny was somewhere well beyond worn out.

"You need to sleep now, son," he said gently. "I'll be here when you wake, I promise."

***

Murdoch was there when Johnny woke again, although it meant a long argument with Scott.

"I promised your brother," Murdoch said finally. "I'm not going to let him down, not again."

"Did Johnny ask you to stay?"

"No," Murdoch admitted. "Not exactly."

"Then I doubt very much if he would expect you to make yourself sick too," Scott said, pressing his advantage. "You can't do him much good if you're exhausted too, sir. Go and get something to eat and some sleep. I'll look after Johnny."

"I know you will, but I promised," Murdoch said stubbornly.

He was dozing in a chair when he heard Scott speak quietly to his brother. He stood and limped across the room stiffly. His back ached unbearably.

Johnny gave him an undecipherable look. Scott frowned at him too, but gave up his seat by the bed.

"I'm going to get some of the broth Mrs. Thompson is keeping hot," he said. "I won't be long."

Murdoch sat down, suppressing a groan. Johnny sneaked another look at him.

"I can see that you're better but don't even try to tell me you're fine," Murdoch warned him. He put a hand on his son's forehead. "At least the fever is nearly gone."

"You don't have to stay. I've been hurt before and this isn't so bad."

"I want to stay," Murdoch said. "Do you remember what we were talking about last night, John?"

Johnny's eyes turned dark. "Yeah," he said shortly. "My mother."

"And my wife," Murdoch reminded him.

Johnny lifted his chin defiantly. The gesture was so familiar that it took Murdoch's breath away. "Not for long, Old Man."

Murdoch felt his temper rise and clamped it down. That was exactly what Johnny wanted, he realized, to divert him from a conversation Johnny didn't want to continue.

"You don't have to tell me anything, son," he said calmly. "Not unless you want to. But I still have some things to tell you."

Johnny's eyes widened, just a little bit, before he took control over his face. Murdoch thought grimly that his son really shouldn't be so surprised that he hadn't blown sky high. That deepened his resolve to keep his temper.

"I told you that I would have given anything to prevent your mother from taking you away from Lancer," Murdoch said.

"Anything but Lancer," Johnny said softly.

Murdoch paused. He had told both of his sons that he loved the ranch more than anything in the world when he called them home to save it. It had been true at the time, or he thought so then. He thought so right up until the moment when he watched the land pirates shoot his younger son off his horse. His whole world had shifted then, cracking along old fault lines and settling with a crash into a new, unfamiliar landscape. Just now, part of that landscape was hostile.

"Lancer was your future," he said. "Yours and Scott's. I honestly don't know what I would have done if I had to make that choice but it never was the choice."

"You stayed there instead of coming after me," Johnny said.

It was a flat statement, not an accusation. And it chilled Murdoch more than anything Johnny had said when they argued furiously. "No, son. I did go after you when your mother left. I looked for you in Mexico and on the border for nearly a year. Paul and Cipriano ran the ranch."

Johnny stared at him. "You left the ranch and went to Mexico yourself?" he whispered.

"Of course I did." Murdoch was just as surprised. Surely Johnny couldn't think he hadn't even tried to find his own son. He hadn't told Johnny about it, hadn't actually told his son anything about what happened so many years ago, but it had never occurred to him that the boy would doubt it. He looked into those stunned eyes and knew he'd made another mistake. Johnny had grown up thinking that his father didn't want him. He didn't have any reason to think Murdoch had ever gone out of his way to get him back.

"Why did you give up?" Johnny asked.

"I didn't ever give up, John. But I wasn't getting anywhere on my own. I had no idea where to look. I didn't even know if you or your mother were still alive. I knew the man she left with was dead, but it was like the two of you just vanished without any trace." Murdoch's frustration was clear in his voice.

Johnny knew enough about tracking to know when to abandon a cold trail. He was startled to hear that his father had left the ranch for so long to try to find him, but he believed him. He tried to picture a gringo rancher on the border, almost twenty years ago, hunting for one small boy and a woman who never stayed long in one place. A smile suddenly tugged on his mouth.

"I know I let you down," Murdoch said, wondering what his son could possibly find amusing. "But it wasn't ever because I didn't care."

He broke off and glared at his son. "Johnny, what is so funny?"

Johnny held his good arm against his ribs, trying to suppress his laughter. "S-sorry," he said. "Just pictured you riding through Mexico, asking for a dark-haired woman named Maria."

Murdoch scowled. "It wasn't funny at all," he said. "It was impossible."

Johnny's laughter disappeared quickly. "I know. Can't believe you even tried it." He looked up at his father. "Means something that you did."

"I just wish I'd found you." Murdoch noticed that Johnny was still clutching his ribs. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"It's OK," Johnny said. "Just don't make me laugh again."

"I didn't intend for you to laugh that time," Murdoch retorted. He was never going to understand this son. He ruffled Johnny's hair, not even pretending that he was just checking for fever. He didn't know how his son's sense of humor had survived those years on the border, any more than he knew how the boy had survived, but he was glad it had. Maybe it would get them both through the ordeal of learning to be a father and son. "I wonder what's keeping your brother."

"I'm right here." Scott carried a tray into the room. "And so is your breakfast, such as it is, Johnny. Mrs. Thompson has a meal waiting for you, Murdoch, in the kitchen."

Murdoch looked at Johnny. "Do you want me to stay?" he asked.

Johnny shook his head, frowning at the bowl on Scott's tray. "Not as long as you come back," he said. "Only, if you really do love me, bring a steak with you, not broth."

"I don't know about the steak, but I do and I'll be back," Murdoch promised.

The blue eyes turned serious, just for a second. Johnny nodded slightly but didn't say anything. Murdoch patted his shoulder and stood. He could hear his sons arguing as he headed to the kitchen, and then more laughter. He hoped Johnny didn't pull out any of his stitches.

"Boys," the doctor's wife said, smiling as she listened.

Murdoch smiled back at her.

THE END

Whistle, May 2005

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