[Becky’s portion of the LancerTV chain story – Scott and Johnny have been walking all over the desert with various bullet wounds inflicted by a man from Scott’s past, who blames Scott for the death of his pregnant sister when their regiment burned her land during Sherman’s march. The man is dead, and Murdoch and Jelly found the brothers and brought them home. How’s that for a quick synopsis???]
Desert Nightmares
Becky’s’ portion of a Lancer chain
story
The battle for Scott Lancer’s life dragged on for days. The doctor had been waiting for them in the living room, but as soon as he heard the sound of the wagon he dashed outside, barely ahead of Teresa. One look at Scott was sufficient to tell him he was in for an extended fight, but he could see that Johnny Lancer needed help, too. He started issuing orders.
Jelly dashed to open the doors to the ranch house so they’d have a clear path carrying Scott to his room. Teresa ran to the kitchen to fetch the hot water she’d kept at a near-boil all morning. Murdoch shouted for more men to help carry his oldest son inside.
The doctor climbed up into the bed of the wagon next to Johnny and gently detached his hand from his brother’s.
“Johnny,” he called, snapping his fingers in front of the younger man’s eyes. “You’re home, Johnny, you can let go now.”
“Can’t,” mumbled Johnny. “Gotta stay with Scott or he’ll leave.”
Doc Jenkins sighed. It was going to be like that, was it? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen the grit and determination of one family member help save another. In the meantime, though . . . “Let me see that shoulder,” he said, pushing the exhausted young man back against the side of the wagon. He lifted the makeshift poncho someone had given him, like his brother, to help protect them from the sun.
“No, can’t leave–”
“Leave him be for a minute so your father can get him upstairs. The quicker you let me tend to you, the quicker you can join him.”
“The doc’s right,” came Murdoch’s calm voice from behind him.
“He’s gotta help Scott,” Johnny answered desperately.
“He will,” soothed Murdoch. “But he may as well tend you while we get Scott upstairs. Now, behave yourself, son; you’re just delaying things.”
At that, Johnny finally acquiesced – he wouldn’t let anything get in the way of helping his brother.
Relieved, Doc Jenkins helped him to the ground, finally allowing the men room to get to Scott. He and Murdoch eased Johnny into the house, but as soon as they got him onto the couch, Murdoch was back out the door to supervise the moving of his other son.
Johnny relaxed into the corner of the couch, his head tipped back against the soft cushions as he slowly tried to relax. A sharp prodding at his shoulder brought a low moan to his throat, and he caught his lower lip between his teeth to stifle a second.
“This needs to be cleaned out good,” said the doctor, “but I don’t have much time.”
“Do . . . what you gotta,” he gasped.
Doc Jenkins studied him for a moment. “All right. This is going to hurt like hell, Johnny, but it’s the quickest way to stave off any infection.”
Johnny nodded. Even in his increasingly bleary state, he knew what the doctor had in mind. “Brandy . . . in the cabinet.” He watched as if from a great distance while the doctor gathered his tools. He heard him call out, “Jelly, over here,” then the raspy voice answering, “Jaysus, Doc! You sure?”
Then someone put a rolled cloth between his teeth, he was pushed forward onto Jelly, somehow his shirt was off, and cold liquid poured fire on his aching shoulder. He saw the flame move quickly from the fireplace to someplace behind him, and tried to brace himself. He buried his head in the old man’s shoulder, but even so, his scream was heard throughout the house. He didn’t feel it when the doctor touched the burning stick to the alcohol-soaked wound on his chest, though – he’d passed out into Jelly’s arms.
***********
Fortunately, the men had already lowered Scott to the bed when Johnny’s scream tore through the house, for everyone in the room flinched. Teresa turned white at the sound, but Murdoch steadied her with a touch on the arm.
“Doc’ll be up here in a few minutes. Let’s get Scott ready for him.”
She nodded and set about removing Scott’s bloodstained poncho by virtue of cutting it off of him with her sewing shears, but her eyes traveled often to the open door.
Taking pity on her distress, Murdoch rose. “I’ll check on him and be right back.”
She nodded once more, and he smiled. “Good girl. Time enough for all of us to fall apart later.” He waited for her to smile back, and when she did – granted, just a slight tilt of the upturned lips – he headed downstairs.
He found his youngest unconscious in Jelly’s arms, tears running unashamedly down the old man’s face.
“That’ll do for now,” the doctor said, tying off the last bandage around Johnny’s chest. “He’s likely to feel sick when he wakes up, so get him up to bed. I’ll wrap his ankle later, after I finish with Scott.”
Full-grown Johnny Lancer might be, but his father was tall and strong, and he easily lifted his son from Jelly’s arms into his own. He stood for a moment, gazing down on his son’s face, now tucked almost trustingly against his shoulder, his boy’s arms and legs hanging like a gangly colt’s.
“Anybody’d think you was makin’ up fer lost time,” muttered Jelly roughly as he wiped the moisture from his face.
Murdoch headed for the stairs, and Jelly thought he heard his boss and friend answer, “Anybody’d probably be right.”
**********
Teresa had just finished getting Scott settled in his bed and was trying to decide whether or not to remove the rough dressings on his wounds when the doctor finally arrived. He looked approvingly at the shears she still held.
“Let’s see if we can get these bandages off without doing any more damage,” he said.
They worked side by side, Teresa ready with whatever the doctor needed. Once they had the bloody cloths free, they set to work to repair the damage wreaked by the three bullets. Teresa took care of the scrape on Scott’s arm while the doctor examined his other wounds. She gave the bloody gash a quick wash with a cloth and a liberal rinsing with the bottle of brandy, followed by a simple gauze wrapping. Doc Jenkins nodded approvingly. They both knew that, although the other wounds were more serious, as weak as Scott was, an infection from even this scrape could be deadly. Nothing could be ignored.
Teresa had already cleaned the medical instruments for him by laying them in a shallow bowl and pouring boiling water over them. One night when he was their dinner guest, she’d overheard him talking to Scott about medical treatment on the battlefield. A casual comment by the doctor had led Scott to ask some pointed and discerning questions. Soon Doc Jenkins found he had a willing, educated and interested listener for discussions of the latest theories on cleanliness and infection. Johnny, Jelly and Murdoch had retreated hastily to the porch for after-dinner cigars and brandy at the first mention of amputation, but Teresa had found herself fascinated. She didn’t understand as much as Scott, but she had a frontierswoman’s practical experience with injuries and medicine, and she’d learned a lot that night. She had hoped she would never have to practice what she’d learned, especially not on her family, but she was comforted, knowing that Doc Jenkins would be able to give her dear friends – brothers by love, if not blood – the very best care available.
Doc Jenkins saw the tears in her eyes, but also knew she would never falter. He smiled at her, wondering once more how anyone could speak of women as the weaker sex. In purely physical terms, perhaps they were, but in everything else – fortitude, resilience, stamina, enduring both physical and emotional pain – he’d rarely seen men who could consistently match them.
“You’re doing fine, Teresa. If I manage to pull him through this, it will be because of your help.” He was pleased to see fresh strength in the way she straightened her spine. Yes, this girl had courage.
They continued to work on the ugly wounds, and he was dimly aware of other people appearing at the doorway as he probed, cut, cleaned, and sewed. He took no real notice of them, though, until Murdoch Lancer’s hand appeared practically in front of his face, holding a glass of pure, sparkling, cool water. Lancer held it for him, for his own hands were covered in gore from trying to repair Scott’s damaged lung, and he drained it gratefully. Lancer then wet a spare cloth and gently wiped his face. Refreshed, the doctor went back to work.
A while later, when he was cleaned up a bit and about to start on the wound from the bullet that had torn through Scott’s side, Murdoch pushed him back from the bed for a moment and handed him a steaming mug of coffee, liberally laced with cream and sugar. Not only was it fixed exactly to his taste, it was also a welcome boost to his energy.
He took a deep breath, straightened, and blinked in the lamplight, suddenly aware of the reason for his fatigue – he’d been working all afternoon on Scott Lancer, and now dusk had fallen.
Murdoch took advantage of the break in the doctor’s attention to ask, “How’s it going?”
“He’s still alive,” Doc Jenkins answered brusquely.
“How much longer?” Jelly asked, his face creased in worn-down grief.
“Don’t know,” he shot back. “And the longer we jabber, the longer it’ll be.”
Jelly started to huff in indignation, but Murdoch soothed him with a hand on his shoulder. “Doc, he just wants to know so he can bring you something to eat if you need it.”
Jenkins calmed, already ashamed of his outburst. “Sorry. Thank you, Jelly, but I think I’ll be finished soon. Or at least I will have done everything I could. After that, it’ll be mostly up to your friend.”
“Teresa, how are you holding up?” Murdoch asked.
“I’m fine,” she protested.
Jenkins checked her over professionally. “She’ll last, Murdoch. She’s got sand. But she’ll likely need to sleep for a good three days when this is all over.”
“Three days!” she squeaked, indignant. “I will not!”
The others all laughed, a relief of tension that left them a bit giddy.
“Now, go on, you two.” Doc Jensen shooed at Murdoch and Jelly. “We’ll let you know if we need anything.”
“All right,” said Murdoch. “I’ll go check on Johnny, then make sure there’s something cooking downstairs.”
Teresa started to say something but Jelly cut her off. “Don’t you worry none, little gal. I found everythin’ you set out, and I got a right tasty stew goin’ from it. You know it’ll just get better, the longer it cooks, so jest take your time.” He sobered then, as did they all when they followed his gaze to the blonde young man lying so still and silent on the bed. “Jest . . . take your time.”
**********
Johnny had passed from unconsciousness straight into an exhausted sleep, so Murdoch didn’t disturb him. He stood in the darkened room for a long time, though, staring down at his youngest son, seeing his older boy in his mind, wondering if he was going to lose one or both of them.
That long night by the campfire, Johnny had told him what happened to them, and a bit of why, but they’d both been too busy trying to keep Scott alive to think much about the scars the eldest Lancer son already carried. Now, though, Murdoch was thinking about what Scott had been through. Everyone knew or could guess that Johnny’d had a rough time growing up – it showed in his easy way of walking, the soft drawl, the straight look in his eyes. Everything about him declared that he was a man to be respected.
In contrast, Scott appeared almost frail sometimes. He was thinner, almost fine-boned, and his ready smile and friendly gaze, along with the knowledge that until recently he’d spent his life in the civilized East, led people to think he was an easy mark. Murdoch had known better almost immediately upon meeting his older son, and it hadn’t taken Johnny or the more perceptive of the ranch hands much longer. The locals soon learned that Scott had one of the finest minds in the Valley and was as hard to best at business as he was at cards. Then the word got out that he’d fought in the War, that he’d survived a year in a Confederate prison. Few who heard chose to take him on physically, either, after those revelations. There was a resilient, whipcord strength in that slim body. Murdoch hoped that it would be enough to keep him alive.
The dark young man who lay before him was, at first appearance, much sturdier, but the emotions of this second son, Murdoch had decided, were much more fragile than his brother’s. A legacy of growing up without any parents, he supposed. He hadn’t been able to be parent to either boy, but Scott, at least, had had Harlan Garrett. For better or worse, his grandfather had loved him and cared for him. Johnny’s mother had done the best she could by their son, but once she died, his youngest had been alone, and it had marked him. Murdoch worried for Scott’s life, but he worried for this one’s soul if he should lose his new-found brother.
Johnny stirred restlessly, and Murdoch pulled a chair up next to his bed. He checked for fever and, finding him a little warm, dampened a cloth to lay on his forehead. Johnny’s eyes opened, their vivid blue dulled by fatigue and pain.
“Murdoch?” he whispered.
“I’m here,” Murdoch answered quietly, his deep voice a reassuring rumble.
“Scott?” The hopeful expression on his son’s face filled in the rest of the question.
Never one to mollycoddle people, Murdoch answered bluntly. “Doc’s still working on him. So far so good, but we probably won’t know anything until tomorrow. He’s in pretty bad shape. How are you feeling?”
“Oh,” Johnny murmured lightly, “all things considered, not too bad.”
“Are you up to eating anything yet? Jelly has some stew going, he could make up a bowl of broth.”
Johnny’s lips twisted in a grimace. “Don’ think so, yet. My head’s still swimming. I’d about kill for some water, though.”
Murdoch poured a glass from the pitcher on the endtable, then slid an arm under his son’s shoulders, carefully avoiding his wound. He lifted him just enough to drink, and waited patiently for Johnny to finish the glass. “Do you want more?”
“No,” he answered faintly, eyes closing. “Maybe later. Just . . . keep me up on Scott . . .”
“I will,” Murdoch promised.
Johnny nodded once, satisfied. He and Murdoch understood each other. Neither would be thankful for someone trying to save them from eventual pain. They’d rather hear the truth, no matter how tough. So Johnny could rest, knowing that his father would tell him straight out if the worst happened. And Murdoch knew that, no matter what pain it might bring his son, if Scott didn’t make it, he would wake Johnny and tell him.
So Johnny slipped into deep slumber while his father sat, unable to sleep, at his side.
**********
Teresa didn't stay asleep for three days, but the sun was well up in the sky the next day before she opened her eyes. She groaned softly when she tried to move. Every muscle in her body ached, and she desperately needed a drink of water. And a scalding hot cup of coffee, she thought as she dragged herself to a sitting position. She stretched, trying to work out some of the soreness, and realized she'd been hearing voices murmuring on the other side of her door.
"It ain't botherin' someone just to peek to see if they's awake," came the unmistakably gruff voice of the old man she'd come to love as a grandfather.
"If you wake her up, I'm going to--" but here Murdoch Lancer had to break off, because Jelly had opened the door and discovered she was not only awake, but ready to get up.
"See? I tole ya she'd be needin' somethin' to eat." He brought his cloth-covered tray to the table by her bed, and his voice instantly changed from gruff and haughty to soothing and concerned. "You doin' all right, honey?" he asked, eyebrows raised in worry.
Murdoch followed him, as usual when dealing with the ranch foreman, exasperation warring with amusement.
"Scott and Johnny?" she asked immediately, though she knew Murdoch and Jelly well enough to know the news wouldn't be devastating. They wouldn't have been sparring in that half-serious, half-fooling way if either of the Lancer boys had died in the night.
"Pretty much the same," said Murdoch calmly. "Give Johnny a day or so to sleep and he'll be on the mend. As for Scott, he's still holding on. Doc Jenkins says if he can make it through the next couple of days, then he has a chance. I hope you slept well, because we're going to need your help."
Jelly had been fussing with the tray, setting it across her legs, laying the cloth on her lap and pouring her coffee. She drained it, followed by the glass of fresh juice and began to feel more human. "I slept just fine, though I feel like I spent the last few days in the saddle."
Murdoch smiled at her description and with satisfaction, watched her dig into her meal. "It's hard work to stand like you did, especially when you're worried and strained tight. I imagine that after you've had some breakfast and had a short ride you'll feel a lot better."
She'd picked up a piece of preserves-covered fresh bread and now waved it at him as she looked him straight in the eye. "If you think I'm going to go riding when Scott and Johnny--"
Murdoch interrupted. "Teresa, this is going to be hard on all of us. We can't afford to wear ourselves out or skip meals or not get any fresh air. You'll have your turn with the boys, believe me."
"I'm sorry," she said and dropped her gaze to the napkin she was twisting into knots. "I'm just so worried about them, and I'm the best qualified nurse we have."
He took the long step to stand at her side and cupped the side of her head in his large, work-roughened hand. She leaned into it, her trust for this man almost overcoming her worry for the two she considered her brothers.
"I know you are," he said. "That's why we have to be especially careful not to wear you out. When you can rest, you will, because we don't know what we're facing with Scott."
"Yeah," Jelly inserted. "He could take on a fever, gettin' all delirious and rollin' around in bed, rip them wounds open, and if you was all tuckered out, why, where'd we be then?"
"Jelly," Murdoch warned. "I don't think we need to create any more excitement than we already have."
"Oh. Yeah." He snatched up Teresa's finished tray. "I'm just gonna take this back down, now she's done et it all. Some folks around here know how to follow advice, unlike them's what gives it and then turns right around and ignores it."
Teresa's lips quirked up in amusement as Jelly left the room. "You didn't finish your breakfast?"
Murdoch had the grace to look a bit abashed. He shook his head. "I thought I'd heard Johnny calling."
"Well, if he hasn't yet, he will soon, and I'd better be dressed and ready. I want to speak with the doctor before he leaves, too." She started to scoot out of bed.
"We'll likely be in Scott's room," Murdoch said. "Join us either there or downstairs for coffee."
"Murdoch . . ." she said pensively, her gaze on the far wall as if she could see through it to the deathly ill man in the next room.
"I don't know, Teresa," he answered her unspoken question. "I just don't know."
**********
Scott had spent a restless night, though he'd never regained consciousness. Jelly had tried several times to get him to drink some water, but only a few trickles went down his throat. His skin was taut and dry as well as hot to the touch with more than sunburn. The doctor was shaking his head when Murdoch entered.
"Too high," he muttered.
"Fever?"
Doc Jenkins looked up. "Yes. Too high too soon. I have to tell you, this isn't good."
Murdoch sat on the edge of the bed and rested his hand on his son's forehead. Scott seemed to relax against it for a moment, then turned his head fretfully to the side. His lips moved, but no sound came out. "What can we do?"
"Try to keep him cooled down." He sighed. "I have some medicine you can give him, but there really isn't much else. Keep trying to get him to drink. The more water you can get into him, the more it'll help the fever. Juice would be good as well, if he'll take it. From what Johnny said this morning, they were out in that desert for quite some time without proper food or enough to drink. He's come into this weak, Murdoch, and it's not helping."
Murdoch nodded, but his attention had been caught by the doctor's reference to his other son. "Johnny was awake?"
For the first time, Doc Jenkins smiled. "Trying hard not to swear, first because his ankle hurt so bad he couldn't walk on it, then because it hurt when I strapped it up, and finally when I told him to stay put in bed for two days, to give the swelling time to go down."
"And the bullet wound?" Teresa asked as she entered the room.
"No infection. It'll heal clean. He'll be weak for a couple of days from the blood loss, which is one reason I don't want him up and about on that ankle. It would be hard enough for him to get around on two sound legs, because he's going to be dizzy until he gets some good food into him and some decent sleep, and it would be too easy for him to fall."
Murdoch sighed. "He'll be like a caged mountain lion, once he gets his wits back about him."
"Keep him in bed anyway," the doctor advised. "I said the wound would heal clean, but if he busts it open again, anything could happen."
"He'll stay put. I'll see to that."
Scott shifted restlessly on the bed. Teresa soaked a cloth in the bowl of cool water and started wiping his face. "Why don't you all go downstairs and get some coffee," she suggested, glancing meaningfully at her patient. "I'll take care of him."
***********
They did, but Scott didn't settle. As the day drew on he grew more restive, until Teresa finally asked for one of the men to stay with her all the time to help keep him from moving around too much. She took breaks because Murdoch insisted on it, but she spent them in Johnny's room, watching him sleep peacefully.
It was early evening and her third silent visit to his room. She was just getting up to leave when she heard him whisper her name. She sat on the bed next to him and felt his forehead for fever. Good. It was cool. But when she lifted her hand, Johnny grabbed at it to keep it in place.
He smiled slightly, though his eyes stayed closed. "Mmm," he murmured. "Feels good."
"Headache?" she asked sympathetically.
"Yeah." He cracked one eye open. "Got any water?"
"Right here," and she smiled, "but you'll have to let go of me."
He let his hand fall, but she suspected it was as much because he was too tired to hold onto her anyway. She helped him drink a glass, then flipped his pillows so he could rest on the fresh, cool linen. "You'll be needing one of the men in here, soon, I'd think," she commented.
"Yeah," he agreed, "but first tell me about Scott."
She settled herself on the edge of his bed again, and took his left hand. "It's bad, Johnny. He's so weak, and his fever keeps getting higher. He won't lie still, and I'm afraid he'll open up his wounds again." She tried to keep the worry out of her voice, but it wobbled anyway.
"I could go sit with him, talk to him--"
She shook her head vehemently. "It's too soon for you to be moving around. Your own wound would open up, and then we'd have both of you to take care of."
He subsided then, as she knew he would. The only thing that would keep him from his brother was the knowledge that he'd be taking help away from him.
He turned his head away in frustration. "I wanna do something."
She stroked his hand. "I know you do, Johnny, but honestly, he wouldn't even know you were there. He doesn't recognize any of us, doesn't even respond when we talk to him or touch him." Her breath hitched, and he turned back to her. A single tear slid down her cheek. "I'm afraid we're losing him. Oh, Johnny--"
He drew her down onto his chest and she broke down completely, sobbing out all her fears. He stroked her hair, letting her cry, murmuring wordless assurances until she began to regain control.
"I'm sorry," she hiccupped into his good shoulder.
"I'm not," he said softly. "You needed that. It's how we all feel, Teresa."
She sat up, her words muffled as she tried to wipe her face clean. "But I'm the one who broke down."
He was silent a moment, trying to find the words to explain. "Men and women are different. Our tears are all on the inside, women's are on the outside. It's not good or bad, it's just the way we are. It's when you let yourself go, and what you do when you're done, that's important. You're all worn out from all you're doin' and you needed to let loose a bit, but now you'll be ready to go back and help Scott, right?"
She took a deep breath and nodded.
He reached up and touched her face lightly. "You know, for such a young gal you've got a lot of sense, Teresa O'Brien."
She sniffled a bit, but found a smile for him. "Thanks, Johnny Lancer. For an old man, you make pretty good sense, yourself."
"Old man!" he huffed, but she saw the glint in his eye. "I'll 'old man' you! You got any food downstairs, and I'll show you how fast this 'old man' can get back on his feet!"
She rose and shook out her skirts. "Then I'll send Jelly up here right away with something for you, and he can make you a bit more comfortable while he's at it."
"You do that," he called as she headed to the door.
She paused with her hand on the latch, then turned back to him. "You said you wanted to help," she said quietly. "You did." And she left him, if not exactly happy, at least more content.
***********
Johnny had to depend upon reports from the visitors to his room. He fretted at the restriction to bed, but every time he thought about getting up to see his brother for himself, he remembered Teresa's warning about taking their attention away from Scott by hurting himself. He was honest enough to acknowledge that if he couldn't even sit up without getting dizzy, he'd never make it down the hall, but he also vowed he'd do everything he could to get well as fast as possible. So he ate what they brought him, slept as much as he could, and generally astounded everyone by his seemingly cheerful compliance.
His father knew what he was doing, though, and finally took pity on him the afternoon of the second full day he'd been home. Murdoch looked terrible; his face drawn, his eyes dark wells of grief. He moved like an old man, settling into the chair by Johnny’s bed with a deep sigh.
“That bad?” Johnny asked.
“It was a rough night,” Murdoch answered. “A rough morning. A couple of times I had to hold him in bed.” The pain of that moment still showed in the shadows of his eyes. “He’s getting quieter now, but whether that means he’s better or worse, I can’t tell.”
Johnny thumped his free hand on the bed. “I need to see him, Murdoch. I’m tryin’ to do what Doc Jenkins said, stay in bed and get well, not make any more trouble for you an’ Teresa, but I’ve gotta see him.”
Murdoch snorted a short laugh. “As if I didn’t know this was coming.” He stood, stretching his long, lanky body. “Come on, then, let’s see if we can get you down the hall without having you trip or pass out or something.”
Johnny felt a sudden upsurge of energy. “Really?” he asked with a grin, and started pushing himself up.
“Slow down, boy, slow down. We’ll get there.” He helped his son to sit on the edge of the bed and peered into his face. “Any dizziness? And be straight with me.”
He knew his father was serious. The room swam for a moment, then steadied. “I’m all right, now. I think as long as we take it slow . . .”
“One step at a time, then.” He adjusted the sling that held Johnny’s right arm in place, then bent so his son could put his left arm around his shoulder. The arm he put around his son’s waist was comforting as well as supportive, and Johnny stood with more confidence than he’d felt a few moments before.
He yelped, though, when his sore ankle took his weight for the first time. “It’s okay,” he quickly assured his father. “Just need to get better at this.”
They maneuvered through the door and down the hall, the tall rancher supporting his barefoot, nightshirt-clad son. Johnny’s hair fell in his eyes, and he knew he looked a mess with one arm in a sling and his tightly wrapped ankle, but he didn’t care if it meant he could see his brother. He was grateful, though, to see the cushioned rocking chair that had been placed near the head of Scott’s bed. He settled into it with a sigh that turned to a groan when he took in his brother’s condition. He waved away Teresa’s concern and reached for Scott’s hand.
He looked awful. He was pale, which Johnny had expected, but he’d become impossibly leaner, the fever burning off any excess flesh and leaving the fine bones of his face delicately outlined. It was his utter stillness, though, that worried Johnny. Murdoch had said he’d settled from the ravings of his fever, but Johnny had seen a lot of men die, and his brother had the look. He held Scott’s hand tighter. “You can’t give up,” he said softly. “You promised me you wouldn’t leave, an’ I’m gonna hold you to it.”
**********
In the end, they had to give in to Johnny’s insistence on staying with his brother. He agreed to anything they wanted – that he eat, that he take the medicine the doctor had left, that he have his ankle elevated, that he sleep, even if just naps in the chair – but they couldn’t get him to move from Scott’s room. He was convinced his presence would make a difference, and if his own recovery was delayed, it was a small price to pay if it helped Scott live.
Murdoch couldn’t find it in his heart to disagree.
He watched and he listened as Johnny fought for his brother’s life, his weapons soft words and gentle touches, constant reminders of the world that lay waiting if Scott would just wake up. Slowly, through the long night, Murdoch came to realize the depth of the bond that had formed between these two young men. He felt deep pride in them, a primitive satisfaction that both had grown strong and tall, but also a warm pleasure that they’d been willing to allow this strong love to develop between them. Love was something that Murdoch Lancer felt deeply, but he was glad that neither boy had inherited his difficulty in expressing it. True, they showed their affection by jokes and teasing and a certain amount of physical tussling, but it was there for all to see.
His vast empire had become a home when his boys arrived, and he couldn’t bear the thought of losing them. He had to face it, Scott probably wasn’t going to make it, and when Johnny lost his brother, he wondered if he would be anchor enough to keep his remaining son here.
He sat across the bed from Johnny, occasionally wiping Scott’s face with a cool cloth, but watching over both boys. Teresa and Jelly came and went, bringing coffee and food that Murdoch ignored but Johnny took in acknowledgement of their silent agreement, but otherwise the two Lancer men sat vigil over the third.
Johnny’s voice grew hoarse, and after his third coughing fit, only restrained himself from more talking when his father took up the task. Murdoch opened his heart that night, telling of his love for Scott’s mother, his sorrow at her passing, and his deeper, wounded grief at not being able to bring Scott back to Lancer. He talked about his anger with Harlan Garrett for using Scott as a pawn in his games of power, and he told of his own refusal to play those games at Scott’s expense.
He knew Johnny was taking in every story, every fact, realizing that Murdoch would never again be able to say these words, but remembering them in the hopes he would be able to pass them on to his older brother in their father’s place. Maybe that was the difference, Murdoch thought. He was telling Scott, yet not telling him. Somehow it made it easier.
He took the coffee next time Teresa brought it, to soothe his throat. The room grew close as he continued his monologue, the light of the single lamp drawing everyone in, centering all thought on the man who lay so still and silent on the bed. There was no motion to the air, and it seemed a moment frozen in time, a moment Murdoch never wanted to end, for as long as nothing changed, his son would be alive. His voice faltered, stopped, and the room was silent. Not a sound, no movement, not even the steady rise and fall of the blankets that covered his son.
A deep wrenching anguish grabbed at Murdoch Lancer’s heart, and when he could gather the strength, he looked to his younger son. Tears streamed down Johnny’s face, but to his surprise, his son’s expression held not sadness but joy, for the miracle had happened and Scott had opened his eyes.
**********
My sister died . . .
Flames. The whole world was consumed in flames. He stood in the center of a burning inferno, the screams of the innocent almost lost in the roar of fire-engulfed fields and forests and the thunder of collapsing buildings.
Almost lost, but not quite.
A child cried hysterically for her mother.
She lost the child she was carrying . . .
White faces made black by soot, black as the slaves surrounding them, shouting curses on him and his children in eternity.
A man running back into his doomed home for who knew what imagined treasure, then buried, shrieking, under a fiery beam.
My brother was killed . . .
Other faces, crowding close, holding torches, surrounding him; hotter, sweating, the heat . . . the terrible burning heat, scorching his body, his soul.
My sister died.
The world collapsed onto him, burying him in implacable darkness, eternal nothingness.
***********
A voice intruded into his existence. Not the hated echo of unbearable guilt, but a soothing voice, one that brought with it feelings of comfort, friendship, and something deeper. He let it draw him from the darkness, but then it faded and he felt himself falling again, falling farther—
No, there was a hand reaching out to him. A rough, aged, scarred hand, large and strong, one that offered a safe haven. All he had to do was hold onto it. But he wasn’t strong enough, and he felt his grip slide free with a vague sense of sorrow.
And then he heard the second voice. Deep, resonant, he was drawn to it; he drew strength from it. He couldn’t understand the words, but he felt the underlying love, and suddenly, he knew he wouldn’t be descending into the darkness this time.
***********
Scott Lancer woke to pain, nausea, thirst, exhaustion, and a world that whirled around his head. Even so, he saw his brother and his father sitting at his side, watching him with almost silly grins on their faces.
He croaked, “Wanna let me in on the joke?”
If anything, their grins got bigger. Bewildered, he just gazed at them a bit muzzily. He saw Johnny swipe at his face with his shirtsleeve and Murdoch pinch at his nose.
“Better get him somethin’ to drink, if that’s the best he can talk,” suggested Johnny.
While Murdoch rose and filled a glass, Scott noticed his brother was in his nightshirt, right arm in a sling and bandaged ankle resting on his bed.
“What happened to you?” he asked, too worn to comprehend much of anything. Murdoch raised his shoulders and head, and held a glass to his lips. He drank deeply and gratefully.
“You an’ me had a bit of an adventure,” Johnny replied as his father lowered Scott to the pillows again. “Nothin’ to worry about, but we’re both gonna have to rest up a bit.”
Scott looked at his father, seeing the ravages of deep desperate emotion, and began to have an inkling that whatever had happened, it had been bad. Shaken, he reached out a hand. “Murdoch?”
His father took hold, the same hold as the dreams. “Johnny’s right, you’ll both be fine if you just take it easy a while.”
Still confused but reassured, too tired to figure it all out, he simply accepted their words at face value. His lids drooped, too heavy to hold open, and he murmured, “Gonna sleep.”
He heard the deep voice again, the one that had pulled him from the abyss. “That’s a good idea, son. We’ll talk more later.”
He smiled and slept.
**********
The next time he woke, Teresa was at his side. The pain seemed worse, and although he didn’t want to complain, she seemed to understand. She gave him a glass of water tainted with the bite of laudanum, and he slept.
In a confusing kaleidoscope, every time he woke, someone else was with him. Jelly, Murdoch, Teresa, the doctor – but after that first night he didn’t see his brother. Any time he tried to ask, he was told to hush and to drink or eat something, to sleep, but not to talk, not to worry, not to do anything. He began to think he’d imagined his presence and worried himself into exhaustion. He wanted to shout with vexation, except that he could barely get enough breath to whisper, yet alone attain the volume he needed to get their attention.
Something was wrong with his lungs, he decided. Any exertion at all left him gasping for air. Nightmares continued to haunt him, images of death, destruction, barren dirt where there had been fields of corn, tall grass for hay, vegetable gardens, flowers . . . why did the destruction of borders of azaleas bother him so much? Gay, welcoming, rainbow colors lining the roads as he approached tall white-columned houses, all blackened skeletons when he left. He woke from the dreams desperate for breath, chest heaving, pain ripping through his side.
Someone was always there to help him. They raised his shoulders, propped pillows behind his back and head, held his hand and talked soothingly until his heart settled from its mad hammering and he calmed. He didn’t always understand what was going on around him, for his world centered around the pain in his chest and his increasing fears for his brother.
How he knew something was wrong with Johnny, he couldn’t explain, then or later, but as the pain eased over time, his conviction grew. He heard snatches of conversations between Murdoch and the doctor, words like “. . . infection . . . not looking too good . . . need to give him this medicine . . . can’t do much more . . .” and from his father, “Can’t lose him, Doc . . . it would kill his brother . . .”
“Johnny,” he moaned, his voice devoid of any substance and almost impossible to hear. His father’s face swam before him, brows drawn together in worry.
“Quiet, son. Your brother’s sleeping. You need to rest, too.”
“Johnny,” he repeated, “where’s Johnny?”
Murdoch sighed. “See what I mean? He doesn’t seem to hear anything we say.”
Scott felt the cool hand of the doctor on his forehead.
“Fever’s mostly gone, he should be getting his wits back about him by now.”
Stop worrying about me, he tried to say. Make sure Johnny’s okay. The words remained unspoken, though, as he slid back into darkness.
***********
“He’s not resting,” Doc Jenkins told Murdoch over a welcome glass of whiskey. “The fever’s mostly gone, but something else is keeping him from getting the healing sleep he needs.”
“His worry about Johnny?” Murdoch asked.
“That’s a good part of it, but from what you’ve described of his nightmares, I’d say there’s more. How’s Johnny feeling, anyway?”
“Better. He’s sleeping all the time, but I can take you up to him—”
“No need,” interrupted the doctor. “I dropped in before I saw Scott and took a look at his shoulder. It’s healing well. He just wore himself out watching over his brother. Sleep is all he really needs now.”
Murdoch shook his head. “Sure scared the pants off me when he passed out going back to his room.”
“It’s the way with men of his type. Strong, stoic, steady as a rock until the worry goes away, then they collapse. No problem, usually, you just let them rest for a while and they’re back to normal. It’s when they overdo that you have to ride them.”
Murdoch raised an eyebrow. “Is that a comment or a warning?”
“Know thy limits, friend.” He gestured at the stairs to the second floor. “Both of them need you, so just make sure you don’t turn into a third patient for me.”
“Good advice,” Jelly interjected as he entered the room. “Not that I ‘spect him to take it. There’s good reason why them boys is so stubborn. You’d a thought that havin’ give all that stubbornness to his sons that he wouldn’t a got any left, but it ain’t worked out that way at all.”
“And a good thing,” interrupted Murdoch. “That stubbornness is what’s kept them both alive.”
“True enough,” said the doctor. “Now take advantage of it. You, Murdoch, get some sleep. Go ahead and wake Johnny up, to go sit with Scott. Both of them will rest easier for it, and he can always call if he needs something he can’t deal with.”
**********
And so Johnny found himself once more in the rocking chair at Scott’s bedside. This time, though, he was dressed in his range clothes, even if he still wore the sling and had a slipper on one foot to accommodate his bandaged ankle. He slipped his arm free whenever Teresa and Murdoch weren’t around and exercised it. Jelly was no problem – he understood Johnny’s need to regain the strength in his arm. The other two were likely to pitch a fit, Murdoch loudly, Teresa quieter but more effective with her soulful, doe-eyed gaze. Both of them were in bed and long asleep, though, so he was free to do as he wished.
“How’s he doin’?” asked Jelly as he brought another in the endless procession of trays he seemed to be carrying these days. He set it down on the small night table at the head of Scott’s bed, within easy reach of Johnny’s good arm.
Johnny lifted the corner of the napkin that covered interesting-looking lumps, but Jelly swatted his hand away.
“Jest you wait your turn,” he ordered, the effect considerably lessened by the affectionate exasperation on his face. “First we gotta try to get Scott to take some of this broth. Can you hold him up, or do you wanna feed him?”
Johnny shook his head. “Considering the mess I made last time, you better handle the spoon. I’ll prop him up, try to get him awake enough.”
He sat on the bed and gently lifted his brother with his good arm, then shifted behind him to prop him against his chest. “Scott,” he called softly. “Wake up, brother, Teresa sent up some of her special soup for you.”
Scott didn’t open his eyes, but his breathing changed slightly so Johnny knew he’d gotten through at least some. “That’s it, open your mouth. You don’t have to do anything else, we’ll take care of it for you.”
“Johnny?” Scott’s eyelids fluttered open. He searched the room, came to rest on the old man. “Jelly.” He gazed at him in bewilderment. “Jelly, where’s Johnny?”
“Right here,” he said into his brother’s ear.
Scott raised his free hand. “Where? I can’t see you. Where are you?” His breaths came faster.
Johnny caught his hand and said, “I’m right behind you; I’m the wall you’re leanin’ on right now.” He could feel the tension loosen a bit in his brother’s body.
“You’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m all right. I’ve been resting up, too.”
“You sure?” he asked again, still worried.
“Hey, it takes a lot to knock me on my backside, unlike a certain city boy from Boston.”
Scott smiled faintly. “I’ll show you how fast a city boy can get back on his feet.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Johnny answered, pleased to see the smile. “Can you eat something? You gotta get your strength back.”
“Eat?” he asked, as if he’d never heard the word before.
Jelly brought the bowl up under his chin. “Yeah, eat,” he said as he spooned the rich dark broth into Scott’s mouth. “Teresa made this special, an’ she’s gonna be mighty unhappy if you don’t get at least some of it down.”
“Maybe it’ll help . . .” Scott muttered between swallows.
“Help what?” asked Johnny.
Jelly nodded at him to keep his brother talking. Between the two of them, he hoped to keep Scott distracted enough to feed him the entire bowl.
“Nightmares,” Scott answered in between Jelly’s interruptions with the spoon. “Burning, everything’s burning . . . flames everywhere, scorched . . . dead horses, dead dogs, dead people . . . a desert. We made a desert out of what had been people’s homes . . .” His eyes closed and he pushed the bowl away, sank against his brother’s chest. “No more, Jelly,” he whispered. “Too tired.”
They laid him back into his pillows, exchanging worried glances. Jelly uncovered the rest of the tray and left, shaking his head, but Johnny was no longer interested in food. He moved back to his rocking chair and eased carefully down. He went back to exercising his arm – flexed his elbow, then his fingers, making sure they moved as smoothly as ever – as he kept company while Scott slept. It was instinctive, as if he could protect his brother from his nightmares with a fast draw.
***********
Six months later . . .
“Scott’s changed.”
The words floated softly through the room that served as living area, dining room and office. The voice came from one who was a girl in age, but a woman’s responsibility and worry shone from her dark eyes.
A deep sigh, almost a grunt, came from the man behind the desk. “I know,” Murdoch Lancer said.
“I thought it was just reaction to surviving that attack,” she continued, approaching the man who served as guardian, mentor, and now, since her own had been killed, father. “Once he was well enough to get around, I wasn’t surprised he wanted to have some fun, but it’s been months and he’s getting . . . well, wild.”
Murdoch nodded. He knew what Teresa was saying, had observed it himself, but he didn’t have an answer either. “We just have to let him get it out of his system.”
“But that’s just it. He’s not.” She came around to Murdoch’s side and leaned against the desk, her dark red riding skirt brushing at his chair. “He never eats breakfast any more, doesn’t have much lunch, and half the time he’s not here for dinner. He doesn’t take care of his clothes, and—” But here she broke off, suddenly blushing.
“And?” he asked, looking up at her quizzically, his interest caught.
“It’s really none of my business,” she prevaricated, suddenly fascinated by the toes of her boots.
He tilted her chin up with one finger, forcing her to meet his eyes. The gaze that would have been harsh for anyone else was soft, gentle, for this girl who had always been as a daughter. “What’s bothering you?”
“It’s . . . it’s the gossip in town,” she finally blurted.
“And since when has gossip ever concerned us?” he chided.
“Since it’s been true.”
He settled back in his chair, elbows resting on the padded arms, fingers steepled in front of his chest. “I think you’d better tell me everything.”
“I don’t know everything, but I know enough to recognize when a woman is telling the truth about. . .” She paused, trying to find the right word. “Well, about being with Scott.” She flamed scarlet.
Murdoch tapped his chin. “I’m sure that’s nothing new, even if it’s true.”
“Oh, it’s true, all right. You should smell his shirts, the perfume that Laura—!”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Well, you couldn’t miss it,” she said defensively. “She may as well have spilled the bottle!”
“Aside of the fact I would have thought Scott had better taste than to squire around a spiteful, brittle harpy like Laura Armstrong, it really isn’t any of our business.”
“It isn’t just Laura,” Teresa explained, and the list of women she reeled off soon had both of Murdoch’s eyebrows climbing.
He calmed her somehow, saying something soothing along the lines of boys will be boys, but his mind was racing. In fact, though he didn’t realize it, it wasn’t his words that reassured her, but the look of abstraction on his face. He’d taken her seriously, and now the burden of worry seemed lightened, since it was shared.
He wandered out to the yard, just in time to see his eldest vault up onto a half-broke mustang and tear down the drive and through the main gate of the ranch. He walked up to Jelly and jerked his head toward where dust swirled across the road. “Where’s he headed?”
Jelly glanced up at his employer. “Town. Agin.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand where he gits the strength. Twarn’t that long ago he could barely sit up, and now you cain’t keep him nailed down. Even Johnny cain’t keep up with him.”
Murdoch turned his gaze on the old man. “Where is Johnny, by the way?”
Jelly sighed. “He should be comin’ through any time now.”
Murdoch’s quizzical look was answered when his youngest son burst from the barn, already mounted on his big palomino, and dashed past the two older man with a wave of his hat. Then he was gone down the same road as his brother.
“Well,” he sighed, “we don’t have to worry about him tonight. Johnny’ll keep an eye on him.”
But Jelly just shook his head.
***********
Murdoch had cause to wonder, too, when the boys didn’t return by midnight. He by no means imposed a curfew on his sons, knowing they were both responsible enough to make sure they got enough sleep for the next day’s work. He usually went to bed when he was ready and didn’t worry about them. Tonight, though, he found he couldn’t sleep. He kept waiting to hear the sounds of horses’ hooves, but they didn’t come until shortly before dawn.
He belted on his robe and waited downstairs. They came in through one of the terrace doors, Scott leaning heavily on his brother. Alarm leaping in his chest, Murdoch strode forward to help, those long tense days of fearing for his son’s life still all too vivid.
“What happened?” he asked, but then caught a whiff of whiskey. He stopped, disgusted. “Drunk.”
“For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast,” Scott slurred. “And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest . . .” He pulled away from his brother and started to stagger toward Murdoch’s brandy decanter, all the while declaiming, “Though the night was made for loving, and the day returns too soon—”
“Will you be quiet,” Johnny demanded, grabbing at an arm. “Bad enough I had to beat that fella off you, hush up those gals, pay your tab, drag you outta that cantina, and haul your sorry ass home without havin’ to listen to your poetry, too.”
“You coulda left the girls alone . . .” Scott grinned. “We were just—” he hiccupped once “—beginning to have a good time.”
Murdoch took his other arm with silent resignation. “Let’s get him upstairs.”
Scott went along cheerfully, continuing his recitation at full voice: ”Yet we’ll go no more a roving, by the light of the moon.”
“Shh!” Johnny hissed. “Teresa’s asleep.” He turned to his father, shaking his head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately.”
Scott had apparently finished his poem, because all they heard from him now was “go no more a roving . . . light of the moon,” over and over.
Johnny winced. “Sure wish that moon hadn’t been out tonight,” he muttered. “Soon as he saw it, he started in. You know, he used to go to town with me sometimes if we pushed it, but mostly, when me and the boys went in, he’d want to stay home with some book and a bottle of your best wine. Now, he’s going in more than me an’ the other boys together.”
They levered him into his room and over to the bed, where Johnny dropped him none too gently. Scott didn’t appear to notice; he merely went to sleep with a final whispered “the moon be still as bright . . .”
“And how long have you been covering for him?” Murdoch asked.
Johnny grimaced as he pulled Scott’s boots off. He should have guessed his father would know. He was mad enough at his brother, though, to be completely honest. “Near as I can tell, it started about two months ago. Once he really got well. He’d been moping around here like a dog that lost its bone, so I dragged him into town, figuring to cheer him up. You know, get him interested in something. It’s hard, being that sick. After a while, you feel like you can’t do anything. You need something to jolt you back.”
“Well, it certainly looks like he’s found that something.” He scowled down at his older son, who repaid his brother’s and father’s worry by coughing once, murmuring a few words, and turning over. Murdoch gestured to the door and followed his other son down the stairs. He wandered over to his desk, picked up one of the objects on it and turned it around in his hands, studying it. “Teresa says he’s been seeing a lot of the women in town.”
“Yeah, he’s havin’ a fine ol’ time.” He paced to the fireplace and stared into the dead ashes. “I’m sorry she heard about it, though. It’s not really right for her to be bothered with things like that.” He turned to his father suddenly, worry clouding his expression. “Thing is, he’s been with those women before, but there was never a word about it. I know I’ve kidded him about it, but he’s always been a gentleman, and in his book, that means if he sees someone, no one else knows. Now he’s the center of all those conversations that suddenly stop when you walk in a room. He just laughs. It’s like he doesn’t care, anymore.”
“Teresa says he’s changed.”
“Teresa’s a smart girl.”
Murdoch put the paperweight back on the desk. “Well, we’re not going to solve it tonight. We both need a good night’s sleep,” and he looked out the window at the lifting darkness, “which we’re not going to get. I’ll talk to Scott, see if I can find out what’s going on. You listen around, too, all right?”
Johnny sighed and nodded. “See you in the morning, then.”
“Good night, Johnny.”
Johnny laughed. “Not much of one, but I appreciate it.”
**********
But Murdoch didn’t get a chance to discuss anything with his son, as Scott was out of the house and on the road before either he or Johnny came downstairs. Johnny was seated blearily at the kitchen table holding a cup of steaming coffee in front of his nose when Murdoch entered, waving a piece of paper.
“Your brother,” he barked, “has gone off to Sacramento without so much as a word to either of us.” He narrowed one eye. “Unless he told you about it?”
Johnny shook his head ever so carefully and took a long swallow of coffee. He rubbed at his eyes and then answered in his softest drawl, “Not me. He’s not tellin’ me anythin’ these days. What’s that in your hand?”
“A note. A single piece of paper that says, Gone to Sacramento – back in a week.” He tossed it on the table in front of his son and sat heavily. Johnny used one finger to turn it around so he could read it.
Teresa brought the coffeepot and a clean cup, placed the cup in front of Murdoch, then filled it for him. “It’s probably about the mine.”
Johnny emerged from his cup again, this time his eyes a little more open and with just a hint of their normal sparkle. “What mine?”
“The silver mine. You know, the one in Nesbitt’s Spring, over by the Nevada border.” At his quizzical expression, she refilled his cup and sat down at the table with him.
“That area’s about played out. Scott knows that,” Murdoch said.
“He got a letter from one of the owners, Jander Martin,” she explained. “Scott met him one time in San Francisco. Anyway, the letter said that Martin wanted to sell his share, and if Scott was still interested, he should meet him in Sacramento.” She looked at the two men, puzzled. “I thought you knew . . .”
Murdoch wadded up the paper, his face grim. “Just what we need. A part-share in a silver mine that’s going bust.”
“He’s got his own money, Murdoch,” Johnny put in. “If he chooses to place it all on a wild chance, that’s his business.”
“As long as it is his money, and not the ranch’s,” his father said sourly.
“Surely he wouldn’t . . .” Teresa started, but her expression said she wasn’t sure.