This story is a WHN (“What Happened Next”) following directly after the last scene in Buscaderos. Coming off a very short ficlet (“Sundown”) I intended this to be similarly short. Things got away from me, and it morphed into a medium-length story.
Fair warnings: There’s some heavy-duty smarm and sap in this one. I also interpreted Chapel’s character from Buscaderos in a light that won’t appeal to everyone. And because Theresa K. asked me to, (and because I owe her big time for introducing me to Scott Lancer), I gave Johnny a major “owie” in this. Being a “Scott person” I hope I’ve done okay by the Johnny fans. Some mild language, and an occasional dark passage, but otherwise harmless. Enjoy!
Something unnatural lingered in the heavy stillness before the gun fired. In the split second before the gattling gun’s chamber exploded with sound, Scott Lancer had time to appreciate a prickling string of sensation. Sticky perspiration trickled down his neck, soaking into his hair. The night-born breeze, scented with the cloying fragrance of potted flowers and early spring grass, scuttled across his sweat-sheened cheeks. Though the touch was warm, he shivered in anticipation of searing lead embedding in his flesh. A less practical man might foolishly hope to survive the mammoth gun’s discharge¾or as Drago had suggested, implore the heavens for the imposing machine to jam. In any other circumstance, Scott would be the first to concede gattling guns were fairly new, mostly untried, and often more trouble than they were worth. Yet statistics meant little when staring down the barrel. Coupled with the sadistic Chapel at the firing crank, Scott was certain he’d be dead in a matter of seconds.
Unconsciously he held his breath, trying not to flinch, as Chapel rotated the sites into alignment. Momentarily jarred from reality, Scott floated above the shadow-draped courtyard, an impassive observer to his own grisly demise. Stepping backward, he heard the hissing scrape of his boot as the worn leather butted against an unyielding stone wall. Craggy edges of rock bit through the thin fabric of his shirt, pressing against his shoulders and back. Drago’s drunken laughter erupted in the darkness, savoring and wholly menacing.
“Ready,” Scott heard the outlaw leader yell. Every muscle in his body tensed. Unconsciously, he folded his hands before him, standing slightly sideways. A bevy of thoughts swirled through his mind . . . Johnny, Murdoch, Teresa . . . The tightness in his stomach intensified. Fearful and defiant he stared across the distance, refusing to grovel and satisfy Drago’s need for superiority.
“Fire!”
The gun exploded.
The roar hit Scott like a blast in the face. Lead battered the stone wall, disgorging deadly chips of granite. The sting of rock pelted his arms and legs as the path of the spitting gun rose higher. Unnerved, he sucked down a breath, too terrified to move, as his heart lurched violently in his chest. There was only sound and darkness¾a contorted, maddening swirl, as the gun blew holes in the wall. A splinter of rock nicked his face, another his hip. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The stench of sulfur tangled with the syrupy aroma of potted flowers suspended overhead. A white-knuckle wave of nausea sent bile rushing greedily to his throat.
Choking, Scott fought silent his mounting horror. God, let it be over . . .
The first bullet struck him in the knee, buckling his leg beneath him. He heard the bone explode as the bullet shattered his kneecap. Even as he grunted in pain and surprise, another caught him on the shoulder, spinning him backward. His body slammed against the wall, thrown like a rag-doll by the ruthless force of the bullet. Crippled, he slid to the ground, choking on his own vomit. Within seconds, two more rounds caught him, ripping holes in his abdomen.
I don’t want to die like this. Not like this.
He couldn’t stop the flow of blood. Couldn’t halt the hazy, downward spiral into tomb-like darkness, so cold, the briefest glimpse made him cry aloud in terror.
Scott woke with a savage jerk.
Choking down panic, he grappled for a foothold in reality. Slowly his surroundings came into focus¾the scrolled edges of the dresser by the window¾brushes and shaving items carelessly strewn over the top; the elongated loop of his gunbelt, hooked over a ladder-back chair; the scalloped edges of white, foamy curtains fluttering in the breeze.
Struggling to control his rapid breathing, Scott filtered shaking hands through his hair. Kicking aside sheets, tangled and wet with sweat, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. In the darkness he waited tensely, hoping the cry of waking from his nightmare would not summon others to his room. When minutes passed and no one came, he exhaled raggedly, closing his eyes against the tremors in his body. He shook so badly he thought he might be sick. Standing, he paced unsteadily to the window, bracing his arms against the ledge. The night air was cool and forgiving, drying the sweat-matted bangs on his brow.
He hadn’t thought the incident with Drago, Chapel, and the gattling gun would return to haunt him so violently. Though only hours had passed since he’d been a prisoner of the outlaw leader and his gang, Scott had recovered enough to think the incident behind him. He’d even sparred briefly with Johnny, battling his brother in a good-natured, arm-wrestling bout, that had left them feeling closer than ever.
There was no question he was stiff and sore from the beatings he endured courtesy of Drago and his men, but he hadn’t thought to be troubled with nightmares. Then again, he hadn’t really stopped to consider what standing in the path of the gattling had meant. What he’d placed on the line, and how close he’d come to having it all snatched away.
Swearing softly, Scott turned back to the bed. It was somewhere past one in the morning¾a lonely hour, visited by soulless creatures and things-that-went-bump-in-the-night. The mournful dirge of a coyote broke over the horizon, reminding him of the eternal emptiness he’d come so close to embracing. Chapel had never hit him with a single bullet, but his power and dominance over Scott, and the knowledge that he could have easily nudged the gun for a lethal strike, made the sadistic game all the deadlier in memory.
Uncertain if he was more terrified of dreams or the actual event, Scott returned to bed and the long hours of a sleepless night.
++++
“Hey!” Johnny Lancer settled on the edge of his brother’s bed with an unceremonious “plop.” “Wake up already, will you?” Bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, he jostled the mattress until the older man came awake with an annoyed grunt.
Scott was more than just a little disheveled, blonde hair hanging ragged and askew on his brow.
Shuttering a hand in front of his sleep-blurred eyes, he squinted at his brother. “What do you want?”
Ignoring the surly tone, Johnny batted Scott’s hand aside. “A ‘thank you’ would be nice. Sit up and look what I brought¾” An expansive wave of his hand indicated a breakfast tray on the bedside table. A generous helping of eggs, sausage, pan-fired potatoes and buttermilk biscuits, complimented fresh fruit, and pot of coffee. Reaching for the coffee, Johnny poured a cup and passed it to his brother. “Murdoch didn’t badger you about getting up, figuring you needed the sleep, after yesterday. That doesn’t mean you get the rest of the day off, though¾I’ve already been to the south pasture twice.”
Exhaling, Scott set the coffee aside. “What time is it?” As he struggled to sit, the sheet fell from his shoulders to his waist, baring a smattering of unsightly bruises on his chest and abdomen.
Johnny’s face darkened. “Nine o’clock.” Suddenly serious, he stared. “When are you gonna tell me what happened yesterday with Drago and the rest of that bunch?”
Scott shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Uh-huh.” Though Johnny wasn’t convinced, he knew his brother could be extremely tight-lipped when he chose. Murdoch hadn’t been much help either, relaying only that Scott had been held by outlaws demanding the town’s tax money, and that he’d been treated roughly. Johnny doubted their father knew the full extent of that treatment, but guessed it readily enough. It was easy to gauge---culled from the worn look in Scott’s blue eyes; the cracked skin along his left cheek; the mottled bruises on his chest. Drago hadn’t been gentle in handling his prisoner, and for that Johnny felt somehow responsible. Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, the former gunfighter had the feeling he was indirectly at fault for Scott’s ordeal. “Think you’re up for some branding?” he asked, deciding to skirt the issue. “We’re working double-time to make up for lack of hands.”
Scott frowned. “I don’t need coddled, Johnny. I’ve been beat up before.”
The younger man snorted. “No wonder. As pleasant as you are, I’d beat you up too.” He grinned, speaking more softly. “In fact, the next time Morro Coyo gets hit with cholera, we’ll just toss you into the mix, and see if that doesn’t help your charming disposition.”
Tempted to scowl, Scott relented with an arch stare. There was enough teasing affection in Johnny’s tone, to tell him the younger man wanted nothing more than some playful sparing. In the few short months they’d been together, Scott had come to realize his younger brother’s complex emotions were most easily revealed in banter. It was an odd concept to swallow¾the deadly ex-gunslinger dancing around issues of loyalty and devotion, as though the ideas were foreign.
Scott wet his lips. Since arriving at Lancer he grown to love having a brother, but at the moment, this particular brother was unwelcome company. Imprisoned and at Drago’s mercy, Scott had endured his ordeal with the idealist phantom of Johnny Madrid hanging over his head. There had been times, listening to Violet or Drago spout Johnny’s endless virtues, that he actually felt like he was competing with his brother. For what, he wasn’t certain. He just knew that Johnny was suddenly larger-than-life, and therefore could never know of the secret terror he’d felt over the incident with the gattling gun.
“If you had any sense at all, little brother, you’d realize I don’t waste charm on nosy bed partners.” Pausing, Scott reconsidered with a grin. “Well¾not unless they happen to be available females.”
Quirking a brow, Johnny moved aside as Scott pushed back the blankets and stepped from bed. “Isn’t that raising your standards a little?” Johnny persisted as the other padded barefoot to the washbasin. “Available, I mean?”
Wadding up a towel, Scott tossed it at his brother. “Get out of here. I’ll meet you out front in ten minutes.”
Chuckling, Johnny ducked for the door.
++++
Mulling over the events of the last few days, Johnny kicked a stone at the edge of the veranda. Late morning sunlight slanted over the roof of the main house, dislodging clinging webs of shadow. Dry air funneled dust at his feet and licked his face, promising an increase in temperature as the day progressed. A glance overhead revealed a cloudless sky, laced with rim-haze on the horizon. With any luck that vapor would summon clouds, bringing much needed rain. Not only had Morro Coyo suffered a recent bout of cholera, depleting the ranches of able-bodied hands, but a horrendous stretch of arid temperatures had struck as well. Rain would bring welcome relief to grasslands starting to whither, and replenish grazing paddocks for horses and cattle.
Tugging at his collar, Johnny thumbed open the first two buttons of his light blue shirt. Irritated at the forced wait, he scuffed a boot against the earth, watching the dust settle on his black jeans. Belatedly he wondered how he’d arrived at such a station in life. Once a feared and renown gunfighter¾a man who lived by wits, luck and a fast-draw¾he’d become hopelessly enamored of family. Murdoch was at fault for that . . . hunting him down in Mexico, trusting him with one-third of an empire like Lancer. Murdoch and Scott.
Gnawing on his bottom lip, Johnny thought of his brother. Scott had been terribly reserved this morning. Though the cultured blonde-haired man was often quiet and introspective, he’d seemed almost reclusive today. His movements had been stiff and guarded, unlike the fluid agility Johnny had come to recognize in the one-time Cavalry officer. Only yesterday there’d been affectionate closeness between them, as they’d mock arm-wrestled in the kitchen. Though Johnny still didn’t understand what lay at the crux of that incident, he knew Scott had needed the interaction.
There was no doubt his older brother was struggling with a barrage of aches and pains this morning. The fact that he’d slept as late as he had spoke volumes. Scott was normally the first to rise, and the last to retire each night. The ugly bruises on his chest told Johnny he’d done more than trade words with Drago, and the obvious stiffness of his gait when he stood, revealed the strain of abused muscles.
Mumbling and impatient, Johnny began to pace. Eventually he wandered from the main gated enclosure, more intent on his thoughts then his path. His musing over Scott gave way to shock when his steps led him to the side courtyard. Yesterday, in the rush of activity, he’d never noticed the pockmarked and damaged wall, chunks of stone blown free by the force of Drago’s gattling gun. Pushing his hat back, dislodging a stray lock of raven hair, Johnny whistled softly. Though he’d once seen a gattling from a distance, he’d never witnessed its destruction first-hand. Judging by the size of the holes bored in the wall, the gun was the deadliest weapon he could imagine, short of military cannon. Appalled, he traced a hand over the blistered stone.
“What are you doing?”
Caught off guard, Johnny turned. Scott stood behind him, his face drawn in a tight, white mask. For a moment, Johnny saw only his eyes---hollow and blue, and somehow horribly accusing. “I...”
Scott turned on his heel. “Come on.” His voice bristled with the authoritative edge of command. “I thought you said there was branding to do.”
Johnny hurried on his heels as Scott strode crisply toward the barn. “Hold up, Boston. Those cattle aren’t goin’ nowhere.” With a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder, he indicated the damaged wall. “What the hell happened back there?”
Scott never slowed. “What’s it look like?”
Failing to understand the hostile tone of his brother’s voice, Johnny spread his hands in defeat. “It looks like someone was target practicing in Teresa’s garden. What’s got you so riled up?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re a lousy liar.”
Annoyed, Scott glanced sideways. His long-legged strides had brought them to the barn with little effort. Perturbed, he wrenched open the door. “You might have saved some time and saddled our horses.”
Growing angry, Johnny snagged his arm. “You’re about as viperous as they come this morning, you know that?. The horses are around the side.” Doffing his hat and extending his arm, Johnny performed a mocking bow. “Your steed awaits, MiLord Crotchety.”
Declining to comment, Scott shot him a baleful glare and stomped in the direction indicated. Buried beneath his anger, Johnny felt a niggling sense of alarm. It wasn’t like Scott, normally so even-tempered, to suddenly become hiss-and-spit disagreeable for no apparent reason. Something had happened to sour his disposition, and Johnny was certain that “something” went beyond a few battered ribs.
Determined to get at the root, he quelled his rising temper and followed in his brother’s wake.
++++
The day progressed on a fairly even keel. Scott did more work then Johnny would have liked, given the circumstances. Though the older man remained mute about his injuries, Johnny knew he had to be feeling the punishing effect of numerous cuts and bruises. Undaunted, Scott worked side-by-side with the other hands, not as adept at branding as men who had been doing it most of their life, but proficient enough to even the workload.
A natural leader, who was generally agreeable, Scott interacted well with most workers. A few, hired by Murdoch when the cholera epidemic struck, were of questionable character. Of those, three kept mostly to themselves, slowing now and again, until Scott pointedly told them they weren’t paid to lounge in the shade.
Stopping at the water barrel, Johnny watched the three. He’d seen their like often enough in every backwater town he’d drifted through. Stil Braxton was the spokesman for the group, lean and bearded, with hooded eyes and an indulgent penchant for whiskey. Next came Loy Piker¾a scraggly, dark-complexioned thirty-year-old, rumored to be the offspring of a Sioux Medicine Woman and a Canadian trapper. The final man was known simply as “Cotton Charlie,” a displaced Virginian who’d plundered during the war, then drifted west when the ravaged south could no longer support his habits.
Tossing the dipper back into the barrel, Johnny removed his hat, mopping a hand over his sweat-sticky forehead. The temperature had steadily risen throughout the day, with no relief of rain in sight. Across the branding pen, he saw Scott, shirt unbuttoned, hair plastered to his forehead, as he struggled to maneuver a young calf into position. Heat from the nearby branding pit, left the blonde-haired man’s face streaked with grime. Beneath the harsh bruise darkening his cheek, Johnny thought Scott’s skin looked gray and lined.
With a distracted glance, Johnny wondered what Harlan Garrett would think of his upper-crust grandson now. He’d probably keel over to see his beloved “Scotty” straddling a braying calf, his sweat-stained clothes reeking of burning flesh, heated iron and fiery coals. Johnny had to admit the blonde-haired man was a far cry from the “citified” dandy he’d first expected when he’d learned the well-tailored easterner on the stage was his brother. Perhaps that was why they’d bonded so well. He respected Scott, and knew that his brother respected him, despite the extreme differences in their backgrounds. In the few short months they’d been together, they’d supported one another well enough.
Which made it all the more frustrating now.
“Hey, Boston!” Striding across the paddock, Johnny waved his brother aside. Behind him, he heard one of the hands chuckle. Though he normally reserved the nickname for use in private, once in a while it slipped through in public circumstance. He knew the hands found the teasing moniker amusing. It was a small reminder of their boss’s unorthodox background¾a western rancher who was college bred, and in most cases could still run circles around them. Johnny bit his lip to keep from smiling. Especially with a rifle. That confounded easterner has got to be the best damn shot I ever saw with a long gun.
“What do you want Johnny?” Scott asked as the younger man came abreast. Stepping away from the branding pit, he tugged free his workgloves, casually looping them through the rear of his belt. The sheen of perspiration was high on his cheeks, adding a heightened glint to his blue eyes. Rifling a hand through his sticky hair, he settled his hat back on his head. The brim was ringed with sweat, the crown marred by black soot and ash.
“Almost done, don’t you think?”
With a nod, Scott propped a hip against a nearby rail fence. Murdoch had left an hour ago, promising to send a chuck wagon so the crew could keep working. In short order they’d be able to take a break, then finish by sunset. Though Johnny’s recent trip to San Francisco in search of more hands had been unfruitful, the existing crew remained productive. Tomorrow would mean a move to the east pasture and another group of cattle, followed by breaking a new herd of horses for spring auction.
“Here comes the wagon,” Scott said with a nod for the horizon. “Not too many left. We could finish off what we’ve got, then call it a day, rather than stopping now.”
Johnny glanced at the pen area, watching as Braxton, Cotton Charlie and Loy Piker roped a calf. “Think the rest of the hands will go along with that idea?”
Scott narrowed his eyes. “If you mean those three, they’re as worthless as they come.”
“Murdoch hired them.”
“And Murdoch can pay them,” Scott countered a trifle too sharply. He nodded crisply to the paddock. “Come on, Brother, let’s finish this up.”
++++
Johnny watched the sun melt into the horizon, webbing hilltops and trees with the milky red glow of its demise. With the branding finished, the hands had taken to gathering in small groups, lingering over plates of beans, salted pork and hardtack, courtesy of Murdoch’s chuck wagon. The elder Lancer was still at the house, having sent Jelly with the food supplies. Soon enough it would be time to pack up and return, cowhands and wranglers scattering to bunks, card games and concealed bottles of gin. For the moment it was enough to linger in the company of others who’d put the same grueling effort into a hard day of work.
Setting his plate aside, Johnny glanced around for his brother. Scott had retreated to the rear of the wagon. Seated on the ground, legs stretched before him, back braced by a wheel, he looked ready to fall asleep. Though his plate was scraped clean, Johnny had the feeling he was going to need more than one meal to regain his strength.
Coming alongside of him, Johnny kicked him lightly on the sole of his boot. “You look a little tired there, trail hand.”
“Don’t worry. I can match your pace any day.”
“Oh?” Taken aback by the crisp edge in Scott’s voice, Johnny held up both hands and stepped backward. What he had intended as teasing affection had been misconstrued for insult. “Scott, I wasn’t...”
“Look at that¾” With a jerk of his head, Scott nodded across the paddock, indicating Braxton and his cronies. Seated around a dwindling fire, they reveled in catcalls and raucous laughter, passing a bottle of rot-gut between them. “They shouldn’t be drinking.”
Johnny shrugged. “The branding’s done. They’re on their own time now, big brother. What’s a little harmless fun between friends?”
“They’re not at the bunkhouse. As far as I’m concerned we’re still on the job.”
Disturbed by his brother’s unwillingness to bend, Johnny scowled. “Lighten up, Scott. Not everyone’s cut out for Cavalry-regiment mentality.”
Bristling annoyance darkened Scott’s face as he stared up at Johnny. Setting his plate aside, he stood. Though the action was smooth, he couldn’t stop a wince of pain. “What does that mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Johnny countered, growing exasperated with his brother’s underlying combativeness. “It means that sometimes you’re just a little too demanding with your expectations.” Frustrated he exhaled, “Look Scott, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I don’t want to argue.”
Before Scott could utter a single word in rebuttal, a rapid ping of successive gunfire rattled through the enclosure. Reacting instinctively, Johnny drew his pistol, habitually dropping into a cat-like crouch. No sooner was the weapon in his hand, then he realized the cause for the disturbance. Braxton, Piker and Cotton Charlie were stumbling about the campfire, laughing uproariously at another wrangler who they’d surprised, by tossing a handful of bullets into the flames.
Shaking his head, Johnny holstered his pistol. “Can you believe those idiots?” As he turned to face Scott, his breath caught in his throat. Unprepared for the suddenness of gunfire, Scott had fallen back against the wagon as though pinned. Little blood remained in his face. Cold sweat glistened on his cheeks, his skin drawn in a taut, cadaver-white mask. Something wild and panicky blazed in his eyes, like a caged animal ready to savage its attacker.
Concerned, Johnny held perfectly still. “Scott?” he asked softly. “What’s wrong?”
As though the sound of his voice returned the other man to sanity, Scott recovered with a violent jerk. Heat washed over his face, bringing mortified color to his cheeks. Though Johnny sensed he was ashamed of his reaction, he covered it quickly with mounting belligerence. “I’ve had enough of them.” Striding briskly for the fire, Scott stalked off to face the three high-spirited wranglers. Sensing an ugly confrontation, Johnny darted in his wake.
“Braxton. Piker. Charlie,” Scott called harshly as he approached the group. “Get your gear together and get out of here---you’re fired.”
Stunned silence greeted the announcement. Riddled with tension, it lasted only a moment. Whirling to face Scott, Braxton narrowed his eyes. The half-empty bottle of whiskey he’d been sharing with his cronies dangled from his left hand. Judging from the inebriated gleam in his eyes, Scott guessed he’d been secretly imbibing all day. “What for?” The cocky wrangler challenged. “We ain’t done nuthin’.”
“Is that what you call drinking on the job and creating a potentially dangerous situation¾not to mention a wasteful use of ammunition?”
Braxton snorted. “College boy, them fancy words done muddled your brain. They’re my bullets, and I’ll do what I damn well please with them.”
“Not on Lancer land.”
“You can’t fire us,” Piker chimed in. “Was your dad who hired us.”
Pressing his lips into a tight line, Scott stood his ground. “Get your gear together. You can pick up your pay at the main house come morning. I don’t want to see any of you back here again.”
“Hey, Scott¾” Johnny tried to get his attention, but the older man was impassive, standing rigidly, his eyes as flat as marble.
Braxton nodded to Johnny, who stood slightly behind and, to the right of Scott’s shoulder. “Best listen to your brother, city boy, he’s tryin’ to tell you somethin’.”
From the corner of his eye, Johnny saw Piker reach for his gun. With quick-silver reflexes, honed from years of experience, the ex-gunslinger freed his pistol. “Leave it,” he said flatly. He hadn’t wanted it to come to this. Though Scott was being unreasonable and acting out of hand, there was no way he’d argue with his brother in front of three cut-throats like these.
Cotton Charlie, who’d been silent to this point, nudged Braxton on the shoulder. “Don’t mess with Madrid. Tangling with his pretty boy brother’s one thing, but going toe-to-toe with Madrid is askin’ for a pine box. Let’s get out of here, Stil. The college boy ain’t worth it.”
Stil Braxton frowned. His eyes shifted between Johnny¾cool, deadly and poised, with revolver in hand¾and Scott, whose face was drawn in grim, unyielding lines. With a nod for the blonde-haired man, he licked his lips. “Another time, Lancer---when your brother ain’t around to protect you.”
When the three men finally moved away, saddled, and rode off, Johnny holstered his revolver. Again, he had no intention of berating Scott in front of the other hands, but as the remaining men drifted away, he lowered his voice and approached. “Are you out of your mind, Brother?”
Scott shot him a dark glance. “What does that mean?”
“It means there was no reason to fire those three. They might be a little on the rough side, but they were just blowin’ off steam. Unwinding. You should try it some time.” He started to turn away, but Scott caught his arm, jerking him to a rough halt.
“I might be an eastern-bred, city boy, but I’m a better judge of character than you¾and just for the record, I don’t need your protection. Next time, keep your nose out of my business.” Scott’s words were so biting and caustic, Johnny had a hard time believing they came from his usually reserved brother. Bewildered, he held the other’s formidable gaze, hoping to find some hint of the Scott who’d laughed with him only yesterday, over their mock battle of arm-wrestling. Instead he saw a bitter man, chasing demons, pushed to a crossroads of self-destruction.
Hurt by what he felt was an unwarranted attack, Johnny nodded curtly and departed.
++++
“You do realize we’re short-handed as it is?” Murdoch tried to keep his voice steady as he considered his eldest son. Acting impulsively and firing wranglers was something he might expect of the more volatile Johnny, but not levelheaded Scott. Now, as he confronted the blonde-haired man across his desk, he could readily see a toll of exhaustion on the other’s gaunt face. Though Murdoch was tempted to judge his son’s recklessness harshly, he cautioned himself that Scott had been through an ordeal. Though he had no sure way of knowing what transpired when Scott was Drago’s prisoner, he’d arrived in time to see his son shoved down a flight of stairs and handled roughly. He could still recall the first glimpse of Scott’s face when he’d turned, his skin battered and bruised. Even then he’d handled the situation smoothly, warning Murdoch off by pretending to be Johnny Madrid.
“They didn’t carry their load,” Scott said flatly.
Drawing a breath, Murdoch looked to Johnny who stood quietly in the background. He tried to decipher tell-tale emotion on his younger son’s face, but Johnny had carefully shuttered aside any glimpse of opinion. “Scott,” he said carefully, knowing he needed to be firm, but hoping to spare his son an ego-bruising. “Lancer is a three-way partnership. If this ranch is going to work, we need to consult each other when...”
“I didn’t think drunken cowhands required deliberation,” Scott interrupted sharply. With a brief, murderous glance for Johnny he returned his attention to Murdoch. “If you two want to stand around and debate the merits of ethical employment practices, maybe you shouldn’t be hiring any two-bit saddletramp with a horse.”
Rattled by his son’s biting scorn, Murdoch struggled to hold his temper in check. “This isn’t a Boston courtroom, Scott. No one’s judging you.”
“It looks that way to me.”
“Well maybe you’re not looking closely enough,” Johnny spoke behind him. His own wire-thin temper was on the verge of snapping. Since daybreak, Scott had been a mercurial ogre¾one moment up, the next down, his disposition as wretchedly sour as his tone. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, big brother, but I suggest you back off before a less agreeable sort than I, decides to knock some gratitude into that thick-boned skull.”
“Johnny,” Murdoch warned quietly.
Incensed, Scott took two confrontational steps toward his brother. “And you think I’m just going to crumble and quake, like those three cowhands---daunted by the legend of Johnny Madrid, who can ride harder and shoot faster than any man alive?”
“What?” Johnny uttered a short snort of disbelief. He wasn’t certain if it was his brother’s stance, tone, or the actual words, that made him think Scott had tumbled off the deep end. “Do you realize how stupid you sound, Boston?”
Stepping backward, Scott grunted softly. It wasn’t truly acknowledgement, but a sort of self-satisfied gratification, as though he’d coaxed from Johnny the one thing he needed to hear. Wordlessly, Scott walked from the room, stepping outside onto the veranda. Bewildered, Johnny watched the darkness swallow him, as he moved from the covered overhang into the cloaking shadows of deeper night. Only then did he realize it was his use of Scott’s nickname that induced his reaction. Irritated, he plopped into the nearest chair. “Do you understand what’s going on with him?” he asked Murdoch.
Striding to the desk-side decanter, the older man poured himself a shot of brandy. “I’m afraid it has something to do with what happened yesterday.”
“What did happen yesterday?” Johnny demanded.
Shaking his head, Murdoch shrugged. “I wish I knew for sure, but all I’ve gathered is that Scott was pretending to be you. I don’t know why. The man who had him prisoner-this Drago-apparently had some sort of grudge against you.”
Disgusted, Johnny sat forward, bracing his legs apart. With forearms resting on his thighs, hands laced between his knees, he tried to interpret the puzzle. “I didn’t even know the man. I think it had something to do with that girl. What was her name¾Violet? The really odd part . . .” he paused, uncertain how to voice the thought, “ . . . is that Scott seemed almost friendly with them.”
“That can’t be.” Murdoch shook his head. “When I saw them together, Drago was threatening to kill Scott, and it was obvious he’d treated him roughly.”
“I think it was a case of Drago coming to respect him,” Johnny offered thoughtfully. Most of his anger was fading now, ebbing beneath his genuine concern for Scott. He didn’t understand how his brother could be so infuriating one moment, and endearing the next. For every instant he wanted to throttle the blonde-haired man, there was another in which he wanted only to help, coaxing Scott through whatever ordeal had transformed him into an acid-tongued stranger. “I’m going outside,” he announced.
Murdoch drew a breath as if to object, then slowly nodded. He’d never been good with words or feelings, but had witnessed the bond that developed between his very different sons. Perhaps Johnny could help Scott work through whatever was troubling him.
At the very least, Scott Lancer was worth the effort.
++++
The night air was hot and sticky, hardly the cleansing touch he wanted to wash away his multitude of sins. Striding from the veranda, Scott listened to the crunch of dry grass beneath his boots. A tattered string of clouds scuttled across the moon, but the sky remained mostly barren, void of impending rain. It was how he felt inside¾empty and shorn, as confused as he was broken.
Last night’s violent dream of the gattling gun had been the catalyst in a string of events, that left him questioning his own sanity. Though his body was fatigued and battered, he could handle the physical toll. It was the psychological turmoil that weakened his limited defenses. At the branding paddock, when Braxton’s bullets had exploded, one pinging shot after another, he’d relived the sadistic torture of standing in front of the gattling, watching Chapel gleefully rattle off a full load of potentially lethal shots. For one gut-wrenching moment, as Braxton and his cronies had laughed, all the horror and suffocating fear of the previous night reared hideously real in his mind. Shaken, he’d reacted with anger and rage, lashing out at Braxton-the immediate source of his frustration, then turning on Johnny when his brother had tried to help. Braxton’s parting comment about Johnny protecting him had only made matters worse.
Had Johnny become the shadow in Scott’s life, rather than Drago’s? Was it possible to be intimidated by his own brother? Did Johnny’s larger-than-life reputation make him feel inferior by comparison? Throughout his ordeal, he had slowly gained Drago’s respect¾finalized when he’d stood unflinchingly on his own two feet, in the face of Chapel’s sadistic firing-squad game.
Of Chapel himself, there had been a side that left Scott feeling distinctly uncomfortable. From the moment the man had slowly drawn a knife down his chest, to his velvet-laced comments when Scott had arm-wrestled Drago, there’d been something unnatural in his glances. Drago’s eyes, cruel and punishing, had never held the same veiled hunger that Chapel’s possessed. It was only later, when Chapel told Drago to dispose of Violet¾that there were plenty of women in the world¾and Drago had responded with a silencing, “How would you know?” that Scott understood the savoring, hooded glances Chapel cast in his direction. It was the same appreciative glance an immoral vagabond would turn on a cheap prostitute. What might have happened, had Drago given Chapel free reign?
Unnerved, Scott filtered a hand across his face. He wandered to the side courtyard, just steps from where his tormentors had attempted to humiliate him with the gattling gun. The breeze carried the overly sweet scent of Teresa’s flowers to his nostrils, resurrecting the heart-pounding terror of that night. Lips parted, he tried to still the rapid increase of his breath. He doubted whether the refreshing scent of spring blossoms would ever rest easy with him again. The syrupy odor tangled with the remembered taint of Chapel’s glances, setting his stomach roiling. Bracing a hand across his middle, he sucked down an unsteady breath.
“Scott?”
Though the inquiry was soft, he jerked nonetheless, startled from his black retrospective. “Johnny, I-I . . .”
Striding quickly to his side, catching his arm, the younger man looked on him in urgent concern. “What’s wrong? You look ill.”
“No. I¾” Scott waved a hand in front of his face. The scent of the flowers was overpowering, forcing him to remember all the horrors he wanted shuttered away: the gun, Chapel, Violet’s fawning praise of Johnny. He felt guilty even lumping his brother into the tormenting hodge-podge of events he’d sooner forget. Lifting an unsteady hand, he rubbed long fingers over the bridge of his nose. “Just tired, I guess,” he mumbled unconvincingly.
He wanted to lay down, crumble into a bed where he could block everything out. Swallowing convulsively, he tried to silence the insistent press of nausea. He had to get away from this area¾away from the bullet-riddled wall, and the candy-coated muddle of night-blooming flowers. But Johnny was behind him, and if he turned now, his brother would surely see the self-loathing and destructive fear in his eyes.
“Scott, tell me what’s going on.”
He shook his head, unable to speak¾too ashamed to admit he’d briefly considered his supportive brother a rival; that worse still, he’d felt mind-numbing terror as the gun had slammed bullets into the wall around him. Johnny Madrid would never have entertained something as trivial and weak-kneed as fear.
With a low moan, Scott wrapped both arms around his middle, pitched forward, and vomited.
“Hey!” Johnny’s cry was laced with surprise and concern. When he tried to step forward, Scott stiff-armed him aside.
“Stay away from me,” he croaked. Gagging, he sucked down a tremulous breath. His legs felt rickety, ready to buckle at any moment. Chagrined that his sickness was just another sign of weakness, Scott stumbled blindly into the darkness. He didn’t think he’d be able to face Johnny ever again.
For the first time since arriving at Lancer, he began to think about returning to Boston.
++++
Johnny paced.
In his hereto, draw-first, talk-later lifestyle, it was the only way to make waiting even slightly tolerable. Since arriving at Lancer, he’d had to readjust his thinking on a number of items. In the past, he’d been accountable to no one. Life had consisted of drifting from one dirty town to the next, stopping only long enough to dally with a saloon girl when he’d needed company, or accept the latest bribe for the services of his gun. Though a hard life, it had been free of entanglement and relationships. Free of guilt, devotion and caring. Odd how those emotions went hand-in-hand.
The people at Lancer were responsible for turning his head around. Murdoch, Teresa, Jelly¾all had made him feel part of something greater than himself. But it was Scott with whom he’d grown the closest. Perhaps it was the thought of having a brother¾an idealized notion that would have seemed absurd a few short months ago. Maybe it was their closeness in age, or the fact that they’d spent all their preceding lives apart. Whatever the allure, Johnny found himself hopelessly ensnared in emotions hereto foreign. It was hard enough expressing them under normal circumstance, but distressingly difficult with Scott being so unapproachable.
Determined to have it out with his fair-haired brother, Johnny waited in the Great Room, knowing Scott lingered upstairs, hoping he’d already departed. Earlier, Braxton, Piker and Cotton Charlie had arrived for their pay, and were seen by Murdoch. When Braxton grew combative, bad-mouthing Scott, Murdoch gave him exactly two minutes to mount and ride clear of Lancer. As Piker shouldered past Johnny toward the door, he’d turned his head, directing his comments to Johnny: “You better keep a close eye on that brother of yours¾ain’t no place for pretty peacocks out here.”
Smiling thinly, Johnny cocked his arm and belted him in the face. Stunned, Piker reeled backward, careening into Cotton Charlie. Before anyone could move, Johnny freed his gun with fluid precision. “You better keep an eye on your own back,” he warned in a soft, menacing drawl. “You come within three feet of Scott and I’ll blow your shit-for-brain head off. I ain’t got no scruples. Now get outta here.”
That had been almost two hours ago, and still Scott refused to join his family for breakfast. Once again, allowing his unexpectedly temperamental eldest son to sleep late, Murdoch had departed on errands in town, taking Teresa with him. Johnny was to collect Scott and head for the east pasture, finishing the branding.
He turned at the sound of footsteps, frowning slightly as Scott entered the room. Dressed in a plain white shirt and black pants, Scott gave a brief nod to his brother. Quietly setting his hat aside, he reached for his gunbelt and buckled it around his waist, securing the tie-down cord to his thigh¾something Johnny had rarely seen him do. “I thought you’d be at the east pasture by now.” With a shake of his head to settle his thick blonde hair, Scott tugged his hat over his brow.
“You okay?” Johnny asked, cautiously.
Scott relented with a fleeting smile. “If you’re referring to last night, I think that trail food simply didn’t agree with me.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Johnny bit his lip. Scott’s demeanor was different this morning¾more approachable, but no less rattling than his uncharacteristic surliness had been. It was as though he’d simply donned a cloak, deciding to play a theatrical game, presenting the image he guessed others wanted to see. Yet the shadows beneath his eyes and the sleep-deprived lines of his face, told Johnny he’d yet to conquer his crossroads. “Well . . . Murdoch wants us to go finish the branding. How ‘bout some breakfast first?”
With a hand held to his stomach, Scott managed a passable grin. “I think I’ll skip it, if it’s all the same too you. I wouldn’t want a repeat of last night.”
“Yeah,” Johnny agreed quietly, though his meaning was different. “Me either.”
Later, riding side-by-side, he cast a glance at the sky. With a little imagination, he could envision it laden with storm-heads. The blue expanse was darker today, bolstered by a string of lazily rolling clouds. Turning his attention from the weather to his brother, Johnny took in Scott’s quiet, impassive face. His heavy blonde hair was matted at the edges with gathering sweat. Though the bruise on his cheek had begun to fade, it left threads of discoloration along the bone. Viewed in the hazy spray of sunlight, it seemed less stark than it had yesterday. He rode easily, maintaining the perfectly erect posture of a man long accustomed to sitting a horse.
“How ‘bout we go into Morro Coyo tonight?” Johnny ventured with an easy grin. “Unwind a bit after all that branding.”
“Maybe,” Scott returned briefly.
Tired of trying, Johnny sighed. “You know something, Brother? You are one stubborn, tight-lipped, ice-cold, cantankerous cuss, when you get a burr under your saddle.”
Surprised by his tone, Scott reined in his horse. At his side, Johnny did likewise, drawing Barranca to a halt. For a moment, both men simply stared at one another, each trying to gauge the other’s mood. Finally Scott relented. “What do you want from me?”
Encouraged that his brother was speaking civilly, Johnny shifted in the saddle. Wetting his lips, he flexed the reins in his hands. “I want you to tell me what happened with Drago.”
“I told you all you need to know,” Scott said quickly.
“That’s not true. If there was even a shred of fact in that statement, you wouldn’t have heaved your guts all over the courtyard last night. You think I haven’t noticed how you act every time you get near the wall, Drago blasted with potshots? You think I can’t put two-and-two together, after your reaction to Braxton’s little stunt, yesterday? You damn near keeled over when you heard that gunfire, Scott. Now tell me what that bastard did to you.”
Scott blanched. He wanted to deny it as he’d been denying the terror all along. But Johnny’s accusation was too direct¾too unexpected, and nerve-shattering. Tightening his grip on the reins, he tried to decide what was worse¾never admitting the truth, or broadening the miserable gap he was creating with his brother.
“If I tell you¾” From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of movement. With his left arm, he knocked Johnny abruptly aside. A rapid report of gunfire exploded in the air. Rather than unholster his pistol, Scott wrenched his carbine from its sheath, wheeling his horse around, even as he brought the gun up to fire. Something hot sliced across his temple, disgorging blood into his eye. Just as quickly, he sited the ambushers in a stand of trees. Shot after shot pumped from the rifle with deadly accuracy. In a matter of seconds he’d winged Braxton and killed Cotton Charlie outright. Unprepared for resistance, Piker and the injured Braxton wheeled their horses and bolted into the distance.
Wiping the blood from his eye, Scott glanced around for Johnny. He knew he’d reacted violently, protectively thrusting his brother aside when the volley of shots exploded. What he hadn’t realized was that Johnny had been unseated, and that more than one bullet had found its mark in the ex-gunslinger.
“Johnny!” Scott felt his heart lurch to his throat. Rifle in one hand, reins in the other, he swung his horse back toward his brother. Dropping quickly to the ground, he knelt at the injured man’s side. “Johnny, come on!” Alarmed, he gripped his brother’s neck, frantically feeling for a pulse in the life-beating artery.
Eyes closed, the dark half-moons of his lashes resting on his cheeks, Johnny barely breathed. Blood sluiced from his left shoulder, just an inch above his heart. More dribbled from a hole at his waist, where a second bullet had nicked him. With a quick glance at his surroundings, fearing Braxton and Piker might return, Scott pulled his canteen from his saddle. Unfastening the buttons on his brother’s shirt, he pushed the soiled garment aside, simultaneously exposing both wounds.
Jarred by his handling, Johnny blinked, coming groggily to consciousness.
“Take it easy,” Scott said when he saw his brother’s eyelashes flutter. Sweeping a hand across the younger man’s brow, he brushed aside a heavy black fringe of bangs. Allowing his touch to linger, Scott tracked his fingertips over his brother’s smooth cheek, hoping the warm assurance of contact would bring a steadying influence. “It was Braxton and the others.” A jerk of his head over his shoulder indicated a stand of trees in the distance. “Up there-”
Johnny drew a breath, half laughter, half gasp. “A coward’s way out,” he spat with difficulty. In the sun-drenched light, his blue eyes found Scott. “Guess you really are the better judge of character, big brother.”
Lowering his head, Scott went to work on the wounds. He didn’t deserve any gratitude from Johnny, not even grim teasing. As gently as he could, he examined the polluted areas, washing away stubborn blood with cool water from the canteen. Though both bullets had gone clean through, creating gory exit wounds on Johnny’s back, Scott knew internal damage could still exist. With the bedroll from his horse, and the knife from his saddlebag, he cut strips of material to be used as binding.
Panting against a sudden surge of pain, Johnny gripped his wrist. “Did you kill any of them?” he asked.
Disturbed by the iron-clad dependency of his brother’s grip, Scott spoke calmly. “Cotton Charlie. I think I winged Braxton, but he and Piker got away. Don’t talk about it now, Johnny, okay?” Disentangling himself, he carefully bandaged the shoulder wound, tying off the ends as gently as he could.
Neck arched, pain-filled eyes on the reeling sky overhead, Johnny chuckled. “Only one, Boston? And I’ve been telling anyone who’d listen, you’re deadly as sin with a long gun.”
Scott spared a glance. “I was using my pistol,” he lied.
“You couldn’t hit the side of a stagecoach at twenty yards with a pistol.”
“Wise-ass.”
Johnny laughed, then choked abruptly when the movement induced a battering wave of pain. Crying aloud, he caught Scott’s arm, hooking his fingers into the dirt-stained sleeve.
“Easy,” Scott coaxed. Sliding behind him, he cradled the younger man, half-supported in his lap.
A series of ragged tremors ricocheted through Johnny’s body, each more punishing then the last. Gasping to silence the pain, he turned his face to Scott’s chest, burrowing his cheek against the white linen. He’d been in pain before, he’d even been shot before. But there’d never been anyone to help stave off the demons¾to comfort him while he battled the fiery torture raging in his body. “Don’t leave,” he panted. Fingers tightening over Scott’s arm, he ground his teeth together. A rush of light-headedness spiked against his temples, and his head lolled to the side.
“Johnny.” Cradling him closer, Scott leaned forward, fearing the worse. When he felt the soft flutter of his brother’s breath against his arm, he closed his eyes. Pressing his cheek against the silky crown of Johnny’s hair, he fought for control. This was his fault. All of it. From the shadows he’d avoided with Drago and Chapel, pinning that blame on Johnny’s reputation, to the miss-mash of things he’d instigated with Braxton, he was solely responsible. And now the brother whom he’d unjustly maligned in thought; who’d done nothing but try to help him, was the victim of his own selfish shortcomings. “I’m going to get you out of this,” he whispered, the words catching in his throat. “I promise, Johnny.”
He felt the other stir, rousing slightly. Easing him to the ground, Scott finished his ministrations, binding the deeper wound at Johnny’s waist. He didn’t like the unhealthy pallor of his brother’s skin, waxen and gray, in the late morning light. They weren’t that far from the main house, but Scott doubted his brother could sit a horse. The likeliest course of action would be for him to return for a buckboard. He could send one of the stable hands to Morro Coyo for Murdoch and the doctor while he returned for Johnny.
Cupping his brother’s cheek, he forced his head back until their eyes met. “I’m going to have to ride back to Lancer for a buckboard. You’ll never sit a horse like this.”
A flicker of uneasiness touched Johnny’s eyes. “You promised to stay.”
“I promised to get you out of this. I’ll do whatever it takes.” Pausing, Scott wet his lips. “Johnny, I . . . I want you to know . . . these last couple months . . . having you for a brother.”
The younger man closed his eyes. “Oh God, you’re going to get sappy.” Closing both hands over his middle, he bit back a groan, tensing as renewed pain knifed through him. “Just get me back to Lancer.”
Thinking he’d been rebuffed, Scott nodded. He helped his brother a short distance away, to a soothing patch of shade beneath a cypress tree. Once he knew Johnny was secure, supplied with both fully-loaded gun and water, Scott rode back to the house. As planned, he sent a stable hand for Murdoch and the doctor, then rode like a demon, with the buckboard bouncing behind him.
By the time he got Johnny back to the house and up to his room, the younger man was pale and trembling. Collapsing on the bed, Johnny remained mute through most of Scott’s hovering ministrations. Once or twice he roused, momentarily complacent, as the blonde-haired man urged cool water between his lips. Snared in the grip of pain, his perception grew muddled. He felt the soft brush of his brother’s fingers across his cheek¾welcomed the gentle assurances Scott whispered near his ear. Once, when the pain flamed unbearable, he cried aloud, arching his back against the bed, twisting in helpless agony, as Scott supported his shoulders.
In time other voices intruded¾Murdoch, Teresa, and the deeper bass of a man he didn’t recognize. Blinking, he tried to focus on the distorted bubble of faces around him. Someone was peeling back the blood-soaked bandage around his middle. Alarmed, he grunted in pain, and reached for Scott, who still supported his shoulders.
“Ssh, Johnny,” his brother whispered, the lilt of his voice soft and melodious. “The doctor’s here.”
“Don’t leave,” Johnny said again. He couldn’t see anyone through the pain-induced haze of his mind, but sensed his brother’s presence as surely as he knew his voice. Raising his hand, fingers hot and sticky with his own blood, he groped blindly for Scott. Instantly, a strong hand clasped over his, holding firmly.
“I’m right here, Brother,” the soothing voice promised. Comforted by that familiar touch and voice, Johnny surrendered to the darkness when next it came calling.
++++
Murdoch watched as Scott braced his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. Frowning at the younger man’s obvious fatigue, he passed him a glass of brandy. “Here, this might help.”
Rousing long enough to accept the beverage, Scott nodded his thanks. It quiet in the Great Room, the lights trimmed to low. Shadows clustered in the corners, mirroring the black night-time sky beyond the windows. Morro Coyo’s only doctor had departed hours before, promising Johnny a full recovery. Upstairs, Teresa monitored her “brother,” sitting by his bedside in the event he should rouse and need assistance.
“It was Braxton,” Scott said woodenly. He’d reached the point where thinking was an effort, and reaction came easier. “I killed Cotton Charlie. The other two got away. I think I put a bullet in Braxton’s shoulder.”
“I’ve already sent a man with a full report for the sheriff.” Pausing, Murdoch eased to a seat on the couch. Scott sat adjacent to him in a pale blue wing-chair, drawn near the fireplace. “I’ll say one thing for you, Scott, you sure know how to make enemies.” As soon as he’d voiced the thoughtless epitaph, Murdoch realized how cruel it sounded.
An inward stab of pain made Scott’s face crumble. Turning his head, he looked away, glancing into the empty fireplace.
“That was thoughtless of me,” Murdoch tried to pacify his blunder. “I guess we’re all just a little on edge.”
Unwilling to look at him, Scott nodded. The words still hurt, hanging like a noose over his head. Murdoch’s insinuation couldn’t have been plainer¾if he’d kept his temper in check yesterday, none of this would have happened. He was responsible for Johnny’s suffering.
Scott heard the soft tread of his father’s boots as Murdoch stood. A moment later a comforting hand settled on his shoulder. “You’re exhausted, Scott. Why don’t you go to bed?” In the short months since he’d been there, they bantered easily enough, and exchanged heated words more often than Scott cared to recall, but Murdoch had never touched him with affection. Too frightened to move, Scott stilled, fearful if he so much as flinched, it would shatter a moment he’d desired all his life. “I’m alright,” he said with effort.
Murdoch’s hand departed, and Scott closed his eyes, disturbed at how much the exchange meant to him. Still unwilling to look at his father, he waited. Murdoch’s hand settled briefly on the crown of his hair, then fell away. The big man turned and paced back to the sofa.
Struggling to bring his emotions under control, Scott swallowed hard. Over the last two days he’d endured more than he thought himself capable, without so much as a whimper. But Murdoch’s gentle touch¾coming now, on the heels of all he’d been through, of what he’d put his brother through¾brought an unexpected sting of tears to his eyes. Hastily rubbing away the moisture, he stood.
“Maybe I will go upstairs. That is, if you don’t need me.”
Murdoch’s smile was fleeting but indulgent. “Go to bed, Scott. You’ve had a rough couple of days.”
With a nod, the younger man departed. He paused at Johnny’s room, checking on Teresa and his brother. The dark-haired man slept soundly, looking more angelic visitor, then deadly gunslinger. Lost in sleep, black hair tousled over his brow, Johnny looked appallingly young. Scott paused long enough to track a finger over his cheek and wish him a restful night, before departing to his own room.
Sometime after midnight, he awoke disturbed by dreams. Now it was Johnny who stood before the gattling gun, Scott helpless to save him, as bullets ripped into his flesh. He awoke with a jerk, choking back a scream before it could gain volume. Shaken, Scott dressed quickly and padded barefoot to his brother’s bedroom. Murdoch rested in the chair drawn close to the bed. Assuring his father he needed no more sleep, Scott urged the older man to retire and took up the bedside vigil.
It was somewhere near dawn when fatigue got the better of him and he drifted into fitful sleep. Within moments he awoke, aware of someone watching him.
“Hey,” Johnny said softly, the hint of a smile ghosting his lips.
Sucking down a ragged breath, Scott leaned forward. “How do you feel, little brother?”
“Like I’ve been trampled, stampeded, and trampled again.” Sighing, Johnny laced unsteady fingers through his hair. “It’s all kind of vague¾like a dream or something. It was Braxton, wasn't it?”
Scott nodded. “And the others.” Stretching a hand to the bedside table, he snagged a ceramic pitcher, pausing to pour a glass of water.
Johnny watched quietly, his eyes oddly dissecting as he considered his brother’s movements. When Scott slipped a hand behind his head, lifting him slightly so he could swallow the cooling liquid, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. How had he ever survived all these years without an older brother to watch over him? The closeness he felt with Scott brought a tingling sensation to his stomach. Clearing his throat, he settled back against the pillows. “I, um . . . about today . . .”
Scott shook his head before his brother could blunder further. “It’s my fault. Everything that happened is my fault. I shouldn’t have reacted like I did. I shouldn’t have fired those three.”
“They deserved it. If this is how they react over getting the boot, it was just a matter of time until trouble started.” There was something morosely pensive in Scott’s eyes and Johnny found it unnerving. He’d been doused with enough laudanum, to mute the sharper edges of awakening pain, but wasn’t completely without discomfort. Shifting on his side to silence a niggling ache, he studied Scott’s melancholy expression. “This isn’t about Braxton,” he said softly. “It’s about Drago, and what he did to you. Until you face that, nothing’s going to change.”
Slowly Scott exhaled. It was the long release of pent-up frustration. He wanted to dispel the truth, to share the burden with Johnny, but how could he possibly admit the overwhelming fear he’d felt to a man of Johnny’ dauntless reputation? He didn’t want his brother to laugh¾to think any less of him for a shameful moment of weakness, when death had loomed maddeningly real on his shoulders.
Tensing, Scott felt the breath catch in his throat. Gripping the arms of the chair, he tried to still the rapid acceleration of his heart. If he didn’t unburden the god-awful truth now, he never would. It would linger inside him, forever tormenting, eating him raw.
“I¾” Suddenly nervous, he stood, pacing in marked agitation to the window. Rubbing a hand over his chin, he struggled for the right words. “The gun . . . I was¾I was there . . .” It all came tumbling back, much too fast, much too real. The smell of sulfur and flowers; the taint of Drago’s laughter; the pelt of dislodged stone against his flesh. “It was a game for them¾to see if I’d run screaming, or if I’d stand there, chained by my own will, while they drilled those bullets around me.” Heart racing, Scott sucked down unsteady breaths. “Johnny, I thought they we’re going to kill me.”
The younger man struggled to sit up. When he was braced against the pillows, Scott came to his side. “You survived something most wouldn’t,” Johnny said sincerely.
Scott swallowed. “I was . . . scared.” The word came haltingly, but he got it said.
Knowing how difficult the admission was, Johnny studied his brother. “I would have been too,” he said carefully.
“No.” Scott shook his head, a vehement denial. “That’s just it¾you wouldn’t have batted an eyelash. You would have breezed through it, then taunted them to try again. That girl¾Violet¾she was in love with you. In love with the legend you’d created for yourself. I kissed her, stood up to her outlaw boyfriend time and again, and through every instance, all I could think is how she compared me to you. How I came up lacking.”
“Scott, don’t do this.”
He was shaking¾inwardly and outwardly, as painful truth upon painful truth was dredged to the surface. “Drago put me through hell, but in the end he respected me for being Scott Lancer, not Johnny Madrid. I can almost forgive him, more than I can forgive you."
Appalled, Johnny stared. “But you’re my brother.”
“And do you know how hard that is?” Scott’s voice rose an octave. Seated on the edge of the bed, he shook his head as if seeing his dark-haired sibling for the first time. “I can’t compete with you.”
“Damn it, don’t do this!”
“I’m supposed to be older and wiser. I went through hell in the war, Johnny¾spent an entire year in a prison camp so foul it would curdle your blood. Yet out here, where Johnny Madrid reigns supreme, I’m nothing more than a bumbling greenhorn forever at a crossroads.”
“Greenhorn, my ass. You’re full of shit, Scott!” Incensed, Johnny locked one hand over his wounded arm and sat bolt upright. Anger, defiance, and pain crashed upon him in unrelenting waves. All the bottled frustration he’d felt over the past few days broke suddenly, violently free. “Do you think I want to be freakin’ Johnny Madrid? Do you have any idea what kind of morals a gun-for-hire has? Do you have any idea what I’ve done¾how unbelievably tainted I am? Damn it, Scott, you’re one of the only good, decent, redeemingly pure things in my life. Don’t take that away too.”
Shocked, Scott stared at his brother. Blood rushed in his ears as the unbelievable words echoed to stillness. How was it possible Johnny held him in such high regard after what he’d done? Fearful of shattering the tenuous bond between them, he sat tense and unmoving. His brother’s expression was as open as he’d ever seen it, bare of pretense and his usual playful scorn. He’d been so certain Johnny would be ashamed of him, would look upon him with derision. Wetting his lips, he tilted his head. He could feel the sting of moisture at the back of his eyes again, but it left him confused. A grown man didn’t shed tears over something so silly, something so trifling. The truth made him bite silent the thought---his brother, Johnny Madrid Lancer, was far from a trifling matter.
“I’m sorry.” Scott lowered his eyes. “I should have told you what happened, long before now. I never meant to harbor such feelings of resentment for you. Today, when you almost died¾” Eyes rimmed with tears, Scott glanced at his brother. “You were right about the wall . . . about the gattling gun and why I reacted the way I did with Braxton. When he threw those bullets into the fire, it was like reliving the whole thing over again. And Chapel?”
Johnny watched him steadily. “The man I killed?”
Mortified, Scott nodded. “He wasn’t . . . that is, I think he felt . . . the way he looked at me . . . the things he said . . . I think he wanted to . . .”
“Don’t’ say it.” Seeing how disturbed Scott was by the halting admission, Johnny gripped his arm. Beneath his tightly clenched fingers, he felt a straining quiver of muscle. It was no wonder his brother had been on such a tightly wound string. He’d simply added to the burden, picking away at Scott’s fragile emotions, until he’d been one step shy of cracking. Feeling suddenly guilty, Johnny cleared his throat. “Let’s just forget all this.”
“I wish I could.” Raising his hand, Scott wiped tears from his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wept¾somewhere in the early days of childhood, when a boy didn’t have to worry about letting another see him cry. “Johnny, I almost got you killed.”
“Those three jackasses are the ones that almost got me killed.” Annoyed by his brother’s observation, Johnny took a hard track. “Listen to me, Boston. I’ve been shot up for a whole lot less than standing by my brother’s side. If I have to take a bullet for something, I hope to God it’s for protecting you, or Murdoch or Teresa.”
With a muffled grunt, Scott dropped his face into his hand. It wasn’t fair of Johnny¾all this bare-bones truth when his emotions were already rubbed raw. He heard his brother shift. A light, comforting touch, similar to the one Murdoch had used earlier, settled on his shoulder. Quaking, undone by the contact, Scott curled onto the bed. Johnny’s hand filtered over the back of his head, tracking through his ash blonde hair, gently skimming his neck. “It’s alright, Scott,” the gunslinger whispered. Freed of his torment, the older man wept.
Outside, rain so long denied, burst from the heavens, drenching the parched earth.
*****End*****
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