Final Dance
Author's Note: The following story is written purely for entertainment value and is not meant to infringe on any copyrights held by CBS Television, or any holder of Lancer copyrights. No profit is being made from this story. This one is for Theresa, who is solely responsible for introducing the Lancer boys to me, and "hooking" me on Scott Lancer (a blonde! wonders never cease <g>). Please bear in mind I've seen a total of only four episodes before writing this story, so I hope I've done justice to the characterizations. Not much Murdoch or Teresa in this, but lots of Scott and Johnny. If you like your fanfic a little smarmy, with a good dose of hurt/comfort thrown in, this one is for you. Thanks also to Debbie, for feeding my addiction :-) Emphasis and thought quotes denoted by an asterisk (*). Some mild language in this one. Comments welcome.
There were better places to hold a dance, Scott Lancer decided as he shouldered through the crowd of ranch hands, wranglers and flushed-cheeked women, engaged in a heightened reel on the straw-littered floor. The soaring echo of hand-clapping, boot-stomping and fiddle music obliterated most attempts at conversation in the converted barn. Not that Scott minded. He needed a respite, after twirling Claire Amherst through a series of lively dance-steps. After their fourth venture onto the floor, she'd breathlessly suggested a trip to the punch bowl, and Scott had willingly obliged. Leaving her in the capable hands of his brother Johnny, and Johnny's date Molly, he'd pressed through the throng, intent on reaching the silver-plated bowl brimming with liquid. It gave him a chance to reflect on an evening crowded with contradiction.
After seven months in Morro Coyo, firmly entrenched as the eldest son of Murdoch Lancer, Scott still had a hard time placing life in perspective. Gone were the days of high-end social galas, cultural posturing, and stolen kisses with the debutante-of-the-moment. Morro Coyo's idea of a "musical evening" was a far cry from the gilded events that had comprised most of his life. Platters of lobster medallions and champagne in long-stemmed crystal, had been replaced by mesquite-flavored chicken and watered-down ale. The soaring ceilings and lustrous woodwork of Boston's elite homes were effortlessly swept aside by the tang of moldy-hay and the occasional whiff of manure.
Chuckling silently, Scott suppressed a grin. Given a chance, Johnny would likely rub his nose in the differences. His brother was fond of pointing out matters he thought would ruffle Scott's "Boston-bred feathers," but his teasing was done with clear affection.
"Excuse me, Ma'am." Scott smiled politely at a plain woman in an expensively-cut dress, as he side-stepped around her. The name Lillian Porter leapt in his mind, and he quickly associated it with the woman responsible for most of the present festivities. A single woman, well into her thirties, Lillian had inherited a sizable fortune from her banker father when he'd died six months earlier. Though most of the town's residents had expected her to retreat to the east, she'd remained in Morro Coyo, quickly becoming one of it's leading citizens. Her promise of investing funds to build a new livery stable was the main cause of celebration tonight. The old barn, sadly in need of repairs, and much too small for the growing town, became the focal point of the gathering, painstakingly planned for a week.
"Sorry for the delay," Scott told his date, passing her a glass of punch. She smiled up at him, obviously pleased with the attention, and he reciprocated by resting his hand lightly on the small of her back. As the fiddling dwindled, he leaned forward, smiling at the endearment she whispered in his ear. Though he'd courted her only a brief eight days, the relationship had matured beyond coy flirtation and chaperoned hand-holding.
"Enough, you two," Johnny complained, elbowing Scott in the ribs. An impish gleam illuminated the debts of his blue eyes as he considered his brother. "This ain't one of your high-falutin' parties, Boston, so hunker on down here with the rest of us common folk."
Scott's response came easily, prompted by Johnny's teasing banter. It was a tone he'd come to recognize. Despite all the years they'd lived apart, seven months together had bonded them with ties of blood. "And what could possibly be so interesting as to distract me from Claire?" Scott grinned, enjoying the baiting challenge in Johnny's eyes. "Except maybe the number of times you stepped on poor Molly's toes."
"Don't go walkin' on snakes now, Brother." Johnny plunked a finger against Scott's chest, deliberately flecking aside his immaculate string tie. "I'm not the one you see klutzing around, tryin' to remember my right foot from my left, though I grant you got a hearty penchant for party-goin'. Must be all that fine-living you did back east, huh?"
"I think you're both dreadful dates," Molly spoke up suddenly, shocking them to silence. Three pairs of eyes shifted in her direction. Johnny and Scott were startled, while Claire merely looked embarrassed.
"Molly--" she ventured awkwardly.
Clearly troubled, Johnny's date folded her arms across her chest. Distracted, she brushed a dark veil of hair from her eyes as she glanced across the crowded barn. "Did you hear what those three are planning?" she asked with a jut of her chin, for a trio of cowhands gathered near the punch bowl.
Scott followed her gaze, frowning slightly as his eyes settled on the group. Though he knew the cider had been laced with liquor, the amount was minimal--certainly not enough to warrant the inebriated swaying and raucous laughter enjoyed by the three. They'd obviously overindulged elsewhere before arriving. With effort, Scott fought to recall names that briefly eluded him: Abe Jones, Bacon Riley and Cirilo Ortega. Jones was the oldest, long-limbed, with a paunched middle and stringy beard, while Riley was flint-eyed, and just past twenty years old. The last—Cirilo Ortega--was black-haired, foul-mouthed more often than not, and wholly undesirable in social
company. Though all three were clearly drunk, their actions had not yet reached the point of disruptive behavior.
Rolling his shoulders, Scott tried to make light of the situation. "Everyone indulges a bit too much at a party. I heard the boys from the Bent Tree had a rough time of it lately, losing sixteen head to rustlers. They're just unwinding, Molly. So they're a little cock-eyed--"
"That's not the point." Flustered, Molly looked to her date for support. "Johnny, they're egging each other on to ask Miss Porter to dance."
"They're what?" Johnny appeared stunned, but the absurdity passed all too quickly. Bending double, he choked back a bark of laughter. "Oh, that's rich! That spinster's gotta be the biggest wallflower this side of the Mississippi."
"You're dreadful," Claire said quickly. "They're making sport of her."
Aware of two baleful female glares, Johnny frowned. "Look ladies, no one's going to dance with Lillian Porter--no one ever does. She comes to every town social, rich as a diamond in gold dust, and about as appealing as day-old beans. Stop fretting over something that doesn't concern you."
"But it does," Molly insisted. "I think it's positively awful those men can make sport of such an upstanding woman like Miss Porter, and no one will do anything about it."
"Molly," Johnny said with a hint of strain beginning to show in his voice. "They haven't done anything. They're just talking about dancing with her."
"Molly's right," Scott said quickly, surprising his brother and both women. Catching Claire's hand, he smiled down on her. "You won't mind if I leave you for one dance, will you, Claire?"
"Scott!" Johnny's voice rumbled with an unmistakable edge. "What fool thing do you have planned now, big brother?"
Releasing Claire, Scott tilted his head toward the trio of cowhands and the unsuspecting woman across the congested barn. Torches, lanterns, and tobacco created a delicate haze in the air, tinged with a hint of blue. In the smoke-infused light, Scott's dark blonde hair appeared almost brown. "I'm going to save the lady some embarrassment and hopefully put those bloodhounds off the scent."
"You're going to ask her to dance?" Johnny shook his head in disbelief. Crossing his arms over his chest, he narrowed his eyes. "You know, Boston, you don't always have to do the chivalrous thing. There's nothing wrong with letting someone else be the noble, fool-idiot once in awhile."
Amused by his ire, Scott quirked a brow. "Does that mean you're volunteering?"
Catching his brother's arm, Johnny tugged him aside, pulling him a few steps from the women. The music was slower now, and the volume was accordingly muted. Behind them on the makeshift dance floor, couples moved slowly, stepping in time to the softly rising and falling melody.
"Scott," Johnny said, pitching his voice low. "That woman walks around with her nose in the air, but she's as clingy as molasses in the summertime. I carried a package for her a few weeks back--thought I'd be a gent, like you're always telling me to be--and it took me three hours to convince her I wasn't courting her hand. Do you hear what I'm saying, big brother?"
"Come on, John, it's just a dance. What harm can there be?" Scott smiled, a wondrous rakish grin he used to dramatic effect with most women. Realizing it failed to dazzle his brother, he cleared his throat. "She's doing a lot for the town with the new livery stable. Surely that's worth one paltry dance with a displaced easterner."
"There you go, being confounded noble again. You're asking for trouble with this one, Scott. Let the trio from the Bent Tree have their fun. She'll have them crying skunk eggs, quicker then you can spit and holler howdy."
Ignoring the warning, Scott gave his brother an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "Keep an eye on Claire for me, huh?"
Without a backward glance, he moved into the crowd--a tall, lean man with a thick head of dark blonde hair and a bearing that bespoke years as a calvary officer. Annoyed, Johnny chewed on his bottom lip, silently cursing his older brother's stubbornness. For a man who was genuinely easy-going, always seeking a solution before confrontation, Scott could be damnably pigheaded when he chose. What made matters worse, he did it in a congenial manner, barely batting an eye for the effort. Sometimes that coolness--that innate levelheadedness was too much for Johnny too endure. His own inherent nature demanded he react with instinct and passion--an aggression that often led to trouble. While he knew there were times his reactions needed tempering, he sometimes wished Scott would respond in kind. But he'd yet to see that precision control shatter. Johnny guessed Scott's years as a calvary officer were responsible for his rock-solid composure. He'd seen his
brother in crisis and circumstance that would have tested the mettle of most men, and yet Scott remained as true and unwavering as the folk heros of his childhood. There was something to be said for a man of such poise, beyond the blood that bound them through Murdoch Lancer. That Scott was chivalrous in an almost antiquated fashion, there was little doubt. And it was that sense of misplaced honor that Johnny was certain would lead him to trouble now. Frowning, he tugged at the small, silver medallion secured on a link chain around his neck. A habitual gesture, it failed to lessen his irritation. Returning to the women, he watched his brother's steady progress across the dance floor.
+++++
"Miss Porter." Scott smiled down at the rail-thin woman in her expensively cut dress. Despite richly woven hues of claret and gold, the embroidered material could not hide the pallid cast of her skin. Her face was narrow, offset by a pinched, pink mouth and small gray eyes. White-blonde hair, piled in heavy ringlets atop her head, made her skin seem that must paler by association. When she turned her head to look at him, he had the impression of a malnourished bird with bright, inquisitive eyes. "I was wondering if you'd care to dance with me, Miss Porter."
He was at his best--polished, poised--an eastern gentleman of the highest breeding. Dressed as exquisitely as the west would allow, in black pants, white shirt and buff-colored jacket with charcoal string tie, Scott knew he presented an image few women would rebuke. But the look in her eyes--unprepared for the offer, hesitant, even a trifle fearful, made him realize she intended to refuse him. Behind him the barn grew still, as the music shuddered to a sudden stop. Scott could feel the eyes of the gathered crowd on his back, and suddenly understood the woman's hesitation. He had put her on the spot when he'd only intended to help her from an awkward situation. Unfazed by the nosey crowd, Scott took her hand. "You've been most gracious to Morro Coyo with your intents, Miss Porter. This evening is in celebration of something brought about solely through your kind-heartedness. I think that warrants special attention to a remarkable woman.
I'd be most honored if you'd allow me the pleasure of escorting you in a dance."
"I--" Lillian Porter wet her pale, trembling lips. "Thank you, Mr. Lancer. I accept."
Scott smiled, offering quiet assurance as he led her onto the straw-littered floor. As he stepped into the area reserved for dancing, the crowd shuffled back, permitting them room. From the corner of his eye, Scott saw the trio from the Bent Tree, elbowing one another, eagerly nodding in his direction. He'd become their private joke, he realized, but didn't care. He also noted Johnny's disapproving frown, and Claire's doe-eyed gratitude. The musicians stood agape, simply watching, until Scott looked expectantly in their direction. When the music started--sweeping and slow--he placed his hand on Lillian's waist, drawing her effortlessly across the floor. Beneath his fingers, he felt her tremble.
"You dance divinely, Mr. Lancer," she said somewhat breathlessly as other couples moved to join them. Two spots of color bloomed bright and glaring on her sallow cheeks.
Scott acknowledged the compliment with an inclination of his head. "Dancing is a favorite pass-time in the east. On almost any given night you can find a gala, or musical reception among Boston's foremost citizens."
"Is that what you were--" she asked, voice quavering as his hand tightened on her waist, gently urging her to follow his lead. "--one of the city's foremost citizens?"
He chuckled, realizing they were dancing just beyond horse stalls with the smell of manure lingering in the air. *Foremost citizen, indeed.* "I wouldn't say that exactly, but I've certainly attended my share of receptions."
"Yes," she murmured, eyes lowering as she considered the observation. "I've seen you in town on occasion, and noticed you aren't like the other men who frequent Morro Coyo. You're much more refined. A gentleman of breeding. Even tonight, asking me to dance--"
"I'm sure there are others who would do the same," Scott inserted quickly.
Her eyes flashed to his face, and this time her glance was far from demure. "Don't patronize me, Mr. Lancer. I'm well-acquainted with how I'm thought of in this town. While the women might respect me, the men view me as an undesirable spinster, good only for the laughs gleaned at my expense, or the coins pocketed when I need a service performed."
Uncomfortable with the turn of conversation, Scott regarded her steadily. "Do you think I'm gaining either from this dance, Miss Porter?"
For a moment she was silent, her gray eyes wide and devouring as she studied his face. Finally she shook her head and looked away. "No. You are simply a gentleman reacting to a lady you feared in distress, and I thank you for the kindness. There aren't many here who would have given me a passing thought."
"Don't under estimate yourself, Miss Porter. You are worth more than a few thoughts." As the music swirled to a close, Scott drew her hand to his lips, lingering as he brushed a kiss across her knuckles. Straightening to his full height, he inclined his head as gallantly as any knight to a high-born, regal lady. "Thank you for the dance, Miss Porter. It has been an honor."
When she only nodded, refusing to speak, Scott escorted her to her seat. He felt comfortable with the turn of events, and was in high spirits when he returned to his brother and their dates.
Claire immediately went to his side, offering a shy kiss on his cheek. Johnny, however, was scowling.
"You're an idiot, Boston. If Murdoch were here he'd tell you what a stupid-fool thing you just did."
"Hey--hey, Scott Lancer--" Before Scott could mutter a reply to Johnny's reprimand, he found the trio from the Bent Tree converging on their group. The music was bright and sprightly once again, filling the small barn with loud, soaring reels. Bacon Riley stumbled, catching himself on Scott's arm, then clawed upward to exhale a whiskey-soaked breath against the older man's cheek. "Yessiree, you done us poor western boys proud, askin' that stiff-necked, rich-purse to dance. She got any curves on that flat frame?"
Irritated, Scott cleared his throat, though his outward demeanor remained deceptively calm. "You're drunk, Bacon. Go sleep it off."
"Naw!" The younger man pawed the air, making a shushing sound, which quickly bled into laughter. "Me and Jonesy and 'Rilo had this bet goin' see? One of us was gonna ask that starched petticoat to two-step, but you beat us too it."
"Sure did," Abe Jones inserted, coming abreast of the others. Cirilo Ortega appeared at his shoulder, clearly as drunk as his friends. Smiling suggestively, he nodded to Claire, who tightened her grip on Scott.
Wrapping a protective arm around his apprehensive date, Scott regarded the cowhands. "It's getting late, boys. Why don't you take it outside?"
"Yeah. Quick-like." Johnny's voice did not have the same cultured smoothness as Scott's, leaving little doubt to his frame of mind. The flash of anger in his blue eyes made confrontation inevitable. With a shake of his head, Scott tried to warn off his more volatile brother.
"This don't concern you, Madrid," Ortega said with a sneer, placing ugly emphasis on the surname. Though Johnny had gone by "Lancer" for the last seven months, his association with Ortega predated any affiliation with Murdoch or Scott. By dredging up the name he'd abandoned, the trouble-seeking cowhand used the opportunity to remind him of his less than upstanding past.
Fearing trouble, Molly tugged on his arm. "Come on, Johnny. Let's go. It's getting late."
"Yeah, tuck your tail and run along with your girl, Madrid. Maybe she'll even *entertain* you for the effort."
"Bastard!" Johnny drove his fist into Ortega's face, reacting with a speed that surprised even Scott. Once the punch was thrown, the situation degenerated rapidly. Scott heard Claire squawk in alarm, and shoved her aside, ducking to avoid Bacon Riley's wide-armed blow. Though vocal to the point of rudeness, the inebriated Bent Tree cowhands were no match for the Lancer brothers. As quickly as the scuffle erupted, it ended. Scott and Johnny tossed the troublemakers outside, bolstered by a full-bellied chorus of cheers from the townspeople.
"You ruffed your hair there, Boston," Johnny said with a wink, fluffing a hand through Scott's dark blonde locks. "As dapper and pretty as you look tonight, you don't want to muss all that careful grooming."
"You're at fault for this you know--that wild stallion temper of yours." Dusting a hand against his ink-black pants, Scott slapped aside clinging bits of dirt and straw. "And you make one more crack about 'dapper' or 'pretty,' I'll have to reacquaint you with what a miserable tyrant I can be, when pushed by errant brothers."
Johnny chuckled. "Lieutenant Scott. Nosiree, Bob. You just leave those rules and regulations in the calvary."
"You could use a few rules, John," Scott commented, eyeing his brother as they neared the barn.
Behind them, in the moon-dusted street, Ortega, Riley and Jones, staggered to their feet. From the muffled groans and weak curses, it was clear the three were no longer a threat. "I mean that kindly," Scott said when his brother glanced at him guardedly. "Sometimes you're just a little too--" Disturbed, he stopped. A few yards away, the barn yawned open--wide and inviting, spilling a square of yellow light onto the dusty street. Music and laughter floated through the doorway, beckoning with the promise of warmth and light-hearted gaiety. At the fringe of the opening, Scott could see Molly and Claire, anxiously awaiting their return.
"I'm what?" Johnny prompted, causing Scott to refocus on the man at his side. They'd halted a few feet shy of the barn and in the weak half-light, Johnny's feral blue eyes appeared riddled with flame. The fall of his ink-black hair contoured chiseled cheekbones, lending a dusky hue to his skin.
Scott knew his half-brother had spent all twenty-two years of his life, carving a crude existence in a land wholly unforgiving of the meek. It was little wonder he'd developed a sometimes abrasive personality. What Scott feared was where that penchant would lead. It routinely brought trouble, and that could one day prove fatal.
The thought of life without Johnny sickened him. Though he was only three years older than his dark-haired sibling, Scott readily fell into the role of protective older brother. He did it discreetly. A word here, a suggestion there, a companionable offer of partnering on a ride when he thought Johnny was headed for disaster. Thus far his fully capable, gunslinger brother had allowed him the interference, slight as it was, but Scott knew Johnny would never heed advice about recklessness.
For much too long Johnny had survived on wits, cunning, and a fast-draw, to have some eastern-bred dandy rebuff him now. Swallowing his uneasiness, Scott shook his head. "Nothing, Johnny. Just some stupid musing about things that don't apply out here. It's getting kind of late. I think I'm going to take Claire home."
Much later, standing on her front porch, in the webbed shadows cast through a vine-covered lattice frame, Scott dispensed the awkwardness of the evening in a gentle kiss. He found Claire sweet and enchanting, unlike many of the more experienced women he'd dallied with in Boston.
In venturing west and starting over, he'd also shed his reputation as a ladies man--someone who could turn heads with cordial charm, and just as easily lead a willing partner to bed. Despite the ruggedness of the terrain, women in the west still wanted to be courted. If there was any doubt to the proper protocol, gun-toting fathers made it abundantly clear to any cowhand willing to brave the threshold. Claire, more innocent than most, was no exception. As he bid her goodnight, Scott kept his parting kiss light, almost chaste, and still felt her tremble as their lips met. At eighteen, she was seven years younger than he, hardly accomplished in the ways of the world.
When she would have clung to him, deepening the kiss, Scott pulled her arms aside, smiling gently at her expectant gaze. "Your father's waiting inside, Claire. Sleep well."
Though disappointed at his reluctance, she nodded and stepped indoors, bidding him good-night. Scott waited until the door closed and the patch of protruding light was snuffed in darkness. Exhaling at holding his own desires in check, Scott stepped from the porch, reaching for the reins of his horse. Johnny would likely be much later returning to the ranch, dallying most of the night with Molly.
Down at the end of the street, music and light still spilled from the barn, and Scott envisioned his brother and his dark-haired date whirling through dance after high-spirited dance. Smiling at the image, he mounted his horse, tugging the reins to wheel the animal from town. Lost in his thoughts, he never noticed Lillian Porter, lingering in the shadows, silently watching him depart.
+++++
Morning dawned hot and dry, spreading scarlet light over the adobe walls of the Lancer hacienda. The breeze was minimal--a bare whisper, frolicking among dry dust and scorched earth. Into the arid stillness, life at Lancer began in familiar routine. Scott and Johnny joined Murdoch and Teresa at the breakfast table, each prattling about the events of the previous evening.
Though Teresa had not attended the dance, due an upset stomach, she was anxious to hear all the details. Murdoch too, found the boys descriptions of the event a pleasant diversion. Remaining home with Teresa, he'd missed an affair he normally would have welcomed as distraction, if nothing else. Johnny's details of the evening were vivid and slightly exaggerated, Scott's more subdued. As Murdoch watched his sons talk back and forth, each interrupting the other, inserting trivial details one was certain the other would forget, he felt an unusual warmth spread through his middle. Sometimes it felt like living a dream, having Scott and Johnny in his life again. His sons had been strangers at first--grown men with their own set of ethics and morals. He'd shaped none of those--had never lent a hand to Scott's precise breeding, or Johnny's uncanny survival instincts. There were times at night when a lump would form in his throat, just thinking about how fortunate he was. Words and emotions came hard for him. He lacked the demonstrative ability to express how he truly felt, but somewhere inside, he believed his sons already knew. They were comfortable with each other, able to express affection with an ease he envied. He'd seen how they'd interacted over the past seven months--guarded at first, then gradually succumbing to bonds of loyalty, respect and devotion. They'd become brothers in every sense of the word. If he sometimes felt a little distant as their father, it was because he had more to be accountable for--pasts to erase, amends to make.
"You're blowin' smoke, Boston. It's gonna backfire in your face."
Murdoch jerked from his thoughts, alerted by Johnny's change in tone. Gone was the excited banter of a few moments before, replaced by an undercurrent of disquiet. Capturing the handle of his coffee cup, Murdoch glanced at his eldest son.
Unconcerned by Johnny's remark, Scott shrugged, not bothering to raise his head as he concentrated on scooping up a forkful of scrambled eggs. It never failed to amaze Murdoch, that for such a lean man, Scott was a hearty eater. "Think want you want, John, but I say you're over reacting."
"What's this all about?" Murdoch asked.
Scott shook his head, displacing the heavy strands of his ash-colored hair. Off to the side, sunlight bled through the tall windows and doors, soaking the wood and tile floor with buttered-gold light. "Johnny's thinks I was foolish in asking Miss Porter to dance last night."
Murdoch's brows crept higher on his forehead. "You danced with Lillian Porter?"
"How sweet," Teresa gushed. Johnny shot her an annoyed glance, grouping her in the same category as Molly and Claire. Ignoring him, Teresa placed her hand over Scott's left wrist, resting on the table. "No one ever dances with Miss Porter. I think that was very gallant of you, Scott."
Johnny snorted. "Am I the only one who realizes the woman is a little . . . *strange*?"
Murdoch studied his oldest son. Scott was still concentrating on breakfast, unfazed by the topic of discussion. Lillian Porter was a good twelve years older than Scott, and as far as Murdoch knew, romance had never interested her. There was no questioning his son was dashing, gifted with innate charm and exceptional good looks. Coupled with his eastern breeding and quietly reserved manner, he routinely turned heads. But Lillian Porter was a practical woman with no use for romantic notions or girl-child fantasies. Murdoch failed to see why Johnny was so upset.
"Johnny, one dance is hardly--" But he never finished the words, cut off by the arrival of one of his wranglers. A red-haired man entered the room, carrying a small plain package.
"Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, Mr. Lancer," the man said to Murdoch, "But this package was just dropped off for Scott."
"Package?" Scott abandoned his breakfast long enough to raise his head. His eyes, more gray than blue in the sun-dusted light, settled on the box. "Who brought that?"
The wrangler rolled his shoulders. "Some lad from town, doing an errand for Miss Porter."
"Miss Porter?" An element of surprise slipped through in Scott's carefully controlled voice.
"You see!" Johnny exclaimed, rising to snatch the package from the man's hand. "I told you no good would come of it." Plopping the box on the table before Scott, he towered over him, hands on hips, silently daring him to say otherwise. The wrangler, with a nod from Murdoch, retreated from the room. "Well," Johnny demanded, when his brother only stared at the parcel. "Open the fool thing already, and see what it is."
Taking his time, Scott dragged his napkin across his mouth, deliberately setting the scrap of linen aside. He knew his intentionally slow motions were infuriating to his brother, but he refused to feed Johnny's foolishness by reacting with agitation. The box was small, just a couple of inches square. Scott unwrapped it to reveal an ornate pen-knife, cushioned in jade velvet. Disturbed, he sat back in his chair. Murdoch had risen from the opposite side of the table, and peered across the span of dishes and glassware that separated them. Mouth tightening perceptively, he gave a low whistle.
"There's a note," Johnny said with restraint.
Scott had expected him to rant, pound his fist, pace--anything that proved he'd been right, but his quietly spoken comment left Scott feeling strangely off-kilter. Reaching forward he pulled a slip of paper from the box. Sliding a finger beneath the edge, he folded it outward, unveiling delicate, flowing handwriting:
Mr. Lancer,
Please accept this small token in gratitude for your kindness last night. Among people who are sometimes crass by comparison, it's refreshing to find a gentleman so courteous and genteel. I shall not forget your kind-hearted service.
Lillian
Scott read the letter aloud, then passed it to Johnny.
"*Lillian*?" the dark-haired man cried aghast. "She signed it *Lillian*?"
Teresa looked from Murdoch to the men she'd come to view as brothers. All appeared abnormally tense, as though they'd just happened upon some ghastly abomination. Scott's color had waned slightly, and for the first time she could remember, he seemed unsure of himself. "I don't understand what all the fuss is about," she admitted, glancing between the three. "I think it's very sweet of Miss Porter--"
"It's inappropriate," Murdoch said quickly. Teresa flinched at his unexpectedly harsh tone. Relenting with a sigh, Murdoch folded his hand over hers. "Don't you see, Teresa--for a woman of Miss Porter's age and standing, to make a gift to Scott on such short acquaintance smacks of impropriety. It makes it seem--"
"It makes it seem like she expects a favor in return," Johnny finished harshly.
Annoyed, Scott pushed from his chair. "Don't be absurd," he snapped. Pacing to the veranda door, he laced a hand through his hair, sweeping scattered bangs from his brow. Tensing, he glanced out the window, seemingly lost in the vast landscape of rugged hills and green pastureland. "I'll return the knife. That will be the end of it," he said stiffly.
Behind his back, Murdoch and Johnny exchanged a glance. Disgusted, the younger Lancer exhaled audibly. "You're an idiot, Boston," he muttered, and stalked from the room.
Turning slightly, Scott watched his bristling departure, amazed that he hadn't heard anger in Johnny's voice, but rather concern.
+++++
Scott wiped the back of his arm across his brow, mopping up sweat. The temperature had steadily risen throughout the day, staining the neckline and collar of his royal blue workshirt with perspiration. He could feel it trickling down his back, soaking a narrow strip of fabric from shoulders to waist. Tugging off his work gloves, he looped them through the rear of his belt, and headed for the water pump.
He'd spent the morning with Johnny in the north pasture, rounding up strays, but his brother had been moody and withdrawn, and his few lackluster attempts at conversation had failed. An hour ago, he'd returned to the hacienda, intent on replenishing the woodpile on the west side of the house. His arms ached from the constant motion of chopping, and the ends of his hair were soaked with sweat, but the physical activity kept his mind from the more disturbing problem of Lillian Porter.
*Perhaps it isn't a problem at all,* he reasoned. *Perhaps she really doesn't understand the impropriety of her gift.*
Scott pumped cool water into one hand, splashing it onto his neck and face before pausing to drink. The liquid on his parched throat brought instant relief from the rising heat, but it was as fleeting as the dry breeze scuttling through the grass. Distracted by the crunch of wagon wheels over gravel and earth, Scott raised his head. A constricted lump formed in his throat as he watched Lillian Porter approach in an expensive buggy. As she drew nearer, Scott glimpsed a picnic basket on the floorboards at her feet.
Forcing a smile, he stepped away from the pump. "Miss Porter. How nice to see you."
The buggy came to a stop at his side, jangling harnesses sighing into stillness. The abrupt absence of sound was nerve-grating to Scott, who suddenly found himself ill-at-ease.
Dressed in a high-necked yellow blouse and beige riding skirt, Lillian Porter had obviously done her utmost to make herself appealing. Her white-blonde hair was looped in large curls about her shoulders, and a delicate hint of blush infused her wan cheeks. Smiling politely, she shook her head at his greeting. "Please, Scott, you must call me Lillian."
*Scott.*
Uncomfortable, he cleared his throat. She'd moved rapidly into the disturbing territory of first names, while he was dancing around a polite way to reject her. Belatedly the absurdity of the situation struck him. He stood covered with dust and grime, his shirt and hair soaked with perspiration, while she was engaged in parlor-room pleasantries. "Miss Porter--"
"I thought perhaps you'd enjoy a picnic," she said. Setting the reins aside, she indicated the basket at her feet. "I realize you probably have chores to do, but surely you can take a break for lunch."
"I--" Scott's mouth clamped shut on words that continued to elude him. Was she really so blind, she couldn't see how inexcusably forward she was being? "About the parcel you sent--" he ventured, trying another track.
She brightened considerably at the mention of the gift. "Did you like it? It was my father's, you know--"
"*Your father's*?" Scott nearly choked on the words. Leaning forward, he gripped the edges of the buggy, bracing his arms apart. "Miss Porter--"
"Lillian," she reminded him quickly.
"Miss Porter," he corrected, his voice sharp with the effort. "I think there's been a misunderstanding about last night."
Her brow beetled into a papery frown as she considered his words. Realizing there was no easy way to address the matter, Scott plowed ahead: "I simply . . . asked you for a dance. I never meant to imply there was interest, eyond courtesy, on my part. I certainly don't want to hurt you, Miss Porter, but I can't accept the gift you sent, and I think the idea of a picnic--"
"Are you rejecting me, Mr. Lancer?" she queried bluntly. Sitting straighter, she gathered the reins into her hands, but her eyes, razor-sharp and divining, never left his face.
At a loss for words, Scott spread his hands wide. "There's nothing to reject," he said as placatingly as he could. "There was never anything between us, Miss Porter. I apologize if I left you under the impression I desired more. Surely with the differences in our ages, I thought you would realize I acted out of civility--"
"You acted out of sympathy," she snarled, suddenly angry. "You're just like all the other miserable men, who think they're doing me a service by favoring me with their attentions. Do your good deed for the day, Mr. Lancer, is that it? Give the poor, old, ugly spinster a thrill by twirling her around the dance floor. No self-respecting man would pay regards to me otherwise!"
"Miss Porter that's not true." Scott felt his patience slipping as her words turned offensive. Had he made a mistake? He thought he'd been acting kindly--as he'd been raised, and taught to act in the mannerly ballrooms of the east. Had he inadverntely led her to believe there was the possibility of more? Had his words been too smooth, the kiss he'd brushed on her nuckles a trifle too intimate? *Admit it, Scott, you really did think you were giving her the thrill of her life . . . shy wallflower gets to dance with handsome, gallant man.*
*Damn.* He nearly groaned the word aloud. Confused, he reached for her hand. "Let me explain--"
"I think you've done enough as it is," she spat, snatching her arm back as though he'd stung her. "Just remember one thing, Scott Lancer--you had the opportunity. Whatever comes of this, it's on your head."
Bewildered, he watched the buggy lurch forward. Without a backward glance, Lillian drove the vehicle at a mad run from the house. As she passed through the main gates of the ranch, Scott saw Johnny appear atop an adjacent rise. In short order his brother joined him, dismounting and looping the reins of his horse over a hitching rail.
"Was that Lillian Porter?" Johnny asked, stalking to Scott's side. His shirt collar was open, buttons undone halfway down his chest, revealing the small, silver medallion secured on a chain around his neck. Sunlight glinted off the object, bright and glaring, providing Scott the perfect opportunity to look away.
Turning, he pretended interest in the wood pile. Sweat-soaked hair fell forward to dangle against his face, but failed to mask the tightness around his eyes.
Disturbed, Johnny leaned forward, trying to gauge his brother's expression. "What did that stiff-necked spinster want?"
Prompted by his rudeness, he was certain Scott wouldn't answer. Frowning, he watched in growing exasperation as the blonde-haired man calmly stacked wood. The only sound was the clack of lumber against lumber; the faint ripple of breeze through the grass. Tempted to demand whether or not his brother had returned the pen-knife, Johnny waited as patiently as his limited forbearance would allow. When he began to fidget and pace, wearing small circles in the grass, Scott relented with a reluctant glance.
"You were right," he admitted, with a hint of self-recrimination. Tossing a final block of wood onto the neatly stacked pile, he straightened. "Guess you're the expert where women are concerned." Though he tried to keep the words light, the grimace behind his eyes betrayed his frustration.
Striding a short distance to the edge of the veranda, he retrieved his gunbelt, buckling it around his slim hips. Johnny pursed his lips, uncertain if he should gloat or react in anger. Concern for his brother won out in the end, and he responded with silence. Scott's mouth twitched as he measured his brother's steady regard. Eventually the scowl eased into a sigh of exasperation.
"She wanted me to go on a picnic," he admitted wearily. "And she called me 'Scott.' The knife she sent me belonged to her father--"
"Her father?" Johnny found he could hold his silence no longer. "You set her straight, didn't you, Brother?"
Scott nodded tiredly, rubbing two fingers against the bridge of his nose. "I told her she misinterpreted my actions last night, and . . . she got down-right hostile."
Johnny narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"It doesn't matter. Let's just say we parted on bad terms and leave it at that." Shaking his head, Scott turned away. "I just can't believe she would--damn it, Johnny--I've made a mess of things. I've got to return that knife and--"
"I'll return it for you," Johnny said quickly.
The sincerity on his face forced a half-hearted smile from Scott. "What--little brother to the rescue?"
Prompted by the hint of humor in his brother's voice, Johnny shrugged. "Looks like you could do with a rescue or two. That she-witch wants to sink her claws into you--tuck you away inside her bedroom and forget the outside world."
Scott cast him an arch glance. "You've got a one-sided view of things, boy, you know that?"
Johnny cracked a smile. "Come on, big brother, you can enlighten me. Tell me again how it's done. You know--all that gallant, chivalrous stuff."
Scott shook his head, but his grin broadened as he looked for something to throw at the dark-haired miscreant he called brother.
+++++
Bacon Riley licked his lips a final time, eyeing the wad of paper money on the table. "You sure about this?" he asked the woman seated across from him. The room was stuffy and close, lined with ornate wall-hangings, decorated urns and claw-footed furniture. Heavy cranberry drapes held the sunlight at bay, wrapping the room in suffocating shadow. "We did everything you asked already--played it up like we was gonna ask you to dance, so Lancer would make the move. And he did, jest like you called it, Miss Porter, but I don't know about this. It was easy whackin' your father--a shove down the steps, and say it was an accident, but Scott Lancer ain't no feeble old-man banker, and I don't know as I'm that beholdin' to you."
Lillian Porter eyed the young man coldly. While she detested relying on uncouth vultures, she refused to dirty her hands with unsavory deeds. Riley, Ortega and Jones had been paid lackeys from the day she'd first arrived in Morro Coyo with her father. Their services had been small at the start--causing trivial accidents to those rude enough to snub her. After that, she'd grown lonely, and paid them to find a man willing to warm her bed for money. Of course everything was done discreetly, with her father none the wiser. When the man threatened to reveal their night together, she'd had Riley and Ortega dispatch him. Since he was a wanderer, no questions were raised when his body was found miles from town, riddled with bullets. Bandits, the sheriff had proclaimed.
Feeling the restraints imposed by her father, Lillian dispatched him next, arranging the matter with Riley. Had she the inkling, she had enough information on all three of her lackeys, to imprison them for life. It was a dangerous game. With each murder committed on her behalf, she exposed herself as well, but thus far money had kept them in line. Now there was Scott Lancer.
She'd decided over a week ago she'd wanted him--not just for a night, as with the other man, but until she tired of his looks and eastern breeding. She'd judged his character correctly, guessing he would ask her to dance, if he thought Riley and the others were set on making a fool of her. The plan had worked well, and he'd dazzled her with his charm. She'd trembled to the touch of his hand, the effortless flow of his words, and the intimate kiss he'd brushed across her knuckles. That action--prompted by gallantry, but invoked longer than necessary--convinced her he'd felt the same as she did. To have him rebuff her at the ranch, especially after she'd sent him such an exquisite gift--
Suppressing her anger, Lillian drummed her fingers against the table. "I'll pay you double what I paid you to take care of that drifter." She saw Riley's eyes light up and knew she'd hooked him. "But I want it done now. Quickly. And I don't want a bullet ending Scott Lancer's miserable life. That's far more merciful than he deserves."
Riley blinked. "What does that mean?"
"It means you get close and personal, and you use a knife. You make him feel the humiliation he made me feel." Leaning forward, Lillian stared down the scraggly wrangler. "And when he's nearly dead . . . when you've gutted him and he's bleeding, you tell him the final dance is mine."
With a nod for the money on the table, Riley scrubbed a hand across his chin. "That ain't double."
Sitting back in her chair, Lillian folded her hands in her lap. "It's enough--for now. When I hear Scott Lancer's been knifed--when they bring his body to town for a casket, you'll get the rest."
Riley nodded. "You want it soon, huh?"
"Tomorrow," Lillian said. "I want it done tomorrow."
With a speculative grin, the wrangler nodded. "I heard rumor Madrid's supposed to look at a horse at the Diamond K. Odds are, he'll pack that tenderfoot brother with him. The boys 'n I will be waitin,' Miss Porter, you can count on that."
Satisfied, she pushed the wad of money across the table. "Make no mistakes."
+++++
Johnny tugged on Scott's arm as they stepped outside, steering him toward the barn. He knew his brother was still troubled over the situation with Lillian Porter, and hated that he couldn't do anything about it. Scott was so inherently good-natured, his grin always at the ready, that this uncharacteristic moodiness on Scott's part was more than he could bear. Though he hadn't yet returned the knife, a mere twenty-four hours had passed since Lillian Porter's disruptive visit. By Johnny's accounting, his brother still had plenty of time.
"Come on, Scott. You can ride along while I check out that horse for Murdoch, over at Walt Granger's place. It'll take your mind off Miss Prim." Grinning devilishly, he arched a brow at his brother. "Trust me--she'll still be there tomorrow. You can return the confounded knife then."
Scott scowled, but didn't protest the guiding hand on his arm. "The Diamond K is half a day's ride from here," he complained, even as he allowed Johnny to pull him closer to the barn. On the horizon, the sun struggled awake, rich with the promise of blistering heat. Dressed in light colors--white shirt and dove-gray pants, Scott found the early morning air relatively cool, despite the sluggish advance of awakening daylight.
"Quit bellyaching," Johnny ordered, not without humor. Planting a hand between his brother's shoulder blades, he shoved him toward his horse. "Mount up, already. I want to get back before dusk."
"That's pushing it," Scott said, but did as he was told without further protest. Hours later as they rode through passages of jutting rock and craggy hills, he felt a trickle of sweat seep into his thick hair. Pushing his hat back on his head, he surveyed the ragged terrain, noting scrub brush, cactus and twisted slabs of rock--a far cry from the ordered, tree-lined streets and stately homes of Boston proper. That lifetime seemed an eternity ago. He wondered if Johnny ever felt the same about his role as a gun-for-hire, and the notorious life he'd abandoned.
"What'cha thinkin', Boston?" Johnny queried, noting his brother's pensive gaze. They'd slowed to a leisurely pace, still an hour from the Diamond K, but allowing the horses a break from the steady pace. Monolithic slabs of rock rose on either side of them, irregular in height, creating a narrow passageway traversed with relative ease. Habit made Johnny flick a distracted gaze to the rock walls. There was a time in his life when traversing such tight terrain would have made him nervous. A time when ambush would have seemed certain, boxed in so narrow a passage. Now he dismissed it out of hand, concentrating instead on his brother. He'd already decided if Scott mentioned Lillian Porter or that blasted knife, he was going to have to knock some sense into him.
"I, um . . ." Scott cleared his throat. Before he could form a single word, three men launched themselves from above, materializing from behind a jutting precipice of wind-blasted stone. Reflex made Johnny react with quick-silver speed, even as he hollered a warning to Scott. He got off one shot, dead center in Abe Jones' chest, before Cirilo Ortega knocked him from the saddle. From the corner of his eye he saw Bacon Riley drop on Scott, and then the wind was knocked from his lungs, and the world went alarmingly black. The last thing he recalled was the snap of the chain around his neck.
+++++
Scott reined in at Johnny's frantic warning, but not in time to save himself a tumble from the saddle. Someone slammed into him, lifting him in the air, and he reeled backward, cracking his head against the ground as he fell. Coarse beads of blackness swirled in front of his eyes, threatening to render him unconscious. Before the darkness could carry him into oblivion, someone gripped his shirt, wrenching him brutally back to coherency. A sharp pain exploded in his side as the plundering blade of a steel knife invaded his flesh.
Scott gasped aloud, drawing his knees up, trying unsuccessfully to unseat the man straddling his hips. Through the red haze clouding his vision, he caught a glimpse of Bacon Riley's leering face. The knife struck again, wrenching a cry from his lips as the foreign probe of cold, merciless metal ripped his flesh.
Riley leaned forward, pinning him to the ground by sheer body weight. "Johnny!" Scott croaked the name, uncertain what had become of his brother. Blindly, he groped for his gun. Riley, unaware of his movement, leaned close to his ear, whispering in a tobacco-coarse voice: "Miss Porter sent us to kill you, boy. You hear what I'm saying, Lancer?"
"I hear you." Scott wrenched his revolver free, seating the barrel snugly against Riley's stomach. A look of horrified astonishment flickered through the wrangler's eyes. In the brief second it took to realize he'd forfeit his life, Scott pulled the trigger. When the dead weight tumbled aside, he groaned aloud at the release of pressure. The pounding of hooves echoed through the narrow passage, and he realized despondently, the horses had scattered in the tumult. A short distance away, Abe Jones lay dead, a gaping hole blasted through his chest. Of Cirilo Ortega there was no sign.
"Johnny."
His brother lay sprawled on the side of the passage, deathly still in the heat and silence. Scott holstered his gun, then gripped his side to staunch the hot flow of blood soaking into his shirt. He could feel heated warmth seep between his fingers, even as the depleting loss of blood sent a chill through his body. Struggling to his knees, he half-crawled, half-stumbled to his brother's side. The smell of rock and dust was thick in his nostrils, the dry heat of noon day making his head spin. "Johnny." Gripping his brother's shoulder, Scott shook him gently. Gritting his teeth against the flare of pain in his own body, he struggled to pull the shorter man forward.
There was no blood as far as he could see, but a dark bruise marred the smooth skin of Johnny's temple. Concerned, Scott brushed trembling fingers over the angry blemish. The smell of his own blood rose and clogged his throat, souring his stomach. "John, come on--" He wasn't sure if he said the words aloud, or silently prayed in desperation. The sun was suddenly too bright, the heat ruthlessly consuming. A hot rush of vertigo swept through him, and for one violent, alarming moment he thought he was going to pass out.
Stifling a groan, he sagged forward, bending double, as he dropped his head against his brother's chest. The calming scent of desert sand, light cotton and warm leather filled his head, banishing all else. His brother's scent. Scott tightened his fingers on Johnny's shirt, trembling, as the raging pain in his body grew punishing. "Johnny, wake up," he gasped. Something wet and sticky trickled down the back of his neck, and he realized his head was bleeding. He didn't have the strength to raise his hand and probe the wound--wanted only to lay where he was, curled against his brother until the staggering waves of pain receded from his side. His breath grew rickety and thin, coming much too fast as he concentrated on silencing the pain.
Beneath his body, he felt Johnny stir. Scott blinked, trying to rise, finding he lacked the strength. Abrupt movement made him hitch in a breath. He felt Johnny's hands close on his shoulders--hesitant at first, then with greater strength.
"Scott!" This time there was no mistaking the panic-induced movement beneath him. Scott moaned aloud as Johnny drew him to a sitting position. The world upended, spilling its guts into the cracked dome of a white-washed sky. Scott choked back bile as a sweaty wave of nausea spiked through him.
"Not so fast," he gasped. Tentative fingers roamed over his face and neck, seeking damage. Finding none, his brother lowered his eyes to his blood-soaked side. Blanching, he swore savagely.
Raising his hand, Johnny gripped Scott behind the neck, staring intently into his eyes. Though Scott's gaze was dulled with pain and fatigue, a glimmer of coherency remained. Almost absently, Johnny feathered his fingers along the ridge of bunched muscle in the other man's neck. "We've got to stop the bleeding, " he said as evenly as he could.
Scott nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his head. He was aware of Johnny shifting, pressing a warm, steady hand over his own blood-stained fingers.
"Come on, Boston, let me see," Johnny coaxed softly.
Drawing a rattling breath, Scott allowed his brother to pry his hand from the angry gash. He remained silent and unprotesting as Johnny unbuttoned his shirt. It was only when his brother gripped the material, working it free of his waistband, that he bit his lip to stifle a cry. Tensing, he waited as Johnny brushed the stained fabric aside, baring his chest and abdomen, then bending to examine the unsightly lacerations. Scott had a brief impression of torn, blood-soaked skin, before the pressure of Johnny's fingers sent a crippling wave of nausea shooting through him. Grimacing, he dug his fingers into the earth, swallowing bile.
"I'll kill the sonofabitch who did this," Johnny said fiercely.
"Too late," Scott returned, his voice broken and thin. "I already did."
Johnny spared a brief look. "Yeah, well--I always thought you had an impatient streak beneath that cool exterior." Sitting back on his haunches, he shrugged out of his shirt. Scott watched with vague interest as he rolled the garment into a make-shift binding. Johnny worked deftly and quickly, kneeling to wrap the fabric around Scott's waist. "The second cut isn't too deep, but this is like to hurt some." Pausing, he sent his brother a heartfelt glance. With a quick nod, Scott sucked down a ragged breath, muscles drawing taut as Johnny tied off the binding. The effort of composure showed on the blonde-haired man's face. Shaken, he glanced away, breathing unsteadily through parted lips. When he closed his eyes--sun-tipped lashes dipping against sweat-streaked flesh--Johnny laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Hang in there, big brother. I'm gonna get you out of this--I promise."
Scott focused with effort. The sun-browned flesh of his brother's back and chest were corded with tension. Reaching out an unsteady hand, Scott tracked his fingers over the bruise on the younger man's temple. The abrasion had darkened, spreading a mottled ring of color to the edge of Johnny's cheekbone. Disturbed by the sight, Scott licked his lips. "That's a bad bruise, Johnny."
The other forced a grin. "I've had worse." Raising his own hand, he dusted his fingers through Scott's hair, frowning when dried blood flecked off beneath his fingertips. Alarmed, he gripped the other's chin, turning his face to the side. "Looks like you cracked your head," he observed tightly. Rust-colored streaks braided the edges of Scott's ashen hair with unnatural color. Likewise, his shirt collar was soiled, marred where fresh blood had trickled into the fabric, greedily consumed by the white linen. Sucking on his lower lip, Johnny cast an anxious glance at the irregularly shaped walls of the passageway. "Think you can walk?" he asked finally.
Scott nodded. He knew the horses were gone, and help would be a long time coming, if at all. They weren't expected at Lancer until later that evening, and Walt Granger would merely think they'd postponed their visit, if they failed to show at the Diamond K as planned. Looking from Bacon Riley's sprawled body to Abe Jones' sightless eyes, Scott felt a ripple of apprehension. Despite the high heat of noonday, he was suddenly cold. "What happened to Ortega?"
Johnny looked over his shoulder as if the answer lay in the distance. Squinting against the glare of afternoon light, he shook his head. "Turned tail and ran. Probably figured he was outnumbered when he saw his buddies go belly-up."
Unconvinced, Scott nodded nonetheless. The issue could wait until later, when he was thinking rationally. Right now all he wanted to do was silence the torturous ache in his side "Help me up," he said to Johnny, drawing a breath to summon his strength. In the haze of brassy sunlight, his blue eyes were abnormally bright, glittering like kiln-fired glass.
Tugging Scott's arm over his shoulder, Johnny gripped him around the waist, hooking his fingers beneath the bottom edge of his brother's gunbelt. As gently as circumstance allowed, he pulled the taller man upright, traightening smoothly. Despite his care, the action wrenched an anguished cry from Scott's lips.
Swearing softly, Scott dropped his head to his brother's bare shoulder. Muscles constricted in his forearm, and he dug his fingers into the younger man's flesh, panting for breath. "This isn't going to work, Johnny. You're going to have to leave me here and go for help."
"Bullshit."
"John--"
"If you think I'm leaving you alone with Ortega still roaming around, you need that fool, eastern head of yours examined." Johnny pressed his lips together, feeling the hot whisper of his brother's breath against his shoulder. The silken brush of dark blonde hair tracked across his cheek as Scott raised his head. Stark ravages of pain showed plainly on his face.
"We're not . . . going to get . . . more than twenty feet," he said with effort.
Johnny was unrelenting. "Then we'll get twenty feet together."
Frustrated, battling pain and fatigue, Scott clung to composure that threatened to crack. "We have no horses," he tried to reason.
Johnny moved his legs, forcing Scott to take one unsteady step forward. "Barranca won't go far," he insisted. Another step followed--no longer an option, but a necessity of survival. "I know it hurts, Scott, but--"
Scott shook his head, tortured by words that barely registered. Logic and sanity were eclipsed by misery and mounting fear. Not the fear of pain, or the blatant surety that it must grow unbearable, but rather the horrific thought of failing his brother. Of stumbling when Johnny wanted him to continue. Of shattering into so many pieces, that even should he survive the ordeal, it would be at the cost of his brother's respect.
Grinding his teeth together, Scott stumbled along in Johnny's grip, more marionette than partner. His limbs felt numb and lifeless, animated by an unseen force that found amusement in his agony. Sweat dripped from the ends of his bangs, trickling over the dirt and grime encrusted on his face.
He blinked it from his eyes, ignoring the sting, even as mounting chills raced up and down his spine. Johnny was talking to him--some senseless prattle about how they were going to make it through, that surely they'd find Barranca up ahead.
Scott grunted--a senseless sound that might have been a word, but lost definition when reaching his lips. Fresh blood seeped from his side, trickling beneath the waistband of his pants, sluicing haphazardly across his hip and groin. He thought about telling Johnny, but the effort was too great. Head bent, he stared at the ground, concentrating on the dust-covered tips of his black boots. Shuffle one foot, shuffle two. A brittle ache pinged in his head, sending an unexpected surge of fire from neck to hip. Unprepared for the onslaught, Scott choked down air, and doubled forward, one arm instinctively folding over his middle.
"Scott!"
He felt Johnny's hands close on his shoulders, but his weight sagged forward, dragging him to the ground. His knees buckled and struck rock. The earth waffled beneath him, shooting waves of vertigo through his skull, until he folded against his brother with an audible moan. The pain in his side grew white-hot, spiking into every nerve he possessed. Closing his eyes tightly, Scott collapsed into his brother's arms.
"Damn it!" Johnny folded to the ground along with Scott, catching his brother as he fell. Holding him half-supported by his chest and lap, he struggled to mute a rising surge of dread. For the first time since the attack, the fear of losing Scott became blunt reality--a fact that left him inwardly trembling, swallowing back a stifling wave of panic. Life without Scott was too terrifying, too gut-wrenchingly brutal to even contemplate. In the seven short months they'd known one another, Scott had grown as precious as life itself. More so, for Johnny would willingly sacrifice his own existence, to see the light-hearted glimmer return to Scott's pain-wracked eyes.
Dragging a hand across his brother's brow, Johnny mopped aside cold sweat and saturated bangs. A glance at the bandage around Scott's waist told him the wound was still bleeding. Biting hard on his lip, he cursed Riley, Jones, and Ortega, damning every miserable incarnation they might inhabit in this life and the next.
"Scott." When the name brought no response, Johnny slipped his hand beneath his brother's hair, cupping the side of his face. "Come on, Brother," he coaxed with a gentle shake. "I need you coherent."
Whether it was his voice or touch, the plea produced the desired results. Scott blinked, jerking awake with a ragged gasp of pain.
"Easy, easy," Johnny said quickly. He felt strong fingers lock onto his arm, dig into his flesh. Scott's entire body went taut, and for one heart-stopping moment, it seemed as though he couldn't catch his breath. Just as quickly the trauma passed, and he exhaled, relief evident as ravaging lines fled his face. Focusing, he looked at Johnny.
"I can't do it," he said in a husky whisper. "I'm sorry." Two words that rang with failure, shredding his self respect as though it were a thing of no importance. His lashes dipped with the shaming admission of defeat. "You have to go alone."
Johnny wanted to weep. Not just for the physical pain Scott endured, but for the loss of control he valued so highly. Words stuck in his throat. There were so many things he wanted to say, feelings he wanted to express. His fingers tightened in a fierce grip over his brother's limp hand.
"If I go," he said, realizing belatedly the folly of forcing Scott to walk, "I promise to come back. I won't leave you, Scott. You know that, don't you?"
Scott cleared his throat. Tried to find his voice. "As sure as the sun sets in the west," he whispered.
Johnny swallowed hard. Already Scott's lashes were dipping, weighted with pain-weary fatigue. Gauging the height of the sun, he came to an uneasy decision. "If I'm going, I've got to get you off this trail."
Scott nodded, grimacing slightly as he dragged one booted foot beneath him. His heel scraped across dry, packed earth, gouging a trail behind it.
"Not so fast," Johnny admonished, realizing his brother reacted from an inborn need to remain in control. Hooking his hands beneath Scott's arms, he lent a supportive shoulder, helping him to a shady spot beneath a jutting finger of rock. Though the overhead protection was minimal, it offered partial concealment from prying eyes.
Scott collapsed with a groan, causing Johnny to bite back a vulgarity. "I can't believe those three jackasses would do something so vindictive over a simple fight."
Wincing, Scott leaned against a bulging knob of blistered stone. The move, short as it had been, left him pale and trembling, a fact he tried to mask with a shrug. If he told Johnny the truth—what Riley had said about Lillian Porter, he knew his brother would never leave. For the only way Cirilo Ortega could remain safely outside the law, was to return and kill the victims of the pre-mediated attack. It was better to let Johnny think the incident was caused by the scuffle at the dance. Had that been the case, it stood to reason Ortega would high-tail it to the border. Currently, Scott didn't have the energy or the sense to contemplate Lillian Porter's role in the brutal ambush.
Johnny pulled Scott's gun from his belt, inspecting the chamber. Reloading the empty cylinder, he checked the sights, then slipped the weapon into Scott's holster. "You've got a full round, Brother. Think you'll be okay for awhile?"
The ghost of a smile flickered over Scott's lips. Lifting a blood-stained hand, he gripped the other's shoulder. "Go find that fool palomino, huh?"
Johnny held his gaze until Scott's hand grew limp, rolling to the side. Closing his eyes, Scott turned away, visibly fighting back an unexpected jolt of pain. Johnny waited, silent and still, a supportive presence should the need arise.
As his eyes fell to Scott's hair, he felt his stomach clench. The sight of so much dried blood matted among the dark blonde strands, sent renewed panic ricocheting through his nerves. He'd been so worried about the knife wound, he'd foolishly overlooked the potential danger from a head injury. Chewing his bottom lip, he reconsidered leaving his brother alone. If only there were some way--
The thought faded into harsh reality. As much as he might wish it differently, Scott was in no condition to hike the rocky countryside. Exhaling, Johnny dusted his fingers over Scott's brow, needing the assurance of his brother's flesh. The older man was still, his eyes closed, chest rising and falling shortly with the weak flutter of his breath. "Don't go thinkin' 'bout leaving me, Boston," Johnny said through the constricting tightness in his throat. "Who's gonna keep me out of trouble?"
Standing, he stared down at the man he'd learned to love as a brother. With a breath of resolve, he tugged his hat securely over his eyes, then turned and walked into the distance.
+++++
Scott awoke with a jerk, a startled grunt wrenched from his lips. Agony exploded in his side, and for one pain-wracked moment, he had no sense of time or place. There was only the sheer, white-knuckling eruption that left him writhing on the ground, his back pressed to packed earth. From somewhere distant insidious laughter wormed into his mind. The agony receded to something barely tolerable and he became aware of intruding pressure on his side.
"You don't look too good, Lancer." The voice came from somewhere to his right, wrapped in the muddled fibers of limited coherency. He blinked, trying to focus, struggling to separate reality from delusion. The pressure reasserted itself, prodding his side, and he tried to flinch away.
"No you don't." A hand closed around throat, pinning him in place. Something cold and solid tapped against his breast bone. "Come on now, Lancer. I want you to see who's gonna plant you in a pine box."
Gradually his vision settled, sharpening on the details of his surroundings. The shadows had grown longer, slanting across the irregular slopes of the passageway, blocking the glare of waning daylight overhead. The sun--melting like cooling lava into a bank of thread-thin clouds—was blocked by the silhouette of the man restraining him.
Focusing on the hatchet-shaped face, Scott blanched. "Ortega." Only then did he realize the cold weight upon his chest, was the barrel of a .45 revolver--that his own gun was tucked into his captor's waistband. Ortega squatted at his side, one knee hovering above his bandaged, lacerated flesh.
Scott swallowed hard. All Ortega had to do was shift his weight, and the pressure of his knee would ignite waves of agony in Scott's body. Noting his anxious gaze, the black-haired man laughed. "Kinda interestin', huh?" He licked his lips, enjoying the game. "All I gotta do is lean forward a little--" Scott cried aloud as the merciless pressure bloomed in his side. Twisting, he tried to wrench free, but Ortega's hand held him in place, punishing him for the resistance.
"Don't fight me now, boy."
Scott suffered the agony until Ortega withdrew his knee. Blood soiled the worn and dirty fabric of the wrangler's pants, but the discoloration only heightened the sadistic gleam in the his eyes. "You know what this is all about, don'tcha?"
Attempting to separate layers of pain, Scott fought for discipline. What little control he had was beginning to crack, and he didn't know how much longer he'd be able to withstand the brutal treatment.
Shifting his weight, Ortega leaned forward, inflicting just enough torment to make Scott pant for air. "That old, money-bags spinster sure took a likin' to you, boy. Thinks you're some kind of courtly gent." Increasing the pressure on Scott's side, Ortega holstered his gun, withdrawing a thick-bladed knife. Through a disorienting haze of pain, Scott felt the cool press of metal against his face. The flat of Ortega's blade slid over his cheek, then tracked across his jaw. "She wants you to suffer, Lancer. Guess I'll have to carve up that pretty face of yours. Bet your lady-friend Claire, won't think you're so dashin' then."
The mention of Claire made Scott battle back to a semi lucid state. "Leave her out of this," he spat.
"Naw." Ortega shifted again, sending fire-tipped arrows rocketing through his body. "I'm gonna take care of her, just like I did that meddlin' brother of yours."
"Johnny!" Scott fought for all he was worth, trying to rise. Gripping him around the throat, Ortega slammed him back against the ground. Clanging echoes erupted in his ears, but it was panic that plundered his weakening resolve. "What'd you do to my brother, you bastard?"
Ortega grinned, exuding malice in the snake-like stretch of his lips. "What'dya think I did, city boy? I left him on the trail two miles from here."
"No." Scott's chest rose and fell with the heightened rush of his breath. "You're lying."
"You think so?" Pulling a silver medallion from his pocket, Ortega held it aloft for Scott to see.
"Look familiar?" he baited.
Something inside Scott withered. He knew Johnny's medallion. Had seen him wear it countless times. It was as familiar as the endearing, teasing curl of his brother's lips. Why couldn't he remember if Johnny had been wearing it before he left? He tried to think back--Johnny had been shirtless. Surely he would have remembered the medallion, if his brother had been wearing it. Was it possible Ortega attempted to trick him?
Contemplation ended beneath a splintering explosion of pain. "You ain't listen'," Ortega snarled, leaning forward and driving his knee into Scott's side. "Ain't you hearin' what I'm tellin' you, Lancer? I gut-shot your brother. I left him lyin' back there, chokin' on his own blood--"
"No!" Scott writhed beneath the punishing restraint, refusing to believe Johnny was dead. It wasn't possible. Johnny had promised to come back. Promised! "You're lying!" Scott accused again, feeling everything inside of him begin to break apart. Gritting his teeth against the torture Ortega instilled, he struggled for all he was worth. Closing his fingers on Ortega's wrist, he forced the knife back toward his tormentor.
A fist cracked across his face, spinning his head to the side, but the pain had become an anchor now. He used it to lash out--not for himself, but for Johnny. For the brother he adored more than his own life. If Johnny was dead--
*Ohgodohgodohgod, please let him be lying*.
Scott clawed with his free hand, gouging Ortega's neck. He thought he heard a yelp of pain, but his world was consumed with spiraling agony, and the stomach-curdling fear that Johnny had left him. All the control and composure he'd fought so hard to maintain, shattered with the cruel knowledge of his brother's death. Tears seeped from the corners of his eyes. Cursing, he dug his fingers deeper, plundering the soft tissue of Ortega's throat. The pressure in his side receded, as his tormentor's blood flowed freely over his hand. He heard Ortega choke, breath and blood gurgling simultaneously in a phlegmy rattle. The gruesome sound was silenced by the sudden crack of a gun discharging.
Unprepared, Scott jerked when a bullet slammed into Ortega. The black-haired man tumbled backward, a gaping hole blown in his temple. Scrambling to get his feet under him, Scott tried to push away from the dead wrangler. Sun and shadow defined the silhouette of a man trailing a pale horse.
"Johnny." The name trembled on Scott's lips, banishing the sickening fear that had previously held him captive. Somehow he managed to get his feet under him. Off balance, he stumbled four steps before his legs buckled, and Johnny caught him in his arms.
"I thought you were dead." Burying his face against his brother's neck, Scott surrendered to the trauma of the ordeal. Shuddering, he gasped for breath, unable to stop tell-tale tremors of relief. Johnny's strong arms locked around his shoulders, drawing him tight. Together they sank to their knees.
"I told you'd I'd come back, Boston."
Though his brother's voice was reassuring, Scott had no words left--only raw emotion. He kept his head bent, swallowing convulsively to silence the tears welling in his eyes. His loss of composure was as difficult for Johnny to bear, as the wretched pain he knew Scott endured. Slipping a hand behind Scott's neck, he cradled his head. "I found Barranca," he said in a broken voice. His own control was slipping, prompted by Scott's uncharacteristic dependency. "I'll have you back to Lancer in a few hours. Just hang in there, Brother."
Scott exhaled raggedly. A sound that told Johnny his brother's emotions were spent. Snaking an arm around his waist, he found purchase in Scott's gunbelt and hauled him to his feet.
Though he moaned softly, there was little resistance on Scott's part. Stumbling numbly at his brother's side, he somehow managed to claw his way into the saddle with Johnny's assistance. Barranca took the added weight--Scott in front, Johnny behind, supporting his wounded brother against his chest--without balking. As the sun sank lower on the horizon, Scott shivered. Johnny paused long enough to withdraw a blanket from his saddle roll and wrap it around the other man's shoulders. Keeping one arm firmly around Scott's middle, he maintained steady pressure on the knife-wound, hoping to clot fresh blood.
Eventually the constant pain rendered Scott unconscious. His head lolled to the side, coming to rest against Johnny's shoulder. Over the next few hours he slipped in and out of a discordant limbo, mumbling half-coherently about Riley, the others, and Lillian Porter. Once or twice Johnny stopped to force water between his cracked lips, softly apologizing as he examined the ugly hole in his side.
Scott barely flinched, calmed by vague impressions--the warm assurance of his brother's touch upon his cheek; the soothing lilt of his voice near his ear. With a muffled groan, he curled against Johnny's chest, barely conscious. When the walls of Lancer finally rose before them, Scott sagged forward, succumbing to the gray void, as his eyes rolled into his head.
+++++
Pacing repeatedly, Johnny dragged a hand over his face. Once, twice, back and forth, he strode the floorboards before the fireplace in the Great Room. Stopping abruptly, he tugged at the collar of his red shirt, then rifled an unsteady hand through his hair. He didn't understand doctors, or long-winded medical procedures, and resented the fact he'd been shuffled from Scott's room like an obstruction left by the wayside. Teresa and Murdoch had both remained--Teresa fetching water for the doctor, while Murdoch hovered discreetly at the foot of Scott's bed. Driven by the need to know what happened to his brother, Johnny bolted toward the exit, only to encounter Murdoch escorting the doctor to the door.
"Well?" Johnny barked, unable to contain his anxiety any longer.
"He's resting," Murdoch said. "A sleeping dram. You can see him if you like."
It wasn't enough. Johnny glared at the doctor, challenge clear in his eyes. "Is he going to recover?" Visibly tensing, he waited for the answer, every raw nerve in his body, constricting in anticipation.