The May
“Easy . . . easy. Get his other arm.” Scott Lancer slipped his shoulder beneath the inebriated man’s armpit, grappling to hold him upright. A big man, with curling red hair and a broad, expressive face, Colm McBride was every bit as graceful as a bull steer when drunk. Reeling heavily, he fell against Scott, exhaling a whiskey-soaked breath against his cheek. Bracing himself against the strain of three hundred plus pounds of muscle, sinew and bone, Scott shot his brother a sideways glance. “Johnny . . .” he gasped.
“I’m trying, I’m trying,” the younger man said quickly. Wrapping his fingers beneath Colm’s belt, he steadied the swaying Irishman. “Come on you big sot. One more step.”
“Oh that’s it,” Scott muttered, still bearing the brunt of the older man’s weight. “Call him names. That’ll make him cooperate.”
“Who’s idea was it to bring him home in the first place?” Johnny shot back through gritted teeth.
Shifting, Colm sagged against him. Momentarily freed, Scott felt the heavy burden lift from his shoulder. McBride was singing an obscure drinking song, interspersing snatches of off-key humming for missed or forgotten phrases. “Come on, Colm,” Scott urged, guiding the drunken ranch hand onto the porch of the bunkhouse. Sparing a glance for Johnny, he looked across the Irishman’s broad chest. “We couldn’t just leave him in town. He would have ended up sleeping it off in an alley, with his pockets emptied and his head caved in.”
“Sleeping what off?”
“May Day, remember?”
As though the words struck some buried cord, Colm McBride roused from his stupor. “That it ‘tis,” he declared with a wide, elfish grin. Hooking one arm around Scott’s neck the other around Johnny’s, he tugged them close in a rough, grappling hold. “We should be celebratin’ the day, don’tcha know? Not creepin’ for the sack, like weak-kneed lasses.”
“Colm¾” Ducking, Johnny pulled free of the larger man’s grip. With an exasperated glare for his brother, he stepped backward, placing his hands on his hips. “I don’t know what they do in Ireland, but here the day officially ends when the sun sets. It’s pitch black, Colm. It’s nighttime. I don’t know about you, but I wanna go to bed.”
“A wee one like ye, and ye’ve got no stomach for The May? ‘Tis shamed, ye should be!” Releasing Scott, Colm staggered backward, tottering heavily from porch to ground.
Gawking wide-eyed at his surroundings, he sucked on his lower lip.
Nighttime blackness hugged the terrain, threaded with veins of silver where moonlight glinted on the craggy silhouettes of rocks and trees. A filmy mist curled over the ground, molding to hills, already green and lush with early spring grass. The ghostly vapor coiled among roots and settled in dense pockets, hovering disembodied over the earth. “Ye see¾” Colm said with a vacant wave of his hand for the eerie haze. “In the old country, we say ‘tis the dragon’s breath. To see it on The May be no piddlin’ matter.” Exhaling heavily, the big man succumbed to the tiring pull of whiskey. Teetering, he dropped ungraciously to a seat on the edge of the porch. “Ye be uneducated about ghosties and such is all, but ‘tis not be your fault. Ye both just need learned about The May.”
“Some other time,” Scott said, striding forward and bending to take his arm. “Right now let’s get you inside and into bed.”
“I be fine right where I’m at, Lad.” Though the words were slightly slurred, Colm McBride wouldn’t be budged. Biting back a hiccuping burp, he looked bleary-eyed at Scott. “Yet gather yer brother and be on yer way. I’ll just sit here for a time, then shuffle into me bed when I’m good and ready.”
Undecided, Scott looked doubtfully to Johnny.
“Come on,” the younger man said, stepping from the porch and gathering the reins of his horse. “He’s a big boy, he’ll take care of himself.” Hesitating, Scott looked from the inebriated Irishman to his brother. Leaving Colm at the southern bunkhouse, on the opposite side of the ranch, wasn’t Scott’s ideal choice, particularly as drunk as the older man seemed to be. When Colm winked, nudging him in the shoulder, Scott eventually relented. Clapping the big man on the back, he bid him goodnight.
“Ye take care now,” Colm said as the two brothers mounted. Leaning against the porch post, his blue eyes silvered with moonlight, the Irishman looked like a besotted and mildly mischievous hobgoblin. “Strange things happen on The May. Ye look out for one another.”
Pausing, Scott turned in the saddle, struck by the odd warning. Either it was getting late, he was too tired for rational thought, or McBride’s folktales and mist were starting to play havoc on his nerves. With a tip of his hat for the Irishman, Scott wheeled his horse around and followed Johnny into the night.
+++++
“What did you think of that crazy old Irishman?” Johnny asked, as he pulled the saddle from Barranca, depositing it nearby. In the adjacent stall, his older brother had finished tending his chestnut, and was reading to leave.
Removing his hat, Scott raked scattered bangs from his forehead. “I think he had far too much to drink. Come morning he won’t be able to remember anything, or will likely feel foolish about his behavior.”
“And all that talk about The May?”
Scott shrugged. “Folktales and legends, Johnny. Every country has a wealth of them.”
“But you don’t buy any of it, huh?” Grinning, Johnny glided a stiff-bristled brush across Barranca’s creamy coat. Still watching Scott, he quirked a brow. “Harvard man?”
“Education has nothing to do with it,” Scott returned, suppressing a yawn. Wearily he rubbed his eyes. The barn was warm and inviting, ripe with the familiar odors of horse, straw and oiled leather. Suddenly exhausted, Scott had to fight the urge to curl into a mound of soft hay. Wedging a hand against his side, he stretched, working a stubborn kink from his back. “You do what you want, Brother, but I’m headed to bed.”
“I’ll get there eventually,” Johnny responded off-handedly. As Scott left the barn, he returned to grooming Barranca, his mind strangely full of Colm McBride’s odd babbling. He normally wasn’t one to spare a passing thought for anything that wasn’t practical, but he’d had an earful over the last few hours.
After a full day of toiling with cattle, Johnny and Scott had decided to end the evening with a few drinks in Morro Coyo’s cantina. It was there that they’d encountered McBride, a man who’d been in their employ only a few short days. Already well into his cups, the Irishman had insisted on sharing his bottle with them, while he prattled tirelessly about the celebration of The May. Deciding he was far too inebriated to make it back to the bunkhouse on his own, Scott had volunteered both brothers for escort duty.
Yawning, Johnny gave Barranca a final check, then departed. Outside the mist had thickened, rising to cloak the air with oyster-gray fog. As he followed the path toward the house, squinting at the sloping outline of the roof, Johnny felt the hair prickle on his neck. There was something unnatural about the mist¾a rare occurrence in Morro Coyo, but odder still for its otherworldly feel. The sky hung black and brooding overhead, a smattering of blue-white stars still visible through the rising vapor.
Biting his lip, Johnny quickened his pace. He was being foolish, but he suddenly wanted to be inside¾away from the clinging mist and the foreboding nighttime blackness. Up ahead, the silhouette of the house vanished into the fog, disappearing as he neared the structure. Though he kept to a straight path, he became disoriented in the mist. When his steps brought him no closer to the house, he knew he’d taken a wrong turn, and was probably headed back to the barn. The fog congealed, solidifying into a thick gray mass.
Halting, Johnny stood motionless, his breath loud in his ears. A nerve of warning stirred sluggishly awake. By now he should have encountered either the house or barn, yet there was nothing. With a nervous laugh, feeling oddly like a child who wondered whether something lurked under the bed, Johnny strode determinedly forward. A man did not become lost walking from barn to house.
He felt a flicker of relief when he saw a ragged outline up ahead. Quickening his stride, he hastened for the silhouette, inwardly laughing at his brief bout of confusion. Yet as he neared, he realized the contours of the landscape were wrong. The silhouette spread into a dense thicket of trees¾not those he was accustomed to, but tall, spreading oaks, and leaf-heavy clusters of beech, maple, elm, and black walnut.
The mist was thinner here, coiling into an insubstantial wraith. Johnny’s nose crinkled as the acrid reek of gunpowder settled in his throat. Smoke weighed heavily in the air¾a disembodied ghost that floated among the trees, tart with sulfur and ash. The crackling boom of thunder rolled from the distance. Puzzled, Johnny studied the cloudless sky, its lighter edges folding inward with twilight. Threading through a contorted tangle of walnut and oak, he emerged from the thicket on the sloping rim of a hillside. Below, a narrow valley cut a path toward the horizon. Trapped between spreading embankments, the mist hung heavier, the thunder booming loudly.
Not thunder, he realized abruptly, witnessing the arcing red flare of heavy artillery. Cannon.
Before he could collect the helter-skelter string of his thoughts, the rapid thunder of hooves descended from both sides. Whirling, Johnny reached for a gun no longer there. Shocked, he stared down at his clothing, barely breathing, when he realized he was attired in the uniform of a Confederate soldier.
+++++
Four Federal riders, attired in Union blue, broke from the trees. Johnny stood speechlessly, uncertain if he was dreaming or had suddenly degenerated into madness. Surrounding him in a tight circle, the riders stared down, guns drawn and ready. He looked from one to the other, noting tired red-veined eyes, craggy, unshaven faces, and mud-spattered uniforms.
“You’re on the wrong side of the valley, Reb,” a man with light-brown hair and side-whiskers told him bluntly.
Dazed, Johnny stared at the older man, guessing his age somewhere near thirty. His face was sharp-featured and weathered, with deep lines gouged at the corners of his eyes. If Johnny guessed correctly, the markings on his dirt-spattered uniform pegged him as a Quartermaster Sergeant, while the rest were Privates. “I¾” Clearing his throat, Johnny tried to make sense of the impossible situation. “There . . . there’s been a mistake.”
“No doubt, Reb, and you’re the one who made it. Any more of you around?”
Johnny spread his hands. “You’ve got this all wrong. I’m not a Confederate soldier.”
“Deserter, spy, Reb¾hell, I don’t care if you’re a wagon dog¾any of ‘um will get you shot.” With a brisk nod for a shorter man to Johnny’s right, the Sergeant barked a string of instructions. “Get his hands tied, Updike, then get ‘im on your horse and bring him along. With Captain Murray in a sickbed, we’ll let Lieutenant Lancer decide what to do with ‘im. If any more Rebs are wandering these hills, they’ll wind up with the ball from a Springfield for the trouble.”
Johnny barely heard. He stood mute and motionless as the man known as Updike dismounted and roughly bound his hands behind his back. Only two words had penetrated the mind-numbing fog encasing his senses: Lieutenant Lancer. As impossible as it was to believe, he was about to confront his brother¾a Federal officer in the Civil War¾while he wore the guise of a Confederate soldier.
Mouth dry as cotton, Johnny swallowed hard. I must be dreaming. But it felt real¾horribly real, as Updike forced him onto a star-blaze chestnut, then mounted behind him. Below in the valley, the guns continued to boom, Columbiad cannons discharging 128-pound shells at fragile flesh spread on both sides. Lips parted, Johnny breathed heavily of the twilight air.
The Civil War had never touched him when he was in Mexico¾it was something that had happened in another part of the world, on the peripheral fringe of his vision. Something of which he was aware, but had never stopped to contemplate. At the time he’d been too intent struggling to survive. Different wars were fought in border towns. Wars of endurance, cunning and skill, where a resourceful man with a fast gun, might stay alive to see the sun rise.
Jostled by the motion of the horse, Johnny endured the silent trek into the Union camp. He had no idea where he was¾what time or place this moment existed in¾only that it was physically and rationally impossible for him to be there.
The boom of cannon faded as twilight bled into deeper night, and darkness silenced the exchange of shells. Tattered white tents stood in ghostly relief against the charcoal backdrop of a star-dusted sky. Men and horse moved among the rows of hastily erected lean-tos, while in the distance, the battlefield swarmed with forces reorganizing for the night. As he rode past the hospital tent, Johnny heard the unsettled groans of the wounded rise from within. Unsavory odors struck him in the face¾blood, sweat, urine and disease, all clotted together like a vile tapestry strung between canvas flaps. Tensing his hands against the rope holding him prisoner, he glanced aside at his captors. Though grim-faced, they seemed immune to the ungodly cries and foul odors emanating from the makeshift hospital.
They’re used to it, he realized. A command tent, larger than the rest, was erected in the center of the camp. Dismounting, Johnny was led inside. The Sergeant disappeared, but Updike remained as guard. Waiting, Johnny glanced around the sparse interior, noting a cot, small writing desk and spindle-chair. A lantern, its wick trimmed to low, hung suspended from the center pole. Two stools flanked a square table, on which a copy of the Boston Herald rested. Though the paper may have been anywhere from a few weeks to a few months old, Johnny guessed the date relatively recent: May 1864.
Flexing his fingers behind his back, Johnny tried to work blood into his hands and wrists. The rope was beginning to impede his circulation, sending barbed needles into his arms. Within moments the Sergeant returned, nodding in Updike’s direction. “Putman says the Lieutenant’s still on the battlefield,” he informed the private briskly. “I’ll stay with the prisoner, while you get a message to Lieutenant Lancer. Afterwards, stop by the hospital to see if the Captain’s up to a report.”
“Yes sir.” As Updike left, Johnny glanced aside at the Sergeant. He’d heard one of the other soldiers refer to the brown-haired man as Parker. Still quiet, Johnny watched the other adjust the lantern’s wick.
“So your Captain’s injured?” he ventured.
“Wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you, Reb.” Cocking his head, Parker eyed him critically. “How’d you get lost in those trees, Boy?”
Johnny shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Or don’t wanna say?” Stepping nearer, Parker pursed his lips. His eyes raked over Johnny, quietly measuring. Unflinching, the younger man held his gaze. An intuitive warning prickled along the base of his neck, silently cautioning that something was wrong. Perturbed by his stoic composure, Parker gripped his chin, grinding a squat thumb into an unyielding spur of bone. “You best talk to me, Boy. I ain’t got patience for mysteries, ‘specially if you’re here on Reb business.”
Johnny held his ground until the other man released him. Clearly agitated, Parker turned aside, scrubbing a hand over his chin. Though he seemed to momentarily recant the frustration, his anger returned with bristling alacrity. Whirling, he struck Johnny across the face.
Unprepared for the assault, the younger man staggered backward, his head spun sharply to the side. Bracing his legs to halt the sudden momentum, he squared his shoulders and straightened. Regaining his composure, he looked defiantly at the Sergeant. “You’ve got a real hospitable manner about you, Mister,” he said quietly.
Striding forward, Parker snatched up a handful of gray uniform. “You listen to me, Private. I ain’t got no use for games, or secrets. If you’re here on business, you tell me now and have at it. Do you hear what I’m sayin’ to you, Boy?”
“Sergeant!”
Both men started at the unexpected, authoritative command. Releasing Johnny, Parker turned sharply on his heel, snapping to attention. Johnny’s eyes tracked across the tent, settling on the man framed just inside the opening. His heart railed against his ribs as he beheld the apparition of his brother in such an unfamiliar setting.
This Scott was different, younger. His hair was shorter, his features drawn and gaunt with long months of fatigue. The Federal blue uniform that had probably fit snugly at one time, now seemed too loose on his lank frame. Gold buttons, piping, and bars of rank created minute contrast against the dirt-soiled fabric. A wide-brimmed slouch hat, adorned with gold braid, rested on his short blonde hair. Beneath the brim, his face was streaked with grime, yet the eyes Johnny knew so well¾eyes of cool, shadowy blue and storm-brewed slate¾were intent and astute.
“Sergeant Parker.” Striding into the tent, Scott tugged free wide-cuffed officer’s gloves, dropping them on the table. “I didn’t realize it was your position to interrogate prisoners.”
“Sir!” Parker barked, “I thought you were still detained at the battle.”
“You’re not paid to think, Sergeant. You’re here to follow orders.”
Still standing at attention, staring straight ahead, Parker flushed. Johnny had the distinct impression the man inwardly chafed for being reprimanded in front of the enemy. “Yes Sir.”
Glancing aside as though he’d already dismissed the matter, Scott rifled through a series of unopened dispatches left on the desk. “Tell Captain Murray I’ll have a battle account to him shortly, then report to Regiment C and get those cannon ready for daybreak. I sent Updike and Wells to scout the enemy’s flank. My guess is they’ve got a battery of Quaker guns on the ridge, hoping to fool us. I don’t want to waste the artillery on a Confederate bluff. If those guns turn out to be a ruse, you move the cannon, Sergeant. Get it done tonight.”
“Yes Sir.” Pausing, Parker sent Johnny a speculative glance. “He’d likely be able to tell us, Sir.”
His eyes still on the dispatches, Scott didn’t bother looking up. “You have your orders, Sergeant.”
“Yes Sir.”
Johnny waited until the other man had left the tent, and he was alone with his brother. Surrendering to the urge to stare, he looked openly at Scott, unprepared for the sight of his brother in Union blue, looking like a war-ravaged phantom. Nearly a full year of the war still remained, and Johnny knew Scott would spend most of it in a prison camp. If there was any way he could prevent it, he’d keep it from happening, but he didn’t understand the circumstance or rules that governed this misplaced reality. Worse¾if this wasn’t a dream, and he did alter something, would he effect the future he had at Lancer with his brother? Was this some sort of tormented Hell, in which he would watch Scott die or suffer imprisonment at the hands of Confederate guards?
“You needn’t be so quiet, Private,” Scott said when the silence lengthened and grew. Setting aside the missives he’d been studying, he removed his hat by the crown, dropping it on the desk. Retrieving a flask, he located a tin cup and poured a short draught of dark liquid within. “What’s your name, Soldier?”
Caught up in the dream; the impossible moment, Johnny swallowed uneasily. What did he say to the brother who thought him a stranger¾worse still, an enemy? “Madrid. John Madrid.”
Stepping nearer, Scott studied him carefully. “What are you doing on my battlefield, John Madrid?”
The younger man wet his lips. His throat constricted, choking off words before they could rise. Well, you see, Boston¾even though you don’t know it, you’re my brother. A real pain in the ass sometimes, but I’ve grown kind of fond of you. Now quit playing soldier and let’s get back to Lancer. “I . . .um . . . got lost.”
“Lost?” Scott’s lips curled in a crooked grin. “Lost as in, ‘you were supposed to meet the Confederate spy in my camp’, or lost as in, ‘you got separated from your regiment and decided to scout behind enemy lines’?”
“Scott¾”
“Scott?” Taken aback by the use of his first name, the blonde-haired man looked sharply at Johnny. For the briefest moment there appeared a flicker of recognition in his eyes¾an impossibility quelled as quickly as it arose. “How do you know my name?” he demanded.
Blood thundered loudly in Johnny’s ears. The needles in his arms were spreading, pinging into his shoulders with little bursts of white-forged fire. Scott’s gaze was too divining, as though he sensed something unnatural in the moment. Wanting to blurt the truth, Johnny forced himself to bite silent the words. His eyes fell to the desk, and the dispatches strewn on the surface. Even from this distance he could see the names scribbled on the outside: Captain Charles Murray. Lieutenant Scott Lancer. “There¾” he said with a nod for the papers. “Aren’t you Lieutenant Lancer?”
Scott’s eyes shifted to the desk, but his expression didn’t change. Belatedly Johnny realized it wasn’t his use of Scott’s first name, but the manner in which he’d said it, that left the other unbalanced. He’d spoken as a brother would, not a stranger. Even now he could hear the lingering echo of affection and frustration in his mind. Turning away, Scott drained the whiskey from his cup, then dropped it on the desk with apparent disinterest. Standing with his back to Johnny, he spread his hand, rubbing his thumb and fingers against opposite temples. “I’ve got a Confederate spy in my camp, Private. Now you show up¾a straggler from your unit. Even if you did get lost, you’ve got information that could save me countless lives. You’d make it a lot easier on yourself if you just volunteered what you know.”
Surprised that his brother would resort to coercion, Johnny uttered a soft grunt. “I thought you’d let someone else do your bullying for you, Lieutenant. Isn’t that a little beneath you?”
Incensed, Scott swung around to face him. “So you expect me to pat you on the back, feed you, and let you go?” Striding angrily forward, he confronted Johnny face-to-face. “I’ve got a Captain one step away from critical injury, an overdue brigade, and two regiments of men who’ve marched almost non-stop for a week, only to find themselves up against a Confederate battery. If you thought I was sending Parker away to spare you, you’re either a bigger fool than I thought, or you’ve gone through the war blind.” Turning toward the desk, Scott opened the narrow center drawer, retrieving a thick-bladed knife. Stepping to Johnny’s side, he poised the blade just shy of the younger man’s face, his own features taut with grim determination. “I wouldn’t ask any man beneath me to do something I wouldn’t do myself.”
Gripping Johnny by the shoulder, Scott spun him roughly around. Stunned, the younger man felt the knife slice through the rope binding his wrists. Constricting hemp parted, falling free, as eager blood flowed into his fingers and wrists. Rubbing his right hand with stiffening fingers, Johnny looked speculatively at his brother. Scott set aside the knife and drew a pistol from the Cavalry-issue holster at his waist. Gesturing with the gun, he motioned Johnny toward the tent flap. “Outside.”
Still rubbing his wrists, Johnny complied. Stepping into the darkness was like stepping into a melee of sight and sound. Though the soldiers moved quietly, many shuffled throughout the camp¾trailing horses, tending small fires, carting water, assisting with wounded, or generally providing help where needed. Scott called for the nearest man¾a ruddy-faced Corporal who quickly saluted, then hurried away at the senior officer’s bidding to retrieve two horses.
Still edgy, Johnny looked at his brother. “Where are we going?”
“A little scouting tour of our own,” Scott returned tightly. When the Corporal reappeared with the horses, the blonde-haired man motioned his brother to mount. “I should probably tell you I’m an excellent shot, so I wouldn’t suggest ‘exploring’ out of range.”
Johnny snorted. “You’re only passing fair with a Colt, Horse Soldier. If you’d said a carbine, I would have believed you.” He couldn’t stop the natural reaction that came on the heels of Scott’s false bravado, any more than he could change the astounded expression on his brother’s face. Ducking his head, Johnny flecked the butter-smooth reins across his hands. “Just a guess,” he muttered lamely.
Masking his restlessness, Scott looked away. “Corporal,” he barked at the enlisted man. “Find Sergeant Parker and tell him I’ll be on the east ridge with the prisoner. When he finishes with the cannon, I’d like him to join us.”
“Yes Sir.” With a quick salute, the ruddy-faced man retreated. Scott, with a nod to Johnny, spurred his horse to the edge of the encampment, and the thicket of trees beyond.
+++++
Returning to the hill where he’d been captured, Johnny sat mounted beside his brother, staring over the valley below. Draped in darkness, the terrain was riddled with the jeweled glow of numerous campfires. Spread on both rims of the glen, neither side worried about concealment with the battle already days old. Stealing a sideways glance at Scott, Johnny shifted. He didn’t like the feeling of being at odds with his brother¾of being an enemy.
“I wish I could help,” he offered sincerely.
Still untrusting, Scott met his gaze. “You’ll pardon me if I have a hard time swallowing that, considering the uniform you’re wearing.” He nodded toward a protruding ridge, rising on the extreme edge of the southern camp. “Quaker guns?” he ventured.
Johnny hesitated. He seemed to recall Quaker guns were phony cannons constructed by Confederate troops, from logs that had been painted black. Used to fool the Federals, they often resulted in wasted artillery fire on the part of Union regiments. Johnny could see where Scott didn’t want to expend manpower and resources on an area that was purely bluff. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the answer. “I don’t know,” he replied truthfully. “I wish I did, but I don’t.”
“You wish you did?” Though Scott clearly found the words hard to accept, it was obvious he struggled with the blatant sincerity in the other man’s tone. “I think you should tell me what you’re doing here, Private, because nothing you’ve said tonight makes sense.”
Turning in the saddle, Johnny looked searchingly at his brother. How to make him understand? How to remove the barrier of suspicion and opposing sides, to arrive at the bond they’d shared all their life, even if unknowingly? Though the time and place was different, Johnny felt as strongly toward Scott as he always had. Surely the older man had to feel it too.
“I’m not a Private,” he said quietly. A lop-sided grin curled his lips. “Hell, I’m not even in the army. I¾” Before he could formulate another thought, his senses sharpened with deadly, pinpoint accuracy. A form moved stealthily among the trees, pausing to level a Springfield rifle on Scott. In that singular moment of white-knuckle awareness, Johnny abruptly understood why Parker had been so intent on asking him about Confederate business. Not wishing to reveal himself as a spy, the Quartermaster Sergeant had hoped for some form of acknowledgement first.
“Scott!” Launching himself from the saddle, Johnny plowed into his brother. Catching Scott across the chest, he bore them both to the ground, even as a shot erupted from the thicket. In the confused mire of his thoughts, he registered something sharp and painful in his chest, but the sensation was lost in profound fear for his brother. He felt Scott’s body strike the ground beneath him; felt the unyielding resistance of hard earth and soft grass against his shoulder; the jerky movement of his brother’s arm as Scott wrenched his revolver free. The gun popped hollowly and rapidly, followed by the distant thud of Parker’s body folding against the ground.
Brutally aware of rising sensation, Johnny groaned. His head spun with the biting tangle of sweet clover and gunpowder. The sharp, bitter tang of copper flooded his mouth, coaxed by a swell of blood. Niggling ripples of pain trickled across his chest, exploding outward in a shattering, torturous blaze.
“Johnny!” Scott bent over him, his face creased with a befuddled mixture of worry and confusion. Haltingly, the blonde-haired man touched his cheek, imparting feather-light contact. “Why?” Scott’s eyes brimmed with bewildered pain. “Why would you save my life like that¾you¾a Confederate soldier?”
The growing tightness in Johnny’s chest made it impossible to breathe. Even in the darkness he could see a spreading crimson stain on his woolen coat. Beneath the heavy fabric, blood sluiced over his bare skin, grown slick and clammy with the cold sweat of bullet-induced pain. Snagging Scott’s arm, he attempted a smile. “You . . . you called me . . . Johnny.”
Lips parted, his breath coming in ragged gasps, Scott coiled his fingers behind the younger man’s neck. “I know you. Somehow I know you.”
Johnny saw frantic indecision in his eyes¾the crushing weight of something unexplainable, yet flagrantly earth-shattering. Wetting his lips, he tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. Prompted by the cold kiss of agony, his breath came in a phlegmy rattle. Blood bubbled in the corner of his mouth., vulgar assurance of a fatal wound.
“Please¾” Swallowing, Scott searched Johnny’s lackluster gaze. “You’ve got to hang on. I don’t know who you are, but I know it’s important that you stay with me.”
The allure of sleep and distance was too great. Nuzzling, velvety edges tugged at Johnny’s senses. His fingers grew limp on his brother’s arm, falling listlessly aside. As the unshakable darkness congealed, rushing in to swaddle sense and reason in a gray, pasty cocoon, Johnny glimpsed Scott’s face. “I’ll see you again . . . Brother,” he promised softly.
+++++
With an alarmed start, Johnny realized the bulk of Lancer rose before him, sloping roof and irregular lines defining the structure he’d come to call home. Though the mist still lingered in sparse pockets, hugging the ground, it no longer blocked starlight and rolling pastureland from sight.
“Whoa!” Halting, Johnny turned in a complete circle, measuring the structures around him¾veranda, stable, corral¾all reassuringly familiar. Disturbed, he rubbed his eyes, discounting the eerie memories that hovered on the fringe of his thoughts. “Must have been some kind of waking dream,” he muttered. But it had been distressingly real. Even now the memory of his brother in Union blue was more tangible then the feel of uneven earth beneath his boots. Shaken, he did a quick visual check to assure himself he hadn’t been wounded. Relieved to find himself whole and unmarred, he blew out a breath and strode quickly for the house.
Whatever had happened, he wanted to put it behind him¾sweep it aside with clinging images of a day better forgotten. Induced by Colm McBride’s tales of The May and dragon’s breath, he’d surely let the unusual nighttime fog play havoc with his senses.
Quickening his pace, Johnny hurried to the house, and the inviting allure of warm light within.
+++++
Unable to sleep, Scott wound his way from the house into the courtyard. Though tired earlier, his need for rest had evaporated the moment he’d lain down. He’d tossed and turned for a few hours, until restlessness eventually forced him from the house. Once outside, he picked his way to the stable, lingering by the corral fence. Beyond the split-rail enclosure, mist blanketed the ground and hung in stray tatters from leafy treetops. Intrigued by the persistent vapor, Scott wandered into the night, enjoying the feel of cool air against his face and chest. He’d donned nothing more than pants and boots when venturing outside. Invigorated by the smooth caress of blissful night air against his bare skin, he quickened his pace.
The mist thickened, rising to envelop him. Though he thought nothing of the clinging vapor at first, he grew disoriented in a relatively short period of time. Puzzled, Scott frowned. From what he could decipher of the surrounding terrain, nothing looked familiar. Though structures rose in the distance, he didn’t recognize the bunkhouse, barn, or house.
Gooseflesh prickled on his arms, warning of something unnatural and wrong. Tensing, Scott turned, distinctly aware of a shift in reality. The air was no longer cool, but dry, scuttling around his feet like a frolicking child. With an abrupt start, he realized he was attired in pants and shirt of raven black, both tailored for a snug-fit on his lean frame. Unbuttoned halfway, the shirt gaped on his chest, revealing a deep “v” of tanned flesh. Rolled into cuffs on his forearms, the sleeves were loose and casual. A black gunbelt rode low on his hips, the tie-down cord securely in place.
“I wouldn’t move any further if I were you.”
Startled by the voice, Scott peered through the darkness. Even as he watched, the mist thinned and retreated, leaving him among a rocky outcropping of parched earth and scattered tumbleweed. A single structure rose in the distance, rickety and in need of repair, but solid enough to weather the elements. Scott looked from the structure to the direction of the voice.
“Johnny,” he said, appalled.
Gun in hand, a younger version of Johnny Lancer faced him. This man, barely past his twentieth year, was obviously the Johnny Madrid of legend. Cocky self-assurance emanated from his low-hipped stance, his eyes displaying fatality and sharp-witted intelligence. Longer and unkempt, his hair curled in ragged waves against his collar and brow. His grin, slow and deadly, made Scott’s skin crawl. There was nothing of the Johnny Lancer he knew in this man. A cold, apathetic gunslinger, this apparition bore little more than passing resemblance to the brother he adored.
“You’re one up on me, Stranger, as I don’t recall introducing myself.”
Scott wet his lips. He didn’t understand what had happened. Without reason, the comforting world he knew had been replaced with this dream-like impossibility. Uncertain what was real and what was fantasy, he stepped forward.
Immediately Johnny’s gun rose in the air. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Come on, Madrid,” another voice protested behind Scott. “Just shoot him and get it over with.”
“What for?” Narrowing his eyes, Johnny studied Scott as if he were prey in a trap. “He could be one of Fowler’s men. Cruz will want to talk to him.”
A trickle of insidious laughter preceded an elongated face from the gloaming. Moving to Scott’s side, a round-shouldered blonde jabbed his gun into Scott’s back, then reached forward to retrieve his pistol. “I’ll just take that, pardner.” With an eager, toothy grin, he unseated Scott’s revolver. Nodding to Johnny, he licked his lips. “Talk, huh? When’s the last time you seen Cruz act civil with one of Fowler’s hired guns? I sure wouldn’t wanna be this pretty-lookin’ fella when Cruz gets done with him.”
With a jerk of his head, Johnny urged the other forward. “Get him moving, Losson. It’s time for someone else to play guard-dog.”
+++++
Still struggling to orient on the impossible tide of events, Scott strained against the hemp binding, holding him tied to a chair. His arms had been looped around the straight back, wrists secured with unyielding coils of rope. They’d tied his ankles as well, securing each leg separately to the frame of the chair. Depositing him in a one-room shack, Johnny and Losson had departed, leaving him with a growing mire of unsettled thoughts.
Uncertain how much time had elapsed, Scott gave a short jerk when Johnny re-entered the room. Raising slitted eyes to his brother, he tried to gauge the menacing look on the younger man’s face. “Lose your playmate?” Scott asked lightly.
Eyes sharp and disapproving, Johnny closed the door. “I wouldn’t be so witty. Cruz has been known to cut out a man’s tongue for saying the wrong thing.”
“Friend of yours?” Scott ventured flatly.
Bracing his back against the wall, Johnny folded his arms over his chest and frowned. “He pays good. Guess you could say the same for Fowler.”
“I don’t know anyone named Fowler.” Irritated, Scott tugged at the rope binding his wrists. “Damn it, Johnny, I don’t know what’s going on, but you’ve got to get me out of this.”
“Get you out of¾” Choking short a snort of laughter, Johnny stepped away from the wall. “You got sand, Boston, I’ll give you that.”
“Boston?” Scott’s sharp blue eyes settled on his brother. “Why’d you call me that?”
Disturbed, Johnny shook off the association. “I¾Hell, I don’t know. Must be that fine way of speakin’ you got. You sound like one of them uppity stuffed-shirts. Gotta tell you, Blondie¾you look about as out-of-place with that low-rigged gunbelt as I would at a tea social.”
“Scott,” the older man said with a marked effort for patience. “My name is Scott.”
“Hmm.” Stepping nearer, Johnny looked down on him, his expression cold and indifferent. Roughly gripping Scott’s chin, he forced the older man’s head backward, until Scott’s face was exposed in the limited glow of lantern light. Holding him in place, Johnny studied his features intently. As the seconds lengthened and grew, Scott silently held his gaze. Releasing him at last, Johnny stepped away, a troubled crease on his brow. “You’re a strange one, Boston, no doubt about that.”
Uncertain what to say, or how to breech the distance between them, Scott wet his lips. Before he could speak, the door scraped inward, admitting a dark-complexioned man with thinning hair and a hooked nose. Hollow, sunken cheeks bore the ravages of unsightly pock-marks, likely the result of childhood disease some forty years in the past. Attired in finely tailored clothes, a year or two out of date, the newcomer looked the part of con-man and gambler, with a harder, unforgiving edge. Stepping in front of Scott, he tapped a pair of black leather gloves against the open palm of his left hand.
“So you’re Fowler’s latest gun, eh? I’m Tobias Cruz.” Pausing on the name, he waited for it to induce uneasiness. When Scott’s expression remained implacable, he frowned. “They should have told you to stay free of my territory, Boy. Now you’re gonna have to tell me what that mule-headed, skin-flint is up to, or I’ll take it out of your hide.”
Moving unobtrusively into the background, Johnny settled on the edge of a spoke-backed chair. Though Scott felt the undeniable heat of his gaze, he never took his eyes from Cruz. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anyone named Fowler,” he replied evenly.
With a smug glance for Johnny, Cruz casually tugged on the gloves, pausing to flex his fingers in front of Scott’s face. “You wouldn’t want to reconsider that?”
“It wouldn’t do any good,” Scott returned truthfully.
With a soft “tsk-tsk” Cruz leaned forward, bending at the waist. Raising one black-gloved hand, he traced a single finger over Scott’s cheek. “Liars and cheats shouldn’t have such pretty faces. I’ll give you one chance to reconsider, then I’m gonna fix it so you’ll never want to see a mirror again.”
Spurred by the threat, Scott responded instinctively. “I’m guessing that’s personal experience talking.”
Enraged, Cruz drew back. His face mottled with anger, inciting a ghastly flush of color in his scarred cheeks. Biting down on his lip, he drove his fist against Scott’s face, twisting the younger man’s head to the side. “You’ll talk,” he snarled, lurching forward, until he practically straddled the younger man’s legs. Gripping a handful of blonde hair, Cruz yanked Scott’s head backward. Chest heaving, he backhanded the younger man across the face¾once, then again.
Twisting free, Scott spat blood from his mouth. Tight-lipped, he looked stonily at Cruz. From the corner of his eye, he could see Johnny sitting forward on the edge of his chair, tethered by an invisible leash. Whether it was his imagination or just wishful thinking, Scott thought his brother seemed disturbed by his boss’s brutality.
Pausing for breath, Cruz flexed his right hand. “I’ve got lots of time to spend with you, Boy. Be smart¾save yourself the pain, and tell me what I want to know.”
His expression black, Scott remained defiant. “Go to Hell.” He’d already determined Cruz’s character and knew protesting ignorance was a waste of time. Worse, Cruz was sadistic enough to continue the beating, even if by some miracle, he did know Fowler’s plan and willingly divulged it. Whatever twisted mess he’d landed in, he wasn’t likely to win free by lying.
Incensed by his defiance, Cruz tightened the leather gloves across his knuckles. Scott caught one glimpse of his face¾lips drawn over his gums in a wolfish sneer¾before the older man’s fist connected with his cheek. Before he could recover, grasping, tapered fingers encircled his neck. Pain spiked in his head as precious oxygen was rapidly sucked from his lungs. Choking, Scott strained against the rope that kept him prisoner.
“That’s enough!” he heard Johnny snap in the background. His brother’s words were muddled; funneled through waffling layers of discordant sound. Patches of light danced before Scott’s eyes, bleeding into tendrils at the edges of his vision. Leaning forward, Cruz wedged a knee against his stomach, mercilessly pinning him in place.
Gasping, Scott fought the added pressure, even as the older man’s hand tightened on his neck. “John . . . ny . . .” he wheezed.
“I said that’s enough!”
From the corner of his eye, Scott saw his brother lunge from the chair. Locking an arm around Cruz’s neck, Johnny physically wrenched him backward. Infuriated, he hurled the older man across the room. Flung like a rag doll, Cruz’s body struck the wall with a thud, then crumbled listlessly to the floor. Only vaguely aware of the tumult, Scott pitched forward in the chair, coughing and gasping for air.
Within seconds, Johnny knelt before him, violently tugging at the rope binding his ankles. “I don’t know who the hell you are, or why I’m doing this, but you better be worth the trouble.”
Still choking for air, Scott tried to talk.
“Save it,” Johnny said curtly, moving behind him to untie his wrists. Freed, Scott wrapped an unsteady hand around his neck, leaning as far forward as possible. Air rattled through his lungs as he sucked down one greedy breath after another.
Gripping him beneath the arm, Johnny hauled him roughly from the chair. “Unless you want to end up dead, you better get moving, City Man.”
Dazed, Scott let Johnny drag him outside. Twilight had ebbed to darkness, imparting cloaking shadows and the waning touch of a dry desert breeze. The air smelled hot and sun-soaked, swollen with the memory of daytime heat. Despite that intrinsic warmth, the draft was a welcome salve on his bruised and battered skin.
When they had stumbled far enough from the cabin, Johnny released him. Bending double, Scott braced his hands on his knees and panted for air. His throat felt on fire, and blood trickled from a deep gash over his cheek. “Thanks,” he managed. Straightening, he drew a firmer breath. “For your help.”
Irritated, Johnny walked in a tight circle, raking a hand through his long hair. “Don’t be so quick to offer gratitude. I might just kill you myself.”
Breathing easier, Scott stared at his brother. Though neither man understood what had just transpired, neither could deny the unwavering bond that even now pulled them together. Unnerved by a force he didn’t understand, Johnny resorted to gruffness. More apt to play peacemaker, Scott smiled tiredly at his volatile younger brother. “If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it back there.”
“I should have,” Johnny snapped. “I should have just¾” Frustrated, he bit off the words, savagely shaking his head. Yielding to the absurdity of his actions, he exhaled noisily. “I must be insane,” he muttered.
“Johnny¾”
“Damn it, stop calling me that.”
“It’s your name, isn’t it?”
“And how would you know?” Stalking forward, Johnny stopped just shy of the taller man. “I just slit my own throat back there¾do you understand that? When Cruz comes to his senses he’ll send men to gun me down.” Though his words were hostile, Johnny’s expression was oddly wary. “I don’t even know why I did, what I did. Just that¾” Biting off the sentence, he swallowed thickly. Intent blue eyes searched Scott’s face, seeking assurance that his actions were worthy of the risk he’d taken. “When Cruz hit you . . . when he choked you . . . it felt¾wrong. Like he was doing it to me.”
Uneasy under Johnny’s probing stare, Scott cleared his throat. In another reality at Lancer, he could have spoken easily to the younger man, but here, in this place and time, he felt oddly unbalanced. There was such a raw quality about Johnny¾wild and bitter, his soul poisoned by years of solitary living. “For whatever reason you interceded,” he managed at last. “I’m grateful.”
Johnny jabbed irritably at the rocky soil with his boot, his mouth twisting in a sour frown. “You ain’t gonna tell me who you are, huh?”
Raising his hand, Scott lightly touched the side of his neck. Beneath his fingertips, the skin was tender and bruised, stretching painfully when he swallowed. Drying blood pulled on his torn left cheek, creating a swollen ridge beneath his eye. “We should probably move away from here,” he ventured, avoiding the question.
Johnny’s frown deepened. “You’re an ungrateful bastard, you know that? I’m not goin’ anywhere until I get some answers.”
“Johnny¾” Easily falling into the roll of peacemaker, Scott laid a placating hand on his brother’s shoulder. The other jerked at the touch, shrinking away from the ready comfort of the contact.
“Get your hands off me.” Striking angrily, Johnny stiff-armed his brother aside. “I should have left you die back there,” he snapped heatedly. Scott’s touch burrowed inside him, awakening a snarled web of might-have-beens, and too-late-regrets¾wishful desire for a non-existent family, he’d thought long buried in the past. Accustomed to life as a loner, he simultaneously loathed and craved the uninhibited companionship in the other man’s touch. Frightened by the need it triggered in him, Johnny grew abrasive. “Get out of here. Get out, before I kill you!”
Bewildered by his sudden hostility, Scott remained motionless. Misinterpreting his silence as defiance, Johnny reacted in anger. Fingers curling into his palm, he spit a savage curse, propelling his knuckles across his brother’s lacerated cheek. Though Scott jerked at the impact, grunting beneath the blow, he staggered only marginally. Staring pointedly, he dragged the back of his hand across his cheek, wiping aside fresh blood.
“So you’re tougher than I thought.” Glaring, Johnny drew his gun. Raising the barrel, he cocked the trigger, brandishing the weapon. In the onion-pale glow of moon and stars, his eyes hollowed with darker patches of shadow, he appeared almost malevolent. “But you ain’t got what it takes to cross Johnny Madrid.”
Before either man could move, a deadly voice responded: “I do.”
Recognizing Cruz’s gravely tone, Scott lurched forward, instinctively catching his brother about the chest. Jarred by the impact, Johnny grunted, his breath whistling sharply through his lungs. Both men reeled, careening toward the ground as Cruz’s gun discharged.
Thrown forward, Scott jerked as the bullet meant for his brother, lodged in the center of his back. Choking back a strangled cry, he fell against Johnny, bearing his brother beneath him as he crumbled to the rock-strewn soil. Though agony ripped through his back with the heated touch of fire and ice, he was cognizant enough to feel Johnny’s frantic movement. Raising his arm, the younger man pumped six rapid-fire shots into the night. Senses spinning, his body fighting shock, Scott heard Cruz’s gurgling cry when all six found their mark. Trembling, he dropped his head onto Johnny’s shoulder.
“You stupid, sonofa¾” Twisting to the side, Johnny pulled free of Scott’s limp weight. Still seated on the ground, he gripped the older man by the shoulders, carefully rolling him onto his back. “Are you completely mad? Why would you do such a¾” The words cut off abruptly as he eased his hand beneath Scott’s back, encountering blood-saturated fabric. The older man groaned at the touch, twisting his head aside. Johnny felt Scott’s cheek settle on his thigh, and glanced down to witness the shuddering drop of moon-tipped, gold lashes against pain-whitened flesh.
Uncertain what prompted the action, he rested an experimental hand on Scott’s hair. “Why would you do something so stupid?”
Scott’s fingers curled over his leg, imparting the warmth of contact. Between parted lips, his breath grew irregular and ribbony-soft. “He . . . he would have killed you. Brother.”
Barely daring to breathe, Johnny stilled. Somewhere beyond the horizon, in the sooty, moon-drenched cloak of night, a lone coyote yipped at the sky. Stung by Scott’s impossible words and the eerie, haunting melody of a kindred soul, Johnny felt his stomach clench. “That’s not possible,” he said with effort.
But the man who lay with his head on Johnny’s thigh¾who’s heavy blonde hair fanned behind him in a star-gilded halo¾was a man as paradoxical and compelling as Johnny’s own troubled nature. Despite the impossible, Johnny couldn’t deny the unfaltering pull of shared blood. “Oh, hell, Scott,” he mumbled bitterly. His hand slid from his brother’s hair, across his cheek, onto his chest. Beneath Scott’s light cotton shirt, Johnny felt the heated flush of his skin. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
A weak smile flickered over Scott’s lips. “I thought you’d figure it out . . . eventually.” Raising one hand, he caught Johnny’s wrist, holding firm with tired desperation. The light receded into murky shadow at the corners of his eyes. Johnny’s face, once clearly defined, faded in definition. Frightened, yet somehow at peace, Scott clung to the comforting assurance in his brother’s gaze. “I’ll . . . see you . . . again,” he promised.
Pale, translucent light carried him into hollow darkness.
+++++
Disoriented, Scott blinked. Behind the familiar walls of Lancer, the sky grayed with approaching dawn. Startled, he stood momentarily confused, trapped between present reality and what had surely been dream-like intervention. Moving experimentally, he waited for returning sensation, half-expecting to feel pain splinter across his back. The agony of his treatment at Cruz’s hands had vanished, left in that other time and place, with the troubling, memory of his brother.
The black clothing was gone, as was the custom-fitted gunbelt. Bare-chested, shivering in the dew-soaked breeze, Scott rubbed his arms. “Must have been a dream,” he muttered. Johnny’s anger and suspicion had seemed so real, but it was the memory of his eventual aid, on which Scott chose to dwell. If he’d encountered his brother a few short years ago, would they have surmounted their differences, overcoming initial misgivings and distrust?
Unsettled by the strange nighttime interlude, Scott walked quickly for the house. A few hours yet remained before dawn. Suppressing a yawn, he entertained the notion of crawling into bed, sliding beneath the tangled sheets he’d carelessly tossed aside a brief time before. Nestled in that cocoon of welcoming warmth, he might still manage a few hours of slumber.
Rankled by the strange events of the night, he took comfort in knowing that was a dream from which he could awake.
+++++
Johnny drummed his fingers restlessly against the breakfast table. Murdoch and Teresa, having finished their breakfast early, had already departed for town, intent on errands. Fidgety, after the strange, disquieting night of The May, Johnny found himself anxious to see Scott. Not as he had last night¾a gaunt-looking phantom in Union blue¾but as the brother he knew: composed, attentive, a bit too refined, but endearing all the same.
Bracing his elbow against the table, he dropped his head into his hand and rubbed the grit from his eyes. Sleep had been elusive most of the night, and he was paying for it now. Damn Colm McBride, and his stupid talk about The May. I just had too much whiskey, that’s all.
“Morning, Johnny.”
Startled, he jerked upright as Scott entered the room and eased into the seat across from him. His brother looked as exhausted as he felt, with creases of shadow lingering beneath his blue-gray eyes. Scott’s eye color regularly changed depending on lighting and his mood¾one moment vivid blue, the next gunmetal gray. Now, fatigued and unsettled, his eyes were mostly silver, highlighted with sparser flecks of ultramarine.
Clearly still not awake, he looked as though he’d only recently crawled from bed. Though his shirt was buttoned, he hadn’t bothered to tuck the tails into his waistband. His hair, grown a trifle too long and in need of a cut, hung rumpled and scattered on his brow. Barely functioning, he reached for the coffeepot with an unsteady hand. Johnny couldn’t recall ever seeing his proper-society brother come to the breakfast table looking quite so disheveled.
“Morning,” he mumbled.
With a vacant nod of acknowledgement, Scott scraped together a passable assortment of food from platters still on the table. Retrieving his fork, he speared a lukewarm piece of ham, then stopped with the meat halfway to his mouth. Inquisitive brows crept into his tousled hair as he glanced at his brother. “Something bothering you?”
Johnny shrugged. “Well, now that you ask. You look about as sociable as a coyot in a cactus patch.”
Setting down his fork, Scott rubbed his temple. “Sorry. Rough night.” Pausing, he sent his brother a wary look, indecision clear in his eyes. “I had this, um . . . sort of . . . dream.” Shaking his head at the thought, Scott laughed nervously. “It’s foolish really, but it involved you.”
“Oh?”
Sitting back in the chair, Scott braced one forearm against the table. Studying his brother across the polished surface, he was silent, his expression guarded.
Holding his gaze, Johnny experienced a flicker of sensation¾an intuitive ripple that allowed him to see himself as Scott did. Gone were his faults and arrogance¾all the flawed and ingrained traits that made him cocksure and rebellious. In their place he saw a gentler man, worthy of infinite devotion and affection. A man for whom his brother had willingly and unselfishly, taken a bullet in the back, without the slightest twinge of regret.
Unnerved, Johnny pushed from the chair. “This is insane,” he said rapidly. The breath hissed through his teeth as the unsettling images returned¾his brother being beaten by a dark-haired stranger while he watched impassively; his brother dying in his arms, a bullet lodged low in his back. “Do you . . . do you know what I just saw?”
Scott’s face was white. “Something similar to what I did.” Shaken, he looked wonderingly at his brother. “Johnny, I don’t know what just happened, but I saw¾I mean¾you were in a Confederate uniform . . . and I was¾”
“¾in charge of the regiment because your Captain was injured. I know.” Breathing heavily, he dragged a hand through his hair. “I was there. Just like I was with Cruz, when he beat you. And you¾idiotic, tin-plated hero¾took that bullet for me. Damn it Scott, this is just a little too far-fetched.” Pacing, Johnny scrubbed both hands over his chin. “Let’s just go back to the things I understand¾cattle, horses and guns.”
“Would that be all ye understand, now?”
Both brothers jerked at the cheery voice that suddenly intruded from the foyer. Startled, Johnny whirled to find Colm McBride hovering on the threshold. “Me pardons to ye both, but the door was open.” With a tip of his head over his shoulder, Colm indicated the front door, still standing ajar. Grinning broadly, he strode into the room, blue eyes impish and bright. “Now, lads¾did ye have a good night?”
Johnny exchanged a glance with his brother. Rising, Scott lingered at the edge of the table, long fingers resting lightly against the surface.
“Somehow I think you already know the answer to that,” Johnny said tightly. Though there was no logical explanation for what occurred last night, or even this morning, he knew the bulky Irishman was somehow involved.
Delighted, Colm chuckled. “Didn’t I say ye needed to be learned?”
Clearing his throat, Scott found his voice. “And exactly what did we learn?”
“That The May be no trifling matter.” Colm’s gaze was pointed, softly chastising. “But more than that, ye learned something invaluable¾something a flighty mist can’t ever take away.” A sly, secretive smile danced over his lips. Striding forward, he brought them together, clapping each on the back. “Ye learned about each other.”
Johnny looked at his brother. Union officer, Cavalry Commander, or ranch-hand, Scott was still the same overly polite, inherently patient, often stubborn man, who’d arrived on the stage from Boston. Though the images weren’t all flattering, Johnny expected his brother felt the same about him. Old habits died hard. The gunslinger in him still reacted with cocksure cynicism and argumentative doubts, but he occasionally pulled off redemptive qualities with mild finesse. Obviously they’d each found something in the other worth saving.
“You told us to look out for one another,” Johnny reminded the Irishman. Glancing sideways, he shot his wary, fatigued brother a crooked grin. “I could have told you it was given.”
Dropping a hand on Scott’s shoulder, Johnny tightened his fingers. Scott’s eyes met his, and in that singular moment, silent vows were exchanged¾promises of loyalty and devotion that went beyond the fleeting, insubstantial touch of The May.
“Given,” Scott assured.
The pledge¾spoken not to Colm, but to each other¾was enough for both men.
*****End****
Our authors appreciate comments on their stories. If you would like to send comments on this story, click on the author’s name at the top of this page.