Caught in the Past
Johnny Lancer nodded appreciatively as the sorrel pranced restlessly in the holding pen, turning left then right, before milling among the other horses. Beneath its hooves, the ground was soft and muddy. Two days of intermittent rain, followed by a cloudburst at dawn had left puddles and mud holes still drying beneath the sun. Though most of the remaining herd was quiet, spurred to brief activity only occasionally, the sorrel was jittery with caged energy.
“Now that’s a horse.” Perched on the top rail of the fence, Johnny indicated the restless animal. “Might be a bit too sprightly for Murdoch’s Cavalry friend.”
“If the U.S. Cavalry is buying horses, they’re not worried about ‘sprightly’,” Scott returned at his side. “Especially with all the Indian actively lately. A Plains pinto might be smaller, but in the long run, it’ll outlast most regular stock.” Leaning against the fence, his dun-colored hat pushed back on his head, the older Lancer folded his arms on the top rail. Squinting against the glare of early-morning sun, he cocked his head to look up at Johnny. “I know how the Cavalry works. Trust me, they’ll pay top dollar for a good string.”
Johnny grinned. “Guess that’s why Murdoch wants you to handle the contract with, um¾what’s his name again?”
“Conrad,” Scott supplied. “You’d better get it right, because according to Murdoch, this man is like a brother to him.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Johnny said tiredly. “Colonel Conrad. How many times has he told us¾they tamed Lancer together, Conrad saved his life¾not once, but twice¾then when his wife died, the old goat went back home to South Carolina and got himself a commission in the army.”
“And now with his term almost up, he’s thinking of getting into politics and wants Murdoch’s support. He’s already got permanent residence fifty miles from here, so we’ll probably be seeing a lot of him.”
“Congress, huh?” Johnny shook his head. “Amazing how people just pop out of the woodwork during an election year.” Removing his hat, he filtered his hand through his hair. Rising heat had begun to curl the ends over his ears. Though it needed a trim, there wasn’t time before Murdoch’s friend arrived later that evening for dinner. He felt uncomfortably like the odd man out. Murdoch had done nothing but talk about his friend for the last week, as excited as Johnny had ever seen him over the prospect of a visit. Scott, with his Cavalry background and respectful manner, would likely bond easily with the military Colonel, while Johnny remained the unruly outcast.
Disturbed, he bit his lip. “How do you think Conrad will react when he learns about my past?”
“I don’t think it’ll come up, John. Besides¾he’s running for office. He needs all the votes he can get.” His expression devilish, Scott grinned wickedly “¾even the less desirable ones.”
Settling his hat on his head, Johnny cocked a brow. “You know, Boston¾it’s a good thing I like you so much, or I’d have to teach you some manners.”
“Manners?” The grin stretched to Scott’s silver-blue eyes. With an exaggerated air of innocence, he rolled his shoulders lightly. “I’ve got plenty of manners.”
“Hmm.” Thoughtful, Johnny slapped drying mud from his studded chaps. Narrowing his eyes, he noted the soil around them was mucky and burdened with rainwater. Though the bottoms of Scott’s boots were muddy, his brown pants and forest-green shirt, looked almost pristine¾an oversight that surely could not continue. “I bet you were a good little kid, huh? Never messy, never dirty. Probably never raised your voice or bloodied your nose. I bet.” Johnny’s eyes slid to the side, an impish sparkle the only warning of his sudden shift in move. “¾you don’t even know how to wrestle.”
Launching himself from the rail, Johnny caught his brother around the neck, bearing them both to the ground. Unprepared, Scott landed with a thud, rolling into the waiting embrace of a gaping puddle. Cool, dirty water splattered Johnny’s face, but Scott got the worse of it. The back of his hair, and the left side of his shirt dripped with mud-polluted rainwater.
“Hey, Brother, you look good as a brunette.” Choking on laughter, Johnny sat back on his haunches. “Maybe you should¾ooph” Caught off guard, he grunted when Scott pitched forward. Struggling for leverage, both men slipped on the mud-slick grass. Still laughing, Johnny stumbled, one knee sinking into soft, greedy soil.
“Brunette, huh?” With a tight grin, Scott locked an arm around his brother’s neck and rolled to the side.
Wet, clingy grass slid over Johnny’s neck. His head encountered the edge of the puddle and cold water seeped beneath his collar, eagerly sluicing down his back. Yelping at the icy intrusion, he flailed one arm to the side, groping for a handful of mud. “Brunette,” he reaffirmed, slapping the whole sodden mess against Scott’s cheek. Howling with laughter, he tried to get to his knees, but Scott was stubborn, holding him pinned, breathless and laughing himself.
Johnny found the exchange childishly delightful. There were times he thought Scott a trifle too proper and reserved. To be rolling in the mud with his overly correct brother, brought them closer on a level he hadn’t experienced before. Lying on his back, staring up at Scott¾both of them dripping water and mud¾made him appreciate the close-knit family he had at Lancer. “Get off me, huh, Boston? Someone will think you’ve taken a fancy to me.”
“Not likely.” Standing, Scott grinned down at his brother, offering his hand. “I prefer my bed partners with a little more class.” This time, when Johnny lobbed mud at him, he ducked clear. The sudden intrusion of a buckboard with jostling reins and harnesses made both men move clear of the puddle. Seeing his father approach with a visitor, Scott tried to slap mud from his clothing, but only succeeded in smearing it.
“Must be Conrad with the old man,” Johnny said, not even attempting to clean off the mud. “I thought he wasn’t coming ‘till tonight.” Glancing at his brother, he watched as Scott continued efforts to tidy himself. Chuckling, Johnny shook his head. “Give it up, Peacock. You ain’t getting’ any prettier then you already are.”
Before Scott could comment, Murdoch drew abreast in the wagon. The man seated at his side, was a year or two older, silver-haired, and no less imposing. A big man, matching Murdoch in height, Conrad was thicker through the shoulders and chest. A carefully trimmed mustache, deep-set dark eyes, and prominent jaw-line, added to an already authoritative air. As Conrad stepped from the wagon, Johnny was surprised at how agilely he moved for a man of such bulk.
“Wouldn’t want to go against him in a fist-fight,” he mumbled to Scott.
At his side, his brother had grown very still.
Startled by the intensity of his gaze, Johnny rounded on him with a puzzled glance. It wasn’t just Scott’s stillness¾it was a total lack of movement on his part, as though he’d quit breathing. “Scott?” Johnny queried softly, but Murdoch and Conrad were fast approaching, unaware that anything was wrong.
“Well, Jared, I hoped to introduce you to my sons, but it seems someone sent a pair of dirt-stained ruffians in their place. Johnny, Scott,” Murdoch nodded to each. “This is Colonel Conrad.”
With a quick smile, Johnny extended his hand. Hesitating when he saw the amount of mud smeared over his palm, he gave a short, nervous laugh and rubbed it on his chaps. “Sorry. A little problem with, um . . .” His blue eyes darted to Murdoch, before returning to Conrad. “Horses. Maybe it’s better if we don’t shake.”
“I hope the stock didn’t throw you,” Conrad replied, a hint of good-humor in his eyes.
“No, but somebody did,” Johnny muttered. Clearing his throat, he straightened. “Murdoch says you go back a long time.” He felt foolish and chatty, wishing Scott would say something-anything. But his brother had become as immobile as stone, openly staring at the Colonel.
“A long time,” Conrad confirmed. Becoming aware of Scott’s penetrating gaze, he glanced aside. “So you must be the former Cavalry Lieutenant Murdoch told me about.” Pausing, cocking his head, Conrad looked at him closely. “I’m sorry, son, do I know you?”
“No.” Lowering his eyes, Scott looked at the ground.
Johnny ground his teeth together. Damn it, what the hell is wrong with him?
“Well,” Conrad said, exhaling and glancing to Murdoch, “I know I’m early, but why don’t I take a look at your stock while I’m here. That’ll leave us more time for dinner and reminiscing tonight.”
“Good thinking.” Stepping next to Johnny, Murdoch clapped him on the back. “Scott will be the direct liaison between Lancer and the army, but Johnny’s more than capable of showing you the string. He gentled over half himself.”
“Well then,” Conrad flashed an engaging smile. “Mud and interruptions aside, why don’t we take a look at what you’ve got, son?”
“Sure.” With a last bewildered glance for his brother, Johnny followed Conrad to the corral.
Watching their progress, Murdoch strolled to the buckboard and braced his shoulder against the side. Folding his arms across his chest, he nodded to the pen. “Conrad’s a good judge of horseflesh. He’ll likely want the whole lot.”
Shaking off his stupor, Scott came to his senses. “How do you know this contract will be beneficial?” he asked, trailing his father to the wagon.
“I don’t. It’s your job to see that it is,” Murdoch reminded him.
With an uneasy glance for the paddock and the imposing man with silver hair, Scott wet his lips. “Maybe I’m not the best candidate for this,” he ventured cautiously.
Surprised, Murdoch cast him an arch glance. “You’re the perfect candidate,” he said a bit sharper than he’d intended. “You’ve been a Cavalry officer yourself, you know the type of stock the army looks for, and how much they’re willing to pay. That makes you uniquely qualified.”
“I know that, Sir. But Johnny could use the experience.”
“Johnny can go with you to Conrad’s post. He’s stationed at Fort Hamilton near the Arizona border. It might even do him good to see a Cavalry unit in action.”
“Sir, I appreciate your faith in me, but I think.”
“Scott,” Murdoch interrupted, exasperated. He didn’t understand the abrupt change in his son’s attitude. They’d discussed this days in advance, with Scott volunteering to spearhead the deal on behalf of Lancer. That he would suddenly have second thoughts, left Murdoch irritated and confused. Worse¾his son was addressing him as “Sir”¾an overly polite formality he only resorted to, when trying to distance himself or make a point. “This isn’t open for debate, Scott. Lancer needs this deal. If it makes you feel any better, all three of us will go.”
Clamping his mouth shut, Scott nodded stiffly. “Excuse me,” he said.
Shaking his head, Murdoch watched as he stalked to the fence, gathered his horse, and departed over the ridge. Even grown, both sons presented problems Murdoch didn’t know how to handle. In many ways, Johnny and Scott were still strangers. More than that, they were adults and partners. Murdoch often found himself straddling a fine line between business relations and parental concern.
Life had been much simpler when he’d only had the ranch to worry about. It was easier relating to men like Jared Conrad, who’d helped him carve out his empire. He knew where he stood with his old and valued friend, but Scott and Johnny presented another matter entirely. In the beginning, he’d determined they would have a business relationship and nothing more. But that vow grew harder to maintain, as day progressed into day, and he found himself hopelessly ensnared in their lives. It was impossible not to react as a father.
What bothered him now . . . what nibbled at his senses with annoying persistence, was one simple, yet disturbing question: Was Scott acting like a son?
+++++
Standing before the bureau mirror in his bedroom, Scott struggled with his string tie. The knot slipped and fell free for the third time, bringing a soft, savage curse to his lips. Inhaling sharply, he ran both hands through his hair, dismayed to realize his fingers were trembling. Since encountering Jared Conrad earlier that day, he’d been unable to think clearly.
Memories he’d thought long buried returned to cavort at the edge of his senses. Though years and distance had separated them, he’d immediately recognized the man, who’d acted as guard and punisher, while he was imprisoned during the war. Conrad had been a Major then¾a man so embittered by the tragedy that tore the nation apart; he’d unleashed his bottled hatred on the prisoners in his charge.
On more than one occasion, Scott had been the recipient of a vicious beating---the worse occurring when Conrad strung him to a post, conducting a lengthy “questioning” session with a whip. Most guards had conveniently looked the other way, glad to let Conrad vent his frustration on a Union Lieutenant¾particularly one that had been taken captive during a southern raid, with orders to burn the countryside.
Even now Scott couldn’t remember who’d intervened on his behalf. Eventually a Confederate officer had decided he’d had enough, and ordered Conrad to desist. Barely escaping with his life, Scott had tossed with fever for two weeks, his back lacerated and raw, the skin reduced to bloody strips. Even then the Major had appeared at his bedside to torment him¾hating with an inhuman passion born of loss. Conrad’s two oldest sons had been killed during the war, leaving him embittered and hateful toward anyone in a blue uniform.
Drawing a breath to calm his unsettled stomach, Scott sat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t think Conrad had recognized him. There’d been far too many Union prisoners through the camp, for him to remember one malnourished, blonde-haired Lieutenant. Still, he couldn’t summon the necessary resolve to pretend civility with a man who’d tortured him. How could this man¾this barbarous, sadistic animal¾be Murdoch’s closest friend? And how would Murdoch react if Scott told him the truth? Would he deny everything Scott said, refusing to believe him? Would he side with Jared Conrad-a man who’d twice saved his life-or would he support the son he barely knew?
Filtering a hand over his face, Scott swept aside the memories and doubts. Somehow he needed to get through this¾for Murdoch, Johnny, and Teresa. Lancer needed the Cavalry contract, and he was best suited to negotiate it. Standing abruptly, he fumbled the string tie into an acceptable knot.
He’d been in worse situations before. In a few days it would be over.
+++++
Johnny didn’t understand dinner any more than he understood Scott’s odd behavior by the corral. A formal affair to honor Conrad’s visit, the repast was sumptuous and elegant. The table was adorned with Lancer’s finest crystal, china, and silver-ideal accompaniments to the shimmery glow of lantern and candlelight pervading the room. Succulent beef, fresh vegetables, creamed potatoes and sugared bread, graced petal-white platters and bowls.
Thoughtfully chewing on a slice of bread, Johnny shot Scott a glance across the table. His brother looked unusually formal tonight, attired in an immaculate white shirt and garnet-red string tie. Forsaking his western-cut clothing, he’d selected a black coat brought from Boston¾each precise fold carefully tailored to compliment his lean frame. By contrast, Johnny wore a pewter-gray jacket, and a softer blue shirt to match his eyes.
He didn’t mind getting dressed up. It made Murdoch happy, and brought a smile to Teresa’s face. What he did mind was Scott’s continued silence as conversation flowed around him.
“¾the army will certainly need those horses,” Conrad was saying to Murdoch. “Unfortunately, there’s been a lot of Indian unrest lately. Crooke has his hands full with Geronimo and the Apaches to the south. Back in Washington, Grant’s made a mess of the Black Hills Treaty, so you have Autie Custer fighting Crazy Horse and his Oglala Sioux.”
Johnny cocked a brow. “Autie Custer?”
Scott cleared his throat. “George Armstrong Custer,” he clarified. “It’s only family and close friends that call the General ‘Autie.’” With a narrow, slitted gaze, Scott shifted his attention to Conrad. “I didn’t realize you knew him so well.”
Retrieving his wineglass, the older man shrugged. “He’s a Colonel now, even if he did hold that two-star Brevet during the war. As for how well I know him.” Taking a gulp of wine, he raised the glass in an offhand toast, then set it down, “he might have fought for the Union, but he entertained southern sympathies most of his life. His politics would have made him a Confederate, had his oath not bound him to the Federals.”
“Custer fought against slavery,” Scott said sharply.
Uncomfortable at his son’s suddenly abrasive tone, Murdoch shifted. “Scott, the war’s over.”
Silver-blue eyes flashing to his father’s face, Scott frowned. “For some people,” he said tightly. “Others carry the taint into politics, then dismiss it with a cigar and a handshake.”
The observation, though subtlety cloaked, was still disparaging. Shifting uncomfortably, Murdoch sent a silent, embarrassed apology to his guest. Glowering at his normally cordial son, he spoke in a tightly controlled voice. “I think you’ve overstepped your bounds and need to reconsider.”
Scott shook his head. “Why? Because I know how far a man can advance a worthless career on false promises, duplicity and lies?” Dropping his napkin on the table, he stood. “Excuse me.”
“You are not excused,” Murdoch thundered with sudden heat. Rising brusquely from his chair he glared across the table at Scott. A thick finger stabbed the tablecloth as he emphasized his point. “You have insulted a guest in my home, and will apologize at once.”
“I will not,” Scott said flatly.
Bewildered, Johnny looked between the two. In the short year they’d been together, he’d never heard Scott speak so defiantly to Murdoch. Though they’d had differences of opinion, Scott’s inherently well-mannered nature usually kept him respectful even when angry.
Murdoch’s glance was deadly and black, as wrathful as Johnny had ever seen him. His mouth settled into a strained line, as a brief moment of silence constricted the room. “Apologize,” the older man ordered.
Johnny saw a flicker of indecision on Scott’s face¾his habitual instinct to play peacemaker warring with an unexpected swell of combativeness. The hesitation abruptly vanished when his eyes shifted to Conrad. “If your guest were a man worthy of apology, he’d receive it. I have no desire to make amends with a Southern Rebel.” Turning curtly on his heel, Scott stalked from the room.
“Scott,” Johnny moved to go after him.
“Stay were you are, “ Murdoch snapped. An unhealthy flush of anger rose from his neck to his forehead. “I’m sorry, Jared,” he muttered. Lurching from the table, he pursued his errant son outside, slamming the glass veranda door behind him.
+++++
Scott had gotten no further then the edge of the terrace, when he realized Murdoch had followed. Gripping him roughly by the arm, the older man flung him backward, throwing him up against the wall. Slighter of build then his physically imposing father, Scott reeled off balance, colliding painfully with the stone and mortar surface. Murdoch’s fingers closed on his shoulder, gathering a handful of black jacket, pinning him in place. “You’d better explain yourself, boy.”
Face twisted with anger, Murdoch looked furious enough to strike him. “That man is a guest in my home. He’s saved my life on more than one occasion and I’ll not see him treated with such contempt.”
Breath quickening beneath the rough handling, Scott struggled to remain calm. Though his instinct was to lash out, buried reason made him hold his tongue. He’d already made one mistake by letting his jumbled emotions get the better of him. The last thing he wanted to do was alienate his father. Suddenly he and Murdoch were adversaries one step shy of a fistfight, rather than father and son striving for common ground. “Don’t ask me to do what I can’t,” Scott hissed through clenched teeth.
“The man’s done nothing to you,” Murdoch insisted angrily.
“You’re wrong.” Breath growing ragged, Scott turned his head away. He was tired of arguing, tired of grappling with the buried demon Conrad’s presence had awakened. If Murdoch wanted to strike him, protesting wouldn’t change it. “I’m not going to apologize,” he mumbled bitterly.
His gaze withering, Murdoch released him. Scott knew something horrible and unforgivable had settled between them. Not only had he insulted Murdoch’s guest, he’d defied Murdoch in his own home, even now refusing to acknowledge the wrong.
The older man stepped backward. “Pack your suitcase,” he said tightly. “I want you gone by morning.”
Scott flinched. “One third of this ranch is mine.”
“That’s not in debate. What is in debate, is your conduct. When you can conduct yourself in a proper manner you’re welcome to return, but not before. I expect you to apologize to both Conrad and myself. Only when you’ve done that, are you welcome at Lancer.”
Turning away, Murdoch stomped across the veranda, his anger lingering long after he was gone. Sighing, Scott leaned against the wall, tilting his head to stare at the sky. A cold knife of betrayal stabbed inwardly. It wasn’t fair that he’d found home and family, only to have both shattered by a ghost from his past.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood in the quiet night¾how many minutes slipped into the cloaking blackness, leaving him with the tattered ribbon of his thoughts. Eventually he became aware of another presence lurking nearby. With a start, he realized Jared Conrad had come outside, and even now observed him quietly.
Unable to control his reaction, Scott balked.
The minute flicker of a sinuous smile touched Conrad’s fleshy lips. “You had me puzzled, boy, but that last incident at the table put everything in perspective. Earlier today, I’d thought you’d looked familiar, but didn’t recognize you outside of Union blue.” Squaring his shoulders, Conrad took one step forward. “You don’t care beans that I was a Johnny Reb. All you care about, is that you and I spent a year together, acquainted in ways you’d rather forget.”
Scott’s mouth had gone terribly dry. His heart quickened in his chest, triggered by the cold, insidious sound of Conrad’s voice. A floodgate of memories tumbled upon him: the bite of iron manacles holding his arms bound overhead; the rancid stench of sweat and disease; the barbed lash of a whip against his back; the steaming, disgorging release of his own blood.
Straightening, Scott confronted the man grimly. “I’d be more worried about what those memories could do to your political career, Conrad. The nation needs to heal. There’s no place in office for a man accused of wartime barbarism.”
As though he hadn’t considered the undesirable association, Conrad paused. A glint of the coarse cruelty Scott remembered filtered briefly through his eyes. “You won’t tell your father. You won’t tell any of them¾because if you do, you’ll have to tell them how you were captured¾burning towns and plantations, leaving women and children homeless to fend on land already stripped of resources. Is that what you want, Lieutenant Lancer---for your family to learn about your brave, heroic deeds during the war?”
Scott blanched.
Conrad stepped very near. “This is what we’re going to do: You and I are going to finalize the contract on the horses tomorrow, then we’re going to go our separate ways and forget the other exists.”
Reasserting himself, Scott stared icily. “And if I decide to publicize your past?”
“Then I’d have to do the same to yours,” Conrad countered flatly. His eyes grew lidded and deprecatory. “There are still a lot of southern sympathizers in this area, Mr. Lancer. You’re an attractive young man. I’d hate to think what a vengeful mob, intent on disfigurement, might do to change that.” An acid smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Probably a lot more than string you up for a taste of leather.”
“You bastard,” Scott said tightly.
Conrad chuckled. “And don’t forget your family, who’d likely suffer a similar fate for trying to protect you.”
Inwardly seething, Scott tried to remain rational. Every muscle in his body strained toward physical violence. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted to hurt anyone as much as he wanted to hurt this man. The harsh treatment of his past snarled with the injustice of the present, until his head spun with rage. It was one matter to endure Conrad’s sadistic threats himself, but another to hear his family so boldly imperiled. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he bit words off savagely: “You’ll have your contract, you cold-blooded sonofabitch, but if you ever threaten my family again”
“Hey? What’s goin’ on out here?”
Scott jerked abruptly, flushing from head to toe at Johnny’s unexpected interruption. Drawing back as though stung, he labored for poise. Had Johnny overheard? “Nothing,” he snapped.
“Hoo-kay.” Johnny pursed his lips. Glancing expectantly at Conrad, he offered a one-shoulder shrug. “Don’t mean to break up your little pow-wow, boys, but Murdoch’s in a tizzy, and I think it would be good if one, or both of you, tried to calm him down.”
Conrad’s expression, momentarily brooding, filtered into a congenial mask. “You’re right. I’ve been neglectful of my friend’s time. Excuse me.” Nodding to both men, he strode confidently back inside.
Still seething, Scott turned away.
“Not so fast.” Johnny hooked him beneath the arm, holding him rigidly in place. “Murdoch isn’t the only one with his butt in an uproar. You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on, big brother?”
“Not particularly.”
“Fine.” Clearly annoyed, Johnny released him. “Then why don’t I tell you?” A challenging, flinty blue gaze settled on Scott. “You’ve got to be the most even-tempered man I’ve met in my lifetime, Boston. Maybe I’ve only known you little more than a year, but it’s long enough to know you don’t get your nose bent out of shape, ‘cause someone wore a different color uniform then you did. You better have a pretty good reason for the show you’re putting on, ‘cause that man in there with Murdoch¾” He punctuated the words by spearing a finger in the direction of the door, “is more than just a passing acquaintance to the old man.”
“I know that.” Disturbed, Scott braced his back against the wall. The pressing weight of anger gradually receded beneath a ripple of dismay. Like it or not, he’d driven a wedge between himself and his father. Routinely cast in the role of peacemaker and arbitrator, Scott suddenly found himself the root of the problem.
Prompted by the pained look on his face, Johnny recanted. “Wanna tell me about it?” he asked again, his tone less critical.
The corded tension emanating from Scott was almost tangible. Attempting to relax, he exhaled. “Murdoch wants me to apologize to Conrad.”
Johnny shrugged. “So apologize.”
“Damn it, Johnny, it’s not that simple.”
Growing perturbed by his brother’s stubbornness, Johnny lifted one hand in blunt dismissal. “So you fought on opposite sides during the war. Hell, Scott didn’t you learn anything? I would have thought after a year in a Confederate prison, you’d be the first to-oh, shit!” The exclamation slipped from his lips with sudden, dreadful insight. Staring at his brother’s stricken, white face, the near panic in his haunted blue eyes, Johnny suddenly understood Scott’s erratic behavior. “He was there, wasn’t he? He was one of the guards.”
Scott closed his eyes.
With a soft whistle, Johnny leaned into the wall beside him. He was close enough that their shoulders bumped, but Scott didn’t draw away. Watching his profile¾the downward flick of his lashes; the thin crease of shadow at the corner of his eye¾he guessed Scott unconsciously needed the contact. Burdened with echoes of the past, it stood to reason he’d crave the firmer assurance of the present.
Self-conscious, Johnny wet his lips. “Those scars . . . on your back . . . did Conrad have anything to do with those?” He hated forcing the issue, but Scott’s animosity toward their guest had been so out of character, Johnny knew the damage went beyond the obvious. Uncomfortable, he lowered his eyes briefly before looking directly at Scott. “It’s kind of hard not to notice, Brother. You’re always real careful about keeping your shirt on, even when we’re workin’, but we live in the same house, sweat on the same ranch. It was just a matter of time until I saw.”
Scott barely breathed. In the tepid glow of awakening moonlight, his eyes were sheened with pewter and navy, like the worn bluing on a revolver. “When?”
Still uncomfortable, Johnny shifted. “Awhile back. Once in the barn, and once by the creek. You didn’t know I was there either time.”
“Spying?”
“Scott.”
“You’re right¾I’m sorry.” Distraught, he slumped against the wall. Sliding his hands into his pants pockets, he pushed his jacket back from his hips. Staring across the courtyard, he let his eyes skim the familiar and comforting terrain. In the span of one short year Lancer had replaced Boston in his heart. Wincing, he recalled the aimless direction his life had taken after the war¾after the prison camp. He’d returned to Boston and embarked on the wasteful life of a lothario-burying unwanted memories in short, romantic trysts, high-risk games of chance, fine wine, and the undeniable prestige of his grandfather’s name.
He’d found something at Lancer. Something he didn’t want to throw away. That something included a father he’d already alienated, a young girl he considered a sister, and a cocksure younger brother, who was closer to him then anyone in life. Still uncertain, still unaccustomed to the nature of a sibling, Scott wet his lips. “Conrad . . . was the guard in charge of my section at the prison,” he said with difficulty. “He was a Major then, that’s why I didn’t make the association with his name at first.”
Johnny waited, wondering if he would continue. When Scott was silent, he cleared his throat. “Your back?” he queried softly.
A pained expression flickered over Scott’s face. “Yeah.” Quickly, as though wanting the ordeal behind him, Scott told Johnny about his incarceration. Not in any great detail, but with enough information to sketch an accurate picture of what he’d endured.
When he was through, Johnny was fidgety and silent. It was obvious to Scott the younger man warred with his own sense of frustrated anger. Instinctively protective with those he loved, it was difficult remaining passive in the face of Scott’s torment. Swearing softly, he jabbed a toe violently against the wall. “That pig-faced sonofa-you have to tell Murdoch.”
“No.”
“No?” Gripping Scott by the chin, Johnny forced his head around. “Conrad’s branching into politics. Do you want a sadistic wretch like that in office? Murdoch has a right to know. And so do the people who are gonna have to vote, come Election Day.”
Scott tugged free. “No.”
“Why the hell not?”
Because he’ll tell you what I did. Because you’ll realize how horribly tainted I am--leaving women and children to starve. Because you’ll never look at me the same way again.
“It’s my decision,” Scott said flatly. “Besides-” Though he shrugged casually, it was clear to Johnny, the next words left him distressed: “Murdoch wants me to leave.”
With a snort of contempt, Johnny shook his head. “Don’t worry about the old man-I’ll take care of things. If you let me, I’ll take care of Conrad too.” The biting insinuation made Johnny’s double meaning abundantly clear.
Scott stared pointedly. “Stay away from him. He’s my problem.”
Respecting his wishes, Johnny nodded curtly. It would be difficult restraining himself, knowing what Conrad had done to Scott. His gut reaction was to settle the score-to make the silver-haired Colonel suffer for the pain he’d forced Scott to endure.
Beyond the ties of blood, Johnny considered Scott the most ethical man he’d ever encountered. He’d spent years rubbing shoulders with people who were by nature, greedy, combative and disloyal. Finding a brother who was not only respectful and polite, but genuinely interested in the welfare of others, had left him strangely befuddled at first. Scott was all about integrity and doing the right thing. If there was one man who didn’t deserve to be treated maliciously-beaten and imprisoned-it was his morally chivalrous brother.
Hesitating, Scott gripped his brother’s arm. “Thanks, Johnny.” His fingers fell away in a touch too fleeting to register. “Don’t worry about me-I’ll get through this.”
“Sure,” Johnny returned, managing more conviction then he felt. Prompted by a bleak sense of foreboding, he watched as Scott silently walked away, vanishing into the night.
+++++
Much later, when the house was blanketed with shadow, and most everyone had retired, Johnny found Murdoch sitting behind his desk, chair turned sideways, staring pensively into space. Entering from the foyer, the younger man paused by the table before making his way across the room. At the sound of his boots against the floor, Murdoch glanced up expectantly.
“A little late, isn’t it?” the younger man queried.
As though confronted in a crime, Murdoch shrugged gruffly. “I’ve got work to do,” he said, spinning around in his chair, to gather a sheaf of papers spread on the desk. As he rifled through them-sorting, stacking-Johnny had the distinct impression he didn’t even know what they pertained to. It was simply a convenient place to focus his attention.
Propping a hip on the edge of the desk, Johnny retrieved a stray pencil. “I thought maybe you were thinkin’ about Scott.”
“Nothing to think about,” Murdoch returned, without glancing up. A single paper slid free and drifted to the floor. Clearly unfocused, Murdoch ignored it. “He knows what he needs to do. His behavior was inexcusable.”
“Yeah, that was something, huh?” Johnny spoke softly considering the incident. In truth, he hoped his quiet agreement would make Murdoch more receptive to his opinion. “Kind of odd, though, don’t you think--Scott being rude like that?” Johnny taped the pencil lightly against his thigh, pretending absent interest. “He’s the last person I’d expect to be insulting. Sure must have had good cause to get riled like that.”
Murdoch ceased his senseless activity. His eyes slid sideways, scrutinizing Johnny. “No, it’s not like Scott,” he conceded. Retrieving the stray paper from the floor, he added it to the stack. “It doesn’t matter. He reacted to a uniform.”
“I don’t think so, Murdoch. Scott knew your friend was from South Carolina long before he got here. Something else is eatin’ at him.”
“What?” Murdoch snapped impatiently.
It was Johnny’s turn to shrug. Tossing the pencil aside, he crossed his arms over his chest. “All I’m saying is, you need to be a little more forgiving-at least until you find out why Scott’s acting the way he is. Let him finish the contract with Conrad. If the Colonel doesn’t need an apology, neither should you. This will all blow over in a few days.”
“It will not blow over,” Murdoch insisted heatedly, rising to his feet. Leaning slightly forward, he confronted Johnny directly. “Scott’s old enough to be accountable for his actions. Any other man I know would have thrown his son across the room for that kind of blatant defiance.”
“Guess you know a lot of thoughtless hotheads,” Johnny shot back, then spoke quickly to cover the blunder: “Give him some space, Murdoch. He’s been out of your life for twenty-five years. Do you really want to chance he’ll leave for good?”
Stung, the older man drew back. Eyes lowering to the desk, he considered the papers morosely. “Why do you think I kept my hands off him?”
“Then let me work it out,” Johnny said quickly. “Let him stay. Whatever the problem is between him and Conrad, I promise I won’t let it interfere with the contract.”
After a lengthy silence, Murdoch nodded. Knowing his father to be oft times stubborn and belligerent, Johnny was momentarily caught off guard. Though grateful for the concession, he had expected a battle of wills. Apparently Murdoch felt as wretched and miserable, as Scott did over their argument.
“Thanks Murdoch,” he said with a quick grin. “I’ll work it out.”
+++++
Somehow Johnny managed to get everyone through the next few days. Though Scott handled the contract negotiations for the horses, Johnny acted as intermediary between his brother and Conrad. For his part, it took everything he had to feign courtesy with the Colonel. Every time he glanced at the man, his mind flashed to grisly images of Scott bound shirtless to a whipping post. Sickened by the relentless imagery and the strain of pretending friendship, Johnny trooped behind the barn and spat bile from his mouth. Inhaling raggedly, he pushed his hat off his head, letting the chin cord catch it as it fell over his shoulders.
A fickle afternoon breeze dried the sweat on his face, pushing at the rumpled strands of his longish hair. He’d been working since sun-up, intent on venting frustration and annoyance in any meaningless task he could find. Sweat stains darkened the neck and back of his tomato-red shirt, and left damp circles beneath his arms. Fumbling open the buttons, Johnny tugged the shirt from his waistband, letting dry air dance across his chest. As he walked toward the water bucket, the tails caught in the breeze, fluttering behind him.
In the distance, a single rider paused on the hillside. Halting by the water barrel, Johnny raised a hand to shield his eyes and squinted against the gilded haze of sunlight. His brother was easily recognizable by his erect posture and the bright banner of his wheat-blonde hair. Tomorrow they would head to Fort Hamilton with Murdoch. Conrad, along with a number of wranglers had already departed with the string of horses. The finalized contract, executed at Lancer between Scott and Conrad, would be paid upon arrival.
As he watched his brother, Johnny considered how difficult the next few days would likely be. The prospect of riding nearly a week, with two men barely on speaking terms, left him grumbling beneath his breath. It was usually Scott who interceded with Murdoch on his behalf, not vice-versa. Though his brother was inherently good-natured he was also stubborn, and right now that stubbornness was proving Johnny’s undoing.
He couldn’t understand why Scott insisted on concealing the truth about Conrad. Did he fear Murdoch wouldn’t believe him¾that he’d side with a friend over his son? Or was there a hidden reason for the secrecy, known only to Scott?
Exhaling, Johnny dipped a hand into the water barrel. “Be glad I consider you worth the trouble, Boston.” Muttering beneath his breath, he swallowed a mouthful of cooling liquid, hoping it would settle his stomach and ease his tightly wound nerves.
It did neither.
+++++
Scott stared moodily into the flames, listening to the crackle and hiss of burning firewood. Three days riding had brought them halfway to their destination. Camped amid barren rock country, with scrub and sporadic patches of green as the only visible vegetation, they’d halted for the night. A deserted miner’s shack lay ten miles behind them, but they’d considered it too rustic for their needs, opting to push forward and camp in the open.
Bracing his legs apart, Scott leaned slightly forward, resting his arms on his raised knees, a tin coffee cup suspended in his hands. The tension that had hovered over them for three full days lingered oppressively in the air. Scott knew it weighed most heavily on Johnny. Forced to play intermediary, his younger brother had made several failed attempts at conversation, fidgeting when the strained efforts fell flat. Scott had barely spoken a word to Murdoch since they’d left Lancer, answering only when addressed, and then in short choppy sentences. Responding in the same vein, Murdoch avoided his eldest son, addressing him only when something in the contract needed clarified.
Uncertain if he was angry or hurt, Scott brooded in silence. Though he had no intention of sharing his knowledge concerning Conrad, it disturbed him that his father had not attempted to unearth the cause of his erratic behavior. By remaining withdrawn, Murdoch had effectively sided with Conrad.
Disturbed, Scott tossed his coffee away, and leaned back into his bedroll. Supported by his overturned saddle, he rolled onto his side. Behind him, he could feel the near-tangible touch of Murdoch’s eyes. They hadn’t spoken for twenty-five years. Why should now be any different?
Closing his eyes, he let the silken thread of sleep wash over him. Demons cavorted and danced through his dreams. Filth and red-veined horror surrounded him-a place of infirmity and disease, where men were reduced to skeletons, and others lived like animals, tethered in rat-infested cages.
Moaning aloud, Scott twisted in his sleep. The clotted, sour stench of urine and blood swaddled his senses. Groping hands tugged him from the dirty confines of his cell¾forcing him into stark daylight, where dazzling sun burned his light-sensitive eyes. He was prodded forward, sent sprawling on ground soiled with human and animal feces. Hard-toed boots battered his gaunt ribs, spurring him to his knees. Half-staggering, half-falling, he was dragged into a filth-littered courtyard, where the stench of human excrement made him gag on rising vomit.
Someone spoke sharply into his ear, but the words vanished into a muddy whorl, sucked down in a crow-black rise of terror. Conrad hovered in the background¾a stone-faced torturer¾impatiently tapping a loosely coiled whip against his thigh. Stifling his fear, Scott remained mute. Shoved chest-first against a bloodstained post, he breathed harshly, as his arms were stretched and shackled above his head. A knobby-kneed sergeant thrust a stout club against his back, snapping the manacles taut with an excruciating jerk. Rough-textured wood splintered against his cheek, drawing a fleck of blood to the surface. Satisfied that his arms were stretched to the extreme, the sergeant grunted an obscenity in his ear, then drew back laughing. Bowing his head, Scott counted off agonizing seconds-one, two, three-to Conrad’s first merciless lash of the whip.
Shuddering, Scott jerked violently awake, unable to suppress a cry. Disoriented, he panicked¾calming only when he saw the familiar star-strewn sky overhead; heard the distant sigh of wind through misshapen arroyos of stone. A light touch lingered on his forehead.
“You were having a nightmare,” his father said awkwardly. Murdoch watched him with bright, uncertain eyes. Lowering his hand, he hesitantly traced the curve of Scott’s cheek.
Shaken, Scott withdrew. The past was too vivid-brutally exposing him in a manner he’d kept securely locked away since the war. Craving the contact of his father’s touch, yet knowing the wound between them remained raw, Scott rolled on his side, blocking Murdoch from view.
Closing his eyes, he tried to silence the echoes of a bleak prison and darker past. Like gleeful imps nipping at his flesh, they remained well into dawn.
+++++
Unaware of what transpired with the night, Johnny recognized an increase in tension between his father and brother. Scott looked exhausted and Murdoch sullen. Growing irritable at what he considered foolish behavior on both parts, Johnny skimped over breakfast, intent on putting the whole miserable trek behind him as quickly as possible. “Let’s get moving,” he snapped tersely. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
Silent and brooding, all three men aided in disbanding camp. With the equipment packed, Johnny prepared to mount. Before he could position his foot in the stirrup, the rattling thunder of approaching hooves gave him pause. Frowning, he cast a glance over his shoulder. Ten Indian braves trailing two pack ponies crested the rise. Grim-faced, Johnny yanked his rifle from its scabbard. “We’re in trouble, gents.”
The words were no sooner past his mouth, then an arrow skimmed by his head. It plunked in the ground behind him, buried head deep in the dry soil, shaft quivering like a rattler’s tail. With no need for prompting, Murdoch and Scott pulled their carbines free, reflexively turning back-to-back to fire.
Scott’s aim, as always with a long gun, was precise and deadly. An arrow thunked in the ground at his feet, but he never slowed as he pumped off a series of successive shots. Adding to the melee, Johnny sent a volley of bullets winging across the divide. Four braves fell from their ponies under the barrage of combined gunfire. One by one, the Indians swung away, whirling their short, stocky mounts beyond the jagged ridge.
With a darting glance for the surrounding terrain, Johnny lowered his gun. “I think we’ve got some breathing room.”
Scott nodded, reloading his carbine. Head lowered, intent on the weapon, he heard the tell-tale hiss of a bowstring a fraction too late. With deadly precision, a sleek-shafted arrow severed the air, embedding solidly in his side. Grunting at the brutal impact, Scott uttered a low moan and folded to the ground. The rifle tumbled from his limp fingers.
“Scott!” Whirling, Johnny brought his gun up to fire, but the barren landscaped mocked him, unfolding in broken ridge after broken ridge of empty terrain. Feeling dangerously exposed, he dropped to his knees. With a tight, decisive glance at the arrow, he reached for the shaft.
Gasping, Scott flinched away. “Don’t,” he said in a brittle voice. Folding both hands over the wound, he attempted to staunch the flow of blood. It seeped between his trembling fingers, soiling the cotton fabric of his dove-gray shirt. Each breath he took sent pain waffling from the ugly puncture, until his head spun with agony. “We need cover,” he gasped.
Standing in a semi-crouch, Murdoch turned his back to shield both sons as best he could. With a tight glance over his shoulder, he nodded to Johnny. “How bad is it?”
“Bad.” Once again Johnny reached for the shaft.
Breathing raggedly, Scott lay flat on his back, left leg bent at the knee. Keeping one hand on his blood-soaked side, he looked steadily at Johnny. “Just do it,” he spat, growing short of breath. His free hand dug into the rocky soil, burrowing in broken earth, unsettling tiny stones and dry clumps of soil.
Biting down on his lip, Johnny gripped the shaft close to its point of entry. “It’s gonna hurt like hell, Boston.”
“Just . . . get it over with,” Scott persisted, growing weaker. Agony threatened to send him into unconsciousness as the wound erupted with tendrils of serpent-tongued fire. Jarred by Johnny’s touch, he ground his teeth together, forcing himself still. Sweat gathered in his bangs, slid free, and trickled over his face.
With a sudden violent tug, Johnny wrenched the shaft upright. Unable to silence a pain-wracked cry, Scott twisted his head to the side, closing his eyes tightly. Even through the distortion of white-knuckled agony, he heard the shaft snap.
“Damn it!” Johnny hissed.
Shuddering, Scott groped for the arrowhead. His fingers encountered a ragged, blood-soaked splinter of wood, protruding just above his torn flesh. “Oh god-” he mumbled, the broken words a heartfelt prayer. Darkness swelled behind his eyes, pushing him to a vertigo-induced precipice.
Worriedly, Johnny looked to Murdoch. “We’ve got to get him out of here.”
The older man nodded grimly. “The miner’s shack.”
Johnny balked. “Murdoch that’s ten miles behind us.”
“He’s a tough kid. He’ll make it.”
Undecided, Johnny looked at his brother. Scott was quickly falling into a half-coherent haze, sun-tipped lashes dipping against his pale cheeks. Sweat stippled his upper lip and glistened in the exposed hollow of his throat. His hands, already red and stained with blood, twitched where they rested on the gruesome wound.
While Johnny hesitated, Murdoch bent and tugged the nearest arrow from the ground. Frowning, he eyed the head, noting the construction. “Those braves weren’t warriors-this is a hunting arrow. With all the hostilities lately, they probably just reacted instinctively.”
“None of that matters to Scott,” Johnny bit off shortly.
His expression sour, Murdoch dropped the arrow. “No, but it might mean the difference in getting him out of here. With any luck, if we move now, we might make it. They weren’t prepared for us, but the longer we wait, the more likely they will be.”
As much as he hated the idea of moving Scott, Johnny knew the observation was valid. With a curt nod to Murdoch, he deposited his rifle in its saddle scabbard, then squatted at his brother’s side. “Scott?” His voice was thin, like a silken thread drawn through prairie grass. Placing a tentative hand on his brother’s arm, he squeezed gently, coaxing the other back to rational thought.
Turning his head, Scott stirred. Morning light danced through his blonde hair, awakening sun-touched threads of amber, topaz and gold. With obvious effort he opened his eyes, blinking against the diamondine brilliance of a world grown white with pain. “Sorry,” he mumbled in a dry voice. “I . . . went away there . . .”
“Wish I could let you rest, trail hand, but we’ve got to get you on a horse.” With a tight smile, Johnny brushed hair from his brother’s brow. Beneath his fingertips Scott’s flesh was gray and clammy, drenched with cold sweat. “As inclined as you might be to slack off, we can’t leave you for the buzzards.”
“Generous of you.”
Johnny’s chuckle was strained. The distinctive crunch of gravel made him raise his head. Murdoch stepped away briefly, returning with two bandanas and a spare shirt from his saddlebag. “Pack the wound as best you can,” he instructed Johnny, handing him the bandanas, “Then tie it off with this.” The shirt followed-no longer an article of clothing, but a makeshift binding for a desperate situation. Biting down on his lip, Johnny followed his father’s instructions.
Jostled despite his brother’s vigilant care, Scott inhaled unevenly. Air whistled through his parted lips, emitting a reedy rattle. With deliberate effort he kept his hands clear of the wound, but it was painfully obvious to Johnny the restraint was torture. Fumbling with the crude bandage, the younger man tried to ignore Murdoch hovering in the background. He wished his father would talk to Scott, offer needful reassurance¾something, anything-but the older man was stoically reserved, his face drawn in a somber mask.
Throughout the ordeal, Scott remained mute, visibly trembling. The blood drained from his face leaving a sallow, white shell. By contrast, his eyes were astonishingly blue-a gem-like fusion of crisp winter sky and pure riverwater.
“Think we’re done,” Johnny said, hoping Scott would focus on something other than the excruciating agony of his side. Wetting his lips, he looked to Murdoch. “Help me get him up.”
Together the two men gripped Scott, raising him as gently as possible. Though guarded and careful, the laborious movement induced a shuddering convulsion in Scott. Crying aloud, he sagged forward, legs buckling beneath him. “I think he’s passed out,” Johnny told Murdoch, catching his brother before he could crumble. Scott’s head rolled listlessly to the side, coming to rest on his shoulder. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, Johnny felt a raging surge of heat, trapped beneath his brother’s sweaty skin.
Before he could dwell on the troubling sensation, Murdoch took the brunt of Scott’s weight. “Get on your horse,” his father ordered. “If we’re going to get out of here alive, we’ve got to do it now.”
Johnny complied, hastily mounting. Together with Murdoch, he managed to maneuver Scott onto Barranca. Seated behind his brother, Scott’s limp weight supported in his arms, Johnny gathered the reins. With a gentle tap to the gelding’s sides, he steered the horse back in the direction they’d come from. A moment later he heard the rat-pat-tat of Murdoch’s bay, informing him his father followed.
“Hang in there, Boston,” he whispered, only then realizing how needful he was of Scott’s survival.
+++++
Half-coherent, Scott groaned, quaking at the plundering torment of his side. The pain was a ravaging beast, tearing his flesh with imaginary talons and razor-edged teeth. A cruel suffusion of heat and ice spiked in his head, doused moments later with the cold sweat of nausea. Frightened by the savage intensity, Scott leaned into the comforting presence at his back. Johnny’s familiar scent filled his head, momentarily calming him-helping to ease the biting discomfort of a lengthy journey over rock-strewn hillsides and craggy inclines. The horse missed a step and he groaned.
“I’ve got you, Boston,” Johnny murmured close to his ear. The younger man’s arms tightened around him, holding him upright when he would have fallen. “Lean back. I won’t let you go.”
The invitation floated through the murky, pain-distorted haze of Scott’s thoughts. Focusing on the comfort of his brother’s voice, he turned his face against Johnny’s neck, letting his eyes drift shut. The close contact of his brother’s body sent gentle warmth spiraling through his back. For a moment, the pain was merely a shadowy echo of an unpleasant memory. Johnny spoke softly, mumbling calming reassurances. Though the words eluded Scott, the gentle cadence provided a focus point other than his inflamed side. When the horse mis-stepped again, he grunted, folding his fingers into the sun-heated cotton of his brother’s shirt.
“You’re in a bad way, huh, Boston?” With his left hand, Johnny splayed his fingers across the back of his brother’s neck. Slowly stroking the knotted muscles, he tried to ease the snarled tension transmitted through Scott’s body. “You just have to ride it out a little further, Brother. ‘Can’t stop now with those Indians behind us.” His hand dropped to Scott’s shoulder, where his palm lingered momentarily, before stroking upward, to lightly cup the older man’s cheek. Johnny’s lashes flicked down to his brother’s bowed head. “Scott, you still with me? Scott?”
Though there was no immediate response, an eventual nod, if only marginally, told Johnny his brother was still partially coherent. “How far?” the older man managed, his voice hoarse from holding pain at bay.
Johnny glanced across the monotonous terrain, noting the irregular path of a dry riverbed, among sparse, stunted trees and fissures of wind-blistered stone. Like the rest of the barren landscape, the gulch seemed to go on endlessly. Too far.
“We’ll be there soon,” he lied.
“I need . . . some water?”
“Oh hell,” Johnny muttered, cursing himself for the thoughtlessness. Pulling Barranca to a stop, he fumbled his canteen free. Scott barely moved, still nestled against his chest, too weak to make much of an effort. Supporting his brother’s head with his left hand, Johnny used his right to raise the canteen to his lips. “Just a little,” he cautioned.
“What’s wrong?” Murdoch asked, drawing abreast on his bay.
Johnny shook his head. “Nothing. He just needs--”
“I know what he needs,” Murdoch snapped, “But he isn’t going to get it if we end up minus our scalps. Now get that horse moving. We’re going too slow as it is.”
Spurred to anger by his father’s bluntness, Johnny lashed out instinctively. “None of that’s gonna make a hell of a lot of difference if Scott keels over from pain.”
“Johnny,” Murdoch spat between tightly clenched teeth. “I’m trying to save his life. Quit arguing and do as you’re told for once.”
Before the younger man could snap a reply, Murdoch wheeled his horse aside, riding behind to scout their rear. Muttering, Johnny corked the canteen. “Sorry, Scott, we’ve got to-”
“I heard.” Shifting, he inhaled raggedly, cupping a bloodstained hand over his side. As Barranca resumed a steady pace, Scott turned his head to stare blearily at the horizon. “It’s not . . . the same,” he said, struggling to form every word. “With Murdoch . . . since Conrad showed up.”
“Bullshit. He’s just angry at himself for what happened,” Johnny said quickly. “If you had any sense you’d realize he’s acting protectively, not vindictively.” His gaze flecked downward, noting the straight strands of Scott’s hair matted to the side of his face. The pearlized sheen of sweat added a near translucent quality to the older man’s chalky skin. “You’re pretty messed up, Brother. Don’t think about it right now.”
“Some things,” Scott said softly, his voice trailing away into a barely distinguishable thread. “ . . . never die.”
+++++
The hours that followed were grueling for both men. Scott’s head drooped lower on Johnny’s chest as bouts of unconsciousness filtered him between worlds of ghost-gray shadow and stark pain. Occasionally he would jar awake, crying aloud as the pain flared savagely, dragging him back to a world of misery and confusion. During such episodes, Johnny would speak softly, carefully massaging the older man’s neck or shoulder, until the seizure passed and Scott quieted once again.
Murdoch appeared and disappeared, riding scout, then returning to query Johnny over Scott’s present state. As the blonde-haired man’s condition deteriorated, Murdoch grew increasingly agitated and short-tempered. Not knowing his father as well as he should, Johnny guessed it was the older man’s way of expressing himself. The ugly notion spurred brief bitterness when he realized Murdoch didn’t have the strength to comfort his son with anything other than gruffness. Somewhere during the long years in carving out the empire known as Lancer, he’d lost the capacity to reach beyond tightly boxed emotions.
Disillusioned by the thought, Johnny grazed his knuckles across his brother’s sweat-sheened cheek. He’d only known Scott for little more than a year, but in that brief time they’d become exceptionally close¾more so perhaps, then if they’d grown up together. He attributed that bond to the knowledge of what they’d missed so many years apart. In the past, there’d been only emptiness. Now there was the horrid fear of loss¾of having someone he cared about snatched violently away. Scott didn’t need gruffness and awkward aloofness to pull him through the ordeal. He needed the support and concern of his family; the healing assurance of knowing he was needed and wanted at Lancer.
Overwhelmed, Johnny fingered the fringe of his brother’s hair. “It’s not much further now,” he assured even though he knew Scott couldn’t hear him. “I promise.” And then inwardly at himself because he hated the sense of uselessness that left him feeling like a pawn in unfair circumstance: Damn it, where is that blasted miner’s shack?
The ground had grown hilly now, sprouting clumps of trees and brush. The long day was slowly sliding toward late afternoon, scattering sickle-limbed shadows over grass grown tall and wild. The sun ebbed nearer the horizon, receding behind clouds streaked with showy ribbons of coral, magenta and plum. A strong wind sighed through the lush grass, kicking alive funnels of dust, and small bits of debris. Overhead a hawk pin-wheeled effortlessly on strong currents of air, circling once before vanishing behind a leafy stand of trees.
Tilting his head, Johnny tried to ease a crick in his neck. A rippling cascade of needles tingled down his left arm, exploding in his fingertips. The strain of holding his brother upright was beginning to exact a toll. Attempting to alleviate the pressure on his arm, he shifted slightly, taking care not to jar his injured brother. When Scott moaned aloud in his sleep, Johnny felt wretchedly selfish for the minor discomfort. “Sorry, Scott. You’re doin’ real good-have I told you that?” Bowing his head briefly, he settled his cheek on the crown of his brother’s thick hair. A strained laugh slipped past his lips. “Sorry I ain’t one of those fancy eastern ladies you’re so fond of cuddlin’¾” Withdrawing, he glanced ahead, smiling, when he saw the sloping roofline of the miner’s shack on the horizon. “but I’m guessin’ you’ve had worse.”
He heard the crunch of gravel as Murdoch approached on horseback. Reining in at his side, his father nodded grimly. “There’s a single rider behind us,” he informed the younger man tightly.
Johnny tensed. “Apache?”
“No. Cavalry mount. You get Scott to that shack, and I’ll find out who’s trailing us.”
Johnny nodded, determined to get his brother to safety. Though a cavalry rider could be just what they needed, the thought of a lone soldier didn’t bode well. As Murdoch wheeled around, heading into the distance, Johnny gradually increased his pace. In a relatively short time, the dilapidated shack rose before him, it’s grimy sides streaked with the dusty gold light of late day.
Tucked between hills on the edge of a narrow stream, the shack appeared abandoned. Dismounting, Johnny turned to catch his brother, easing him as carefully as he could from the saddle. Jarred awake, Scott sagged against the younger man, hooking an arm around Johnny’s neck to remain upright. “Where are we?” he mumbled, only vaguely cognizant of his surroundings. His legs wobbled unsteadily and his chin sagged forward against his chest.
“Some place safe,” Johnny returned. Maneuvering his brother so Scott’s injured side was against him, Johnny hooked his arm around the older man’s waist, and half-dragged, half-carried him forward. A solid kick from his foot sent the front door of the shack crashing inward.
The pungent scent of musty dampness rose from the shadowed confines of a square room. The interior was much as Johnny expected, with a dirt floor, square table and chairs, and a crudely carved frame with moldy mattress, for a bed. Moving quickly to the latter, Johnny eased his brother onto the soiled bedding. When Scott folded tiredly with a long-suffering sigh, Johnny hooked him beneath the knees and raised his legs onto the mattress.
The younger man cast a quick dissecting glance about the room. A small hearth, its belly filled with charred wood, twigs, and dried leaves, stood opposite the door. A cast iron pot hung suspended above brittle, aged logs, hooked to a rod mounted above the opening. Though the room was windowless, light leaked through numerous cracks in the board-and-plank walls, spearing the gloomy interior with dust-filled shafts of eerie illumination.
Turning his attention back to his brother, Johnny examined the sticky bandage secured about Scott’s waist. Blood had clotted it fast to the wound. Earlier, he’d been careful to tear the material, so the broken shaft protruded above the binding, rather than suffer restriction. Gnawing distractedly on his bottom lip, Johnny unbuckled his brother’s gunbelt and slipped it free of his hips.
Scott’s eyelids fluttered open. Disoriented at first, he focused belatedly on Johnny. Silently the two men regarded one another, each painfully aware of what needed done. Uncomfortable beneath Scott’s direct stare, Johnny squatted at the bedside. Setting the gunbelt aside, he laced his hands loosely and considered his thumbs. “Listen, Brother”
“I know,” Scott interrupted before he got any further. Swallowing, he stared at the ceiling. “I had . . . a bullet cut from my leg in ’63. Stupid mistake during the war.” Hovering on the brink of exhaustion, he turned his head to look at Johnny. Unsettling splinters of pain played havoc in his side, making him wince unexpectedly. “Did you ever . . . cut a”
“No,” Johnny snapped bitterly. Blowing out an anxious breath, he scrubbed a hand over his face. The effort of collecting himself failed. Miserable, he regarded the other. “Scott, I sure don’t wanna practice on my own brother.”
Scott’s eyes grew heavy, veiled with lashes. “It’s got to be done.”
“I know that.”
“Let Murdoch do it,” Scott murmured, fading on the tide of fatigue. “Where-where is he?”
As though in answer to the summons, Murdoch’s large frame filled the threshold. Johnny turned, prompting Scott to flinch to awareness at the movement. Both had been so engrossed in their own struggle, neither had heard the approach of horses outside. As Murdoch stepped clear of the door, Jared Conrad entered behind him.
“What’s he doing here?” Johnny demanded, rising to face Murdoch.
“He’s the one who was trailing us. Seems he had a run-in with Apaches a day before we did, and rode back to warn us.” Hovering awkwardly at the foot of the bed, Murdoch glanced down at Scott. “Son, he might be able to help.”
Narrowed eyes darting warily to Conrad, Scott didn’t even look at his father. “No.”
Frustrated, Murdoch bent forward, resting a hand on Scott’s arm. “Scott, you listen to me.
That arrowhead has got to come out. Early during the war, Jared had experience in field hospitals, assisting surgeons.”
“I know what kind of experience he had . . . during the war,” the younger man gasped, struggling to sit upright. Placing a hand on his shoulder, Johnny attempted to restrain him, but the thought of Conrad cutting him was too much for Scott to endure. Wrapping an arm across his damaged side, he dug one boot into the bed and pushed backward until his shoulders bumped the wall. The effort sent streams of sweat trickling down his jaw. Laboring for breath, he grasped his brother’s sleeve. “Johnny . . . don’t let . . . that bastard near me. No matter . . . what happens. You promise me, Brother.”
“Scott”
“Promise,” Scott demanded, his face grown white with the effort of sitting upright.
With a bewildered glance for his father and the silver-haired man by the door, Johnny nodded.
“I promise.” Though he understood Scott’s reasoning, he also saw the benefit of aid. If Conrad truly were experienced in surgical techniques, he just might save Scott’s life.
Swearing softly Murdoch turned away. Clearly disturbed, the larger man walked outside. Pausing only briefly, Conrad followed.
Johnny looked at his brother. Scott’s face was lined with the strain of pain and fatigue, his sweat-dampened skin cadaver-white. His hand twitched where it cupped his bloody side, and the shallow, rapid flutter of his breath warned of instability. “He might have saved your life,” Johnny said pointedly.
Scott grimaced. Wordlessly, he turned his face to the wall.
Witnessing the flicker of anguish on his features, Johnny reacted instinctively. “We’ll do it your way,” he relented. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he wrapped his arm around Scott’s shoulders. Resistant at first, the blond-haired man sagged against his chest.
For the moment, Scott was quiet.
+++++