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.
+++++
Agitated, Murdoch removed his hat and laced a hand through his hair. Every quick bristling step he took conveyed his frustration as he paced impatiently. “I’m sorry, Jared. I don’t understand Scott anymore. You risked your life to come back and warn us, and this is how he treats you. I should just over-ride him and force the issue. The stupid, stubborn fool-that arrowhead could cost him his life, and for what? The color of a uniform?”
“Some people never get over the war,” Jared intoned evenly. Striding to his horse, he opened the saddlebag and withdrew a small flask. “I’ll do what I can, Murdoch-ride for help-but you’re three days in the middle of nowhere. You’ve got a stream nearby and a hearth-make your surgical instruments as sterile as possible. Not much you can do to lessen his pain, but this might help.” Jared passed him the flask.
Pulling free the cork, Murdoch frowned at the tart odor. “What is it?”
“Just an herbal mixture, but it should mute the pain. Make sure he drinks all of it.” Conrad regarded him steadily, his expression severe. “All of it, Murdoch-understand?”
“Yeah.” Distracted, the rancher offered his hand. “Bring what help you can when you can. I appreciate what you’ve done.”
With a tight nod, Conrad turned away and mounted his horse. Murdoch watched him fade into the distance before turning back to the shack. He felt hollow inside as though everything that mattered in life had been viciously ripped away. Faced with the prospect of cutting into his son’s flesh, he realized how abominable his silence had been through the intervening years. Two sons and neither one had mattered much before a year ago. That he’d carried regrets and remorse most of his life was an insignificant and selfish burden, wielded as an excuse. Terrified that he might lose Scott, now when it mattered, Murdoch squared his shoulders and strode into the shack.
His stomach tightened at the sight that greeted him¾Scott and Johnny seated together on the bed, the younger man cradling his blonde-haired brother in his arms. There was no denying these two men, so divergent in background, had overcome obstacles of awkwardness and uncertainty to reach out to one another with affection and loyalty.
Snagging a ladder-back chair, Murdoch dragged it to the bedside, then spun it around to straddle it backward. His eyes settled on Scott’s face. Momentarily content in his brother’s embrace, Scott rested with his eyes closed, his breath coming in shallow rasps between parted lips. Even in sleep, a look of concentration creased his features, as though he struggled to hold pain at bay. His left arm twitched periodically, and the long fingers of his right hand-stained with blood where they rested on the wound-jumped with recurrent tremors.
Murdoch looked at Johnny. “Jared went for help, but it’ll be days in coming.” Stone-faced, he passed the younger man the flask. “See if you can get him to drink that. Jared said it should help with the pain if he swallows all of it.”
Concerned, Johnny looked at his father. “What are you going to do?”
“Get some water and heat it over that hearth.” With a grim nod for Scott, Murdoch stood. “Better get that shirt off him too. I don’t want anything in the way when I start cutting.”
Johnny’s mouth was dry. He watched Murdoch gather the cast iron pot and stalk from the hut. As his father went about the business of gathering wood and kindling a fire, Johnny woke Scott. His brother stirred groggily, groaning to be summoned from a world where pain was more shadow than substance. “Scott I need you to drink this.” Supporting his brother’s head, Johnny offered the flask. “It’ll help with the pain.”
Obeying the cajoling command, Scott swallowed the vile tonic. He grimaced, twisting his head to the side when the revolting elixir struck his throat. Though Johnny supported him, he pulled back, sending a stream of dark liquid dribbling over his chin. “What . . . is it?”
Wiping his brother’s mouth, Johnny mopped free the excess. “Conrad gave it to Murdoch. He said it would help with the pain.”
“Conrad?” Scott came fully awake. “Get it away from me.”
Realizing his mistake too late, Johnny scowled. “It might help.”
“Get it away,” Scott repeated, growing agitated. Shifting in Johnny’s embrace, he struggled to disentangle himself. The jolting movement made him wince as renewed pain flared in his side.
“All right,take it easy,” Johnny insisted. Setting the flask aside, he slid free of the bed, gently easing Scott to the dirty mattress. Hovering at the bedside, he frowned down on his brother, pausing to lay a lingering hand on the older man’s brow. Pressing his lips together, Johnny studied the other with somber intensity. “That shirt’s got to come off, Boston.”
White-faced, Scott nodded.
Carefully, Johnny peeled back the blood-soaked bandage. The material stuck and pulled against thick clots, releasing rivulets of fresh blood as they broke free. Sucking down a quavering breath, Scott reflexively raised one leg at the knee. “Easy,” Johnny whispered. As gently as possible, he stripped away the bandage, removing folded bandanas that had served as temporary packing. With a guarded glance for his brother, Johnny unbuttoned the older man’s shirt.
Exposed, the wound was raw and ugly. The surrounding skin appeared diseased, veined with deep purple threads and brighter patches of crimson. Blood polluted Scott’s side, oozing across the taut muscles of his stomach, to puddle in his navel. Resting a hand on his brother’s raised knee, Johnny paused. Behind him, he could hear Murdoch stacking fresh wood in the hearth, working to kindle a blaze. He didn’t understand why Murdoch was being so distant, except perhaps he needed that aloofness to prepare himself for the task at hand.
“Think you can sit forward a little?” Johnny asked Scott. “I need to get your shirt off.” Though he’d briefly considered cutting the garment free, he knew the jolting movement would likely be as bad, if not worse.
With a terse nod, Scott grappled a hand over the edge of the bed. Moving to assist him, Johnny cursed softly when he felt the older man shudder. The cotton workshirt slid free and Johnny tossed the soiled garment aside on the floor. Once again, he helped ease Scott down on the bed. This time the injured man raised both knees, gasping, as he lay flat on his back, neck arced to stare wild-eyed at the ceiling. Johnny could see the pulse beating in his throat and instinctively reached for the flask of pain elixir.
“No,” Scott said thickly, shoving it aside.
Johnny blew air through his teeth. “Damn it, Scott”
“I . . . feel . . . sick . . .”
Alarmed, Johnny grew perfectly still. If his brother vomited with the arrow embedded in his flesh, he’d likely hemorrhage and the result would be fatal. He watched helplessly as Scott swallowed convulsively, twisting his head to the side. “Fight it,” Johnny said tightly.
The muscles in Scott’s neck grew taut. A moment later he sighed raggedly and turned his face away from Johnny, into the mattress. A tremor ran through his body, signaling an end to the bout.
Releasing a pent-up breath, Johnny exhaled. Behind him, Murdoch had stoked the slumbering fire to life. The acrid reek of smoke filled the small confines of the shack, before vanishing in an upward draft. Expanding wood crackled and hissed-an oddly comforting sound despite the dire circumstance. Working studiously, Murdoch tore a bedroll into strips for clean bandages then examined a trio of knives before heating them in the fire. A kettle of water, taken from the stream boiled above the flames, releasing small puffs of steam to dissipate in the dead air.
Still breathing unevenly, Scott drifted into a restless slumber. “Murdoch,” Johnny said, not bothering to glance over his shoulder. “Are you sure you can do this?”
“There isn’t any choice since he wouldn’t let Jared near him,” Murdoch replied curtly. Dragging the small table to the bedside, he looked steadily at Johnny. “You do your part and we’ll get through this. All of us.”
Johnny’s eyes skimmed the wooden table, noting the assortment of items strewn on top: hastily prepared bandages torn from trail bedding, a basin of steaming water, two coils of rope, an assortment of short-bladed knifes, and a lantern with the wick trimmed high. “What’s the rope for?”
Retrieving one hemp loop, Murdoch nodded somberly to Scott. “You see how he keeps his legs up? That’s an instinctive reaction to shield the wound. No matter how rational he tries to be, when I start prodding that arrowhead, he’s going to pull his legs up. It’s up to you to hold them down.” Murdoch paused, his expression grim. Lowering his eyes, he considered the rope before studying Johnny. “Son, you can’t hold his arms too.”
“Murdoch, you ain’t gonna tie him?”
“There’s only two of us, and he’s not about to lie still while I cut.”
“Damn.” With a disgusted grimace, Johnny snagged the remaining rope from the table. Kneeling at Scott’s side he fashioned a loose knot. “Sorry, Brother,” he mumbled, slipping it over Scott’s wrist and pulling it tight. On the opposite side of the bed, Murdoch performed a similar procedure. Flinching at the touch, Scott moaned but didn’t awaken. It was only when Johnny secured his arms above his head that he jerked to awareness.
Skin pulled across the wound, sending a lance of pain through him. Disoriented, both arms secured above his head, Scott reacted with horror. Crying aloud, he pulled on the restraints, trapped in a nightmarish land of half-coherent memories and shadowy images. The hiss of firewood became the singing lash of Conrad’s whip; the bit of hemp against his wrists, the cold snap of iron manacles. “No!” Tugging violently on the rope, he tried to rise.
Catching his shoulders, Johnny pushed him back on the bed. “Scott take it easy.”
“Conrad”
“Conrad isn’t here.” The words spilled from Johnny’s mouth in a frenzied attempt to soothe. “ I promise you’re safe. It’s not the war, and you’re not in prison. He can’t hurt you anymore.” Johnny wasn’t certain if it was his words or the sound of his voice that eventually reached his brother.
Snaking both hands around the taut hemp cords, Scott visibly tried to calm himself. Half raised by the rope, he let his head fall backward. Suspended above the mattress, his blonde hair hung free behind him. Cupping a hand behind his head, Johnny eased him to the soiled bedding. He could feel the touch of his father’s eyes, narrow and oddly dissecting, but couldn’t be bothered by what he might have let slip concerning Jared Conrad. At the moment, Scott was his main concern.
“Hold his legs,” Murdoch instructed, pulling a chair close to the bedside.
Sliding one hand behind his brother’s left calf, Johnny gently straightened the leg, lowering it to the bed. He felt Scott tense and suck in a tremulous breath. Repeating the action, Johnny moved to Scott’s right side. As he lowered his brother’s leg, he felt the quiver of strained muscle, transmitted through the coarse black fabric of Scott’s pants and the stiffer leather of his boots.
“You’re going to be fine, Son,” Johnny heard Murdoch whisper to Scott¾the first comforting assurance their father had spoken all day. Raising his hand, Murdoch rested his fingers briefly on Scott’s hair. To Johnny it seemed as if his brother crumbled beneath the touch, unable to bear the fleeting compassion in the contact. With a soft moan, Scott turned his head away from his father.
Carefully Murdoch unfastened Scott’s belt, then unbuttoned the fly of his pants, folding the material clear of the infected area. Retrieving a clean strip of cloth, he dipped it in the basin, gingerly swabbing the swollen flesh around the wound. At the first instance of contact, Scott bit down on his lip, gripping the rope restraints in white-knuckled desperation. As Murdoch fingered the inflamed area, he breathed heavily, head tilted back, eyes fixed resolutely on the ceiling. Agonizing second ticked into agonizing second as he tried unsuccessfully to mute the rising tremors in his body. In desperation he counted uneven joints on the sloping ceiling where plank board butted against plank board.
“You’re doing fine, Son,” Murdoch said encouragingly, pausing to rest his hand briefly on Scott’s thigh. Satisfied that the wound was clean, he discarded the blood-fouled cloth, then selected a slender knife from the table. Scott caught the movement from the corner of his eye, and tried not to anticipate the sting of the blade sinking into his raw flesh. He felt light-headed and disoriented, barely rational as nightmarish pain bludgeoned the edge of his senses. Moaning, he tried to drag his left leg forward. Johnny applied pressure, pinning him to the bed, effectively restricting his movement.
Scott shuddered.
Unable to raise his leg, he tightened his hands on the rope holding him captive. His ribcage was stretched by the pull of his arms above his head, sending a sharp flutter of tremulous breath through his chest cavity. The nausea was back, sharper and acidic, burning his throat with rising bile. Closing his eyes he tried to block out sensation, but the effort only heightened his awareness.
His father’s hand settled on his stomach, holding him in place. A distracted part of his mind registered the hard calluses on Murdoch’s fingertips where they rested against his flesh. Something heated and sharp prodded his side, aggravating the wound. His limited composure crumbling, Scott groaned aloud, and buried his face against his arm. Savage bolts of pain ripped through him, kindling coldfire and white agony. Convulsing, he fought to draw his knees up, but Johnny restrained him without leniency. The dreadful prodding continued, wrenching a tortured gasp from his lips. “Easy,” someone whispered, but his head was swimming and the word flitted beyond his grasp like a fickle bird. “God¾stop,” he spat through gritted teeth.
“Can’t you hurry it up?” Johnny hissed at his father.
Murdoch’s face was severe as he discarded the first knife and retrieved a second. Gagging on the vile odor wafting from the wound, Johnny turned his head away, unwilling to look at the fetid laceration. The room was suddenly too small and too hot,a confining box closing constrictively on all sides. Sweat collected in his hair and trickled down his neck. With every quaking gasp Scott took, Johnny felt him labor against the restraints, as the muscles in the older man’s legs tensed spasmodically.
“Take it easy, Brother,” he pleaded.
But Scott was beyond rational thought. Struggling blindly, he succumbed to a raging vortex of garish sound and demon-spawned images. The rope scraped his wrists raw, but he barely felt the bloody abrasions, focused solely on the punishing agony in his side. Overhead the ceiling distended and contracted, fluctuating with the rasping intake of his breath. His self-control quivered, then shattered, as tears streamed unheeded from his eyes. “Murdoch . . . Father . . . please!”
Shaken by Scott’s use of the name “Father,” Murdoch flinched. It took every ounce of control he possessed to hold his knife-hand steady as he probed for the arrowhead. “Scott, stop fighting me.” Splaying one hand over his son’s flat stomach, he leaned forward, pushing him against the bed. God Scott, I’d give my right arm so you wouldn’t have to endure this. An observer to the grisly scene, he envisioned himself an ogre, a monster, brutally cutting into his son’s flesh. He didn’t deserve to be a father¾didn’t deserve the devotion and love of two sons who’d entered his life to create a tightly knit family. Just a few short days ago, it had taken all his reserve to keep his hands off Scott. He’d been angry enough to strike the younger man, and had succeeding in restraining himself only by rationalizing that Scott was his son-a son he loved even if he couldn’t bring himself to say it. And this is how I repay you.
“I’ve almost got it.”
“God, Murdoch . . . stop.” Openly weeping, Scott buried his face against his arm. Murdoch caught one glimpse of his profile-Scott’s finely boned cheeks, wet and glistening with tears, and inwardly cringed for the torment he inflicted.
“Hurry,” Johnny instructed tersely.
Tensing beneath the dreadful expectation of escalating pain, Scott wrapped both hands around the rope restraints. He jerked once, crying aloud as Murdoch probed deeper and blood welled from the wound, sluicing across his stomach. Agony exploded in his side. A second later, the arrowhead blundered free with a heated deluge of fluid and blood. Exhausted, Scott crumbled limply in the restraints, choking on a half-muffled sob.
Intent on his brother, Johnny never saw the troubled expression on his father’s face. Propelled into action, he snatched a knife from the table, hastily slicing through Scott’s restraints. Catching the blonde-haired man as he sagged, Johnny held him propped in his arms. “It’s over, Scott.”
But the pain was still there, a fire-tongued dragon devouring his insides. Instinct made him want to draw his knees up and curl against his brother, but he held still as Murdoch cleaned and bandaged the wound. When it was over and the fire burned hot and ragged in his side, Scott surrendered to impulse. Bending his legs to ease the stiffening lick of pain, he turned his tear-streaked face against his brother’s chest and bleakly closed his eyes. With his back to his father, he tried to block the horrid memories of Murdoch as necessary torturer.
Johnny’s fingers tracked over his cheek, wiping aside stray tears. “Try to rest, Scott. I’m not going anywhere.”
Shaken, Murdoch stood and gathered the bloody implements of surgery. He needed air¾needed to be outside, away from the stench of blood and sickness. Yet as he turned from the bed, two horrible realities remained: the construction of the arrow he’d pulled from his son’s side, and the ugly, faded scars that even now, lay exposed on Scott’s bare back.
+++++
A whip.
Murdoch dragged a hand over his face. Some time in the past, someone had whipped his son. Some vulgar inhuman creature had tortured his inherently pleasant, kind-hearted son with a lash. Swearing aloud, his anger at the bursting point, Murdoch drove his fist against the massive trunk of an oak. Flesh tore on his knuckles, but he barely registered the pain. His mind skimmed back over the last grueling hour, settling on Johnny’s words to Scott: Conrad isn’t here. It’s not the war, and you’re not in prison. He can’t hurt you anymore.
Murdoch paled.
Can’t hurt you anymore.
“Murdoch?”
He jerked unexpectedly, turning to find his youngest son standing behind him. Firelight streamed through the open door of the shack, haloing Johnny’s back. Murdoch hadn’t realized how long he’d remained outdoors. Overhead the sky was gray, riddled with bone-white clouds and clusters of emerging stars. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke, creek water and damp grass. Clearing his throat, he stuffed his damaged hand into his pants pocket. “How is he?”
“Resting.” Uncomfortable, Johnny hesitated. Stepping from the small plank porch he hovered just shy of the older man. “That couldn’t have been easy . . . what you did for Scott.”
“Needed done,” the older man returned shortly. Dismissing the uncomfortable topic, he looked at Johnny speculatively. The day had taken a toll on the younger man, evident in the harsh lines beneath his sapphire eyes, the weary droop of his shoulders. Murdoch knew he’d borne most of Scott’s turmoil, acting as comforter¾making the agonizing hours of the day somehow tolerable for his older brother. There was no questioning the physical closeness the two men shared. More than that, Murdoch guessed they’d probably shared past secrets as well. “What did you mean when you told Scott that Conrad couldn’t hurt him anymore?”
Caught off guard, Johnny balked. Suddenly nervous, he shook his head and held up both hands. “If you want to know about Conrad you’re asking the wrong person.”
“Let me tell you what I think,” Murdoch said carefully. His glance was straightforward and probing. “I think Scott of all people wouldn’t react badly to someone, unless that person did something thoroughly unforgivable. Your brother isn’t the kind of man to hold a grudge against someone simply because they wore a Confederate uniform.”
Uncomfortable, Johnny shrugged. Nervously, he freed his revolver, twirling it absently before reseating it in the holster. The gesture was as habitual as someone restlessly drumming their fingers on a tabletop.
“I think Jared and Scott knew each other during the war, and I think it happened when Scott was in prison.” Murdoch paused, waiting for the younger man to speak, but Johnny merely fidgeted. Murdoch frowned as pieces of the puzzle fell into place: Scott’s awkward insistence that he wasn’t the right candidate to negotiate the cavalry contract, even though he’d previously agreed to it; his out-of-character hostility toward Conrad at the dinner table, followed by his refusal to acknowledge the wrong; his near-panicked insistence that Conrad not be allowed to touch him, even when the Colonel may have been able to save his life; and finally his blind terror at being bound and restrained. “I saw his back, Johnny. I’m guessing he got those scars during the war, most likely in prison.” Murdoch stared fixedly. The blood thundered in his ears. “It was Conrad, wasn’t it?”
Johnny swore softly. “Scott didn’t want you to know. Don’t ask me why, Murdoch. I guess he thinks you’d take the word of your friend over his.”
“Damn fool.”
Pointedly, Johnny arched a brow. “Which one of you?”
Murdoch’s glance was scathing. “I can understand Scott keeping quiet, but what about Jared? He made it a point to convince me Scott was reacting to normal North-South prejudice.”
“In a few months he’ll officially announce his candidacy for office,” Johnny supplied. “He can’t risk his background becoming common knowledge.”
“Maybe,” Murdoch mused. He wasn’t certain what he felt¾anger, betrayal or the need for retribution. Jared Conrad had stood by his side through obstacle and hurdle, but those circumstances and the years that formed them, lay decades in the past. A man could change, particularly when the ugly specter of war intervened. Murdoch might not have known Scott as long, but the tie of blood was stronger. His son was far too honorable to craft such a deceitful lie. He should have known from the start, when Scott’s behavior became erratic that something blatantly objectionable was at fault. Hopefully it wasn’t too late to heal the damage between them.
“There’s something else,” he said to Johnny. “That arrow I pulled from Scott was a war-tip. The braves we encountered today used hunting tips.”
Johnny stared blankly. “What are you saying?”
“That someone other than an Apache took that shot at Scott. That maybe-just maybe-it wasn’t random fire.”
“You think someone singled him out, hoping to kill him?”
Disturbed, Murdoch looked thoughtfully at the hut. “I don’t know, Johnny. It’s getting late, and I don’t want to leave Scott alone too long. Let’s go back inside.”
Nodding solemnly, Johnny followed his father into the shack. Roused by the sound of their footsteps, Scott shifted gingerly and moaned. Lying on his back, right leg raised and bent at the knee, his stomach swaddled with heavy bandages, he looked disturbingly frail. Sweat glistened on his bare chest and arms, and matted thick strands of scattered hair to his forehead. Pausing by the bedside, Johnny pressed a hand to his sticky brow. “He’s awfully hot, Murdoch.”
“Johnny . . .” Scott’s voice was a cracked thread. With effort he opened his eyes. “ . . . going to . . . sick . . .” Before Johnny could respond, Scott groaned low in his throat and pitched forward, hanging his head over the side of the bed. The movement wrenched an anguished cry from his lips, even as his body shuddered with the effort of abdominal spasms.
Gripping his arm, Johnny supported him through the torturous exertion of vomiting. Aggravated by the merciless strain, Scott’s wound erupted in agony. Gagging on blood and bile, the blonde-haired man cried aloud, slumping against his brother’s leg as the pain threatened to consume him.
Wracked with dry stomach convulsions, Scott felt tears flood his eyes. Fighting panic, he ground his teeth together and dug his fingers into the bedframe. The sharp tang of iron flooded his mouth as blood seeped between his parted lips. He felt Johnny’s hand brush his face, pushing the sweat-soaked hair from his brow, but the touch was oddly insubstantial. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the worried tremor of his father’s voice, followed by a curt reply from his brother. Thankful when the punishing convulsions ceased, Scott rolled against the mattress, abruptly chilled by the touch of sweat-dampened bedding against his scarred back.
“Scott.” Worriedly, Johnny bent over the bed. The older man’s face was drawn in a waxen shell, his lashes wet and tipped with tears. Dark strings of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, trickling over his chin. Raising an unsteady hand, Johnny flecked the ghastly fluid aside. “Damn it, Murdoch, he shouldn’t be spitting up blood.”
“There’s no reason for it,” the older man said quickly, moving to the opposite side of the bed. Though Scott had already slipped into unconsciousness, Murdoch rubbed a hand over his shoulder, hoping to impart comfort.
“He felt sick earlier,” Johnny supplied. “Right after I gave him that pain elixir from Conrad.”
“Conrad?” Murdoch jerked as though struck. Troubled, he sent a sideways glance to Johnny. “Just how much did you give him?”
The younger man shrugged. “Not much. When Scott realized Conrad supplied it, he wouldn’t take anymore. Besides¾he said he felt sick, and I was worried what would happen with that arrow still embedded in his gut.”
Murdoch’s eyes tracked back to his oldest son. Settling on the bedframe, he let his hand skim lower, lightly dusting Scott’s arm. “More than likely it would have ruptured something internally and killed him.” The two men exchanged a silent glance. Standing, Johnny retrieved the flask, pausing to uncork it and frown at the fetid odor.
“If this is what made Scott sick-if it’s what’s causing him to spit up blood-and I’d given him all of it.”
“Jared was insistent he finish it,” Murdoch said quietly, belatedly recalling his friend’s words. Clearly troubled, he traced a thumb over Scott’s arm, needing the contact as much, if not more than his injured son did. Grieved, he raised his free hand and wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Johnny, I don’t think we can trust Jared to bring help. I’d like to think I’m wrong, but if that flask contains what I think it does...”
“Murdoch, that makes no sense.” Striding to the bed, Johnny looked down on his father’s bowed head. “Why would Conrad want to poison Scott? Even with what’s between them?”
“You said it yourself,” Murdoch interrupted. “Conrad can’t risk what he did during the war becoming public knowledge.”
“But to kill Scott,” Johnny protested.
Raising his head, Murdoch frowned bleakly. “I’d like to think I’m wrong, but I’m not going to gamble with Scott’s life.” In the back of his mind, mired with the questionable contents of the flask, was the troubling configuration of the arrowhead and Conrad’s seemingly fortuitous appearance. Murdoch doubted whether an Indian brave had fired the arrow¾more likely, an enemy waiting in ambush had discharged it. If Murdoch had allowed Conrad to operate on Scott, would he have purposefully made a fatal mis-stroke, costing Scott his life? “One of us needs to ride for help,” he told Johnny.
“I’ll go. Riding at night is something I used to do out of necessity.”
His expression grim, Murdoch nodded. He knew Johnny was exhausted and needed rest, but he also knew his fiercely protective son wasn’t inclined to loiter with his brother in such grievous condition. Johnny would likely nap in the saddle, or pause for a brief respite on the trail. “Fill your canteen and take the spare ammo from my pack.”
Resettling his hat on his dark hair, Johnny shook his head. “Better keep it. I can always run, but you and Scott are pretty much stranded here until I get back.” Frowning at the stark, haggard lines of Scott’s face, he dusted his fingertips across the older man’s cheek. “He’s in bad shape, Murdoch. Keep at him, huh?”
“Yeah,” the gray-haired man said somberly.
Within moments Johnny gathered what little he needed and left. Alone, Murdoch cleaned the area around Scott’s bed as best he could. Dredging fresh water from the stream, he filled a clay pitcher to keep at the bedside. Though the handle was broken and the wide-mouthed spout chipped, the vessel was serviceable. As he moved about the hut, straightening items and tending the fire, Scott pitched fitfully on the bed, moaning softly in his sleep. Pausing, Murdoch pressed a hand to his son’s brow, distressed to feel heat building beneath the colorless skin.
Soaking a clean bandana in a basin of creek water, he wrung the excess free, then drew the cooling fabric over his son’s face and neck. Unsettled, Scott rolled his head against the lumpy mattress, splaying ash-colored hair on the faded bedding. Attempting to soothe him, Murdoch whisked the bangs from his brow with slow, lingering strokes. “Easy, Scott,” he said gently, wishing for once, he was more adept with compassion.
Returning the bandana to the water, he wrung it a second time, then drew the damp cloth over his son’s chest and shoulders. Scott flinched beneath the contact, shrinking back briefly before stilling at the introduction of gentle care. Gradually he fell into a semi-restful sleep, freeing Murdoch to wander about the small shack. Wearily, the older man checked on the horses, then propped the door open to air out the sour reek of vomit and infirmity. Resigning himself to the horror of the last twelve hours, he settled in a chair, numbly downing a cold meal of hardtack, salt pork and strong coffee, the latter brewed above the fire.
The food was tasteless and bland, settling with little appeal. He ate from pure necessity rather than desire, every nerve and acute sense tuned for the slightest movement or whimper of distress from his injured son. The long hours lengthened and grew, waxing into moon-drenched night. Awakened by the utter demise of the sun, nocturnal wildlife stirred, fashioning a chorus of chirps, chips and howls beyond the plank walls. Scott’s fever steadily increased with the passage of time. Alarmed, Murdoch spent near-frantic hours hauling water from the creek and bathing his son’s flushed skin, while the younger man twisted fitfully in an agitated state of distorted awareness. Twice during the difficult night Scott was sick, vomiting blood and clear liquid. Murdoch supported his shoulders during each grueling bout, but Scott barely knew he was there, lost in a torturous haze of pain. Somewhere near dawn, the younger man’s fever finally broke and Murdoch slumped into a chair, exhausted.
Scott quieted and Murdoch slept briefly for a time. He awoke a few hours later to find his son shivering in the cold grip of early morning. Gray light flooded the interior of the small cabin, emitted through the open door. Rising, Murdoch bumped it shut, then bent to check the dressing on Scott’s wound. Satisfied that the younger man had done no further damage during the night, he located a blanket and draped it over Scott’s chest.
The day began much in the same way the night proceeded. Murdoch continued the near-mindless task of hauling water from the stream, and kindling the fire. Once more he cleaned up the fouled area around the bed and dried the mattress as best he could. On the off chance his son might eat something later in the day, he ventured outside while Scott slept. Foraging along the creekbed, he gathered an assortment of roots and greens from which he fashioned a tolerable broth. At midday he changed the packing on Scott’s wound, careful not to jolt the inflamed area, but his son slept through the handling with little more than a distracted grunt.
When afternoon receded before evening, Scott stirred. A low moan of pain slipped from his lips as his eyelids fluttered open. Seated on a chair drawn close to the bed, Murdoch immediately leaned forward, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. “Scott?” he queried softly.
Awareness slowly returned to the other’s slate-blue eyes. Focusing on his father, Scott swallowed with difficulty. “ . . . water . . .” he ventured in a cracked voice.
Murdoch retrieved a cup from the table, filling it with fresh water from the chipped pitcher. Slipping a hand behind his son’s neck, he helped support him, while Scott took the liquid in small sips. Exhausted by the effort, the blonde-haired man lay back against the bed. “Johnny?” he asked weakly.
“Went for help.”
Closing his eyes, Scott nodded. It seemed to Murdoch that he was disappointed¾as though he craved his brother’s presence and withdrew at finding it lacking. Grimacing, Scott tightened his fingers on the bedframe. Murdoch watched miserably as he raised his left knee, obviously attempting to ease the torment in his side.
“I’m sorry, Son,” he said softly. He didn’t know where the words came from¾was surprised to hear the shorn and unsteady quality of his own voice. He’d never been good as comforter, never good with emotion or sentiment. But this was his son-a man who’d so doubted Murdoch’s compassion, he’d willingly kept silent about Conrad’s reprehensible behavior, rather than risk disbelief.
Scott turned his face to the wall. “About me . . . or Conrad?”
Inwardly cringing, Murdoch closed his eyes, ashamed that Scott would ask for the distinction. Watching the play of emotion across the younger man’s profile, Murdoch tensed. From almost the start Scott had been eager for their relationship to work. There’d never been hastily erected walls or violent outbursts as there’d been with Johnny -surprising since Scott had more reason to distrust him. Murdoch hadn’t known where Johnny resided in Mexico all those long, empty years, but he’d known exactly where Scott was. And still he’d made no effort of contact. If anyone had a reason to be bitter, it was his eldest son, yet Scott had been forgiving and accepting, willing to overlook the past.
Deciding to be truthful, Murdoch regarded him steadily. “I know about Conrad . . . about what happened between the two of you during the war.”
Surprised, Scott rolled his head on the mattress to face his father. The younger man’s features contorted as awakening pain lanced his side. Catching his breath, he squirmed noticeably, physically tensing until the onslaught passed. “Johnny told you,” he guessed.
Murdoch had no intention of shifting blame. “I figured it out myself¾the scars on your back, some of the things you said. Your brother merely confirmed what I knew.” Wetting his lips, he drew the blanket higher on Scott’s chest. “You should have told me.”
The flicker of an ironic smile touched Scott’s lips. He’d tried so hard to keep the war, and most especially the time he’d spent in prison, buried in the past, but now both Johnny and Murdoch were privy to that darkness. Too weary to contemplate what the exposure meant, he closed his eyes, letting his lashes drift against his cheeks. If he laid very still, his leg bent just so, the pain was almost tolerable.
Murdoch’s hand brushed through his hair, carrying him to the embracing edge of sleep.
+++++
When he awoke again it was dark. Nestled in a web of shadow and firelight, Murdoch dozed in a chair drawn to the bedside. His large frame was slumped in a cumbersome position, long legs stretched before him, head supported awkwardly in his hand.
Trying to ease the burden on his side, Scott shifted, gingerly letting his leg drop to the mattress. The wound pulled, protesting and stiff, exploding in fire-spawned awareness. Unable to silence an instinctive gasp, Scott cried aloud as he groped for the bandage.
“Easy,” Murdoch cautioned, coming instantly awake. Catching Scott’s hands he held them away from the wound until the seizure abated. Fatigued, Scott sagged against the mattress, a half-strangled cry catching in his throat. Sensing the younger man neared the end of endurance, Murdoch ran a gentle hand down his son’s leg, massaging the stiffness from his muscles. “I’m sorry you have to go through this,” he ventured quietly.
Scott’s face twisted as the pain peeked and ebbed. “My . . . fault, Sir.”
Murdoch frowned. From “Father” to “Sir.” The form of address was not nearly as disturbing as the misguided sentiment behind it. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he chided a trifle too harshly. Beneath his hands, Scott tensed, then relaxed. Sensing a positive change in his body, Murdoch leaned across the bed to continue the manipulation of muscle on Scott’s right leg.
“I should have been . . . more careful,” the younger man ventured tiredly.
Murdoch snorted. “If you were rational, you’d realize how ludicrous that sounds.”
Gradually, as his father’s fingertips continued a steady massage, the creases of pain on Scott’s face unraveled and eventually vanished. His head lolled to the side as his lashes dipped shut. “You do that . . . very well,” he murmured.
Murdoch grinned. “How about staying awake long enough to swallow some broth?”
With effort, Scott roused. The thought of putting anything in his stomach left him vaguely uneasy, but he saw the wisdom in replenishing his strength. Tiredly, he nodded. As Murdoch stepped away, shuffling in the background, Scott felt sleep nibble his senses yet again. Though his side tingled with pain, periodically erupting in short-lived spasms, he was drowsy enough to overlook the aggravation.
“Scott.” Murdoch’s voice drew him back to the present, forcing the gray haze from his thoughts. Sluggishly, he focused. “Try to sip some of this.” Sitting by the bedside, Murdoch slipped a hand behind the younger man's neck, raising his head and tilting a cup to his lips. Tepid broth, flavored with wild greens, seeped over his dry tongue and throat. “That’s it,” his father coaxed as he swallowed. When he’d managed a few sips, Scott sagged against the bed exhausted. He was vaguely aware of his father’s gaze as Murdoch brushed his brow, steadily stroking away lines of fatigue.
“Tell me about Conrad,” Murdoch said evenly, moving his hand to cup Scott’s neck, then linger comfortingly on his shoulder.
Disconcerted, Scott stared at the ceiling. “ . . . during the war . . .” he mumbled. His senses were jumbled, reducing his reasoning ability to a web of fatigue, low-level pain and half-forgotten memories.
“I know that,” Murdoch returned, pausing to tip the cup to the younger man’s lips. He waited while Scott swallowed then deliberately set the broth aside. A troubled crease furrowed his brow. “Scott . . . did you really think I’d doubt your word?”
The blonde-haired man inhaled. “I . . . don’t want to talk . . . about this,” he said with difficulty. An abrupt spasm made his breath catch unexpectedly. Turning his face to the wall, he tried to hide a wince of pain.
Alerted by his distress, Murdoch sat on the bedframe and gingerly checked the bandage. Flinching, Scott raised his right leg at the knee, struggling against recurrent pain. His breath quickened as he fought to lie still beneath his father’s explorative touch. “I’m sorry,” Murdoch apologized, wishing there was something he could do to lessen the severity. With the bandage in place, he cupped the back of Scott’s calf, carefully massaging the tautness from the muscle. Through the coarse fibers of his son’s pants, he felt the outline of Scott’s worn leather boots. “Let me get these boots off you-you’ll be more comfortable.”
With a clipped nod, Scott gripped the bedframe. The right boot came off easily enough, but the left was more trying. Though Murdoch tugged gently, pulling the article free, Scott felt a quicksilver flicker of pain. Freed of the cumbersome footwear, he shifted his hips, trying to ease onto his right side. Stepping around the bed, Murdoch guided him to a position of comfort.
Exhausted, the younger man curled onto his side. Gold-threaded lashes dipped over his eyes as fatigue sapped his limited reserves. Rings of heavy shadow left dark bruises beneath his eyes, contrasting the anemic cast of skin. “I’m . . . so tired . . .” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Go to sleep,” Murdoch said quietly. “Johnny will be here in a few days and we’ll get you home to Lancer.” Hooking the fringe of Scott’s hair, he pushed a handful of heavy blonde strands behind the younger man’s ear. Something unexpected snagged in his throat-a horrifying mesh of fear and helplessness, so overpowering it threatened to suffocate him. “Scott, I-” But the words wouldn’t come, trapped in the confusion of what he felt, and what circumstance allowed him to admit. Self-consciously he wet his lips.
The younger man’s breathing steadily evened into a deep rhythm as minor creases vanished from his brow. Watching his face¾the sculpted lines of cheekbone and jaw; the lush veil of bronze lashes, the distinctive, narrow slope of his nose-Murdoch experienced a rise of anxiety. If Johnny didn’t make it back in time.
“Damn it, Scott,” he muttered, dropping his head into his hand. An accusing voice told him the whole wretched situation could have been avoided, if his son had only confided in him. Yet he couldn’t truly expect Scott’s trust when he’d yet to earn it. For twenty-five years his son had managed without him, accustomed to juggling circumstance and unfavorable situations on his own. Murdoch had done nothing to convey enduring faith-a quality, which should stand unquestionable and unshakable in a father-son relationship. To date, their bond had been based solely on convenience, mutual respect, and a fleeting examination of surface emotions.
Murdoch wanted more. He believed his son wanted more. Vowing to broach the distance between them, he placed a hand on his Scott’s thigh. “I promise things will be different,” he whispered.
+++++
The following day preceded much the same. Though Scott roused for longer durations, he still fatigued easily and frequently had to battle abrupt spasms of pain. Broth and water stayed in his stomach, but he had no appetite for the solid trail staples Murdoch carried in his pack. By late morning, he experienced a brief spat of fever, but compresses drenched in creek water, along with forced fluids, quickly halted the resurgence.
By mid-afternoon, Johnny returned with two men and a buckboard. Lost in the half-haze of sleep, Scott was only vaguely aware of his presence by the bed. “Hey, Brother,” a soft voice whispered, beckoning him back to lucidity. Blinking, he focused on the haggard features of his brother.
“Johnny.” Scott cleared his throat, attempting to strengthen his voice. His brother’s face was lined with dirt and sweat, darkened by four-day’s growth of beard. Hollows gouged his gaunt cheeks, accentuated by clinging shadows beneath the bone. His eyes were bleary and red-veined, testifying to endless hours without rest. Experimentally, Scott extended a hand, fearful the younger man might keel over.
“Brought help,” Johnny said in a raw voice. Catching Scott’s hand, he grasped the older man’s fingers in a firm, assured grip. A tired, affectionate smile flickered over his lips. “Got a buckboard for you, horse solider-no more prancin’ in the saddle ‘till you’re healed.” A glance over his shoulder indicated two men quietly talking to Murdoch. “This here’s Clyde Whitley and his son, Paul. They got a spread about a day-and-a-half east of here. Clyde’s wife is handy at mendin’ folk, so looks like you’re gonna get a pretty nurse after all. She’s gonna stitch up that wound once we get you settled at their place.”
Scott’s eyes settled briefly on the two men before returning to his brother. He didn’t catch all the words they exchanged with Murdoch, but knew it revolved around the best way to move him. Despite the bloom of pain in his side, his concern at the moment was for Johnny. Dragging one leg forward, Scott focused on his brother. “You look . . . tired,” he managed.
Releasing Scott’s fingers, Johnny dropped a hand on the other’s knee. “Feel better . . . seeing you awake.” Glancing aside, he lowered his eyes briefly. A lump prickled the back of his throat. “You had me worried, Boston. Next time-promise you’ll duck.”
Scott grinned-the half-elfish smile Johnny liked best. The one that ignited depth and color in his storm-tinted eyes and made him appear bent on mischief. As fleeting as it was, that simple grin eased the wearying ache in Johnny’s bones, and reaffirmed his hope of recovery for Scott.
It made his exhaustive efforts of the last few days utterly worthwhile.
+++++
Though the task was arduous and trying, Johnny and Murdoch managed to get Scott situated in the wagon. Prepared in advance by the Whitleys, the buckboard was padded with cushioning mattresses and pillows in an effort to make the journey less grueling. Jostled by the punishing movement, Scott remained awake, dropping into fitful sleep only when pain pushed him past the point of exhaustion.
Riding beside the buckboard, Murdoch glanced from its waxen-faced occupant to his youngest son, who trailed behind. Reining back on his horse, he waited for Johnny to draw abreast of him. Just ahead, Clyde Whitley rode a black gelding, while his son Paul-a man no more than twenty-three-drove the wagon. “Lucky you happened on that ranch,” he told Johnny, matching his bay’s pace to that of Barranca.
“Found it tucked in the hills just east of here,” Johnny supplied. He shot his father a frowning glance. “No word from Conrad, huh?”
Murdoch’s expression soured. “No.” Shifting irritably, he tightened his grip on the reins. “If I had any doubts regarding his motives before, that pretty much clarifies matters.” Wishing to dismiss the ugly topic, he shook his head. He hadn’t fallen back to discuss his old friend, but rather the obvious and somewhat unsteady condition of his youngest son. “Scott’s asleep, Johnny. We’ve got a good four hours travel until nightfall, and you look like you could use the rest”
“I’m fine, Murdoch,” Johnny interrupted tersely.
The older man scowled. He knew his son had ridden for nearly three days, and in all likelihood had existed on minimal amounts of nourishment and rest. Unfortunately Johnny’s instinctive stubbornness kicked in with little prompting.
“Even if you are, Scott isn’t,” Murdoch returned, attempting a different track, “That wagon ride isn’t going to be easy, and we can’t risk his wound breaking open. How ‘bout sitting with him ‘till we camp?”
‘Sit with him?”
“In the wagon,” Murdoch clarified. He stared pointedly. Though both men clearly understood the ploy, it allowed Johnny an opportunity to accept without admitting compromise.
Undecided, he frowned. When Murdoch’s gaze remained steady, his expression unyielding, Johnny grudgingly conceded. Tethering his horse to the rear of the wagon, he settled in with his brother. Though he had every intention of remaining alert, the rhythmic, swaying ride eventually lulled him into a state of near-slumber. Slumping down beside Scott, he closed his eyes, intending to rest only briefly. Five minutes later he was sound asleep, his head supported on Scott’s shoulder.
Satisfied Murdoch rode ahead to join Clyde Whitley.
+++++
It was dark when Johnny awoke. Murdoch and the others had already set up camp, unsaddled and watered the horses, and kindled a fire for cooking. The smell of brewed coffee and broth mingled with the heavier aroma of fried apples and bacon. Stirring, Johnny blinked against the gathering darkness. Sometime during the long wagon ride, Scott had shifted position, pillowing his head on his brother’s chest. Unwilling to disturb him, Johnny waited until he heard the crunch of gravel, informing him someone approached the buckboard.
“Sleep well?” Murdoch asked with a grin, folding his arms on the side rail of the wagon.
Studying his square features in the dark, Johnny realized his father could probably do with an uninterrupted night of rest as well. Wetting his lips, he nodded. Part of him wanted to deny he’d need the respite, the other was grateful to Murdoch for the insistence. Dropping his gaze, he studied his injured brother. Though the flush of healthy color had yet to return to Scott’s skin, he looked fairly at ease. “I don’t think he woke once,” Johnny told his father.
“Neither did you.” Bending over the sideboard, Murdoch examined Scott’s bandage. Satisfied that it held in place, he drew back and pushed the brim of his hat high on his forehead. “How about some supper?” he asked Johnny.
“Sounds good, but I don’t want to disturb Scott.”
“Take a few minutes,” Murdoch instructed him. “He needs to wake up regardless. He’s been three days with nothing but a little broth and water. I’ve got to get some food into him. See if you can rouse him, and I’ll scrape something together.”
“All right,” Johnny responded, wishing there were an easy, painless way to awaken his brother. As Murdoch stepped toward the fire, Johnny focused on his surroundings. A crippled tree protruded from the soil by the wagon, it’s misshapen trunk bending in a near forty-five degree angle before sprouting upright once again. Needle-thin branches and saw-toothed leaves rattled ominously in a dry, nipping breeze. Cloaked in nestling shadow, the terrain unfurled in a multitude of dry gullies, arroyos, and desolate troughs. Pockets of vegetation and small knots of trees sprouted haphazardly from the rocky soil. A few feet away Paul Whitley tended the horses, while his father oversaw cooking preparations. The entire campsite was bathed in the pale onion glow of an awakening half-moon.
“Johnny.”
Startled, the younger man became acutely aware of his brother’s silver-eyed gaze. “Thought maybe you were gonna sleep ‘till Christmas,” Johnny tossed off lightly.
Shifting, Scott repositioned himself. “Not with you for a pillow.” Falling back against the mattress and blankets provided by the Whitleys, he winced. Gingerly he fingered the blood-encrusted bandage before refocusing on his brother “Think you can help me down from this wagon?”
Johnny sat upright. “Sure. Why?”
Scott smiled tightly. “Because Murdoch’s pumped me full of broth and fluid for three days and I can’t hold anymore. Is that clear enough for you?”
“Is that all?” Johnny grinned devilishly. “I’ll bring you a cup.”
“Little brother.”
Grinning at the severity of the other’s tone, Johnny gripped the side of the wagon and vaulted to the ground. Stepping to the rear, he cleared away a handful of excess blankets used during the trek to brace Scott from movement. Gripping his brother beneath the knees, he raised his head. “Try sliding towards me.”
With his arms braced behind him, Scott did as instructed. The breath whistled through his teeth as pain prickled in his side.
Observing the action from a distance, Murdoch approached. “What’s going on?”
Inching slowly forward, Scott shook his head. “Nothing,” he answered quickly through pain-gritted teeth. When he was close enough to the edge that his legs dangled, Johnny slipped an arm beneath his shoulders and guided him the remaining distance. Braced against the lip of the wagon, Scott stood unsteadily, gasping through parted lips to catch his breath. Concerned and a trifle annoyed, Murdoch sent his youngest son a demanding glance.
“Privacy break,” Johnny mouthed silently over his brother’s bowed head.
“Oh.” Insight dawned on Murdoch’s face. Watching the two men, he considered offering help, but quickly decided it was awkward enough. Three would surely earn a scathing retort from his eldest. “I’ll get some food together,” he offered, wisely retreating to the fire.
Johnny helped his brother a short distance away to a cluster of stunted trees. Bracing himself against a slender trunk, Scott fumbled with his pants, while Johnny hovered discreetly in the background. Earlier in the miner’s shack, Murdoch had removed his belt, fearing the leather edge would scrape and reopen the wound. Chagrined to have his brother as nursemaid to so personal a task, Scott relieved himself, then buttoned his pants with unsteady fingers. Though it felt better to have the pressure off his bladder, the limited exertion exacted a toll. “Johnny.” Half-turning, he braced an unsteady hand against his brother’s shoulder.
Sensing an end to the older man’s endurance, Johnny caught him around the back as Scott’s knees started to sag. “Back to the wagon,” he instructed softly, feeling the addition of weight as Scott leaned into him. Carefully guiding him to the buckboard, Johnny settled him among cushioning pillows and blankets.
White-faced and shaken by the short trek, Scott wearily closed his eyes. “I hate this,” he muttered.
Standing by the side of the wagon, Johnny dropped a hand on his shoulder. “It’ll get better, Scott. Give it time.”
Mutely the other nodded, but it was clear to Johnny he wasn’t convinced. When Murdoch arrived with food, Johnny climbed into the wagon and shared his meal with Scott. Though the older man avoided the fried apples and bacon, he ate a good portion of bread soaked in warm broth, and even managed some canned peaches provided by Mrs. Whitley. Afterward he settled quietly, content to listen to the wind sigh through natural buttresses and time-eroded passages of stone.
Listening to the mournful lament, Johnny studied his brother. They sat in an L-shaped ninety-degree angle, Johnny with his back braced against the sideboard, legs stretched before him; Scott propped with pillows against his brother’s knees, reclining on his back. “Tired?” Johnny asked.
Scott gave a negative shake of his head.
Hesitating, Johnny tried to gauge the other’s mood. “Feel like talking?”
“About what?”
Uncomfortable, Johnny rolled his shoulders. He knew exactly what he wanted to discuss, but getting Scott to open up was another matter. “I was just thinking . . . there’s probably a lot I haven’t told you about my past in Mexico-” Surprised, Scott rolled his head to the side, gazing openly at his brother. “and a lot you haven’t told me about Boston. About the war.”
“So that’s where this is headed,” Scott said quietly. Looking away he folded his hands on his stomach. “Conrad.”
The observation made, Johnny didn’t deny it. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell Murdoch.”
Tense lines settled at the corners of Scott’s mouth as he fell into moody silence. In the engulfing quiet an easterly wind skittered about the wagon wheels, singing loudly between the spokes. Further away, a small, nocturnal animal scuttled through the underbrush, scavenging for food.
Watching his brother’s profile, Johnny noted the moon-bright glimmer of his eyes, the flawless stretch of too-white skin across his cheek.
“In Mexico,” Scott ventured at long last, “Did you ever do something you regretted? Before¾when you were Johnny Madrid?”
“Is that what this is about?” Disturbed where the conversation was headed, Johnny frowned. “Scott, we all do things we regret. I sold my services for money”
“fighting men who were mercenaries or paid killers,” Scott insisted, clearly distressed. Shifting, he dragged his right leg forward, bending it at the knee. A tell-tale flicker of pain crossed his face. “Johnny, I . . . did things during the war . . .reprehensible, vile atrocities”
“The whole country committed atrocities during the war,” Johnny retorted sharply, alarmed by his brother’s apparent grief. Okay, so maybe this conversation was a bad idea. “I don’t see what that has to do with Conrad.”
Stricken, Scott closed his eyes. “Conrad knows what I did.” Shifting uncomfortably, he placed both hands over the bandage binding his side. Small tremors ran through his fingertips. “The thought of you and Murdoch knowing . . .” Swallowing with difficulty, Scott turned his head to gaze up at his brother. “ . . . it was just easier keeping silent. If I’d told Murdoch about Conrad, Conrad would have told Murdoch about me.”
Aggravated, Johnny pressed his lips together. “And you think whatever you did would make Murdoch-or me-side with a contemptible worm like Conrad?” Disgusted, Johnny exhaled. Indignant, he quickly forgot Scott’s distress, focused solely on anger. “You need your fool head examined, Brother. The man took a whip to your back. How could you doubt that Murdoch would do anything but take him apart?”
Unwilling to be pacified, Scott shook his head. Long-buried anguish contorted his features as he gazed at his brother. "Don’t you understand? I burned plantations and crops. Set fire to homes that sheltered women and children. Your victims weren’t defenseless, Johnny. Mine were left to die of starvation and disease.”
Johnny stared pointedly. “So you did these things on your own, of your own initiative?”
“Of course not, but that doesn’t make it better! And don’t give me that damn platitude about ‘following orders’.” Irked, Scott tried to rise. “The military has used that good-for-nothing drivel on everything from Antietam to Custer’s attack on Black Kettle at the Washita.” Frustrated he tossed a blanket aside, trying to untangle his long legs. The jolting movement sent an intense burst of pain waffling from ribs to hip. With an agonized cry, Scott gripped his side, crumbling against his brother’s legs.
“Lie still,” Johnny instructed, quickly reverting to his role as caregiver. Carefully pulling his legs from beneath Scott’s shoulders, he squatted at the blonde-haired man’s side. His face contorted with pain, Scott breathed rapidly, each breath inflicting greater discomfort.
“What happened?” Murdoch demanded, appearing at the side of the wagon. Clyde and Paul Whitley hovered directly behind him, summoned as he was, by Scott’s agonized cry. Johnny barely spared a glance.
“He got a little aggravated and jarred his side.” His attention on his brother, Johnny brushed a quieting hand across the older man’s brow. “Come on, Boston, take it easy, huh?” Scott’s breath came too quick, heightened by a staggering influx of panic and pain. Instinctively, he raised both legs, a sure indication the seizure bordered on unbearable. Twisting his head to the side, he grasped Johnny’s arm, sinking his nails into the younger man’s flesh. Transmitted through the touch, Johnny felt every quivering spasm that painfully wracked his bother’s body.
Within seconds it was over, but the merciless bout had taken its toll. Exhausted, Scott moaned softly and folded into Johnny’s side. His hand fell limply to the buckboard, every ounce of precious energy spent.
Concerned, Johnny glanced at his father. “We gotta push through to the Whitleys’ ranch tomorrow, Murdoch. Scott can’t keep going like this.”
Murdoch’s gaze dropped to his blonde-haired son. Nodding grimly, he reached for the blanket, laying it across the younger man’s legs. “Do what you can for him tonight,” he instructed. “Tomorrow’s bound to be hard.”
Turning away, he stalked to the fire, his face a forbidding mask in the darkness. As Johnny watched him depart, he had the distinct impression Murdoch was cold-heartedly plotting Conrad’s murder.
+++++
All four men took turns sitting with Scott the following day as the arduous trek brought them closer to Clyde Whitley’s cattle ranch. Scott slept through most of the punishing journey, rousing now and again when the jolting sway of the buckboard became severe. At such junctures Johnny or Murdoch would check the packing on his wound, making sure the incision hadn’t ruptured. Although he ate nothing in the morning, Scott dutifully swallowed an encouraging portion of fruit and bread under his father’s watchful eye at noon. Soon after, Johnny settled into the wagon with him and the journey resumed.
Hoping to distract his brother from periodic eruptions of pain, Johnny talked nonsensically about anything that entered his mind: the watered-down state of ale in Spanish Wells’ cantina; Teresa’s desire for-in Johnny’s opinion-a ridiculously priced bonnet with ruffled bits of lace and dyed feathers; the new saddle he wanted to purchase for Barranca,which certainly made more sense for the dollar, then a hat worn only on Sundays and special occasions; a particularly amusing newspaper article exhorting women in the west to dress more chastely . . . the list went on, until his voice grew raw and Scott’s eyes drooped with sleep.
Satisfied, Johnny grinned. Bracing his back in the front corner of the wagon, he stretched one arm over the side rail, the other along the back of the driver’s seat. In that position, he maintained a watchful eye on his brother until Paul Whitley relieved him near sundown.
A few hours later the Whitleys’ ranch sprawled on the horizon, beckoning them forward. With darkness hugging their backs, Murdoch and Johnny assisted Scott from the wagon. Welcoming light spilled through windows and doors, as Clyde’s wife and a number of ranch hands greeted their arrival. Guided to a first-floor bedroom, Murdoch and Johnny settled Scott in a comfortable, four-poster bed, then hovered nearby while Mrs. Whitley examined her patient.
Awake, and staggeringly coherent, Scott tensed as the bandage and packing was removed. With a nervous glance for Johnny and Murdoch in the background, he settled his hands deliberately on the bed, holding his arms at his side. Gladys Whitley, a petite woman with a graying bun of auburn hair, bent over him, “tsking” sympathetically when she saw the ghastly wound.
“You poor dear. We’ll get this stitched up and properly cleansed and you’ll be surprised how much better you feel.” Pausing to smile comfortingly, she patted his hand where it rested on the embroidered coverlet. “I’ve got some brandy to help with the pain, and afterwards if you feel up to it, hot stew.”
Scott nodded, appreciative of her concern, but dreading the thought of having the wound stitched. His eyes flickered to his family. “You don’t have to stay.”
“Of course they don’t.” Rising, Mrs. Whitley ushered them from the room, turning a deaf ear to their protests. “Help yourself to the stew, gentlemen. Paul will show you to the kitchen, and point out where I keep my pies. There’s fresh blackberry and peach, and coffee on the stove. If you’re drinking gents, try Clyde’s sourmash whiskey,you’ll find it in the dining room cupboard.”
Both men were shooed past the door before they could protest. Closing it, Mrs. Whitley turned back to the bed with an understanding smile. “Better?”
Scott cleared his throat. “They worry too much.”
“Of course they do, it’s their prerogative.” Settling on the bed, she regarded him critically. “When your brother came and told us what happened, I didn’t have a lot of hope you’d make it back here. Your father did a commendable job on that incision.” Pausing, she patted his hand again. The touch was somehow comforting and authoritative at the same time. “What’s your name, Son?”
“Scott.”
“A good name,” Gladys Whitley decided. Turning to a bedside table, she reached for a tray laden with surgical implements and a single bottle of brandy. Tilting her head questioningly, she offered the drink.
“No thanks.”
Frowning, Gladys arched a reprimanding brow. “You don’t have to be brave for my sake, young man. I have a better understanding then you, of just how much this is going to hurt.”
“No,” Scott said again, firmly this time. “I’ve been mostly incoherent for five days. I might not feel up to roping a steer, but at least I can think straight. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“If that’s what you want.” Returning the bottle to the bedside table, Gladys sorted through the instruments on the tray. “My father was a doctor,” she explained conversationally, as she concentrated on the matter at hand. “I assisted him with patients most of my life, so you needn’t worry, Mr. Lancer, I’m quite adept at what I’m doing.”
Scott nodded quietly, wanting the ordeal over with. During the last five days he’d been cut, poked and prodded more times then he could count. Tensing, he drew in a tremulous breath as Gladys cleansed the wound. The needle followed,stitching flesh to flesh with agonizing slowness, until forge-hot fire spread to every raw, quivering nerve of his body.
With concentrated effort, Scott kept his arms at his sides, his legs flat on the bed. Gladys was only partially finished when steadily rising pain threatened his control. Raising his left leg at the knee, Scott reached behind him, gripping the headboard in mute desperation. Barely pausing in her work, Gladys asked a question about Lancer, forcing him to concentrate on the reply rather than the pain. His fingers slipped free of the headboard and his leg dropped to the mattress. After that, she kept at him with quiet conversation and questions, distracting him as much as possible from the reawakened agony of his side.
When it was over and the wound bandaged, Scott lay tiredly, wanting only to lose himself in sleep. The flesh around the incision felt hot and inflamed, riddled with stinging needles.
“You need to eat something, young man,” Gladys told him pointedly, rising to set the tray aside. “I’ll bring you some of that stew I mentioned. It’ll do you good to have food in your stomach. You look as hollow as a reed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Scott returned in a weary whisper. His eyes grew heavy despite a surge of biting discomfort. Turning, he shifted onto his right side, settling his cheek against the embracing softness of a plump pillow. Behind him, he heard the door click shut as Gladys Whitley left the room.
+++++
“I see you found the stew.” Murdoch and Johnny glanced up simultaneously as Gladys Whitley entered the kitchen. Stepping around the table, her long skirt swishing against the floorboards, she deposited her tray near the water pump. “Good pie too, if you’re of a mind. Clyde there will tell you.” With a nod to her husband, she set the surgical instruments aside, placing them in a pot, to be heated with water on the stove.
Murdoch’s eyes shifted to the tray, its surface littered with discarded bandages and blood-soaked compresses. Frowning, he set his spoon aside. Though the stew was hot and nourishing, a delectable treat after days of nothing but trail food, his appetite suddenly waned. “My son?” he asked expectantly.
“Resting.” Gladys didn’t bother to turn. “I promised him some stew, but I’ve a strong feeling he’d rather sleep.”
“I’ll take it to him,” Murdoch said quickly. Fatigued, his stamina declining, the big man glanced from Gladys to her husband. “I don’t know how to thank the two of you for all you’ve done.”
“No thanks are necessary,” Clyde Whitley assured him. Seated at the table with Johnny and Murdoch, he reached behind him, pulling a freshly baked blackberry pie from the counter. Depositing it in the center of the table, he located a knife, slicing the flaky crust with expert strokes. “I know how I’d feel if it were my son lying with a hole in his side. Your boy’s tough, Lancer. I’ve spent two days with him now, through circumstance that would have wilted most men. He’ll get through this,you’ll see.” Grinning, he plopped a sizeable slice of pie on a dessert plate and slid it across the table. “My Missus makes the best blackberry pie you’re like to find. You have some of that and things will look better, guaranteed.”
Murdoch’s smile was shaky. “How about later? I want to check on Scott.”
“I’ll go too,” Johnny inserted quickly.
“He doesn’t need the two of you fussing over him like a bunch of mother hens,” Gladys admonished sternly, turning from the sink. Placing one hand on her hip, she glowered at both men. “Mr. Lancer, you take the boy some food and then let him rest. Johnny, you finish that pie Clyde just sliced¾he doesn’t like to eat alone. The two of you can confer later.”
“Fine,” Murdoch agreed rising from the table. All he wanted to do was see his son, assure himself that the jarring wagon ride, followed by the extreme discomfort of having the wound stitched, had not plunged Scott into relapse.
Mrs. Whitley fixed a tray with a steaming bowl of stew, fresh bread, and a pitcher of water. Taking the burden from her, Murdoch walked down the hall to the rear bedroom, tucked in the southern-most corner of the house. Pausing outside the door, he listened for any sliver of sound, bothered by an almost tomb-like pall of quiet. Pushing open the stout wooden barrier, Murdoch stepped into the shadow-draped room and deposited the tray on the bedside table.
Scott lay on his right side, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other draped across his chest. His eyes were closed and his breathing seemed steady, suggesting healthy sleep. Accentuated by the tinted glow of a lantern on the nightstand, a week’s growth of beard darkened his jaw.
Settling on the edge of the bed, Murdoch laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Scott,” he called evenly. When the name brought no response, he tightened his fingers, tugging gently. “Scott,” he said again.
Rousing, Scott blinked groggily, belatedly focusing on his father. “Murdoch.” Wearily, he scrubbed rigid fingers against his eyes. “Where’s Johnny?”
“In the kitchen.” The words rolled from his tongue with little indication of the pang he felt. Since Jared Conrad’s arrival at Lancer, Scott clearly preferred his brother’s company over Murdoch’s own. “Mrs. Whitley sent you some stew. How about sitting up and trying to eat?”
Shifting, Scott suppressed a groan. He knew his body had existed far too long on minimal amounts of food, but he craved sleep more than sustenance. With a tired nod for his father, he moved stiffly, using his long legs to push back against the headboard. Rising, Murdoch caught him below the arm and helped him to sit upright, propping pillows at his back. Sagging into the cushions, Scott glanced expectantly at his father. “These people,the Whitleys, I’m not sure how to thank them.”
Murdoch passed him the bowl with an accompanying spoon. “I don’t think they’re looking for thanks. We’re fortunate Johnny found them.”
Scott swallowed a mouthful of stew, then paused to look at his father. “Mrs. Whitley said you did a commendable job . . . on the incision.” Hesitating, he dropped the spoon into the bowl, cradling the dish in one hand. “Thank you, Sir,you probably saved my life.”
Sir.
Uncomfortable, the larger man turned from the bed. His son was being overly respectful,the proper and dutiful part of his personality wielded in defense of stronger emotion. Pacing to the window, Murdoch flecked the curtains aside, moodily staring into the darkness beyond. “No need for thanks.” As seconds ticked into minutes tension drew the skin tightly across his back. He was miserably tired, anxious over his son’s health, and growing dangerously annoyed at Scott’s staged civility. The air needed to be cleared.
“Enough of this.” Striding to the bed, Murdoch glowered down at his son. “Just get it said, Scott. Whatever’s stuck in your craw about Conrad, spit it out, and let’s clear the air now.”
Bewildered by his father’s bristling demeanor and suddenly hostile tone, Scott glanced away. Murdoch saw a flicker of indecision on his face as though he warred with self-doubt. To Murdoch, it seemed as if the younger man would fall back on proper manners, denying that anything was wrong. Finally, his features hardening with grim resolve, Scott stared squarely at the older man. “You wanted me to leave Lancer.”
Damn.
Rattled, Murdoch drew a breath, realizing that to Scott,who’d already suffered hardship and humiliation at Conrad’s hands,the curt mandate had seemed like the ultimate betrayal. “I didn’t realize what happened between the two of you, when I said that,” he attempted to explain. “Scott, you insulted a close friend who was a guest under my roof, and did so with no provocation as far as I could see. Did you expect me to condone your behavior?”
Abruptly sullen, Scott looked away. “This is pointless.”
“Nothing that concerns one of my sons is pointless,” Murdoch stated firmly.
Surprised, Scott looked at his father. The grim fortitude on the older man’s face left little doubt in Scott’s mind as to the validity of the statement. Dropping his gaze self-consciously, he ladled the spoon through the stew, distractedly watching globs of potatoes, carrots, and meat disappear in the thick brown broth. Despite Murdoch’s unusual candor, Scott couldn’t summon the fortitude to discuss Conrad or his time in prison. Miserable, he set the bowl on the nightstand and turned his face away. “I’m tired,” he mumbled.
Murdoch pressed his lips together. Odds were Scott was simply avoiding the discussion, but he couldn’t ignore the harsh circles beneath the younger man’s blue-gray eyes, or the fatigued lines scrawled on his face. Recalling that Scott had slept soundly when he’d entered the room, Murdoch felt abruptly guilty for the disturbance. If he’d let Johnny bring the stew, Scott would have no doubt finished most of it, content to talk companionably with his brother.
Distressed by the knowledge, Murdoch nodded solemnly. Reaching out a hand, he lightly brushed his son’s hair, imparting solace, affection, and his own tortured confusion in the tentative touch. “Go to sleep, Scott. I’ll see you in the morning.”
+++++
Much later, when darkness swathed the house in a near-impenetrable veil, Johnny crept into his brother’s bedroom. Anxious for Scott, he knew he wouldn’t rest easily until he assured himself his brother slept peacefully. He found the blonde-haired man half-curled on his right side, bed linens carelessly pushed below his hip. Moonlight filtered through a nearby window, drawing silver threads from his rumpled hair, dusting his profile with streamers of white light. Snagged in the celestial half-glow, he looked oddly serene-as though the nightmarish pain he’d recently endured had been but a figment of misplaced reality.
Pausing by the bedside, Johnny rested a hand on the headboard. “About time you slept easy,” he muttered. Dusting a light, affectionate caress through his brother’s hair, he suppressed a yawn. “Guess I should do the same.”
With a weary glance for the room, he noted a wingback chair tucked by the window. Catching it beneath the seat, Johnny dragged it close to the bed. Mrs. Whitley had already shown him a bedroom on the second floor where he could spend a comfortable night, but Johnny knew he’d never rest soundly so far from Scott. Settling into the chair, he crossed his arms over his chest, stretching his legs out against the floorboards.
“ ‘Night, Brother,” he mumbled. Within moments he was asleep, lulled by the comforting sound of Scott’s steady breathing.
+++++
A week later Scott ate a noontime meal alone in the bedroom. In the preceding days he’d regained a small measure of strength, though he still fatigued easily and the wound often left him breathless. Johnny and Murdoch kept busy assisting the Whitleys with minor tasks about the ranch. Even now, Scott knew his brother was at the barn with Paul and Mrs. Whitley, helping settle a newborn colt with its mother.
In the evening, Johnny would likely visit as he often did, helping Scott pass the hours with companionable chatter. Murdoch, still unapproachable, kept his visits brief and his conversation shorter. Tomorrow, along with Johnny and his father, Scott would attempt the journey back to Lancer, cushioned as before, in the buckboard.
The Whitleys, helpful and solicitous, provided food, clothes, and company. Paul Whitley brought his own clean garments, cheerily stating he believed Scott near his own size. With Johnny’s help, Scott had bathed and shaved, dressing in navy pants and a white shirt. Though the pants sagged slightly at the waist, he used his belt to draw them tight, simply grateful to have clean garments. Someone had left his gunbelt, complete with revolver on the bureau, folding the wide leather band beneath the holster. His hat hung from a hook inside the bedroom door.
Finished with lunch, Scott set the heavily laden tray aside. Determined to make him eat, Mrs. Whitley had fixed a platter of fried chicken, sweet potatoes and apple cobbler. Not wishing to offend her, but still not able to digest a full meal, Scott had managed most of it.
Resting his head against the back of the chair, he listened as familiar sounds drifted through the open window: the melodic chirp of a songbird nestled in a nearby tree; the intermittent hiss of breeze through supple branches and leaves; the placating clop of shod hooves as someone led a horse toward the corral.
A shadow fell over the window, momentarily blocking an infusion of sun-whitened light. Turning his head, Scott caught a glimpse of his father’s profile as Murdoch walked past, leading his bay. The older man looked relaxed and casual, dressed in a loose fitting workshirt and charcoal pants. His gunbelt was missing, as was his customary wide-brimmed hat. Within seconds of passing the open window, the idyllic clop-clop stopped. Immediately, Murdoch’s hostile query crackled on the air: “What are you doing here?”
Alarmed by his father’s belligerent tone, Scott pushed gingerly from the chair and walked to the window. Bracing his hand against the sill, he pushed the curtains aside. Fresh air slithered past his arm, rising to lift the scattered bangs on his brow. Abruptly wary, he watched as a silver-haired man stepped into his field of vision.
“Murdoch, I need to talk to you.” Jared Conrad smiled disarmingly, his expression indicating he knew he was on shaky ground. Striding forward, he halted a few steps shy of his friend. “I saw Mrs. Whitley by the barn and she told me where to find you. Took me some time, but I tracked you from that miner’s shack.”
“A little late, aren’t you?” Murdoch asked flatly.
Conrad ignored the accusation in his tone. “I tried to get help for your boy, but my horse drew up lame. Took me four days of walking just to find someone with a mule. Then I had to ride to Fort Hamilton”
“You would have made better time heading back to Lancer,” Murdoch said sharply. “At least originally.” Scowling, he eyed the other with blatant distrust. “If you really did try to get help, where is it?”
Puzzled, Conrad cocked his head. “Pardon?”
“The help you were supposed to bring,” Murdoch snapped impatiently. “Where’s the doctor for Scott? Every cavalry post has a physician.”
“I . . .” Bewildered, Jared spread his hands. “When I didn’t find you at the shack, I sent him back to Fort Hamilton. Murdoch.” A sliver of nervous laughter slipped past his lips. “What nonsense is this? You sound like you’re accusing me of”
“deceit?” Dropping the reins of his bay, Murdoch strode angrily forward. Watching from the window, Scott sensed barely restrained rage in his father’s clipped movements. “You listen to me, Conrad,whatever friendship we had is over. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out you took a whip to my son’s back?”
Realizing the façade was futile, Jared Conrad deliberately squared his shoulders. All trace of congenial good will withered from his eyes. “Your son was an enemy prisoner. I did what I had to do under the circumstance.”
“By torturing him? I might not have military background, Jared, but even I know prisoners aren’t treated inhumanely by rote. What you did was based upon hatred, nurtured for anyone in a blue uniform.”
Incensed by the brutal truth, the larger man glowered defiantly. “I lost two sons during the war. Two boys barely out of their teens. The third, the youngest, betrayed their memory and my convictions, by putting on a Federal uniform and joining forces with the same filth that killed his brothers. Oh, he survived all right, rode with Custer at Appomattox, then tried to talk to me about healing. I’d have taken a whip to his back too, if he’d stayed long enough to face the consequences.”
Sadly, Murdoch shook his head. “It must be dreadful to be consumed by so much hatred.”
“I don’t want your self-righteous pity,” Conrad snapped. “And as for your precious, fair-haired son, you better take another look at his motives before you pass judgement on me. He was captured during a raid¾the officer in charge of a regiment sent to burn crops and plantations. If you think his conscience is so saintly, ask him why he didn’t tell you about me.”
“I don’t have to,” Murdoch said. “What Scott did in the past, doesn’t concern me. No man looks favorably on actions committed during war, whether justified or objectionable. You should have listened to your son, Jared. The rest of the nation learned how to heal.”
“I’ve no stomach for a Yank, particularly that fancy peacock you call son.”
Struggling for control, Murdoch bit back blinding rage. “Is that why you tried to kill him? First with a war-tipped arrow, and then with poison?”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Am I? Too much doesn’t add up, Jared. Those braves who attacked us were part of a hunting foray. They weren’t using war-tips¾I examined the arrows.” Pausing, Murdoch waited for the insinuation to register, before continuing in a condemning tone: “Your appearance was a trifle too chance for happenstance. And the elixir you left for Scott¾with a promise to ease the pain¾would likely have killed him if he’d ingested all of it.”
Face contorting, Conrad shook his head. “You can’t prove any of it.”
“You’re wrong,” Murdoch returned flatly. “Maybe I can’t prove it was your arrow I cut from my son’s side, but I can have that elixir examined. If I find out it’s lethal, I guarantee you’ll swing from a gallows.” He paused. “Unless I kill you first.”
Realizing the situation had turned deadly, Scott lunged for the dresser, snagging his pistol from the holster. His father was unarmed, but Conrad carried a military-issue Colt. Heedless of the pain in his side, Scott burst from the room, bolting down a short hallway to the rear exit. Breathing heavily, he rounded the corner of the house, drawing up abruptly when he saw Conrad holding a pistol on his father.
“ . . . a shame it had to come to this,” the cavalry Colonel was saying. “I counted you a friend once, but I’d take your son apart again given the chance. Even knowing he was your kin.”
“Conrad!” The name cracked on the air with the authoritative voice of command. It was a voice Scott rarely used¾a tone once reserved for soldiers in his regiment. Hearing it now, both Murdoch and Conrad glanced in his direction.
Stepping fully into view, Scott kept his pistol trained on his adversary. Pain made his arm tremble. “Drop your gun, Conrad,” he ordered tightly. Even as he issued the command, Conrad jerked his arm to fire. Sensing his intention, Murdoch hurtled himself at the larger man, bearing them both to the ground. The gun exploded, ripping a shot into the air. Unable to get a clean line of site with his father in the way, Scott darted forward, hovering as the two men grappled.
Murdoch drove his fist into Jared’s face, spinning his head to the side. At the same time, he caught the other man’s gun-hand, slamming it against the ground. With a grunt, Conrad tried to dislodge him, succeeding only in infuriating his attacker. When Murdoch struck a second time, the gun tumbled free, quickly shoved clear by Murdoch.
Sensing leverage, Conrad gripped the other about the throat. Fleshy fingers squeezed Murdoch’s neck until air rasped through his lips.
“Murdoch” Scott spoke sharply from the background. There was still no way he could get off a shot without risking injury to his father. Feeling responsible for the confrontation, he watched anxiously as Murdoch broke his rival’s hold, and retaliated with a powerful jab.
Conrad kicked and Murdoch rolled to the side. They closed on one another, battering flesh with a series of potentially lethal blows. Staggering to his feet, Murdoch caught the other by the shoulder, holding him upright while delivering a forceful punch to his midsection. When Conrad doubled over, Murdoch locked both hands together and drove a double-fisted hammer-strike to the other’s back. Dropping like dead weight, Conrad crumbled at his feet.
Unsatisfied, Murdoch gripped his collar, hauling him upright to strike again. Driven by the need for retaliation, the insatiable desire to punish the man who’d harmed his son, Murdoch struck savagely. Blood flowed from a cut above his eye, temporarily blinding him, but he never halted. A perverted kind of satisfaction was gained in the repetitive, painful blows of his bruised knuckles against Conrad’s bloodied flesh. Skin pulped beneath his mangled hand, as Conrad’s features grew barely recognizable. Bone and cartilage shattered beneath Murdoch’s violent assault. “You son-of-a-bitch, bastard. Touch my son again, and I’ll..”
“Murdoch, stop-you’re killing him!”
Scott’s strident tone rattled him back to a state of glassy-eyed coherency. Releasing his victim, Murdoch staggered backward, bumping against the trunk of a leafy tree. His gaze shifted from Conrad¾huddled and unconscious, to Scott, who regarded him with a wary mixture of horror and concern.
Disturbed by what he saw in his son’s eyes, Murdoch waved a gruff arm. “Get your brother and get this mess out of here.” Pushing from the tree, he vanished unsteadily around the side of the house.
+++++
Paul Whitley and two of the ranch hands took Conrad to the nearest town to be detained for arraignment. As night settled over the Whitely ranch, Scott found himself growing abnormally fatigued. His short spurt of reckless movement during the day had resulted in a rise of painful inflammation. While the stitches held on his wound, small pockets of blood bubbled up from beneath. Ordered to rest, he crumbled into bed fully clothed, his mind on Murdoch.
Since the incident with Conrad, his father had diligently avoided him. Now, with night settling outside, the elder Lancer was nowhere to be found. Consumed by equal parts guilt and remorse, Scott relieved his father’s words to Conrad: “You son-of-a-bitch, bastard. Touch my son again, and I’ll..”
Exhaling, he dragged both hands over his face. For the longest time he had feared Murdoch would side with his friend, but his father had reacted violently and protectively¾desiring retribution for the wrongs done Scott. And through the whole sordid mess of the last few weeks, while Murdoch patiently helped him through the ordeal of the arrow wound, Scott had been nothing but bitingly aloof.
I’m an idiot.
Johnny was right. Murdoch hadn’t cared what he’d done during the war; what sins induced nightmares or pangs of guilt; or even what perceived blood stained his hands. Murdoch was concerned only with Scott’s welfare, and caught in the turmoil, Scott had stubbornly refused to accept that simple truth.
Sitting upright, his back propped with pillows, long legs stretched over the mattress, Scott folded an arm across his eyes. He was wretchedly tired, fatigued to the point of exhaustion, but his mind remained restless. He’d made far too many mistakes recently, with Conrad, with Johnny, and most especially with Murdoch. It was almost inconceivable that a single man could blunder in so many shameful ways.
A soft knock at the door made him sit straighter. “Come in,” he invited tiredly.
The room was mostly dark, wrapped in nesting shadow, and a puddle of corn-gold light from the bedside lantern. The door yawned inward, admitting a silhouetted figure that moved with uneasy hesitation. Closing the door behind him, Murdoch stepped into the contracting light. “Hello, Son,” he greeted neutrally.
“Murdoch.” Scott’s mouth went dry. “I’m glad you came. I wanted to talk with you.” In the back of his mind, he relived the image of his father savagely beating Conrad. Watching warily, he remained silent as Murdoch moved to the foot of the bed, easing his large frame on the corner of the mattress. Facing one another directly, Scott felt his resolve crumble.
“I wanted to talk with you too,” Murdoch said tiredly. He seemed drained to Scott, his shoulders bowed with fatigue. The cut above his eye was vivid and red, likely requiring a stitch or two. Uncomfortable, he scrubbed a hand over his chin, then looked candidly at his son. “I was wrong when I asked you to leave Lancer. I want you to know I’ll never make that mistake again. Lancer, the ranch . . . all of it¾is about you, Johnny, Teresa, and I together. Allowing an outsider¾no matter how close¾to come between us was downright foolish. I should have known you had a valid reason for reacting like you did.”
Conceding his own senseless actions, Scott cleared his throat. “I should have been honest with you from the start. It’s just..” Uncomfortable, he paused. “¾that time in my life is something I try to forget.”
Murdoch’s face darkened. “With just cause. When I think about what that bastard did to you, what he tried to do just recently¾” Struggling with the potent demon of rage, he pressed his lips together, glancing aside. His hand dropped on Scott’s leg, settling firmly, fingertips squeezing lightly. “Scott, I would have killed him today without any remorse.”
“I know that, Sir,” the younger man said quickly.
Murdoch glanced at him sharply. “I know you were raised to be respectful, Son, but that cursed ‘Sir’ gets annoying after a time. When you first came to Lancer and asked what to call me, I told you to use whatever you liked. Damn, stupid suggestion on my part.”
The flicker of a smile touched Scott’s lips. Sometimes his politeness was only that¾a deferential response, culled by sincerity, rather than the need to create distance. “Murdoch” Moved by apprehension, Scott shifted uneasily, his silver-blue eyes settling on the older man. “I may not always say it, but from the day I arrived at Lancer, you’ve been first and foremost my father. If I seemed to forget that recently, it’s only because I got caught in the past.”
“Not a good place to be,” Murdoch returned carefully. “Take it from a man still atoning for his mistakes.” The meaning behind his words, his failure as a father to two young sons, ,as blatantly clear. Even so, Scott couldn’t fault him. Not now. Not after all they’d been through, and certainly not after witnessing Murdoch’s protective rage against the man who’d injured his son.
Fatigued, Scott let his head drop back against the pillows. His father’s hand, still resting on his leg, had begun a firm massage, slowly coaxing the stiffness from his calf. Grinning sleepily, his head turned slightly in profile, Scott looked like a boyish child, plotting mischief. “You do that very well,” he stated, recalling the same words he’d spoken in the miner’s shack.
Tilting his head, Murdoch arched a brow in sly agreement. “Your mother used to say the same thing. Now go to sleep, before I decide my efforts are wasted.”
With little need for coercion, Scott let his eyelids drift shut. The welcome haze of sleep surrounded him, made blissful and comforting by his father’s calming presence. Sometime later when Murdoch’s touch had lulled him into near-slumber, he settled more comfortably on the bed. The mattress gave, springing slightly upward as Murdoch stood.
A light, lingering caress stroked over Scott’s cheek.
“Good-night, Son.”
+++++
Scott stood with his arms folded on the top rail of the corral fence, watching the new herd prance restlessly within the confining space. Sitting perched on the wooden top-bar, Johnny uttered an appreciative whistle. “Ain’t they a bunch of beauties? Our friends at Fort Hamilton are gonna pay premium dollar for this herd.”
Scott had to agree. After the fiasco two months ago with Conrad, the new representative at Fort Hamilton was more than willing to renegotiate a standing contract. The Colonel himself was never brought to trial. Too proud, or perhaps too defiant to face a court of law, he’d ended his life prematurely in a jail cell by wrapping a self-made noose around his neck. Murdoch took the news quietly with barely a flicker of emotion. More readily effected, Scott tossed in his sleep for nights afterward, tormented by dreams of past and present.
“So,” Johnny said, clapping both hands on his knees, and smiling indulgently at his brother. “I’ve got a twenty-dollar gold piece that says I can stay on any one of them longer than you. How ‘bout it, Boston? Feel like testing that cavalry know-how against a derelict cowpoke?”
Scott grinned sharply. “I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you.”
Delighted that Scott had risen to the bait, Johnny hooted. “A little boastful, aren’t you, college boy? Seems to me...”
Before he could finish, the jangling sound of harnesses and the rumbling crunch of wagon wheels drew both men’s attention. Scott turned from the corral as Johnny vaulted from the fence. “Must be that new guy from Fort Hamilton,” the younger man observed as Murdoch drew abreast in the buckboard.
A dark-haired man with thin mustache and carefully trimmed sideburns stepped from the wagon. Attired in military dress, he looked spit-and-polish regulation, from head to toe. Afternoon sunlight glinted on the spread eagle insignia and elaborate gold braid, decorating his crisp blue uniform. “So these are the two you’ve told me about?” he ventured over his shoulder to Murdoch.
With a nod, the older man joined the group. “My sons, Scott and Johnny Lancer.”
“I’m Colonel Wharton,” the newcomer introduced himself, pausing to shake hands with both. As he caught Scott’s grip, his handshake lingered. “Do I know you, Son?”
Disturbed, Scott looked from the Colonel to Johnny, then at his father. Though the other seemed vaguely familiar he couldn’t be sure. “I don’t believe so,” he admitted at last. Bludgeoning ahead, he vowed to lay potential problems immediately to rest. “I served under Sheridan during the war.”
Clapping him on the arm, Wharton released him. “Little Phil? I bumped shoulders with him often enough over the years, but lost touch when Custer became his fair-haired boy. Good to know you’ve got cavalry blood in you, young man. Now about these horses..”
“Ah¾now that’s my territory,” Johnny interrupted, catching his arm and leading him to the fence. His voice carried over his shoulder to Scott and Murdoch who lingered behind. “You see our fair-haired boy doesn’t do much but lord it over them. I’m the one who does most of the dirty work . . .”
Grinning, Scott shook his head as his brother’s voice trailed away. With a glance for Murdoch, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Why do I get the feeling I’m going to regret giving Johnny free rein?
Slipping an arm around his shoulders, Murdoch guided him to the buckboard. “I’ve got a twenty dollar gold piece that says he pulls it off.”
Bracing his hips against the rear wheel, Scott folded his arms across his chest. “Breaking horses, maybe. Negotiating a contract with the army, I think not.”
Murdoch shrugged doubtfully. “Your brother’s shrewd, Scott.”
“Maybe. But the army is deceivingly manipulative, and they’ve been playing the same game longer than any of us have been around. I’ll take your bet.”
When Johnny returned fifteen minutes later, leaving Wharton to study the horses, both men stared expectantly. “Well?” Scott prompted.
Grinning extravagantly, Johnny rolled his shoulders. “If I’ve learned anything from you, big brother, it’s how to manage military double-talk. How does two dollars a head more than the deal you brokered with Conrad sound? Guess all that horse soldiering background of yours don’t mean a heck of a lot after all, huh?”
Scott swore softly as his father broke into laughter. “Good deal,” Murdoch said with a congratulatory smile, shaking Johnny’s hand. Muttering good-naturedly, Scott looked at the ground.
“There is, um . . . just one stipulation,” the younger man ventured, swiping a toe at the grass.
Scott’s head shot up suspiciously. “And that would be?”
Hedging, Johnny scuffed a thumb beneath his nose. “Nothin’ much. Just that the Colonel brought his daughter to town with him, and she hasn’t had a date in ages.” Biting down on his bottom lip, Johnny raised his eyebrows to stare slyly at his brother. “Seems she has a fancy for blonde-haired men."
“No!” Scott said loudly.
Johnny punched him lightly on the arm. “Come on, Brother,how bad can it be? She’s eighteen and pretty.”
“So why aren’t you going out with her?”
“I don’t have blonde hair. Besides, Wharton thinks you’re a gentleman and I’m an unscrupulous ranch hand. If you’d brokered the deal, you could have sold me for two dollars a head too.”
“I’d have sold you for a lot less,” Scott said sourly. Grumbling, he stalked toward the corral, pausing to talk to Wharton.
Watching, Murdoch slung an arm around his youngest son’s neck. “So what exactly did you have to promise Wharton, to get him to agree to let his daughter see Scott?”
“Just that cutter horse and the sorrel. Figured it wasn’t too bad of a deal to get Scott out of the house, and enjoying himself again.” Uncomfortable, Johnny paused. “Thanks for telling me Wharton had a daughter, Murdoch. Scott needs a distraction after all he’s been through.”
Yeah.” Murdoch’s gaze tracked across the distance to his eldest son, to the bright banner of his wheat-colored hair, and the familiar set of his erect posture. Briefly an unwelcome image flashed across his mind: Scott tied to the bed in the miner’s shack as Johnny held his legs, and Murdoch cut the arrowhead from his side. He’d relived that moment over and over in his nightmares, waking sweaty and trembling, the stench of blood thick in his nostrils.
Relieved that the memory, like Scott’s time in prison¾was firmly entrenched in the past, Murdoch leaned back against the buckboard. “Your brother will be all right,” he said to Johnny. “He’s got us, and Teresa, and that’s surely enough to fend off unpleasant recollections of the past. At the very least, it will help him get through the present.”
Without Conrad. Without demons resurrected by shadowy images of war. Murdoch knew Scott faced the same lengthy ordeal of healing as the growing nation, now expanding west and binding its wounds. Whereas Jared Conrad had never made the transition from torment to solace, Murdoch vowed his son would succeed. Where it mattered-at Lancer.
*****End****
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