What Happened Next for the episode “Legacy”
The house was quiet and still, wrapped in the dense solitude of night. Johnny Lancer listened to the soft tread of his boots against the floorboards as he walked the stairs to the second floor. Below in the Great Room, the grandfather’s clock struck the hour, emitting a string of sluggish chimes.
Needs winding, Johnny thought distractedly as he trudged down the darkened hallway. Outside, a moonless night hugged the walls of the hacienda, snuggling close. The air was stuffy and humid, almost sweat-sticky against his exposed skin. As he neared his bedroom, Johnny glimpsed a sliver of yellow light beneath his brother’s closed door. Pausing outside the room, he hesitated with his hand on the knob.
Scott had retired early after taking Harlan Garrett to the train depot. The head wound Scott sustained, courtesy of Carl Deagen’s bullet, was by no means life-threatening, but it had been gory enough to require minor stitching. Johnny thought it foolish for Scott to drive Harlan to town given the amount of discomfort the wound was likely to cause, but his older brother had stubbornly insisted. Suggestions to the contrary had fallen on deaf ears.
“Hey, Scott.” Johnny rapped lightly on the door before sticking his head in the room. “Mind some company?”
Fully clothed, Scott sat on the bed, long legs stretched before him, his back supported by pillows. An open book lay on his lap, but he seemed to have little interest in it, his gaze turned vacantly out the window. Sparing a non-committal glance, he waved Johnny into the room.
“Thought maybe you’d be asleep by now.” Johnny perched on the edge of the mattress and folded his arms across his chest. With a casual sideways glance, he studied his brother. Despite the thick white bandage wrapped about his head and the slightly sallow cast of his skin, Scott didn’t appear overly fatigued. He seemed more preoccupied than weary.
Scott shrugged, rifling his thumb over the pages of the book. “I guess I’m not really tired.”
“How’s that feeling?” Johnny persisted, with a nod for the bandage.
Tentatively, Scott fingered the edge of the white dressing. “Sore.” The hint of a smile touched his lips. “But bearable.”
The minute humor made Johnny breathe easier. Only last night he’d exchanged harsh words with his brother, bewildered by Scott’s announcement that he intended to leave Lancer and return to Boston with his grandfather. That decision fell into perspective when Johnny and Murdoch later realized Scott was doing it simply to protect his father from a decades-old murder charge. Harlan Garrett had manipulated Scott into following his wishes, even when it was apparent the younger man wanted to remain at Lancer.
None of that had been clear last night, however, and Johnny could still recall the harsh words he’d exchanged with his brother after Scott’s quiet announcement. “You know . . .” He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at his thumbs. “I, um . . . said some things last night . . . . “
“Forget it, Johnny.”
“I can’t.” Disturbed, he pressed his lips together. He hadn’t wanted Scott to leave, but nothing he’d said sounded right. Everything had come out hurtful and angry, prompted by Scott’s inflexibility and quiet stubbornness. “When you said you were leaving, I figured it was permanent.” Self-conscious, Johnny shrugged. “We’ve come a long way from that first meeting on the stage, Boston. I was pretty rude last night, but I was irked to think you’d just up and leave.”
“You had every right to be. I didn’t give any explanations.” Exhaling, Scott set the book aside. “At least you tried to stop me,” he muttered.
Johnny stared, caught off guard. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“No. You wouldn’t have said it otherwise.” The downward fleck of Scott’s lashes and the suddenly morose expression on his face told Johnny all he needed to know. He frowned, certain he’d arrived at the root of the problem. “You think Murdoch should have tried to stop you.”
Scott looked away.
Unnerved, Johnny leaned forward. “Scott, listen to me. Murdoch only did what he thought was right. Don’t think he wanted you to stay any less than I did. He did what he thought was best for you. I was just being a selfish sonofabitch.”
Scott swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’m kind of tired. Maybe you should leave.”
Johnny snorted loudly. “Tired, my ass. You just don’t want to face facts. You get some stupid notion in that thick head of yours and that damn Yankee stubbornness kicks in.” Even as he said the words, Johnny’s own voice came back to haunt him: You could have tried a little harder, Murdoch. Only that morning he’d thought the very same thing as Scott, yet in retrospect he knew Murdoch had been acting selflessly.
Scott pushed from the bed and crossed the room, pausing to stare out the window. With his back to Johnny, he studied his reflection in the night-blackened glass. Did you mean what you said this morning?” he asked quietly. “About getting sand in my boots and having to run home?”
With a muttered curse, Johnny stood. “You know something, Scott? You do need to sleep. That bullet rattled things around in your head.”
Half-turning, Scott glanced over his shoulder. His voice was soft when he spoke, as if he feared giving voice to the thought that plagued him. “Lancer’s a long way from Boston.”
Johnny cocked a deliberate brow. “Yeah. But it’s home.” Feeling suddenly edgy, he strode from the room, solidly closing the door behind him. If he’d learned anything in the year he’d spent with Scott, it was that his brother was frequently too hard on himself. Johnny wasn’t about to enter a debate about Scott’s ranching abilities, and he instinctively knew his brother was headed there. The question that bothered him most was simple and straightforward - - why?
With Scott Lancer, there was simply no telling.
***********
Murdoch Lancer suppressed a yawn, scrubbing one hand against his eyes as he walked down the steps. He’d spent a mostly restless night, tossing with disturbing dreams about his elder son and Harlan Garrett. Unsettled ever since the older man’s arrival, his nerves had yet to return to normal. He’d been alternately irritable, pensive and solemn, struggling with past memories and a marked inability to express his feelings to Scott.
Knowing that his son had chosen to remain at Lancer should have put Murdoch at ease, but he intuitively knew the past twenty-four years - - even hours - - weren’t going to vanish without issue. He owed Scott an explanation for that silence, yet every time he tried to reason it through, he came up lacking.
“Morning.” The word stuck to his tongue, mumbled and cottony. He dragged back a chair at the breakfast table, sparing a stray glance for Johnny. “I checked on your brother this morning, but his room was empty.”
“Left early,” Johnny said around a mouthful of buttered toast. “Jelly saw him loading up the buckboard with fencing material just before dawn. I’m guessing he headed to the east pasture.”
“Before dawn?” Murdoch’s mouth immediately settled into a frown. He poured a cup of coffee, then bumped the mug aside. “I was hoping I could get him to take it easy today with that head wound.”
“Fat chance of that.” Disgruntled, Johnny pushed eggs around his plate with his fork. “That’s one stubborn Yankee horse soldier you’ve got for a son. If I know Scott he’ll be working twice as hard, worried we’ll think he’s not pulling his weight.”
Murdoch sighed. He propped an elbow on the edge of the table and wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. Warm sunlight streamed through the veranda doors, but he barely felt its touch . . . barely registered the delectable aroma rising from platters of pan-fried potatoes, scrambled eggs and brown sugar-encrusted bacon.
Johnny was right. If Scott had left before dawn, it was likely with the intent to bury himself in work, to block out the confusion of the last few days. To prove that he belonged at Lancer, that Murdoch hadn’t made a mistake in sending the Pinkerton agent to track him down. “I’ll ride out and see how he’s doing.”
Growing fidgety at the thought, Murdoch swallowed a mouthful of coffee. He hadn’t had a one-on-one talk with his son since Scott had returned from his ride with Julie Dennison two days ago. That discussion had bordered on disastrous, with Scott growing frustrated and angry over Murdoch’s refusal to explain why he had left him in the care of Harlan Garrett for twenty-four years.
“Uh, Murdoch?” Johnny looked at his father speculatively. He straightened, clearly uncomfortable and wet his lips. “I think you should know Scott’s feeling a little . . . uncertain. . . right now. You might want to leave him alone until he sorts things out.”
Murdoch stared flatly. “He’s my son. I’m tired of leaving him alone. That’s the problem, Johnny. I did it for twenty-four years.” Expression set, Murdoch pushed from his chair. “This time, he’s going to talk to me.” Determined, he strode from the room, exiting onto the veranda. Even then the past nipped at his heels, mocking him with the long years he had allowed to pass in silence. It was up to Scott to forgive the unforgivable.
As he walked toward the barn, tired and stoop-shouldered, Murdoch Lancer felt abruptly old.
***********
Breathing heavily, Scott dragged the back of one hand across his brow, mopping up cold sweat. He sucked down a shuddering gulp of air, hoping to ease the persistent pain in his skull. The headache was worse than it had been on awakening. Wincing, he fingered the swollen gash on his right temple, dismayed to realize his hand was trembling. Beneath thick strands of wheat-colored hair, he encountered the ragged edge of raised stitches. He knew he should have left the bandage in place for another day or two but had impatiently removed it while dressing that morning. He was anxious to put the infirmity behind him, to prove to both Johnny and Murdoch that he could pull his weight without special attention and pampering.
The sound of an approaching horse drew his eyes to the left. Murdoch neared at a clipped pace, emerging from a copse of tall, sheltering pines. Scott tugged on his workgloves and retrieved a hammer from the ground, dismissing the headache. The last thing he wanted was Murdoch thinking him incapable of doing something so trivial as repairing a broken fence line.
Most of the posts on this side of the pasture had rotted from age and wear and needed to be replaced. Scott stepped to the nearest one and pounded the side with his hammer, working to dislodge the post from the ground. Pain shot down his neck, but he grimly ignored it, determined to contribute to the workload at Lancer.
“Scott.” Murdoch drew abreast and dismounted. He trailed his horse behind him as he approached. "Getting started kind of early, aren’t you?”
Straightening, Scott rolled his shoulders. He felt oddly uncomfortable with Murdoch, as though Harlan Garrett’s arrival and departure had unsettled the air between them. Tossing the hammer aside, he gripped the post and began to work it back and forth, using his foot as a brace. “I was up, so I thought I’d get started.”
“Did you have breakfast?”
Not bothering to look, Scott shook his head.
With a sigh of exasperation, Murdoch lodged his hands on his hips. The reins dangled from his slack grip. “This doesn’t need done today, Scott. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to take it easy with that head wound, at least for today.”
Scott shot him a black glare. “I can pull my own weight, Murdoch.”
Surprised by the comment, the older man balked. “I never said you couldn’t.”
Ignoring him, Scott abandoned the post, bending to retrieve his hammer. Murdoch caught his arm before he could complete the action. He frowned, disturbed by how clammy the other man’s skin felt. “Take a break, Scott. I want to talk to you.”
Their eyes met and locked briefly. Scott withdrew to the buckboard a short distance away. He rummaged in the back for a canteen, pausing to take a long draught of water as he waited for his father to approach. He settled on the lip of the wagon, watching as Murdoch looped the reins of his horse over the fence.
“I didn’t see you come back last night after you took Harlan to town.”
Scott settled his hat more comfortably on his head, pushing the brim back from his brow. “I was tired. I went to bed.”
Murdoch nodded thoughtfully. It was difficult to tell whether or not he believed the half-truth. “We really haven’t had a chance to talk . . . about why you were going to leave Lancer. About what happened with Harlan.” He paused deliberately. “About the last twenty-four years.”
Scott lowered his eyes. Two days ago he had wanted this conversation, now all he wanted to do was avoid it. He knew why Murdoch hadn’t come to find him in Boston, why he hadn’t tried to contact him, even why he hadn’t tried to stop him from leaving yesterday. He didn’t need to hear it said. He didn’t want to hear it said.
“We don’t have to do this,” he mumbled.
Murdoch’s hand settled on his shoulder. “I think we do.”
Scott held still despite a gut-twisting instinct to flinch away from the touch. He’d grown close to Murdoch in the last year - - as close as two men who avoided discussing their feelings could ever come - - but he didn’t want to examine anything deeper. He wanted to keep the line where it was, in a zone that had been comfortable and agreeable for both of them.
It was easier with Johnny. His brother was open, prone to say what he felt and thought which made it easier for Scott to respond in kind. Murdoch, by contrast, created distance. He’d drape a companionable arm over Scott’s shoulder now and then, but there was always something between them - - an invisible barrier both men knew never to cross.
Scott pushed from the wagon, roaming restlessly to the front. He felt edgy and confined. The ache in his head reduced his blue-gray eyes to light-sensitive slits. Odd, but the sun hadn’t seemed so bright, so distressingly glaring before. Absently, he rubbed his temple. “I don’t feel up to this right now.”
Clearly concerned, Murdoch took three steps toward him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Scott ground his teeth together to stop a grimace. He tugged on the brim of his hat, trying to shield his eyes from the white glare of sunlight. “I just meant I can’t concentrate on it. Everything’s still unsettled for me, Sir.” Scott chanced a glance at his father, willing his voice into respectful, modulated tones. Once he shoved emotion aside, it was easy adopting the civil air that had long sustained him in polite society. “I’m still adjusting to what happened with Grandfather . . . what he tried to do. I’d rather not discuss our past if it’s all the same to you, Sir. As you’ve said before, it’s the present that counts.”
Murdoch frowned, his eyes narrow. Scott knew he was suspicious, uncertain whether or not to take the statement at face value or dig deeper for hidden motive. If Murdoch would just leave, Scott could crawl into the back of the wagon and shut his eyes for ten minutes. He didn’t need sleep necessarily, just the cool darkness that came with closing his eyes and allowing the breeze to play across his clammy skin. If he could just block the knife-like sting of the sun against his eyes for a few minutes, he’d feel refreshed, ready to tackle the fence line all over again.
In hopes of moving Murdoch along, Scott walked back to the age-worn post he’d been working on when Murdoch arrived and retrieved his hammer. “I’ll see you later this afternoon at the house.”
Murdoch hesitated, uncertain. “I could give you a hand.”
“I’m fine, Sir.”
Scott struck the hammer against the post. The shock went through him like a bolt of lightning to the base of his skull. Shaken, he leaned against the blistered pole, thankful his back was turned . . . that his father didn’t see the blood drain from his face or the tremors that raced into his hands. That’s all he needs to convince him I don’t belong here. Scott gripped the wooden pole, methodically working it from the soil, secretly using it as a brace for his own exhausted body. Behind him he heard Murdoch mount up and wheel his horse around.
“Don’t overdo it, Scott.”
Scott nodded, fearful his voice would crack if he spoke. He counted off slow seconds, determinedly waiting as the sound of hoofbeats faded in the distance. When he was certain Murdoch could no longer see him, Scott exhaled and slumped forward against the post. He closed his eyes against the brightness of early morning, sighing to find the resulting darkness so pleasant. The ache in his head receded, and he found that absence of pain pure pleasure.
Ten minutes. That’s all he needed. Just ten minutes curled in the back of the buckboard, his hat over his face to block the piercing glare of the sun. Johnny wouldn’t know, Murdoch wouldn’t know, and best of all, the pain would vanish.
Convinced a brief rest was all he needed, Scott staggered to the buckboard. He crawled in the back and rolled onto his side. He was experiencing residual pain, nothing more. His eyes were just a little light sensitive, affected by the gash on his head. Given time, it would pass, just as the hollow ache in his skull would fade. Hammering posts probably wasn’t the brightest idea, but the work wasn’t going to kill him.
Grimacing, he closed his eyes and tried to rest.
************
A hand rattled his shoulder, sending a torturous ache boomeranging between his head and his neck. Disgruntled, still half sleep, he groaned and tried to swat the intrusive fingers away.
“Hey . . . Scott . . .”
A voice joined the hand, bludgeoning the inside of his skull with fire until he rolled onto his back, painfully forcing his eyes open. At first there was nothing - - just the shock of too-bright light splintering deep in his head, drenching him in a cold sweat. His lips parted on a gasp and in that moment he registered the concerned mask of his brother’s face looming over him.
“Johnny . . .” Dazed, Scott wet his lips. His younger brother stood just to the side of the wagon, one arm over the rail, resting on his shoulder, Johnny’s swarthy features pinched with worry. “I . . .” He tried to remember what he was doing in the wagon . . . why he was sleeping when the sun blazed bone-white and forge-hot overhead. He could feel sweat on the back of his neck, drenching his hair, even as the dull throbbing in his head left him shivering with cold.
“You don’t look good,” Johnny observed. Frowning, he grazed his fingers over Scott’s cheek, mopping up sticky perspiration. “What’s going on, Boston?”
“Nothing.” Clarity returned with a sharp bite of pain almost as violent as the ache in his head. Shoving Johnny's hand aside, Scott pushed to the end of the wagon until his feet touched the ground. A ferocious swarm of blackness bloomed before his eyes, threatening to send him tumbling backward. Irked by his own fragility, he bit down on his lip and stubbornly forced himself upright, holding onto the side of the wagon for support. He took only a moment to steady himself before walking resolutely to the fence line. “I was just taking a short break,” he called over his shoulder to Johnny. “I’ll see you back at the house later.”
Bending to retrieve his hammer was almost more than he could handle, a surge of angry blackness threatening him with lightheadedness yet again. Behind him he heard the crunch of Johnny’s boots against the hard-packed earth as his brother approached. Distressed to realize his hands were shaking, Scott tightened his fingers around the hammer, hoping to camouflage the betraying tremor. Admitting how badly he was hurt simply wasn’t an option given the circumstances of late.
Murdoch hadn’t tried to stop him from leaving, not even a feeble, token attempt. Likely his father had realized what a mistake he’d made in signing over one-third of his ranch to an eastern-bred son. All this time Scott had thought he’d been adjusting to the rigors of western life remarkably well, but clearly his father thought otherwise. Clearly, his father believed he couldn’t pull his weight, secretly hoping he’d return to Boston with Harlan Garrett. Murdoch hadn’t wanted him the first twenty-four years of his life, why should now be any different?
If Johnny realized how incapacitated he was, he’d probably reach the same conclusion - - that Scott belonged in Boston. To be so devastated by a minor head wound was proof positive of his lesser constitution. Hadn’t Johnny survived a bullet wound from Day Pardee with minimal fuss when they’d first arrived at Lancer? If his younger brother could bounce back so quickly, Scott certainly wasn’t going to do any less. Defiantly, he banged the hammer against the post, squeezing his eyes shut when a shuddering jolt of pain ricocheted from his head to his neck.
“You missed lunch,” Johnny said at his back.
Scott grimaced, realizing he’d slept a lot longer than his intended ten minutes. Dragging the back of his sleeve across his brow, he mopped up cold sweat. “I wasn’t hungry,” he lied. Another flail of the hammer against the post loosened it enough for him to wrench it from the ground and toss it aside. Behind him, Johnny was quiet.
Scott turned to find him eyeing up the amount of new lumber in the wagon compared to the string of rickety posts still in need of replacement. It didn’t take a mathematician to realize Scott had accomplished next to nothing that morning.
“How about some help?” Johnny offered. “I finished up at the branding pens about an hour ago.”
Sure you did, Scott thought bitterly. Probably did a bunch of other chores too, running circles around your dandified brother from the east. Ashamed by his own lack of proficiency, he felt his face burn hot with color.
“I don’t need your help,” Scott snapped. “I’m perfectly capable of finishing a simple fence line on my own.”
“I never said you couldn’t,” Johnny tried to clarify, his mouth twisting into a perturbed scowl. “I just meant - -”
“I know damn well what you meant. Get out of here, Johnny.” Angry, Scott stalked to the wagon. He shouldered the younger man out of the way as he braced the nearest post over the edge. Turning his back on Johnny, he rummaged brusquely for the handsaw, cold sweat dripping into his eyes. The pain in his head was merciless, but he refused to acknowledge the grim punishment, stubbornly set on proving he had what it took to survive at Lancer. If he couldn’t finish a simple fence line, how could he ever expect Johnny and Murdoch to view him as an equal?
Behind him, Johnny swore, the words fast and low in Spanish. The oath told Scott his brother had run out of patience, his notoriously mercurial temper taking control. “I don’t even know why I bother sometimes,” Johnny flared. “You’re as ornery and mule-headed as they come, Scott. You don’t want my help, that suits me just fine. I got other places to be and better things to be doin’ than chasing after you.”
Within seconds, Scott heard the rapid pounding of Baranca’s hoofbeats as the large palomino thundered into the distance. Alone, he slumped against the wagon, wearily closing his eyes against the throbbing in his head. He knew the pain was a problem, something he couldn’t ignore much longer. At the same time, he had no intention of sharing the debilitating infirmity with his family, thereby admitting his weakness, blatantly confirming their underlying opinion of him. He would handle the problem his own way, in his own time.
For now, he had a fence row to finish.
************
Johnny fumed silently, letting his frustration over his fair-haired brother swell into something ugly and viperous. His mood had soured as the afternoon progressed and he relived his discussion with Scott at the wagon. He didn’t see what the big deal was about the two of them finishing the project together. Personally, he would have enjoyed spending some time with Scott. He was still adjusting to the shocking reality of how easily he’d almost lost his levelheaded brother to Harlan Garrett.
Problem was, Scott was acting far from levelheaded now. It was as though the incident had intensified the silent, brooding aspect of his personality. The side that allowed no one else close, doggedly holding the world at bay while he struggled to master his own inner demons. Johnny wasn’t certain what had Scott in such a sensitive, bleak mood, but he felt partially responsible. Only yesterday, he’d reacted belligerently, arguing savagely with his introspective brother. Even now, he could recall the whole vile incident in vivid clarity:
Johnny trailed his brother from the Great Room, Harlan Garrett’s announcement that Scott was returning to Boston echoing hollowly in his ears. Despite clear signals Scott wanted to be left alone, Johnny flagrantly pursued him upstairs.
Stunned, his mind reeling, he forced his way into Scott’s bedroom, battering aside the closed door without so much as a knock.
“What the hell kind of idiotic decision is that?” he exploded. Furious, he slammed the door, confronting the other man directly when Scott turned to face him. If he’d taken a moment to think through his fury, he might have noticed the pained light in Scott’s silver-blue eyes, the lines of distress drawing his mouth into a bleak frown.
“It’s a simple decision,” Scott returned, irritatingly composed as always. “I didn’t make it lightly, Johnny.”
The dark-haired man snorted what he thought of the idea. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?” He pounced on the notion, immediately consigning Julie Dennison to the immoral role of vixen and she-witch. Scott had been light-hearted and upbeat, joking with him before taking Julie for a ride. Johnny could still recall the amused gleam of laughter in his brother’s eyes, the vibrant flash of his easy smile. Everything had changed after the ride, after Scott’s one-on-one discussion with Murdoch.
“I knew it!” He pivoted on his heel, pounding a tight fist into his palm. “Put a pretty face in front of you and you’ve got the morals of a tin-horn gambler. Women get to you every time - -”
“It’s got nothing to do with Julie,” Scott cut him off before the rant could go much further. “I spent twenty-four years of my life in Boston, Johnny. I just belong there, that’s all.”
“Convince yourself of that, huh?” Johnny thrust back in his face again. His gut was in turmoil, the taint of bitter acid lying heavy in the back of his throat. He didn’t want Scott to leave but didn’t know how to tell him. All his life, Johnny had avoided emotional entanglements. He’d lived by the base law of survival and instinct, immune to anything that remotely involved his heart. It simply wasn’t fair of Scott to worm under his skin, then leave so casually. Rather than admit to the grievous hurt he felt, Johnny reacted with anger.
“I should have known you couldn’t cut it!” He stabbed an accusing finger in his brother’s face. “Too much hard work for you, huh, Scott? You wanna go back to your tea socials, high-society parties and silk shirts. That impression I had of you on the stage was the right one all along. You just don’t belong here, do you, brother?”
“No.” Scott’s face crumpled, but Johnny was too incensed to notice. “I guess I never have.”
Johnny sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. Given how cruel he’d been yesterday, was it any wonder Scott didn’t want his help today? He’d hoped to make amends for their spat at the fence line over dinner but Scott hadn’t materialized until darkness rimmed the sky.
Moody and uncommunicative, he’d washed up outside, rounded up a few leftovers from the kitchen, then retreated to his room where he’d been sequestered ever since. Increasingly edgy, Johnny wandered into the Great Room.
Teresa was nowhere in sight, but Murdoch lingered behind his desk, engrossed by the latest entries in the ledger books. Irked, Johnny shot his father a hostile glance and wandered closer. “Are you just gonna ignore the fact Scott’s been as sociable as a rattler all day?”
“I’m not ignoring anything,” Murdoch responded, not bothering to look up. “Whatever is troubling your brother, it’s something he needs to work out on his own.”
“And what if he can’t?” Johnny challenged. There were times his father’s distance infuriated him. “You didn’t see him this afternoon, Murdoch. He damn near looked on the verge of passing out, yet he insisted on finishing that blasted fence line himself.”
That at least earned a glance. “He’s got something to prove, Johnny. Leave it alone.”
“Not likely,” Johnny snapped bitterly. “Guess I just ain’t as unfeeling as you are.” He knew it was a low blow but rightly felt that his father deserved it. He hadn’t exactly been compassionate with Scott himself yesterday, but at least he’d tried to apologize afterward. He’d owned up to his wrong, unlike Murdoch who seemed to hold silence and distance in higher regard.
“I’m going to bed,” he told Murdoch when his father glanced at him sharply. “If you had any sense, you’d be checking on your son instead of pouring over numbers. After twenty-four years, you really should try to get something right.”
He’d thrown a gauntlet, but rather than wait to see if it was retrieved, Johnny stalked from the Great Room. At the rate he was going, he’d likely destroy his relationship with his father and brother by the time Scott and Murdoch were talking again.
He smiled grimly.
Some things in life were worth risks. Scott Lancer was one of them.
***********
Murdoch stood outside Scott’s bedroom door listening to the house settle for the night. He wasn’t blind - - he’d known Scott had been feeling the lingering effects of the head wound earlier that morning. That much was obvious when he’d talked to his son by the wagon, but he hadn’t thought those limitations quite as devastating as Johnny had insisted they were.
Scott was highly educated, sensible to a fault. He was not a reactionary thinker or a man given to blind impulse. Surely, if he were ill, he wouldn’t have continued to work in the high heat and gumminess of late afternoon. A rational man would acknowledge his limitations and pace himself accordingly.
“Scott?” Murdoch knocked softly on the door. When he received no answer, he pushed it slightly ajar, peering inside. Surprisingly, the room was empty, the bed made and untouched. An empty plate, eating utensils and a half-full glass of water littered the surface of Scott’s desk. Confused, only slightly alarmed, Murdoch walked down the hall to Johnny’s room.
“Johnny?”
Within seconds of knocking, the door was drawn inward. Murdoch’s younger son stood on the threshold, eyeing him skeptically. Fully dressed, he looked slightly disheveled, as if he’d been lounging on the bed. “Yeah, what is it?”
“Is Scott with you?”
“He’s in his room, Murdoch. Same place he’s been all night.”
“No. I just checked.” The quiver of alarm climbed marginally higher. He immediately tried to quash it beneath a rational explanation. “Maybe he just went for a ride.”
Johnny frowned. “The way he was feeling?”
Unnerved, Murdoch scratched the back of his neck. “I’ll check outside.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Murdoch considered telling him he didn’t need or particularly want the assistance - - not given his slumbering anxiety - - but realized Johnny wasn’t asking permission. His son was merely relaying a bald statement of fact. Scott was missing and Johnny, being Johnny, intended to stick his nose into the middle of it, regardless how harmless the whole situation might end up in the long run. When it came to Scott, Murdoch had learned Johnny simply didn’t take chances.
With a brusque nod, he headed for the stairs. Johnny followed behind, shirt untucked and hair rumpled, his expression bordering on glowering. They’d no sooner reached the bottom of the steps when the front door opened and Scott slipped inside. All three men came to an abrupt halt, startled by the presence of the others. Caught off guard, Scott shifted something behind his back. Murdoch snared a passing glimpse of a small brown bottle before his attention was drawn by the strained lines on his elder son’s face.
“Where were you?” he blundered unthinkingly. Relieved to find his earlier alarm unwarranted, he was nonetheless irked at what he considered his son’s callous disregard of propriety. Scott was an adult. Of course he didn’t have to report his whereabouts like some errant schoolboy, but given how edgy he’d been throughout the day, Murdoch couldn’t help feeling slighted for the lack of courtesy.
“I went for a walk.” Scott’s expression hardened despite the gauntness of his face. “I didn’t think it necessary to report my whereabouts every hour. Believe it or not, I can manage an evening stroll without a chaperone.”
“Get the burr out from under your saddle,” Johnny snapped hotly. Just as quickly, he sighed. “I’m going to bed,” he said in disgust. “I’ve had all the friendly socializing I can take for one day, especially from that damn disagreeable Yank.” Muttering beneath his breath, he trudged up the stairs.
Murdoch’s gaze slid back to contemplate his fair-haired son. Scott stood stiffly, ramrod straight, his expression closed and dark. It was not a look Murdoch was used to seeing from a man who was by nature congenial and giving. He had foolishly thought all of his problems with Scott would be instantly resolved with Harlan Garrett’s departure. Instead, whatever was troubling Scott seemed to have festered and grown over the last day. He was used to cynicism from Johnny but not from his inherently pleasant older son.
Tempted to react with criticism, Murdoch quelled the edge of his temper and tried another track. “Scott, if something’s bothering you, spit it out. You’ve been isolated and moody all day.”
“I’m tired.” The response was flat and emotionless. “I don’t feel like talking.”
Murdoch sighed. “What’s behind your back?”
“That’s my business.” Bluntly ending the conversation, Scott shoved past him. He shifted the object in his hand, holding it shielded close to his body.
Deciding he wasn’t likely to get any further with the discussion given Scott’s disagreeable mood, Murdoch left him pass unchallenged. Shoulders slumped in defeat, he turned back to the Great Room. Somehow between Harlan’s arrival and departure, he’d made a mess of things. Not quite sure what he’d done, or how to fix it, he felt a gloomy wave of despair crash over him.
Scott wasn’t the only one with problems.
***********
Scott sat on the edge of the bed, his head cupped in his hands, mentally willing the lethal pain down a notch. Morning sunlight spilled through the windows, knifing behind his light-sensitive eyes. The laudanum was helping but not to the degree he’d expected. He’d paid a good penny for it, sending one of the hands to town late yesterday evening to purchase it from a less-than-reputable herbalist. He’d paid the wrangler a hefty bonus to keep his mouth shut. While he couldn’t be certain the bribe would hold, he’d hinted there might be similar errands and similar bonuses in the future. Hopefully, the promise of additional cash would be enough for the man to keep quiet.
The wrangler - - a gangly fellow by the name of Book Thorne - - had snickered as he’d passed over the bottle. Scott hadn’t cared. He’d simply wanted the relief that came with the drug, downing a hefty swill as soon as the man’s back was turned. Murdoch Lancer’s son scrabbling for opium. It was far from a pleasant picture, but at least it had brought temporary relief, helping him through the night. He’d never relied on a crutch before, not even when he’d escaped Libby Prison, and the torture he’d endured had left him struggling with agonizing pain several months later. He’d known plenty of former soldiers who’d grown addicted to the opium derivative as a means to erase physical and mental wounds and had thus staunchly avoided it.
But everything was different now. He valued Lancer . . . valued his strangely tenuous relationship with Murdoch, the more openly emotional ties he had with his younger brother. Regardless of how either of them felt about him, he didn’t want to lose that. He’d been alone his entire his life. True, his grandfather had provided for him, but all Harlan Garrett had really cared about was holding him up to polite society as a trophy of achievement: Scott Lancer, Harvard graduate, decorated Civil War officer, blue-blooded legacy to prestige and fortune. Hadn’t his grandfather proven that by stooping to such underhanded motives in trying to get him to return to Boston?
Scott’s stomach clenched. His father hadn’t even thanked him for the sacrifice he’d been so willing to make on Murdoch’s behalf.
Bitterly, he tipped the bottle of laudanum to his lips, swallowing another mouthful. He didn’t know why he stayed, only knew he still had something to prove. Rising slowly, he crossed to the washbasin and scrubbed the morning grit from his face, neck and hands. Afterward he dressed carefully, tugging on a pair of charcoal pants and a white shirt. By the time he sat to pull on his boots, he was thinking more clearly, the throbbing in his head reduced to a muted ache. Gingerly, he scraped his fingers across the healing laceration on his scalp. He was no doctor, but he hadn’t expected such grim complications from what he’d originally thought a minor graze. Even now he could feel the taint of a low-grade fever hovering in the background, the intrusion of outside light reducing his eyes to pain-narrowed slits. Giving himself a quick inspection in the mirror, he decided he was as presentable as he was likely to get.
He knew he needed to be more agreeable with Johnny and Murdoch if he hoped to convince them he belonged at Lancer. His brother wasn’t really a problem, just an impossibly tough man to follow. Johnny might be three years younger, but his stance and presence earned him the immediate respect of complete strangers. Sometimes he felt overshadowed by his brother’s reputation and fortitude.
Murdoch was a different story. Murdoch had chosen to overlook Scott’s presence for twenty-four long years. He was nowhere near as open and emotionally unrestrained as Johnny. No matter how hard Scott tried to rationalize the reasons, there was simply no excuse for a father abandoning his son.
Knowing that, Scott still wanted to stay at Lancer . . . still wanted to prove himself to his coolly detached father. Somewhere beneath all the anger, determination and pain, he foolishly believed Murdoch could still love him, even if that love was undemonstrative.
And so it was he forced himself to be more agreeable when he joined his family at the breakfast table. The laudanum helped despite the sting of overly bright light spilling through the tall windows and doors. “Good morning,” he greeted, pulling back his chair to sit down.
Teresa smiled warmly, returning the greeting while Murdoch and Johnny exchanged a silent glance.
“You look better rested this morning,” Murdoch observed after a moment’s pause.
Scott nodded, heaping a mound of string potatoes onto his plate. The pain was tolerable as long as he didn’t concentrate on the glare cascading into the room. He thought longingly of drawing the shades on the windows but knew the action would only invite attention. “I slept well,” he lied. Drugged senseless with opium.
Murdoch offered a halting smile. “Good. I thought maybe you and Johnny could work on clearing brush from the south end of Rim Creek today. We’ve got a bottleneck up there, diverting water away from the east pasture.” Murdoch hesitated, fork resting lightly on his plate. “That is if you feel up to it.”
Scott tried not to frown. Of all the jobs his father could have suggested, clearing brush was on the safer side. Johnny would probably chafe to be relegated to laboring when he could be breaking horses or riding herd instead. “That’s fine,” Scott said quietly. He shot his brother a quick glance from beneath his lashes only to find Johnny’s expression unreadable.
His brother remained mostly silent during breakfast, clearly still perturbed about the previous day. When the meal was finished Scott followed him to the barn then set about tossing tools into the rear of a buckboard with little discussion. They made the nearly hour-long ride to the southern edge of Rim Creek in similar silence, Johnny’s mood as black as tar.
It was only later when Scott pulled on his heavy workgloves and waded into the creek, the water rising calf-deep on his boots that Johnny finally spat out a curse.
“This ain’t a one-man show, Boston.”
Scott cast a glance over his shoulder, wishing his hat did more to shield his eyes from the biting sting of intrusive sunlight. “You’re welcome to join me any time,” he tossed back neutrally. Swinging a hatchet, he began to chop away at the knot of tree limbs bottled in the middle of the stream. Beneath his boots, the creekbed was slippery, fashioned with a jagged layer of water-smoothed stone and algae-coated rock. Despite the long-fingered reach of the sun, the water was cold, sloshing over the top of his boots, soaking into his thin pants with a chill that amplified the pain in his head.
After a second’s pause, Johnny splashed in beside him, hacking at the branches with a viciousness that made the whole mass shudder. “Finish that fence line?” he bit off savagely.
Scott kept his attention on a prickly snarl of limbs to his right. He’d worked until dusk the previous evening, but it had been impossible to finish the job on his own so late in the day. Johnny clearly knew that but took perverse delight in rubbing it in.
“No.” Agitated, Scott drove his axe into a fat limb. He felt a sudden surge of anger at his brother, tripled when an icy sliver of pain dribbled down the back of his neck. Tensing, he drew an uneven breath. A tremor ran through his fingers making him think longingly of the laudanum in his pocket.
“. . . could’ve helped you,” Johnny mumbled irritably. “We woulda finished the job.”
Scott nodded, not trusting his voice. The reflection of sunlight on water speared behind his eyelids like the heated blade of a knife. Turning his head away, he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing rapidly through his mouth. “Next time,” he said hoarsely. In an effort to mask his distress, he battered away with the hatchet, breaking away clumps of bark and brush until the water raced faster, swirling higher on his legs. Again and again he hammered, small chunks of wood flying upward to patter against his chest, tinier particles snarling in the thick strands of his ash-colored hair. The clutch of cold spiked into his skull, threatening to buckle his knees. Shaken, he ducked his head and moaned softly, staggering in the clutch of the stream.
“Scott?” Johnny’s demeanor changed instantly, going from cross to solicitous.
Scott waved him aside and staggered from the water. He knew what he needed, could see his hands shaking even now in anticipation of the bitter liquid that would bring soothing relief to the agony in his skull. Ducking behind the wagon, he fumbled the small bottle from his pocket. He hadn’t even possessed it twenty-four hours, and it was almost gone.
“Scott.” Johnny was behind him.
“Leave me alone.” Unsteadily, he pulled the cork free. Before he could tip the bottle to his lips, Johnny was beside him, wrenching it from his hands.
“What the hell is this?”
Scott squinted through pain-slitted eyes. “Give it back.”
Johnny passed the bottle under his nose, grimacing at the odor. “Laudanum? Why the hell don’t you just go to an opium den?” Glaring, he took a step closer to Scott. “Who the hell did you get this from - - not Doc Reeser?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Scott held out his hand, the other braced behind him on the wagon to steady himself. He was crumbling fast and knew it, the combination of cold water soaking his pants and physical labor exacting a grim toll. “Give it back, Johnny.” It was hard to see, the glare of morning light turning everything white and fish-eyed at the edges. A streak of fire wormed beneath his scalp, pinging deeper into his head. When he realized he was fast approaching his limitations, he resorted to the only weapon he had left. “Please,” he entreated softly.
Johnny swore. It was easy to hold onto his anger when Scott was difficult and moody but not when he openly displayed vulnerability. Prior to meeting his considerate and inherently polite brother, Johnny had held little use for compassion. Scott had changed all of that in a relatively short time, awakening affection in him he hadn’t even known he possessed. Moved by the wounded light in Scott’s eyes, Johnny returned the bottle. He watched silently as the blond-haired man fumbled it to his lips, then exhaled in shaky relief and sagged against the wagon.
“This ain’t right. You shouldn’t be hurting like this.” Frazzled, Johnny pulled off his hat and scraped a hand through his hair. Resettling the brim on his dark bangs, he stepped closer. “I’m gonna take you to see Doc Reeser in town.”
Scott shook his head. “It’s not bad . . . just an ache.”
“Not bad?” Annoyed, Johnny gripped his arm. “Hell, Scott, you’re trembling . . . and an ‘ache’ don’t need laudanum to keep it under control. Why are you being so damn mule headed about this?”
“Because
it’s just a scratch.” Scott shot him a wary glance but made no effort to draw
away. It was almost as if he lacked the strength. “The light stings my eyes
sometimes, but it passes. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Johnny scowled. “You’re gonna lie down in the wagon.”
“No!” Command crackling through in his voice, Scott stood straighter and wrenched his arm free. “I can pull my weight, Johnny.”
“No one said you couldn’t!” Sudden understanding washed over Johnny as he beheld the bitter determination on his brother’s strained face. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it - - proving yourself?” His stomach twisted as he thought of the hurtful things he’d said only yesterday: You don’t belong here . . . you can’t cut it . . . got sand in your boots so you gotta run home . . .
Wounded, Scott looked away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said morosely, but it was evident he’d taken the issue to heart.
Seething at his own cruel stupidity, Johnny walked around in front of him. “You’re a fool,” he snapped, heat making his words harsher than he’d intended. “I never meant those things. I told you that. I was just upset, thinking you were hightailing it back to that eastern city of yours.”
“It’s not you,” Scott said quietly. Bitterness replaced the hurt in his gaze. “It was never you.” His words came harder, sharpened with acid. “I know how you feel about me, Johnny, even if I get confused about it sometimes. Murdoch is different.”
“Oh, hell.” Knowing instinctively where the conversation was headed, Johnny threw his hands in the air. “Scott, he never wanted you to leave either.”
“He could have said that.”
“He could have said a lot of things. He doesn’t know how to. If you ain’t figured that out by now, you’re dumber than I thought. That doesn’t mean he don’t care.”
“Forget it.” Scott shrugged away the explanation, turning toward the creek. “Let’s just get back to work.”
“Think again, horse soldier.” Johnny stepped in front of him, planting a hand dead center on his chest, bluntly blocking his path. “Call me crazy, but I don’t think a man with a head wound should be doing anything ‘cept lying down. Either you take a break, or I’m going to have a chat with Murdoch and tell him how you’re really feeling.”
Scott’s face clouded with anger, belligerence turning his tone hostile. “Johnny…”
“Stow it, Lieutenant. I ain’t one of your damn cavalry troopers so don’t try to order me around.” He gave a firm shove, nudging Scott a step backward. “Sit down in the wagon and rest a spell.” Even as he said the words, his lips curled fondly in an effort to ease the sting. “I just got you back from that gray-haired old vulture you call grandfather. Think I want you gettin’ sick on me? You either take a break or I’m hauling your hind end back to the ranch.”
Scott ground his teeth together. “I don’t remember putting you in charge.”
“Well since you’re incapable of making a rational decision for yourself, you’ll just have to live with it.” Johnny cocked his head toward the rear of the wagon. He knew it wasn’t an easy task for his take-charge brother to surrender the upper hand and concede to infirmity. Scott was a leader by nature and didn’t take well to relinquishing the role. “Ten minutes . . . that’s all. Give that damn laudanum a chance to work. You push yourself too hard and that simple ‘ache’ in your head is going to turn into something a helluva lot worse.”
Scott frowned. His skin looked drawn and ashen, a golden sheen of perspiration clinging to his cheeks. Silently, he weighed his options, clearly wanting to argue. In the end he parted with a clipped nod and retreated to the wagon.
Johnny gave him one worried backward glance then waded into the stream. Ten minutes later Scott returned to his side, stubbornly hacking away at the brush. Irked by his willfulness, Johnny unobtrusively positioned himself to clear away the thicker limbs. If he couldn’t get Scott to knock off completely, the least he could do was make sure his determined brother carried the lighter workload.
Idiot, he thought crossly, but bit silent the oath.
They labored through the morning mostly quiet, the burble of the stream and the repetitive hack of their axes the only sounds to steadily break the stillness. Occasionally Scott would grunt with effort as he toiled, and once Johnny was certain he heard him moan softly, but the older man never slackened his workhorse pace. By the time they broke for lunch, the ends of his hair were saturated with sweat, dribbling sticky trails down his back and neck. He took a swig from the laudanum bottle when he thought Johnny wasn’t looking but made no complaint over the increasing heat or the heavy workload.
Tight-lipped, Johnny refrained from comment. Mentally, he promised to take matters into his own hands if Scott’s condition continued to deteriorate. Somehow they muddled through the rest of the day, finishing the job in late afternoon. Johnny was only too glad to return to the ranch where he hoped Scott would finally take a moment to rest. It wasn’t, however, until after dinner that he finally had the time to observe his brother more closely.
************
Scott turned the page of the novel he was reading, unable to concentrate on the text. The sensible thing to do would be to call it a night and go to bed, but that in itself was admitting a type of defeat. His eyes burned from staring at the page, not a single word of Don Quixote lodging in his brain. His head had started to hurt all over again, a resilient ache spreading from the graze beneath his hairline, rooting tenaciously in the base of his skull.
Wincing, he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. It was quiet in the Great Room, each member of the Lancer family engaged in a singular activity. Johnny had spread a deck of cards on the coffee table, head bent, engrossed in a game of solitaire. Seated in a large wing chair by the fireplace, Murdoch read through a handful of letters he’d retrieved earlier from town. At Scott’s side on the couch, Teresa picked at an embroidery hoop, her cross-stitch pattern far too tedious to contemplate given the steadily escalating pain in his head.
Outside, the sky deepened with the violet-gray of twilight as the sun sank beneath the rim of the earth. Candles and lanterns leaked a brass-soaked glow into the corners, bright enough to read by, muted enough to be cozy. The atmosphere should have been comforting but not even the tranquil silence could ease the escalating ache behind his eyes.
Scott turned another page, grimacing as the stiff crinkle of paper spiked the pounding a notch higher. Bowing his head, he planted his elbow on the arm of the couch and gingerly massaged his temple. He could feel heat lancing outward from the tender laceration, the skin surrounding the crease sensitive and enflamed. The whole left side of his face hurt, barbed tendrils of pain splintering deeper into his jaw. With concentrated effort, he willed the discomfort silent and closed his eyes. Wrapped in his thoughts, he barely heard Teresa excuse herself and head upstairs.
Johnny yawned. “I’m kind of tired too. How about you, Scott?”
He jerked at the sound of his name, caught unaware. “No . . . I’m fine.” Reflex made him flip a page. He could feel Johnny’s gaze on him, steadily assessing the statement.
His brother gave a soft snort. “I woulda thought after all that work today…”
“I’m fine,” Scott reaffirmed flatly. Only half conscious of what he was doing, he skimmed his hand under his hairline, lightly massaging the fiery knot rooted in his temple. He could feel Murdoch watching him, his father's gaze far too scrutinizing for his liking. Uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and shoved from the couch, crossing to the whiskey decanter on the sideboard. Given the ache in his head, a shot of alcohol didn’t sound like such a bad idea. “I’m tired of labor,” he commented over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, I’ll work on the stock. I’ve been away from horses too long.” His hand trembled as he poured the drink, but he kept his back to the other men, blocking their view. The liquor burned when he tossed it down his throat.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Murdoch said neutrally.
Perturbed, Scott turned. “Why?” He couldn’t help interpreting the observation as a personal assault. “Given my background with the U.S. Cavalry, I’d say I’m uniquely qualified to oversee our stock.”
“I never said you weren’t.” Easing back in his chair, Murdoch crossed his legs. “I just think you should hold off from anything that . . . jarring . . . for a few more days. We have plenty of hands to manage in the meantime. Besides - - that fence line fording the southwest pasture still needs a lot of repair.”
Scott blanched. “Because I didn’t finish it?” Abruptly defensive, he stepped closer to his father’s chair. “I suppose you or Johnny could do it in half the time?” Something cold slithered into the pit of his stomach. The room felt hot and stuffy despite an outbreak of icy sweat on the back of his neck. He suddenly realized how exhausted he was, how tired of fighting the same bleak thoughts and physical setbacks. In the end, it all came down to a singular bitter truth. One that had hung over him ever since Harlan Garrett’s arrival: Murdoch hadn’t cared enough to stop him from leaving, just as he hadn’t cared enough to claim him twenty-four years ago.
Murdoch frowned. “No one is comparing you, Scott. This isn’t a contest.”
“I don’t think it’s got anything to do with that,” Johnny countered, moving to his brother’s side. “But I do think the whole mess has gone on long enough. Everything was fine before Garrett showed up.” Scowling heavily, he glanced at his brother. “Nothing changed overnight, Scott. I don’t care what that old man told you or what he led you to believe. Murdoch and me are the same two people we were before he showed up.”
“Exactly.” Scott looked directly at his father. “The difference is I was too blind to realize it.” Too blind to realize you never really wanted me here in the first place, you were just forced into it. “I guess I am tired after all. I’m going to bed.”
“Scott - -”
“Forget it, Johnny.” Waving off his brother’s protest, Scott walked from the room. Pain ricocheted down his neck, each strike of his boot heels making him wince in discomfort. Coupled with heavy fatigue and a growing weariness of spirit, he couldn’t help thinking he’d made a dreadful mistake.
As much as he loved Lancer . . . as much as he wanted to belong, he was beginning to think he really did belong in Boston.
************
Johnny couldn’t sleep. By the time he finally gave up tossing and turning, night had crept into the blacker hours following midnight. A dry breeze scraped through the window to the right of his bed carrying the faint scent of earth and grass, the lonely yipping dirge of a coyote. Agitated, he tossed back the sheets, reaching for his pants and shirt.
He intended to wander outside and walk off some of his frustration over Scott’s behavior, but as he reached the bottom of the steps, he spied a hunched silhouette on the couch. The Great Room was dark, wrapped in velvety whorls of shadow. Moonlight slanted through the windows, eclipsing the bent form of the man on the davenport. Snared in the pale illumination of celestial light, Scott’s hair gleamed with luminous threads of gold and honey.
Johnny stood motionless, disturbed by his brother’s posture. Scott sat bent forward, one elbow planted on his knee, his forehead cupped in his palm. Even from a distance, Johnny could tell he was in pain.
“Hey . . .” Speaking softly, he wandered closer.
Scott flinched, lifting his head. Caught off guard, his glance was stricken, bare of pretense.
Johnny felt his stomach bottom out. His mouth went dry at the bright glint of fever in the other man’s eyes. “What’s going on?”
Scott shuddered, making no effort to hide his misery. “My head . . .” The words trailed away as he closed his eyes against the pain. “Something’s . . . wrong . . .”
Johnny slid onto the couch beside him. “Let me see.” Gingerly, he slipped his fingers into Scott’s hair, carefully threading aside his bangs. Beneath his fingertips, his brother’s skin was flushed, damp with perspiration. “You feel hot,” he said worriedly. “Let me light a lamp so I can look at that graze. I think it’s infected.”
“No,” Scott recoiled, visibly swallowing down pain. “No light. It hurts my eyes. I just . . . I just need - -”
“You need a doctor.” Johnny snapped acidly, then immediately regretted his harshness when Scott winced. He sighed, muttering under his breath about ‘damn Yankee stubbornness.’ “What about the laudanum?” he persisted.
Scott closed his eyes, once again bowing his head into his hand. “I finished it earlier. I’ll be all right, Johnny. Just leave me alone.”
There was little chance of that. Johnny’s life had grown intricately intertwined with that of his college-educated brother in a relatively short time. For two men who’d never known the other existed, who were diametrically different in everything from personality to viewpoints, they’d bonded with a closeness Johnny often found baffling.
He could still recall the first glimpse he’d had of Scott on the stage - - how he’d mentally written him off as a rich, perfumed dandy who had no business in the west. That opinion hadn’t immediately changed on learning the tall, blond-haired man was his brother. Once he’d gotten past the initial shock, he’d looked a little deeper, reserving final judgment. In town, he’d thought it amusing to let Day Pardee’s men ride roughshod on Scott, certain he had no true constitution. He’d never expected Scott to hold his own for a time, outnumbered and outgunned, anymore than he’d expected him to later strike him at Rim Creek.
The power behind that blow had left him stunned. For the first time he’d recalculated his opinion of Scott, deciding he had more mettle than Johnny had originally given him credit for. Later, during Pardee’s attack, it was Scott who had come to his rescue, standing over him, making himself a target as he’d shot round after round, unconcerned about his own safety.
It was the first time someone had risked life and limb to save him. Someone he’d barely known . . . someone he’d treated badly. It was a sobering thought, gratifying and strangely terrifying. It kindled emotions about blood and family, feelings that had been foreign and non-existent until that afternoon. He’d felt a rush of warmth unlike any he’d ever experienced before, the initial strengthening bonds of his relationship with Scott forged even as bullets pinged around them. In a handful of seconds, he realized the man he’d unjustly considered a fop was deadly accurate with a long gun, not to be taken lightly. It was a mistake Johnny would never make again. More than that, he found himself responding to Scott, caring what became of him. What started as initial disdain had since grown into easy companionship and, ultimately, deep affection.
“Stay here,” Johnny instructed his brother. Moving sure-footedly through the darkness, he made his way to the kitchen and the indoor well pump. He snagged a basin from the tabletop, then rounded up a hand towel, filling the former with water. The well was deep enough that even in the high heat of summer the water remained cool, something he counted on now.
Back in the Great Room, he set the basin on an end table and returned to the couch. “This should help,” he said, soaking the small towel in water.
Eyes slitted with pain, Scott shot him a sideways glance. “Aren’t you going to gloat? Tell me what a stupid mistake I made by not going to see Reeser.”
“Nope.” Johnny squeezed excess water from the towel, folding it into an elongated strip. “You’re doing a good enough job for both of us, so just keep berating yourself.” His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “I’ll let you know when you’ve had enough.”
“That’s generous of you,” Scott mumbled, pressing long fingers to his forehead.
“Here…” Johnny eased the towel into position, draping it over his brow.
Scott winced at the initial contact but eventually relaxed, raising his hand to hold the wet compress in place. He tipped his head back with an appreciative sigh, face raised toward the ceiling as he leaned into the sofa.
Johnny watched his lashes sweep closed, gilded with gold even in the moon-filtered darkness. Lightly, he grazed the back of his hand against Scott’s cheek. “Better?”
“Some,” Scott acknowledged quietly.
“Come on,” Johnny coaxed. He shifted, giving his brother room. “Lie down and rest for a minute, and give that thing a chance to work.” He transferred a pillow to his lap, intent on remaining awake as long as Scott was in such misery. When his brother only glanced at him skeptically but made no attempt to move, Johnny settled a hand on his shoulder. “What’s the matter - - think I’m going to bite?”
He used faint pressure, guiding Scott to lie down. Somehow it felt natural to have his brother’s head pillowed in his lap, Scott’s ash-colored hair fanning backward from his face.
Jarred by the movement, Scott grimaced.
“Take it easy,” Johnny soothed. Lightly, he feathered his hand into his brother’s hair, careful of the laceration. He had no doubt it was infected, the culprit behind Scott’s slumbering fever, most likely a good deal of his pain too. Applying gentle pressure, he started a slow massage with his fingertips.
Scott shivered and moaned softly, turning his face against the pillow. His eyes swept closed, the thick honeyed line of his lashes filtering spiked shadows over his cheeks.
Johnny adjusted the compress on his forehead. “I make a pretty good nursemaid, don’t you think, Boston?”
Scott grunted what he thought of the idea.
Johnny chuckled. “You’re just lucky I got attached to you - - blue-blooded Yank and all.”
Scott’s lips curled in a faint grin. “. . . temperamental gunslinger,” he mumbled.
“Yeah, well . . . I never said I was perfect. Just damn close.” He paused to finger a heavy strand of ash-pale hair, fondness warming his heart. He never would have thought he could be so openly demonstrative. As reactionary as he tended to be, he’d always been sparse with his affection. The hardscrabble life of Johnny Madrid had left no room for emotional entanglements. He’d gotten by just fine on his wits and his skill with a six-shooter. If it hadn’t been for Murdoch and the Pinkerton detective, he might have been content to live out the remainder of his days one step ahead of tomorrow - - assuming he’d been able to worm free of the firing squad he’d been facing. Even when the ranch had fallen into his lap, he’d been distrustful and aloof, a renegade by nature. It was in his blood, a characteristic that transcended genetics. Bonding with a college-educated easterner simply made no sense, and yet . . .
Johnny felt his pulse quiet in relief as Scott’s breathing deepened with the lethargic edge proceeding sleep. His brother shifted, settling more comfortably against him, marked drowsiness relaxing his long limbs with lassitude. Thankful, Johnny rubbed his shoulder. “That’s it . . . go to sleep. As soon as it’s light, I’ll send one of the hands to fetch Reeser.”
Scott cracked an eyelid, a fever-dusted sliver of slate blue visible beneath his lashes. “I don’t think - -”
“Forget it,” Johnny chided fondly. “You lost the right to an opinion when you bought that laudanum.” Gently, he skimmed his palm over Scott’s cheek, mopping up perspiration. “You’re just lucky I don’t send someone to round up the doc now. For an older brother, you’ve got a hell of a lot to learn, Scott. Harlan Garrett started this whole mess - -”
“No.” Weary, Scott shook his head. He wanted to tell his brother it had nothing to do with his grandfather and everything to do with his own worth. True, his grandfather had attempted to blackmail him, but at least he knew where the old man’s heart belonged. Maybe Harlan Garrett didn’t love him in the truly affectionate sense of the word, but he loved the idea of him - - the perfect grandson who could be paraded as the toast of Boston society. Scott had always understood the boundaries of his relationship with his grandfather. It had been built on the principles of discipline, image and respect. Somewhere, buried under all the layers of proper etiquette and precise control, lingered a fleeting morsel of love. That had been enough to sustain him for twenty-four years, his own heart closed off from the possibility of might-have-beens.
Then Murdoch had beckoned him west . . . he’d met Johnny . . . succumbed to the raw emotion that came from being part of a true family. Of having a father and a brother. For the first time in his life he’d acted on his own impulse, embracing a destiny that he’d chosen. He’d come alive in the west, the restricting shackles of striving to exceed his grandfather’s expectations no longer important. It was as if he’d been reborn, the drudgery of an unfulfilling past behind him.
His grandfather had tried to take that away from him, and Murdoch had almost let him.
Disturbed by the thought, Scott moaned softly and burrowed closer against Johnny. Just as quickly, he tensed, realizing the easy familiarity might not be readily welcomed. It was a natural reaction on his part, his capacity for affection far exceeding any inhibitions he might have. His brother simply made him feel completely trusting and at ease - - a gift no one had ever come close to achieving before. Fearing he’d crossed the line, Scott tensed to withdraw.
“It’s all right,” Johnny soothed gently rubbing his forearm. The caress was calming, mildly hypnotic. “Just relax and go to sleep. I’ll stay with you . . .” His voice trailed away in a velvety whisper, so unlike the deadly gunfighter persona he could don like a second skin.
Scott relaxed marginally, nestling his cheek against his brother’s thigh. A hot band of fire wrapped around his skull, rooted in the graze on his temple. Earlier, that punishment might have seemed unbearable, but the soothing stroke of Johnny’s hand made it all tolerable. He closed his eyes, slipping one hand under his brother’s leg as sleep crept closer.
Tomorrow he would think about the mess he’d made of things.
Tomorrow he would think about Murdoch.
************
Murdoch gave into a yawn as he rounded the corner of the Great Room. Dawn was just beginning to unravel on the eastern horizon, spooling across the sky in pencil-thin strands of tangerine and gold. It would be another half-hour at least before the hands in the bunkhouse rolled from their beds and Johnny, Scott and Teresa wandered downstairs looking for breakfast. He knew Maria, the cook, was likely already hard at work, up to her elbows in biscuit flour and bacon. The thought of coffee led him in the direction of the kitchen before he became aware of the two men sprawled on the couch.