Lancer Fic: Past Forward 1/10
Jul. 21st, 2013 07:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shallowzTitle: Past Forward
Co-Authors: Shallowz & BarbA
Rating: Mature readers
Word count: around 28K for complete fic
Characters: Murdoch, Scott, and Johnny Lancer
Disclaimer: Not ours, no profit being made, just for fun.
Summary: The past, present, and future collide at Lancer.
Thanks toharrigan for the beta (and the education)!
Co-Authors: Shallowz & BarbA
Rating: Mature readers
Word count: around 28K for complete fic
Characters: Murdoch, Scott, and Johnny Lancer
Disclaimer: Not ours, no profit being made, just for fun.
Summary: The past, present, and future collide at Lancer.
Thanks to
harrigan for the beta (and the education)!Chapter One
Worries had no place in such a nice day, but Murdoch Lancer gathered them anyway, like so many gnats in a web.
He stretched out his back by the big window, rubbing the sensitive spot just to the left of his spine, keeping his hands busy while squinting into the April-bright sun setting halfway down the horizon. A wagon rattled by with Frank at the reins, going out to the haying field for last minute bundles. Just behind, the dog charged out of its bolt-hole in the barn, running to catch up. She made it in one well-timed leap and a slap of paws.
Looking back when Scott and Johnny came into the office, Murdoch waved to the big chair sitting opposite the desk.
“How did the day go?”
“Fine,” Scott told him, watching Johnny sink into the leather chair.
“No sign of Birch’s men?”
Scott folded his gloves into the crown of his hat and placed it upside down on the edge of the desk. “No, but I wouldn’t expect to see any trespassers with Johnny and me out there.”
Murdoch settled back into his armchair.
“Are you saying we need to be extra careful?” A subtle change came over Johnny, a kind of silent alertness, watching Murdoch through half-closed eyes. Two years since coming to Lancer, he still carried vestiges of his former life.
Murdoch flipped through some papers, scribbled a few notes on one, then pulled out a small key from the top left drawer. “After talking with the lawyer this morning, I wouldn’t underestimate Birch, and you shouldn’t either.”
The documents from the locked drawer, tinged yellow, had tight cursive Spanish splashed across the pages.
To Murdoch they meant more than pressed paper and words. They meant life. “Do you remember seeing these when you both signed the agreement?”
Two heads, one dark and one light, nodded. Even if they didn’t look anything alike, their expressions were as one: curious.
Johnny spoke. “The Mexican land grants.”
“That’s right. Jonas sent a letter from town saying Birch has filed a mining claim on the parcel of land that extends from the mountain due south to the valley floor that aligns with his property.” He thumbed through them and withdrew a hand-drawn map, held it up. “Here is the diseño for our land. There’s twenty-five hundred acres total that borders the area.”
Scott leaned over to study the drawing. “A tributary of the San Joaquin River cuts through the land. Mining that section would deprive Lancer of any irrigation in that area. You couldn’t put cattle on it, nor would you. It would be virtually worthless.” His brow wrinkled. “But the property line for Lancer on this map doesn’t extend that far. Do we own it or not?”
Murdoch held up a letter, yellowed and water-stained. “I brought that stretch of land years ago, after your mother and I took ownership, as an addition to the original land grants. The hacienda’s roof was in pieces on the kitchen floor at the time.”
“It’ll take an earthquake to bring it down now.” Johnny grinned. “You do know how to get ’em built.”
“We wanted it strong. Fire-kilned adobe and hardwood. Slow, but on that we didn’t compromise. We wanted Lancer to last.”
Most of their meager furniture spent months under tarpaulins in the shed, but when he thought back to those early days, to the long ship voyage, even the ruined house, it was with a feeling of hope. He forecasted comfort for himself, his descendants, and rebuilt in his unhurried way.
Back then he looked out to his few cows, fingering a piece of newspaper advertisement in his pocket: “Cattle are $20 dollars on the head in Los Angeles”. When the railroad came—and it would come all right—he would stand to get more. The whole valley was that way, always looking to the future, never to the past.
“Birch’s claim encompasses a portion of the creek to the foothills. He’s claiming the shared water source.”
Johnny sat up, took a deep breath. “How can he do that?”
“The boundaries of the land were originally surveyed with markers, which are long gone now. His grant likely shows his property crossing ours. As the markers were moved or destroyed, the surveying was imprecise. But it’s never been an issue before.”
“He’s been a neighbor since Scott and I came here. We’ve hardly seen ’im.”
Scott crossed his arms, bumped his hat with one finger and perched on the end of the desk. “I’ve seen him a few times.”
Murdoch brought his head up. “Where?”
“Oh, in town” — Scott threw out his hand— “just around. He knew I was from Boston, so we spoke about the city, current events mostly. I didn’t think it was significant to mention at the time.”
When Scott said nothing else, Murdoch sighed.
Johnny shifted forward on the leather seat, the squelch ending awkward silence. “Murdoch, if he’s found ore….”
He shook his head. “I know. We’ll need to request an injunction as soon as possible. I’ll take the diseño to Jonas. He’ll need them to talk to the circuit judge. In the meantime, I want you two to ride back to that section, and post a warning sign for Birch and his men until we can this figured out.”
“You think that’ll do it?” asked Johnny.
“It’s a start until the judge can make a ruling.”
Johnny stood. “I guess that’s that.”
“No, it’s not,” Murdoch said, rolling the pencil between his fingers. “But I have a bad feeling we’re going to wish it was.”
*****
The signs had been posted and, somewhat surprisingly, Birch and his men had remained quiet the past few days except for the movement of wagons. And now, Scott and Johnny faced a meadow full of lowing cattle, snuffling good green grass.
“Is that Rush Carnes heading our way?”
Scott pushed the brim of his hat up with a forefinger. “Hard to mistake anyone else with that red hair.”
“Can’t figure why that kid isn’t called Red by now.”
“I give him until fifteen.”
Johnny chewed on his lower lip. “He’s what, twelve?”
“Far as I know.”
“I make it before fourteen. Winner buys drinks.”
“Deal.”
Rush rode up to them, all limbs and shocking red hair, a grin stretching his freckled face from ear to ear.
“Heya, Johnny, Scott. Was just riding out to your place. Mr. Griffith wanted me to give you folks this.”
Johnny reached over to take the note from Rush, gave it a quick glance and passed it to Scott. “One of us needs to head to town.” Reaching into his shirt pocket he pulled out a coin.
Scott eyed it, gave a nod. “Heads.”
Johnny flipped it into the air, caught it, and swore softly at the result.
Scott grinned. “Rush, are you heading back to town?”
“No sir, I’m on my way to the Delany place. You have a good day.”
“Thank you, Rush. Appreciate the delivery.”
“Think maybe you’re a mite more appreciative than Johnny at the moment.” Red cackled, setting his horse off to a trot.
Johnny let out a soft huff
of laughter. “He’d be right at that. Catch you at dinner.”
With a two-finger salute and a laugh of his own, Scott veered towards Green River.
*****
Haze blocked the sun, the air humid. The changing color of the western sky held the promise of rain later in the day. Perspiration dripped from Scott’s neckline, dampening his collar. Inclement weather or not, a few hours late to town wouldn’t make a difference; the lawyer would stay open until he got there.
Despite the offbeat hoof steps of his horse, there was a gentle cadence to his thoughts, allowing all manners of things to enter. Scott went back in his mind over the land grants and maps, how Murdoch must have felt when he and his new bride first saw Lancer. Were they disheartened, or too thrilled at leaving the past behind to be bothered with the inconvenience of a house without a roof? The idea of happiness and loss were so keen and intertwined, he couldn’t think of it anymore. His mind moved on to presumed water rights and poor neighbors.
When Scott reached town and stopped at the lawyer’s shingle above the boardwalk, disquiet crawled through him. He identified it as Douglas Birch.
Dismounting, one single thought came to him: For two years now, he and Johnny had been at Lancer without any real dealings with the man. Odd.
As he sat in Jonas Griffith’s outer office, it occurred to Scott that if not for having to wait he would be riding snug behind a sea of tails and horns. Thank God for small favors.
Moving cattle didn’t particularly offend him, although from the foul smell and the taste of grit Scott doubted he would ever truly appreciate it. The fact that he had begun to form certain opinions about the work made the wait even more pleasant. He thought about the hundreds of things involved in pushing a few head of steers from one meadow to another and settled into the plump cushion of his chair, more than willing to make a mental list rather than actually do them.
Right between loading the fatback and beans for the midday meal and assigning the men their horses, Jonas hustled out of his office.
Scott amused himself by thinking about Jonas on a horse. Here was a sensible feet-on the-ground lawyer. His charcoal suit was tailored, right down to the neat corner of the white handkerchief peeping out of the breast pocket. Ruffles and plaid stopped by to pay a brief visit in homage to a poorly prepared first visit out West, then fled with visions of fatback and remudas. Scott stood, swiped across a thigh to remove lingering dust and wished he’d worn clean boots.
Griffith hooked a thumb around his coat lapel and smiled. “Lancer dirt not sitting too well?”
He gave his hand to the lawyer’s beefy, dry grasp. “At the moment, sitting too well for my liking.”
Jonas’s smile quivered with bonhomie under the wire rims of his spectacles. “Oh, come on, Scott. A little hard work never hurt anyone.”
“So sayeth the man who hasn’t done any. Hard work, that is.” Jonas managed an affronted look while he ran his hand down the smooth lapel of his coat. Scott envisioned him standing before the jury box. All the flash and dazzle worthy of an Othello in the new Green River repertoire company.
“Speaking of work, I have the document from Judge Lawton. Signed and sealed. Took me an extra day to track him down in the next county.”
Interest piqued. “On horseback?”
He was peered at over spectacles, eyebrows fully arched. “Surely you jest. Buggy, of course. With a high-stepping Morgan to boot.”
“Of course.”
Jonas headed for his office and crooked a finger for Scott to follow. An envelope lay on the lawyer’s desk.
“Here’s the injunction for Birch to cease and desist, and the original diseño. You retain the land and mineral rights on your northern pasture area for now.”
“Including the water?”
“Specifically mentioned. In paragraph four, I believe. The Birch ranch can’t move a toe in that direction until the judge makes a final ruling.”
As he studied the documents, Scott thought of the potential improvements that could be made with the water. Maybe sustaining Lancer would be good enough—for now. Their father expressed interest in expansion, a future beyond a few Palominos and cows, but it had to be done at his own pace. Cows now, perhaps crops of some sort later. The problem came when Scott and Johnny couldn’t figure out whether to trot or gallop.
“I know why Lancer needed those rights ironed out. It’s a shame about Doug Birch, though.”
“What makes you say that?”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned after law school, it’s that there are always two sides to the story. It occurred to me that that Birch and Lancer both look to succeed. Put yourself in his place. What would you have done if the ruling went the other way?”
It gave him pause and he didn’t have an answer. “The rights to it are Lancer’s based on Murdoch’s old Mexican deed; Birch was the poacher.”
“Before I warn you about horses and carts, let me say I see your point, Scott, but Birch doesn’t.”
“And?”
Jonas shrugged. “The law may be on your side, but Birch is the kind of man who knows what he wants and fights to take it.”
“Murdoch and he knew each other a long time ago, from what I’ve been told.” Little enough at this point and he wondered just what Murdoch held back.
“Sometimes neighbors make the worst enemies.”
Folding the papers back into the envelope gave Scott something to do while he considered Jonas’s words. He worried he judged Birch for attempting to do the same thing as Lancer—advance, grow.
He stood and glanced at Jonas who watched him, open-faced. Then Jonas quirked his eyebrows together above his spectacles in a way only he and an earnest spaniel could manage. A signal of sorts, telling Scott he worried.
Scott pushed the pouch into his coat pocket and shook the lawyer’s hand. “Come out to the ranch, we’ll make a real worker out of you.”
Jonas visibly shuddered. “No thanks, I have all the work I need here.” He glanced towards the window, his grin fading. “The saloon keeps me busy enough.”
Scott smiled. “What was it you said? It’s all about location.”
“Yes, well, even I can be wrong sometimes. Especially when the resident Beethoven starts pounding the keys during the third stanza of Sweet Betsey. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind it if he just played in pitch.”
*****
Reins lax, Scott wiped his right hand free of sweat on his trouser leg. Another half mile along and he passed off public land, realized he was frowning. The shadows he saw a few miles out of Green River must have been part of his imagination, beckoned no doubt by Jonas’s dire warnings.
He had no intention other than home when he rode out of town, but instead found himself at the grassy area of dispute. Dismounting, he walked to the sign Johnny and he had placed the day before.
Such a pretty piece of land to be juggled back and forth like a magician’s rubber balls. The entrance, if Scott could call it that, ran under a giant poplar which dipped its roots into the tributary. He looked out over the acres lying close to the creek and its shale-studded banks to the rounded foothills. A line of river willows and oaks started at one end, hopscotching their way into a thick forest, almost a mile wide. The land was rich here. The creek itself wide and full from recent rain, white whorls of water tumbling into each other.
Across the creek bed, Birch had driven in another wagon, tarped and ready. Something to tell Murdoch when Scott arrived home. Looking upwards, the sun was blotted out by thick, heavy clouds—the creek was about to get another dosing, and so was he. The promised cold front had finally settled in. He buttoned up his jacket, feeling the first drops hit his face.
A terrific rise in wind ripped through the site, uprooting the sign, and sent it cartwheeling sideways down the creek. The rain fell heavier as Scott ran for his horse. The wind tore his hat away, his eyes smarting from the pelting drops and slowing him down.
A sharp echo of gun pierced through the noise, made Scott stutter step to the left when a bullet plowed into the muddy ground. His horse bolted and he spun around to look. With limited visibility, he could see two riders coming from the vicinity of the Birch ranch, their weather-nervous horses fractious. Didn’t stop the second shot his way, this one burning alongside his boot. He pulled his gun and ran.
Lightning cracked, sent a wide shot of yellow arcing across the dark sky. He wheeled about, bolting for the band of trees near the creek.
Scott felt a swooping sense of danger, knew his luck had run out right there.
The lightning sizzled again, and the hair on his arms went en pointe. Then a horrifying explosion as the tree in front of him cracked in two, bursting into flame.
Breathing raw, he jagged away from the fire. Felt the temperature drop and drop and smelled, above the odor of his own fear, the scent of ozone and creosote, sinking into his wet skin. With an effort, he turned his head to see the men, mere shadows in sheets of rain.
More thunder prickled his ears, sent a vibration into his head. Between one second and the next, the ground moved. Or maybe he had. Dizziness swept over, threatened to topple him.
His world burst in a flash of white light, sound dying with it.
Everything spun when he blinked his eyes open. He closed them quickly, waiting for it to stop. Felt as though his brain had been skewered. He couldn’t focus on anything, just buried himself in the sound of distant heavy rumbles. Rumbles? Where was the rain? All around him, a bright yellow, like any fine cloudless afternoon. He listened to his own breathing for a while, staring at the clear day, trying to piece together fragments of thoughts. A sick feeling came over him as he stumbled.
He didn’t know where he was.
The rumbles were coming closer. Startling, not unlike a train, and he wondered for a moment if he’d somehow wandered down to some tracks, unbeknownst. But no, the staccato resolved itself into something else, and Scott turned, astonished, to see a railless locomotive barreling towards him, trailing smoke from its tail.
He clutched his gun, not willing to let go of his only weapon as the thing smashed against his hip. He went up and over, landing in a heap at the foot of it, air driven from his lungs.
There was a slap of metal, the sound of footfalls. He looked wildly around for Birch and his men while trying to make his lungs work. Groaning, he rolled over, his elbow hit something hard, and he tried to pretend he didn’t care. But he did.
He cared because it was all so wrong, because this wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
A woman stared at him with worried pale eyes and soft hair that fell to her shoulders. Scott repressed a shudder—what he saw was out of place. He wasn’t scared, not of a woman or her…he flicked his eyes to the piece of shiny metal that hit him…machine. His fingers tightened on the gun, every muscle singing. He scrabbled to one knee, forcing his lungs to take air.
She was saying something, he saw her flail her arms and her mouth was moving, but it was all so removed, might as well have been underwater. The ringing in his ears helped disguise the thunderous sound coming from the machine, but he could only ignore that for so long.
The day was hot, he realized, blinking something warm out of his left eye. He swallowed, a tendril of fear making its way into the back of his throat, felt pain in his head and side. Where were the men?
He sat, so sudden it surprised him, and pulled the gun across his lap. The gun barrel was warm and he wondered if he could even squeeze the trigger now. A touch on his shoulder, bearing the unwelcomed weight and warmth of a hand, had Scott turning his head.
He met her eyes, tried to wink away the black spots and wanted to tell her that—
Chapter Two
Worries had no place in such a nice day, but Murdoch Lancer gathered them anyway, like so many gnats in a web.
He stretched out his back by the big window, rubbing the sensitive spot just to the left of his spine, keeping his hands busy while squinting into the April-bright sun setting halfway down the horizon. A wagon rattled by with Frank at the reins, going out to the haying field for last minute bundles. Just behind, the dog charged out of its bolt-hole in the barn, running to catch up. She made it in one well-timed leap and a slap of paws.
Looking back when Scott and Johnny came into the office, Murdoch waved to the big chair sitting opposite the desk.
“How did the day go?”
“Fine,” Scott told him, watching Johnny sink into the leather chair.
“No sign of Birch’s men?”
Scott folded his gloves into the crown of his hat and placed it upside down on the edge of the desk. “No, but I wouldn’t expect to see any trespassers with Johnny and me out there.”
Murdoch settled back into his armchair.
“Are you saying we need to be extra careful?” A subtle change came over Johnny, a kind of silent alertness, watching Murdoch through half-closed eyes. Two years since coming to Lancer, he still carried vestiges of his former life.
Murdoch flipped through some papers, scribbled a few notes on one, then pulled out a small key from the top left drawer. “After talking with the lawyer this morning, I wouldn’t underestimate Birch, and you shouldn’t either.”
The documents from the locked drawer, tinged yellow, had tight cursive Spanish splashed across the pages.
To Murdoch they meant more than pressed paper and words. They meant life. “Do you remember seeing these when you both signed the agreement?”
Two heads, one dark and one light, nodded. Even if they didn’t look anything alike, their expressions were as one: curious.
Johnny spoke. “The Mexican land grants.”
“That’s right. Jonas sent a letter from town saying Birch has filed a mining claim on the parcel of land that extends from the mountain due south to the valley floor that aligns with his property.” He thumbed through them and withdrew a hand-drawn map, held it up. “Here is the diseño for our land. There’s twenty-five hundred acres total that borders the area.”
Scott leaned over to study the drawing. “A tributary of the San Joaquin River cuts through the land. Mining that section would deprive Lancer of any irrigation in that area. You couldn’t put cattle on it, nor would you. It would be virtually worthless.” His brow wrinkled. “But the property line for Lancer on this map doesn’t extend that far. Do we own it or not?”
Murdoch held up a letter, yellowed and water-stained. “I brought that stretch of land years ago, after your mother and I took ownership, as an addition to the original land grants. The hacienda’s roof was in pieces on the kitchen floor at the time.”
“It’ll take an earthquake to bring it down now.” Johnny grinned. “You do know how to get ’em built.”
“We wanted it strong. Fire-kilned adobe and hardwood. Slow, but on that we didn’t compromise. We wanted Lancer to last.”
Most of their meager furniture spent months under tarpaulins in the shed, but when he thought back to those early days, to the long ship voyage, even the ruined house, it was with a feeling of hope. He forecasted comfort for himself, his descendants, and rebuilt in his unhurried way.
Back then he looked out to his few cows, fingering a piece of newspaper advertisement in his pocket: “Cattle are $20 dollars on the head in Los Angeles”. When the railroad came—and it would come all right—he would stand to get more. The whole valley was that way, always looking to the future, never to the past.
“Birch’s claim encompasses a portion of the creek to the foothills. He’s claiming the shared water source.”
Johnny sat up, took a deep breath. “How can he do that?”
“The boundaries of the land were originally surveyed with markers, which are long gone now. His grant likely shows his property crossing ours. As the markers were moved or destroyed, the surveying was imprecise. But it’s never been an issue before.”
“He’s been a neighbor since Scott and I came here. We’ve hardly seen ’im.”
Scott crossed his arms, bumped his hat with one finger and perched on the end of the desk. “I’ve seen him a few times.”
Murdoch brought his head up. “Where?”
“Oh, in town” — Scott threw out his hand— “just around. He knew I was from Boston, so we spoke about the city, current events mostly. I didn’t think it was significant to mention at the time.”
When Scott said nothing else, Murdoch sighed.
Johnny shifted forward on the leather seat, the squelch ending awkward silence. “Murdoch, if he’s found ore….”
He shook his head. “I know. We’ll need to request an injunction as soon as possible. I’ll take the diseño to Jonas. He’ll need them to talk to the circuit judge. In the meantime, I want you two to ride back to that section, and post a warning sign for Birch and his men until we can this figured out.”
“You think that’ll do it?” asked Johnny.
“It’s a start until the judge can make a ruling.”
Johnny stood. “I guess that’s that.”
“No, it’s not,” Murdoch said, rolling the pencil between his fingers. “But I have a bad feeling we’re going to wish it was.”
*****
The signs had been posted and, somewhat surprisingly, Birch and his men had remained quiet the past few days except for the movement of wagons. And now, Scott and Johnny faced a meadow full of lowing cattle, snuffling good green grass.
“Is that Rush Carnes heading our way?”
Scott pushed the brim of his hat up with a forefinger. “Hard to mistake anyone else with that red hair.”
“Can’t figure why that kid isn’t called Red by now.”
“I give him until fifteen.”
Johnny chewed on his lower lip. “He’s what, twelve?”
“Far as I know.”
“I make it before fourteen. Winner buys drinks.”
“Deal.”
Rush rode up to them, all limbs and shocking red hair, a grin stretching his freckled face from ear to ear.
“Heya, Johnny, Scott. Was just riding out to your place. Mr. Griffith wanted me to give you folks this.”
Johnny reached over to take the note from Rush, gave it a quick glance and passed it to Scott. “One of us needs to head to town.” Reaching into his shirt pocket he pulled out a coin.
Scott eyed it, gave a nod. “Heads.”
Johnny flipped it into the air, caught it, and swore softly at the result.
Scott grinned. “Rush, are you heading back to town?”
“No sir, I’m on my way to the Delany place. You have a good day.”
“Thank you, Rush. Appreciate the delivery.”
“Think maybe you’re a mite more appreciative than Johnny at the moment.” Red cackled, setting his horse off to a trot.
Johnny let out a soft huff
of laughter. “He’d be right at that. Catch you at dinner.”
With a two-finger salute and a laugh of his own, Scott veered towards Green River.
*****
Haze blocked the sun, the air humid. The changing color of the western sky held the promise of rain later in the day. Perspiration dripped from Scott’s neckline, dampening his collar. Inclement weather or not, a few hours late to town wouldn’t make a difference; the lawyer would stay open until he got there.
Despite the offbeat hoof steps of his horse, there was a gentle cadence to his thoughts, allowing all manners of things to enter. Scott went back in his mind over the land grants and maps, how Murdoch must have felt when he and his new bride first saw Lancer. Were they disheartened, or too thrilled at leaving the past behind to be bothered with the inconvenience of a house without a roof? The idea of happiness and loss were so keen and intertwined, he couldn’t think of it anymore. His mind moved on to presumed water rights and poor neighbors.
When Scott reached town and stopped at the lawyer’s shingle above the boardwalk, disquiet crawled through him. He identified it as Douglas Birch.
Dismounting, one single thought came to him: For two years now, he and Johnny had been at Lancer without any real dealings with the man. Odd.
As he sat in Jonas Griffith’s outer office, it occurred to Scott that if not for having to wait he would be riding snug behind a sea of tails and horns. Thank God for small favors.
Moving cattle didn’t particularly offend him, although from the foul smell and the taste of grit Scott doubted he would ever truly appreciate it. The fact that he had begun to form certain opinions about the work made the wait even more pleasant. He thought about the hundreds of things involved in pushing a few head of steers from one meadow to another and settled into the plump cushion of his chair, more than willing to make a mental list rather than actually do them.
Right between loading the fatback and beans for the midday meal and assigning the men their horses, Jonas hustled out of his office.
Scott amused himself by thinking about Jonas on a horse. Here was a sensible feet-on the-ground lawyer. His charcoal suit was tailored, right down to the neat corner of the white handkerchief peeping out of the breast pocket. Ruffles and plaid stopped by to pay a brief visit in homage to a poorly prepared first visit out West, then fled with visions of fatback and remudas. Scott stood, swiped across a thigh to remove lingering dust and wished he’d worn clean boots.
Griffith hooked a thumb around his coat lapel and smiled. “Lancer dirt not sitting too well?”
He gave his hand to the lawyer’s beefy, dry grasp. “At the moment, sitting too well for my liking.”
Jonas’s smile quivered with bonhomie under the wire rims of his spectacles. “Oh, come on, Scott. A little hard work never hurt anyone.”
“So sayeth the man who hasn’t done any. Hard work, that is.” Jonas managed an affronted look while he ran his hand down the smooth lapel of his coat. Scott envisioned him standing before the jury box. All the flash and dazzle worthy of an Othello in the new Green River repertoire company.
“Speaking of work, I have the document from Judge Lawton. Signed and sealed. Took me an extra day to track him down in the next county.”
Interest piqued. “On horseback?”
He was peered at over spectacles, eyebrows fully arched. “Surely you jest. Buggy, of course. With a high-stepping Morgan to boot.”
“Of course.”
Jonas headed for his office and crooked a finger for Scott to follow. An envelope lay on the lawyer’s desk.
“Here’s the injunction for Birch to cease and desist, and the original diseño. You retain the land and mineral rights on your northern pasture area for now.”
“Including the water?”
“Specifically mentioned. In paragraph four, I believe. The Birch ranch can’t move a toe in that direction until the judge makes a final ruling.”
As he studied the documents, Scott thought of the potential improvements that could be made with the water. Maybe sustaining Lancer would be good enough—for now. Their father expressed interest in expansion, a future beyond a few Palominos and cows, but it had to be done at his own pace. Cows now, perhaps crops of some sort later. The problem came when Scott and Johnny couldn’t figure out whether to trot or gallop.
“I know why Lancer needed those rights ironed out. It’s a shame about Doug Birch, though.”
“What makes you say that?”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned after law school, it’s that there are always two sides to the story. It occurred to me that that Birch and Lancer both look to succeed. Put yourself in his place. What would you have done if the ruling went the other way?”
It gave him pause and he didn’t have an answer. “The rights to it are Lancer’s based on Murdoch’s old Mexican deed; Birch was the poacher.”
“Before I warn you about horses and carts, let me say I see your point, Scott, but Birch doesn’t.”
“And?”
Jonas shrugged. “The law may be on your side, but Birch is the kind of man who knows what he wants and fights to take it.”
“Murdoch and he knew each other a long time ago, from what I’ve been told.” Little enough at this point and he wondered just what Murdoch held back.
“Sometimes neighbors make the worst enemies.”
Folding the papers back into the envelope gave Scott something to do while he considered Jonas’s words. He worried he judged Birch for attempting to do the same thing as Lancer—advance, grow.
He stood and glanced at Jonas who watched him, open-faced. Then Jonas quirked his eyebrows together above his spectacles in a way only he and an earnest spaniel could manage. A signal of sorts, telling Scott he worried.
Scott pushed the pouch into his coat pocket and shook the lawyer’s hand. “Come out to the ranch, we’ll make a real worker out of you.”
Jonas visibly shuddered. “No thanks, I have all the work I need here.” He glanced towards the window, his grin fading. “The saloon keeps me busy enough.”
Scott smiled. “What was it you said? It’s all about location.”
“Yes, well, even I can be wrong sometimes. Especially when the resident Beethoven starts pounding the keys during the third stanza of Sweet Betsey. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind it if he just played in pitch.”
*****
Reins lax, Scott wiped his right hand free of sweat on his trouser leg. Another half mile along and he passed off public land, realized he was frowning. The shadows he saw a few miles out of Green River must have been part of his imagination, beckoned no doubt by Jonas’s dire warnings.
He had no intention other than home when he rode out of town, but instead found himself at the grassy area of dispute. Dismounting, he walked to the sign Johnny and he had placed the day before.
Such a pretty piece of land to be juggled back and forth like a magician’s rubber balls. The entrance, if Scott could call it that, ran under a giant poplar which dipped its roots into the tributary. He looked out over the acres lying close to the creek and its shale-studded banks to the rounded foothills. A line of river willows and oaks started at one end, hopscotching their way into a thick forest, almost a mile wide. The land was rich here. The creek itself wide and full from recent rain, white whorls of water tumbling into each other.
Across the creek bed, Birch had driven in another wagon, tarped and ready. Something to tell Murdoch when Scott arrived home. Looking upwards, the sun was blotted out by thick, heavy clouds—the creek was about to get another dosing, and so was he. The promised cold front had finally settled in. He buttoned up his jacket, feeling the first drops hit his face.
A terrific rise in wind ripped through the site, uprooting the sign, and sent it cartwheeling sideways down the creek. The rain fell heavier as Scott ran for his horse. The wind tore his hat away, his eyes smarting from the pelting drops and slowing him down.
A sharp echo of gun pierced through the noise, made Scott stutter step to the left when a bullet plowed into the muddy ground. His horse bolted and he spun around to look. With limited visibility, he could see two riders coming from the vicinity of the Birch ranch, their weather-nervous horses fractious. Didn’t stop the second shot his way, this one burning alongside his boot. He pulled his gun and ran.
Lightning cracked, sent a wide shot of yellow arcing across the dark sky. He wheeled about, bolting for the band of trees near the creek.
Scott felt a swooping sense of danger, knew his luck had run out right there.
The lightning sizzled again, and the hair on his arms went en pointe. Then a horrifying explosion as the tree in front of him cracked in two, bursting into flame.
Breathing raw, he jagged away from the fire. Felt the temperature drop and drop and smelled, above the odor of his own fear, the scent of ozone and creosote, sinking into his wet skin. With an effort, he turned his head to see the men, mere shadows in sheets of rain.
More thunder prickled his ears, sent a vibration into his head. Between one second and the next, the ground moved. Or maybe he had. Dizziness swept over, threatened to topple him.
His world burst in a flash of white light, sound dying with it.
Everything spun when he blinked his eyes open. He closed them quickly, waiting for it to stop. Felt as though his brain had been skewered. He couldn’t focus on anything, just buried himself in the sound of distant heavy rumbles. Rumbles? Where was the rain? All around him, a bright yellow, like any fine cloudless afternoon. He listened to his own breathing for a while, staring at the clear day, trying to piece together fragments of thoughts. A sick feeling came over him as he stumbled.
He didn’t know where he was.
The rumbles were coming closer. Startling, not unlike a train, and he wondered for a moment if he’d somehow wandered down to some tracks, unbeknownst. But no, the staccato resolved itself into something else, and Scott turned, astonished, to see a railless locomotive barreling towards him, trailing smoke from its tail.
He clutched his gun, not willing to let go of his only weapon as the thing smashed against his hip. He went up and over, landing in a heap at the foot of it, air driven from his lungs.
There was a slap of metal, the sound of footfalls. He looked wildly around for Birch and his men while trying to make his lungs work. Groaning, he rolled over, his elbow hit something hard, and he tried to pretend he didn’t care. But he did.
He cared because it was all so wrong, because this wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
A woman stared at him with worried pale eyes and soft hair that fell to her shoulders. Scott repressed a shudder—what he saw was out of place. He wasn’t scared, not of a woman or her…he flicked his eyes to the piece of shiny metal that hit him…machine. His fingers tightened on the gun, every muscle singing. He scrabbled to one knee, forcing his lungs to take air.
She was saying something, he saw her flail her arms and her mouth was moving, but it was all so removed, might as well have been underwater. The ringing in his ears helped disguise the thunderous sound coming from the machine, but he could only ignore that for so long.
The day was hot, he realized, blinking something warm out of his left eye. He swallowed, a tendril of fear making its way into the back of his throat, felt pain in his head and side. Where were the men?
He sat, so sudden it surprised him, and pulled the gun across his lap. The gun barrel was warm and he wondered if he could even squeeze the trigger now. A touch on his shoulder, bearing the unwelcomed weight and warmth of a hand, had Scott turning his head.
He met her eyes, tried to wink away the black spots and wanted to tell her that—
Chapter Two
