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Lancer Fic: Past Forward 2/10
Chapter Two
Cursing, in a soft feminine voice, then a shout in a not-so-soft feminine voice threatened to take his head off.
“Will!”
Scott hoped Will came soon. He couldn’t take another yell.
“Oh shit. Sorry. Didn’t think.”
His couldn’t hold his head up. Eyes wouldn’t focus. Nausea threatened to overtake him. Nothing felt right. Smelled right. Smooth fabric vibrated under his hands that stopped along with the rumbling noise.
“Abby?”
“Help me. I hit him.”
“Hit him?”
“With the Jeep, I kind of hit him.”
“You don’t bring him here, you get him to a hospital!”
No, not that.
“See, he doesn’t want to go.”
He said that out loud?
“You hit him. He’s not thinking straight.” Hands cupped his face.
Lancer.
“Yes, this is Lancer. Hold on, son, let me get a look at you.”
Murdoch.
The hands on his face stilled.
“Did he say Murdoch?” It was the woman.
“Could be, but right now it would be best to get him inside.”
“Ahhh… how are we going to do that?”
“What’s going on?”
“Dad! Thank God. I’ve hit someone. We need help getting him in the house.”
“We need to get him to a hospital.”
“We’ve had that conversation. He doesn’t want to go and since I hit him, I don’t feel it’s my place to dictate what he should do.”
His head hurt. At least when he opened his eyes this time, the world had stopped moving so fast it blurred. Blue eyes peered down at him.
“Johnny.”
No, no. Not right. Wrong color hair, but the eyes.
“I’m Christopher John. Do I know you?”
“No….” Who were these people? He turned his aching head carefully. The hacienda, but not the hacienda. He blinked several times to clear his sight. Calloused hands gripped his jaw and the blue eyes looked into his, gaze intense.
“His pupils are dilated. He really should go to the ER.”
Eee-are? Scott pushed at the hands.
“Chris, I think he’s afraid.” The old man. Smaller in stature, but bearing the same type of authority that Murdoch commanded.
Fingers brushed the side of his head setting off a streak of fire. He pulled away.
“He was right there, Dad. All of a sudden, I never saw him!”
“Abby, breathe.”
He heard an audible intake of air, then the slow release of that breath.
“I hit him. I hit a person with my jeep,” the woman said in a slow measured tone. “I could’ve killed him.”
Scott heard the guilt-fear and lifted a hand towards her. Wasn’t her fault.
A watery laugh and slender fingers wrapped around his. “You’re a nice man. Dad, you know enough what to watch for, right?” Abby, she had to be Abby, said. “I’d feel better if we could look after him.”
Pause.
“Chris, I think he should stay.”
Scott focused enough to see Chris’s curious look at the older man and nod. Relief made him weak. He didn’t want to go to eee-are.
Hacienda or not-quite-hacienda, this was still home.
*****
Quiet. Faint light. Scott breathed in a sigh of relief, aware of the headache. Mild. Not the all-consuming pain of before. He didn’t move, wary it would return. Trouble was, he wasn’t the type to stay down when he should and the room was familiar, but not his own.
Why wouldn’t he be in his own bedroom?
Starting with his legs, he eased them out beneath the covers, then tackled raising his head, propping himself up by an elbow.
The dizziness manageable, he sat up, letting the room settle into the recognizable lines of the guest room on the ground floor.
It didn’t look the same.
The bureau did, and he rose to his feet, gripping the bedpost as he got his legs under him.
Naked.
Where were his clothes?
Dragging the coverlet off the bed, he cocooned himself, and headed for the bureau. His goal the photographs he could see placed on its surface.
Confusion. Because it was Johnny.
While he was reluctant to let the light in that he could see peeking between the curtains, he needed to see the photograph clearly.
Compromising, he took hold of the frame and with it, moved the curtain aside.
Johnny with a toddler on his knee and a smile at odds with the stiff photographs Scott remembered.
An older Johnny, with deeper crinkles around his eyes, and a sense of contentment Scott didn’t see in his brother, but felt at the end of the work day with the sun heavy on the western horizon.
The toddler had Johnny’s smile.
Icy shock swept over him, and he stumbled back to the bureau.
Murdoch, much older, a sense of melancholy so evident Scott’s stomach twisted. He ran his fingers over the glass surface wondering what could’ve made his father look that way.
Wasn’t right. Nothing felt right, and where did the hum come from? Green light from the bedside.
4:28 PM.
The time in lights, lending the room a green hue.
His head gave an angry pulse. Fear had his muscles locking, stressing an already bruised body. He tried to remember if he’d had a dream so vivid the pain carried through. He didn’t dismiss the possibility, because to accept he wasn’t dreaming led to more frightening avenues. Ones he couldn’t even begin to guess at.
A murmur of voices caught his attention. The bedroom door was ajar. Clutching the blanket, he cast around for his clothing. Nothing.
A brief search of the bureau revealed old linens, books, and papers musty with age. The wardrobe, coats of an unfamiliar style, of no use to him, but scented pleasantly of lavender.
Nothing left to do but to keep the blanket and find his strange hosts.
The familiar and unfamiliar struck him again as he stepped into the hallway. If it weren’t for the photographs, he’d swear this was a duplicate of Lancer decorated differently to accommodate different tastes.
The ever-present hum was stronger beyond the guest room. So were the voices. From the way they carried, he knew they originated from the great room.
Scott’s hip protested the walk. Laying a hand over the bone, he could feel the heat and hoped to work the ache out. It would only stiffen up if he remained in bed. Given his unease, he wouldn’t allow it.
One hand trailed over the wall and he marveled at the colors so intense, but muted at the same time. Never had he seen such shades of greens and tans, colors of the outdoors lending themselves to offer the same soothing combination indoors. A mind-boggling difference from the whitewashed walls he knew.
Walls of fire-kilned adobe and hardwood. Built to last.
Out of habit, Scott avoided the creaky board in the hallway, then stopped. If this wasn’t Lancer surely the floor would be different. Nerve threatening to fail him, he stepped back.
Squawk.
No.
Heart hammering, he stared down at bare toes and polished wood, fighting the urge to run. The fact he didn’t know where he could run stopped him as much as the lack of clothes.
“Hey, you’re up.” Abby. Her name was Abby. “You gotta watch out for that board. Used to give me away before I learned to avoid it.”
Ask.
“Where am I?”
“You’re at Lancer, a ranch not far from Green River.”
Lancer. Not dreaming.
“I don’t think you should be up. Dad!”
Scott’s heart leaped at the shout, hands gripped his arm.
“Abby?”
“He went really white all of a sudden.”
Those blue eyes looking into his again. “What are you doing up? Let’s get you to the couch.”
Strong, capable hands on each side steered him into the great room to an unfamiliar leather couch where another couch was supposed to be.
Lancer. This was Lancer. Not one he knew.
“Perhaps we should take him to get checked out.” The old man said, meeting Scott’s eyes. “I know we said we wouldn’t, but not a one of us would forgive ourselves if there was something seriously wrong.”
Wrong? Where would he start?
“No, I’m all right. Just moved too fast.” He didn’t want to leave. A very real fear rooted deep inside that if he left, he’d never find his way back.
“Can you tell us your name?” Chris sat down on the coffee table in front of him, those eyes so damn familiar.
Fear or self-preservation kicked in. He didn’t know for certain which, but he couldn’t tell the truth since he really didn’t know what that was. “Scott.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Scott Garrett.”
“I’m Chris Lancer.” Chris indicated the older man. “This is William Lancer, my uncle, and beside you is Abigail Lancer, my daughter. Welcome to our home.”
Scott twisted his hands so hard in the blanket the fibers squeaked. “It is nice to meet all of you.”
“Under normal circumstances, I’d believe that. I’m truly sorry, Scott.” Abigail sat beside him on the couch. “I’m not sure how you came to be on the road, but I’m so sorry I hit you.”
“Forgiven. I doubt you make a habit of it.” The words slipped out without him thinking of them, but given her laughter, he was glad to have said them.
“No, I do not. You’re the first. Hopefully the last.” She smiled, and Scott blinked. A little bit of Johnny came through that smile.
*****
The late afternoon spat of rain left everything on Lancer that was colored green so much greener it hurt your eyes to look at it; the rest though, was just mud brown. The in-between stuff that clung to your boots but not heavy enough to actually need a scraper. The cows they moved didn’t appreciate the fine weather, especially the heavy thunder up north. Johnny knew a few would scatter when it started, but thankfully the brunt of the storm had passed on by.
Given two minutes, he’d just lie down, right there between the stall and the water bucket, grimy green from the slobber of too many animals. Lie down in twenty kinds of bugs and dirt and just sleep. That led to thoughts of horses and that meant more work. Instead, he walked out and hooked a foot on the bottom slat of the fence, content to watch Teresa work the newest pony in the damp corral. Johnny had been sore before, but not like this. Not in a good damn while. A spasm worked its way across his back and he grimaced.
She worked the mare in a tight circle with the lead rope. “Johnny, you could come give me a hand.”
The horse stood fifteen hands high, full of sass, and kind of like Teresa herself. “Now why would I want to do that?”
“Because I saw you when Cipriano brought them in from the range. Like a dog going after a meat bone.”
“I wasn’t that bad. And you should rub her down with a burlap bag or some grass, get her used to things. ”
She raised an eyebrow, nodded, then slowed the mare to a stop. “I thought you didn’t want to help. And it was bad. Scott said we should set your bed up in the pasture so you could watch them all night.”
Well, they were a pretty bunch. He dropped his chin on the top rail. “Where is he, anyhow?”
“I thought he was working cattle with you and the crew.”
“Didn’t see fit to get his boots dirty this afternoon. We tossed a coin for the lawyer and he won. Something was up with that toss, no one is that lucky.”
She pulled in her lower lip and barely stopped a chuckle. “You had to drive all those cattle shorthanded? He’s not home. I’ve been out here for a good couple of hours and haven’t seen him.”
“I hope he didn’t think about staying in town with Jonas, because that’ll just force me to ride in and drag him back home. We lost a few cows when the rain hit, down on the eastern slope. Nice and bogged up. Tomorrow they’re all his.”
He unhooked his leg and climbed over the railing. Caught up the lead line and rubbed his hand over the mare’s fine nose when she lipped his sleeve. “Where’s Murdoch?”
She gestured in a vague direction of the hacienda. “He’s there, probably looking over his papers again.”
Johnny’s gaze shifted from horse to the house. The short walk seemed to stretch for miles.
Teresa reached for the rope. “And, Johnny, don’t go baiting the bear.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Uh-huh. He’s pretty growly.”
“Bear-baiting? Well, it’s a good thing we only have one dog, and a lazy one at that.” He said it with a smile, but Johnny wasn’t sure when Murdoch had slipped into this mood, maybe after the last ride to the lawyer’s. He took his time getting to the front door.
He walked into the kitchen aware that his clothes were wrinkled and soiled from the day’s work. Between the front door and Murdoch’s office he stopped, listened for his father, and in a moment heard the scrape of the coffee pot on the stove.
“Murdoch?”
The scraping stopped, and there was silence for bit as though his father was gauging what words to say. Then, “Here!”
Murdoch looked up when he entered. “Saw the clouds and rain out your way; everything go all right with the drive?”
“ 'Bout as well as can be expected. We lost a few head when they hightailed it for the brakes, but I suppose we’ll find’ em tomorrow. Most of the storm went up north; Green River probably caught hell.”
Johnny went to the cupboard, pulled out a cup and waited as Murdoch poured.
“I got the message from Cipriano; did Scott come back with you?”
Johnny wrapped his hand around the cup, feeling its warmth seep into his cold fingers, and settled his forearms on the smooth table. “Nope, haven’t seen him since he lit out for town to see Jonas. He might’ve got held up with the rain.”
Murdoch’s shoulders sagged. “Do you want something to eat?”
“No. No, I’m fine.”
Unanswered questions flopped about on the table like catfish left on the bank. Johnny tried to ignore them, stepped up, danced back. In the quiet, he could hear Murdoch take long methodical swallows. He was never a man for letting a cup go cold. Johnny leaned back, letting the chair hold him.
“Murdoch?” he asked, hating the pinched look on his father’s face. “What’s goin’ on between you and Birch?”
Murdoch ran his finger along the rim of his cup, once, then twice. “Doug Birch came out here more than twenty-five years ago, around the start of the annexation from Mexico, with nothing except hard work and grit. Back then it was easy to be neighbors. Hard to say this now, but we found happiness in our lack.”
Murdoch’s expression changed. It looked to Johnny something like anger, and he frowned. “There’s somethin’ else you’re not telling.”
“Sometimes I wonder what drives Douglas, whether it’s greed… or envy. He was what you’d call dashing back in the day, had a way of talking that captured a woman’s eye.”
Murdoch’s face was a study of shadow and planes and angles.
“I always thought he was so agreeable because of her.” Murdoch was utterly calm, as though he’d rehearsed the words a hundred times. “He made an overture to Scott’s mother, once, while I was away.”
Johnny sat very still, tried to keep— embarrassment or anger?—at bay. He couldn’t imagine it. Or rather, he could. Husband gone, Scott's mother all alone on a big ranch.
“Thank God for Paul O’Brien. He heard the conversation. Heard the slap. Birch was escorted off Lancer.”
Johnny smiled. The lady had backbone. He tried to imagine Birch’s surprise and that made him smile harder.
Murdoch’s palm came down flat on the table, jiggling the cups a little. “That was a long time ago. Birch went back east for quite a while, then reappeared when the land was in danger from Pardee, shortly before you two came. He’s been working it ever since.”
“So that’s why you were lookin’ that way the other day when Scott mentioned he’d been talking to Birch.”
“Did Scott say anything?”
“No, not yet. But he’s thinking and I expect he’ll get around to it. Would’ve been easier if you told him right off.”
Murdoch knuckled his eyes, suddenly weary. “A lot of things would have been easier.”
Teresa burst in through the kitchen doorway, boots thudding on the tile. Her eyes flicked between Johnny and Murdoch. “His horse is outside, just standing by the corral.” She took in a shuddering breath. “But I can’t find Scott.”
Chapter Three
Cursing, in a soft feminine voice, then a shout in a not-so-soft feminine voice threatened to take his head off.
“Will!”
Scott hoped Will came soon. He couldn’t take another yell.
“Oh shit. Sorry. Didn’t think.”
His couldn’t hold his head up. Eyes wouldn’t focus. Nausea threatened to overtake him. Nothing felt right. Smelled right. Smooth fabric vibrated under his hands that stopped along with the rumbling noise.
“Abby?”
“Help me. I hit him.”
“Hit him?”
“With the Jeep, I kind of hit him.”
“You don’t bring him here, you get him to a hospital!”
No, not that.
“See, he doesn’t want to go.”
He said that out loud?
“You hit him. He’s not thinking straight.” Hands cupped his face.
Lancer.
“Yes, this is Lancer. Hold on, son, let me get a look at you.”
Murdoch.
The hands on his face stilled.
“Did he say Murdoch?” It was the woman.
“Could be, but right now it would be best to get him inside.”
“Ahhh… how are we going to do that?”
“What’s going on?”
“Dad! Thank God. I’ve hit someone. We need help getting him in the house.”
“We need to get him to a hospital.”
“We’ve had that conversation. He doesn’t want to go and since I hit him, I don’t feel it’s my place to dictate what he should do.”
His head hurt. At least when he opened his eyes this time, the world had stopped moving so fast it blurred. Blue eyes peered down at him.
“Johnny.”
No, no. Not right. Wrong color hair, but the eyes.
“I’m Christopher John. Do I know you?”
“No….” Who were these people? He turned his aching head carefully. The hacienda, but not the hacienda. He blinked several times to clear his sight. Calloused hands gripped his jaw and the blue eyes looked into his, gaze intense.
“His pupils are dilated. He really should go to the ER.”
Eee-are? Scott pushed at the hands.
“Chris, I think he’s afraid.” The old man. Smaller in stature, but bearing the same type of authority that Murdoch commanded.
Fingers brushed the side of his head setting off a streak of fire. He pulled away.
“He was right there, Dad. All of a sudden, I never saw him!”
“Abby, breathe.”
He heard an audible intake of air, then the slow release of that breath.
“I hit him. I hit a person with my jeep,” the woman said in a slow measured tone. “I could’ve killed him.”
Scott heard the guilt-fear and lifted a hand towards her. Wasn’t her fault.
A watery laugh and slender fingers wrapped around his. “You’re a nice man. Dad, you know enough what to watch for, right?” Abby, she had to be Abby, said. “I’d feel better if we could look after him.”
Pause.
“Chris, I think he should stay.”
Scott focused enough to see Chris’s curious look at the older man and nod. Relief made him weak. He didn’t want to go to eee-are.
Hacienda or not-quite-hacienda, this was still home.
*****
Quiet. Faint light. Scott breathed in a sigh of relief, aware of the headache. Mild. Not the all-consuming pain of before. He didn’t move, wary it would return. Trouble was, he wasn’t the type to stay down when he should and the room was familiar, but not his own.
Why wouldn’t he be in his own bedroom?
Starting with his legs, he eased them out beneath the covers, then tackled raising his head, propping himself up by an elbow.
The dizziness manageable, he sat up, letting the room settle into the recognizable lines of the guest room on the ground floor.
It didn’t look the same.
The bureau did, and he rose to his feet, gripping the bedpost as he got his legs under him.
Naked.
Where were his clothes?
Dragging the coverlet off the bed, he cocooned himself, and headed for the bureau. His goal the photographs he could see placed on its surface.
Confusion. Because it was Johnny.
While he was reluctant to let the light in that he could see peeking between the curtains, he needed to see the photograph clearly.
Compromising, he took hold of the frame and with it, moved the curtain aside.
Johnny with a toddler on his knee and a smile at odds with the stiff photographs Scott remembered.
An older Johnny, with deeper crinkles around his eyes, and a sense of contentment Scott didn’t see in his brother, but felt at the end of the work day with the sun heavy on the western horizon.
The toddler had Johnny’s smile.
Icy shock swept over him, and he stumbled back to the bureau.
Murdoch, much older, a sense of melancholy so evident Scott’s stomach twisted. He ran his fingers over the glass surface wondering what could’ve made his father look that way.
Wasn’t right. Nothing felt right, and where did the hum come from? Green light from the bedside.
4:28 PM.
The time in lights, lending the room a green hue.
His head gave an angry pulse. Fear had his muscles locking, stressing an already bruised body. He tried to remember if he’d had a dream so vivid the pain carried through. He didn’t dismiss the possibility, because to accept he wasn’t dreaming led to more frightening avenues. Ones he couldn’t even begin to guess at.
A murmur of voices caught his attention. The bedroom door was ajar. Clutching the blanket, he cast around for his clothing. Nothing.
A brief search of the bureau revealed old linens, books, and papers musty with age. The wardrobe, coats of an unfamiliar style, of no use to him, but scented pleasantly of lavender.
Nothing left to do but to keep the blanket and find his strange hosts.
The familiar and unfamiliar struck him again as he stepped into the hallway. If it weren’t for the photographs, he’d swear this was a duplicate of Lancer decorated differently to accommodate different tastes.
The ever-present hum was stronger beyond the guest room. So were the voices. From the way they carried, he knew they originated from the great room.
Scott’s hip protested the walk. Laying a hand over the bone, he could feel the heat and hoped to work the ache out. It would only stiffen up if he remained in bed. Given his unease, he wouldn’t allow it.
One hand trailed over the wall and he marveled at the colors so intense, but muted at the same time. Never had he seen such shades of greens and tans, colors of the outdoors lending themselves to offer the same soothing combination indoors. A mind-boggling difference from the whitewashed walls he knew.
Walls of fire-kilned adobe and hardwood. Built to last.
Out of habit, Scott avoided the creaky board in the hallway, then stopped. If this wasn’t Lancer surely the floor would be different. Nerve threatening to fail him, he stepped back.
Squawk.
No.
Heart hammering, he stared down at bare toes and polished wood, fighting the urge to run. The fact he didn’t know where he could run stopped him as much as the lack of clothes.
“Hey, you’re up.” Abby. Her name was Abby. “You gotta watch out for that board. Used to give me away before I learned to avoid it.”
Ask.
“Where am I?”
“You’re at Lancer, a ranch not far from Green River.”
Lancer. Not dreaming.
“I don’t think you should be up. Dad!”
Scott’s heart leaped at the shout, hands gripped his arm.
“Abby?”
“He went really white all of a sudden.”
Those blue eyes looking into his again. “What are you doing up? Let’s get you to the couch.”
Strong, capable hands on each side steered him into the great room to an unfamiliar leather couch where another couch was supposed to be.
Lancer. This was Lancer. Not one he knew.
“Perhaps we should take him to get checked out.” The old man said, meeting Scott’s eyes. “I know we said we wouldn’t, but not a one of us would forgive ourselves if there was something seriously wrong.”
Wrong? Where would he start?
“No, I’m all right. Just moved too fast.” He didn’t want to leave. A very real fear rooted deep inside that if he left, he’d never find his way back.
“Can you tell us your name?” Chris sat down on the coffee table in front of him, those eyes so damn familiar.
Fear or self-preservation kicked in. He didn’t know for certain which, but he couldn’t tell the truth since he really didn’t know what that was. “Scott.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Scott Garrett.”
“I’m Chris Lancer.” Chris indicated the older man. “This is William Lancer, my uncle, and beside you is Abigail Lancer, my daughter. Welcome to our home.”
Scott twisted his hands so hard in the blanket the fibers squeaked. “It is nice to meet all of you.”
“Under normal circumstances, I’d believe that. I’m truly sorry, Scott.” Abigail sat beside him on the couch. “I’m not sure how you came to be on the road, but I’m so sorry I hit you.”
“Forgiven. I doubt you make a habit of it.” The words slipped out without him thinking of them, but given her laughter, he was glad to have said them.
“No, I do not. You’re the first. Hopefully the last.” She smiled, and Scott blinked. A little bit of Johnny came through that smile.
*****
The late afternoon spat of rain left everything on Lancer that was colored green so much greener it hurt your eyes to look at it; the rest though, was just mud brown. The in-between stuff that clung to your boots but not heavy enough to actually need a scraper. The cows they moved didn’t appreciate the fine weather, especially the heavy thunder up north. Johnny knew a few would scatter when it started, but thankfully the brunt of the storm had passed on by.
Given two minutes, he’d just lie down, right there between the stall and the water bucket, grimy green from the slobber of too many animals. Lie down in twenty kinds of bugs and dirt and just sleep. That led to thoughts of horses and that meant more work. Instead, he walked out and hooked a foot on the bottom slat of the fence, content to watch Teresa work the newest pony in the damp corral. Johnny had been sore before, but not like this. Not in a good damn while. A spasm worked its way across his back and he grimaced.
She worked the mare in a tight circle with the lead rope. “Johnny, you could come give me a hand.”
The horse stood fifteen hands high, full of sass, and kind of like Teresa herself. “Now why would I want to do that?”
“Because I saw you when Cipriano brought them in from the range. Like a dog going after a meat bone.”
“I wasn’t that bad. And you should rub her down with a burlap bag or some grass, get her used to things. ”
She raised an eyebrow, nodded, then slowed the mare to a stop. “I thought you didn’t want to help. And it was bad. Scott said we should set your bed up in the pasture so you could watch them all night.”
Well, they were a pretty bunch. He dropped his chin on the top rail. “Where is he, anyhow?”
“I thought he was working cattle with you and the crew.”
“Didn’t see fit to get his boots dirty this afternoon. We tossed a coin for the lawyer and he won. Something was up with that toss, no one is that lucky.”
She pulled in her lower lip and barely stopped a chuckle. “You had to drive all those cattle shorthanded? He’s not home. I’ve been out here for a good couple of hours and haven’t seen him.”
“I hope he didn’t think about staying in town with Jonas, because that’ll just force me to ride in and drag him back home. We lost a few cows when the rain hit, down on the eastern slope. Nice and bogged up. Tomorrow they’re all his.”
He unhooked his leg and climbed over the railing. Caught up the lead line and rubbed his hand over the mare’s fine nose when she lipped his sleeve. “Where’s Murdoch?”
She gestured in a vague direction of the hacienda. “He’s there, probably looking over his papers again.”
Johnny’s gaze shifted from horse to the house. The short walk seemed to stretch for miles.
Teresa reached for the rope. “And, Johnny, don’t go baiting the bear.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Uh-huh. He’s pretty growly.”
“Bear-baiting? Well, it’s a good thing we only have one dog, and a lazy one at that.” He said it with a smile, but Johnny wasn’t sure when Murdoch had slipped into this mood, maybe after the last ride to the lawyer’s. He took his time getting to the front door.
He walked into the kitchen aware that his clothes were wrinkled and soiled from the day’s work. Between the front door and Murdoch’s office he stopped, listened for his father, and in a moment heard the scrape of the coffee pot on the stove.
“Murdoch?”
The scraping stopped, and there was silence for bit as though his father was gauging what words to say. Then, “Here!”
Murdoch looked up when he entered. “Saw the clouds and rain out your way; everything go all right with the drive?”
“ 'Bout as well as can be expected. We lost a few head when they hightailed it for the brakes, but I suppose we’ll find’ em tomorrow. Most of the storm went up north; Green River probably caught hell.”
Johnny went to the cupboard, pulled out a cup and waited as Murdoch poured.
“I got the message from Cipriano; did Scott come back with you?”
Johnny wrapped his hand around the cup, feeling its warmth seep into his cold fingers, and settled his forearms on the smooth table. “Nope, haven’t seen him since he lit out for town to see Jonas. He might’ve got held up with the rain.”
Murdoch’s shoulders sagged. “Do you want something to eat?”
“No. No, I’m fine.”
Unanswered questions flopped about on the table like catfish left on the bank. Johnny tried to ignore them, stepped up, danced back. In the quiet, he could hear Murdoch take long methodical swallows. He was never a man for letting a cup go cold. Johnny leaned back, letting the chair hold him.
“Murdoch?” he asked, hating the pinched look on his father’s face. “What’s goin’ on between you and Birch?”
Murdoch ran his finger along the rim of his cup, once, then twice. “Doug Birch came out here more than twenty-five years ago, around the start of the annexation from Mexico, with nothing except hard work and grit. Back then it was easy to be neighbors. Hard to say this now, but we found happiness in our lack.”
Murdoch’s expression changed. It looked to Johnny something like anger, and he frowned. “There’s somethin’ else you’re not telling.”
“Sometimes I wonder what drives Douglas, whether it’s greed… or envy. He was what you’d call dashing back in the day, had a way of talking that captured a woman’s eye.”
Murdoch’s face was a study of shadow and planes and angles.
“I always thought he was so agreeable because of her.” Murdoch was utterly calm, as though he’d rehearsed the words a hundred times. “He made an overture to Scott’s mother, once, while I was away.”
Johnny sat very still, tried to keep— embarrassment or anger?—at bay. He couldn’t imagine it. Or rather, he could. Husband gone, Scott's mother all alone on a big ranch.
“Thank God for Paul O’Brien. He heard the conversation. Heard the slap. Birch was escorted off Lancer.”
Johnny smiled. The lady had backbone. He tried to imagine Birch’s surprise and that made him smile harder.
Murdoch’s palm came down flat on the table, jiggling the cups a little. “That was a long time ago. Birch went back east for quite a while, then reappeared when the land was in danger from Pardee, shortly before you two came. He’s been working it ever since.”
“So that’s why you were lookin’ that way the other day when Scott mentioned he’d been talking to Birch.”
“Did Scott say anything?”
“No, not yet. But he’s thinking and I expect he’ll get around to it. Would’ve been easier if you told him right off.”
Murdoch knuckled his eyes, suddenly weary. “A lot of things would have been easier.”
Teresa burst in through the kitchen doorway, boots thudding on the tile. Her eyes flicked between Johnny and Murdoch. “His horse is outside, just standing by the corral.” She took in a shuddering breath. “But I can’t find Scott.”
Chapter Three