shallowz

Chapter Seven

There were fresh biscuits in the kitchen. Murdoch wriggled his hips in the big leather chair, coming up to a half sit, half slouch and breathed in the buttery-scented air. Breakfast. Five-thirty-six to be exact. He'd been watching the clock since three. He pushed himself out of the chair. Morning light made the great room visible again. Scott's hat lay upturned on the edge of the desk still. No one had thought to move it. The braided band was warped, the felt roughened with grime. The wet from the brim had puddled and formed a ring, now dried pale.

Yellow gloves, broken in and wrinkled, had been laid in the crown, one long finger slipping out to curl over the top. Scott had forgotten them that morning, left them folded on top of each other on the hallway table. When they brought the hat home, Johnny thought it looked odd without the gloves and said as much—so they were placed together.

Murdoch wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Almost twenty years ago and it still caused pain: he was supposed to get the ranch in order, grieve—always that—and he would get Scott back. Then the day had rolled around and Murdoch realized, sick, that he would never see the boy again.

Scott'll show up.

A wild fabrication and Murdoch knew it. The words held weight a few days ago, but now they rattled around in his head like thrown marbles. Scott could be anywhere and nowhere at the same time. Maybe lost—hopefully only lost—but this time Murdoch didn't know where he was and all he could do was look down gullies and search behind trees.

"Murdoch?"

"Yes, Teresa?"

"I've wrapped a breakfast for you, and one for Johnny, too."

"Wake him, would you?"

A scuffling noise made him turn. "No need, I'm awake." Johnny stood in the doorway, hands tucked into his belt, the same rumpled shirt he'd worn since Scott went missing. He hadn't slept, at least not well; there were shadows under his eyes, several days growth of jagged black beard.

Murdoch crossed over the great room to the tall mahogany cabinet nailed on the wall. He chose a fancily engraved rifle, its smooth barrel cool in his palm.

"Awful big rifle to be searching for a man. Where you goin' with that?"

Because Johnny was watching him in that way he had of appearing to not actually watch him, Murdoch nursed his actions, slowing to pull out a box of shells, trying to find the words. The last time he talked with Douglas Birch for any reasonable length of time had ended with fists thrown. And how long ago had that been? Over two decades.

"Teresa, has Cipriano left already?" Biding time, he had heard the rustle of men and horses at five.

"Why sure, you told them to be out by first light and they were."

Her hand fisted in her skirt, she glanced at the rifle, brought her eyes up to meet his. "And whatever you're going to do with that, well, I'm already missing Scott, I don't need you gone as well." Her jaw was set. "You'll find breakfast in your saddlebags."

It was a habit of Teresa's, much like her father, to read between the lines, straight and to the point. She gave one last look at the both of them and walked out.

Not so transparent with this son, he kept things hidden. Murdoch was struck, forcefully, by the feeling that he could lose Johnny too.

"You're going to Birch's."

He slapped the door to the gun cabinet closed with too much force; it missed the catch and bounced back into his hand. A box of shells was crammed into his breast pocket.

"Yes, I'm going to see Douglas Birch."

Johnny shook his head a bit, raised up both hands in a crude 'I give up' gesture. "Let me get my things."

"No."

His head came up then, in a swift arc.

"I want you to find Cipriano, work the crew towards the foothills then back down."

Johnny's jaw clenched and he sighed through his nose. "I guess it's my turn now. No. You can't outrun a bullet, Murdoch." Pointing it out like he hadn't thought it over once or twice or six times.

He just wanted it the way it was.

That's all he wanted. A long time since he prayed for that, and even as he prayed, he knew the wish was a mirage. Things being how they were, he couldn't help himself.

Murdoch took two steps, found his image in the mirror above the sideboard. Certain about what he wanted to do, wishing for Scott to walk through the door. Knew he might have to get used to it not happening.

Johnny shifted, his eyes softening, and then he was looking away too fast as happened at times, either too sad or too angry, and Murdoch braced himself for either because both reactions were too strong for their current frame of mind.

The pages of the original grants were scattered like birdseed across his desk. Hope was a vicious thing. "Okay," he said quietly, after a moment. "Okay."

~o~o~o~

Up to the north, trickling down from grey hulking ridges out through green foothills, the creek carved a line through Lancer. By the time it'd widened out into the valley, trees and yellow brush had populated its banks. There was still evidence of the storm, would be for months until it could repair itself.

Water, Murdoch thought, all this over a trickle of water.

The air was so much cooler nearer the foothills—the wind had steadily picked up since they'd left the stream. A second storm that hovered at a close distance since they'd left the hacienda was finally coming. Murdoch hoped it would hold until they got to the disputed land.

He called to Johnny, who was just over the edge of the clearing, his white and blue shirt the only thing that kept him from disappearing in the dark intricacies of willow branches and brush. Johnny waved without turning, intent on something, and Murdoch went back to looking past Toby's white fetlocks for any new signs.

The air had a chilly quality that made him shiver and reflexively hunch in on himself. He cocked his rifle, felt the wrongness in the pressure in his chest, and recognized it from the last time he and Johnny were here. Very slowly he turned in the saddle, swept the spot where Johnny was supposed to be, only to find it empty.

He almost called him, stopped, mouth hanging open, when he caught the movement way to his right, a deeper shadow against the darkness of the trees. A horse and rider. He realized he was in a bad position, too exposed, completely visible in the clearing.

Riding into the relative dark of the woods wouldn't cut it now, not when whoever was out there had already seen him. Murdoch strained his senses, tried to feel any movement, and caught a barely distinguishable brush of leaves in the way ahead. Still no sign of Johnny. He considered shouting for him, abandoned the idea just as soon as it came. More movement ahead, the position different. Circling.

He kicked Toby into a gallop, and the shadow moved, still hidden by the underbrush, but Murdoch caught the shape of an arm, something that looked like it, blurry with movement. Johnny couldn't be far. He bit down on the need to shout a warning.

A shout—then silence. Murdoch's heart dropped.

He kneed Toby forward leaving the clearing behind, towards a promontory. Straightening, he leveled the rifle. A few feet along, he heard Johnny's soft drawl before seeing him.

"Murdoch? There's someone here you'll want to talk to."

On the ground was a cowboy, hunched and breathing hard. The boy's head was tilted down, blood trickling from his mouth.

"Hicks works for Birch." Johnny twisted the boy's shirt and shook, forcing him to look up. In the shadows of the wood, he seemed about fourteen, but was probably closer to seventeen. "Should've watched your back door; someone could be gunnin' for you, especially since you're on Lancer."

Murdoch dismounted, saw something shiny beside his boot and swept his hand along the dirt. "These are shell casings for a fifty-two."

"Check his rifle, Murdoch."

"Those ain't mine. You gotta believe me!"

Murdoch took the rifle from its scabbard. "It's a forty-four Henry."

"What about it, Hicks?"

He shrugged. "Mr. Birch was boastin' about how he was gonna get the land. How it would be easy for the judge to decide and all. Like he had an ace up his sleeve or somethin'."

"Were you up here when the storm hit?"

His eyes flicked from Murdoch to Johnny and back again. "I might have been." He sucked in his bottom lip and chewed for bit. "But not when the shooting took place."

"We didn't ask about any shooting. Who owns the buffalo gun?"

Hicks stared at his hands, reaching for the words. "Kirby… and I… saw your brother in town leaving the lawyer's office. We told Birch and he said to follow 'em. We found him here, looking around. Kirby sent me back to talk to Birch and the next thing I know all hell broke loose with the storm and Kirby was firing."

"Did he shoot my brother?" Johnny shook him a second time, the boy's head bouncing like a rag doll.

"Mebbe. I don't know and that's the God's honest truth. It was pouring down, couldn't see my hand in front of my eyes. It's like one minute he was there and the next he wasn't. We figured he fell into the water—it was runnin' fast with the rain, and got pulled downstream."

"What did Birch say?"

"That no good would come of it. Told me to find the body, bring it to the ranch."

Murdoch started forward and the boy scooted back against a tree, eyes rounded. "Mister, I been out here every day since, combing that creek—I haven't found him. Maybe Kirby did, I don't know!"

A howl was somewhere inside him, but he didn't know how to release it.

"Tie him up. Make sure he stays put."

Johnny held him there, one hand planted in the middle of the Hicks's chest.

Hicks looked confused for a minute, then started to struggle. "Hey, you can't leave me here."

The look on Johnny's face shut the boy up.

~o~o~o~

From their spot on the small hillside, they had a limited view of across the creek. A man dismounted and walked over to the wagon. He was wearing a decrepit black hat but even at that distance Murdoch could see the straight carriage, the easy gait. Douglas Birch was difficult to forget.

Birch wasn't even trying to hide, and if Murdoch hadn't been so surprised to see him at the work site, he would have been incensed at his sheer gall. He was talking to a man in the wagon while another looked on, obviously on the way back to the main ranch or to town, judging from the wagon's emptiness.

They let the driver leave before slipping across the creek, following Birch to the ranch house.

Murdoch swallowed with some difficulty, felt heat creep up his neck. Everything hummed for a second and he pulled Toby back into a walk, dizzy with murder. Knew he had thrown off Johnny when his son side-eyed him and slowed down.

The man beside Birch saw them first, stared hard and bumped his boss's elbow, who altered his stance when he saw Murdoch. Something wasn't exactly right with him. Pale, sweating, more gray than tanned. Murdoch looked away first, found the cowhand had shortened his distance, but Johnny had him in sights.

Johnny leaned towards him. "One tied up, one here, and one gone. There's bound to more scattered around."

They dismounted. "Birch, I need to talk to you." His voice was harsh, unforgiving. Behind him, Johnny shifted.

"Easy," Johnny whispered, one hand coming to rest along Murdoch's arm.

In no mood, he recognized his anger when it came; he had a lot of practice over the years. A hot and fast burst of emotion until the last few years, a trait he shared with his older son. Johnny, on the other hand, was a slow burn that flared. But for wrongness like this, Murdoch's anger was deep and abiding, as much a part of him as his legs or arms.

Birch, face tense, smiled slowly. "It's all right; I have business with Mr. Lancer," and waved his man off to the porch.

Maybe five feet, that was all Birch would give him. Smart.

"Where," he growled, hands balled at his side, "is my son?"

The smile again, lopsided and sickly. Murdoch understood part of it; Johnny had his hand resting at his gun, the leather thong pulled off long before they reached Lancer's border.

Wouldn't be goaded, he had too much experience with anger, but he had to shove it down hard. "I asked you a question."

Birch took a shaky breath. "You want to kill me, because of Catherine's boy." His voice was flat as Tule Valley. A statement, not a question, but there was an undercurrent of…familiarity? Ownership?

Murdoch knocked away Johnny's cautioning arm, stepped in and swung a heavy work-hardened fist. Birch sprawled in the dirt.

"That first time I saw her, I knew." Birch's voice was a mere murmur, but it didn't need to be big because the courtyard amplified so much. He put a hand to his cheek, a bruise already starting to form. Though it took a while, he got to his feet. "I thought if I could just talk to her—it was so easy with other women. But Catherine wouldn't have me. Then I came back to California, learned she was dead, but found out that she had a son."

"So help me God," Murdoch whispered. Then his hands were on Birch's throat, pressing in hard, driving the blood into his face, bulging his eyes. Just as suddenly, he realized what he was doing and plucked his hands away.

Birch panted, fingered the two bright red handprints on his throat. A sheen of sweat pasted across his forehead. "Funny how we always want we can't have, isn't it, Murdoch? Something small that takes root and grows and fills until you can't stand it anymore. You understand, don't you?"

Murdoch tasted grit on his teeth, ran his tongue around to draw up some spit. "You're willing to kill for it?"

"I'm sorry." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Kirby got carried away…."

Their eyes met and something like a shadow passed over Birch's, a subtle change. A warning.

Chapter Eight