Lancer Fic: Past Forward 10/10

[shallowz]

 

Chapter Ten

Murdoch sat up in the sagging chair, a relic from Harlan Garrett and the big house by the bay, and kneaded his fingers into stiff muscles corded on either side of his neck. The room was filled with the in-between soft light of night's end and day's beginning.

As Murdoch stood, a well-thumbed copy of Moby Dick slid off his thigh, and a place marker—the folded, ragged deed they found in Scott's coat pocket—floated to the floor. He automatically stooped to get it, dizziness arresting his hand. A week flat out, more or less. Not good to move too fast.

He scuffed to the lamp and struck a match, lowering the wick until the faintest of flickers caught, grudgingly throwing out its brightness.

Scott was still in his clothes, sprawled on the bed, blanket half-wrapped around him, face buried in the pillow.

The smell of heaven in a cup wafted in with the light thuds of Johnny's boots.

"How's our boy? He awake yet?"

Murdoch shook his head. "I hope one of those is for me."

Johnny handed him a white mug, put the one marked with a red rose pattern on the bureau, and saved the third, an exotic-looking blue, for himself. He curled back against the wall and sipped. "Did you figure out who Chris and William are?"

"No. You?"

"No. He seemed pretty unhappy he couldn't find 'em a few hours ago, though."

Scott had talked about them. In his sleep, waking. What William would think. Betrayal and loss. Muttered about explosions of white. Caught in the whirlwind of a nightmare, most likely.

One boot slid up the wall and braced, the coffee cup lowered to his knee, and a soft drawl came out: "I thought it was buckshot in his back."

"No, not shot thank God, but something, just the same. The dynamite he keeps talking about, perhaps."

"I do know one thing, that stripe on his chest wasn't made by anything but a knife."

"Meaning?"

"Meanin' he had to be close to whoever did it."

"The men's names he said earlier?"

Johnny shrugged, pushed off and pulled the blanket straighter. As he touched him, Scott struggled, one hand just missed clipping Johnny's nose. Coffee sloshed and splattered over the throw rug.

"Jesus," Johnny swore quietly, and Scott burrowed himself into the pillow, one hand covering his head. Murdoch saw how bruised the knuckles were, recognized the signs of a brawl.

The aroma and steam from the cup held by Scott's nose eventually roused him to a sitting position. Wash cloths soaked in hot water cleaned the torn back and swollen cheek, the long cut on his chest already too set for stitches, the impressive hand-size purple-green bruise on his hip—a mess but nothing broken.

Scott remained silent, didn't wince, as they cleaned and rewrapped the bandages. Into himself. Thinking. Murdoch didn't know what to make of it. He'd patched up his son before, and Scott usually masked everything with a smile and pointed sarcasm. This was different, not right.

"What happened?" Murdoch pushed the bloodied bowl of water to the back of the stand.

Scott, whey-faced, looked at the cup of black coffee in his hands. He shook his head so slightly Murdoch could barely see it, let alone decipher it.

"The bruise on your hip is old, but those wounds on your back are new." Murdoch's mouth compressed into a thin line despite his best efforts to keep it reined in. Scott noticed because he blinked once, looked away.

"There were shots, then… I was somewhere else."

"Well, that's definitive," Johnny muttered.

"What do you want?"

"A straight answer." He softened his voice. "Did Birch's men do this or someone else?"

Scott gave a hard sigh. "Don't you think if I had an answer, I'd give it? One minute I was being shot at in the rain, the next someone ran into me, literally ran into me with a…." His voice petered out, and the room filled with silence, louder than the banging of pots and pans in Maria's breakfast kitchen.

This time, Murdoch kept quiet, left it open. When Scott's voice came, it was soft and they strained to hear it.

"Lightning struck the tree, split it in half. There was white, all around. The rest doesn't—wouldn't—make any sense."

Still Murdoch said nothing, sent a warning glance to Johnny. Scott's attention was on the bed, one hand clutching the blanket, the other wrapped around his waist like he had a stomachache.

"I didn't know where I was." Scott kept his face angled away. Masking with an out-and-out lie, but why?

"Bullshit." Johnny was done dancing around.

Up close, he could see the bruise jump on Scott's face when he flinched. Could see the swallow he took before saying, "Well, there you have it."

Murdoch's head swam. He needed more sleep. Sunlight filtered into the room, making them all look like refugees from some battle, war torn and wan. He couldn't pick the time when Scott might tell him something useful. Maybe it was still too fresh, or because he'd been having a nightmare, or maybe there was really nothing to tell if he couldn't remember. This was the opportunity Murdoch got.

"Who are William and Chris?" His voice was light, trying not to antagonize. Scott wasn't cooperating, however.

He gestured to the window, tried a smile. "Did the cattle get moved to the new pasture yet? A week too long and they'll damage the grass." The smile dropped and he looked straight at Johnny. "William and Chris are, were, uncle and nephew. I can't explain who they were or where they are now, but they were there when I needed help. And when I tried to help them back," he flung his arm out wide, "this happened."

~o~o~o~

William Lancer slammed the window shut against the early morning rain, a squelch of metal against metal. The frame was bent, had been for a while, but there were more important things on the fire at the moment. His eyes followed the desolate color of sky, studded dark grey, black, and blue like a quail in the brush. He wasn't superstitious, but to him it was an angry sky, portent of something bad about to happen.

The seeming silence was pointedly broken by boot heels as they made their way down the hallway. Heavy scrapes on tile they were, the owner not caring to lift up his or her feet. William let the curtain drop, wasn't entirely sure he wanted the news, but sat waiting.

Chris appeared in the doorway. And William started to his feet, cane clattering to the floor.

The left side of his face was purple and puffed, left eye almost swollen shut, skin glistening wet from the rain.

"Oh, Chris…."

"Adkins and his bunch, cornered us on the property."

"Scott?"

"I don't know. We tried so hard, William. We tried so goddamn hard to find him."

"Then maybe… maybe he did find his way home."

Chris head came up. "You knew he was leaving?"

"I had an idea. I'd like to think Scott would have found a way, if he made it back to his time, to let us know. He wouldn't have taken the deed for anything else."

Miserable, Chris looked away. "Mech threw charged dynamite towards him. The explosion carried him to the creek. All I could find was a piece of his shirt and blood." He shook his head a little, raindrops scattering at right angles. "The police, everyone, searched that creek up and down; we couldn't find him."

Chris sat down hard in the ratty leather chair in front of the fireplace, scrubbed at his good eye. "Not only is Scott gone, but without those papers, the land will be gone too."

The quiet stretched a little. The image of the bright young man dying at the hands of someone like Adkins and Thayer too much to bear.

William let it slide away in grief.

~o~o~o~

Scott fingered the ripped edge of the papers he had held on to for over seven days—perhaps held was too kind a word, clutched was better, because it implied desperation. And that was what he had been, a desperate man. He'd found it on his bedroom floor when he got up, like a simple piece of refuse that had escaped the dustbin. Stunning to just see it there, forgotten.

The key in Murdoch's top drawer had the desk panel opening with ease, but he found he didn't want to let go what was in his hand. Funny, it seemed so much more important than the paper it was written on.

He slid the documents into the space and caught up the Mexican grants he found scattered on Murdoch's desk. Slid them in, too. Felt a little like a hen collecting her chicks, said a short prayer then locked the panel.

Would they find them in time? What if it was already too late?

God, he was angry. It wasn't what he wanted, not what was needed. It should have been enough his father was alive and well. Scott cursed; turned away from the window and walked in a loose circle.

"Think they'll be safe in there?" Murdoch's voice boomed from the doorway. "Good to see you up from this morning, but it looks like you're losing the argument, son."

His father watched him with dark eyes, arms folded across a jacket too dusty to be worn inside. Scott's breath stopped as it had at the very first meeting, caught, strangled. Murdoch Lancer hadn't shaved in over a week; hair was flattened from his hat that Scott could see propped on the chair back.

He'd been surrounded by yelling men, Adkins sending out a neat left hook that threw him up, clear across… across—and then back here. To Lancer—his Lancer this time. With a close encounter to a very real gun because Birch had given orders and his father had been in the crosshairs.

Anger didn't begin to cover it. "Murdoch, what's the story behind Douglas Birch?"

His father didn't utter a word, looked like he'd been speared through as efficiently as though Scott had thrown a lance. He stopped fussing with the jacket, laid it across the chair to join his hat.

"I've seen plenty of men like Birch, scrapping for every bit they can get, even if it means getting some of their neighbor's. He doesn't have anyone else, just the land. I sometimes wonder if I would have ended up like him. I doubt it. We can't go back." But Murdoch was talking to himself, and Scott let him.

He walked so slowly, Scott was reminded that Murdoch was chasing the tail end of a sleepless week, had just missed being shot, had said goodbye to a missing son.

So he didn't curse again, though he felt like it. Reluctantly, Scott accepted a glass of whiskey, strong enough to take off the silver plating from the rim of the glass. They sat on the sofa and Scott scrubbed his face with his hands, grateful for the strong drink. Between them on the coffee table rested a pewter box inlaid with delicate oystershell ivy. Scott twisted the glass around on the table, drove a finger through the wet circles the dripped liquor made. He swiped it off with the palm of his hand because Murdoch was taking what was in the box out, laying them down like cards. Old tintypes, in different odd sizes, their edges pitted and brittle as dried leaves fallen in November. With a jolt, he recognized some of the same were what William had spread out on the kitchen table.

"This one," Murdoch said. And he didn't have to say anything more because Scott could see it was Murdoch and his bride. She was gentle-looking with upswept hair, a smile ghosting her lips. Was that contentment in her eyes?

"Nothing but green grass and a hacienda with a battered staircase that led to nowhere, the roof caved in to the kitchen floor." Murdoch fingered the edge. "We had it taken after."

"After?" Scott looked up and Murdoch was calm. He hadn't slept but it didn't seem to bother him.

Murdoch refilled his glass. "After she told me we were to expect you along in a few short months." He slumped back against the sofa, took a long sip.

Scott sat, braced his heels against the bottom rung of the coffee table. After a few moments, he collected himself and swallowed, sure of the question.

"Did he know my mother?"

"Yes. Douglas Birch knew your mother."

"That's why what happened at the Birch ranch, happened."

"Johnny's been talking."

He conceded with a shrug. "A bit. Although given more time I'd like to think I would have figured it out for myself."

"Birch approached your mother one day while I was away. Paul O'Brien intervened, sent him on his way."

Scott considered his drink. "Then here's to Mr. O'Brien." He raised his glass, met Murdoch's over the tintypes with a clink.

"I thought Birch had something to do with your disappearance, and I was ready to do what was needed."

"For the record, I'm quite happy I don't have to visit my father in prison."

Murdoch turned a rueful grin. "It was a close thing."

"So it wasn't just the land, then," he teased.

Murdoch looked him sharply. "It was never just about that. But this is your legacy, Scott. Johnny's, too.

"What I'm trying to say is that I started with nothing, if it went back to that" —his hand made a slash in the air —"we'd start anew." But he looked suddenly haggard.

Scott made a noise, like a cough. "Fairly easy words to say with deeds in hand. You've sweated for this land, bled for it."

Murdoch shrugged, but his face was impossible to read now. "You're here, Johnny's here. That's enough."

Regardless of not reading his face, it was there in his voice. Scott heard everything Murdoch had been holding back, and it was terrible the level of longing.

Was it like dominoes? If the present failed then the future would be lost? He refused to think about it, surely he saw the future, and William, Christopher, and Abigail were all part of Murdoch's legacy, too. Like his own children would be, if there were any to be had.

He stood and stalked back to the window. Even with it open the air was hot, humid. No rumbling machines to cool down the house. Despite a dribble of sweat snaking its way under the bandages on his back, he much preferred the quiet.

~o~o~o~

The wind had picked up with the approaching storm, whistling through the eaves of the house. William turned back to the window, looking out. His father, standing in this very office, always said the wind sounded like the wail of the bean nighe. She was a messenger from the otherworld, harbinger of death. The old stories had lived on through his father and his father before him.

Chris entered the room, hair still damp from his shower and William shuddered, remembered another wind that brought travesty to the hacienda.

"My heart broke the night your brother died."

The sudden intake of breath from Chris almost unnerved him. Almost made him stop, but this should've been said years ago. "Aidan was gone. But he took you with him, Chris. You left Lancer physically, but you were gone long before that. Well, no more. We can't live in the past; life has to go on."

A peal of thunder shook the air, rattled the window.

"You don't get to decide the future," William said, but softly. "You just make sure it happens. The dead don't own it, not Aidan, not Scott."

"Dad?" With a whisper of shock, Abby slid to a stop. "I heard there was trouble at the property from Mal and Rube. They wouldn't tell me… Scott?"

Chris shook his head, eyes on William.

"His new clothes were all folded on the bureau." With a thin smile, Abigail leaned forward. "He didn't even have time to break them in." She held up her hand, a piece of paper was there, folded between two fingers. "But he left this, addressed to you, Will."

William held the square of white, ran his eyes over the old-fashioned intricate scrawl: Mr. William Lancer. He tapped it on the desk over and over, like he didn't know what to do. Then pushed a finger under the fold.

He read for a moment, hands shaking. "Chris, Abby, you'd better look at this."

The expression on their faces fell somewhere between hope and breakdown.

"Do we try it?"

In answer, Chris kneeled down, felt for the side panel of the old desk, and tugged it away, revealing the keyhole. William fumbled with the small brass key until it slid into the lock. Together they opened it wide enough to look inside.

Even with the horrors of the day just a few hours ago, William couldn't help a small smile—a grin—when he pulled out the papers. Yellowed and tissue thin, the Mexican grants stared up at him. In Chris's hand were the deeds to the property.

~o~o~o~

Scott felt a profound sense of familiarity, as he sized up the creek and burnt tree. He crouched down to its base. Strange that for all the distractions, as soon as he closed his eyes everything came to a halt: no cattle noise, no wind in the trees, and no rush of water. In an instant, he found himself far away. Just an abstract notion that felt like home, but older. Less formed.

As the vision focused, he saw he was at Lancer, sitting at the long mahogany table in the kitchen. He heard the slush sound of the coffee maker, the tap-tap of William's cane against the tile and the unexpected delight of the cold refrigerator. He grinned up at Chris who returned the smile along with an eye roll of mock exasperation when Abigail described their meeting with Gina in town.

The sense of kinship was so strong that Scott couldn't stop himself from reaching out. He fought the tug on his arm, the twisting of his shirt. A hard knock to his chest forced his eyes open. Still near the tree, Johnny was beside him, looking worried. Scott blinked.

He struggled to stand.

"Wait," Johnny said. "Just wait a minute. Get some color back before you try and get up. I knew this was a bad idea."

Past, present and future melded all together.

Johnny laid a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

In the twenty-first century, automobiles raced at seventy miles per hour. And people talked to one another though a slim hand-held box that was able to take pictures. He looked past the tree, found what he was looking for—green blades already popping up amongst the blackened ash and soot.

Scott nodded, never more sure. "I'm good."

Johnny pulled something out of his coat pocket, threw the chunk of rock onto Scott's lap with a smile. "The sheriff is still wondering what to do about Birch. So, I'd say this is yours now."

Fools gold, pulled from the creek. Scott smiled, but didn't say anything else. Presently Johnny offered his hand. He took it and was grateful.

Three Months Later

The sound of a motorcycle drew William from his desk to the French doors. Chris, coming out of the barn, gave him an 'I don't know either' shrug and they met on the veranda. Abby came between them, hooking her arms in theirs.

William wondered if the united front they presented caused their visitor to hesitate in shutting off the engine. Then, heeling the kickstand down, the rider—a long lean man—stood to unbuckle his helmet.

Blond hair, high cheekbones.

Abby's grip tightened to the point of pain, but William made as much note of it as he did Chris's breathless 'please'. His own heart threatened to thunder out of his chest.

"Good evening, are you William Lancer?"

"Yes, and this is my nephew Chris, his daughter Abigail."

Their visitor smiled, presenting his hand. "Hello, I'm Garrett Lancer. I've heard stories—"

Abby's fierce-heartfelt-knock-you-off-your-feet hug halted anything else Garrett Lancer planned to say. William gave the young man credit for remaining upright.

Chris took Garrett's still-offered hand, wearing a smile William hadn't seen in years.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Garrett."

"You too." A glint appeared in blue-gray eyes when he met William's, then widened. "Great many times Grandfather Scott—he really did it?"

Laughing, William grasped the calloused hand so reminiscent of another's.

"He really did."

~End~

7/21/13

A/N: Barb and the two of us again extent our thanks to harrigan for the superb beta! We also want to thank anyone who has read this, as well as those who offered feedback-it was much appreciated. :D