Consequences by Kate

Word Count 16,450

This story is an orphan – that is, the writer has not been active in the fandom for a long time, and the story has been ‘rescued’ from the old, defunct Yahoo groups. So that we don’t lose the story entirely, we’re storing it here.

However the original author still owns this story. Should they reconnect with the fandom at some point, we will naturally respect whatever they want to do with their story.

What Happened Next for the episode “Legacy”

.

It’s been a long time since I’ve played around in the Lancer universe . . . years actually, but I was in the mood. The following story picks up immediately following the episode “Legacy.” Pure fanfic, no copyright infringement is intended. The characters do not belong to me; I’m just borrowing them for awhile. I hope you enjoy the tale!

The house was quiet and still, wrapped in the dense solitude of night. Johnny Lancer listened to the soft tread of his boots against the floorboards as he walked the stairs to the second floor. Below in the Great Room, the grandfather’s clock struck the hour, emitting a string of sluggish chimes.

Needs winding, Johnny thought distractedly as he trudged down the darkened hallway. Outside, a moonless night hugged the walls of the hacienda, snuggling close. The air was stuffy and humid, almost sweat-sticky against his exposed skin. As he neared his bedroom, Johnny glimpsed a sliver of yellow light beneath his brother’s closed door. Pausing outside the room, he hesitated with his hand on the knob.

Scott had retired early after taking Harlan Garrett to the train depot. The head wound Scott sustained, courtesy of Carl Deagen’s bullet, was by no means life-threatening, but it had been gory enough to require minor stitching. Johnny thought it foolish for Scott to drive Harlan to town given the amount of discomfort the wound was likely to cause, but his older brother had stubbornly insisted. Suggestions to the contrary had fallen on deaf ears.

“Hey, Scott.” Johnny rapped lightly on the door before sticking his head in the room. “Mind some company?”

Fully clothed, Scott sat on the bed, long legs stretched before him, his back supported by pillows. An open book lay on his lap, but he seemed to have little interest in it, his gaze turned vacantly out the window. Sparing a non-committal glance, he waved Johnny into the room.

“Thought maybe you’d be asleep by now.” Johnny perched on the edge of the mattress and folded his arms across his chest. With a casual sideways glance, he studied his brother. Despite the thick white bandage wrapped about his head and the slightly sallow cast of his skin, Scott didn’t appear overly fatigued. He seemed more preoccupied than weary.

Scott shrugged, rifling his thumb over the pages of the book. “I guess I’m not really tired.”

“How’s that feeling?” Johnny persisted, with a nod for the bandage.

Tentatively, Scott fingered the edge of the white dressing. “Sore.” The hint of a smile touched his lips. “But bearable.”

The minute humor made Johnny breathe easier. Only last night, he’d exchanged harsh words with his brother, bewildered by Scott’s announcement that he intended to leave Lancer and return to Boston with his grandfather. That decision fell into perspective when Johnny and Murdoch later realized Scott was doing it simply to protect his father from a decades-old murder charge. Harlan Garrett had manipulated Scott into following his wishes, even when it was apparent the younger man wanted to remain at Lancer.

None of that had been clear last night, however, and Johnny could still recall the harsh words he’d exchanged with his brother after Scott’s quiet announcement. “You know . . .” He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at his thumbs. “I, um . . . said some things last night . . .. “

“Forget it, Johnny.”

“I can’t.” Disturbed, he pressed his lips together. He hadn’t wanted Scott to leave, but nothing he’d said sounded right. Everything had come out hurtful and angry, prompted by Scott’s inflexibility and quiet stubbornness. “When you said you were leaving, I figured it was permanent.” Self-conscious, Johnny shrugged. “We’ve come a long way from that first meeting on the stage, Boston. I was pretty rude last night, but I was irked to think you’d just up and leave.”

“You had every right to be. I didn’t give any explanations.” Exhaling, Scott set the book aside. “At least you tried to stop me,” he muttered.

Johnny stared, caught off guard. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“No. You wouldn’t have said it otherwise.” The downward fleck of Scott’s lashes and the suddenly morose expression on his face told Johnny all he needed to know. He frowned, certain he’d arrived at the root of the problem. “You think Murdoch should have tried to stop you.”

Scott looked away.

Unnerved, Johnny leaned forward. “Scott, listen to me. Murdoch only did what he thought was right. Don’t think he wanted you to stay any less than I did. He did what he thought was best for you. I was just being a selfish sonofabitch.”

Scott swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’m kind of tired. Maybe you should leave.”

Johnny snorted loudly. “Tired, my ass. You just don’t want to face facts. You get some stupid notion in that thick head of yours and that damn Yankee stubbornness kicks in.” Even as he said the words, Johnny’s own voice came back to haunt him: You could have tried a little harder, Murdoch. Only that morning he’d thought the very same thing as Scott, yet in retrospect, he knew Murdoch had been acting selflessly.

Scott pushed from the bed and crossed the room, pausing to stare out the window. With his back to Johnny, he studied his reflection in the night-blackened glass. “Did you mean what you said this morning?” he asked quietly. “About getting sand in my boots and having to run home?”

With a muttered curse, Johnny stood. “You know something, Scott? You do need to sleep. That bullet rattled things around in your head.”

Half-turning, Scott glanced over his shoulder. His voice was soft when he spoke, as if he feared giving voice to the thought that plagued him. “Lancer’s a long way from Boston.”

Johnny cocked a deliberate brow. “Yeah. But it’s home.” Feeling suddenly edgy, he strode from the room, solidly closing the door behind him. If he’d learned anything in the year he’d spent with Scott, it was that his brother was frequently too hard on himself. Johnny wasn’t about to enter a debate about Scott’s ranching abilities, and he instinctively knew his brother was headed there. The question that bothered him most was simple and straightforward – – why?

With Scott Lancer, there was simply no telling.

***********

Murdoch Lancer suppressed a yawn, scrubbing one hand against his eyes as he walked down the steps. He’d spent a mostly restless night, tossing with disturbing dreams about his elder son and Harlan Garrett. Unsettled ever since the older man’s arrival, his nerves had yet to return to normal. He’d been alternately irritable, pensive and solemn, struggling with past memories and a marked inability to express his feelings to Scott.

Knowing that his son had chosen to remain at Lancer should have put Murdoch at ease, but he intuitively knew the past twenty-four years – – even hours – – weren’t going to vanish without issue. He owed Scott an explanation for that silence, yet every time he tried to reason it through, he came up lacking.

“Morning.” The word stuck to his tongue, mumbled and cottony. He dragged back a chair at the breakfast table, sparing a stray glance for Johnny. “I checked on your brother this morning, but his room was empty.”

“Left early,” Johnny said around a mouthful of buttered toast. “Jelly saw him loading up the buckboard with fencing material just before dawn. I’m guessing he headed to the east pasture.”

“Before dawn?” Murdoch’s mouth immediately settled into a frown. He poured a cup of coffee, then bumped the mug aside. “I was hoping I could get him to take it easy today with that head wound.”

“Fat chance of that.” Disgruntled, Johnny pushed eggs around his plate with his fork. “That’s one stubborn Yankee horse soldier you’ve got for a son. If I know Scott, he’ll be working twice as hard, worried we’ll think he’s not pulling his weight.”

Murdoch sighed. He propped an elbow on the edge of the table and wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. Warm sunlight streamed through the veranda doors, but he barely felt its touch . . . barely registered the delectable aroma rising from platters of pan-fried potatoes, scrambled eggs and brown sugar-encrusted bacon.

Johnny was right. If Scott had left before dawn, it was likely with the intent to bury himself in work, to block out the confusion of the last few days. To prove that he belonged at Lancer, that Murdoch hadn’t made a mistake in sending the Pinkerton agent to track him down. “I’ll ride out and see how he’s doing.”  

Growing fidgety at the thought, Murdoch swallowed a mouthful of coffee. He hadn’t had a one-on-one talk with his son since Scott had returned from his ride with Julie Dennison two days ago. That discussion had bordered on disastrous, with Scott growing frustrated and angry over Murdoch’s refusal to explain why he had left him in the care of Harlan Garrett for twenty-four years. 

“Uh, Murdoch?” Johnny looked at his father speculatively. He straightened, clearly uncomfortable and wet his lips. “I think you should know Scott’s feeling a little . . . uncertain. . . right now. You might want to leave him alone until he sorts things out.”

Murdoch stared flatly. “He’s my son. I’m tired of leaving him alone. That’s the problem, Johnny. I did it for twenty-four years.” Expression set, Murdoch pushed from his chair. “This time, he’s going to talk to me.” Determined, he strode from the room, exiting onto the veranda. Even then the past nipped at his heels, mocking him with the long years he had allowed to pass in silence. It was up to Scott to forgive the unforgivable. 

As he walked toward the barn, tired and stoop-shouldered, Murdoch Lancer felt abruptly old. 

***********

Breathing heavily, Scott dragged the back of one hand across his brow, mopping up cold sweat. He sucked down a shuddering gulp of air, hoping to ease the persistent pain in his skull. The headache was worse than it had been on awakening. Wincing, he fingered the swollen gash on his right temple, dismayed to realize his hand was trembling. Beneath thick strands of wheat-colored hair, he encountered the ragged edge of raised stitches. He knew he should have left the bandage in place for another day or two but had impatiently removed it while dressing that morning. He was anxious to put the infirmity behind him, to prove to both Johnny and Murdoch that he could pull his weight without special attention and pampering.

The sound of an approaching horse drew his eyes to the left. Murdoch neared at a clipped pace, emerging from a copse of tall, sheltering pines. Scott tugged on his work gloves and retrieved a hammer from the ground, dismissing the headache. The last thing he wanted was Murdoch thinking him incapable of doing something so trivial as repairing a broken fence line. 

Most of the posts on this side of the pasture had rotted from age and wear and needed to be replaced. Scott stepped to the nearest one and pounded the side with his hammer, working to dislodge the post from the ground. Pain shot down his neck, but he grimly ignored it, determined to contribute to the workload at Lancer.

“Scott.” Murdoch drew abreast and dismounted. He trailed his horse behind him as he approached. “Getting started kind of early, aren’t you?”

Straightening, Scott rolled his shoulders. He felt oddly uncomfortable with Murdoch, as though Harlan Garrett’s arrival and departure had unsettled the air between them. Tossing the hammer aside, he gripped the post and began to work it back and forth, using his foot as a brace. “I was up, so I thought I’d get started.”

“Did you have breakfast?”

Not bothering to look, Scott shook his head.

With a sigh of exasperation, Murdoch lodged his hands on his hips. The reins dangled from his slack grip. “This doesn’t need done today, Scott. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to take it easy with that head wound, at least for today.”

Scott shot him a black glare. “I can pull my own weight, Murdoch.”

Surprised by the comment, the older man balked. “I never said you couldn’t.”

Ignoring him, Scott abandoned the post, bending to retrieve his hammer. Murdoch caught his arm before he could complete the action. He frowned, disturbed by how clammy the other man’s skin felt. “Take a break, Scott. I want to talk to you.”

Their eyes met and locked briefly. Scott withdrew to the buckboard a short distance away. He rummaged in the back for a canteen, pausing to take a long draught of water as he waited for his father to approach. He settled on the lip of the wagon, watching as Murdoch looped the reins of his horse over the fence.

“I didn’t see you come back last night after you took Harlan to town.”

Scott settled his hat more comfortably on his head, pushing the brim back from his brow. “I was tired. I went to bed.”

Murdoch nodded thoughtfully. It was difficult to tell whether or not he believed the half-truth. “We really haven’t had a chance to talk . . . about why you were going to leave Lancer. About what happened with Harlan.” He paused deliberately. “About the last twenty-four years.”

Scott lowered his eyes. Two days ago, he had wanted this conversation, now all he wanted to do was avoid it. He knew why Murdoch hadn’t come to find him in Boston, why he hadn’t tried to contact him, even why he hadn’t tried to stop him from leaving yesterday. He didn’t need to hear it said. He didn’t want to hear it said.

“We don’t have to do this,” he mumbled.

Murdoch’s hand settled on his shoulder. “I think we do.”

Scott held still despite a gut-twisting instinct to flinch away from the touch. He’d grown close to Murdoch in the last year – – as close as two men who avoided discussing their feelings could ever come – – but he didn’t want to examine anything deeper. He wanted to keep the line where it was, in a zone that had been comfortable and agreeable for both of them. 

It was easier with Johnny. His brother was open, prone to say what he felt and thought, which made it easier for Scott to respond in kind. Murdoch, by contrast, created distance. He’d drape a companionable arm over Scott’s shoulder now and then, but there was always something between them – – an invisible barrier both men knew never to cross.

Scott pushed from the wagon, roaming restlessly to the front. He felt edgy and confined. The ache in his head reduced his blue-gray eyes to light-sensitive slits. Odd, but the sun hadn’t seemed so bright, so distressingly glaring before. Absently, he rubbed his temple. “I don’t feel up to this right now.”

Clearly concerned, Murdoch took three steps toward him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Scott ground his teeth together to stop a grimace. He tugged on the brim of his hat, trying to shield his eyes from the white glare of sunlight. “I just meant I can’t concentrate on it. Everything’s still unsettled for me, Sir.” Scott chanced a glance at his father, willing his voice into respectful, modulated tones. Once he shoved emotion aside, it was easy adopting the civil air that had long sustained him in polite society. “I’m still adjusting to what happened with Grandfather . . . what he tried to do. I’d rather not discuss our past if it’s all the same to you, Sir. As you’ve said before, it’s the present that counts.”   

Murdoch frowned, his eyes narrow. Scott knew he was suspicious, uncertain whether or not to take the statement at face value or dig deeper for a hidden motive. If Murdoch would just leave, Scott could crawl into the back of the wagon and shut his eyes for ten minutes. He didn’t need sleep necessarily, just the cool darkness that came with closing his eyes and allowing the breeze to play across his clammy skin. If he could just block the knife-like sting of the sun against his eyes for a few minutes, he’d feel refreshed, ready to tackle the fence line all over again. 

In hopes of moving Murdoch along, Scott walked back to the age-worn post he’d been working on when Murdoch arrived and retrieved his hammer. “I’ll see you later this afternoon at the house.”

Murdoch hesitated, uncertain. “I could give you a hand.”

“I’m fine, Sir.”

Scott struck the hammer against the post. The shock went through him like a bolt of lightning to the base of his skull. Shaken, he leaned against the blistered pole, thankful his back was turned . . .  that his father didn’t see the blood drain from his face or the tremors that raced into his hands. That’s all he needs to convince him I don’t belong here. Scott gripped the wooden pole, methodically working it from the soil, secretly using it as a brace for his own exhausted body. Behind him he heard Murdoch mount up and wheel his horse around.

“Don’t overdo it, Scott.”

Scott nodded, fearful his voice would crack if he spoke. He counted off slow seconds, determinedly waiting as the sound of hoofbeats faded in the distance. When he was certain Murdoch could no longer see him, Scott exhaled and slumped forward against the post. He closed his eyes against the brightness of early morning, sighing to find the resulting darkness so pleasant. The ache in his head receded, and he found that absence of pain pure pleasure.

Ten minutes. That’s all he needed. Just ten minutes curled in the back of the buckboard, his hat over his face to block the piercing glare of the sun. Johnny wouldn’t know, Murdoch wouldn’t know, and best of all, the pain would vanish. 

Convinced a brief rest was all he needed, Scott staggered to the buckboard. He crawled in the back and rolled onto his side. He was experiencing residual pain, nothing more. His eyes were just a little light sensitive, affected by the gash on his head. Given time, it would pass, just as the hollow ache in his skull would fade. Hammering posts probably wasn’t the brightest idea, but the work wasn’t going to kill him.

Grimacing, he closed his eyes and tried to rest.

************

A hand rattled his shoulder, sending a torturous ache boomeranging between his head and his neck. Disgruntled, still half asleep, he groaned and tried to swat the intrusive fingers away.

“Hey . . . Scott . . .” 

A voice joined the hand, bludgeoning the inside of his skull with fire until he rolled onto his back, painfully forcing his eyes open. At first, there was nothing – – just the shock of too-bright light splintering deep in his head, drenching him in a cold sweat. His lips parted on a gasp, and in that moment, he registered the concerned mask of his brother’s face looming over him.

“Johnny . . .” Dazed, Scott wet his lips. His younger brother stood just to the side of the wagon, one arm over the rail, resting on his shoulder, Johnny’s swarthy features pinched with worry. “I . . .”  He tried to remember what he was doing in the wagon . . . why he was sleeping when the sun blazed bone-white and forge-hot overhead. He could feel sweat on the back of his neck, drenching his hair, even as the dull throbbing in his head left him shivering with cold.

“You don’t look good,” Johnny observed. Frowning, he grazed his fingers over Scott’s cheek, mopping up sticky perspiration. “What’s going on, Boston?”

“Nothing.” Clarity returned with a sharp bite of pain almost as violent as the ache in his head. Shoving Johnny’s hand aside, Scott pushed to the end of the wagon until his feet touched the ground. A ferocious swarm of blackness bloomed before his eyes, threatening to send him tumbling backward. Irked by his own fragility, he bit down on his lip and stubbornly forced himself upright, holding onto the side of the wagon for support. He took only a moment to steady himself before walking resolutely to the fence line. “I was just taking a short break,” he called over his shoulder to Johnny. “I’ll see you back at the house later.”

Bending to retrieve his hammer was almost more than he could handle, a surge of angry blackness threatening him with lightheadedness yet again. Behind him, he heard the crunch of Johnny’s boots against the hard-packed earth as his brother approached. Distressed to realize his hands were shaking, Scott tightened his fingers around the hammer, hoping to camouflage the betraying tremor. Admitting how badly he was hurt simply wasn’t an option given the circumstances of late.

Murdoch hadn’t tried to stop him from leaving, not even a feeble, token attempt. Likely his father had realized what a mistake he’d made in signing over one-third of his ranch to an eastern-bred son. All this time Scott had thought he’d been adjusting to the rigors of western life remarkably well, but clearly his father thought otherwise. Clearly, his father believed he couldn’t pull his weight, secretly hoping he’d return to Boston with Harlan Garrett. Murdoch hadn’t wanted him the first twenty-four years of his life, why should now be any different?

If Johnny realized how incapacitated he was, he’d probably reach the same conclusion – – that Scott belonged in Boston. To be so devastated by a minor head wound was proof positive of his lesser constitution. Hadn’t Johnny survived a bullet wound from Day Pardee with minimal fuss when they’d first arrived at Lancer? If his younger brother could bounce back so quickly, Scott certainly wasn’t going to do any less. Defiantly, he banged the hammer against the post, squeezing his eyes shut when a shuddering jolt of pain ricocheted from his head to his neck.

“You missed lunch,” Johnny said at his back.

Scott grimaced, realizing he’d slept a lot longer than his intended ten minutes. Dragging the back of his sleeve across his brow, he mopped up cold sweat. “I wasn’t hungry,” he lied. Another flail of the hammer against the post loosened it enough for him to wrench it from the ground and toss it aside. Behind him, Johnny was quiet. 

Scott turned to find him eyeing up the amount of new lumber in the wagon compared to the string of rickety posts still in need of replacement. It didn’t take a mathematician to realize Scott had accomplished next to nothing that morning. 

“How about some help?” Johnny offered. “I finished up at the branding pens about an hour ago.”

Sure you did, Scott thought bitterly. Probably did a bunch of other chores, too, running circles around your dandified brother from the east. Ashamed by his own lack of proficiency, he felt his face burn hot with color. 

“I don’t need your help,” Scott snapped. “I’m perfectly capable of finishing a simple fence line on my own.” 

“I never said you couldn’t,” Johnny tried to clarify, his mouth twisting into a perturbed scowl. “I just meant – -”

“I know damn well what you meant. Get out of here, Johnny.” Angry, Scott stalked to the wagon. He shouldered the younger man out of the way as he braced the nearest post over the edge. Turning his back on Johnny, he rummaged brusquely for the handsaw, cold sweat dripping into his eyes. The pain in his head was merciless, but he refused to acknowledge the grim punishment, stubbornly set on proving he had what it took to survive at Lancer. If he couldn’t finish a simple fence line, how could he ever expect Johnny and Murdoch to view him as an equal?

Behind him, Johnny swore, the words fast and low in Spanish. The oath told Scott his brother had run out of patience, his notoriously mercurial temper taking control. “I don’t even know why I bother sometimes,” Johnny flared. “You’re as ornery and mule-headed as they come, Scott. You don’t want my help, that suits me just fine. I got other places to be and better things to be doin’ than chasing after you.” 

Within seconds, Scott heard the rapid pounding of Barranca’s hoofbeats as the large palomino thundered into the distance. Alone, he slumped against the wagon, wearily closing his eyes against the throbbing in his head. He knew the pain was a problem, something he couldn’t ignore much longer. At the same time, he had no intention of sharing the debilitating infirmity with his family, thereby admitting his weakness, blatantly confirming their underlying opinion of him. He would handle the problem his own way, in his own time.

For now, he had a fence row to finish.

************

Johnny fumed silently, letting his frustration over his fair-haired brother swell into something ugly and viperous. His mood had soured as the afternoon progressed and he relived his discussion with Scott at the wagon. He didn’t see what the big deal was about the two of them finishing the project together. Personally, he would have enjoyed spending some time with Scott. He was still adjusting to the shocking reality of how easily he’d almost lost his levelheaded brother to Harlan Garrett.

Problem was, Scott was acting far from levelheaded now. It was as though the incident had intensified the silent, brooding aspect of his personality. The side that allowed no one else close, doggedly holding the world at bay while he struggled to master his own inner demons. Johnny wasn’t certain what had Scott in such a sensitive, bleak mood, but he felt partially responsible. Only yesterday, he’d reacted belligerently, arguing savagely with his introspective brother. Even now, he could recall the whole vile incident in vivid clarity:

Johnny trailed his brother from the Great Room, Harlan Garrett’s announcement that Scott was returning to Boston echoing hollowly in his ears. Despite clear signals, Scott wanted to be left alone, Johnny flagrantly pursued him upstairs.

Stunned, his mind reeling, he forced his way into Scott’s bedroom, battering aside the closed door without so much as a knock.

“What the hell kind of idiotic decision is that?” he exploded. Furious, he slammed the door, confronting the other man directly when Scott turned to face him. If he’d taken a moment to think through his fury, he might have noticed the pained light in Scott’s silver-blue eyes, the lines of distress drawing his mouth into a bleak frown.

“It’s a simple decision,” Scott returned, irritatingly composed as always. “I didn’t make it lightly, Johnny.”

The dark-haired man snorted what he thought of the idea. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?” He pounced on the notion, immediately consigning Julie Dennison to the immoral role of vixen and she-witch. Scott had been light-hearted and upbeat, joking with him before taking Julie for a ride. Johnny could still recall the amused gleam of laughter in his brother’s eyes, the vibrant flash of his easy smile. Everything had changed after the ride, after Scott’s one-on-one discussion with Murdoch.

“I knew it!” He pivoted on his heel, pounding a tight fist into his palm. “Put a pretty face in front of you and you’ve got the morals of a tin-horn gambler. Women get to you every time – -”

“It’s got nothing to do with Julie,” Scott cut him off before the rant could go much further. “I spent twenty-four years of my life in Boston, Johnny. I just belong there, that’s all.”

“Convince yourself of that, huh?” Johnny thrust back in his face again. His gut was in turmoil, the taint of bitter acid lying heavy in the back of his throat. He didn’t want Scott to leave but didn’t know how to tell him. All his life, Johnny had avoided emotional entanglements. He’d lived by the base law of survival and instinct, immune to anything that remotely involved his heart. It simply wasn’t fair of Scott to worm under his skin, then leave so casually. Rather than admit to the grievous hurt he felt, Johnny reacted with anger. 

“I should have known you couldn’t cut it!” He stabbed an accusing finger in his brother’s face. “Too much hard work for you, huh, Scott? You wanna go back to your tea socials, high-society parties and silk shirts. That impression I had of you on the stage was the right one all along. You just don’t belong here, do you, brother?”

“No.” Scott’s face crumpled, but Johnny was too incensed to notice. “I guess I never have.”

Johnny sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. Given how cruel he’d been yesterday, was it any wonder Scott didn’t want his help today? He’d hoped to make amends for their spat at the fence line over dinner, but Scott hadn’t materialized until darkness rimmed the sky.

Moody and uncommunicative, he’d washed up outside, rounded up a few leftovers from the kitchen, then retreated to his room where he’d been sequestered ever since. Increasingly edgy, Johnny wandered into the Great Room.

Teresa was nowhere in sight, but Murdoch lingered behind his desk, engrossed by the latest entries in the ledger books. Irked, Johnny shot his father a hostile glance and wandered closer. “Are you just gonna ignore the fact Scott’s been as sociable as a rattler all day?”

“I’m not ignoring anything,” Murdoch responded, not bothering to look up. “Whatever is troubling your brother, it’s something he needs to work out on his own.”

“And what if he can’t?” Johnny challenged. There were times his father’s distance infuriated him. “You didn’t see him this afternoon, Murdoch. He damn near looked on the verge of passing out, yet he insisted on finishing that blasted fence line himself.”

That at least earned a glance. “He’s got something to prove, Johnny. Leave it alone.”

“Not likely,” Johnny snapped bitterly. “Guess I just ain’t as unfeeling as you are.” He knew it was a low blow but rightly felt that his father deserved it. He hadn’t exactly been compassionated with Scott himself yesterday, but at least he’d tried to apologize afterward. He’d owned up to his wrong, unlike Murdoch who seemed to hold silence and distance in higher regard. 

“I’m going to bed,” he told Murdoch when his father glanced at him sharply. “If you had any sense, you’d be checking on your son instead of pouring over numbers. After twenty-four years, you really should try to get something right.”

He’d thrown a gauntlet, but rather than wait to see if it was retrieved, Johnny stalked from the Great Room. At the rate he was going, he’d likely destroy his relationship with his father and brother by the time Scott and Murdoch were talking again. 

He smiled grimly.

Some things in life were worth risks. Scott Lancer was one of them.

***********

Murdoch stood outside Scott’s bedroom door listening to the house settle for the night. He wasn’t blind – – he’d known Scott had been feeling the lingering effects of the head wound earlier that morning. That much was obvious when he’d talked to his son by the wagon, but he hadn’t thought those limitations quite as devastating as Johnny had insisted they were.

Scott was highly educated, sensible to a fault. He was not a reactionary thinker or a man given to blind impulse. Surely, if he were ill, he wouldn’t have continued to work in the high heat and gumminess of late afternoon. A rational man would acknowledge his limitations and pace himself accordingly. 

“Scott?” Murdoch knocked softly on the door. When he received no answer, he pushed it slightly ajar, peering inside. Surprisingly, the room was empty, the bed made and untouched. An empty plate, eating utensils and a half-full glass of water littered the surface of Scott’s desk. Confused, only slightly alarmed, Murdoch walked down the hall to Johnny’s room.

“Johnny?” 

Within seconds of knocking, the door was drawn inward. Murdoch’s younger son stood on the threshold, eyeing him skeptically. Fully dressed, he looked slightly disheveled, as if he’d been lounging on the bed. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Is Scott with you?”

“He’s in his room, Murdoch. Same place he’s been all night.”

“No. I just checked.” The quiver of alarm climbed marginally higher. He immediately tried to quash it beneath a rational explanation. “Maybe he just went for a ride.”

Johnny frowned. “The way he was feeling?”

Unnerved, Murdoch scratched the back of his neck. “I’ll check outside.”

“I’ll come with you.” 

Murdoch considered telling him he didn’t need or particularly want the assistance – – not given his slumbering anxiety – – but realized Johnny wasn’t asking permission. His son was merely relaying a bald statement of fact. Scott was missing, and Johnny, being Johnny, intended to stick his nose into the middle of it, regardless of how harmless the whole situation might end up in the long run. When it came to Scott, Murdoch had learned Johnny simply didn’t take chances.

With a brusque nod, he headed for the stairs. Johnny followed behind, shirt untucked and hair rumpled, his expression bordering on glowering. They’d no sooner reached the bottom of the steps when the front door opened and Scott slipped inside. All three men came to an abrupt halt, startled by the presence of the others. Caught off guard, Scott shifted something behind his back. Murdoch snared a passing glimpse of a small brown bottle before his attention was drawn by the strained lines on his elder son’s face. 

“Where were you?” he blundered unthinkingly. Relieved to find his earlier alarm unwarranted, he was nonetheless irked at what he considered his son’s callous disregard of propriety. Scott was an adult. Of course, he didn’t have to report his whereabouts like some errant schoolboy, but given how edgy he’d been throughout the day, Murdoch couldn’t help feeling slighted for the lack of courtesy.

“I went for a walk.” Scott’s expression hardened despite the gauntness of his face. “I didn’t think it necessary to report my whereabouts every hour. Believe it or not, I can manage an evening stroll without a chaperone.”

“Get the burr out from under your saddle,” Johnny snapped hotly. Just as quickly, he sighed. “I’m going to bed,” he said in disgust. “I’ve had all the friendly socializing I can take for one day, especially from that damn disagreeable Yank.” Muttering beneath his breath, he trudged up the stairs.

Murdoch’s gaze slid back to contemplate his fair-haired son. Scott stood stiffly, ramrod straight, his expression closed and dark. It was not a look Murdoch was used to seeing from a man who was by nature congenial and giving. He had foolishly thought all of his problems with Scott would be instantly resolved with Harlan Garrett’s departure. Instead, whatever was troubling Scott seemed to have festered and grown over the last day. He was used to cynicism from Johnny but not from his inherently pleasant older son.

Tempted to react with criticism, Murdoch quelled the edge of his temper and tried another track. “Scott, if something’s bothering you, spit it out. You’ve been isolated and moody all day.”

“I’m tired.” The response was flat and emotionless. “I don’t feel like talking.”

Murdoch sighed. “What’s behind your back?”

“That’s my business.” Bluntly ending the conversation, Scott shoved past him. He shifted the object in his hand, holding it shielded close to his body.

Deciding he wasn’t likely to get any further with the discussion given Scott’s disagreeable mood, Murdoch left him pass unchallenged. Shoulders slumped in defeat, he turned back to the Great Room. Somehow between Harlan’s arrival and departure, he’d made a mess of things. Not quite sure what he’d done or how to fix it, he felt a gloomy wave of despair crash over him.

Scott wasn’t the only one with problems.

***********

Scott sat on the edge of the bed, his head cupped in his hands, mentally willing the lethal pain down a notch. Morning sunlight spilled through the windows, knifing behind his light-sensitive eyes. The laudanum was helping, but not to the degree he’d expected. He’d paid a good penny for it, sending one of the hands to town late yesterday evening to purchase it from a less-than-reputable herbalist. He’d paid the wrangler a hefty bonus to keep his mouth shut. While he couldn’t be certain the bribe would hold, he’d hinted there might be similar errands and similar bonuses in the future. Hopefully, the promise of additional cash would be enough for the man to keep quiet.

The wrangler – – a gangly fellow by the name of Book Thorne – – had snickered as he’d passed over the bottle. Scott hadn’t cared. He’d simply wanted the relief that came with the drug, downing a hefty swill as soon as the man’s back was turned. Murdoch Lancer’s son scrabbling for opium. It was far from a pleasant picture, but at least it had brought temporary relief, helping him through the night. He’d never relied on a crutch before, not even when he’d escaped Libby Prison, and the torture he’d endured had left him struggling with agonizing pain several months later. He’d known plenty of former soldiers who’d grown addicted to the opium derivative as a means to erase physical and mental wounds and had thus staunchly avoided it.

But everything was different now. He valued Lancer . . . valued his strangely tenuous relationship with Murdoch, the more openly emotional ties he had with his younger brother. Regardless of how either of them felt about him, he didn’t want to lose that. He’d been alone his entire his life. True, his grandfather had provided for him, but all Harlan Garrett had really cared about was holding him up to polite society as a trophy of achievement:  Scott Lancer, Harvard graduate, decorated Civil War officer, blue-blooded legacy to prestige and fortune. Hadn’t his grandfather proven that by stooping to such underhanded motives in trying to get him to return to Boston?

Scott’s stomach clenched. His father hadn’t even thanked him for the sacrifice he’d been so willing to make on Murdoch’s behalf.

Because he doesn’t care. Because he was secretly hoping I’d go back.

Bitterly, he tipped the bottle of laudanum to his lips, swallowing another mouthful. He didn’t know why he stayed, only knew he still had something to prove. Rising slowly, he crossed to the washbasin and scrubbed the morning grit from his face, neck and hands. Afterward he dressed carefully, tugging on a pair of charcoal pants and a white shirt. By the time he sat to pull on his boots, he was thinking more clearly, the throbbing in his head reduced to a muted ache. Gingerly, he scraped his fingers across the healing laceration on his scalp. He was no doctor, but he hadn’t expected such grim complications from what he’d originally thought a minor graze. Even now he could feel the taint of a low-grade fever hovering in the background, the intrusion of outside light reducing his eyes to pain-narrowed slits. Giving himself a quick inspection in the mirror, he decided he was as presentable as he was likely to get.

He knew he needed to be more agreeable with Johnny and Murdoch if he hoped to convince them he belonged at Lancer. His brother wasn’t really a problem, just an impossibly tough man to follow. Johnny might be three years younger, but his stance and presence earned him the immediate respect of complete strangers. Sometimes he felt overshadowed by his brother’s reputation and fortitude.

Murdoch was a different story. Murdoch had chosen to overlook Scott’s presence for twenty-four long years. He was nowhere near as open and emotionally unrestrained as Johnny. No matter how hard Scott tried to rationalize the reasons, there was simply no excuse for a father abandoning his son.

Knowing that, Scott still wanted to stay at Lancer . . . still wanted to prove himself to his coolly detached father. Somewhere beneath all the anger, determination and pain, he foolishly believed Murdoch could still love him, even if that love was undemonstrative.

And so it was he forced himself to be more agreeable when he joined his family at the breakfast table. The laudanum helped despite the sting of overly bright light spilling through the tall windows and doors. “Good morning,” he greeted, pulling back his chair to sit down.

Teresa smiled warmly, returning the greeting while Murdoch and Johnny exchanged a silent glance.

“You look better rested this morning,” Murdoch observed after a moment’s pause.

Scott nodded, heaping a mound of string potatoes onto his plate. The pain was tolerable as long as he didn’t concentrate on the glare cascading into the room. He thought longingly of drawing the shades on the windows but knew the action would only invite attention. “I slept well,” he lied. Drugged senseless with opium.

Murdoch offered a halting smile. “Good. I thought maybe you and Johnny could work on clearing brush from the south end of Rim Creek today. We’ve got a bottleneck up there, diverting water away from the east pasture.” Murdoch hesitated, fork resting lightly on his plate. “That is if you feel up to it.”

Scott tried not to frown. Of all the jobs his father could have suggested, clearing brush was on the safer side. Johnny would probably chafe to be relegated to laboring when he could be breaking horses or riding herd instead. “That’s fine,” Scott said quietly. He shot his brother a quick glance from beneath his lashes only to find Johnny’s expression unreadable.

His brother remained mostly silent during breakfast, clearly still perturbed about the previous day. When the meal was finished Scott followed him to the barn then set about tossing tools into the rear of a buckboard with little discussion. They made the nearly hour-long ride to the southern edge of Rim Creek in similar silence, Johnny’s mood as black as tar.

It was only later, when Scott pulled on his heavy work gloves and waded into the creek, the water rising calf-deep on his boots, that Johnny finally spat out a curse.

“This ain’t a one-man show, Boston.”

Scott cast a glance over his shoulder, wishing his hat did more to shield his eyes from the biting sting of intrusive sunlight. “You’re welcome to join me any time,” he tossed back neutrally. Swinging a hatchet, he began to chop away at the knot of tree limbs bottled in the middle of the stream. Beneath his boots, the creek bed was slippery, fashioned with a jagged layer of water-smoothed stone and algae-coated rock. Despite the long-fingered reach of the sun, the water was cold, sloshing over the top of his boots, soaking into his thin pants with a chill that amplified the pain in his head.

After a second’s pause, Johnny splashed in beside him, hacking at the branches with a viciousness that made the whole mass shudder. “Finish that fence line?” he bit off savagely.

Scott kept his attention on a prickly snarl of limbs to his right. He’d worked until dusk the previous evening, but it had been impossible to finish the job on his own so late in the day. Johnny clearly knew that but took perverse delight in rubbing it in.

“No.” Agitated, Scott drove his axe into a fat limb. He felt a sudden surge of anger at his brother, tripled when an icy sliver of pain dribbled down the back of his neck. Tensing, he drew an uneven breath. A tremor ran through his fingers making him think longingly of the laudanum in his pocket. 

“. . . could’ve helped you,” Johnny mumbled irritably. “We woulda finished the job.”

Scott nodded, not trusting his voice. The reflection of sunlight on water speared behind his eyelids like the heated blade of a knife. Turning his head away, he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing rapidly through his mouth. “Next time,” he said hoarsely. In an effort to mask his distress, he battered away with the hatchet, breaking away clumps of bark and brush until the water raced faster, swirling higher on his legs. Again and again, he hammered, small chunks of wood flying upward to patter against his chest, tinier particles snarling in the thick strands of his ash-colored hair. The clutch of cold spiked into his skull, threatening to buckle his knees. Shaken, he ducked his head and moaned softly, staggering in the clutch of the stream.

“Scott?” Johnny’s demeanor changed instantly, going from cross to solicitous.

Scott waved him aside and staggered from the water. He knew what he needed, could see his hands shaking even now in anticipation of the bitter liquid that would bring soothing relief to the agony in his skull. Ducking behind the wagon, he fumbled the small bottle from his pocket. He hadn’t even possessed it twenty-four hours, and it was almost gone. 

“Scott.” Johnny was behind him.

“Leave me alone.” Unsteadily, he pulled the cork free. Before he could tip the bottle to his lips, Johnny was beside him, wrenching it from his hands.

“What the hell is this?”

Scott squinted through pain-slitted eyes. “Give it back.”

Johnny passed the bottle under his nose, grimacing at the odor. “Laudanum? Why the hell don’t you just go to an opium den?” Glaring, he took a step closer to Scott. “Who the hell did you get this from – – not Doc Reeser?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Scott held out his hand, the other braced behind him on the wagon to steady himself. He was crumbling fast and knew it, the combination of cold water soaking his pants and physical labor exacting a grim toll. “Give it back, Johnny.” It was hard to see, the glare of morning light turning everything white and fish-eyed at the edges. A streak of fire wormed beneath his scalp, pinging deeper into his head. When he realized he was fast approaching his limitations, he resorted to the only weapon he had left. “Please,” he entreated softly.

Johnny swore. It was easy to hold onto his anger when Scott was difficult and moody, but not when he openly displayed vulnerability. Prior to meeting his considerate and inherently polite brother, Johnny had held little use for compassion. Scott had changed all of that in a relatively short time, awakening affection in him he hadn’t even known he possessed. Moved by the wounded light in Scott’s eyes, Johnny returned the bottle. He watched silently as the blond-haired man fumbled it to his lips, then exhaled in shaky relief and sagged against the wagon.

“This ain’t right. You shouldn’t be hurting like this.” Frazzled, Johnny pulled off his hat and scraped a hand through his hair. Resettling the brim on his dark bangs, he stepped closer. “I’m gonna take you to see Doc Reeser in town.”

Scott shook his head. “It’s not bad . . . just an ache.”

“Not bad?” Annoyed, Johnny gripped his arm. “Hell, Scott, you’re trembling . . . and an ‘ache’ don’t need laudanum to keep it under control. Why are you being so damn mule-headed about this?”  

“Because it’s just a scratch.” Scott shot him a wary glance but made no effort to draw away. It was almost as if he lacked the strength. “The light stings my eyes sometimes, but it passes. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

 

Johnny scowled. “You’re gonna lie down in the wagon.”

“No!” Command crackling through in his voice, Scott stood straighter and wrenched his arm free. “I can pull my weight, Johnny.”

“No one said you couldn’t!” Sudden understanding washed over Johnny as he beheld the bitter determination on his brother’s strained face. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it – – proving yourself?” His stomach twisted as he thought of the hurtful things he’d said only yesterday:  You don’t belong here . . . you can’t cut it . . . got sand in your boots, so you gotta run home . . .

Wounded, Scott looked away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said morosely, but it was evident he’d taken the issue to heart.

Seething at his own cruel stupidity, Johnny walked around in front of him. “You’re a fool,” he snapped, heat making his words harsher than he’d intended. “I never meant those things. I told you that. I was just upset, thinking you were hightailing it back to that eastern city of yours.”

“It’s not you,” Scott said quietly. Bitterness replaced the hurt in his gaze. “It was never you.” His words came harder, sharpened with acid. “I know how you feel about me, Johnny, even if I get confused about it sometimes. Murdoch is different.”

“Oh, hell.” Knowing instinctively where the conversation was headed, Johnny threw his hands in the air. “Scott, he never wanted you to leave either.”

“He could have said that.”

“He could have said a lot of things. He doesn’t know how to. If you ain’t figured that out by now, you’re dumber than I thought. That doesn’t mean he don’t care.”

“Forget it.” Scott shrugged away the explanation, turning toward the creek. “Let’s just get back to work.”

“Think again, horse soldier.” Johnny stepped in front of him, planting a hand dead center on his chest, bluntly blocking his path. “Call me crazy, but I don’t think a man with a head wound should be doing anything ‘cept lying down. Either you take a break, or I’m going to have a chat with Murdoch and tell him how you’re really feeling.”

Scott’s face clouded with anger, belligerence turning his tone hostile. “Johnny…”

“Stow it, Lieutenant. I ain’t one of your damn cavalry troopers, so don’t try to order me around.” He gave a firm shove, nudging Scott a step backward. “Sit down in the wagon and rest a spell.” Even as he said the words, his lips curled fondly in an effort to ease the sting. “I just got you back from that gray-haired old vulture you call grandfather. Think I want you gettin’ sick on me? You either take a break, or I’m hauling your hind end back to the ranch.”

Scott ground his teeth together. “I don’t remember putting you in charge.”

“Well, since you’re incapable of making a rational decision for yourself, you’ll just have to live with it.” Johnny cocked his head toward the rear of the wagon. He knew it wasn’t an easy task for his take-charge brother to surrender the upper hand and concede to infirmity. Scott was a leader by nature and didn’t take well to relinquishing the role. “Ten minutes . . . that’s all. Give that damn laudanum a chance to work. You push yourself too hard and that simple ‘ache’ in your head is going to turn into something a helluva lot worse.”

Scott frowned. His skin looked drawn and ashen, a golden sheen of perspiration clinging to his cheeks. Silently, he weighed his options, clearly wanting to argue. In the end, he parted with a clipped nod and retreated to the wagon.

Johnny gave him one worried backward glance, then waded into the stream. Ten minutes later, Scott returned to his side, stubbornly hacking away at the brush. Irked by his willfulness, Johnny unobtrusively positioned himself to clear away the thicker limbs. If he couldn’t get Scott to knock off completely, the least he could do was make sure his determined brother carried the lighter workload. 

Idiot, he thought crossly, but bit silent the oath. 

They labored through the morning mostly quiet, the burble of the stream and the repetitive hack of their axes the only sounds to steadily break the stillness. Occasionally Scott would grunt with effort as he toiled, and once Johnny was certain he heard him moan softly, but the older man never slackened his workhorse pace. By the time they broke for lunch, the ends of his hair were saturated with sweat, dribbling sticky trails down his back and neck. He took a swig from the laudanum bottle when he thought Johnny wasn’t looking but made no complaint over the increasing heat or the heavy workload.

Tight-lipped, Johnny refrained from comment. Mentally, he promised to take matters into his own hands if Scott’s condition continued to deteriorate. Somehow, they muddled through the rest of the day, finishing the job in late afternoon. Johnny was only too glad to return to the ranch, where he hoped Scott would finally take a moment to rest. It wasn’t, however, until after dinner that he finally had the time to observe his brother more closely.

************

Scott turned the page of the novel he was reading, unable to concentrate on the text. The sensible thing to do would be to call it a night and go to bed, but that in itself was admitting a type of defeat. His eyes burned from staring at the page, not a single word of Don Quixote lodging in his brain. His head had started to hurt all over again, a resilient ache spreading from the graze beneath his hairline, rooting tenaciously in the base of his skull.

Wincing, he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. It was quiet in the Great Room, each member of the Lancer family engaged in a singular activity. Johnny had spread a deck of cards on the coffee table, head bent, engrossed in a game of solitaire. Seated in a large wing chair by the fireplace, Murdoch read through a handful of letters he’d retrieved earlier from town. At Scott’s side on the couch, Teresa picked at an embroidery hoop, her cross-stitch pattern far too tedious to contemplate given the steadily escalating pain in his head.

Outside, the sky deepened with the violet-gray of twilight as the sun sank beneath the rim of the earth. Candles and lanterns leaked a brass-soaked glow into the corners, bright enough to read by, muted enough to be cozy. The atmosphere should have been comforting, but not even the tranquil silence could ease the escalating ache behind his eyes.

Scott turned another page, grimacing as the stiff crinkle of paper spiked the pounding a notch higher. Bowing his head, he planted his elbow on the arm of the couch and gingerly massaged his temple. He could feel heat lancing outward from the tender laceration, the skin surrounding the crease sensitive and enflamed. The whole left side of his face hurt, barbed tendrils of pain splintering deeper into his jaw. With concentrated effort, he willed the discomfort silent and closed his eyes. Wrapped in his thoughts, he barely heard Teresa excuse herself and head upstairs.

Johnny yawned. “I’m kind of tired too. How about you, Scott?”

He jerked at the sound of his name, caught unaware. “No . . . I’m fine.” Reflex made him flip a page. He could feel Johnny’s gaze on him, steadily assessing the statement. 

His brother gave a soft snort. “I woulda thought after all that work today…”

“I’m fine,” Scott reaffirmed flatly. Only half conscious of what he was doing, he skimmed his hand under his hairline, lightly massaging the fiery knot rooted in his temple. He could feel Murdoch watching him, his father’s gaze far too scrutinizing for his liking. Uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and shoved from the couch, crossing to the whiskey decanter on the sideboard. Given the ache in his head, a shot of alcohol didn’t sound like such a bad idea. “I’m tired of labor,” he commented over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, I’ll work on the stock. I’ve been away from horses too long.” His hand trembled as he poured the drink, but he kept his back to the other men, blocking their view. The liquor burned when he tossed it down his throat.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Murdoch said neutrally.

Perturbed, Scott turned. “Why?” He couldn’t help interpreting the observation as a personal assault. “Given my background with the U.S. Cavalry, I’d say I’m uniquely qualified to oversee our stock.”

“I never said you weren’t.” Easing back in his chair, Murdoch crossed his legs. “I just think you should hold off from anything that . . . jarring . . . for a few more days. We have plenty of hands to manage in the meantime. Besides – – that fence line fording the southwest pasture still needs a lot of repair.”

Scott blanched. “Because I didn’t finish it?” Abruptly defensive, he stepped closer to his father’s chair. “I suppose you or Johnny could do it in half the time?” Something cold slithered into the pit of his stomach. The room felt hot and stuffy despite an outbreak of icy sweat on the back of his neck. He suddenly realized how exhausted he was, how tired of fighting the same bleak thoughts and physical setbacks. In the end, it all came down to a singular bitter truth. One that had hung over him ever since Harlan Garrett’s arrival:  Murdoch hadn’t cared enough to stop him from leaving, just as he hadn’t cared enough to claim him twenty-four years ago.

Murdoch frowned. “No one is comparing you, Scott. This isn’t a contest.”

“I don’t think it’s got anything to do with that,” Johnny countered, moving to his brother’s side. “But I do think the whole mess has gone on long enough. Everything was fine before Garrett showed up.” Scowling heavily, he glanced at his brother. “Nothing changed overnight, Scott. I don’t care what that old man told you or what he led you to believe. Murdoch and me are the same two people we were before he showed up.”

“Exactly.” Scott looked directly at his father. “The difference is I was too blind to realize it.” Too blind to realize you never really wanted me here in the first place, you were just forced into it. “I guess I am tired after all. I’m going to bed.”

“Scott – -”

“Forget it, Johnny.” Waving off his brother’s protest, Scott walked from the room. Pain ricocheted down his neck, each strike of his boot heels making him wince in discomfort. Coupled with heavy fatigue and a growing weariness of spirit, he couldn’t help thinking he’d made a dreadful mistake.

As much as he loved Lancer . . . as much as he wanted to belong, he was beginning to think he really did belong in Boston.

************

Johnny couldn’t sleep. By the time he finally gave up tossing and turning, night had crept into the blacker hours following midnight. A dry breeze scraped through the window to the right of his bed carrying the faint scent of earth and grass, the lonely yipping dirge of a coyote. Agitated, he tossed back the sheets, reaching for his pants and shirt.

He intended to wander outside and walk off some of his frustration over Scott’s behavior, but as he reached the bottom of the steps, he spied a hunched silhouette on the couch. The Great Room was dark, wrapped in velvety whorls of shadow. Moonlight slanted through the windows, eclipsing the bent form of the man on the davenport. Snared in the pale illumination of celestial light, Scott’s hair gleamed with luminous threads of gold and honey.

Johnny stood motionless, disturbed by his brother’s posture. Scott sat bent forward, one elbow planted on his knee, his forehead cupped in his palm. Even from a distance, Johnny could tell he was in pain.

“Hey . . .” Speaking softly, he wandered closer.

Scott flinched, lifting his head. Caught off guard, his glance was stricken, bare of pretense. 

Johnny felt his stomach bottom out. His mouth went dry at the bright glint of fever in the other man’s eyes. “What’s going on?”

Scott shuddered, making no effort to hide his misery. “My head . . .” The words trailed away as he closed his eyes against the pain. “Something’s . . . wrong . . .”

Johnny slid onto the couch beside him. “Let me see.” Gingerly, he slipped his fingers into Scott’s hair, carefully threading aside his bangs. Beneath his fingertips, his brother’s skin was flushed, damp with perspiration. “You feel hot,” he said worriedly. “Let me light a lamp so I can look at that graze. I think it’s infected.”

“No,” Scott recoiled, visibly swallowing down pain. “No light. It hurts my eyes. I just . . . I just need – -”

“You need a doctor.” Johnny snapped acidly, then immediately regretted his harshness when Scott winced. He sighed, muttering under his breath about ‘damn Yankee stubbornness.’ “What about the laudanum?” he persisted.

Scott closed his eyes, once again bowing his head into his hand. “I finished it earlier. I’ll be all right, Johnny. Just leave me alone.”

There was little chance of that. Johnny’s life had grown intricately intertwined with that of his college-educated brother in a relatively short time. For two men who’d never known the other existed, who were diametrically different in everything from personality to viewpoints, they’d bonded with a closeness Johnny often found baffling.

He could still recall the first glimpse he’d had of Scott on the stage – – how he’d mentally written him off as a rich, perfumed dandy who had no business in the west. That opinion hadn’t immediately changed on learning the tall, blond-haired man was his brother. Once he’d gotten past the initial shock, he’d looked a little deeper, reserving final judgment. In town, he’d thought it amusing to let Day Pardee’s men ride roughshod on Scott, certain he had no true constitution. He’d never expected Scott to hold his own for a time, outnumbered and outgunned, any more than he’d expected him to later strike him at Rim Creek.

The power behind that blow had left him stunned. For the first time he’d recalculated his opinion of Scott, deciding he had more mettle than Johnny had originally given him credit for. Later, during Pardee’s attack, it was Scott who had come to his rescue, standing over him, making himself a target as he’d shot round after round, unconcerned about his own safety.

It was the first time someone had risked life and limb to save him. Someone he’d barely known . . . someone he’d treated badly. It was a sobering thought, gratifying and strangely terrifying. It kindled emotions about blood and family, feelings that had been foreign and non-existent until that afternoon. He’d felt a rush of warmth unlike any he’d ever experienced before, the initial strengthening bonds of his relationship with Scott forged even as bullets pinged around them. In a handful of seconds, he realized the man he’d unjustly considered a fop was deadly accurate with a long gun, not to be taken lightly. It was a mistake Johnny would never make again. More than that, he found himself responding to Scott, caring what became of him. What started as initial disdain had since grown into easy companionship and, ultimately, deep affection.  

“Stay here,” Johnny instructed his brother. Moving sure-footedly through the darkness, he made his way to the kitchen and the indoor well pump. He snagged a basin from the tabletop, then rounded up a hand towel, filling the former with water. The well was deep enough that even in the high heat of summer, the water remained cool, something he counted on now.

Back in the Great Room, he set the basin on an end table and returned to the couch. “This should help,” he said, soaking the small towel in water. 

Eyes slitted with pain, Scott shot him a sideways glance. “Aren’t you going to gloat? Tell me what a stupid mistake I made by not going to see Reeser.”

“Nope.” Johnny squeezed excess water from the towel, folding it into an elongated strip. “You’re doing a good enough job for both of us, so just keep berating yourself.” His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “I’ll let you know when you’ve had enough.”

“That’s generous of you,” Scott mumbled, pressing long fingers to his forehead.

“Here…” Johnny eased the towel into position, draping it over his brow. 

Scott winced at the initial contact but eventually relaxed, raising his hand to hold the wet compress in place. He tipped his head back with an appreciative sigh, face raised toward the ceiling as he leaned into the sofa.

Johnny watched his lashes sweep closed, gilded with gold even in the moon-filtered darkness. Lightly, he grazed the back of his hand against Scott’s cheek. “Better?”

“Some,” Scott acknowledged quietly. 

“Come on,” Johnny coaxed. He shifted, giving his brother room. “Lie down and rest for a minute, and give that thing a chance to work.” He transferred a pillow to his lap, intent on remaining awake as long as Scott was in such misery. When his brother only glanced at him skeptically but made no attempt to move, Johnny settled a hand on his shoulder. “What’s the matter – – think I’m going to bite?”

He used faint pressure, guiding Scott to lie down. Somehow it felt natural to have his brother’s head pillowed in his lap, Scott’s ash-colored hair fanning backward from his face. 

Jarred by the movement, Scott grimaced.

“Take it easy,” Johnny soothed. Lightly, he feathered his hand into his brother’s hair, careful of the laceration. He had no doubt it was infected, the culprit behind Scott’s slumbering fever, most likely a good deal of his pain too. Applying gentle pressure, he started a slow massage with his fingertips.

Scott shivered and moaned softly, turning his face against the pillow. His eyes swept closed, the thick honeyed line of his lashes filtering spiked shadows over his cheeks. 

Johnny adjusted the compress on his forehead. “I make a pretty good nursemaid, don’t you think, Boston?” 

Scott grunted what he thought of the idea.

Johnny chuckled. “You’re just lucky I got attached to you – – blue-blooded Yank and all.”

Scott’s lips curled in a faint grin. “. . . temperamental gunslinger,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, well . . . I never said I was perfect. Just damn close.” He paused to finger a heavy strand of ash-pale hair, fondness warming his heart. He never would have thought he could be so openly demonstrative. As reactionary as he tended to be, he’d always been sparse with his affection. The hardscrabble life of Johnny Madrid had left no room for emotional entanglements. He’d gotten by just fine on his wits and his skill with a six-shooter. If it hadn’t been for Murdoch and the Pinkerton detective, he might have been content to live out the remainder of his days one step ahead of tomorrow – – assuming he’d been able to worm free of the firing squad he’d been facing. Even when the ranch had fallen into his lap, he’d been distrustful and aloof, a renegade by nature. It was in his blood, a characteristic that transcended genetics. Bonding with a college-educated easterner simply made no sense, and yet . . .

Johnny felt his pulse quiet in relief as Scott’s breathing deepened with the lethargic edge proceeding sleep. His brother shifted, settling more comfortably against him, marked drowsiness relaxing his long limbs with lassitude. Thankful, Johnny rubbed his shoulder. “That’s it . . . go to sleep. As soon as it’s light, I’ll send one of the hands to fetch Reeser.”

Scott cracked an eyelid, a fever-dusted sliver of slate blue visible beneath his lashes. “I don’t think – -”

“Forget it,” Johnny chided fondly. “You lost the right to an opinion when you bought that laudanum.” Gently, he skimmed his palm over Scott’s cheek, mopping up perspiration. “You’re just lucky I don’t send someone to round up the doc now. For an older brother, you’ve got a hell of a lot to learn, Scott. Harlan Garrett started this whole mess – -”

“No.” Weary, Scott shook his head. He wanted to tell his brother it had nothing to do with his grandfather and everything to do with his own worth. True, his grandfather had attempted to blackmail him, but at least he knew where the old man’s heart belonged. Maybe Harlan Garrett didn’t love him in the truly affectionate sense of the word, but he loved the idea of him – – the perfect grandson who could be paraded as the toast of Boston society. Scott had always understood the boundaries of his relationship with his grandfather. It had been built on the principles of discipline, image and respect. Somewhere, buried under all the layers of proper etiquette and precise control, lingered a fleeting morsel of love. That had been enough to sustain him for twenty-four years, his own heart closed off from the possibility of might-have-beens. 

Then Murdoch had beckoned him west . . . he’d met Johnny . . . succumbed to the raw emotion that came from being part of a true family. Of having a father and a brother. For the first time in his life, he’d acted on his own impulse, embracing a destiny that he’d chosen. He’d come alive in the west, the restricting shackles of striving to exceed his grandfather’s expectations no longer important. It was as if he’d been reborn, the drudgery of an unfulfilling past behind him. 

His grandfather had tried to take that away from him, and Murdoch had almost let him.

Disturbed by the thought, Scott moaned softly and burrowed closer against Johnny. Just as quickly, he tensed, realizing the easy familiarity might not be readily welcomed. It was a natural reaction on his part, his capacity for affection far exceeding any inhibitions he might have. His brother simply made him feel completely trusting and at ease – – a gift no one had ever come close to achieving before. Fearing he’d crossed the line, Scott tensed to withdraw.

“It’s all right,” Johnny soothed gently rubbing his forearm. The caress was calming, mildly hypnotic. “Just relax and go to sleep. I’ll stay with you . . .” His voice trailed away in a velvety whisper, so unlike the deadly gunfighter persona he could don like a second skin.

Scott relaxed marginally, nestling his cheek against his brother’s thigh. A hot band of fire wrapped around his skull, rooted in the graze on his temple. Earlier, that punishment might have seemed unbearable, but the soothing stroke of Johnny’s hand made it all tolerable. He closed his eyes, slipping one hand under his brother’s leg as sleep crept closer.

Tomorrow he would think about the mess he’d made of things.

Tomorrow he would think about Murdoch.

************

Murdoch gave into a yawn as he rounded the corner of the Great Room. Dawn was just beginning to unravel on the eastern horizon, spooling across the sky in pencil-thin strands of tangerine and gold. It would be another half-hour at least before the hands in the bunkhouse rolled from their beds and Johnny, Scott and Teresa wandered downstairs looking for breakfast. He knew Maria, the cook, was likely already hard at work, up to her elbows in biscuit flour and bacon. The thought of coffee led him in the direction of the kitchen before he became aware of the two men sprawled on the couch.

Speechless, Murdoch came to an immediate halt.

Johnny slouched in the corner, legs spread in front of him. His head was tipped back, eyes closed, one arm splayed over the side of the sofa, the other draped forward across his brother’s chest. Scott slept on his side in a half-tuck position, his head pillowed in Johnny’s lap. Scattered bangs fell forward into his eyes, glimmering with gold even in the dishwater gray light of early dawn.

Taken aback by the comfortable familiarity the two men shared, Murdoch hesitated. “Scott . . .” Wetting his lips, he took a step closer and spoke more firmly. “Johnny . . .”

The younger of the two men grunted and stirred. Johnny came awake with a bleary-eyed yawn. “Murdoch . . .” The bewildered surprise in his voice drifted away as his eyes lowered to his lap. Gently, he palmed his hand over his brother’s cheek. “Hey, Scott. Scott, come on . . .it’s morning already . . .”

Stirred to wakefulness, Scott winced, making a sleep-muddled attempt to focus on his surroundings. He dragged a hand over his face, groaning slightly with the effort.

Murdoch watched, astounded. “Have you been here all night?” 

“Close enough.” Johnny dropped his eyes, frowning slightly as his brother struggled to wake up. “Scott was having problems sleeping. We need to send one of the hands to fetch Reeser. I think that graze he got is infected.”

“I can speak for myself,” Scott mumbled but sounded far from fully coherent. With effort, he forced himself to a sitting position, immediately bowing his forehead into his hand. “It’s just a headache.”

“Yeah,” Johnny countered sourly. “One that had you in so much pain you couldn’t sleep last night . . . not to mention the fact you had a fever. We had a deal, Boston. I agreed to wait ‘till morning to fetch Reeser, and you agreed not to act like an idiot.”

Scott shot him a baleful glare from the corner of his eye. 

The younger man cracked a smile. “You ain’t getting out of it, horse soldier, so stew all you want. I’m gonna make sure this mess gets settled once and for all.” Shoving from the couch, he pushed past Murdoch and headed from the Great Room. 

Unsettled, Murdoch watched him go. He eyed Scott openly, his brow furrowing in stern disapproval. His son looked drawn and fatigued even after resting. Since arriving at the ranch, his skin had tanned, warmed to a rich bronze, but it seemed wan now, tinted with the pallid gray of exhaustion. Only his eyes looked bright – – glittering silver-blue like creek water snared in the noonday sun. Murdoch didn’t need Reeser to tell him Scott was running a fever.

“I think you should go upstairs and lie down,” he observed evenly. “I’ll bring you some cold water.”

“I don’t need to lie down.” Irritated, Scott shoved to his feet. He swayed off balance, grimacing as if the movement had jarred him. With a heated curse, he folded back into the couch and ground his teeth together. “Do you have to stand there and watch me?” he spat.

Murdoch frowned. Scott rarely got angry enough to curse, but when he did, it normally signaled he had reached the end of his rope. Perplexed by his attitude, the older man perched on the arm of the davenport, attempting to appear less confrontational. “I thought maybe you could use some help getting upstairs.”

Scott parted with an icy glare. “Like I need help finishing the fence line, or clearing the creek, or half a dozen other chores?” he snapped. Just as quickly, the belligerent edge washed from his posture. Exhaling in defeat, he tilted his head back, resting against the rear of the couch. “I don’t know why I bother,” he said resignedly, his eyes on the ceiling. “It’s obvious I don’t fit in here.”

Murdoch balked. “What?” He had expected hostility to roll from his son’s tongue, not resignation. He’d known the air remained unsettled between them about Harlan Garrett, but he’d never thought Scott would question his right to be a part of Lancer. “I thought . . .” He stumbled over the words, surprised by the pained twinge in his heart. “I thought you liked it here?”

“Liking and belonging are two different things,” Scott returned flatly. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, his thick hair tumbled back from his brow. 

Watching him, Murdoch realized how much he’d changed since first arriving on the stage from Boston. That Scott had been conventional and polite, his hair cropped close to his head, his clothing immaculate and crisply tailored. But the man who sprawled half-heartedly on the couch had allowed his wheat-colored hair to grow long, his manner to become edgy. He’d forsaken dinner jackets and silk cravats for plainly-cut work clothes, most of which ended up covered with grime and dust during the routine course of a day.

“No one is questioning your place at Lancer, Scott, except for you,” Murdoch attempted to reason. That earned him a sharp glance, the glint of fever still alarmingly bright on the surface of Scott’s storm-colored eyes. He frowned, disturbed to find communicating so awkward. This was his son – – his son­! – – not some stranger. He should be able to come out and say exactly what was on his mind, yet he felt the need to dance around the issue, avoiding its heart. “I’m grateful for what you did for me . . . what you were willing to do,” he said clumsily. “. . . by leaving – – or planning to leave – – with Harlan. You should have told me he was blackmailing you.”

“Why?” The younger man looked away, a sudden veil shuttering the emotion from his face. “I don’t see how it would have made a difference, Sir.” He sat forward, his back straight. Once again, his face reflected the strain of such simple movement.

Murdoch swore silently. Not only did Scott’s pain remain a constant factor, but he’d moved from defensive to deferential, falling back on the grating use of “Sir” to distance himself from the discussion. 

“Don’t you think I would have had something to say about it?” Murdoch challenged, a sliver of heat in his words.

Scott studied him coolly. “You made no effort for twenty-four years. Why would now be any different?”

Murdoch tensed, feeling much like he’d been kicked in the gut. “So, we’re back to this,” he said quietly.

His calmness infuriated Scott. “What did you expect?” Biting the words off savagely, he wrenched sideways in the couch, angrily confronting his father face to face. A stabbing flare of pain contorted his features, but Murdoch couldn’t tell if the anguish was physical, emotional or both.

“You never asked me to stay,” Scott accused bitterly. “You didn’t even try. You were just going to let me ride off with Grandfather. Admit it, Murdoch – – you’d be just as happy if I left.”

“Damn it, that’s not true!” Incensed, the older man surged to his feet.

Scott rose just as quickly, grinding his teeth together in a visible effort to keep from swaying. “Then explain it to me,” he dared. “Tell me why you didn’t try.”

“I . . .” Murdoch fumbled for words. Years of bottled and bitter emotion rose and clogged in his throat. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to explain. Instead, the angry light in Scott’s eyes left him feeling tainted and unworthy, all of his feeble explanations the equivalent of hot air. How could he ever make the younger man understand how very much he meant? You’re my son. I love you. I’ve always loved you. But the words wouldn’t come. He shook his head, looking away. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled.

“You’re wrong.” Scott’s voice was bitter and hard, wounded underneath. “It matters to me.”

Pained, Murdoch closed his eyes, listening to the clipped sounds of Scott’s footsteps as he strode briskly from the room.

***********

Settling more comfortably into the stack of pillows mounded at his back, Scott fingered the clean white bandage beneath his hairline. He’d been given strict orders to leave it in place for several days no matter how inclined he might feel to peel it off. Thinner than the last bandage, it looped under his bangs, neatly tied and tucked at the back of his skull. Dr. Reeser had read him the riot act for removing the initial dressing, hotly blaming his impatience for the infection that eventually settled into the wound. While not catastrophic, it had been virulent enough to induce fever and dizziness. Worse, he’d been suffering from a concussion, a condition he’d only aggravated by working relentlessly when he should have been resting. Reeser felt confident both his pain and sensitivity to light would gradually fade as he gave his body the chance to heal.

Murdoch and Johnny had both hovered in the background during Reeser’s examination much to Scott’s chagrin, but any protest he’d made was quickly overruled by all three men. Thus, it was that Reeser relayed precise instructions for his patient’s care – – most notably a strict regimen of rest.

By that point, Scott really had no strength left to argue. He just wanted to be alone, solitude he was grateful for when his father and brother saw Dr. Reeser to the door. Fully clothed, he lay stretched on the bed, pillows lumped at his back, the sun-soaked haze of early morning spilling into his bedroom. Murdoch had drawn the drapes on the windows to help shield his light-sensitive eyes, but the glare still bled through, filmy and white, raw with the kiss of growing heat. Outside, the air was dead, barely a whisper against the curtains as the sun climbed higher in a cloudless sky. He could feel sweat collecting in the hollow of his throat. It made him think longingly of the moist sea air in Boston Harbor . . . the rolling blue rim of the Atlantic and the salty tang of marine brine. Yet as much as he loved the eastern seaboard, he loved Lancer more. The heady combination of desert, green earth and painted western skies had gotten under his skin, slipped into his blood. But it went further than that. His love of the west revolved around Johnny, Murdoch and Teresa. All put together, Lancer had become his home.

Last night when he couldn’t sleep . . . when the pain had grown unbearable, it was Johnny who’d sat with him, quietly ushering him into peaceful rest. Scott could still recall the gentle stroke of his brother’s hand filtering through his hair, the pads on Johnny’s fingertips rough and callused from years of handling a gun. His grandfather would have cringed to find him nestled against Johnny’s thigh, dependent on his brother’s touch for comfort. At one point, that might have mattered to him, but Harlan Garrett no longer came first in his life. He had a brother and a father now. And if he were honest, he’d actually liked having Johnny fuss over him, protective and attentive. No one had ever done that before. No one had cared enough to be that demonstrative.

Certainly not his father.

Scott sighed. 

He knew he was going to have to come to terms with Murdoch’s cool demeanor. In that respect, the older man was much like his grandfather. Harlan Garrett had been a strict disciplinarian, praise given when warranted but never to excess, love and affection perceived as weak and wasted emotions. Clearly, Murdoch had no use for either. The question that haunted Scott loomed just as painfully – – did Murdoch have use for him?

Grimacing, he closed his eyes. The thought alone clamped a cold fist over his stomach. It sent the pain spiking higher in his head and, for a moment, it was all he could do to fight off the brutal onslaught. Reeser had given him a draught of laudanum – – even left a small bottle, admonishing him to use it only when his sensitivity to light grew acute, but the opium derivative did nothing for the gut-twisting turmoil he felt. Shaken, he dragged a hand over his face.

“Scott?” His father’s voice preceded a soft knock on the door. A second later Murdoch peered into the room. He smiled weakly at seeing Scott sitting up in bed. “Good . . . you’re awake. I need to . . . I . . .” Clearing his throat, he stepped into the room. He looked uncharacteristically anxious, a trait blatantly out of place for a man who normally projected poise. Uncertain, he hovered at the foot of the bed. “How do you feel?” he asked lamely.

Scott shrugged. His head ached, the morning glare hurt his eyes and he felt unnaturally tired, but he saw no sense in sharing any of it. True, he had a concussion and the graze on his scalp was infected, but Murdoch would likely just see the infirmities as proof of his weakness. The older man had heard Reeser’s diagnosis the same as he and Johnny. His father could draw his own conclusions.

Stubbornly, Scott set his jaw and looked aside. “I suppose I’m always good for bookwork,” he muttered sullenly.

“That’s enough!”

The heat in Murdoch’s voice whipped his head around in surprise. No longer uncertain, Murdoch glared at him, his face dark with anger. One large finger stabbed in Scott’s direction. 

“I’ve had enough of this! Whatever poison Harlan put into your head about your abilities, it’s all lies. All of it! I can’t make you believe in yourself, Scott. I can only tell you that I believe in you and that your brother believes in you. When you’re through trying to work yourself into an early grave, maybe you’ll quit moping around and become a part of Lancer again.”

Stunned, Scott blinked. “I wasn’t trying to – -” he started to object but never had the opportunity to finish the protest.

Incensed, Murdoch stalked closer. “You have a concussion, an infected head wound and zero tolerance for light. A short while ago, I found out from your brother you were getting through the days by downing laudanum – -”

“Johnny needs to keep his mouth shut,” Scott snapped tightly.

“He’s worried about you,” Murdoch countered. “I just spent ten minutes chewing him out for not telling me sooner. Instead of being angry, you should be thanking him for dragging Reeser out here. Left untreated, that concussion could have proved fatal. At the very least, you might have lost your vision. And for what…” Infuriated, Murdoch threw his hands in the air. “…. stubborn pride! Was it so impossibly hard to admit you needed help?”

Tight-lipped, Scott looked away. The pounding in his skull grew louder, throbbing like a blood-pulse at his temple. “You don’t understand.”

Forcing a calming breath, Murdoch sat on the edge of the bed. “I understand you’ve got some misguided fool notion that I don’t think you belong here – – that I don’t think you’re capable of pulling your workload.” Pressing his lips together, Murdoch shook his head. “That’s garbage, Scott. Complete and utter nonsense. Did Harlan tell you that?”

“No.” Miserable to have the whole confrontation tumbling into his lap, Scott looked at his hands. He wanted answers, but not like this. Not when he couldn’t think straight and Murdoch waffled between anger and solicitousness. He hadn’t expected his father to react with any emotion at all.

The older man regarded him steadily. “Then where did you ever get a crazy notion like that?”

“From you.” Scott took a breath. Determined, he forced himself to look at his father . . . forced himself to blunder ahead, even as a sweat-sticky rush of nausea told him to retreat. “If you wanted me here . . . if you thought I belonged here, you would have asked me to stay.”

There. It was said – – out in the open, his cards on the table. His heartbeat ratcheted higher, jabbering against his ribs like a frenzied caged animal.

“Scott . . .” Murdoch looked at him speechlessly, a glimmer of understanding dawning in his eyes. “Son, I didn’t ask you to stay because I didn’t think I had the right. After twenty-four years of silence, of doing the wrong thing for the right reasons – – or so I thought – – how could I possibly ask you to do something for me?”

Scott hedged, confused. “For you?” he echoed doubtfully.

Murdoch nodded. “I wanted you to stay. I even argued with Harlan. I knew he was going to try to take you from me.” Disturbed, he shoved from the bed and paced to the far side of the room, his clipped movement testament of his lingering agitation. Hesitating by the window, he swept aside the drapes, then immediately cringed as if realizing the glare would bother Scott. Frowning, he tugged them firmly into place. “I wish I could make you understand, but I’m just not good with words. All I know is I forfeited the right to be your father a long time ago. That doesn’t mean I can’t be your friend . . . that I don’t want you here with me.”

“What if . . .” Scott swallowed hard, a morsel of hope growing deep inside. He’d never heard Murdoch talk so openly before, even as halting as the confession was. “What if I want you to be my father too?”

The older man hesitated at the foot of the bed. Warmth settled into his eyes as the shadow of a smile curved his lips. “I’d like that,” he said quietly, his voice sincere. 

For a moment, there was only silence. Scott felt the affection in his father’s gaze settle over him, nudging aside the doubt that had plagued him for so long. Could it truly be as simple as Murdoch said – – that his father hadn’t asked him to stay because he felt he didn’t have the right?  

“I guess . . .” Scott cleared his throat, awkward himself. “I guess we’re not very good at communicating.”

Murdoch’s smile inched higher. “We can learn as we go.” Moving back to the side of the bed, he sat on the edge, his posture still tense as if he wasn’t sure his presence was welcome. “We have a lot of history to overcome, Scott – – mistakes, most all of them mine. Someday, we can talk about those missing twenty-four years if you want. But I think we both know nothing I say is going to erase that pain.”

“I know that.” The truth settled like a rock. It was something he’d always known but had never wanted to admit. No matter what Murdoch told him . . . no matter how noble or selfless his father’s reasons for abandoning him in the east, they would never banish the sting of separation, the loneliness and anger he’d felt. He couldn’t change the past, but he could still build on the future. The choice was his.

“This is a new life for me. It’s different than anything else I’ve known.” Uncertain, he wet his lips. “Sometimes I feel like I have to prove myself  . . . that I’m not good enough.” He rolled his shoulders, feeling the heat of embarrassment on his face. “When you didn’t try to stop me from leaving, I thought you were disappointed in me. That you wanted me to go.”

“Scott, that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“I know that, Sir.” He smiled somewhat sheepishly. “At least I do now. I just felt I had to prove myself…”

“…so you buried yourself in work.” Murdoch shook his head. “Despite the fact you should have been in bed.

Expression neutral, Scott fingered the bandage. “I’ve suffered a lot worse than this in the past. I just thought – -”

“It doesn’t matter what you thought.” Murdoch slid a hand over his wrist. “From now on, we talk about these things – – both of us. What’s important is that you understand how we feel about you. How I feel about you.”

Scott flushed and lowered his head, unable to hold his father’s frank gaze. A welcome sensation of warmth spread through his stomach. He could still feel the bite of pain against his temples, but the ache was no longer so devastating when matched against his father’s pronouncement. He felt Murdoch’s fingers beneath his chin, then his father tipped his head up. The touch tracked tenderly from his jaw to his cheek.

Murdoch grinned. “It’s good to have you back, Scott.”

The younger man flashed a smile. “It’s good to be back, Sir.”

His father fingered his hair briefly, then stood. “Get some rest. When you’re back on your feet, I think your brother and I can find plenty to keep you occupied.”

Scott slumped into the pillows, content to relax for the first time in days. He had Lancer back, but best of all – – he had his family back.

**********

Scott shifted in bed and rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes to velvety darkness, pulled awake by the sensation of someone standing over him. He’d done little that day but rest as instructed, finishing dinner early, then drifting to sleep shortly after sunset. Murdoch, Johnny, and Teresa had all been in to check on him at various intervals throughout the afternoon and evening, helping him pass the time with conversation when he wasn’t reading or dozing. The ache in his head had been manageable with the help of Dr. Reeser’s laudanum and appropriate periods of rest.  

He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling cloaked in darkness overhead. A warm palm slid onto his forehead, banishing his slight haze of disorientation.

“Sorry . . .” His brother’s voice was husky and low. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Just thought I’d check on your fever.” The hand fell away, feathering over the edge of his bandage. With a faint grin, Johnny pulled a chair close to the bedside. “I think you earned yourself a passing grade, Boston.”

In the darkness, Scott made out the smoked blue glint of his eyes, the raven-black sheen of his hair. Moonlight riddled the surface with thin strands of silver and gold. It contoured his jaw in a pale wash of light, leaving half his face dusted with shadow.

Secretly pleased by the attention, Scott smiled wanly. He didn’t think he’d ever grow tired of having a brother, especially one as attentive as Johnny. “What time is it?” he asked groggily.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It depends . . .” Scott scrunched higher on the pillow, raising his shoulders slightly to better converse. “The house feels quiet. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Johnny shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.” In direct contradiction to the statement, he parted with a huge yawn. “So, I thought I’d stick my nose in here and make sure you were still following doctor’s orders.” He nodded toward the bandage. “How’s your head?”

“Better.” Scott was surprised to realize the statement was true. Whether from the laudanum or just catching up on some sorely needed rest, the pain in his head had already dwindled to a dull ache. “I guess I owe you for getting Reeser . . . and . . .” He hedged, uncertain why it was so difficult to say. “. . . staying with me last night.”

Johnny gave a soft snort. “We’re brothers, Scott. What did you think I was going to do?”

He shook his head, uncertain what he wanted to say. It was odd when he thought about it – – neither of them had ever been exposed to any true measure of compassion before. He’d been reared on the strict principles of discipline and respect while Johnny’s fatalistic lifestyle had held no room for anything but base survival. Somehow, despite those obstacles, they’d grown comfortable with one another. What had started as a tenuous bond had solidified into deep affection. He loved his brother, just as he loved Murdoch. Even so, it was sometimes difficult admitting he needed help.

Lowering his eyes, Scott wet his lips. “Thanks,” he said lamely.

Johnny chuckled. “You aren’t much better than the old man when it comes to expressing yourself, you know that?”

Appalled, Scott shot him a startled glance. “That’s not true. Besides . . . Murdoch and I talked everything out earlier and we’re fine – -”

“I know,” Johnny inserted before he could go further. “He told me.” His smile returned, bolder this time. “I think he’s getting daring about communicating. Maybe we’re wearing him down.” Leaning forward, he locked his hands between his knees, his grin casual. “I don’t think he’s ever had to explain himself to anyone before. Then again – – neither have I. Except maybe a sheriff,” he added as an afterthought.

Scott relaxed, appreciating his levity. He shifted, sinking deeper into the pillows this time, feeling the faint pull of sleep. His eyes felt heavy. Even after several hours of rest, he found himself growing drowsy. “You don’t do half bad for not being all that talkative,” he murmured. 

“Think so?” Johnny cupped a hand over his arm where it rested on the bed. 

Scott felt the press of warm fingers against the inside of his wrist, followed almost immediately by the steady pressure of a sleep-inducing massage. Too tired to protest, he let his lashes feather closed. Someday he’d stop to ponder how infinitely attached he’d grown to Johnny. For tonight, it was enough to know his brother felt every bit as loyal as he did, the upset of Harlan Garrett and his own foolish notions of not belonging behind them.

“Johnny?” he mumbled.

“Yeah, what is it, Scott?”

“Just so you know . . .” He fought back a yawn, already half asleep, the stroke of his brother’s fingers pure magic. He thought back to the previous night and how Johnny had stayed with him on the couch, utterly attentive, unafraid to show compassion. “If you ever need me to be there. . .” He forced his eyes open, suddenly terrified he wasn’t making his point as groggy as he was. “I mean, if you were hurt . . . or . . .”

“I know, Scott.” Johnny smiled softly and raised his hand briefly to drag a knuckle across the older man’s cheek. “I know what you’re trying to say and the same goes for me. I guess in the long run, we did okay for ourselves ending up here. When you think about it, the past really doesn’t matter. The old man fouled up, but look what we got now – – who we got now.”

Scott nodded, content. He liked that thought. He hadn’t been happy as a child – – sheltered, yes; provided for, yes, but the lack of a mother and father had left him feeling empty. It had taken twenty-four years to fill that emptiness, but it was well worth the wait.

In the darkness, Scott clasped his brother’s hand.

At long last, he was home.

End
Approx 2007

.

PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT

Thank you for reading! Please take a moment to leave a comment. You can do so using the ‘reply’ box below.

Sadly, we can’t pass the comment on to the author, as we don’t have a current email address. Don’t let that stop you commenting! If the author reconnects with the fandom in the future, she will see how much her work is appreciated.

.