Schism of the Heart, Pt. 2

CHAPTER FOUR

"Alexandra Helena Salvadore Lancer was only with us a short while," Father Ben intoned in a voice as flat as the sky. "But it was long enough for us to know she was loved as much as she loved back. We will miss her here on Earth and are comforted in knowing we will see her again in heaven. May God rest her soul."

The overcast morning would burn off as the sun traveled to its apex. Unusual for the season, the gunmetal mantle of the sky was an appropriate backdrop to the event.

Alexandra had died three days before, shortly after Dr. Sam Jenkins' final stitch closed the wound on Johnny's scalp. The doctor only wished he could mend the Lancer hearts as easily.

Standing next to Teresa with his head bowed, the physician's thoughts drifted back over the past seventy-two hours.

Johnny had drifted in and out of consciousness that night and the doctor wasn't fully convinced it was entirely from the head wound. The depth of sorrow he'd seen while administering treatment still tore at his heart; the younger brother seemed to know Alexandra was not going to make it. After the stitches, Johnny had refused any comfort and stayed on the floor for the night.

Alexandra's life left her while her beloved husband sat at her side and Sam's fingers held her wrist. All the doctor had to say was, "I'm sorry." Scott's posture hadn't changed but his eyes lost all life in that instant. The older brother was instantly veiled in an invincible cloak of stone. He'd politely thanked the doctor and the priest, and then summarily excused them from the room and closed the sturdy door.

In the great room, Teresa had turned to her guardian and wept for the loss of her sister. Murdoch had simply held tight and let her cry, unable to offer verbal condolences beyond a ragged clearing of his throat. Sam was sure the patriarch couldn't have moved at that moment, either.

Maria had left the hacienda with a stifled sob, escorted home by Father Ben on his way back to the church. Maria had returned just before dawn and quietly began preparations that were necessary to keep the house going and to get ready for the upcoming services. The small Mexican woman was the one to move the family out of its stupor; Teresa was first.

When the sun showed itself over the hills that morning, Teresa finally began to pitch in by simply following Maria's example. The young girl moved mechanically but her motions cascaded down the family. Murdoch unrooted from his den, and Jelly finally came out of the sanctity of his room.

The brothers, however, stayed in their rooms, one drifting between levels of awareness and the other between stages of grief.

Sam had stayed, resting, until late afternoon when Scott's door finally creaked open. The young man had aged years in a handful of hours and moved as if in a fog. Still, he'd recalled his Boston manners and thanked Sam again. Sam had tried to check Johnny once more before departing, but the boy wouldn't let him step in the room. The doctor left as father and elder son wearily discussed the next steps at the kitchen table. It was a conversation heavy in direction and lax in emotion. The physician had wondered when the breakdown would come for both of them.

Today - nearly three days later - the doctor found himself standing with the Lancers on his right -Teresa, then Murdoch, Scott and Jelly - and the Salvadores on his left - Eduardo, Alicia and son Thomas.

Behind them townsfolk and friends huddled as a substantial crowd, a testimony to the popularity of the family. Scanning the group, Sam finally spotted Johnny just before the graveside service began, standing alone and barely within hearing distance. The white bandage that swathed his wound was stark against the black of his hair and the ash colored sky.

Murdoch had already spoken about his concerns for his younger son when Sam had first arrived for the service. "He's barricaded himself in that room," Murdoch revealed in disgust. "And Scott doesn't seem to care."

"Scott's had a lot on his mind," Sam offered.

"I know that, Sam, but he's seen us trying to reason with Johnny through that damn door and hasn't said a thing."

"Johnny knows about the service?"

"Yes." Murdoch had the grace to look sheepish. "I finally yelled at him and demanded he open the door and come with us. He told me to go away. At least we know he's awake."

When the lone figure of the younger Lancer son had finally appeared at the service, Sam saw a look of relief cross the face of each family member as they noticed him. Except for Scott; he kept his eyes fixed forward, still deep within himself.

Sam realized the service was concluded when the crowd behind him began to move. Scott turned, and with Father Ben beside him, began thanking anyone that approached with condolences. The doctor watched Murdoch escort the Salvadores to a waiting carriage to drive them back to the hacienda. Alexandra's family had arrived late the night before and at least Murdoch had the presence of mind to realize they must be very tired, both mentally and physically.

The doctor watched as Jelly broke from the crowd and made his way to the solitary figure by the lone oak. As the crowd cleared, a silent drama played out as the old man obviously tried to plead his case to have Johnny return with them. The white wrapped head simply kept bowed and slowly shook in a negative response. Jelly’s body language showed agitation and the raised tone of his voice could be discerned, but nothing swayed the young man. Finally, the old ranch hand made his way back to his waiting horse and he left with a disgusted snort.

By the time the doctor mounted the step to his buggy, the only ones left at the site were Scott and Teresa. She stood next to her adopted sibling with her hand tucked in his elbow. The pair made a sorrowful picture with the gray sky behind them. The dark rectangle of freshly turned earth at their feet, strewn with cut flowers, was in stark contrast against gold summer grass weakly waving in the slight breeze. Even the green of the lone oak that topped the gentle slope seemed veiled in gray. In the tree's shadow, the dark figure of Johnny standing alone completed the mournful theme.

With a sad sigh, the doctor looked to the road to town and flicked the reins. He'd done all he could for the Lancer family at this point. He hoped with all his heart that they would be able to find their way back to being a family again.

"Are you ready, Scott?" Teresa's voice was compassionately tender. She studied his gaunt cheeks and shadowed eyes, and prayed that someday soon the brother-by-heart she knew would show himself again.

Several long seconds passed before his head finally fell wearily forward. "Yes," he said huskily with a glance at the sole buggy parked near the road.

"I'll get Johnny," she began, releasing his elbow as she turned to the single oak tree.

"No." Scott's voice was sharp.

Teresa stopped, her eyes wide in surprise. "We can't just leave him!"

"Then go get him. I'll walk back." He turned, and began to walk away.

“What?” Stunned, the young girl felt herself begin to unravel. While Scott slowly walked away from her, all the emotion she had managed to work around for the past days came to a head and she started to tremble. Teresa opened her mouth to speak, to lash out like Scott had done to Johnny, but the only thing that came out was a choked sob. She pressed her hand tightly against her mouth in an effort to get the numb focus back in the forefront that had allowed her to function since Alexandra was brought home.

The noise caused Scott to pause. Through her tear-blurred eyes, Teresa watched him turn, expecting to see anger in his eyes at the mention of Johnny. Instead, she saw the deep and familiar sorrow that had dwelled there for days.

The lean Lancer, whose frame in the past few days seemed slumped in defeat, studied her for a second with his gray-blue eyes. The wan smile he gave her did nothing to warm his gaze. When he spoke, she barely heard his fragile voice over the rustling grass and her pounding heart.

“I just can’t see him right now, honey. I just can’t.” There was a slight tremble to his hand as he took a step back and took Teresa’s hand in his. “I may be able to later, but I just can’t think about it now. I have too much to think about right now.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before releasing it, but was unable to hold the fragile smile. When he walked away the second time, Teresa felt her world shift inexorably into a place where there was no footing, no base. Looking for something to hold on to, she turned to the only other person here that had been an anchor in her life.

Johnny had moved down the slope and was now standing next to the flower-strewn grave, his head bowed in reverence. He didn’t acknowledge her arrival nor did she comment on his presence; she was still trying to keep from falling apart along with her world.

Teresa simply moved to his side and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. She could feel the heat of his body through the shirt he wore and automatically reached up with her other hand to feel his cheek. Rough stubble scratched the back of her fingers as she appraised him with a long look. The scrutiny allowed the young woman to focus on something other than her own sorrow.

Dark, dried blood spotted the wrapping around his head; it should have been changed long ago. She dropped her hand from his face to hold his elbow.

“Johnny, you have a fever,” she stated quietly, not daring to push.

“I figgered as much,” he mumbled.

“You need to eat.”

His chuckle was short and dry, his eyes still on Alexandra’s resting place. “I need a lot of things,” he replied hoarsely.

Teresa frowned. “Like what?”

He inclined his head in her direction and she caught an unusual brightness in his eye. “I’ve got some supplies with me. I’ll be at the building site. I figger it’s the one place Scott won’t be goin’ near for awhile. Will you tell Murdoch for me?”

“What?” she blurted in anger. “You can’t go anywhere, Johnny Lancer! You’re sick! The stitches must be infected and Sam has to look at them!” She tightened her grip on his elbow and gave it a good shake in desperation. “You need to be with family!”

Johnny ducked his head again. His voice had a weary tone when he again spoke. “I know, querida, but I can’t change the circumstances.” He patted her hand, and then squeezed it comfortingly, just as his brother had done minutes before. “I’m not leavin’. I’ve been thinkin’, and I can’t leave. The site is closer than any of the line shacks if anyone wants to talk to me.”

He turned his head to face uphill and whistled. Barranca trotted into view from where he had been ground tied, his golden head cocked aside to avoid the dragging reins. Johnny turned back to Teresa. “Go get the buggy and pick up Scott before he gets blisters.” He disentangled his elbow from her hands as she began to protest again, but he finally quieted her with a kiss on the forehead.

The brief footing she found with her brother-by-heart crumbled beneath her. “You can’t just go, Johnny,” she pleaded one last time as he held her back at arm’s length.

“I have to. See ya later; you know where I’ll be.”

Johnny wobbled obviously on his feet as he gathered Barranca’s reins and mounted up. Once in the saddle, he quickly got the woozy sway under control and gave Teresa a crooked smile. With a cluck and a nudge, the palomino spun on his hindquarters and jogged back over the hill. She watched him until he disappeared, then turned to face the road where she could see Scott’s tiny form in the distance.

She shook her head with an exasperated growl as the tears she’d tried to control ran warmly down her face. Teresa stomped her foot and angrily brushed the tears aside. After a moment, she sighed in resignation, and with that came a new determination to do something, anything, to bring her family together again. She lifted the hem of her skirt and began her trek to the waiting buggy, swearing to make the effort to fix this since no one else was making the effort.

Teresa knew she’d be working through grief and sorrow on all fronts, but the way she saw it, they all would heal faster with each other to lean on in the process.

When the Lancer ward pulled up next to the lean blond, he entered the buggy without a word and took the reins from Teresa without asking. She willingly gave them up. While he sat there driving the buggy with a disconnected air, she fought with her emotions. Scott was too deep into himself and his grief to engage in any conversation, so all she did was sit close, taking a bit of comfort in his presence.

Pulling up in front of the hacienda put an end to one of the more uncomfortable rides the young girl had ever experienced. Her new found determination to bring the only family she knew together brought forth a confounding mix of emotions that were impossible to put in any sort of order. She knew everyone was grieving, including herself, and she also knew that there was anger trying to come out as blame in both Murdoch and Scott. They hadn’t said that exactly, but where Johnny was concerned, it wasn’t unexpected. Murdoch's angry edge was one clue. That's the reason Johnny's locked himself away, she thought. He's blaming himself, too.

Stopped in front of the hacienda, Scott climbed down and automatically turned to help Teresa from the buggy. Then he silently turned and wandered into the house, moving like an old man. She watched him, unable to make herself go into the house and see him in so much misery, afraid she would not be able to ever escape it. Instead. she lead the horse and buggy to the barn.

Flying straw and angry grumbling greeted her when she reached the barn door. The hunched form of Jelly wielding a pitchfork in one of the stalls proved to be the source of the atmosphere. Teresa paused, wondering if she should disturb the tirade. When she turned to glance back at the house and weigh her options, the motion was noticed.

"Oh! Teresa, I didn't hear ya pull up." Clearly embarrassed, the old man put the pointy implement aside and vainly tried to brush the straw from his clothes as he approached her to take the horse. "Here. I'll do that. I gotta keep busy or I'll go plumb loco. Didja talk any sense into Johnny? Did he come home?"

"No," Teresa said softly. "He wouldn't listen." She went over the conversation with Johnny in her head and frowned. "He said he couldn't change the circumstances. Does that mean he's going to stay away until something changes? What has to change, Jelly? Do you know?"

The frustrated man spoke as he unhitched the horse from the buggy. "I don't have no idea what runnin' through that boy's noggin. The only circumstance I find in that house that needs changin' is Scott's sadness, and that's gonna be around awhile. Johnny prob'ly blames hisself for it. Boy's shoulders aren't broad enough to take all he puts on 'em."

Suddenly, something didn't match in the girl's mind between Johnny's attitude and Jelly's statement. Johnny seemed too calm, and she was sure it wasn't from his injury. "Jelly, do you know what, exactly, happened when . . . at South Point?"

"Nope. The boy's mouth's been shut tighter 'n widow Kelly's purse strings."

She shook her head of the horrible scenario her mind had made up this past week, the same scenario that had robbed her of sleep and made her stomach queasy. Not really sure she wanted to know what really happened, she wondered if it could be as bad a she imagined. Maybe that was the place to start her family healing - they all needed to know what happened and not guess anymore.

Someone needed to get the facts from Johnny to start this process, and her guardian would be her first choice at the moment. When she turned to go, Jelly spoke.

"I'm goin' out to the building site tomorrow an' takin the boy supplies. I did get him to say he needed 'em. Let Murdoch know if you see him and he cares."

"He cares, Jelly."

Jelly snorted again. "Funny way a showin' it by yellin' at him through the door then ignorin' him at the service."

She had to admit the old man did have a point, but she knew Murdoch cared. And she was going to make sure he made it clear to his younger son. Johnny needed to be home; was she the only one who realized they needed each other to get through this?

When Scott wandered into the hacienda he found his father staring into the dead embers of the massive fireplace, an empty crystal glass still in his hand. In an automatic motion, the younger Lancer made his way to the sofa and dropped onto it without comment. He, too, found his eyes drawn to the blackened remains, accepting the inanimate darkness as a reflection of how he felt. It was strangely comforting.

"I'll take the Salvadores to town tomorrow morning," Murdoch said quietly. "Unless you . . ."

"No," Scott replied quickly. "No, it's all right. You do it." He felt numb. The idea of having to do anything was beyond him; it was all he could do to make his feet take him from one place to another. A repeating loop of questions on how this all could have been avoided ran through his mind, coupled with the wondering of how he was going to go on.

Time ticked by in heavy silence. Murdoch eventually put the glass on the mantle and sat next to his son on the sofa.

"Son, you have to keep thinking you'll get through this." The big man's hand was surprisingly light on Scott's shoulder. He gave the younger man a reassuring squeeze. "It will get better."

"How?" Scott whispered, his voice growing stronger as he spoke. "How can it get better? Alexandra's gone and never coming back and everything here reminds me of that." He got his feet and began to pace, running his hand through his hair as he spoke. "She's still part of me and I can't accept she's gone. Part of me wants to place blame. Most of all, I feel empty. Just empty and dead." His voice shook with the final admittance. He stopped by the hearth and sagged against his elbows on the mantle.

Murdoch bowed his head, focusing on his hands in his lap. He knew exactly how his son felt, but it wouldn't help him one iota. Scott had to work through this on his own. Sadly, no one else could do it for him. "I know there's nothing anyone can do to make you feel better, son. All I can tell you is that you won't forget; you'll never forget. You'll just learn to live with it."

Scott's laugh was short and bitter. "How can I live with it when it's my fault?"

The senior Lancer looked up at that statement. "What?"

The younger man turned his hollow, hurting eyes to his father's and held them. "She - they - were my responsibility, so it's my fault. Don't you see that?" There was a charged pause. "It makes me wonder if I should have ever come out West."

Speechless at that jump of logic, Murdoch could only stare back. Scott straightened with a shaky breath, excused himself before his barely viable connections with composure fell apart, and fled to the sanctity of his room.

Shaken, the patriarch of Lancer moved to pour himself another drink. He mentally backtracked the conversation he just had to see how his distraught son had come to that particular conclusion of blame and what events that it could possibly foretell. His gut instinct was telling him that he might lose his son along with a daughter-in-law and grandchild, and the idea scared him.

His reverie was broken by the sound of someone entering the house. Swishing skirts and a delicate sigh told him it was Teresa, but he didn't have the energy to go and meet her. Murdoch looked up when she came immediately into the great room and found him. He managed a weak grin that faded quickly and then dropped his head to sip his scotch. Teresa had stopped in front of the desk where he sat. He could feel her eyes on him.

"Murdoch, we have to talk. About Johnny."

He looked up, surprised. Scott had been the focus up to this point. "Johnny?"

"Yes. Johnny. Are you angry with him?"

"Angry?" He tiredly wiped his face with his big hand and leaned back in his leather chair. It wasn’t an easy feat to switch mental tracks right now.

"Well, you've been yelling at him all week, so I thought you were angry."

"I was yelling at him because he wouldn't open the door. I was . . . concerned, and yes, I'll admit, probably a little angry." He glanced up to see her cock an eyebrow at him. "All right, I was probably a lot angry. Scott's having a rough time - we all are - and he locked himself away."

"Do you blame him for what happened to Alexandra?"

He let out an explosive breath. "I don't know what happened to her! That's just it!" Realizing he was shouting, Murdoch took a moment to collect himself. Teresa hadn't budged. "You know how trouble finds him. I assume that's what happened this time!"

"We've all assumed a lot, Murdoch," Teresa said quietly. "But only one of us knows what really happened. Johnny told me he's staying at the building site because he can’t change the circumstances here."

That got Murdoch's attention. "He's what?" The big man pushed himself to his feet. "He can't stay out there! He needs to be here! What 'circumstances' is he talking about?"

Teresa shrugged. "I was hoping you knew. And since you don't, shouldn't you go find out what he means?"

"I'm not going anywhere tonight. We've just buried Scott's wife and her family is here. We need to be together right now."

"I know. That's why Johnny should be here, too."

The young woman in front of him spoke in an even tone, poised in both speech and posture. Murdoch realized with her presence and calm attitude, he felt himself growing calm. "I . . . I guess you're right."

"Then you need to talk to him. Tomorrow, after the Salvadores are gone. The only way we can help Scott - all of us - is to get over the anger and concentrate on healing." Her poise finally showed a fine crack as her eyes began to shine with threatening tears and her fingers began to toy with a pleat in her skirt. "I won't let this family come apart at the seams, Murdoch. It's all the family I have."

Murdoch Lancer's heart could not take anymore. Moving swiftly for his size, he stepped around the desk and gathered the girl in his arms where she softly cried.

"Next stop, Salt Lake City, Utah!"

The conductor's announcement jerked the dozing man into awareness. Quickly, he adjusted his coat and smoothed his hair. The money for the first class accommodations was well spent; he had been quite comfortable so far. With each trip west he learned a bit more, making the trip less painful each time. He hoped that someday he wouldn’t have to make anymore trips to the despised state of California.

It had been four days since he’d received the wire about Alexandra’s death. He remembered smiling when he’d read the missive, his instincts stirring awake. When he sent an answering wire with his expected condolences, he’d sent out two more: One of sympathy to the Salvadores and a second to the San Francisco Pinkerton office. If his instincts were right, Harlan Garrett smelled an opportunity. He was on the first available train west that very night.

When he reached Chicago, a wire was waiting for him. Details were beginning to emerge. The fateful buggy accident had taken place during some sort of gun battle, and – not surprisingly – the half-breed Madrid had been right in the middle of it. Garrett requested a detective sniff around Morro Coyo for more details, but advised avoiding the sheriff as he was a friend of the Lancers. He’d advised the agency to follow the gossip.

“Mr. Garrett?” The smartly dressed conductor stood at attention next to the old man.

“Yes?”

“Telegram, sir.” An envelope was offered, and Garrett took it with a nod and a tip.

He opened the envelope. Sipping his wine as he read the note, Garrett smiled in satisfaction. This is getting better and better, he thought as he mulled over the words. It seemed that there was a hint of Lancer family turmoil brewing – details to follow. He couldn’t help but feel confident that a fortuitous opportunity would open for him when he met the Pinks in San Francisco. And, to date, seized opportunities are what had gotten him everything he ever wanted.

This time, he hoped his fortune would be no different.

CHAPTER FIVE

The grizzled old man pulled back on the reins and brought the sturdy wagon to a rough stop. There was no sign of movement around the building site but he could smell the remains of a fire.

“Johnny?” Jelly hollered. There was no response, and he snorted with a half grin as he mumbled to himself, “Whall, if’n there ain’t no one here, there ain’t no one to flap their jaws ‘bout me movin’ in.” He secured the horse and grabbed the logical first thing to unload – the coffee pot and coffee makings.

As he swaggered to the site and through the framed doorway, Jelly searched the area with his eyes. The rock fireplace was one of the first things built, designed to stand in the center of a large living area. The chimney stood fast against a sky turning blue with the dawn. The wooden framing, like human ribs surrounding it, already made the stone structure the heart of the future home. Jelly saw the charred remains of a small fire within the firebox at the same time he saw a lump of blankets on the floor, snuggled up to the hearth. A swatch of dark hair and a glimpse of dirty white bandages could be seen protruding from one end of the blankets.

Jelly frowned. “Johnny?” He approached slowly to avoid startling the normally volatile young man, but his heart began to pound a little harder the closer he got. The younger Lancer son would never allow anyone to sneak up on him. “Johnny,” he said a little louder, setting the coffee items on the raised hearth with a clang. The form in the blankets jerked with the sharp noise but still didn’t answer.

Carefully, the older man knelt by Johnny’s side. “Johnny!” He reached out and shook the bulge he assumed would be a shoulder and was rewarded with a groan. “Hey, boy, wake up, will ya? You’re a beginnin’ to worry me.” Jelly pulled the blanket away from Johnny’s face and automatically reached to feel an unshaven, hollow cheek. “I knew it! You’ve gone an’ made yourself worse off. It’s a good thing I came out here.”

Johnny weakly rolled onto his back, his right hand automatically groping at his side as his lids twitched. Snatches of blue flashed as Johnny fought to keep his eyes open. “Jelly?” he croaked.

“Yeah, it’s me, you fool. Stay here while I git some cool water. Yer burnin’ up.”

“Go ‘way. I wanna sleep.” Johnny’s hand still searched for his weapon in an uncontrolled manner. It was so far from his usual grace and coordination that Jelly’s concern raised several notches at once.

“Then do that while I git things together.” Johnny’s friend hustled to retrieve water and the medical supplies, and then he started a fire and put on a pot of water. “Well, there must be ice freezin’ somewheres below, ‘cause for once you’re stayin’ put instead of runnin’ off.” Jelly’s chatter showed his nervous concern as he prepared to check the young man’s wound. “You’re stuck with me for a bit, Johnny, so you may as well git used to it.”

By the time he’d arranged the things he needed by the prone man’s head, Johnny had grown still again. Jelly pulled the blanket down to Johnny’s waist and gently patted a rough cheek. “Johnny, you with me?” A soft groan was followed by a weak hand trying to push him away. “I’m unwrapping your head. This here bandage ain't fit to rub down a pig.”

Johnny’s lids fluttered again, and dull, blue eyes searched for the source of the nuisance. “Go ‘way.”

Jelly ignored him and began removing the bandage. It had become loose, and should have been easy to remove except that a nasty discharge from the center of the long wound had adhered the wrappings to his head. Jelly clucked in dismay. “I knew it. Infected. I think ol’ Dewdrop’s got more brains ‘n you, boy. Good thing I mixed up what I need for a poultice. Just gotta add water.”

“Jelly, leave me alone, will ya? That hurts.” Johnny began to wiggle in an effort to sit up, but was unsuccessful until his friend helped him. Soon, he was leaning back against the raised hearth with an extra blanket tucked behind him to soften the stones against his spine. He swayed as he sat. “Ooo, I don’t feel so good,” he admitted weakly.

The old man snorted disgustedly as he started to clean the crusty wound. “Well, I ain’t surprised. You eat last night? Or yesterday?”

Unable to decide if he should rub his rolling stomach or throbbing head, Johnny’s wandering hand was slapped down by Jelly, making the decision for him. He crossed his arms across his abdomen. The glazed blue eyes blinked, and then he frowned. “What?” he asked, obviously dazed.

“Good thing I came out here. Squirrels could outfox you right now, you know that?”

Johnny looked more confused. “Squirrels?”

“Johnny Lancer, you got a fever hottern’ that fire and you look like a scarecrow. Now hold still, will ya?”

The admonishment either did the trick, or Johnny simply wasn’t aware enough to fight anymore. He sat still and let his eyes close. His chin dropped to his chest. After being so belligerent for the past few days, the stillness was unnerving, but Jelly took advantage of the situation. He managed to apply a poultice secured with a clean, temporary bandage. As it did its work, he started coffee and managed to shave off four days’ worth of growth from Johnny’s cheeks. The result made the young man’s face look paler and even more gaunt than before.

“I should make ya drink some o’ that willow bark tea for the fever, but consider it a reward for bein’ so cooperative that you’re gettin’ coffee.” Jelly made sure Johnny’s eyes were open before he pressed a warm cup of the brew in his friend’s hands. A little life sparked in the indigo eyes. Shakily, Johnny raised the cup to his lips. “I’ll start some real food now, then we’ll wrap ya up again.”

Before the cool of the dawn gave way to the heat of the day, Johnny was fed, re-bandaged, and moved to a shady part of the site on the back side of the fireplace. His protests were summarily ignored as he seemed to be hovering in a fever induced woozy world that made him fairly easy to handle. As long as his gun was near, he was satisfied to keep still.

A little before noon, Murdoch arrived on his sturdy horse, looking tired. Jelly motioned for him to keep quiet and whispered that his son was asleep. The eldest Lancer stiffly dismounted, the effects of the past days wearing heavily on his frame. Jelly stood between him and the site, arms crossed over his chest. Murdoch leaned against his horse for a moment to loosen his legs as he eyed the protective stance of the old man. “What do you think I’m going to do? Physically knock some sense into him?”

“I wouldn’t put it past ya, seein’ how everyone has been the last coupla days,” Jelly snapped. Then his voice softened substantially. “The Salvadores get on the train all right?”

“Yes. I took them to the coach station myself this morning. Scott wasn’t . . .” he hesitated, unable to continue.

“I know what ya mean, boss. Scott’s been in a bad way.”

All Murdoch could do was nod. “I was going to have Teresa keep an eye on him but I guess he took off just before I did to ride the fence line. That's what he told Cipriano, anyway."

Jelly's weathered brow furrowed. "It's like they've switched places, Scott takin' off and Johnny sittin' fast."

Murdoch arched his eyebrows and nodded. "You're right. It's just like that." He paused and stood still, unwilling to force the old ranch hand aside. "Scott worries me, Jelly, but so does Johnny right now.” Jelly finally relaxed his stance, relief clear in his eyes, and the Lancer boss tipped his head toward the house. “So, how is he? Has he said anything about what happened?”

Jelly shook his head and fell in beside his employer and friend as Murdoch tied his horse to the back of the wagon. “He’s not too good right now, boss. The cut’s infected and he’s got a fever.”

They walked through the framed door together. Murdoch's eyes wandered over the naked building as he spoke. “He’s probably had a fever for days. He hasn’t eaten either, as far as I know.”

“He has now. I forced some eggs and ham into him and managed to get water down his throat.”

The pair quietly rounded the hearth. Johnny was in the shadow of the chimney, curled up on his left side. His right hand rested on his gun, which was lying on the floor in front of him. Jelly saw Murdoch’s jaw tighten at the sight of his younger son, worry sharp in his eyes. They watched the sleeping young man for several long moments.

“I need to know what happened, Jelly,” Murdoch finally said softly. “I've placed my anger and blame on Johnny because it's just the easiest thing to do. And he doesn't make it easy not to."

Jelly snorted. "That's for sure."

Murdoch tiredly rubbed his forehead. "Old habits, I guess. But I’ve learned a thing or two in the past three years about my sons. I think something else is going on here, Jelly, and I aim to find out what it is. Three years ago - hell, even one year ago - Johnny would have run much further away and been a lot angrier. He doesn’t just . . . take it like this. Something happened in the time he was locked away in his room. Something's different this time.”

Jelly nodded. "I think ya nailed it right on the head, boss. The boy's much too quiet."

They watched the reclined figure for a minute or so then the towering patriarch turned away. "I'll help you unload the wagon. I intend to stay until I find out what happened, both at South Point and in his room."

"Does Teresa know that?"

Murdoch nodded as they began to unload supplies. "Not only does she know it, she's the one that insisted I come out here. Practically threw me out of the house. I tell you, that girl's got the will of her father twice over. Paul would be proud."

Jelly grunted agreement. "That an' sense, too. 'Bout time ya noticed it."

The patriarch had the decency to duck his head and grin crookedly. "I know. It's difficult to accept that she's almost a grown woman."

"Almost?" Jelly laughed. "Boss, you gotta open your eyeballs some more!"

It was on the long side of dusk when Scott returned to the estancia. His hours in the saddle and on the fence line did little to ease his mind, and he welcomed the physical fatigue. Hopefully, his sleep would be dreamless.

Stretching his aching muscles, he had to grin at the abuse. It seemed fitting somehow, a punishment for failing his responsibilities and poor choices. With a quiet word, he lead his tired horse to the barn and began rubbing him down.

As he groomed the grateful animal, a glance around the barn showed the weary man a pair of empty stalls. Scott's mind drifted into unwanted territory as memories of his brother flashed into his mind - every one of them showing the darker Lancer with gun in hand. Feeling the anger rise in his veins, Scott ground his teeth together and made himself concentrate on Charlie. Brushing harder, he fought to bring the face of his wife into his inner eye.

It worked for awhile, and he managed to get his muscles to relax a bit and finish the job. Finally, he threw down some hay and dumped some oats, and headed to the house.

It was dark when he crossed the yard. Glittering stars shimmered in the black sky, and a new moon hung low in the east. The hacienda was enveloped in shadow, its white walls rising from the void like some sort of guardian of the night.

The only light came from the kitchen, which the tired man only noticed when he pushed the door open. His mind gratefully quiet, Scott allowed his nose to lead the way to the kitchen where he saw that Maria and Teresa were working at the stove, their backs to him.

"Where's Murdoch?" he inquired curiously. His own voice sounded strange to his ears, and apparently it was the same for the women. Both of them jumped at his words.

"Scott!" Teresa yelped, pressing her hand to her heart. "I didn't realize you were there!" She gave him a quick glance and half smile before returning to the stove, her hands busy. "Murdoch went to see Johnny. I don't think he's going to be back tonight."

At the mention of his brother's name, the quiet of Scott's mind was disrupted. In a flash, he saw gunfire and his wife's blood on the sheets of the bed upstairs. He grabbed the back of a tall chair to steady himself and swallowed the bile he felt rising in his throat.

Teresa turned from the stove with a plate full of food. She stopped short at Scott's expression, her face suddenly alarmed. "Are you all right?"

It took several moments for him to rein in the emotions. In the meantime, he released the chair and stiffly stood straight. Through clenched teeth, he responded. "I'm fine. I'll wash up." Before the young girl could inquire further, he turned and withdrew up the stairs.

Scott paused at his room, hand on doorknob, but found he couldn't enter. The near blinding anger and remorse he felt before abated quickly as he stepped away from the door. Turning on his heel, he made his way to his father's room to clean up, completely ignoring Johnny's door.

After cleaning himself up and finally regaining some composure, Scott made his way down the hall. He needed a clean shirt. The door to his room seemed more massive than he recalled as he reached for the door knob.

The room had been cleaned, but other than that everything was in place. It was what was left of his life, and he couldn't bear to look at it. Scott ducked his head and pulled a shirt from the drawer, quickly changing while studying the floor. Other than a small rug Alexandra had purchased in San Francisco lying by the window, the floor was the only thing that did not show her touch, and he was able to dress without her face crossing his mind.

When he returned to the dining area, Maria had disappeared, and two places were set at the table. Automatically, Scott pulled out Teresa's chair for her and she sat, her face neutral. He moved to his place across from her and settled in. The empty chair to his left seemed larger than the rest.

"Scott."

His head jerked up at the sound of his name. Teresa was watching him. "Yes?" he replied, picking up his knife and fork and turning his attention to his plate.

"Your grandfather comes tomorrow, you know."

The blond head jerked up. "Grandfather?" He managed to collect himself. "Oh. Yes. I'd forgotten about him."

Teresa laughed shortly, but it wasn't with humor. She turned her eyes to her plate and said bitterly, "I wish I could." Instantly, her knife paused in the air over the small steak on her plate. Then, slowly, she lowered the utensils to the table, thick tension between them. She pressed her lips into a line, realizing she'd rudely and insensitively crossed a line. Disappointed in herself, she sighed and raised her head. "I'm sorry, Scott," she said softly. "That was completely uncalled for."

Their eyes met from across the table for a moment then she continued to speak. "I know you're hurting, we all are. It's just that I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"Of losing the only family I know. Don't you see that we all need each other to get through this? I don't know what you're thinking, Scott, I can't read your mind. You're so angry."

He slammed his silverware on the table. "Yes, I'm angry! My child was murdered and I've just buried my wife!" Teresa froze, and instantly dropped her eyes to her plate. Scott, realizing how awful he sounded, let out a breath and pulled his hands to his lap where he studied them until he could control himself once again. His voice was even and ragged when he spoke again. "It's my turn to apologize. I'm sorry."

She didn't say anything for several moments. The obviously shaken girl twisted her napkin in her lap nervously, but when she finally spoke again, her voice was strong and level. "May I ask who it is you're mad at?"

"Johnny. Myself. This place." He leaned back in the chair and ran both hands through his hair before dropping them in his lap again. Feeling drained, Scott looked up to see Teresa's brown eyes studying him, puzzled.

"What do you mean, 'this place'?" she asked. "Lancer?"

At that moment, it was clear to him what he meant, and the realization made him pause. Blond eyebrows knitted together as he put the pieces of the emotional puzzle together. "No, the West in general. I'm guilty of making the decision to stay here, which, in turn, brought Alexandra here to her death. This is wild country, Teresa, Murdoch told me that the first day I came here. I guess I'm finally seeing what he meant."

"So you're taking it out on Johnny?"

"Johnny is the embodiment of the West, don't you see? This country made him; they are one in the same. Johnny Madrid is the West."

Teresa sat up straighter. "He's not Madrid anymore, and you know it. You don't even know if Madrid had anything to do with this! Before you go making any judgments, don't you think you'd better get your facts in order? What if you find out that it would have ended up just the same if you were there instead of Johnny? And if that's the case, can you find it in your heart to forgive him? That's what I need to know, Scott, because I know it’s the only way we can all heal."

The troubled young man turned that idea over in his mind. Would it make a difference? He doubted it, but now there was a niggling in his mind to find out what really did happen that day. His sister-by-heart was right; he needed the truth that facts would give him. His hand wiped dryly across his face as something else she'd said struck home. "You're right. I need to talk to Johnny. But don't you see that it isn't Johnny I'll have to forgive? It's me. I'll have to forgive myself for making the decision to stay out here, and I'm not sure I can do that."

Alarmed, Teresa's eyes grew big and she leaned forward, her hands flat on the table flanking her plate. In a heartbeat, her expression changed to one of pure determination. "I'm going to tell you the same thing I told your brother. You need to be with your family, and your family is here at Lancer."

Scott said nothing, but he felt his heart soften for the first time in a week.

Sleeping under the stars had a certain appeal, but as Murdoch Lancer shifted once again to get comfortable on the wood floor he wondered when, exactly, he had become soft. I worked long and hard to be able to sleep in a bed every night, he mused grumpily to himself. The sound of Jelly’s snoring didn’t help him to appreciate the moment, but when he looked over to the unmoving form of his son nearby a feeling of contentment came over him. But if it takes sleeping on a hard, wood floor to help my sons, it’s worth the pain.

He rolled onto his back and turned his eyes skyward in an effort to ignore his aches and pains. Finally, after watching the wide belt of the Milky Way rotate lazily in the sky and listening to the soft night noises surrounding him, the elder Lancer fell into a restful asleep.

Something woke him with a jerk when the sliver of moon was starting its descent into the west. Still on his back, Murdoch lifted his head and turned it toward Johnny. He saw that his son was sitting up, leaning back on one arm. The other hand pressed against his head wound.

“You all right, son?” Murdoch queried softly, trying not to startle him. Johnny’s eyes turned to him, shiny in the darkness.

“Murdoch?”

“Yes, it’s me. How are you?” The big man sat up with a groan, and Johnny chuckled.

“Bettern’ you, I think.” Johnny glanced in the direction of the snoring Jelly. “I guess he’s doin’ all right. How long . . .?” He let the sentence hang as he frowned, trying to remember anything of the past hours.

“I’ve been here since about noon. You’ve . . . this is your second night here. I guess your fever’s broken?” Murdoch scooted over and reached out to feel his son’s cheek. It was prickly with new hair growth and significantly cooler to the touch.

“Guess so, but the headache’s still there.” He glanced at the sky. “It’ll be dawn in a couple of hours.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty close.” Murdoch dragged his blankets over next to his son, and they both sat with their backs to the raised hearth and looked at the stars. After a little while, Johnny broke the silence in a soft voice.

"I can't fix it, Murdoch. There's absolutely nothing I can do. There's no one to hunt down, no one to blame." Murdoch glanced at Johnny’s profile. Weariness hung on the young man's features like a second skin.

“Johnny,” Murdoch said. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Silence dragged out for what seemed like an eternity but the older man patiently kept quiet and waited. Seeming to concentrate on his interlaced fingers, Murdoch figured his son was gathering his thoughts and working to push aside the emotion before he spoke. Then, finally, he told the story. As every action was related the patriarch had to marvel at his son’s eye for detail in an event that must have only lasted a mere few seconds.

Johnny told everything up to seeing the muzzle flash of Taylor’s handgun before he paused, swallowing hard. Then, instead of telling of finding Alexandra, he summed up his thoughts, his voice shaky for the first few words as he fought to suppress the emotion.

“Murdoch, Madrid had nothing to do with it. Things woulda been about the same even if Scott was there. Maybe worse.”

"You acted like a rancher protecting what he loved, Johnny, not a gunfighter,” Murdoch agreed. “There is a difference."

After a moment, Johnny rose to his feet and walked the length of the wooden structure. Murdoch rose stiffly and followed him. Johnny walked to the very edge of the porch, which extended out over the downhill slope of the hill on stilt-like columns, giving this side of the house a stunning view of the valley. At this moment the land looked like textured dark velvet, the hint of color suggested by the weak light of the setting moon. The drop to the ground was a good ten feet, and it made the older man nervous the way his son hung his toes over the edge when he finally stopped. Murdoch stopped just short of the edge, stifling the urge to pull Johnny away from the precipice. Instead, he closely watched his son’s face.

Johnny wrapped his arms around his chest and dipped his head with a shadowy smile. A short laugh escaped him, but his sorrowful blue eyes held only pain in the darkness. "I did what I had to do. It still doesn't make it better.”

“I know. Sometimes that’s the way it is. Scott's not exactly blaming you, Johnny, I think he blames himself.”

Johnny’s head cocked sideways. His eyes were slanted with confusion. “What’s he got to blame himself for?” The words were barely out when his mouth clamped shut. Through clenched teeth he said lowly, "Me. He's questioning accepting me. He's realizin’ the consequences."

Guiltily, Murdoch knew the same thought had been in his own mind. But, recalling Scott’s outburst, another had occurred to him.

"I don't think that's it.” Murdoch kept his face neutral as he thought back on the three years they had together. In all that time, there had been one other opinion that was a constant. Scott usually brushed it off – but not any longer. “Johnny, Scott is questioning his decision to stay in the West in general. It has killed his mother, his wife and his child. That's a lot to carry, I know." The timbre of his voice was brittle with the last statement.

Johnny nodded slowly. "So, even if he knew Madrid had nothing to do with it, that it was something that just happened, it may not help. It comes down to livin' with the law of the big dog compared to civilized Boston."

"Perhaps."

The lean ex-gunfighter didn't move for a long time, his arms wrapped around his body in a protective stance with his head bowed forward. His unruly hair flickered in the light wind, caressing the white bandage in a stubborn show of independence from the binding.

"I miss her." Johnny's voice was barely a whisper.

Murdoch felt his heart begin to crumble once again at the thought of his beautiful, engaging daughter-in-law, and at the loss of a grandchild. It took many moments to get enough control to speak. "I do too, son."

They both took time to gather thoughts and composure.

"This place," Johnny finally started again, unlocking his arms and sweeping them to take in the entirety of the velvet valley below, "this place gets to you. It gets into your blood and under your skin." Johnny swayed slightly, still perched on the edge of the framework as he made the motion. "It's infected me, Murdoch, and I can't beat it. I can't leave." His arms dropped heavily to his side with a resigned sigh. He studied his toes for a moment, still curled over the edge of the wooden foundation, before stepping back.

Inwardly, Murdoch heaved a relieved sigh and relaxed. "Yes," he admitted in a near whisper. "It does that."

In response, Johnny turned to face his father, his eyes shining and his shoulders slumped as if defeated. "Scott has another place to make a life. I don't. But if he goes, I need to know if I'm the reason. I need to look him in the eyes when he makes his decision to stay or go. He's got space now to decide. He needs to find me when he wants to hear what I have to say. Do you understand that?"

Murdoch nodded. "Yes, yes I do. And you did the right thing at South Point, Johnny."

Shadows enveloped the younger Lancer's face as he turned aside and dropped his head. "I know. It's taken me days to realize that. Things are bad now, Murdoch, but it'll be worse if he leaves. We'll all lose"

Lips compressed in a tight line, Murdoch fought his initial words of confidence that Scott would come around. Johnny was right, he realized. Even in light of Johnny doing the right thing, they could all still lose. It was entirely up to Scott. Could he live with the consequences of his original decision to stay here? "Maybe he won't go, Johnny. Scott's resiliency is only second to his determination. And then there’s Teresa."

Johnny glanced up at his father, clearly turning the last comment over in his mind.

Murdoch grinned at his son’s expression, and he gently placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a little shake. “Who do you think told me what to do when I came out here? And what to say? And got me out of the house faster than I thought possible? She’s at the house with Scott now. He doesn’t have a chance.” His eyes sparkled with humor.

Johnny’s dark blues flashed with life for the first time in days, clearly visible even in the darkness. His smile was small but engaged all his features. “I think I know what ya mean. My little sister can be a force to reckon with."

The hint of day was just edging the eastern mountains in gold. Tiredly rubbing his cheeks with his hands, Murdoch winced at a particularly loud guttural snort that came from the direction of Jelly’s bedroll. “Speaking of forces, we better roll him over before he topples the chimney. And you need more rest, son.”

Johnny chuckled and turned back to the hearth, his weak legs not allowing him to walk a straight line. Murdoch automatically placed his large hand on his son’s broad back for support and guidance in a smooth movement that had finally become natural with the passing years.

CHAPTER SIX

Dawn had long since burned itself out by the time the Lancers rose, managing to get a few hours of sleep. Jelly muttered and clanked pans as he organized breakfast for father and son. Johnny managed to eat enough to keep the handyman from fussing and Murdoch was taking a few extra minutes to savor the concoction labeled coffee.

After the meal, Johnny admitted – with Jelly’s insistent nagging – to still be dealing with headache and fever and wandered into the brush to relieve himself. Murdoch, meanwhile, gathered his things and prepared to return to the ranch.

After answering the call of nature, the sick man checked on his palomino. Johnny cursed his wobbly legs one more time as he grabbed Barranca’s mane to steady himself. He glanced up to see if he’d been noticed and came face to face with the towering form of his father. Murdoch stood a short distance away with his hands on his hips and a look of disapproval on his face.

“I’m not too crazy about the idea of leaving you out here, you know,” he said in a very fatherly tone.

“I won’t be alone. I got Jelly here.”

Murdoch’s amused snort stopped the sentence. “You and I both know you’ll do what you want, even with Jelly around. You have to promise me, Johnny, that you’ll take a day to gather your strength. The fever’s not completely gone, but I think the poultice will take care of that if you’ll only stay still.”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” He released the silver mane and stood squarely on his feet, but decided not to take a chance on moving while under Murdoch’s glare. Johnny’s head still felt like it was tilting a bit to one side.

“I’d rather you came home with me, but I understand your decision. When Scott’s ready, he’ll come. I’m sure of it.” Murdoch walked to his son’s side and put his hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Meanwhile, I want you to promise to take care of yourself. Promise?”

Johnny sighed. “Yeah, I promise.” He glanced up at Murdoch’s skeptical eyes. “Really! I mean it, Murdoch! What else do I have to do out here?”

“Oh, let’s see, ride Barranca, check the north pasture, finish the house . . .” Murdoch showed signs of going on and on as he ticked the chores off one by one with his fingers.

Johnny grinned and playfully punched his father’s shoulder. “Okay, you’ve made your point. I’ll try to contain myself. I swear.”

Murdoch took his son’s elbow and led him back to the framed entrance, where he released him and took the reins of his mount from Jelly. “I believe you. This time. Jelly,” he turned to the old man, who had joined Murdoch. “Keep an eye on him.”

“And when have I not?” the weathered hand replied with a snort. Johnny rolled his eyes, and swayed as a result. Jelly grabbed his elbow. “Johnny, I swear, you’re harder to keep still than a spooked cat. Now come on, you need another poultice on that noggin.”

Murdoch smiled as Johnny was propelled, complaining, into the framed house. Stiffly, the elder Lancer mounted his horse and nudged him toward the estancia. Overall, he was optimistic; his sons cared too much for each other to let things stand the way they were at the moment. Now that he was sure Johnny wasn't going to leave, he felt that things would be square between them soon. It was just a matter of time.

Time. The big man frowned and pulled out his pocket watch. Harlan Garrett was due on the noon stage, just a few hours from now. With a sigh of resignation, he mounted his horse and pointed the gelding back toward the ranch, hoping to see how Scott was doing before they left for town.

It was late in the morning when Murdoch jogged up to the Lancer barn. As he pulled up, he saw his older son hitching up the buggy. Stiffness from the previous night had settled into his back, and the big man grunted slightly as he dismounted and his feet hit the ground. A young hand appeared at his side and he gratefully handed over the reins. "Gracias," he said while he stretched a moment.

Glad to see his son moving with a more relaxed posture, the elder Lancer walked over and began helping.

"I've almost got it, sir," Scott said in what sounded like an almost normal tone.

"If you say so," Murdoch replied, taking a step back and rubbing his back. "How are you doing this morning, son? Get any sleep?"

Scott glanced over to his father and gave him a quick appraisal. "By the way you look I think I got more than you."

Murdoch felt a grin pull on a corner of his mouth. "You may be right." His son seemed more connected at this moment, but the mantle of grief was still heavy in the boy's eyes. Recalling his past dealings of losing a loved one, Murdoch was all too familiar with the tactic of using physical labor to put off emotion. He also knew that it couldn't be put off forever.

Scott finished with the horse and buggy and stood near his father, brushing off the dust. There was an uncomfortable silence while Murdoch mentally debated how to bring up the subject of going to see Johnny.

Feeling his own unease, Scott finally broke the impasse. "Guess I'll get cleaned up a bit before going to get Grandfather." He turned to the house.

"Scott," Murdoch started. His boy stopped and turned back, smoky blue eyes edged with fatigue meeting his own. "Scott, you need to speak to Johnny. I think it will help."

The older son stiffened at the sound of his brother's name, but the expected outburst of rejection didn't come. Instead, he nodded and dropped his head as he hitched his hands on his hips. "I know," he admitted quietly. "Teresa convinced me of that. I'm just not sure I trust myself . . ." The implication was heavy.

For such a large hand, Murdoch's touch was surprisingly light when he placed it on his grieving son's shoulder. "You'll see that Johnny did the right thing. Don't underestimate the connection between you two," he said gently. "Trust it."

The blond head tilted sideways to regard his father. Anger, doubt and above all the ever present grief swirled in his mind as he took in the words. "I'll promise to try," he said, wondering if he could honor his promise.

"That's all I can ask." Murdoch patted his son's shoulder and they both walked to the house.

The coach rolled into Morro Coyo that afternoon in a veil of dust and rattled to a stop in front of the coach office three hours late. Dusk was falling fast. Harlan Garret brushed off the sleeves of his coat as the ladies disembarked. He followed them out, ahead of the younger men, wondering again why anyone would choose to live in a place like this.

"Grandfather!"

The familiar voice caused him to look up, and he was pleased to find his beloved Scotty reaching to help him step down. He gladly accepted the arm.

"Scotty, my boy! I wasn't expecting you to meet me, but I'm happy to see you." The older man offered his hand and the younger one shook it politely. Garrett held his hand after the shake and met his grandson's eyes. "I am truly sorry about your loss."

Scott's throat tightened. He nodded shortly and swallowed hard to loosen it enough to breathe. Dropping the hand shake, he said huskily, "I'll get your bags."

As Scott pulled his Grandfather's bags aside, Harlan critically looked him over. "You’re too thin, Scotty. Aren't they feeding you?"

The lanky blond chortled dryly. "I've been well taken care of. Just not much of an appetite of late. No need to worry about me."

"I can't help but worry about you." The distinguished man stepped back abruptly to allow a Mexican couple to pass by on the boardwalk. As his eyes trailed after the pair, he worked to keep the disgust from his eyes. "You know how dangerous this territory is."

Scott chose to ignore his grandfather's statement and uncomfortable posture. Instead, he carried a set of bags to a waiting buggy. "Is this all?"

"Yes, yes, that's all. I won't be staying long. I don't want to intrude on a difficult situation." The old Bostonian moved stiffly to his grandson and laid his hand gently on Scott's forearm. "I am truly sorry for your loss, Scotty, and that's why I came. I don't want to be any trouble or bother. I just want to show you how much I care." Sure his voice and motions carried the right amount of sympathy; Garrett tried to read the blue eyes regarding him. Sadly, he saw a hint of skepticism there and carefully chose his next words. "I know I've made a mess of past visits. Bringing Julie and meeting those boys was a mistake, and I apologize. I also know I could have been much more accepting of your wife. I just want you to know that I love you, and that you are welcome back in Boston anytime, grandson. Maybe some time away from here would help you recover . . ."

"I'm fine," Scott snapped, breaking eye contact to load the bags. Although that very thought had been tickling his mind, the actual decision to leave was much harder to make. If he did go, he wondered if he'd ever have the strength to come back and merely compound one bad decision made three years ago. He rested his hands on the bags for a moment, his head ducked. Then, with a resigned sigh, he turned back to the man that had raised him. "Look, Grandfather, I really do appreciate the gesture. It's a long trip."

"I just want what's best for you, my boy. A break in Boston may do you good." He reached up and patted a pale cheek. "Some Maine lobster or crab cakes would do you wonders!"

Scott cracked a weak smile at the statement and fleetingly wondered if Alexandra had ever had crab cakes. He felt his face harden as he tried to think of other things.

A crestfallen expression crossed the old man's face, and Scott realized his thoughts had reflected in his expression. He took a moment to soften his attitude before he spoke again. "Tell you what; I'll think about it. I admit, it's been a rough week," his voice wavered for a second, but he continued in a strong voice, "Would you like something to wash the dust down before we go?"

Perplexed by his grandson's behavior, Garrett allowed himself to be led to the local dining house. Where was the anger and bitterness he'd expected to see? Before leaving San Francisco, he'd made a point to visit the Salvadores. The picture they had painted of the Lancer clan was much different than he was seeing here. Murdoch was supposed to be angry, and the brothers at odds with each other. What had happened between then and now? All he could see here was sadness and grief and none of the anger he'd hoped for.

Garrett eyed his grandson closely. There was a slight tremor in his hands, and he was painfully thin and pale. The wily old man decided that his proper heir was actually walking a fine line of self control; there may still be a chance to turn him East. He hoped his contact had found that last straw that would change his heir's mind forever.

“Scotty, my boy, it’s late and I am very tired. Recalling how the stages ran out here, I made a reservation to stay in town tonight. We could go to the ranch in the morning.” The lemonade glass was finally empty, as Garrett took his time to empty it while he thought about his options. He put on a weary face and quickly spoke again as his grandson opened his mouth to reply. “You can send a rider to say you’re staying in town. Is a little time with me so awful?” He smiled kindly. “I do have a wire to send in the morning, anyway. Business. It 's just simpler to stay here tonight. You could use the time away.”

The blond young man grinned weakly, then nodded. He had to admit that the idea of returning to the room he and his wife shared wasn't appealing at this moment. “Sure.” He pushed the chair back and stood. “I’ll take you and your bags to the hotel, then stable the horse. Are you ready, sir?”

The grey head bobbed. “Yes, yes. Let’s go.”

Scott helped him into the buggy and they drove the short way to the only hotel in the small town. Garrett accepted his help from the buggy and moved stiffly into the simple lobby. Scott followed with the bags, and the elder man rang the service bell. A perky youth appeared.

“Davy, I believe my grandfather has a reservation. Harlan Garrett,” Scott informed the clerk.

“Yessir, Mr. Lancer,” Davy replied, flipping open the register.

“I have this, Scotty, my boy. You go stable the horse and I’ll meet you in the room.” Scott nodded and stepped out. Garrett turned back to Davy and asked in a low voice. “Any messages for me, boy?"

Davy checked the cubbies and pulled out a folded note. "Yes, sir. Here you go."

“Thank you. Take my bags up, then." The boy nodded and grabbed the keys to Room 2D. Taking Garrett’s two bags, he started up the stairs as the Bostonian finished signing the register and fell in behind.

Davy opened the room door and dropped the bags inside. He held the door open for his guest, who tipped him generously. Davy slipped away with a quick 'Thank you.'

Garrett waited a few seconds before reading the note. "2B," he said out loud. He stuffed the paper in his pocket, and slipped into the hall. This time, he wasn't making the mistake of anyone in this town knowing who he spoke with.

Garrett tapped on the door to 2B. The door cracked open and the Bostonian found himself on the receiving end of piercing eyes embedded in a grim face. “Mr. Simms?”

With a quick nod, the solid balding man allowed the older man inside.

“I don’t have much time,” Garrett said without preamble. “You received my wire? You located the man in question?”

“Yes, he’s here. I left him in the saloon drinking away some of that cash you wired.”

Garrett had his last straw. “I’d hoped I wouldn’t need to see him, but I think it's time. Arrange for him to meet me here.” Garrett pointed at the floor, indicating Simm’s room. “Tomorrow morning at 8:00. It’s worth an additional $50 to him. It’s worth $50 extra for you if he’s not hung over.”

Simms nodded shortly, his grim expression never changing. “8:00, my room,” he repeated shortly.

Garrett smiled. “At least the Pinkertons here are as efficient as the Boston office. It’s the only thing in this God forsaken desert remotely professional.” He moved to the door, which Simms opened for him.

When he stepped into the hall, Garrett paused and pursed his lips in thought. He was sure he held a strong hand in this game, and it was a game Harlan Garrett did not intend to lose.

The dawn had reached Morro Coyo hours before, Scott realized when he finally jerked awake. He blinked in confusion and bolted upright, taking several moments to recall where he was. The sounds of the street below brought him into foggy focus.

“Good morning, Scotty! I daresay you don’t sleep in like this at your ranch, do you?” The older man was fixing his tie in front of a mirror over the dresser.

Scott rubbed his eyes. “Good morning, Grandfather. You’re right; the opportunity doesn’t come up much at Lancer.” He was awake enough to see the flash of disapproval cross Garrett’s reflection at the name of the ranch. Harlan Garrett’s opinion about this place will never change, he thought. I guess I'm beginning to see why. “What time is it?”

“You must have needed the rest. It’s almost 8:00.” Garrett put the final touches on his tie and reached for his coat, looking out the window as he pulled it on. “I need to send that wire. You get cleaned up and dressed, my boy, and I’ll meet you at that . . . quaint-looking . . . diner across the street.”

Scott swung his legs over the edge of the bed and glanced amusingly at his grandfather’s wording. “Del Rio’s. I could use some coffee.”

Garrett reached over and patted his grandson’s shoulder, his eyes full of concern. “And a good breakfast. You are too thin, my boy.”

Scott waved him off. “Yes, yes. I am hungry.” He rose, clad only in his underwear, and stretched, enjoying the pull of his sore muscles across his flat stomach and firm shoulders. “The wire office is two doors down at the mercantile,” he said as he yawned.

“I will find it.” After a disapproving frown at the blatant naked display in front of him, Garrett had forced his mouth into something resembling a smile by the time he reached the door. “I will see you in a few minutes.” He slipped out and quietly closed the door.

A shadow of a smile softened Scott’s mouth at the quick departure. He knew it was only a matter of time before Harlan put on the pressure to return to Boston for a visit. If his Grandfather had gotten here a mere two days earlier, he might have caved in to the urge to get away and accepted the suggestion.

But the conversation he and Teresa had held two nights ago, as well as his short talk with Murdoch yesterday, gave him pause. Could he rectify a decision made three years ago? Would anything Johnny had to say make a difference? Could any of this despair he felt be alleviated? He had to know. And the only one who possibly held sway to these questions was waiting for him at Lancer.

Garrett quickly moved down the hall and tapped on 2B. As soon as the latch unlocked, he pushed his way in and closed the door. His eyes scanned the room and settled on a stubborn looking young man with his jaw set in defiance. He didn’t look a day over twenty.

“Is that him?” Garrett asked, speaking to Simms but keeping his eyes on the cowboy.

Simms locked the door. “Josh Stedman, yes.”

Garrett pulled his money clip from his pocket. He peeled off a small bill and handed it to Simms. “Go get some coffee.” Simms left instantly.

“Your fifty dollar’s worth of time is about up. What ya want, old man?” Stedman growled, pushing himself to his feet.

The elder Bostonian was not cowed by the boy’s insolence. He hooked his fingers in his vest pockets and glared at the young hooligan. “It’s not what I want, it’s what you want.”

The cowboy frowned. “I don’t like playin’ games, mister.” His hand trailed down and rested on the butt of his gun.

“I know who killed your brother.”

The boy snorted. “So do I. So?”

Garrett raised an eyebrow. “Do you want some justice?”

His question was answered with a short laugh. “I ain't stupid enough to go up against Johnny Madrid. If that’s what ya called me up here for, forgit it.” Stedman started to move to the door, but Garrett blocked his way. Stedman stopped. This close, the older man could see the insecurity in the boy’s eyes. The tough attitude was a front, and the wily businessman knew he could wrap this boy around his finger.

“No, I have something different in mind, Mr. Stedman. Take Madrid’s brother away. Destroy his life, and at the same time get enough money to take you where you want to go. Interested?”

Greed flickered across the youngster’s hazel eyes, and he backed off a step. “Go on.”

“There’s a girl that means a lot to that half-breed killer and his . . .” Garrett cleared his throat, finding it difficult to refer to Madrid and his grandson in the same sentence this way. “. . . brother. Take the girl away, make it look like Madrid’s fault, and it will split them and destroy them all.”

“I ain’t killin’ no girl!” Stedman protested.

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. Just take her away for awhile. Ask for money to return her. Tell them it’s because Madrid killed your brother and you deserve it. They will gladly pay to get the girl back and realize how dangerous it is to be around someone like Madrid. Then they’ll disown him.”

The young cowboy looked thoughtful. “That’s all I’d have to do? Stash the girl somewhere and collect the money?”

“That’s all.”

“But she’ll see my face.”

“Young man, you should be able to get enough money to get far, far away from here in a very short time, and I would advise you to do just that." Garrett could see the boy was hooked. Now it was time to close the deal. "I'll even give you enough money to take care of her while she's in your care." He pulled out his money clip again and peeled off several bills. "This should do it. I've also drawn a sketch of the ranch layout. The girl - Teresa O'Brien - goes for a ride almost daily, if I remember correctly. She should be easy to find; she's the only white woman there."

Stedman studied the map for a moment. "What makes you so sure I'll do this?" he asked suspiciously.

"I'm not. I am merely suggesting it. I think you're smart enough to see easy money and man enough to pull it off. How many chances are you going to have to get rich and get some justice for the death of your brother at the same time? But you have to strike when the iron's hot, boy. That's how men get rich - they seize opportunity. Nerves are tight and emotions are raw right now. If you wait, the opportunity will pass you by."

The boy grinned slightly, looked at the cash and the map, and then tucked them in his pocket. As he did so, he asked, "What's in this for you, old man?"

"Plenty, but it's none of your concern. Your payoff is immediate. My payoff comes with the fallout. Now stay here until you see me go into the establishment across the street. Then you can leave." Garrett paused at the door. "And I suggest you don't hurt the girl. I know it's your plan and you call the shots, Mr. Stedman, but I guarantee that if she gets hurt, your money probably won't get you far enough away. Ever. Goodbye." He slipped out and down the hall to wait for Scott outside.

Garrett smugly patted himself on the back for the way he played young Stedman. The businessman didn't really care what happened to Stedman, or Teresa, for that matter. She was a young woman living with three men, for God's sake! What kind of reputation must she have? Maybe it would be a blessing if something happened to her; it didn't really matter either way. All that mattered was to drive the wedge deeper between Scott and those Lancers and make the rift unbridgeable. With nothing left out here, Scotty would have to return to Boston where his Grandfather would be sympathetic and welcome him back with open arms.

All he had to do was wait and pick up the pieces.

Young Stedman leaned against the window frame and watched the old man walk across the street with a tall blond cowboy. As soon as they stepped on the boardwalk, Simms exited Del Rio’s and walked to the hotel without acknowledging his employer. Stedman grinned, and twisted his fingers in the lacy curtain.

“If the old coot thinks he’s the one runnin’ my life, he’s got another thing comin’. He ain’t the only one with plans,” he mumbled to himself. With a stronger voice, he spoke to the ceiling, “Hear me big brother? Dawson’s here and we’ll take care of business for ya.”

With a flip of his wrist, the gauzy lace fluttered aside and the young cowboy pushed off to the door. Sure, the old guy’s idea was a good one, but Stedman needed a little more satisfaction. The boy grinned as he left the room. Don’t know who ya were, mister, and I don’t really care. Just as long as Madrid knows who I am, and I aim to help him find out. My face is gonna be the last one he sees.

The old man’s heels had barely cleared the diner doorway when the angry youth was on his way to meet his silent partner.