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CHAPTER TEN Sleep at home had become problematic, but away from home in this small storage room turned guest room, it was impossible. The headache that had driven Carlos to bed also robbed him of sleep, and now that the pain had faded exhaustion tugged his eyelids down. He stared at the ceiling, trying to settle his mind by making figures out of black shapes in the cracked plaster. Soon, the squiggly lines seemed to move, and the tired man found himself in yet another bloody scene on another dirty street. Victim after victim was blasted from their feet in a red explosion before his eyes, and a particularly spattered gentleman's screams as he flew back jerked Carlos to a rude awakening. He found himself sitting sideways on the small cot, breathing heavily, wet with sweat and head throbbing. A small whimper escaped his lips - he wasn't sure he could take this too much longer. Tonight's episodes included the blond stranger he saw at the barbeque; for some reason, he never seemed to be touched with the blood, a point he tried to focus on to forget the rest. Soon, the goose bumps receded and the sweat dried and he launched himself out of bed and stumbled to a small window to look at the stars. He pulled up a rickety chair, sat on it backwards, and hitched his elbows on the sill to gaze outside. He missed home. The small farm was away from the busyness of the town that made him nervous; too much talk and too much action to keep track of. And the girls - they were very nice to look at, but he had no idea how to talk to them and a lot of them seemed to want to talk to him. Mama just laughed at the attention and said he'd better get used to it. He didn't want to get used to it. He didn't want to be here in this strange house. He wanted home and Conejo and his own bed. He wanted to remember the details of his life that evaded him in a dark fog in his mind. He wanted to be able to say what he meant and not have to fight for words. He wanted the headaches to be gone. With the flat of one palm pressed against the glass, Carlos felt the coldness of the outside and smiled. Slowly, he leaned his forehead against the glass and enjoyed the sensation, allowing his eyes to close in exhaustion. The chill of the glass kept him focused and seemed to help the headache. As he relaxed, a gold horse eased into his mind and he slept. It was just before dawn when he jerked awake, confused by his strange surroundings. His heart raced instantly, and then he recalled where he was and realized he'd actually gotten some restful sleep. Arching his back, he stretched his arms out and enjoyed the pull on his muscles. 'Maybe sleeping in a chair wasn't too smart', he thought. Muscles stiff from his awkward position, Carlos rose slowly and searched for his shirt and shoes. When he pulled them on, he realized he felt trapped in this strange house so he quietly made his way to the door and let himself out. The predawn air was cold and refreshing on his face. Empty, the streets felt much more comfortable to him as he shuffled his way to the livery. Señor Alvarado, the liveryman whose house they stayed in, had saved a spot for Conejo in the barn. When Carlos pushed open the squeaky door, the small horse nickered a greeting. Sunlight was trickling in just enough to save lamp oil. Finding a brush, the young man grabbed a handful of oats and stepped up to Conejo's stall door. Another nose bumped him from behind and Carlos turned to find himself eye to eye with the neighboring bay. "B-buenos d-dias," he said with a smile. The horse nudged him again like an old friend, so Carlos petted his face and gave him part of the oats. Conejo murmured a protest, and with a smile, Carlos gave the small horse the rest of the oats. Curious, he put the brush down and peeked over the door at the bigger horse and nodded appreciatively. This bay was leggy and strong with a short, shiny coat and long, firm muscling. Without a second thought, the young man slipped in the stall and ran his hand over the glossy coat as the horse chewed contentedly. When he reached the rump, his eye caught the rough area of a brand low on the hip. His finger traced a circled L, and he frowned. "Stealing my horse?" A voice asked softly. Still, it made him jump back and whirl around guiltily. Carlos found himself facing the blond stranger from the previous day - the one that suddenly showed up in his dreams. "N-n-no," he said quickly, angry at how defensive he sounded. It took him a moment to realize the stranger was smiling at him, but his eyes were very sad. He, too, had bags under his eyes indicating he didn't sleep very well, either, and Carlos felt a little more at ease. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I was just kidding.” Carlos did not respond and concentrated on keeping his expression impassive. “I was just going out for a short ride; I couldn't sleep." The stranger's blue eyes reflected the small smile on his mouth. His face, though, still radiated a sort of sadness that mystified the dark haired man. What did this gringo have to be sad about? Carlos slipped his hand in his pocket and found the rosary beads. "D-d-didn't s-s-s-scare m-m-me," he said lowly as he broke eye connection and dropped his gaze. "N-n -nice h-h-horse," he mumbled. Anticipating the inevitable headache, he started to shift his feet nervously and fingered his left temple with the other hand. "Thank you. His name's Charlemagne.” The man looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. After a few moments he asked, “Did you learn English around here?" The question caught him off guard. Carlos cocked an eye in the man's direction and opened his mouth to answer, but realized he didn't know what to say; he had no idea where he'd learned English. Suddenly, the stall seemed to be very small and extremely confining, and he also realized that the only way out was through the door the blond man leaned against. Something in his body language must have indicated his increasing distress because the stranger opened the stall door and held the handsome bay back by the halter. "Need out?" he asked simply. Carlos nodded briefly and quickly slipped out. He stood away from the man, working the rosary beads furiously between his fingers as he frowned in confusion. The stranger eyed the beads curiously and, embarrassed, Carlos slipped them away into his pocket. He glanced at the barn door, feeling a strong desire to flee along with the inkling of a new headache, but something held him back. Nervously, Carlos risked another look at the stranger and saw that he was still looking at him with those sad, blue eyes. "W-w-who a-a-are y- y-you?" he finally ventured, surprising himself at his audacity. The lean blond smiled and his eyes glistened, but the sadness persisted. "Scott. Call me Scott." With a quick nod of acknowledgement that ended in a wince, Carlos edged along the wall, out the door and was gone. Scott fingered the white porcelain coffee cup as he stared at the glistening surface, the food on the adjacent plate untouched. Had he handled the chance meeting with Johnny correctly? Should he have pushed more? The desire to call his long, lost brother by name and bluntly ask if he recognized him was nearly overwhelming, but something told him to tread carefully. Hopefully, Sam would have some advice for him. Yawning hugely and wishing he’d slept better, Scott couldn’t help but recall the dark circles he’d seen under his brother’s eyes and figured his own eyes probably looked just as bad. He rubbed his lids with his fingers; they felt grainy and dry. 'How am I going to keep up this façade until Murdoch gets here? Then what?' Now that he knew where Johnny was, it was going to be tough to keep away. Today was the final day of the Festival, and the Arroyos would be leaving for their farm soon, taking Johnny with them. What should he do in the meanwhile? 'Barranca!' Scott smiled instantly. Why didn’t he think of that before? He could take this time to get the horse and bring him in. Maybe that was the trigger Johnny needed for his memory! Now that he had a plan, Scott dug into his food, anxious to implement it. After breakfast Scott went to the livery again and greeted Señor Alvarado, who told him where the Arroyos should be. He scouted around the morning revelers who were moving with a little more care due to the previous night’s activities. The small chapel was tucked behind the main street and was overflowing with worshippers. Scott had to cock a slight grin, wondering if this Johnny would look as uncomfortable in a church as Johnny Lancer was. Doubting the Arroyos were inside the small building, Scott stood on the edge of the crowd and scanned the area. He wasn’t there long when he felt a tap on his arm and turned to face Caesar. “I saw you arrive, Señor Lancer. You are hard to miss.” The elder Arroyo smiled as Scott, embarrassed, pulled off his hat. “Sorry,” the tall blond said. “I came to get directions to Johnny’s horse.” Caesar and Scott stepped aside, and Caesar gave him detailed directions with all applicable landmarks. He also told him about the two lost shoes and where the tack was stored. The grateful Lancer thanked him for the detailed account and turned to go. As he slipped his hat back on, Scott glanced into the crowd and was surprised to find two dark eyes regarding him from across a sea of people. The intensity gave him a chill, yet he could see the discomfort his younger brother had at being part of this gathering; he looked lost. “He has been very quiet since last evening,” Caesar said softly at Scott’s elbow. “I know he had nightmares again last night, but he won’t admit it.” Scott replied in the same soft voice, holding the gaze. “I guess some things don't change.” The look was finally broken when Maria spoke to her son and he turned to listen. Scott took the opportunity to depart, a little shaken at how the eyes looked like a stranger’s. He thanked the small man again and headed to the livery by way of the telegraph office He read Murdoch’s reply as he walked. Sam advises
minimal contact until I arrive. <Stop> Scott loaded his saddlebag with the expectation of staying in the remote canyon for at least two nights, including some farrier equipment for a temporary shoeing. During his ride to the location described by Caesar, Scott also wondered if the feisty horse would let himself get caught. "That horse is too much like his owner," the Lancer said to Charlemagne. "Stubborn. I hope you're able to talk some sense into him." He gave the leggy bay a reaffirming pat and urged him into a lope. It was nearly noon when the pair reached the box canyon, easily recognizable by the unusually lush greenery for this late in autumn. The artesian spring Arroyo described was cold and refreshing as the blond man splashed his face. While Charlemagne drank Scott turned and scanned the area looking for the familiar blond mane. A light, warm breeze brushed his face carrying smells of oak and mesquite. A hawk screamed in the distance, far above the range that surrounded them. The bay finished his drink and lifted his head, licking his lips and dribbling on his master's arm. "Thanks a lot," Scott said, brushing his arm off. "Why don't you do something useful and help me find Barranca?" Before the words were entirely out of his mouth, Charlemagne's ears shot foreword and his head rose up, eyes focused on the stand of oak tucked deep in the canyon. Scott followed his stare and smiled when he saw a gold and silver head poke out from the trees. Charlemagne whinnied happily and Barranca replied as he emerged from the stand, walking quickly. "Nothing wrong with his memory, I see," Scott mumbled, turning to free his rope from the saddle. By the time he shook out the loop and turned back around the palomino was not that far away and still approaching at a quick clip. Scott hesitated, loop in hand, and frowned; the horse was acting so . . . friendly. He also was pleased to see no sign of lameness. Barranca brushed right by the surprised man with barely a sideways glance, paused to bump noses with Charlie, and then went directly to the saddlebags where he attempted to nose open the side containing oats. Scott puffed out a short laugh. "Well, that was easier than I expected. You tired of fending for yourself and realize how good you had it at Lancer?" The nosey horse barely acknowledged the loop as it was dropped over his head. "Hang on a minute! Lord, you're as pushy as Johnny when it comes to food!" Scott had to shove the hungry horse aside to get the saddlebag flap open and wrestle out the grain. By now, Charlemagne's neck had bent around so far to get his share that his rump had moved away from Scott and the young man found himself between two curious, hungry horses that wouldn't leave him alone. After finally outmaneuvering the nosey beasts, Scott gained some measure of control and had the horses staked separately and happily munching their snack within minutes. With a quick swipe to his forehead with his shirtsleeve, Scott sighed and dragged the shoeing tools from the saddlebag. Being occupied and apparently happy with company, Barranca was no problem for Scott to shoe. "Not perfect, but it will get you to the blacksmith in town." The palomino's ear twitched in his direction as he continued to try and locate every last oat grain in the short grass. "Since you're being so cooperative, there's no sense in staying out here, now is there? I sure don't want to sleep on the ground if I could have a bed instead." It didn't take long to locate the stashed tack. Scott winced when he saw the condition of the saddle blankets and the scratches on the leather. "Looks like new blankets for Christmas," he mumbled. Carefully, he dragged the items into the sun and looked for any hidden critters that may have decided to take up residence in the nooks and crannies. Knocking off the worst of the dirt from the items he returned to the horses who watched him curiously. As Scott deftly brushed the golden coat with a stiff dandy brush, Barranca's neck stretched out euphorically and his upper lip twitched in delight. The horse's joy at being pampered again by a familiar person was clear and entertaining. Scott chuckled and tried to convince the animal that after this, maybe he wouldn't be so cranky and aloof back at Lancer. That thought hung with the Lancer son as he saddled the horse. "Tell you what," he said as he worked. "You can act as unpleasant as before if you help get our Johnny back, and I'll even sneak you oats once in awhile. Deal?" Barranca gave no outward clue to his thoughts on that offer, but eagerly took his bit when offered. Scott grabbed a bite of jerky before mounting up. He pulled Barranca to his right side, and they moved off. The palomino hunched his back and crow-hopped a couple of times, then shook his mane and fell in line with an energetic jog. Scott shook his head. "Showoff," he mumbled. The trio made it back to San Andreas by dark, and the tired rider was looking forward to a hot bath and a soft bed. Señor Alvarado informed Scott that the Arroyos had left for their farm hours ago. That left Scott with his own thoughts on how to re-introduce the feisty horse to his lost owner. Playing on the side of caution, he decided to wait for Murdoch and any more information Sam had may have told him. CHAPTER ELEVEN Caesar Arroyo had a big problem, and he knew it. He knew where the boy ultimately belonged, and set his mind to seeing the right thing be done. The problem was Maria; Caesar worried about how she would handle it. He was glad the rifle and the boy's gun were still hidden in the barn. After church on Sunday, Caesar had spoken to the priest and told him everything. Caesar had decided to tell Maria with the priest and Señora Alvarado present. He figured Carlos. . . Juan . . . would prefer to be told alone. He arranged for the priest to bring Rose Alvarado to visit the farm on Tuesday. It would be the first time since their real son's death that the priest would have been to the farm. Now that Tuesday had come, he arranged for chores that would keep the young man busy and away from the house. Things he'd seen at the Festival haunted him, the older man could tell, and either the boy was waiting for the right moment to talk about it, or would hold everything inside indefinitely. Carlos' time alone might help him settle his thoughts, Caesar thought hopefully, and make him more open for what he would be told later tonight. When the priest and Señora Alvarado arrived just before noon, Caesar found it difficult to hide his nervousness. Maria had a slightly puzzled look as she greeted the holy man and her friend and politely offered them inside for tea. The four of them sat at the small table in the kitchen area, Maria chatting gaily and the priest smiling patiently, waiting for Caesar to make the first move. Rose helped Maria with the tea service. Finally, a break in Maria's chatter made an uncomfortable silence. Caesar took both of Maria's hands in his and cleared his throat. "Mi esposa, it is time to clear the air." He felt Maria's grip tighten. Rose sat on her friend's other side. "Caesar, what are you talking about?" Maria's voice was sharp. The priest picked up on her anger and gently placed a hand on her forearm. "Señora Arroyo, please calm yourself. Your husband has something to say." Caesar started by telling his wife how much he loved her, and how the birth of their son added to their joy. Maria smiled lovingly at the words, but her hands began to tremble as Caesar moved on. "But Carlos died, Maria, and he has been gone for almost six months now." Tears began to slide down the woman's cheeks, and she shook her head in denial. "No, he is not dead, Caesar! He is better! You know that! He's outside right now, working . . ." Caesar spoke soothingly but did not back down. Rose put her arm around Maria's shoulders when she tried to free her hands from her husband's. The priest offered consoling words. "No, no, no . . ." she wept bitterly as Caesar continued to speak. "The young man's family is looking for him, mijo, and they know he is here. They want to take him home." "No, it is not their boy! They are mistaken!" Her tears were becoming hysterical, and the priest murmured words of faith and doing the right thing, taking her hands away from Carlos. It was becoming difficult to hold her to the chair. Carlos stood and stepped back, leaving his wife in the care of the priest and Rose. "Maria, the boy's name is John Lancer, and he needs to go home. I know you've seen that he is not getting better. He knows, deep inside, that something is wrong, and he will not get better until he is where he belongs." "No!" The priest picked up on Caesar's growing distress, and spoke in a strong, calm voice. "Maria, both God and the boy know how you took care of him. You are a loving and caring woman, but it is time to let the boy go to his rightful family." "We are his rightful family! Caesar, he can't go!" "Maria, he is not our son! Our son lies outside, where someday we will lie next to him. Carlos is dead, Maria. We cannot help him anymore. But we can help Juan find his way home. It's the only way he will heal inside. I know you love him, but he needs his true family to heal completely. Please, Maria. I know you see this. You do not want him to suffer, I know." Patient coaxing and a forced visit to the grave in the yard finally took its toll, and Maria collapsed in the arms of her loving husband. He carried her into their room and let Rose take over her care. The priest said a short prayer for the dead son and the grieving mother and prepared to depart, promising a follow up visit the next day. When the holy man asked what Caesar planned to do next, the exhausted man said he would speak with the boy next. "How are you going to tell him?" the priest asked curiously. Caesar shook his head and chewed his lip. "I don't know, father. Pray that the Lord gives me the right words very soon. I plan on bringing him into town to meet his brother when he gets back from the fields." Carlos walked Conejo in from the east field in mid afternoon. As soon as he entered the barn, he knew something was going on as the small wagon was loaded with a satchel and some boxes of produce. He took the small horse's harness off and brushed him down carefully, feeding him an extra measure of oats for the extra work he would be doing taking them into town. It didn't surprise him when his father entered the barn, but what did surprise him was the picnic basket. "We have to go to town, son. We'll eat on the way." Caesar saw the questioning look in the boy’s eyes and he wondered if Carlos picked up his own nervousness. After hitching the stout horse to the wagon, Carlos turned to the house. "I'll s-s-say g-g-goodbye . . . " "No. Maria is sleeping," Caesar interrupted him. "It's best we go now. Rose is here for the night." The older man saw the younger one pause in the barn doorway, looking nervously at the house, and knew the young man sensed the tension. Caesar saw the trip to town as the perfect place to tell the boy his history - there was no place he could run and plenty of privacy. Carlos watched his pa climb aboard from his spot in the doorway as he thrummed his fingers on his hip. "Let's go, son," the older man urged softly. He could see the apprehension coming off the boy in thick waves so he worked to appear calm. "Come on." Finally, with a last glance to the house, the young man left the relative safety of the barn and climbed up next to Caesar. He immediately pulled out the rosary and concentrated on the beads, fingering them one by one. When the house was out of sight, Caesar urged him to eat. All Carlos accepted was water. Caesar wondered if the boy’s stomach was as jittery as his own. Finally, Caesar began. "I have something to tell you, but I don't know where to start." His voice was sad. Carlos, however, was so worked up by this point that he had little patience. "J-j-just g-get it s-s-s-said," he replied angrily. "I'm s-s-sick, aren't I? Am-m I g-g-gonna d-die?" Caesar's jaw dropped and he turned to him in surprise. "That's what you think? I'm taking you somewhere to die?" Miserably, Carlos nodded. "T-the h-h-heada-a-aches. . ." He briefly touched his head with his fingertips, and then let his hand drop to his lap. "Yes, I know the headaches are worse, but I don't know if you are going to die. "He gave his surrogate son a calming pat on the thigh. "That is up to God." The man made sure his voice was soft and calm; he hadn't anticipated that train of thought. After a few moments and a bracing sigh, he started again. "I have something else to tell you." Caesar looked sideways at Carlos and was met with skeptical sapphire eyes. "I need to tell you about how you came to our house." With the steady beat of Conejo's hooves as a background to the surrounding quiet, Caesar Arroyo told Johnny how they had come together. He stopped at the point where the injured Johnny woke up for the first time in their house. Johnny didn't ask for details, he simply listened, occasionally touching his temple. After he was finished, Caesar fell silent and waited for a reaction. All he saw was Johnny rubbing his temple in short, jerky motions. "Your real name is Johnny," he said quietly, trying to get a reaction. "I f-f-feel . . ." Johnny didn't finish the sentence, but dropped from the wagon and fell to his knees, retching dry heaves instantly by the side of the road. Caesar pulled up the small horse, alarmed, and jumped down. He ran to Johnny's side, dropped down to the dirt and threw his arms around his shaking shoulders. "I am so sorry I did not tell you sooner, son. You were so sick." The number of questions that were flying around inside Johnny’s head was innumerable and the frustration at trying to ask them was insurmountable. He felt like a rug had been pulled out from under his feet. This wasn't his family? A knot as big as Conejo formed in his stomach, and he nervously kneaded it with his fingers. His dreams are what came to him first. Were they a vision of what he really was? What about the gold horse and the white castle? Were they things he had and lost? Or even killed or burned? Was that why his dreams were so violent? What about the blond man, Scott Lancer? Why did his face show up in his dreams? Why did he look so sad when they met briefly in the barn? But most of all, why did the two people he trusted the most lie to him? The whirling questions made him dizzy, and it took a while to pull himself together enough to stand. This was accomplished by retreating to the place of the kind and loving woman who, in his mind, was still his mother. Maria is who made him strong; he wasn't sure he could face any of this without her. Finally on his feet, he allowed himself to be helped in the wagon, and they continued on. "I-I-I w-w-want t-t-to go h-h-home," he said miserably, hunched over and holding his stomach. "You will get there, my boy. Your brother will see to that." Caesar's voice cracked slightly when spoke, but he kept his resolve. He had to be strong for the suffering man next to him. "He's waiting for you in town." Carlos didn't have to ask who his brother was. Those sad blue eyes in his dreams suddenly made sense. CHAPTER TWELVE Murdoch and Teresa were in San Andreas by early afternoon. Teresa noted how tired Scott looked. Her heart went out to him when she realized the toll all this was taking on him; she knew how she felt, and that was bad enough. "Glad to see you sir, Teresa," he greeted them tiredly. "Where's Johnny?" Murdoch asked immediately after shaking his son's hand. "At a farm outside town. I've tried to stay away from him like the wire said, but it isn't easy." He relayed how he first saw his brother, the arranged meeting at the livestock yard and the chance meeting in the barn as he took their luggage into Bonita's. By the time he was done, Teresa had tears in her eyes and Murdoch looked positively grim. Scott apologized for hitting them with all this information as soon as they came to town, and suggested they relax in their rooms and go over what Sam had told them. "Sam bent my ear for at least an hour while we waited for the stage," the Lancer patriarch started. "Basically he said to take things very slowly. Too much too fast may put him into shock." "But he said he'd recover," Scott said hopefully. The sad droop to Teresa's head said everything. "What did he say, then?" Murdoch took a breath, "He said to have no expectations. Have lots of hope and expect frustration. A lot of it." Scott hung his head. "Well, I've had enough of that already. And by the way, I have Barranca." Teresa and Murdoch both looked surprised. "How did you manage that?" The young woman asked with a huge smile. "That should help Johnny remember!" Scott took the opportunity to fill them in on the Arroyos and how integral they had been in Johnny's survival. By the time he reached the end of all the information, both Teresa's and Murdoch's faces were filled with dismay. Murdoch ran his hand tiredly over his face. "This just gets worse and worse," he mumbled. "No it doesn't, Murdoch," his young ward rebutted. "It's all good because Johnny's alive. And he'll come back to us, I just know it." The trio made a pact to keep positive. Both Murdoch and Teresa were showing signs of weariness from their travels, so they all decided to have an early supper after checking on Barranca. Seeing the palomino was what the newest arrivals needed to boost their spirits and the horse seemed to sense that. "I think he's friendlier," Teresa commented when the horse lipped a small offering of oats from her hand. "I think he realizes how good he had it at Lancer," Scott laughed. "He'll probably resort back to his aloof self when we get there." Murdoch patted the palomino's neck and commented on the roughness of his coat. "Must be that grass he's been living on. A few weeks of good feed will slick him right up again." "Yeah, and make him too fat to run if he keeps eating like this," the girl giggled. "Nah, he's too much like Johnny. Eats like a pig but stays lean and trim." Scott thoughtfully regarded the horse from across the barn aisle. "I hope Johnny gets his appetite back soon. He's thin." "We just need to get him back to Maria's cooking," Murdoch said, then frowned. "Our Maria, that is. I wonder if the common name has any influence on all this?" he wondered out loud. Scott shrugged tiredly and rubbed his eyes. "I think everything has an influence right now and that's the problem." After Scott made sure his father and Teresa were settled in their rooms, he toyed with the idea of having a nightcap at the saloon. Instead, too weary on all levels, he decided to sit up and read for a little while and let his lids fall when they may. It had been dark for a couple of hours when he heard a tapping on his door. Buttoning his shirt, he rose and padded to the door still clad in the day's pants. He cracked the door and was surprised to see Caesar standing in the hall nervously shifting on his feet. Scott pulled the door open. "Señor Arroyo! What are you doing here?" Then a thought struck him. "Is Johnny okay?" "Señor Lancer, I am sorry to surprise you. Your brother is fine for now. That is why I am here. It is time." "Time?" Scott repeated dubiously. "You mean time to tell Johnny?" "I've already told him. He is outside waiting to see you, that is, if he has not fled the wagon since I left him there.” The surprised Lancer knew exactly what Caesar meant. “He was a little sick when I first told him, but now I think he is more curious." "Take him to the diner hall across the street." Scott shoved some money in the man's hand. "Buy some dinner. Keep him there for a few minutes, I'll be right over." Caesar paused, looking like he was considering returning the money, but then nodded and hurried down the hall. Scott closed the door and grabbed his boots. As he pulled them on, hopping on one foot at a time, he looked out the window to the street and saw a hunched form sitting dejectedly by himself in a wagon. He watched as Caesar approached and spoke to the form, and heard the subdued back and forth of what appeared to be an argument. Finally, Caesar tied the horse and waited expectantly for Johnny to get down from the seat. Tears and a short laugh erupted at the same time from Scott. Johnny's body language was easily recognizable - his younger brother was not happy about being here. Scott dashed from the room and tapped on Murdoch’s door. It took a few rounds of knocking before the door cracked open. His father’s blurry eyes regarded him with surprise. “Mr. Arroyo brought Johnny in town and wants me to meet with them. They’re waiting in the diner across the street. Why don’t you and Teresa come over in a little while and take a table? That way, if things are going well, I can signal you to sit with us.” The big Scotsman was already buttoning his shirt. “Do you think it’s wise? Sam said not to rush him.” “He’s seen me already, so I’m hoping that may help. I can also tell by the headaches if it’s too much. At least that’s what Mr. Arroyo says.” Murdoch was pulling on his boots, still looking a little bleary with sleep – or lack of it. “I hope he’s right. We’ll see you in a few minutes.” Scott hurried from the boarding house and crossed the street. He paused before entering the diner to try and slow his racing heart. With a bracing breath, he turned the knob and stepped in. It was a small diner, a half-dozen tables or so, dimly lit and infused with a slight tinge of cooking oil. Two tables were occupied, and Scott focused on his brother immediately. Johnny’s slouched form was where his brother expected – in the furthest corner from the door, facing the entrance. Scott knew he was being watched by those familiar eyes and had to smile slightly at how some things were the same about his wary brother. “Señor Lancer, please sit.” Caesar indicated a chair across the table from Johnny. Scott could clearly see stormy eyes regarding him now, and he sat, clearing his throat before speaking quietly. “Hi, Johnny. I’ve been looking for you a long time.” The wary blue eyes lost some of their guardedness when they shifted momentarily to Caesar as if looking for some sort of direction. “This is your brother,” the older man said softly in English. Johnny’s eyes flicked back to Scott. “Él h-h-hacía n-n-no p-p-p-arec-ce-ce-cerse a m-m-mí.,” he replied in quietly. An uncomfortable silence followed. Johnny began to gently rub his left temple as he visually appraised the newcomer. Caesar picked up on Scott’s non-understanding expression. “He’s wondering about your hair, I think. You do not look alike.” The older brother did not break eye contact with his sibling. “Different mothers, Johnny. Murdoch married your mother after my mother passed away.” Scott searched his brother’s eyes for a sign of recognition. The suspicious edge seemed to be gone now, replaced with curiosity, but recognition wasn’t apparent. “We live on our ranch south of here near Morro Coyo. It’s called Lancer. You went to Carson City a little over two months ago on ranch business.” The proprietor brought fresh tortillas and coffee. Johnny began to fidget with the heavy cup by spinning it slowly between his fingers, which made Scott smile. “You never could sit still, brother.” He nodded to the cup. The younger man stopped the motion, a look of embarrassment crossing his features for a moment, but then a familiar spark of mischief touched his eyes and he continued to spin the cup and fixed his gaze on the blond man again. Scott saw the Johnny-like spark as a positive sign. “I kn-kn-know,” the younger man said softly with a slight wince. “Does it still hurt to talk?” Scott asked curiously. Johnny nodded as his eyes softened. The cup, however, continued its endless circles. “Sam says it should lessen with time. Sam’s the doctor at home. He’s tended to you more than a few times, Johnny.” That food for thought resulted in knitted brows of thought. “B-b-before. You s-said M-M-Murdoch.” A twitch of suppressed pain jerked the left corner of his eye for a fleeting second. Still, nothing gets by you, brother, Scott thought. “Yes. Our father. He’s worried about you like I am. And Teresa.” The change in the sapphire eyes was instantaneous. Bright curiosity was replaced with agony, and the spinning cup’s abrupt halt cause some of the dark liquid to slosh over the rim. A muffled hiss made it past Johnny’s tightened lips as he froze and ducked his head to wait out the wave of pain. Scott made an initial movement to jump to his brother’s side, but a motion from Caesar stopped him. Reluctantly, Scott sank back into his seat and the two of them watched the third pull himself together. The sound of the main doors opening caught Scott’s attention, and he glanced over and saw the looming form of Murdoch step in followed immediately by Teresa, whose eyes found them in the poor light. Scott motioned for them to sit at another table. Johnny’s head was bent down and his eyes squeezed shut in concentration, missing the entrance. Scott, though, did not miss the tears spring instantly to Teresa’s eyes and again he had to fight the urge to jump up and give comfort. Instead, he looked to Caesar with sorrowful eyes. Caesar, in response, bent down and quietly asked Johnny something in Spanish. The dark head shook ‘no’ in an immediate response. “I asked if he wanted to leave. He said no.” Caesar stood. “I will go ask Señor Alvarado if we may stay a night and leave you two to talk.” “Is that all right with you, Johnny?” Scott asked softly. His brother’s face had just begun to release the lines of pain and he lifted his head slightly then nodded. Caesar looked sad when he left the table. The older brother watched the small Mexican leave then turned back to this brother. “He really cares for you. I’m glad he found you.” Johnny nodded, and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Wh-.wh-where’s M-M-Murdoch?” You just won’t let me make it easy for you, will you? Scott thought, wondering how to answer that. “Murdoch is waiting until you’re ready to see him. Sam has told us not to show you too much too fast, Johnny. It may slow your healing.” When the glaze of pain drained from the indigo pools, Scott saw a flash of anger before the eyes became curious again. “I’m d-d-different n-n-now.” It was more a statement than a question. Johnny rubbed his forehead a little harder. “Well, yes.” Scott started carefully. “Your speech, of course, is different.” This brought a look of relief to the younger man's face. “And your clothes . . .” Johnny looked down at his shirt and pants as if seeing them for the first time. “You usually dress with a little more . . . color.” Scott smiled. “When you first met me you said I looked like an Eastern dandy. Then you made me go get new clothes, but I refused to wear what you usually wear!” He was glad to see the ghost of a smile on his tormented brother’s mouth. “I would be surprised if you remembered my plaid riding pants, Johnny. You continually told me you were trying to bar those from your memory.” “Black and green,” Johnny said abruptly, without a trace of a stutter. Scott broke into a huge grin. “Yes! I’m sorry, brother, I know how you wanted to forget those pants; Lord knows I wanted you to forget them!" For a moment, the dazzling smile they all knew made Johnny’s face glow, but then the smile was gone as quickly as it arrived, replaced by a painful grimace. “I’m sorry,” Scott apologized immediately, putting his hand on Johnny’s shoulder. Johnny shrugged the hand away. While the dark haired Lancer was concentrating on getting under control again, Scott spared a glance to his father. Murdoch’s face was etched with sadness as he studied his suffering son. He met Scott’s eyes and shook his head – it wasn’t the time to introduce the two of them yet. Johnny obviously needed rest. “Let’s go find Caesar and get some sleep.” Scott’s chair scraped the floor as he stood. “I know I’m tired. How about you?” Johnny nodded slightly and also stood, swaying slightly. Scott resisted the urge to grab his brother’s elbow to steady him. Instead, he watched as his brother squared his shoulders and moved slowly and carefully toward the exit. The older brother had a quick deja-vu moment and saw his injured younger brother proudly trying to walk under his own power with Day Pardee’s bullet in his back. Scott positioned himself slightly behind to catch him if he fell, as he had that day Pardee had shot him, and gave Murdoch and Teresa a wan smile as they passed. Teresa was fighting tears and looking at her hands on the table; Murdoch sat glumly, spinning his coffee cup just as his younger son had done, cocking his head just enough to watch them leave the building. Johnny had shown them absolutely no sign of recognition. |
