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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 1.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is. . .”
--Latin proverb
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“Almost home.”
Scott Lancer smiled to himself as he realized that he’d uttered the words aloud. As his stockinged chestnut trotted briskly in the direction of the archway that marked the entrance to the main compound of the Lancer ranch, Scott felt very pleased to be returning home once more. “Home”-- that’s how he thought of Lancer now, or at least that was how he thought of the ranch most of the time. But having spent the first twenty-four years of his life in Boston, it was difficult for him not to still think of that large Eastern city as his “Home,” as well.
The young man was returning from a brief visit to a much smaller city, Stockton, California, a trip necessitated by personal business. Jarrod Barkley, a lawyer as well as a family friend, had arranged for Scott to meet with one of his associates, a financial advisor based in San Francisco. On the occasion of his recent twenty-fifth birthday, Scott had come into control of a sizeable trust fund and he had sought Jarrod’s assistance in making the appropriate legal arrangements.
Although he would more typically have traveled to Stockton by coach, taking a room in one of the smaller towns en route, this time Scott had journeyed on horseback, sleeping alone under the stars. He had decided to follow his own timetable, rather than relying upon that of the stage company, since Murdoch Lancer had been quite adamant that his elder son be away from the ranch for as short a time as possible. Murdoch had indicated that he viewed Scott’s planned departure as highly inconvenient, grumbling that it was a very busy time at Lancer. As he had just prior to his departure, Scott again considered that it really wasn’t any more--or less--busy than any other time; he doubted that there was ever a period when there was not too much work to be done on the ranch. There was a cattle drive coming up, as well as a bridge in need of repair ---and supplies on order that hadn’t yet arrived when Scott had set out for Stockton. But it had been fairly evident that his father’s displeasure was not so much due to Scott’s proposed absence of a few days, but more likely prompted by the purpose of the trip.
The funds in question had been part of an inheritance that Scott had received from his mother and maternal grandmother, prudently invested by his grandfather, Harlan Garrett. There was significant antipathy between his father and grandfather, and Scott was painfully aware that even indirect references to the older man were an irritant to Murdoch Lancer. Of course, ever since his grandfather’s disastrous visit to the ranch, even Scott found references to the elderly man to be a highly uncomfortable topic of conversation.
Shaking off those thoughts, he concentrated instead on reminiscing about his very pleasant stay with the Barkleys. When Murdoch had first introduced his two sons to the family--the widow and children of his old friend Tom Barkley---- Scott had immediately found common ground with Jarrod, the attorney. Scott had always been intrigued by the law, had even seriously considered entering the field after taking his Harvard degree in literature and classical languages---- quite useless topics of study, according to his grandfather, who had repeatedly urged “Scotty” to develop more “practical” interests. Scott particularly admired Jarrod’s ability to attend to his legal practice while still remaining involved in the operation of the family ranch.
It was unfortunate that they didn’t have more opportunity to see each other; whenever the two families did get together, Murdoch Lancer would talk about cattle and fence lines for hours with Jarrod’s brother, Nick, and Murdoch’s ward, Teresa O’Brien, always enjoyed visiting with their sister, Audra. It had turned out that Scott’s brother Johnny had actually crossed paths with Heath Barkley at some point in the past. Victoria Barkley, the matriarch of the family, graciously presided over them all.
Visiting the Barkleys on his own had afforded Scott the opportunity to closely observe, and fully appreciate, the manner in which Victoria Barkley interacted with her daughter and her three very different sons. She was graceful, intelligent and articulate, somehow managing to combine an air of sophistication rarely seen in these parts with an equal share of common sense. Scott liked to think that had his own mother survived, she might even have been somewhat like the estimable Mrs. Barkley.
Scott had also considered that Murdoch and Victoria might be an . . . interesting, albeit unrealistic, pairing. Unrealistic since it was impossible to imagine them being willing to relinquish control of their respective ranches. The only feasible solution, he told himself, would be for the two of them to start a completely new enterprise midway between the present ones. As he approached, and then passed under the Lancer arch, Scott entertained himself with the thought that even starting from scratch, Murdoch Lancer and Victoria Barkley together would most likely be able to quickly build up an estancia to rival the existing Lancer and Barkley spreads. Scott also had to acknowledge that, left to their own devices, the Barkley boys, with their far more extensive ranching experience, would no doubt leave the Lancer brothers far behind in their dust.
Smiling to himself as he pictured Nick Barkley’s triumphant expression, Scott removed his work-stained hat in order to swipe at the sweat on his brow before resettling it on his head, the brim lowered to shield his eyes from the sun that was drifting downwards in the sky. The day had been quite warm; Scott had shed his jacket by mid morning, only to replace it with a light coating of trail dust. The sleeves of his beige checked shirt had been rolled up to just below the elbows, revealing strong forearms that were tanned and sinewy.
The fair skinned Easterner never went about shirtless, but if he were to do so, Scott knew that he would definitely have what back in New England would be termed a “farmah’s tan”. The dramatic demarcation of skin tone would present undeniable evidence of manual labor, something that the young ladies of his acquaintance back in Boston would have found quite distasteful. As for the local females . . . well, Scott had to ruefully admit that it had been far too long since he had been unclothed in the presence of willing young woman. He smiled to himself as he contemplated taking a ride into Green River, soon—perhaps the next evening. For tonight, a bath, Maria’s cooking and his own soft bed would be comfort enough.
Scott was grateful when Miguel greeted him near the front door; the young vaquero quickly took charge of Brunswick and could be relied upon to do a thorough job of stabling the weary horse. Given the time of day, Scott was not surprised when he did not encounter any members of either his family or the household staff as he entered the Lancer hacienda. He assumed that a few of the women would be back in the kitchen making preparations for supper. Glancing at the clock, he noted with pleasure that he had at least two hours to settle in prior to that event.
As Scott came through the front door, he paused to remove his hat and place it on the stand just inside the entry. The absence of another hat or of a holstered weapon indicated that neither his father nor his younger brother had returned from wherever their tasks had taken them that day. Slowly he unbuckled his gun belt, and grateful to be relieved of the burden, hung it beneath his hat.
It had taken the Easterner some time to acquire the habit of constantly wearing a gun. In fact, there was still the occasional morning when he walked out the door without it, especially if he was thinking hard about something else. After noting one such occurrence, Jelly Hoskins, if he were anywhere in the vicinity, had formed the pattern of watching for it, inspecting Scott each morning as he exited the hacienda. If the Easterner’s weapon was missing, the smug self described horse wrangler would quickly point it out: “Ya forgot ya gun belt agin; yur in California now; livin’ out here, you might just as well think about goin’ off without ya trousers.”
Of course, Scott was certain that his brother, the former gunfighter, was even more likely to notice any such omission, but Johnny was not always as eager to mention it. Just last week, the two of them had been heading out somewhere together, had actually reached the arch, before Johnny, feigning a casual disinterest, had finally posed a question: “So, Boston, am I guardin’ ya t’day?” Scott had given his brother a quizzical look, then realization had dawned and, with a small sigh, he had turned Brunswick back towards the ranch house. Teresa had greeted him at the door, smiling sympathetically when Scott reached for his gun belt with a rueful grin and a comment about “seeming to have forgotten a little something.”
“How far did you get before you remembered it?”
“I didn’t,” had been the honest reply, and Scott repeated the question that Johnny had asked him on the far side of the Lancer arch.
“Wait here,” she’d told him and had disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, returning with a fresh muffin, still warm from the oven. “I’m taking some of these over to the Hendersons’ later this morning.”
Scott had accepted it, smiled his thanks and then promptly requested one for Johnny as well. Teresa had shaken her head at him. “Why?” the petite brunette had demanded, hands on hips.
“Well,” Scott had explained in his most serious tone, “because the last time, Johnny waited until we were half way to Green River before he asked me if I thought that my horse was appreciating ‘carryin’ a lighter load’.”
Still shaking her head, the young woman had returned to the kitchen to comply with Scott’s request and retrieve a second warm muffin. When Scott had caught up with Johnny once more, he had found his restless younger brother engaged in tossing his hat to the ground and practicing picking it up from astride a moving Barranca, a difficult skill at which Johnny was particularly adept. Certain that Johnny was well aware of having been observed, Scott had paid the younger man no compliments upon his feat, offering a dry comment instead: “It looks as if you’ve been working up an appetite.” Scott had then described in mouthwatering detail the oven fresh delicacy that he’d enjoyed during his return to the house, waiting until Johnny looked suitably dismayed and deprived before relenting and tossing him the extra muffin.
Scott smiled now as he recalled the incident, thinking again how glad he was to be home. But the smile swiftly disappeared as he noticed, lying on the hall table beneath the collection of letters that had accumulated during his absence, a very large, thick, envelope. Pushing the other mail to one side, he could see that it appeared to be from the Boston law firm—Hayford and Son-- that represented his grandfather. Scott pressed his lips together in annoyance as he realized that the packet might include yet more paperwork relating to the trust funds and other legal matters which he had just spent the last few days taking care of . . . .or thought that he had taken care of. As he held the envelope in both hands, he considered that it might also be the revised copy of his grandfather’s will; the older man had mentioned in his most recent letter a plan to update that document and have a copy forwarded to Scott. Since neither prospect seemed to promise enticing reading material, Scott dropped the heavy packet on the table and decided that it could wait there on top of the rest of the letters while he proceeded to his room to get cleaned up, change his clothes and hopefully have a few moments to stretch out on his bed before coming down to supper.
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When he finally descended the stairs a few hours later, wearing a clean white shirt and with his freshly combed hair still slightly damp, Scott discovered that the rest of the family had already assembled in the Great Room. Teresa greeted him first with a bright smile and a quick embrace, as she departed for the kitchen to check on the progress of the mealtime preparations.
Johnny had a grin and a friendly punch on the arm for his older brother, as well as some predictable questions: “Hey Scott . . . How were things in Stockton? . . . See much of Audra?”
When the brothers had first been introduced to the Barkleys, Johnny had quickly decided that Audra and Scott were the ideal couple, offering as his most compelling evidence the fact that they both had “pretty blond hair.”
Scott would not have been Harlan Garrett’s grandson if, soon after he had met Murdoch’s friends from Stockton, he had not at least briefly considered that many people might consider Audra and himself to be a “suitable” match. During his last few years in Boston, Scott’s movements in society had taught him that most families viewed a young man of his background, reputation and position as either a “good catch” or a threat, depending upon whether they were overly eager to marry off their darling daughter or were overly protective of her. There had been no such response from the Barkleys.
Audra had much to recommend her---she had a pleasant, gentle demeanor, she was used to life on a ranch, and she was most definitely attractive, with long golden blond hair. Johnny might find it amusing, but Scott privately considered that he would have been very interested in Audra Barkley---- if only her beautiful face had been combined with some measure of her mother’s strength of personality. Not that he would ever reveal a negative opinion of a young woman who was, after all, a family friend. Besides, Scott knew that if he ever once gave voice to his sincere admiration of Victoria Barkley, he would only succeed in providing Johnny with something else to rib him about.
Now, Scott grinned back at his dark haired younger brother. “Well . . . I did catch a glimpse or two,” he said in arch response to Johnny’s question about Audra.
He walked over to the table where Murdoch was pouring himself a drink, and offered a “Hello, Sir.” His father nodded, gestured with his glass and, in response to Scott’s own nod of assent, poured a second drink and handed it to his elder son.
Once the three of them were seated, Murdoch repeated Johnny’s initial inquiry: “So how were things in Stockton?” then went on to pose additional, specific questions about the Barkleys’ stock, irrigation efforts, fence building program, and several other things that Scott had had absolutely no opportunity to discuss, let alone thoroughly investigate, during his very short stay.
When Murdoch displayed a visible degree of irritation with Scott’s inability to supply informative answers, the younger man finally pointed out that his trip to Stockton had had another purpose.
“I certainly could have stayed longer, Sir, had I known that you wished me to give a full report of the goings on at the Barkleys’,” Scott added with a smile, hoping to mitigate Murdoch’s annoyance at the oblique reference to his trust fund.
“Well, then, let’s come to a decision about which breeding bull we want to purchase.”
Scott looked over at Johnny with an expression of undisguised dismay. The three men had been discussing this topic for several days prior to his departure for Stockton. If anyone had questioned him, Scott probably would have assumed that the decision had been made, the bull bought and paid for and that the animal might even already be “hard at work,” ---although, come to think of it, he couldn’t recall which of the three bulls under consideration had been selected. Over on the sofa, Johnny merely looked back at Scott and shrugged.
Scott sighed. He stood up, set down his drink and walked over to Murdoch’s desk. Only half listening to his father’s familiar lecture on the importance of careful selection of breeding stock, Scott searched the desk surface for a letter opener. Finally locating the desired object, shaped like a miniature medieval sword, he leaned over and picked it up. When he straightened and turned from the desk, he found that Murdoch had paused and was looking directly at him.
“Go on, Sir, I’m listening,” Scott assured the older man, and then crossed to the hall table and snatched up the packet from Boston. Murdoch eyed the movements with an expression of evident disapproval, although without any further breaks in his monologue.
Noting that his brother was looking particularly bored, Scott returned to his chair, dropped the packet and the letter opener onto the seat which he had been occupying, and picked up his nearly empty glass. As expected, Johnny quickly drained his own and handed it to Scott as he passed by. Once he was standing with his back to the room, pouring two fresh drinks, Scott waited for Murdoch to pause for breath and then interjected a quiet comment.
“We could still purchase two, or even all three bulls, and do things on a larger scale.”
As he moved to hand Johnny his refilled glass, Scott continued to speak but his words were addressed to Murdoch. “And if you are still against my doing this, then why not consider it a loan? You name the interest.”
Wearing a grim expression, Murdoch responded. “We’ve already discussed it. The answer is no.”
Scott looked at the older man directly now. “We didn’t discuss a loan,” he pointed out.
“And what if, at the end of the year, we’re not able to repay it?” Murdoch demanded.
Scott glanced down at the drink in his hand, before looking up at Murdoch to deliver his reply. “I believe that the lender is a reasonable man, and would be willing to be patient in that event.”
Murdoch managed a taut smile. “Then it wouldn’t really be a loan,” he said, a note of grim victory in his voice.
Scott raised his drink to his lips, while keeping his solemn eyes trained on his father. After a long sip, he lowered the glass and turned, reluctantly, to face Johnny. Prior to his departure for Stockton, Scott and Murdoch had debated Scott’s offer to use his personal funds to purchase additional syock for the ranch. Murdoch had been steadfastly against the idea, while Johnny, wisely in Scott’s opinion, had refrained from entering into the discussion at all. Scott was well aware of how uncomfortable it could be to be caught in the middle of an argument between his father and his brother, since he’d been in the situation often enough. He therefore had hesitated to place Johnny in that same position, but now, feeling frustrated by what he viewed as the older man’s unreasonableness, Scott ventured to address his brother.
“So . . . Johnny, what do you think?”
Johnny had been closely observing the other two men; now rather than looking at Scott, he lowered his gaze and in that moment Scott knew that his brother was not going to side with him on this. Looking at the glass in his hand, swirling the amber liquid, Johnny spoke very softly, with a note of regret, “I guess I kinda like us bein’ equal partners . . .”
Murdoch nodded in emphatic agreement while Scott sighed in resignation and returned to his seat. As he settled once more in his chair, picking up the letter opener and the packet from the Boston attorneys, Scott registered that Murdoch was once again enumerating the pros and cons of each of the prize-winning animals under consideration: Angus, Fernando and Hannibal by name. As he carefully wielded the tiny sword to slit an opening in the top of the large brown envelope, he reflected that he had long ago come to the conclusion that the various advantages and disadvantages seemed to simply cancel each other out. The cost of each of the bulls was also comparable. Murdoch had actually examined the animals; Scott wished that the man would simply choose one. There was no question that both he and Johnny would go along with their father’s selection.
<<But, if he asks me, I suppose I’ll choose . . . Hanna bull . . >>
Looking down inside the envelope, Scott saw that it was filled with what appeared to be pages of legal documents. But in the front of the packet, he noticed a small, lighter colored envelope and recognized it as matching his aunt’s writing paper.
Cecilia Garrett Holmes was his grandfather’s much younger half sister. When Scott was growing up, “Aunt Cee” had resided in the Maine coastal town of Brunswick; Scott had spent many weeks each summer visiting his great aunt and her husband, Elwood. When Scott was older, “Uncle El” had taken his wife’s young nephew on excursions into the north woods, camping, trapping, fishing and canoeing. Now widowed, Cecilia Holmes continued to spend time at her Maine residence during the summer months, but the rest of the year resided with her brother in Boston.
Noting that Murdoch was still talking about the breeding bulls-- Fernando at the moment-- Scott pulled the smaller envelope from the packet and slit the top edge. Placing the letter opener on his knee, he withdrew several sheets of fine paper and rested them against the larger envelope that he still held upright on his lap, as if the brown paper could shield him against having to hear once more the details of Fernando’s procreative potential.
“My Dearest Scott,” the letter began. “I pray that you will be able to forgive me for the delay in this news reaching you, but I could not bear to communicate it in the spare words of a telegram . . .” As Scott continued to read, Murdoch’s voice faded until it became nothing more than the rumble of very distant thunder.
When he finally reached the end of the second page, Scott forced his hands to very gently refold the delicate pages of his aunt’s letter and carefully return them to the envelope.
“Scott??” Murdoch’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Scott, which bull do you think we should choose?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Which bull do you think we should choose?”
“What? Which bull? oh . . . ah . . . Hannibal.”
“Why?” Murdoch swiftly demanded.
Scott looked up, uncomprehending.
“Why Hannibal?” Murdoch repeated insistently.
“Oh . . . well, I guess because . . . . because I like the name . . . ”
“Pftttttt.”
The sound came from Johnny as he tried to stop himself from laughing at Scott’s bewildered expression and vague response. He then simply burst into laughter at Murdoch’s look of utter astonishment.
“Oh come on, Murdoch, it’s as good a reason as any . . .” Johnny choked out finally. “Seems like we been talkin’ ‘bout these three bulls forever . . .”
Surprisingly, Murdoch’s own lips twitched and the dour rancher’s face widened in an answering smile. “Well, if that’s the basis for our decision,” he solemnly intoned, “then of course I’ll have to cast my vote for Angus.”
“Well, then it looks like we might have ourselves a real problem,” Johnny replied with a grin, “’cause it just so happens I was leanin’ toward Fernando . . .”
While Johnny and Murdoch indulged in a hearty laugh, Scott shook his head and rose from his seat. He was holding two items in his hands, the thick brown packet and the thinner dove-colored envelope, but the letter opener clattered to the floor.
After staring at the implement for a brief moment, Scott slowly bent to retrieve it, as his father and brother, their laughter having run its course, exchanged a meaningful look. Beginning with the large envelope from the lawyers, numerous pieces of mail from Boston had accumulated during Scott’s absence and speculation about their contents had been a topic of discussion at the Lancer dinner table the previous evening. The conversation had included a few unfavorable remarks about Scott’s grandfather, Mr. Harlan Garrett, as well as scathing references to the man’s one and only visit to the ranch. Now it was clear that whatever information the missive with the ominous origin might actually contain, the message had had an unsettling effect upon Scott.
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 2A.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is. . .”
--Latin proverb
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“Johnny . . . let him go.”
Despite the murmured instruction, Johnny threw his napkin down, pushed his chair away from the table and slowly rose in a tentative effort to follow Scott from the room.
“Give him some time,” Murdoch Lancer urged his younger son.
Now Johnny stared after Scott, his eyes narrowing as he considered his father’s recommendation, and then finally nodded in acceptance. Although Johnny had to admit that he didn’t really know exactly what he’d say to Scott if he did go after his brother, he still resumed his seat with considerable reluctance, grabbing at the napkin and gripping the cloth tightly in his clenched fist rather than replacing it in his lap. Beside him, Teresa sat staring at her plate with a stricken expression on her face.
“Poor Scott,” she said softly.
With a shake of his head, Johnny started to voice his own regret: “Sure wish I hadn’t said that ‘bout— ”
“You couldn’t have known,” Murdoch interjected firmly, his hasty reassurance an indication that perhaps his own thoughts had followed a similar line. They’d both had plenty to say the previous evening . . .
“We didn’t know,” Murdoch reiterated.
Johnny nodded again, and began idly toying with the food on his plate. The fact was that they had known that something was wrong, it had been plain enough to see, but when it concerned Scott and old man Garrett, well, you didn’t always ask questions. Still, there’d been no doubt that something just wasn’t right, even a casual observation would have told anyone that, and Johnny had been carefully studying Scott across the table ever since they’d sat down to supper.
Scott had barely settled in his seat when he’d reached for the bottle to pour himself some wine--and he’d been refilling his glass before the rest of them had finished filling their plates. Teresa had come in with a basket of biscuits that she’d passed to Johnny as she sat down in her chair opposite Scott. Then it had taken Juanita several trips from the kitchen to convey the rest of the meal to the table; it was a variation on a beef boiled dinner with succotash, prepared especially by Maria in honor of Scott’s return to the ranch. It certainly hadn’t escaped Johnny’s notice that Boston had mostly just moved the food around some, instead of tucking into it the way you’d expect of a man who’d spent the last few days on trail rations.
Murdoch had filled Scott in on what had happened while he’d been away, and informed him that he and Johnny would be clearing out a section of the stream up in the north pasture. It was messy work and hard, not exactly a ‘welcome back,’ but Scott had just nodded his acceptance of the assignment without even shooting Johnny a wry glance across the table.
Then Teresa had tried to ask Scott some questions about his trip, especially his stay with the Barkleys, but had given up when she hadn’t gotten much for answers. She’d started telling him about a book she’d been reading, but, uncharacteristically, Scott hadn’t seemed much interested in that either, saying “Really?” and nodding his head a few times, but not looking as if he’d actually heard what was being said.
Finally, Teresa had paused for breath and Johnny had seized his chance. “So Boston, who is she?”
Scott had reacted to the name “Boston,” squinting over at Johnny with his lips parted in a questioning expression. Johnny obligingly repeated his inquiry, gesturing with his fork at the pale grey envelope by way of clarification.
On the other side of the table, Scott had looked down at the small square lying atop the larger brown packet. The dove-colored surface was blank except for his own first name inscribed in an elegant, feminine hand. “The letter . . . is from my Aunt Cecilia,” he’d replied, the tone indicating that he had no desire to expand upon the topic.
There was a small clinking sound at the head of the table, as Murdoch Lancer set his fork down against the edge of his plate. “Cecilia? Is she all right, Scott?” he asked, his question closely followed by another from Johnny: “She the one you used to visit?”
Scott turned to Murdoch first. “She’s fine, Murdoch.”
Again, Johnny heard a finality in his brother’s voice. However, Scott still looked across and answered him as well. “Yes, up in Maine. Grandfather’s younger sister.”
Spying that pretty writing paper, Johnny had wondered if maybe it didn’t have anything to do with Garrett after all, but perhaps his brother had gotten some bad news from a female admirer, one of those many ladies he’d hinted at being “acquainted” with back in Boston. Maybe one of them had gotten tired of waiting and was writing to say that she’d married someone else. Johnny’s disappointment at not being able to kid Scott about his ‘women troubles’ was quickly supplanted by that other concern. As he reached for his glass of milk, Johnny fired a question across the table.
“So’s she workin’ with the old man now, writin’ t’ try to talk ya into going back East?”
“Johnny . . . ” Murdoch’s voice had issued a warning.
“No,” Scott had said, his typical intonation making the short word seem longer. Then, rather than looking at Johnny, he’d lowered his gaze and in that moment Johnny knew that his brother was going to say something pretty important. Looking at the table through the wineglass in his hand, Scott spoke very softly.
“She’s writing to me about my grandfather . . . . to tell me he’s passed away.”
The only sound was the soft thud as Johnny set his glass of milk back down on the table. No one spoke; a long moment slid past.
Into the shocked silence that followed his announcement, Scott whispered a polite, “If you’ll excuse me . . . ” Gathering up the two envelopes, he rose from his seat. Scott’s eyes skimmed over the table, failing to meet any of the pairs staring up at him. Then he simply turned and walked out, leaving behind an empty wineglass, a plate of barely touched food and three stunned family members.
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 2B.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is. . .”
--Latin proverb
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“ . . . . he’s passed away.”
Although the phrase, spoken in his own voice, had repeated in his thoughts several times as he’d wearily mounted the stairs to his room, Scott still couldn’t quite accept that it was true.
Once inside his bedchamber, he gently placed the two envelopes on the top of his dresser, carefully centering the smaller one atop the larger, then leaned, straight-armed, against the solid bulk of the heavy piece of furniture. As his eyes closed and his head dropped, Scott found himself listening for the sound of Murdoch’s heavy tread on the stairs, for Johnny’s jingling footsteps in the hallway, for Teresa’s gentle knock on the door. His relief was tinged with only a faint hint of disappointment when there was nothing but silence beyond the echo of those words in his head.
After a long exhale, Scott straightened and fingered Aunt Cee’s letter. Ever since he’d read it downstairs—and he knew he hadn’t fully absorbed everything that his aunt had written—Scott had felt cold to his very core, frozen in disbelief.
Now there were a few stirrings of anger, irrational flickers of feeling not anywhere near enough to warm him. First, there was anger at his aunt, for having written the words. He knew instantly that those thoughts were unfair.
Then there was anger at his grandfather . . . for dying. Even worse.
But most of all, he was angry at himself. For not knowing.
<<”My grandfather can take care of himself. . .”>>
How often had he said that? How wrong he’d been.
Scott pushed away from the dresser. He blinked hard as those sparks of anger were nearly smothered by an overwhelming sense of sadness and loss. Nearly. He shoved sorrow aside, stirring up the coals instead.
He hadn’t been there. Despite what he’d said, he hadn’t given any real thought to going home for a visit. He hadn’t yet answered Grandfather’s most recent letter.
Now it was too late.
He reached for the packet and flung it hard against the far wall.
His breathing ragged, Scott stood staring at the dented brown rectangle lying on the bed, some of its contents sliding out onto the counterpane. He never should have opened the damn thing.
Scott slowly crossed the room, but not to retrieve the envelope—instead he turned his back on it and sat down heavily on the edge of his bed. He swallowed hard as his head dropped into his hands, fury now blanketed by the ashes of regret.
He should have written sooner. He should have been there. He should have known.
And he shouldn’t have told them. Not like that.
He hadn’t intended to say anything, downstairs, not right away. He should never have carried the envelopes with him to the table, prompting his brother’s inquiry that in turn had led to his own blunt announcement. How much better to have waited, to have first carefully read over all the information, digested it and then shared the painful news with Murdoch, Johnny and Teresa.
The silence that had greeted his revelation had probably only lasted a brief instant or two, but it had seemed to stretch well beyond a merely awkward pause. No one had hastened to offer up a polite condolence and Scott could hardly blame them, given his grandfather’s behavior during his one brief sojourn at the ranch. Scott had, in fact, been quite grateful, when, in the aftermath of that visit, the rest of his family had generously chosen to avoid the topic altogether.
But he and Grandfather, the two of them had talked, on the trip into town. Afterwards, they’d exchanged letters, both working to try to repair some of the damage done. The older man’s actions had left Scott feeling more deeply shaken than he had cared to admit, even to himself. Grandfather had always been the one constant presence in his life, their relationship an integral support, central to Scott’s very foundation. Prior to his grandfather’s stunning betrayal, Scott had been convinced that nothing could change what they’d had between them, not even the fact that he had begun to build a new life for himself at Lancer.
Grandfather had always been there. Now he was . . . gone.
The cold disbelief had melted away, and Scott felt completely empty inside. This was the dreaded fulfillment of his greatest childhood fear-- that something terrible would happen to his grandfather, and he would be left all alone.
That was ridiculous. He was no longer a child. And he was, after all, the one who had left.
He had a new home now, with Johnny, Teresa and . . . and with Murdoch, the father who refused to discuss the past. Something to which Scott himself had reluctantly acquiesced, in part because of his growing conviction that, far from throwing light upon the subject, any responses given to his burning questions would merely cast shadows upon all concerned.
So, he’d kept his questions locked inside, his memories too, and hadn’t ever said very much to any of them about what it had been like, growing up in Boston--- except, of course, during the few weeks prior to his grandfather’s ill-fated visit. Even then, he’d hardly talked anyone’s ear off. Now his earlier reticence, coupled with that weighty silence he’d felt downstairs, left Scott feeling very much alone. More than the fully laden supper table downstairs or any closed door, the unshared past seemed a solid barrier separating him from the rest of his family.
He should at least have brought the bottle of wine upstairs for company.
Shaking off that thought, Scott rose quickly, retrieved the small envelope from the dresser and threw himself down on the bed, thinking to reread his aunt’s letter and then find out exactly what was contained within the set of legal documents. His head had barely touched the pillow when he suddenly felt that he had to get out, that he couldn’t remain confined within the four walls of his room. On his feet once again, Scott hastily shrugged into the dusty jacket he had worn on the trail.
Of course, his hat was hanging on the stand by the front door, along with his gun belt. But he couldn’t go back downstairs. Not yet.
Crossing to the wardrobe, Scott threw open the double doors. He blindly snatched a hat off the shelf and then saw that it was one that he hadn’t used since his early days at Lancer, the jaunty one with the turned up brim and the leopard skin band. As he eased it on his head, he recalled having been informed in no uncertain terms, first by Teresa and later by Johnny, that the headgear was not appropriate attire for a California rancher, but for now it would have to do. As for a weapon, he still had his carbine in the sheath attached to his saddle; that would suffice as a protection against any predators that he might encounter as nightfall approached. Scott tucked the papers and Aunt Cecilia’s letter back inside the large packet and slipped out through his room’s exterior door and into the gathering twilight.
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Having already covered many miles that day, Brunswick had earned his rest, so Scott had saddled Rambler, his secondary mount. The familiar motions of preparing the animal, usually performed as a backdrop to other thoughts, had absorbed his complete attention tonight. Now, as the powerful and sure-footed sorrel picked his way up the incline, Scott gave him his head to do so, while still focusing his entire concentration upon the horse.
Once he’d arrived at one of his favorite spots, a small stand of trees overlooking the main buildings of the ranch, Scott swung down from the saddle and untied the lantern he’d borrowed from the stable. There was still perhaps enough daylight to read a few lines, but it would not last for long, as the first familiar stars were already beginning to wink faintly through the graying skies overhead. Down below, the windows of the hacienda glowed with lamplight; from his vantage point, Scott could clearly see the large yellow rectangles extending from Lancer great room’s French doors.
Scott set Rambler to grazing, then carefully lit the lantern and hung it from a sturdy branch. He sat down against the tree, trying to relax his head and shoulders back against the trunk, staring up at those multiplying stars for another moment before sitting up and reluctantly reaching for the large envelope lying on the ground beside him.
He withdrew Aunt Cecilia’s letter and read it once more, slowly this time, striving to hear his aunt’s gentle voice as he deciphered the words. The cold facts remained the same: Working late, his grandfather had collapsed in his study. One of the servants had found him the next morning. Harlan had slipped away later that day, without ever regaining consciousness. His sister had been sent for immediately, arriving too late to do anything other than make the necessary arrangements for burial. The memorial service would await Scott’s return.
Grandfather had been gone now for over two weeks. He’d died alone.
His aunt had tried to cushion the news, offering what comfort she could in the lines of flowing script. Her brother hadn’t suffered; he’d been spared the ravages of a lingering illness or increasing infirmity. The graveside committal service had been well attended; she had received many heartfelt condolences from Harlan’s friends and business associates, several of whom had already indicated a willingness to speak at the memorial.
The letter ended with Aunt Cee’s assurances that Scott had continued to be uppermost in his grandfather’s thoughts.
“He was always so very, very proud of you, and rightly so, as you are without question his finest legacy. Keep close to your heart your fondest memories, as will I, against the day we might share them with each other.
Your Loving Aunt
C.”
As his hands mechanically folded the pages and carefully eased them back into the envelope, Scott’s eyes were focused on a succession of tear-blurred images from his past, memories in which Grandfather figured prominently. They were happy memories, most of them. Holiday celebrations, their travels together, the habits and little rituals they’d developed, since, so often, it had been just the two of them. Grandfather smiling as he presented yet another extravagant gift, as he pointed out a famous site. Grandfather lifting his glass as he offered up a toast.
His grandfather holding his hand . . .
Harlan Garrett had not been a demonstrative man, but he’d never hidden the fact that he’d been proud of his grandson. If they’d disagreed at times, if Grandfather had often been too demanding, or overly insistent, there’d been no question that he’d cared. Sometimes too much.
Scott swiped at his face, and then slumped back against the tree while bitter regret held his sorrow in check once more. Less pleasant recent memories forced themselves to the forefront. The struggle of trying to develop an adult relationship, the conflicts they’d had after Scott’s return from the War. The chill of his grandfather’s stern disapproval.
And then, finally, that shocking betrayal with Grandfather’s calculated efforts to use those Degan brothers. And Julie, God, he’d even tried to use Julie against him. Oh, Scott could rationalize that the older man had somehow—somehow-- convinced himself it truly was “all for the best,” the forced reunion with Julie perhaps most of all. But when the plan had fallen apart, Grandfather had refused to listen to reason, had stubbornly persisted rather than following his own good recommendations.
“You must be determined to win,” he’d always said. “But a good businessman also needs to know when to cut his losses, Scotty.”
Grandfather hadn’t heeded his own advice, and had thereby risked throwing away everything they’d ever had between them. But, in the end, what had existed for so many years could not be cancelled out by one series of indiscretions, no matter how egregious. Even after being shot by the Degans, Scott’s own pain and confusion had been secondary to a desperate fear for his grandfather’s safety.
Grandfather could have so easily gotten himself killed then. At the time, that had simply been yet another addition to Scott’s lengthy list of grievances against the elderly man. A list that he had refrained from airing, in part, he admitted, from force of habit. But Scott had also recognized his grandfather’s remorse and the shame concealed beneath a dignified front. The older man had acknowledged his wrongdoing--- “I’ve been a great fool,” he’d said----and then had offered Scott an awkward formal apology.
Coming from his grandfather, those concessions had been considerable. But at the same time, after what he’d done, they hadn’t been nearly enough.
Their parting had been painful. The conversation on the ride into town had helped to ease Scott’s feelings of anger, disappointment and disbelief. He’d asked some pointed questions, his grandfather had answered them. Scott’s anger had been first to go, but that was the way it had always been with him. It would flare up, strong and hot, propelling him to take quick and decisive action, but then just as quickly subside—only rarely hardening to cold resentment. Right or wrong, Scott had held those cold and hard feelings against his unknown father for too many years. He’d be damned if he’d harbor them towards the man who had raised him. He owed his Grandfather so much, how could he withhold forgiveness?
But Grandfather hadn’t asked to be forgiven. He hadn’t asked for anything.
Once he’d seen his grandfather safely to the stage, Scott stood watching until it disappeared from view. At the time, he’d felt, perhaps selfishly, mostly relief that the man was gone. He’d taken his time driving home, avoiding his family as long as possible, feeling deeply embarrassed by Grandfather’s behavior.
There’d been only considerate silence when he returned. No one had said much of anything, not Teresa or Johnny and most especially not Murdoch. It was almost as if the visit hadn’t taken place. Well, except for Teresa’s watchful concern, when she thought he wasn’t looking. And the special treats she and Maria had prepared for him. Johnny had apparently decided that forced activity was the answer, so he’d offered himself up at the chessboard, and insisted that he needed company on the ride to town the next Saturday night.
Murdoch had seemed untroubled, even content. Somehow expectant as well, at least during the first few days after Grandfather’s departure. But having been rebuffed by Murdoch, Scott couldn’t, he wouldn’t, approach him again. Besides, he’d finally learned most of what he needed to know, from talking with his grandfather.
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Rambler snorted in the darkness, chomping at the grass just beyond the circle of light cast by the lantern. Scott wondered how long he’d been sitting there, staring out at nothing, and seeing everything.
Too long. He had a task to complete. Turning his attention to the packet, he discovered inside various legal documents, including a copy of his grandfather’s recently revised will. As he looked over the sheaf of papers, Scott found that all of the changes the older man had mentioned had been made. Paragraphs no longer necessary now that Scott was of age had been eliminated. There were some puzzling additions to the list of monetary bequests to other individuals, names that were unfamiliar to him, but most of them Scott recognized as long time Garrett employees. Further provisions had been made for Cecilia and other relatives. It was certainly typical of Harlan Garrett to have handled his affairs in a timely manner.
When he reached the final page, Scott stared down at his grandfather’s well-known signature, wishing there was more, something besides this paperwork--a personal note of some sort. Realizing that there were, in fact, a few more sheets of paper, he looked beneath the signed page and discovered what looked to be a letter. Chills traveled up his spine.
Evidently his grandfather had taken the envelope of documents from his attorney’s office with the intention of enclosing a message. Although the pages in his hand remained steady as he held them closer to the lantern, Scott was trembling inside as he forced himself to read the lines.
To his dismay, the first page was merely a painstaking reiteration of his grandfather’s explanation of each of the small changes made in his will, the majority having little or no impact upon Scott, all of which had been thoroughly covered in previous communications. He skimmed through the words impatiently, fearful now that no other topics would be addressed, or worse, that this last letter might not have even been finished.
Relieved when the text shifted to more usual subjects, interesting events in Boston and news of mutual acquaintances, Scott forced himself to slow down. The words were comforting in their mundane familiarity.
After the initial difficult exchange of stilted and dutiful letters following the older man’s return to Boston, their correspondence had fallen once more into its former pattern. By unwritten mutual agreement, further discussion of the disastrous visit had been avoided. So Scott was taken by surprise when the final paragraphs not only made direct reference to Harlan Garret’s trip to Lancer, but also contained echoes of the conversation the two of them had had en route to the stage.
Grandfather once more termed himself “a great fool,” as well as “a lonely and hollow old man.” He stated emphatically that his actions had been “unforgivable.”
And then he asked Scott’s forgiveness.
There were only a few more lines. A cautious question as to whether his grandson might perhaps be willing to consider visiting Boston sometime in the near future. An expression of hope that Scott would write soon. Another signature.
The lantern must have been low on fuel, or perhaps the wick was used up. Scott had barely finished reading the letter, when the flame went out.
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Miguel was there to greet him at the stable doors, snatching up Rambler’s reins as Scott slowly dismounted.
“Buenos noches, Senor Scott. Senor Lancer, he wishes to see you . . . He’s waiting inside.”
Scott nodded. “Gracias, Miguel.”
Removing the saddlebags containing the papers and the two letters, Scott draped them over one shoulder. He walked past the large front door of the hacienda towards the glass paned double doors, stopping just short of the squares of light cast on the ground at his feet. He took a few deep breaths. After one last glance up at the night sky, Scott stepped up to the left hand door, grasped the knob and pushed it open.
As he entered the room, Scott quickly took in his assembled family: Murdoch seated at his desk, Johnny lounging idly on the couch, Teresa in the blue armchair with some darning. He wondered which one had come after him, who it was who had discovered his absence.
Turning his back to the room, Scott carefully closed the door, head bowed to fix his complete concentration upon the often uncooperative latch. He’d reflexively removed his hat as he’d entered, and regretted that, considering that perhaps he might still need the shelter of the brim. Well, there was no help for it now.
Facing forward, he lifted his chin, and met his brother’s concerned eyes, unabashedly examining him from across the room
“Scott.”
Scott nodded in answer to the unspoken question in Johnny’s greeting, then directed his attention to Murdoch. Advancing resolutely across the room, Scott halted a few paces from the desk. Tucking his hat under one arm, he began to methodically remove his gloves, while keeping his gaze trained upon his father.
“I’ll be needing to go to Boston.”
Murdoch pushed himself away from the desk, arms locked against the heavy piece of furniture as he contemplated his son.
“Well, it won’t be easy to get along without you Scott, but we’ll manage.”
Scott aligned the gloves in his hand, palms facing each other.
“I’ll plan to leave within the next few days.”
Murdoch bowed his head, nodding as he considered this. “You’ll be gone a month, I would guess,” he said, looking up at Scott again.
Scott had already half-turned, holding his hat in two hands, with the gloves resting inside the crown. He glanced down at them, then at his father.
“Longer, Sir. It’s over two weeks of traveling, there and back. There’ll be . . . a memorial service. Then . . . there are things to settle.”
“Of course you should take as much time as you need, Scott.”
“I will, Sir. Thank you.”
Scott waited this time, in case there was more, regarding Murdoch with a carefully neutral expression. The older man appeared to have nothing to add, so Scott turned and started to move away.
Still clutching a wooden egg filled sock, Teresa jumped to her feet to intercept him as he passed by. A spool of light colored thread dropped from her lap and rolled away across the floor. Her fingertips ruffled the feather as she reached past his hat to rest her hand lightly on his arm.
“Scott, we’re sorry, we’re all sorry that you’ve had such sad news.”
“Thank you, Teresa.” Scott swallowed and looked past her. His gaze skimmed over the room, pausing briefly when he reached his brother, before darting away. He found himself looking down once more into Teresa’s compassionate eyes, but he simply wasn’t ready for sympathy yet. Scott sought out his father’s face.
“I’ll need to go into town tomorrow, send some wires.”
Murdoch nodded.
Teresa still stood there, sadly looking up at him.
“It’s been a long day,” he offered, hoping she might understand.
Her hand slipped off of his sleeve. “Good night, Scott,” she said softly.
He nodded gratefully, said “Good night,” to the room, and made his way towards the staircase once more.
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Author’s note: Scott’s recollections of his conversations with his Grandfather are based in part upon Sherri’s story “In Transit,” which is located in the Wayne Maunder Birthday Stories 2004 Folder at the LancerWriters Yahoo group site.
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 3.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is. . .”
--Latin proverb
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“Come in.”
Johnny didn’t usually stand out in the hall listening for a response, most of the time he gave a quick knock on the door and then went right on in. But this morning, he waited.
Scott noticed. At least it looked like he had. When Johnny eased into the room, his brother was mostly dressed, in stocking feet, with his shirt hanging untucked and still unbuttoned. Scott was standing in front of his washstand, shaving. Although he should have been able to see Johnny in the mirror just fine, his reflection anyway, Scott still turned and looked over his shoulder. He gave a little nod and went back to work, paying real careful attention to scraping the last bits of soap off of his chin.
Johnny pushed the door shut behind him and then plopped down on the edge of Scott’s already made up bed. He started to swing his boots up so he could stretch himself out, then thought better of it and sat upright again. It was hard to tell if Scott had noticed that, since he was busy working the razor along his jawline now. Their eyes met in the mirror for a moment, then Scott lowered his gaze to the basin in front of him and swished the blade around in the water.
“Where are you heading today?” Scott asked when he finally turned away from the washstand, dabbing at his face with the towel he had draped over his shoulder.
Scott’s boots were positioned side by side on the floor near the bed. Johnny nudged them out of line with one foot.
“Oh, you know, still hafta get that stream cleared.”
The towel stopped a few inches from Scott’s face. “You’re going up there alone?”
“No, the Walts are goin’ with me.”
Scott’s eyebrows shot up. “Both of them?”
The Johnsons were father and son ranch hands with the same first name. The younger man was Johnny’s age; Walt Senior was a long time employee who most often worked around the hacienda itself.
Johnny grinned. “Guess the Old Man thinks it’s gonna take both of ‘em ta replace ya.”
Scott exhaled derisively, shook his head a bit and then finished wiping off his face.
Johnny considered that if Scott remembered where it was the two of them were supposed to be heading this morning, then he probably remembered a few other things that had been said as well. He sighed and rubbed his own hands along his thighs, staring at a spot on the floor for a moment before he looked up at his brother.
“Look, Scott, I’m sorry . . . ‘bout your grandfather. And about what I sa---”
“I know.”
Maybe he did, and maybe he didn’t, Johnny thought as he watched Scott carefully place the damp towel over the wooden bar on the side of the washstand. Scott sounded tired, looked it too. No need to push him.
“Murdoch’s gettin’ a wagon ready for you to take to town.”
Scott had been moving over to his dresser, but that caught his attention. “A wagon?”
“He figured you could pick up those supplies he thinks might be waitin’. For the bridge. And Maria and Teresa are workin’ on a list.”
“I’ve got a lot of things to take care of.”
“I know,” Johnny said sympathetically.
Scott glanced up sharply at that, but he didn’t say anything, just took a file out of the case on top of his dresser and started using it along his thumbnail.
Johnny blew out a long breath and slowly stood up. “You gonna be all right?” He asked Scott’s bowed head.
“I’ll be fine.”
As usual, the words came out strong and level, not dropping off at the end the way it was with most people. Johnny waited a moment to see if there was anything more. His brother appeared to have nothing to add, so Johnny started for the door.
He was just reaching out for the doorknob when Scott spoke again.
“What he did, when he was here . . . he’d never done anything like that before.”
When Johnny turned back around, he was still looking at the back of Scott’s head.
“Not to me.” His brother faced him now, the slight squint failing to mask the angry intensity in his eyes.
Johnny leaned back against the door, folded his arms across his chest, cocked his head. “I figured,” he said softly.
During the week or so before that visit, Scott had practically talked his ear off, going on and on about “Grandfather” and their life together in Boston. In fact, Johnny’d rarely seen his brother as openly happy as he’d been right before Garrett arrived. And never quite so low as he was right afterwards, though Scott had tried hard to hide it. That alone was good enough evidence for Johnny that the old man’s behavior had been unexpected.
“He’d never done anything like that before.” Scott’s confident assertion had taken on a faintly defensive edge, and he lowered his gaze. He started working on the buttons of his shirt.
“Well . . . he sure weren’t very good at it.”
Scott’s head came up slowly, his expression suggesting that it hadn’t really occurred to him that that might be to his grandfather’s credit. “No,” he said, drawing out the word. “He wasn’t.”
“The way I see it, none a that matters much now, long as things were squared between
the two a you.”
Scott nodded soberly. “We were . . . working on it.”
Johnny unfolded his arms and tapped the fingernails of one hand against the bedpost beside him. He’d figured Scott and his grandfather had talked some, knew there’d been letters back and forth after Garrett had left.
“Well, Brother . . . that’s hard. When things ain’t finished.”
And it was hard to see Scott struggling with those kinds of feelings, so close to the surface. Johnny studied the top of that bedpost some more, but out of the corner of his eye he could see his brother buttoning up his shirt. When Scott finished with the last button, he kept looking down towards the floor a few moments longer before he finally tucked his shirt in and sat down on the bed.
Boston slowly leaned over and picked up his left boot, held it in one hand, considering it for a moment. Johnny watched his brother’s profile and waited.
“Johnny, I, ah . . . I never really thanked you . . . for coming after us.” Scott sat up then and looked Johnny right in the eyes. “You could have just let me go.”
Johnny shrugged. “Yeah, well, I could tell you maybe didn’t think it was the right thing ta do.”
Scott sighed. He pulled the boot on, then reached for the second one. “It wasn’t. I just wanted . . . to get him away.”
That made some sense. Scott had been caught in the middle, having to choose between his grandfather and Murdoch. And he would have felt responsible for Garrett being here.
Johnny let out a small sigh of his own. Truth was, he should have realized something was wrong sooner than he had. But he’d been angry that Scott hadn’t talked to him, even angrier at the thought that his brother was just going to up and leave. So, uncharacteristically, he’d let his emotions get in the way and he’d been just a bit slow to see what should have been obvious. He’d never known Scott to hold back once he’d decided on the right thing to do. The man would do exactly what he thought had to be done, look you in the eye and say what needed to be said. But when it came to heading back to Boston, Scott had let his grandfather do the talking.
Despite what Garrett had been trying to pull, Scott probably felt he owed the man something. Still . . .
“Those Degan boys weren’t goin’ anywhere, Scott. They were bound ta try something.”
Scott nodded. “That was the problem. I thought of sending a wire back, to warn you. But we didn’t get that far.” He tugged on the second boot. “I’d expected them to go to Murdoch for more money. Threaten to press charges.”
“Murdoch told me what really happened back then. Didn’t sound like there was anything much to it.”
Scott rose to his feet and reached for the jacket draped across the trunk at the foot of his bed. “It still would have been a murder charge, Johnny,” he said as he drew on the dusty looking garment.
Also sitting on the trunk was what Johnny thought of as Scott’s “Boston cavalry” hat. It wasn’t one of those round bowler hats like his brother had been wearing when he first arrived on the stage. This one with the brim folded up on one side was supposed to be some kind of riding hat. Scott picked it up and adjusted the spotted fur band and then slid his fingers along the edge of the feather.
“Grandfather had known about the Degans for a very long time.” Scott eased his fancy hat on his head. “Apparently he believed the accusation had some merit.”
When Johnny didn’t even try to keep his opinion of that idea from showing on his face, Scott just shrugged and started towards the door.
“It was a long time ago.” There was no edge of any kind to Scott’s voice now, just a dull fatigue.
“Yeah, I guess,” Johnny agreed, as he pushed himself away from the wall and turned to open the door. Of course, maybe what his brother meant was that neither of them knew much of anything about Murdoch’s past, what he’d been like even five years back, let alone twenty. Deciding what to do would have been just that much more difficult for Scott, if he’d thought there was the slimmest chance that Murdoch had killed the Degan boys’ father in anything other than a clear case of self-defense. And most likely old man Garrett had presented the murder as a fact.
Johnny looked back over his shoulder as he stepped out into the hall. “You ever talk to Murdoch about it?” But of course he knew the answer to that question even before he’d finished asking it.
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Recognizing that they were almost home, the pair of horses picked up the pace as they approached the Lancer arch.
“Casi . . .” Big José murmured to them, flicking the reins unnecessarily. “Almost.” It was practically the first word the vaquero had uttered on the long drive from Morro Coyo. Beside him on the buckboard seat, Scott couldn’t help but think about how happy he’d been—was it only yesterday?---to ride beneath this same arch towards the hacienda, never suspecting what news awaited him there.
José’s characteristic silences had suited Scott today; it had been one reason why he’d commandeered the man as a driver. When he’d followed Johnny down the stairs and out the front door this morning, Scott had noticed the rest of his mail still stacked on the table in the entryway. He had a clear idea now why there were so many more letters than usual, and knew that most would not require an immediate reply. Still, he’d thought it only wise to sift through them, just in case.
Once Johnny and “the Walts” had headed off for their day of stream clearing, Scott had sought out José and found him hitching up the team. Informing the stable hand that he’d like him to drive the wagon into town, Scott had then requested that José —his friends called him “José Grande” to distinguish him from another vaquero of the same name—saddle Brunswick as well, and then let Jelly know they’d be leaving. Once José had nodded his agreement, Scott had headed around the back of the house to the kitchen. Although he didn’t feel as if he really needed any breakfast before leaving for town, he’d been hoping to find some coffee still warming on the stove.
Instead, he’d found Teresa and Senora Maria and was immediately greeted by both women as soon as he slipped inside the kitchen door. The diminutive Lancer cook hurried over with a soft rush of words. Scott picked out one of them, “abuelo”; the Senora had made sure to teach him that one prior to Grandfather’s visit. Scott allowed the rest of the words to wash over him without even trying to translate each one. The tone and Maria’s sympathetic face told him all he needed to know.
“Gracias, Senora.”
“Triste, muy triste . . .,” she said, shaking her head.
“El café por favor, Senora. Necesito . . .”
Hearing Scott’s request for coffee, Teresa responded that she would get it, while Maria bustled over to the stove and proceeded to pile far too much food onto a plate. Recognizing that he wasn’t going to be allowed to settle for just a half cup of the “café,” that was all he needed, Scott removed his hat and sat down at the kitchen table to await his meal. “Desayuno,” that was breakfast, and this one was probably going to be far too “grande,” but he found himself welcoming the ladies’ attention. And, after all, Big José probably wouldn’t mind waiting—and would never complain even if he did.
As he placed his hat on the table beside him, Scott considered that he might perhaps exchange it for his usual one when he gathered up the mail waiting in the foyer. He remembered that his well-worn hat was hanging on the rack beside the front door, as was his gun belt. He’d almost left without it, and needed to remind himself to put it on, since apparently Jelly wasn’t around this morning to do so.
Scott had barely formulated a plan of assault for the mountain of food in front of him, when Teresa settled into the chair cater corner to his own, a piece of paper in hand.
“Here’s our list.”
Scott glanced at it, his fork halted in mid air. “It’s long.”
Teresa frowned. “Murdoch said to put down everything we needed.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“I know you have things to do, Scott. I could come with you.”
“I’ll be fine.” He’d said it too quickly, and she’d looked downcast at the rebuff. “Besides, today’s laundry day,” he’d added, nodding his head towards Senora Maria, who was already occupied in preparations for the mammoth task. “I’ll be looking for clean clothes, when I start to pack.”
Teresa had brightened at that, promising him that they’d take very good care of his things. Maria had made her own assurances and then both women had been openly dismayed when Scott rose to depart without having consumed much of the food on his plate.
It was not so much that he’d been in a hurry to escape from their care and concern, but he’d been reminded of Aunt Cecilia. He’d thanked them and tried to explain that he needed to get to town in order to communicate with his aunt.
“We’ll see you at dinner?” Teresa had asked hopefully.
“Probably not until supper time. I’ll need to stay in town, wait for some answers.”
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Now it was well after the supper hour. Scott’s plan had been to send his wires and then pick up the items on Teresa’s list while José took care of loading the materials for repairing the bridge. The vaquero could then return to the ranch with the wagon and Scott would ride home on Brunswick later, once his own business was completed.
He’d traveled into town seated beside José Grande, reading his mail and making notes of the messages that he wished to send. Brunswick trailed behind, tied to the tailgate of the buckboard.
There were several letters of condolence. One was from Mrs. Hayford, a neighbor whose late husband had been Harlan Garrett’s attorney, a position now filled by her elder son. She mentioned that she had communicated the news to Scott’s very good friend, her younger son Will, in Sacramento. Several of his grandfather’s long-time associates had sent expressions of sympathy as well. Scott was surprised to find a note from Melissa Harper, who was the daughter of a man Murdoch had known long ago in Boston. The young woman had returned to that city after spending some time living with an aunt in San Francisco and studying at an institute there. It had actually been at the very same time that Melissa had been about to board the stage after her own eventful stay that Scott had announced to his family that he had invited his grandfather to visit.
As they’d approached the edge of town, Scott had folded up the papers and slipped them inside his saddlebag. Only then had José broken his silence with a comment on the condition of Brunswick’s shoes. While there were a few Lancer employees who were capable of doing such work, Scott preferred more experienced hands for his horse. Each of the three towns in closest proximity to the ranch had an able blacksmith, but in Scott’s opinion, it was really only the man in Spanish Wells who could be considered a highly skilled farrier.
Which was not to discount Miss Guthrie’s considerable abilities. Scott considered that he’d prefer to see to the task himself rather than leave Brunswick to be re-shod in his absence, so he’d thanked José for the reminder and asked him to stop by the smithy.
Unfortunately it had only been after an exchange of pleasantries and once he’d made his request that “Gus”, as Miss Guthrie was known, had delivered the bad news that she simply wouldn’t have time to do the work that day. She’d quickly offered to put the horse up for the night, and do the shoeing first thing in the morning. Rather than risk offending her, and wishing to avoid discussing his upcoming travel plans, Scott had simply agreed. Whoever escorted him to the stage could retrieve the horse, and Miss Guthrie no doubt would be filled in on all the details of his trip during the next poker game.
Since he, José and Murdoch’s supplies would now be returning to the ranch at the same time, there’d been little need, after all, to draft Big José as a driver. Picking up the building materials was an easy enough task, and Scott purchased all of the items on Teresa’s list while doing some shopping of his own. Then Scott visited the barber, had a beer in the saloon and completed several other errands in between waiting for telegraph responses from Boston. José had spent most of the day in one of the cantinas. Big José hadn’t seemed to mind waiting----not that he’d ever complain if he did.
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The soft popping sound of the needle wasn't loud enough to rival the ticking of the grandfather clock as Teresa pushed it through the tightly stretched fabric, but she was listening so intently that she was conscious of it, nonetheless. The sound would change as the material caught inside the round wooden hoops loosened, and eventually she would need to stop, release it and reposition the rings. Teresa had already done that, twice.
She had carefully positioned herself on the sofa so that she would be able to see the buckboard through the glass panes of the French doors. She kept looking up from her embroidery, even though she knew she would hear the sound of an approaching wagon long before it came into view. Johnny had noticed and he’d teased her, putting on a serious face and making a drawling comment to Murdoch that “I figure Scott must be ‘bout halfway to Boston by now.” Then he’d laughed at the startled reaction she hadn’t been quick enough to hide.
Even though Scott had been trying to disguise it, she still thought she knew something about the pain he must be feeling. One thing that the two of them had in common was that they had each grown up without their mothers. And now . . . It had only been a few years ago that her father had been killed, right before Scott and Johnny had come home to the ranch. She and Daddy had been so very close and it had been her worst nightmare to lose him.
“He’s always been like a father to me.” Scott had said that once, about his grandfather.
They’d talked a bit about themselves, that very first time they’d ridden into Morro Coyo together, and more on other drives to neighboring spreads or one of the surrounding towns. Murdoch had forbidden her to travel so far alone, and Scott never seemed to mind going along, whether it was something important, like taking medicine to the Indians, or just a trip into town to do some shopping. So rather than listen to Murdoch and Johnny make excuses, she’d fallen into the pattern of always asking Scott first. She enjoyed their time together and their conversations. Scott had seemed especially interested in hearing stories about her childhood at the ranch, though early on she’d been worried about that, afraid that he might resent her, since, for reasons she still didn’t completely understand, Scott hadn’t grown up at Lancer.
Scott had always spoken very highly of his grandfather and had been so looking forward to Mr. Garrett’s visit. Mr. Garrett had seemed nice enough when he first arrived, pleasant and polite, very well spoken. But he’d brought that woman with him, that Julie. It had been such a stunning revelation, to learn that Scott had actually been engaged to marry her. Truthfully, learning about Julie had been even worse than when Mrs. Cassidy had told them the shocking news about Scott having been imprisoned during the War and that he was the sole survivor of an escape attempt. Back then it was understandable that Scott hadn’t ever said anything about being captured, since he hadn’t been at the ranch very long, and they hadn’t known each other very well yet.
But he’d never, ever, mentioned Julie, not even once.
Not only had his grandfather brought Scott’s former fiancée along with him, he’d also tried to take Scott away, back to Boston. Apparently, Mr. Garrett had lied to Scott, told him half-truths about Murdoch and made threats. Teresa hadn’t been told all the details, although she’d learned some of it from Johnny---and of course she hadn’t wanted to ask Scott a lot of painful questions. There also hadn’t seemed any good way to let Scott know that she understood how hurt and betrayed he must have been feeling. She’d felt that way when she’d found out that Daddy and Murdoch had lied to her all those years, that her mother hadn’t really died, that the grave upon which she’d lovingly laid bouquets of flowers was empty.
It had been terribly wrong. Oh, they’d somehow believed they were doing what was “best” for her, she understood that, but they’d been so very wrong. Though of course she couldn’t hate them for it, she’d forgiven them both, she’d had to, just like Scott had surely forgiven his grandfather.
Scott had apparently forgiven Murdoch too, for leaving him in Boston all those years, for never contacting him. She hadn’t been able to do that yet, forgive Angel for leaving her. It still hurt. Scott had probably grown up believing that Murdoch hadn’t wanted him either. In her heart, Teresa knew that Murdoch had cared, even though she couldn’t explain her guardian’s actions—or lack of them. That was another subject that she didn’t think she should ask Scott about.
But Scott was the one person that she felt comfortable talking to about her mother. Scott had assured her that when Angel had left—for the second time--- that it had been because she did care. A few weeks later, a letter had arrived from Angel. It had been short and tentative and when Teresa had shown it to Scott, he hadn’t seemed at all surprised. Scott had encouraged her to respond and she and Angel had written back and forth a few times now.
Teresa glanced up at the clock, then over at Murdoch, who was seated at his desk, apparently absorbed in some paperwork. Johnny had disappeared; he’d probably gone out to join some of his friends in one of the bunkhouses. She continued to mechanically push the needle down and up, listening for the buckboard in between the loud “tick tock” of the clock.
She’d almost finished the last yellow flower petal when she finally heard it.
When the heavily loaded wagon rolled slowly past with José at the reins, Teresa felt a momentary relief at the sight of Scott seated beside him, even though she’d known he hadn’t really left. Dropping her needlework on the sofa cushion, she hurried to the front door and was outside to greet Scott before he’d even climbed down from the seat.
“Scott, you’re home!”
Scott finished his conversation with José before he turned to face her, reaching up with his left hand to push his hat back onto the crown of his head. She immediately noticed that he’d visited the barber in town and that his hair was much shorter than it had been for a very long time. Scott managed a tired smile and raised his right arm up a bit as she came closer, lifting it just enough for her to slide underneath for a welcoming hug.
She closed her eyes. She felt Scott breathing, heard his heart beating and beyond that, the sound of Big José urging the draft horses into motion again, and the wagon rolling starting forward.
“Miguel! Git yerself out here and take care a this wagon fer José!”
Teresa’s eyes flew open, and her right arm dropped as she turned towards the stables. Miguel came running out of one of the barns and then waited patiently while José slowly clambered down from the buckboard seat.
“I’ve got some packages of my own in that wagon,” Scott said, but he made no move to go after them. They just stood there together, her left arm still encircling his waist, Scott’s hand resting lightly on her shoulder--- and watched Jelly.
Jelly’s bearded chin jutted first towards one, then the other vaquero, as he issued his usual vociferous instructions to Miguel concerning the care of the horses and the unloading of the supplies, then turned his face upwards to ask José just what in tarnation he was still standing there for, telling him to “git inside afore the grub’s all gone.” Once he’d dispersed the two hands in opposite directions, Jelly looked over at her and Scott. He shook his head sadly and then stepped purposefully towards them.
A few paces away, Jelly stopped, removed his cap and stood holding it with both hands in front of him. “Jist wanted ta say I’m real sorry, Scott. It’s a hard thing, ta lose the man what raised ya.”
Scott’s arm slid away from her shoulders and then he stepped out of her embrace to shake hands with Jelly. “Thank you, Jelly.”
The handyman flipped his cap back onto his head. “There’s anything atall I kin do fer ya now, all ya need ta do is jist ask.”
She knew it was the sort of thing people said, when there really wasn’t anything they could do. There wasn’t anything anyone could do to make things better when you lost someone you cared about. But to Teresa’s surprise, Jelly just stood there, as if he actually expected Scott to think of something.
“Well, there is one thing . . . .” Then Scott was turning and looking down at her, a question in his eyes. “Teresa, do you remember, there were some boxes that came from Boston, a while back?”
“Yes.”
“There was a large trunk—full of clothes?”
“Well, you said you didn’t think you’d be wearing any of them, so I asked Walt Johnson to put it in the store room.”
“Jelly, do you think you could get someone to take that trunk up to my room?”
“Sure can, Scott, sure can, won’t be no trouble atall. Won’t take but a minute ta git some help.”
“Thanks, Jelly,” Scott said, smiling as the older man hurried away.
“I’ll show you which one it is,” Teresa called after him. Then she turned her attention back to Scott. “All of your clothes are clean and ironed,” she informed him, though recalling Scott’s attire when he’d first arrived at the ranch, she had doubts that he’d actually be taking many of his freshly washed beige checked work shirts to Boston. “Come inside, we saved some supper for you.”
She turned away from him, towards the front door, before she asked the question.
“When do you think you’ll be leaving, Scott?”
“I’ll take the stage from Morro Coyo in two days.”
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