ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 4.
“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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“Ready for dessert?”
Since he thought he’d recognized the approaching footsteps, Scott couldn’t help but turn in surprise at the unexpected question--- then couldn’t hold back a small, wry, smile when he made out what it was that Murdoch held in his outstretched hand. Scott set his stemmed wineglass on top of the adobe wall and accepted the tumbler of scotch.
He’d gone down to the wine cellar for a bottle, after Teresa had finished asking questions about his travel plans and left him alone in the kitchen with his supper. In addition to the trunk full of clothes from Boston, she’d promised to have Jelly--- assisted by whichever ranch hand he’d badgered into the task--- carry his traveling cases up to his room as well. So it had been no surprise when she hadn’t returned by the time he’d eaten his fill. Scott wondered now if his father had noticed the plate on the table, the half finished meal. Or that bottle, more than half empty.
It was a weakness, something else he’d fought against, once. He and his friend Will. He’d known of more than a few men who’d succumbed to it, among those who had returned from the battlefields of the “Rebellion.” Or from its prisons.
As Murdoch stood silently beside him, sipping from his own glass, Scott wondered if perhaps the drinking was something else he’d inherited, along with the large hands and long fingers that so resembled his father’s. He’d noticed the similarity, when he’d first arrived, when he’d been studying Murdoch so intently, looking for something . . . searching for a connection to the newly met stranger. Scott stared down at his own hands now, encircling the scotch, and waited.
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Once he’d tasted a bit of everything Teresa had put on his plate, Scott had refilled his wineglass and wandered out to the kitchen garden, to lean against the wall and stare up at the stars. It still seemed strange to imagine that they were the same ones that twinkled down over the towns and forests of New England. They were more visible here, thanks to the open spaces. Back home, they were viewed in smaller sections of sky, as you looked up at them past the rooftops or through the branches of lofty pines.
He’d stood there for a while, his thoughts drifting backwards and eastward. First picturing the familiar cobblestone streets of the city and the mist hovering over the Harbor, hearing the ringing clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the cries of the gulls soaring overhead. He remembered the spring green grass of the Common and the shouts of children playing, as well as summers spent further up the coast, with the eternal waves rolling in and crashing against the rocky shore.
Winters in Boston brought the cold and the snow. But also the round of activities, dinners and dances, concerts and plays. Warm gatherings of friends and family.
He missed it.
Of course he missed it, most of it. He’d thought it would always be there, to visit, perhaps even to go back to, someday. And most of it would.
But not Grandfather. They’d never again discuss the books they’d read, never dine together at the Club. The night around him solidified into dark wood walls, filled with quiet voices and the aroma of after dinner cigars. Afterwards, the two of them would stand gazing up at the stars while waiting for James to bring the carriage around.
Of course, other nights, he’d taken his leave, and moved on to other entertainments. Attentive as Grandfather had been, Scott had still been raised to be independent. He hadn’t been much more than six or seven when he’d first traveled to Maine to spend the summer with his aunt and uncle. Often he’d been invited to take trips with the families of boys who were his friends. He’d toured Europe. He’d gone off to War.
Grandfather has always been there to say farewell, usually with a few last reminders and admonishments. He’d always been there, waiting with eager questions, to welcome Scott home.
Not this time.
It’ll be approaching autumn, Scott thought, as he drained what little remained in the glass. Arguably the best time to be in New England.
Since he’d been at Lancer, Scott had found he was capable of going for days, sometimes even weeks, without giving much thought to anyone or anything back East, not even his grandfather. By focusing upon his tasks in town today, he’d managed to avoid thinking too much about the past. Now, standing by the garden wall, absently rolling the stem of the wineglass between his fingers and looking up at the sky, he allowed himself to indulge in some of those treasured memories that his aunt had mentioned in her letter. He pictured his grandfather smiling and presenting him with his first pony. Grandfather pointing out the Parthenon, positioned high atop the Acropolis, on their trip to Greece. Grandfather lifting his glass as he offered up their favorite toast.
His grandfather holding his hand . . .
When the back door to the kitchen had first opened behind him, Scott had expected Teresa, not Murdoch. Teresa might have actually offered him dessert, perhaps a piece of pie or a slice of cake, along with a sympathetic ear. But Murdoch’s presence was not unwelcome, especially as there was something he needed to ask his father about anyway. Now Scott waited a moment more, to see if Murdoch had anything to say.
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“Teresa tells me you’re leaving in two days.”
“That’s right. I’ll take the Monday morning stage . . . The memorial will be on the eighteenth.”
“So Teresa said. But, that’s good, gives you some time . . .”
Scott nodded, finished what was left of the scotch, placed the squat, heavy tumbler on the wall beside the tall, elegant wineglass and waited to see if Murdoch could find the words to fill the space between them.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Son.”
Such simple words. But sincere, and honest.
Scott was beyond hoping that his father would ever willingly open a door to the past, but at least there was no attempt here to deny it, and no profession of admiration or respect where there was none. Murdoch’s large hand, briefly clasping Scott’s shoulder, offered him some comfort. Murdoch’s words, despite being a heartfelt expression of sympathy, also served to remind Scott of the stark truth. This was his loss, and his alone.
“Thank you, Murdoch.”
It was enough. Scott really didn’t want or need to hear anything more, at least not now.
“I had a letter from Melissa Harper.”
Murdoch waited a beat. “It’s been quite awhile since I heard from Jim,” he offered hesitantly.
Scott mentally shook himself and turned to face his father. Crossing his arms over his chest, he glanced down at the ground, framing his words, before looking up at Murdoch.
“There’s something I wanted to ask you . . .”
Now, even in the gathering darkness, there was no mistaking the look of concern on Murdoch’s face, but the older man nodded encouragingly nonetheless. “Go ahead, Scott.”
“I’d thought of inviting Teresa to go to Boston with me.”
Scott couldn’t blame Murdoch for looking perplexed. Although Melissa Harper’s note had been a short and straightforward expression of sympathy, reading it, Scott had been reminded of the young woman’s time at the ranch. Just before Miss Harper had boarded the stage to begin her trip back to San Francisco, she had very seriously urged Scott to take Teresa along when he returned to Boston for a visit, adding an arch look and a knowing comment about “the benefits of travel.” Murdoch hadn’t heard what Melissa had said and therefore couldn’t possibly begin to understand the connection. That all seemed too complicated to explain.
The simple truth was that Teresa, who had grown up at Lancer and had rarely left the ranch, had always seemed fascinated by descriptions of faraway places.
“I think she would enjoy the opportunity to travel, see another part of the country. It would do her good.” Scott turned away then, pushing his hands against the garden wall and gazing over the dark and empty yard beyond. But the words still slid out.
“ . . . And I would appreciate the company.”
The admission floated on the evening air and then drifted quietly into the shadows before Murdoch finally spoke. “I’m sure Teresa’s looking forward to it, Scott,” he said slowly.
Scott turned back to face him, leaning against the wall. “Well, I haven’t asked her yet. I wanted your permission first.”
“I see . . . ”
Now it was Scott’s turn to feel disconcerted, when the expected assent wasn’t immediately forthcoming. “If there’s a problem, Sir--”
“Oh, no, no, it’s just that, . . . well, it’s just that your brother and I were talking about trying to make it to Boston by the eighteenth. For the service.”
Caught off guard, Scott was momentarily at a loss for words. He’d never contemplated that possibility.
“Of course, we can’t leave right away. And we would need to come straight back.” There was an unaccustomed note of apology in Murdoch’s voice. “We do have the drive coming up, we’re behind schedule on the bridge repair . . .”
“I know.”
It certainly would be difficult for any of them to leave the ranch for so long. That Murdoch would even consider doing so, well, it meant a great deal.
“You know, it might be best, Scott, if Teresa did travel with you. Just in case . . . . that is, if you really think she can be ready in time.”
“Now that . . . that could be a problem.”
Scott heard Murdoch laugh softly in the darkness.
It felt good to have something to smile about. Almost as good as it felt to have his father’s arm across his shoulders as Murdoch gently guided him back towards the open door of the brightly lit kitchen.
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Teresa moved rapidly down the hallway, her mind racing with thoughts of all that needed to be done. It was Saturday, typically a baking day, and she also wanted to talk to Maria about what they would serve for meals on Sunday, which should be very special since it would be Scott’s last day. He’d be away so long. She’d miss him terribly, they all would. . . but she couldn’t stop to think about that now.
There was still some of the ironing to do. Scott’s laundry had been taken care of, but he might have some other things that needed to be pressed, perhaps a suit or maybe some fancy dress shirts, like the one he had been wearing when he first arrived at the ranch. Not that she could recall him ever wearing a ruffled shirt again, not after that first day. He usually wore plain white ones now for special occasions, and he liked them to be starched and well ironed. In fact, when he’d gone into town yesterday, Scott had been wearing a crisp white shirt beneath his cropped jacket with the suede leather trim.
After she’d hurried Scott inside for some supper last night, he’d removed his hat, but not the jacket, before wearily lowering himself into a wooden chair. When Scott had leaned forward with his elbows on the kitchen table, she’d been struck by the fact that his hair, which that morning had hung down over his collar, was now short enough to expose the white skin on the back of his neck. She must have stood still for a moment, looking at that pale band, and he’d almost caught her, gently putting a question mark to her name as he glanced back over his shoulder.
“Oh, I was just noticing that your jacket could use a good cleaning,” she’d said as she hastily set a plate on the table in front of him.
He’d shrugged and told her that he probably wouldn’t be taking it with him. But he’d still removed it willingly enough when she insisted that she would take care of it, just in case.
She was carrying the jacket in her arms now. It smelled of dust and sweat and Scott.
The door to Scott’s room was standing open, which probably meant that he was already downstairs having breakfast. She hurried towards the staircase and was almost past the doorway before she could stop.
“Johnny . . . ? What are you wearing?”
“What’s the matter, Teresa, ain’t you never seen a man wearin’ a cape before?”
Actually, no, she hadn’t.
Johnny was standing with his hands on his hips, dressed in his usual side buttoned calzoneras and favorite faded rose-colored shirt. But a cascade of black fabric flowed over his shoulders and hung down past his knees.
Scott’s room was in unaccustomed disarray. Scott himself was methodically removing things from the very large trunk that stood open on the floor beside the bed. The counterpane was already covered with items, articles of clothing in dark or dull hues, some of them made of fairly heavy looking fabrics. Beyond him she could see the collection of freshly washed beige work shirts folded and stacked atop his dresser.
“Good morning, Teresa,” Scott said, turning his attention from the handsome white vest he was holding. It looked to be of silk, and appeared to have pearl buttons. “You did instruct me to sort through this trunk ‘first thing,’” he reminded her with a smile. “And, as you can see, Johnny has decided to help.”
Johnny obligingly flapped the sides of the cape. “You ever see a man have so many clothes?” he asked as she stepped further into the room.
Actually, no, she hadn’t.
Next, Scott lifted up a black silk vest, followed by a black jacket cut short in the front, with tails behind. “Evening wear,” he offered, by way of explanation.
“Scott, you can just set aside anything that needs to be aired out, or washed or pressed.” She’d stopped beside Johnny, but the words rushed out ahead of her.
“Well . . . I’m not sure I’ll be using many of these things, after all.” Now Scott was examining a pair of trousers of fine wool broadcloth, also black. “I’m not sure these still fit.”
Johnny laughed. “That’s what hard work and good cookin’‘ll do for ya, Brother.”
When the two young men had first arrived, Maria had spent a great deal of time fretting over them, insisting that “Senor Scott” in particular was “muy delgado,” “too thin.” He was still slim, of course, but looking at those slender trousers in his hands, and then considering Scott’s form, it was abundantly clear to Teresa that they might no longer fit his more . . . muscular frame. Her face warmed at the thought, so she quickly looked down at the jacket still cradled in her arms.
When she glanced up again, Johnny was smiling and watching her stroke the soft leather of the lapel. She felt the flush deepen.
“Why don’t you two go on down to breakfast? I won’t be much longer. Go ahead.”
Scott’s words of dismissal evoked immediate dismay. She dared to look up and saw on his face a knowing look, matching his indulgent tone.
“We’re stayin’. We don’t wanta miss anything,” she was relieved to hear Johnny answer, while she herself could only stand there, uncertainly.
“So what’s in the box?” Johnny asked, gesturing at the tall container that Scott had just removed from the trunk.
Instead of answering, Scott set the box down on the bed, removed the lid, and, with a flourish, lifted out a very elegant top hat. He extended it towards Johnny, who promptly accepted it and put it on, stepping around Scott to examine his appearance in the mirror over the washstand.
Even from behind, the effect was quite comical, as the tall hat perched on the back of Johnny’s head at a jaunty angle.
Teresa couldn’t help laughing. “Johnny, I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to look.”
“Yeah, is that right?” he demanded, pretending to be insulted. Johnny removed the hat and handed it back to Scott. “So how ‘bout you show us how it’s done, Boston.”
Johnny remained across the room from her on the other side of Scott, leaning against the tall dresser and folding his arms across his chest. Scott carefully positioned the hat atop his own head, tilting it very slightly forward and to one side. He didn’t need to glance in the mirror to get it just right. Scott looked just like the pictures of handsome gentlemen in the romances she’d read.
While Johnny untied the cape and draped it across the foot of the bed, Scott started rummaging through another box. He lifted out several pairs of kidskin gloves; one pearl grey, then a darker pair, and several more that were white or very light colored.
“White gloves? Now what kinda ‘work’ would a man be doing ---wearin’ white gloves?”
At the suggestive comment, Scott grinned at his brother from beneath the brim of the very formal hat that he looked so very comfortable wearing.
“An evening of dancing can be physically demanding,” he assured Johnny, gesturing with the gloves in his hand. “Lacking a pair of these, a lady would refuse to take the floor with you.”
A lady like Julie, Teresa couldn’t help thinking, as she fingered the buttons on Scott’s jacket while the two young men joked some more about the gloves. Julie must have spent entire evenings dancing in Scott’s arms. Julie, who wore fashionable hats and beautiful dresses, who rode sidesaddle and . . . probably had interesting things to say.
She suddenly felt very conscious of her quite unladylike pants, her bare face and hastily pulled back hair. Not to mention her sparkling conversation about laundry.
Looking up at him from beneath her lowered lids, she could see that Scott had returned his top hat to its box and was standing now, hands on hips, staring at the bed and surveying the array of items spread across it. Even though he was wearing ordinary brown trousers and a familiar shirt, the deep blue one that so nicely brought out the color of his eyes, he still seemed different. It was more than just the haircut. Understandably, there was an air of sadness about him; even the banter with Johnny was subdued. But Scott also seemed somehow more “Eastern” today.
Maybe it was just in her head, because of those formal clothes lying about or perhaps it was simply knowing that he was going back to Boston. It wasn’t as if Scott had ever stopped being an Eastern gentleman; he couldn’t, it was a part of him. Despite blending in so well with everyone here, he’d not lost a bit of his fine manners. Scott always remembered to hold a lady’s chair, always seemed to say the right thing. At social gatherings, he would always ask if he “might have the pleasure” of a dance, and when Scott said them, the words sounded completely natural. He always escorted his partner back to her place too, rather than uttering a quick thank you when the music ended and abandoning her in the middle of the floor, the way some of the local men liked to do.
In addition to agreeably joining in with their little homespun entertainments, Scott had also thrown himself willingly into every chore the ranch had to offer, getting just as dirty and sweaty as everyone else-- if not more so. He no longer ‘dressed up’, but Scott still always washed and changed for supper. Even if the only work he’d been doing that day had been on the accounts, come mealtime, he’d sometimes change into a fresh shirt.
She was vaguely aware of Johnny saying something about shirts now, commenting on the number, wondering where Scott intended to put them all. Scott had lifted a pile of folded shirts from the trunk and was looking through them. Some of them, she could see, were fine white cotton or linen, with pleated fronts, while others were wools or flannels in shades of brown, blue or grey.
Suddenly Johnny addressed her from across the room. “Teresa, didya know Scott always keeps a coupla spare shirts in his saddlebags?”
“No, I didn’t . . .”
“I sometimes have an extra shirt on hand,” Scott admitted mildly.
“Oh, I bet you’ve got two, maybe even three shirts packed in your saddle bags right now.”
“Well, Brother, you’d lose that bet.”
Teresa heard the warning note, that slight edge in Scott’s voice-- she could tell Johnny did too, because he gave her one of his biggest grins, while directing his next words at Scott.
“Well, I’d say you got enough of ‘em now . . . not that any of these shirts here’d attract much attention.”
She waited for Scott to respond to the jibe with one of his typical comments about the “deficiencies” or “distinctiveness” of Johnny’s wardrobe, and was surprised when he didn’t.
“Never seen a man change his shirt so often,” Johnny continued, using his most serious tone and shaking his head in disbelief. “Now what I’d really like ta know, Boston, is if you’ve ever worn the same one for more’n two days runnin’.”
Well, of course he must have, out riding the trail or driving the herd, but Scott didn’t say anything in response to Johnny’s teasing. The only sound was the soft thump, as some of the folded woolen shirts were dropped back into the bottom of the trunk. His face was in profile and she caught it then, the tightening along his jaw.
“I wore the same clothes every day, for the better part of a year.”
Johnny’s grin slipped away while Scott’s words hung there, strung out taut in the air.
Another shirt dropped into the trunk.
With a sick feeling in her stomach, Teresa realized Scott was referring to the time he’d
spent in that prison camp, during the War. She’d never heard him talk about it.
Ever.
She’d asked Johnny a few questions, after the Cassidys had left, asked him what he thought it must have been like for Scott. “Well, Teresa,” he’d said slowly, “I figure it was probably pretty close to Hell.” Johnny had talked about the deprivation, the things that prisoners had to do without. “That’s how they try ta break a man down, by takin’ things away from ‘im.” Not just food and water, he’d said, but freedom and dignity. He’d sounded as if he’d known, and she hadn’t asked him how, couldn’t bear to think of either of them being treated that way. It must have shown on her face, because Johnny had stopped, and put his arm around her. “But Scott’s okay, Teresa,” Johnny had whispered. “You can see that. What he’s got inside, they couldn’t take it from ‘im, even with a year of trying.”
Scott finished refolding one of the fine white dress shirts and stood holding it, with his head bowed, one hand fingering the pleats. He sighed.
“I ah . . . well, I promised myself that when I got home . . . I’d have clean clothes everyday.”
His voice held an apologetic note. The white shirt was carefully replaced on the bed. Scott reached for another, a dark flannel, and tossed it into the trunk.
Teresa looked past Scott’s purposeful movements, at Johnny. Their eyes met briefly, but then Johnny’s gaze skimmed away before she could send her silent request. She wanted him to say something.
Finally, he did.
“Well, Boston . . .”
Or started to at least. Johnny paused a moment and then waited until Scott looked up at him. Scott slowly straightened, as Johnny very deliberately surveyed the display of clothing. Then he reached around to pick up the beige checked shirts from the dresser behind him. Wearing his most serious expression, Johnny held the stack of shirts in two hands, studying them, weighing them, while taking a few steps closer to Scott.
“It sure is good ta know . . . you’re a man of your word.”
Suddenly, Scott reached out to give Johnny a quick little backhand slap to the shoulder, before looking down with a rueful smile on his face, shaking his head. It was Johnny’s warning that Scott had better be careful not to “mess up” his shirts, which finally prompted her to action. Teresa hung Scott’s jacket on the bedpost and hurried to snatch the pile of clothing from Johnny’s hands.
“Scott, where would you like these?”
“In the wardrobe would be fine. Thank you, Teresa.”
Johnny held his hands up in mock surrender and then sauntered towards the door. When she turned back from the wardrobe, Johnny hadn’t left, merely taken up a new position, leaning comfortably against the doorframe.
“Scott . . . is there anything you’d like me to do?” she asked.
He paused to consider that, just as he had with Jelly, the evening before.
“Well, yes, actually there is---- I’d like you to say that you’ll come with me.”
“Come with you?”
“Yes, travel with me, to Boston.”
She was stunned. Then she wanted to say yes, to be happy and say yes, but was afraid that she might not be understanding him correctly.
“To Boston?” She looked past Scott to Johnny and saw that he looked surprised too.
Scott followed her gaze and glanced back over his shoulder at his brother. She just glimpsed Johnny pushing himself away from the doorframe, before Scott stepped nearer and then all she could see was Scott looking down at her. His face was so serious and when he started speaking, his tone was as well.
“I know it’s a long ways to go. And we’ll be away for quite some time. If you think it’s too far . . .”
“No! No, no, it’s not too far.” She shook her head, fearful that he was changing his mind.
“So . . . you’ll come with me?”
“Oh yes! Yes, I will. I’d love to!” Two quick steps and she threw her arms around him, pressing her face against the dark blue of his shirt. Scott squeezed her back, before moving away, and placing his fingers under her chin for a moment, lightly lifting until she was looking up into his face again.
“Now, Murdoch and Johnny are planning to make the trip as well. Murdoch said they’d leave later in the week.”
“Murdoch and Johnny are coming too? Oh, Scott, that’s wonderful!”
His hands were on her shoulders now; a concerned look in his eyes. She tried very hard to concentrate on what he was saying.
“So Teresa, if you don’t think you have enough time to get ready, you could wait, and come with them.”
“I can be ready, Scott.”
“Good,” he said. And smiled. Then he gently turned her around and steered her towards the door. Johnny was standing there, laughing, laughing at her, she knew, but she was so happy, she didn’t care.
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 5.
“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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“Scott Lancer, are you in need of prayer?”
He’d been taken aback by the question, though he really should not have been. Eulalia Hargis was nothing if not direct.
“Well . . . aren’t we all, Mrs. Hargis?”
That’s what he could have said to her. It was true, after all. Although the Widow Hargis was sincere in her offer, prayer wasn’t something he felt entirely comfortable requesting. Instead, Scott had simply informed the elderly lady of his loss, and been grateful for the opportunity to practice saying the words.
It had been tempting to wear his usual tan jacket and light brown hat for the trip to town with Teresa and Murdoch for the early morning church service, to dress as if it were any ordinary Sunday. Instead, feeling that he’d delayed long enough, Scott had put on a black western style suit and black hat, the attire originally purchased for evening entertainments in San Francisco or Sacramento.
He’d stopped short of the announcement inherent in donning the black crepe armband, although he’d placed it in his jacket pocket for safekeeping. The suit had been more than enough, as first Teresa, and then Murdoch had been pulled aside and questioned by curious acquaintances. Only Eulalia Hargis had approached Scott directly, although others had hastened to offer their sympathies once the service was over.
Back at the hacienda once more, the conversation around the Sunday dinner table had centered on the trip that he and Teresa would be commencing the next morning. By suppertime, however, Murdoch had shifted the discussion to what the next few days at the ranch might hold. In between, Scott had spent several solitary hours riding Brunswick. He’d gone out again, on Rambler, after supper, and had just finished putting the horse up for the night.
Now the sun had set and here he was again, alone in the dark, leaning against an adobe wall. In front of the hacienda this time, rather than outside the kitchen, but still gazing upwards at the evening sky. Not as many stars tonight; a flat paste of clouds had moved in at dusk, spreading across the sky in an uneven layer.
After spending much of the previous day upstairs, choosing clothes and packing them, as well as advising Teresa on her own selection of garments, Scott had let his brother talk him into heading into town last night. He’d been hesitant, but all too aware that it might be quite a while before they had another Saturday evening together. The ride into Morro Coyo had been easy enough, listening to Johnny talking and laughing with some of the hands who were heading in the same direction, their pockets weighted down with a week’s pay.
Once inside the saloon, there’d been more raucous laughter and louder talk, a convivial, celebratory atmosphere fueled by beer and whiskey. He’d found he couldn’t stay.
The saloon girls had been warm and welcoming, and he’d briefly considered escaping upstairs with Jennie or Nan, since he wasn’t likely to make it to Green River anytime soon. But in the end, that hadn’t seemed right either, so he’d escaped through the batwings instead.
Out on the boardwalk, near the entrance to Manuela’s restaurant, Scott had encountered Big José. He would have simply given the man a brief nod and continued past, except that the normally stoic vaquero had actually offered a greeting—and then suggested he come inside and eat with some of the men. Scott had thanked him for the invitation, then impulsively removed his billfold from his jacket and given José enough money to buy several bottles for the Lancer hands.
“El dinero . . . para . . . el tequila,” he’d said with a smile. José had willingly agreed to spend anything left over down at the saloon—and to let Johnny know that Scott had returned to the ranch.
Meeting up with José had reminded Scott of Brunswick. Naturally, Gus Guthrie’s shop was closed up for the night, but he’d tied Rambler to the hitch rail out front and gone up the back staircase to let her know he’d be claiming his horse. The genial lady blacksmith had insisted Scott “sit for a spell,” saying she was just about to pour herself some coffee, with “a little extra.”
“Goin’ all the way ta Boston, I hear,” she’d observed, once he’d settled in a wooden rocker holding a hot mug liberally laced with “extra.” Miss Guthrie didn’t ask why, and if she already knew, she hadn’t said. Her eyes and tone made him suspect that perhaps she did. After one cup of coffee and a few minutes of friendly conversation about such things as horses and iron shoes, Scott had taken his leave.
She’d followed him to the door. “You take care a yourself, now, you hear? Sure gonna
miss ya at the poker game next week.”
“Now Miss Guthrie, I hope that’s not just because I had such an off night the last time?”
“No, now that ain’t the reason, Scott, you know better’n that. And ain’t I told you a hundred times, it’s ‘Gus’?”
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Last night, the golden glow of lamplight had still been streaming out of the windows when he’d trotted past the front door astride the newly shod Brunswick, with Rambler trailing behind. Once inside the stable, he’d had both animals to attend to, and he’d taken his time. The Great Room had been dark when he’d finally gone in.
Now behind him, the light flowed out on the ground in the familiar block pattern cast by the glass-paned French doors. Once again, he wasn’t in a hurry to go inside. Scott realized that he was waiting--- probably for Teresa to track him down with one more question about yet another item she was considering fitting into her small trunk.
Yesterday afternoon, surveying the array of garments that Maria had helped to spread about Teresa’s room, he’d realized just how few of them were suitable for traveling, let alone appropriate attire for attending functions once they arrived in Boston. There’d been a few ribbon trimmed white blouses and dark skirts that he’d deemed acceptable, as well as Teresa’s “Sunday best” dresses. One was lavender and another rose-colored, but after all, she wasn’t expected to be in mourning. He’d easily covered his dismay with a confident assurance that his Aunt Cecilia would be more than happy to advise Teresa on her wardrobe, once the two of them arrived at his grandfather’s house. Senora Maria had hastened to add a few comforting words in Spanish, before busily removing the rejected articles of clothing.
For the dusty trip by stage to Stockton, Scott had suggested that Teresa save her dresses and wear the cinnamon colored skirt and jacket, one of several gifts that he’d given her. He enjoyed buying her things. Although there was nothing that Murdoch would have denied his surrogate daughter, Teresa tended to spend her guardian’s money on practical items, rather than the luxuries that most of the ladies of Scott’s acquaintance preferred. Of course, Scott’s own selections for her tended towards the practical as well. The items were, however, generally of a higher quality than Teresa would have chosen for herself.
Following the distressing episode with the Blake brothers, Scott had especially wanted to do something to cheer Teresa up---and, if he was honest, also assuage his own guilt. He, after all, had been escorting her when she was kidnapped. He also blamed himself for not recognizing sooner that something wasn’t quite right about the young man they’d mistaken for a member of the posse. Scott had been surprised—and, if he was honest—hurt---that Teresa hadn’t confided in him. Even now, it still angered him to think that Andy Blake had been able to get so close to her.
So he’d hovered a bit, after that. And he’d decided to get her something special. He’d recalled a rather attractive outfit that Melissa Harper had worn, a split skirt with a matching jacket, and had written to solicit that young woman’s assistance in procuring similar attire for Teresa. Teresa had been thrilled with it and the fitted jacket, in particular, had looked very nice on her. Much better, in fact, than it had on Miss Harper.
Behind him, one of the doors creaked open and Scott turned expectantly. But it was his brother who stepped out onto the carpet of pieced squares of light, his face in the shadows as the door slammed softly closed behind him. Not that Johnny’s presence was at all unwelcome; there were a few things that Scott wanted to talk to his brother about anyway.
Johnny’s boots crunched along the walkway, until he drew close enough to the adobe wall to place his elbows along the top edge.
“You all packed?”
Scott smiled into the darkness. “I have been, since yesterday.”
“Well, Teresa ain’t. She headed back upstairs.”
“Seems she’s looking forward to the trip.”
“Well,” Johnny said after a pause, “Least one of ya is.”
Scott reached for the crown of his hat and lifted it, moving it just a bit further back on his head. It took another moment before he was sure he could speak in a level voice. He hadn’t been prepared for the sympathetic tone, let alone his reaction to it and turned to imitate Johnny’s position, resting his own jacket-clad elbows on the wall and gazing up at the night sky.
“I am looking forward to showing her the city; I just don’t know how much time I’ll have. To show any of you around, for that matter.”
“Me and Murdoch?” Johnny snorted softly. “You heard that list he was rattlin’ off at supper. It just gets longer by the minute . . .”
Without looking, Scott could feel his brother turning towards him and hear Johnny’s hand lightly tapping the adobe. He bowed his head and ran his own hand over the rough surface.
“Look, Scott, there’s a hell of a lot needs ta be done, and that drive is pretty important.”
“I know.”
“Well, I’m thinkin’ you might have ta show us around Boston some other time.”
Scott looked up at the note of apology. “Well . . . you’d only have been there a few days. It might be better, another time,” he said slowly. “And . . . I do appreciate the offer, Johnny, even if it doesn’t happen.”
“It was Murdoch’s idea, ya know.”
Well, no, actually, he hadn’t known. It both surprised and pleased him.
“Well . . . Teresa can represent you, and Murdoch. Of course,” he couldn’t resist adding, “I can’t exactly give her the same sort of tour I’d had in mind for you, Brother.”
Scott heard Johnny laugh softly in the darkness, then felt his brother’s hand slap at his shoulder.
When Johnny asked a serious question about the things that needed to be taken care of in Boston, Scott decided to move to one of the wooden benches tucked in against the hacienda wall. He removed his hat, dropping it on the seat beside him, and raked his fingers through his too short hair. Leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, Scott explained that as his grandfather’s sole direct heir, he would inherit the bulk of Harlan Garrett’s estate, including the elderly man’s home and business.
“During the past few winters, Aunt Cee has been living in our house in Boston and Grandfather has made sure that she will be able to continue to make her home there as long as she wishes. Grandfather also provided that Cousin Wade will become a partner and run the company.”
“But all that’s still yours?”
“Yes.”
“So I guess he never gave up on you goin’ back.”
“No, I suppose not, not entirely.”
“So . . . maybe he fixed things so you’ll have ta stay.”
“Johnny . . . he was my grandfather. He would never—”
Scott stopped himself. It was still difficult to believe just how far his grandfather had been willing to go to achieve his ends. In fact, it had been about the same time of evening, right here, in front of the hacienda, that he’d found Julie with her bags packed, and heard her confess to the real purpose of her visit. And then . . . then Grandfather had introduced what he’d termed “a more pressing reason” for Scott to return to Boston--- the Degan brothers, and their accusations against Murdoch. Scott tried to push those memories aside, memories made no less painful by the fact that he’d been dwelling upon them for the past several days.
He simply hadn’t been prepared for anything like that, had never imagined his Grandfather going to such lengths to force him to return to Boston. Eventually, Scott had decided that the man who had stood here, making those threats, that man simply wasn’t the grandfather he’d known all his life, the man who had raised him. Johnny’s casual observation in reference to Grandfather’s scheming, that “he sure weren’t very good at it,” had been oddly comforting . . . but the recollection still weighed heavily.
“Johnny, I’ve seen the will. In fact, I have a copy of it.”
And although discussion of that will had dominated their recent correspondence, Grandfather’s death was still something else he hadn’t been at all prepared for. Regret seeped in again, as Scott recalled his own too polite promise, here in the Great Room, to return to Boston for a visit, “some day.” Grandfather had nodded and urged him to do that “some day,” his tone clearly conveying doubt that Scott ever would.
But in town, at the stage depot, Scott had repeated the promise and meant it. On the ride to town, his grandfather, always so self-assured, had termed himself “a fool” and apologized. The elderly man’s dignity had slipped just enough to convince Scott that the remorse was indeed genuine, and not merely mortified chagrin at the failure of his grand scheme.
When the coach finally rattled away in a clatter of hooves and a cloud of dust, Scott had already forgiven him.
He’d done so willing, without having been asked. But Grandfather had died without knowing that. Now the letter containing the request lay safely in the envelope along with the will, carefully packed in his largest valise.
“I . . . don’t regret that part of it, growing up with him, in Boston.”
That was the truth. He’d thought about it, many times since coming West, tried to imagine what it would have been like to grow up here, on the ranch, with Murdoch and Johnny. It had been an impossible task, like trying to picture himself as another person entirely. His life experiences, both good and bad, would have been completely different; he could only believe that he himself would have turned out very differently as well.
And while there were things in his past that Scott would gladly have altered, or omitted, the relationship he had once enjoyed with his grandfather wasn’t one of them.
“I know.”
Scott hadn’t been quite certain that he’d uttered his thought aloud, until he heard Johnny’s soft response, and saw his brother’s head nodding in the shadows.
It wasn’t just because of the advantages he’d enjoyed, the fine house, the fancy clothes, education and travel. It was more than that and Scott wondered how to explain.
“I sure wouldn’t give up the time I had with my Mama. And none of the rest, I guess, neither. Good n’ bad, it’s all a part a me.”
In his brother’s case, more than his fair share of bad, or so it had always seemed to Scott. He should have realized that Johnny would understand how he felt. The two of them had come from very different worlds, but they’d found common ground here at Lancer. Their pasts had formed them, and would always remain a part of them. It was hard to imagine that Maria Lancer could have thought she was doing what was best for her son; she should have sent Johnny home when she realized she couldn’t provide for him. Yet Johnny seemed to have forgiven his mother for all of that, even her lies about Murdoch.
Yes, he should have realized that Johnny would understand.
“Somethin’ I been wonderin’ about.”
Scott leaned back on the bench and stretched out his legs. “What’s that?”
Johnny stood silently by the wall for a long moment. When he finally spoke, it was with an uncharacteristic hesitancy. “That talk you had with Murdoch, back when your grandfather was here. You came in and said the two of ya were due---”
“I remember.”
Scott sat up straight and reached around to pull out the gloves he had tucked up under his gun belt.
“Well, I was standin’ out here an’ I saw you leave. That talk didn’t last too long.”
“No, it didn’t,” Scott replied evenly. He hunched his shoulders, keeping his gaze on the gloves in his hands. “I asked him a question. He wouldn’t answer.”
“You try talkin’ with him afterwards?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe you should.”
Scott looked up then, trying to fathom the shadows, and wondering why Johnny was pushing on this. “Why? Are you suggesting he might answer me now?”
“Just seems like there musta been a reason why he took so long.”
“Took so long?”
“To get in touch with ya.”
<<He was too busy.>> The thought came with the usual bitterness, though Scott was careful not to say the words aloud this time. <<Too damned busy to write a letter.>>
It seemed crystal clear that Murdoch Lancer had been fully occupied with overseeing his one hundred thousand acres. Running his twenty thousand head of beef. Too busy living his own life.
Apparently Murdoch had also been trying to track down his runaway wife, trying to find his younger son. Although Scott couldn’t prevent the thoughts from coming to mind, he would never say those things to Johnny.
Instead, Scott carefully aligned the gloves, one on top of the other, palms facing, while he carefully lined up his next words. “Grandfather and I did talk a bit, before he left here. And, he finally told me about Murdoch’s trip to Boston. It was a long time ago.”
But, of course, Johnny already knew that, because he’d asked questions of Senora Maria. Johnny’s shadowy form was leaning against the wall; his brother shifted a bit, and seemed to be looking at the ground now. Scott sighed. He too had actually learned of Murdoch’s long ago journey east from Maria. And she had only shared the story out of guilt, because she’d already told Johnny. It had rankled a bit that Johnny had known first, but Scott couldn’t really blame his brother, or the Senora, for not wanting to tell him. Both of them surely realized the implications of Murdoch Lancer going all the way across the country to Boston, and then coming back alone.
It hadn’t been until after Julie and his grandfather had arrived at that ranch that Scott had finally posed his own question, “Why didn’t you come to claim me in Boston?” He’d fully expected his father to say: “I did.” Or “I tried.”
But he hadn’t said that. Murdoch hadn’t said much of anything at all.
“Grandfather told me that he introduced us. But I don’t remember.”
Scott had tried to recall being presented to a very tall man named Murdoch. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t begin to envision a younger Murdoch Lancer.
It had been his fifth birthday, Grandfather had said.
Scott could recall several childhood celebrations, elaborate affairs with a cake and presents, decorations and many other children, though not specifically his fifth birthday. He knew what he’d looked like at that age, because Grandfather had had a daguerreotype made, capturing the image of a small boy with blond bangs and a serious expression. Scott could imagine how it must have been, even picture how he would have been dressed, when he politely reached up to shake the tall man’s hand. But he couldn’t remember meeting him, no matter how much he thought about it.
What he’d tried not to think about, was what it meant when a man traveled hundreds of miles to see his son, took one look at him, and left.
It didn’t matter now. He wasn’t that little boy any more. Murdoch was right, it was all in the past, and it was their present relationship that mattered. Even if it wasn’t quite Father and Son, at least they had one.
Murdoch did care. Now. Scott believed that. He had told his Grandfather so. And Julie. Will. He’d written assurances to Aunt Cee. Tried to convince them.
Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that, when asked the question, his father hadn’t been able to admit that he’d traveled all that distance and then come back empty handed. If Harlan Garrett was to blame, Murdoch had had the opportunity to say so. He hadn’t. Murdoch would have had to fight to take him, Scott knew that, and Grandfather had acknowledged as much. But, clearly, Murdoch hadn’t fought.
Instead, he’d returned here, to his ranch. And resumed his search for his other son.
Johnny had asked once if it “made a difference,” to Scott that Johnny’s mother had been Mexican. Well, it had, but not in the way Johnny had been thinking.
Grandfather might have thought of her as a “foreigner,” but to Scott, what it meant was that Johnny belonged here.
“So I guess the old man wouldn’t give you up?”
“No . . . not easily. Grandfather admitted that he threatened Murdoch, told him he’d use the courts to keep me in Boston. I was already five years old and . . . the judge would have seen I was better off staying with him.”
“That still could’ve been quite a fight.”
“It could have been. Though I doubt Grandfather would have risked any sort of public scandal. But there was no fight. Murdoch left. And I never heard from him, not until he sent that Pinkerton agent.”
Scott knew his brother had another question. It was almost palpable, even in the shadows.
“You sure he never wrote ya?”
Scott sighed. “You mean am I sure that my grandfather didn’t keep Murdoch’s letters from me?”
“Yeah.”
“I did ask him, Johnny. There weren’t any letters.”
Johnny lounged silently against the wall.
“Grandfather said he’d thought about that, what to do if Murdoch sent something--a letter . . . or a present. If he’d kept them from me, he would have worried that I’d find out one day. He said he’d thought of putting them aside until I was older. But as it turned out, he never had to make that decision.”
Scott knew in his heart that his grandfather’s actions weren’t entirely defensible. But Grandfather was gone now. There was no one else to defend him. Whatever he’d done, his grandfather had always cared, and shown it in a hundred different ways.
Scott stared at the top edge of the adobe wall, trying to find the words to explain. To make Johnny understand.
“Johnny . . . my grandfather . . . was a business man. And in business negotiations, you . . . you always start off by presenting your demands, everything you want, even when you don’t expect to get it. Your opponent does the same. After that, you can start working towards the middle ground. Argue it out, until a compromise is reached. And then you shake hands.”
“Business, huh?”
“I’m not saying it was right,” Scott said sadly. “But when he said he never expected Murdoch to just give up, I believed him.”
“So you think Murdoch didn’t even try? He oughta get a chance ta answer to that, Scott.”
“Johnny, he’s the one who chose not to talk about it.”
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And Johnny had to admit there was no way around that. Murdoch’s silence translated into guilt.
The Old Man sure hadn’t hesitated to announce that his second wife had run off on him, just picked up and left, kid and all. He’d said that first thing, to the two of them, standing right there in the Great Room. He’d as much as said Johnny had been stolen, though Johnny hadn’t believed a word of it at the time.
Scott probably wouldn’t have believed anything against his grandfather either.
But Murdoch hadn’t said anything at all against Mr. Garrett--- in fact it had sounded for all the world as if it had been Murdoch’s own choice to leave Scott with his mother’s family. If that wasn’t true, or if there was a good reason why Murdoch hadn’t ever written, hadn’t ever visited—except for the one time—then why the hell hadn’t he made sure that Scott knew about it, first thing?
Because the past was past? But it wasn’t, really. And never would be. Johnny and Murdoch had talked some; Johnny now knew that Murdoch had searched for him, that his father had hired agents to try to track him down. But Murdoch had known right where Scott was, all along.
It made sense that old man Garrett wouldn’t have given Scott up without some kind of fight, especially after five years. It was pretty hard to imagine Murdoch Lancer not fighting back, but that’s what Scott seemed to think, that Murdoch had just given up. Thanks to Murdoch’s silence, Scott didn't have much choice but to believe it ------and maybe wonder if Murdoch had wanted him at all.
Well, maybe he could get Murdoch to see that, while Scott and Teresa were off in Boston. Dios, they were going to have to talk about something when they were left alone all that time, just the two of them.
But for now Johnny cast about for something else to talk about, some other question about the trip to Boston.
“So--- you think you’ll see anything of Julie while you’re in town?”
“I expect she’ll pay a condolence call.”
Scott’s clipped tone suggested the change of topic didn’t please him any more than the previous one, but Julie was something else Johnny’d wondered about ever since that visit. He sauntered over, but instead of sitting on the other end of Scott’s bench, Johnny settled into the chair along side it.
“You sure were taken with her, huh?”
Scott regarded him with a furrowed brow. “Taken enough to ask her to marry me,” he said. “Twice.”
Johnny shook his head at that. “Been turned down at time or two myself,” he said softly. “But ain’t there something about the third try . . . ?”
Scott looked away, staring down at the gloves he was holding in his hands. “She’s engaged to be married to someone else. In fact, I believe she’s ‘Mrs. Prescott’ by now.”
When Julie had disappeared so quickly, Johnny had wondered if she’d somehow been a party to Garrett’s plan to drag Scott back to Boston; he had to admit, she’d been pretty attractive bait. He hadn’t wanted to ask Scott any questions about that back then, and now wasn’t looking like a good time to bring it up, either.
The other thought that came into his head was that Teresa probably wouldn’t be unhappy to hear that Julie had married another man. She’d asked plenty of questions about Julie—like had Johnny known that Scott had been engaged to the woman? Well, he hadn’t. And what did Johnny think of her? Teresa sure hadn’t liked his answer to that one much, especially the part about wondering how Murdoch ever managed to convince Scott to leave Boston in the first place.
It had been obvious to Johnny practically from the start how much Teresa had admired Scott, though his brother didn’t seem to see it. In fact, Scott had hinted more than once that he thought Teresa was particularly fond of Johnny. Johnny had been concerned enough to ask her one time. He’d made it out to be a joke, of course, wondering did she still think of him as a brother now that she’d gotten to know him better, and she’d teased right back, saying “yes”—but that he “acted like her little brother” most of the time.
Johnny started to ask Scott what sorts of things he’d be showing Teresa, in Boston, but Scott must have had enough of being on the receiving end of questions because he took over.
“Johnny, there was something I wanted to ask you about.”
“Yeah?”
“When you came back from McCall’s Crossing, you were worried about word getting out that you were working again.”
“That’s right.”
“So . . have you heard anything?”
“Not yet. But it hasn’t been that long either.”
“Have you told Murdoch what happened down there?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I think you should.”
Johnny looked into his brother’s concerned face and bit back the urge to tell Scott he wasn’t one to be giving out that kind of advice. The man was right, after all, and the two of them had even had this conversation once before.
“We’re gonna have lots of time t’ talk, Scott, with you and Teresa gone.”
Scott just looked at him for a moment, and Johnny waited. Even in this light, Scott could read him in a way that no one else could.
“You’ll get along just fine—”
Johnny snorted. His brother wasn’t wrong all that often, but when he was, Boston sure could fire wide of the mark. Then again, Scott didn’t know about the latest disagreement, since he’d been in Stockton, at the Barkleys’. It probably wouldn’t have been half as bad if Scott had been here. No need to weight him down with it now.
“Yeah, sure, Brother. We’ll get along just fine.”
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 6.
“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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“I won’t be needing this.”
Johnny looked up as Scott rose to his feet and stood in front of the bench. Scott unfastened the plain silver buckle of his gun belt, removed the belt from his waist and then set about refastening it, forming a large loop of black leather.
“I’ll take care of it for ya. Give it a proper cleaning-- for a change.”
Even as a greenhorn, Scott had never been slack when it came to tending to his weapons, but the man couldn’t possibly measure up to a former gunfighter’s exacting standards. Few could. Scott didn’t smile at the friendly jibe—or if he did, it didn’t show in the shadows. Scott didn’t seem to take offense either, he just rolled the holstered gun inside several layers of belt and bullets and handed it over.
“Thanks for the offer,” Scott said, in his familiar dry tone. Then he picked up his hat and gloves from the bench seat. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
Johnny had just nodded, watching in silence as Scott headed back inside. If Scott had been listening at all to Murdoch’s plans for the next few days, then he knew just how early Johnny and the rest of the men would be heading out.
Leaning back in the chair, Johnny lifted his left leg up and rested the ankle on his other knee, drumming the boot heel with the fingers of his right hand. As he looked up into the night sky, he decided he’d gotten off pretty easy. They’d spent some time talking about Scott’s grandfather and Boston, and even touched on his brother’s broken engagement, but there’d only been a little bit of passing conversation about Johnny’s time down in McCall’s Crossing.
Ol’ Boston sure did like to play the big brother, and if he hadn’t been so distracted thinking about his trip, he probably would have pushed harder about Murdoch getting a warning that someone might come looking for Johnny Madrid. Scott probably would have offered more advice about how to get along with their father, too. Which Johnny had to admit, Scott managed to do most of the time. Not always though, and the more he thought about what little he knew of the circumstances around his brother’s birth, the more Johnny had to wonder about Scott’s willingness to overlook the past.
The past sure had a way of nudging at you sometimes. Scott’s past had come to call once or twice, and it hadn’t exactly knocked politely, either-- take that fool Cassidy for example. But all in all, his brother’s past didn’t seem to stalk him. Although he’d tried to leave that life behind, sometimes Johnny felt as if Madrid was looming in the shadows behind him, waiting and watchful. There’d been times he’d come face to face with Madrid, and hadn’t at all minded having Scott standing tall, right there at his side.
Well, if anything actually did come of his “hiring out” to young Andy Cutler down in McCall’s Crossing, it’d be better if he dealt with it alone. Johnny eased his ankle off of his knee and let his foot drop heavily to the ground. A late night in town followed by the forced idleness of Sunday had left him feeling more listless and weary than any two days out working on a fence line. It seemed he’d spent most of the day listening to Murdoch, and then again after supper they’d been left alone together. Teresa had been occupied with packing and repacking, ironing, sewing on buttons and who knew what else, while Scott . . . Scott had just plain disappeared. Off riding somewhere, but he hadn’t wanted company or he would have asked for it. Scott and Teresa hadn’t even left yet, but already it felt like they were gone.
Johnny reluctantly shoved himself up onto his feet. Still carrying Scott’s serviceable rig, he moved slowly towards the Great Room doors, stopping short of the squares of light paving the hard packed ground. Johnny could hear their voices, Murdoch’s and Scott’s, and edging around a bit he could just glimpse his brother standing near the liquor table, glass in hand.
Scott typically poured himself a scotch or brandy before supper and another one after, in addition to having wine with the meal. It hadn’t escaped Johnny’s notice that Boston had been drinking more than usual. Murdoch liked his liquor too, something else he and Scott had in common. The two of them could go on and on about different brands of scotch or varieties of wines, discussing ages and vintages with the same enthusiasm they devoted to the characters in the books they were always reading. Not that Johnny had anything against having a drink; he liked beer and was always happy to share some tequila with friends. But in his former line of work, a man just didn’t last long if he made too much of a habit of anything that might interfere with his judgment—or his aim.
Murdoch was still sitting behind his big desk, rumbling away at Scott. Whatever it was about, Johnny’d probably already heard it, and he figured he’d hear it all again soon. He’d been pretty relieved when Murdoch had been too entrenched in paperwork to follow him outside.
Which reminded Johnny of that faint note of relief in Scott’s voice. If he’d read it right, Scott hadn’t exactly been disappointed by the suggestion that he and Murdoch might not make the trip to Boston.
Johnny toed the ground, scuffing up the dirt at the edge of one of those squares. Scott’s behavior over the past few days had reminded Johnny of what things had been like back in the beginning, when his new brother had been so hard to read. In addition to being all dressed up like an Eastern dandy, Scott had seemed stiff and kind of defensive. He’d had a polite smile that didn’t always reach his eyes and a habit of making statements instead of asking questions. Johnny’d been fooled a couple of times by that calm voice and mild expression, taken by surprise when Boston’s temper heated up. Now he knew the man well enough to recognize that Scott was working hard the past few days to keep his feelings reined in.
Asking his brother about all the things that needed to be done in Boston had told Johnny what he’d needed to know. Other than offering what would be a pretty costly show of support, he and Murdoch wouldn’t be much help and might even be in the way. Bottom line, Scott had been pretty quick to agree that “another time” might be better.
It made sense, Johnny thought, as he hefted his brother’s gun in one hand. It was Scott’s other life after all. Johnny knew how that could be, since he had one too. Sometimes, it was just easier to keep’em separate.
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Scott’s black hat dropped off its hook again, grazing his shoulder as it tumbled into Teresa’s lap. She smiled as she handed it to him, but he couldn’t help sighing as he hung it up once more. The bone-shaking, teeth-jarring motion of the stagecoach was always worse than Scott remembered----for the first few miles at least. Somewhere during the first hour of travel, you grew resigned to it, proving yet again that a man could get used to anything. Not that the discomfort of the stage could in any way compare to the extreme hardships he’d once more stoically endured, but all that seemed like another lifetime ago.
At least the quarters weren’t cramped. Scott had Teresa seated beside him and beyond her, Mrs. Ada Henderson, also a small woman, though not as petite as Teresa. As soon as her sharp eyes had spotted Scott’s black crepe armband, Mrs. Henderson had ventured a polite inquiry. Although she had been at church the previous morning, apparently the woman everyone addressed as “Miz Ada” had somehow not been made aware of Scott’s loss. So he had explained about Grandfather’s passing, and Teresa had helpfully reminded the elderly woman that Scott had grown up with his maternal grandfather in Boston.
“Ah, that’s hard news. My sympathies to you,” she’d said, reaching across Teresa to clasp his hand. “Still,” Mrs. Henderson added, indicating her approval of Scott’s attire, “it’s nice to see a young man who knows how to show a proper respect.”
Respect and proper manners also dictated that Scott continue to remain forward on the seat, in order to look Miz Ada in the eye while they conversed. Sitting upright, deprived of the ability to brace himself against the walls of the coach, meant that Scott felt each bump and lurch of the stage all the more keenly. Ada Henderson had proceeded to ask a series of questions about “the arrangements,” as well as offering commentary upon the city of Boston, which it seemed she had visited during her now distant youth. Again, Teresa had intervened, tactfully suggesting that Scott take up his book so that she and Miz Ada could discuss upcoming church activities.
Gratefully, Scott had opened his volume on the Napoleonic Wars. With a brief nod towards the three women seated opposite, none of whom he recognized, but who nonetheless had been unabashedly listening closely to the discussion of his personal history, Scott swiftly paged to the chapter on the Battle of Eylau.
Previous confinements had proven that it was too difficult to follow Emerson’s lines of thought, or to appreciate the elegant turns of phrase employed by his other favorite authors while rattling along in a stagecoach. Scott had discovered that he could sometimes absorb a few chapters of history, particularly if the text dealt with events with which he was already familiar. In any event, a book always provided something other than the passengers opposite to stare at on those occasions when he’d been deprived of a window seat.
He occupied one of the coveted positions today and it wasn’t long before the square of dusty scenery drew Scott’s attention away from the fatal maneuvers of the French and Russian troops on the blizzard covered battlefields of eastern Prussia. Marking his place with one finger, Scott allowed the heavy volume to fall closed on his thigh, and for once wished for lighter reading.
A dime novel, for example, would seem almost weightless, though he wasn’t sure he’d wish to be seen holding one of the orange covered works in his hand. Encouraged by his grandfather, Scott had always been a voracious reader, devouring Shakespeare and other classics, histories and biographies. As a boy, he’d also ---secretly--- read books and articles about the West, including everything he could find about the Gold Rush, simply because the event had taken place in far-off, mysterious California.
Only later had he discovered the stories of noble frontiersmen, such as Seth Jones, a man of fictional renown who originally hailed from nearby New Hampshire. The first of the “Tales of the West” had appeared in print not long before Scott had joined the cavalry. During the War, Western stories of duels between gunfighters or conflicts between cowboys and Indians, had been very popular with the men in his company, something to while away the long periods of boredom in between their own bloody battles.
Perhaps a few of those saffron colored paper books were still hidden behind the more serious tomes on his bedroom shelves back in Boston. He considered that it might be interesting to reread some of them now, to contrast the novels with the West as he had come to know it.
Thinking about those romanticized tales of gunfighters, reminded him of his brother and the concern that some up and coming gun hawk aiming to make a reputation for himself might come looking for Johnny Madrid. Most such encounters had occurred away from home; very few men had actually tracked Madrid to the San Joaquin. Evidently the first rumor which had circulated had been the news of Johnny’s death by execution down in Mexico; later the word had spread that Johnny Madrid’s wealthy father had hunted him down and handed him a piece of a ranch, just like some story book prince.
Johnny had made it clear that there were men who wouldn’t care that he’d “hung up his gun,” and Scott’s own observations of Kansas Bill Sharpe up in Onyx confirmed that no matter what their age or condition, gunmen could never truly “retire.” If it became known that Madrid was working again, by virtue of having “hired out” down in McCall’s Crossing, then any number of young guns might decide to come looking for him.
And if that did happen, if Johnny was “called out,” he’d made it abundantly clear that Scott was to “stay out of it.” Not difficult to do, Scott thought grimly, if he was thousands of miles away, in Boston.
Boston, where men didn’t stroll the cobblestone streets with weapons strapped to their hips.
Scott sighed. He knew full well that Johnny wasn’t likely to go looking for a fight, and that his brother was used to handling things on his own. Still, Scott couldn’t help wishing that he’d said more about it, pushed harder to convince Johnny to tell Murdoch what had happened, what might result. But his own thoughts had been elsewhere, centered upon the trip to Boston and his grandfather’s memorial service.
It was actually the eulogy that had most occupied his thoughts. Scott had already considered at length what he might say; he would be able to start writing once they were on the train headed East. Train travel was also more conducive to private conversations, and once more he felt grateful for Teresa’s company. He was looking forward to arriving in Boston and being reunited with Aunt Cecilia. There was also the household staff, James, Fredericks, Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, as well as Cousin Wade and other relatives, and he was looking forward to introducing Teresa to each of them. Of course Scott realized that there would be many other people paying condolence calls and attending the memorial service, particularly his grandfather’s friends and business associates.
But he hadn’t thought about seeing Julie again, not until Johnny had asked about her last night.
Closing his eyes, he could picture her, standing there—stunningly, unexpectedly--- in the hotel in Morro Coyo. Smiling that cat with cream smile, saying “Hello, Scott,” in that knowing voice. She’d always been well aware of the power she held over him.
Seeing her, he’d been overjoyed, and overwhelmed by the realization of how much he’d missed her. She’d been such a central part of his life, in Boston.
He leaned his head back against the seat and the now gentle motion of the stage called up memories of riding in a carriage at night, with Julie. It was the one place they could be assured of complete privacy. Maintaining a discreet distance, the two of them would attempt to make a slow and dignified exit from a dinner or ball, politely smiling as they bade goodbye to anyone they encountered en route. Their steps would quicken as they approached the carriage and Scott would hurriedly hand Julie up into the vehicle, then clamber in behind and firmly shut the door.
Once inside, she would give him that smile---after reading Carroll’s Adventures of Alice, he’d come to think of it as Julie’s “Cheshire cat smile,” since it was all he could see in the darkness, and then it too would slowly disappear from view as they moved closer. Even now, he could all but hear her murmuring “Hello, Scott” in his ear as their bodies pressed together.
With a young woman of Julie Dennison’s background and breeding, there were well-understood boundaries, of course. Still, inside the darkened interior of his grandfather’s carriage, Scott’s hands were allowed liberties that would have been denied them anywhere else. And, to his constant delight, Julie did more than simply allow liberties, she eagerly took some of her own. In fact, Scott had found that if he sank wearily into the cushioned seat and waited, she might often take the initiative, unwilling to waste even a moment of the short drive. First there would be the insistent pressure of her lips, then her hands skillfully unfastening the mother of pearl buttons of his shirt or tugging at the waistband of his trousers. He could well remember Julie’s voice saying “Hello, Scott” when—
Scott’s body actually lifted up off of the seat as the stage hit something, a rock or a bump in the road. There was a collective startled gasp from his fellow passengers, quickly followed by “Oh my!” and “Goodness!” and then a flurry of concerned inquiries. Teresa had slammed against his left arm; she’d nodded “yes” and flashed a grateful smile after he’d asked if she was all right, then turned her attention to helping her elderly neighbor get resettled. His book had landed near his feet; Scott cautiously leaned forward to retrieve Napoleon. Miraculously, his hat hadn’t tumbled to the floor of the coach; looking up, Scott saw it still somehow clinging to its hook.
Much as he’d clung to Julie. Scott slumped back against the seat, staring unseeing at the scenery rolling past. She’d been the one to break off their engagement, admittedly with good reason. His behavior in the months afterwards had no doubt served to confirm the wisdom of that decision.
Once he’d settled in at the ranch, he’d written letters to her, carefully worded letters, with never a single reply. And then, miraculously, she’d been standing there. Smiling.
Despite having been tossed about, he’d been happy to believe that he’d somehow landed back in the same place, and had therefore accepted Julie’s sudden appearance without question. Scott’s grip tightened reflexively on his book and his jaw clenched at the memory of having asked her to stay, to marry him and stay at Lancer.
It had seemed the best of both worlds, a means of linking together his Eastern past and his new life in the West. Julie was someone from home. They had a history; she knew him as well as anyone.
And he’d loved her.
But apparently he hadn’t really known her. At least not well enough to see that she was playing a part. Even after they’d spent an entire afternoon alone together, he hadn’t seen it. And Julie hadn’t confided in him, hadn’t trusted him to protect her from the threat his grandfather had made against her father’s company. John Dennison was an old, sick man, whose business would have gone bankrupt long ago without Harlan Garrett’s intervention. Grandfather had done so reluctantly, at Scott’s request. Scott had vowed never to tell Julie about that.
And Julie obviously hadn’t planned to tell him about his grandfather’s scheme to lure him back to Boston. If he hadn’t stepped outside, Scott wouldn’t have seen her there in front of the hacienda, her bags packed, about to leave.
After Julie had revealed her role as the “romantic decoy,” Scott had taken her in the buckboard back to Morro Coyo. She’d insisted upon going back to the hotel in town. He certainly couldn’t put her in the care of the despicable Degan brothers and he couldn’t let her drive that far alone. It had been a silent ride.
And his family had been just as silent about Julie as they had about Grandfather. Surely they’d wondered at her sudden arrival and equally abrupt departure, but none of them had ever expressed concern or asked any questions.
Again, he’d chosen to view it as a considerate silence, and had been grateful. The truth was that Julie’s betrayal had been even more humiliating than his grandfather’s had been.
Grandfather at least had apologized for his unconscionable behavior. And, by virtue of considerable effort devoted to the task, Scott could rationalize the older man’s actions--- having lost a daughter, he had valid reasons to be concerned about life in far off California. He’d naturally wanted to have his only grandchild close at hand. Grandfather had held a firm conviction that Scott would be “better off” in Boston.
But Julie, how far might she have carried the charade? What if he had agreed to go back, there, for her?
Looking back on it, it seemed so unreal, all of it, but most especially Julie’s brief appearance at the ranch, the phantom of a former love. He hadn’t allowed himself the release of feeling anger, not towards a woman, and especially not towards Julie, accustomed as he was to absolving her of blame. He had felt a deep disappointment, when he hadn’t heard anything more from her.
Some months after her return to Boston, Julie and William Prescott had become affianced; Grandfather had written to him about that. Then there’d been letters from several acquaintances, innocently inquiring as to whether he’d heard the news of Miss Dennison’s betrothal, but still no communication from Julie herself. As he’d told Johnny, she might very well be “Mrs. Prescott” by now.
Since Julie, there really hadn’t been anyone else and certainly no one Scott could imagine marrying. After Julie had returned his ring, there’d been a succession of attractive debutantes back in Boston; he’d played the part of gallant escort in public and contented himself with whatever role the young lady in question would allow in private. He’d decided that he liked his women “a little older”, the phrase more a veiled reference to experience than actual age. In truth, his most lasting relationships had been as a regular patron of a certain establishment.
That hadn’t changed. Scott’s current favorite in that regard was Irene, a seductive beauty employed at the saloon in Green River. With a lush figure and a mass of dark hair, Irene was a professional who took both pride and great pleasure in her work. Her accent was Eastern, but she hadn’t wanted to say where she was from, or how she’d ended up in a small California town. At least not at first, but then, he was a very good listener. And she was too good to stay in such a place for long. She’d been pleased by that assessment, but had also wickedly informed him that not all of her customers received the same “extra special treatment.” Regrettably, Irene would more than likely have moved on by the time he returned West.
There had been other women who had passed through. Moira McGloin for one. After the first few tentative kisses, she’d been more than willing to take his hand and lead him up into the hayloft. It had only been after her indignant assertion that “it won’t be me first time, you know,” that he’d even considered it. Moira’s assurances that she was a woman of the world notwithstanding, he’d ascended the ladder doubting things would actually go very far. But Moira had been quite enthusiastic, albeit unseasoned, and Scott had found he rather relished the tutor’s role.
But that had probably been the extent of their compatibility. She’d said she’d be back, and he’d realized at the time that that was unlikely. Still, sometimes Scott wished he knew where Moira McGloin had ended up.
After arriving at Lancer, Scott had sometimes escorted a rancher’s daughter to a town social or invited one of the girls from town to join him at a picnic. At the church dances, he usually took a turn with each lady present, young and old, and willingly engaged in polite small talk, however he’d rarely encountered a local female with whom he’d felt he could truly have a conversation. At some point, he’d started to think of himself as “hard to get to know.” He and Julie had been acquainted before he’d gone off to fight in the War, so when he’d come back, and they’d fallen in love, she’d already known most of what she needed to. There’d been something comfortable—comforting—about that.
Another jolt of the stage and his hat fell off the hook again, tumbling all the way to the coach floor this time. Teresa leaned down to pick it up, then carefully brushed some dust off of the brim. Her hands were small and delicate, and he’d often watched surreptitiously as she plied a needle in the evenings with quick, precise movements. They were capable hands too, strong enough on the reins to control a stubborn horse, or in the kitchen, deftly shaping the dough before rolling out biscuits.
Teresa gently placed the hat in his hands and gave him a sympathetic look. Scott smiled his thanks, realizing guiltily that he must have told her more than a few times how much he disliked traveling by stage. Teresa lightly rested her hand upon his knee for a moment, and then turned her attention back to Mrs. Henderson.
The three ladies opposite smiled and the two younger ones exchanged a knowing glance. Scott shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He decided to hold his hat on his lap and stared out the window, trying very hard not to think about dark-haired women.
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