ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 10.
“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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“Thank you, Teresa.”
As Teresa stepped forward, Scott had welcomed her embrace, and perhaps that was what he was most grateful for, since the words escaped so quickly. He realized that he should also thank her for setting in motion the events which had led to his arrival at the ranch; despite his dismay at learning the true sequence, Scott knew he would never regret coming west. But on second thought, it was her honest replies to his questions that he most appreciated. Those questions had been difficult enough to ask and he suspected that they hadn’t been easily answered; he wondered about the cost, in Teresa’s love for, and loyalty to, Murdoch Lancer.
Still, it was a comfort to stand there for a moment, with their arms about each other and her dark head pressed against his chest. It didn’t even seem to matter that she might possibly be able to hear how unsettling this conversation had been.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Teresa reflexively started to spin away, but Scott just as swiftly reached for her. His hand resting gently on her shoulder was enough to halt her movement. There was no need, after all, for her to react so.
Another knock. “Come in,” he said firmly.
The door opened to reveal the dark-skinned porter.
“’Scuse me, Suh. Ma’am. Ah was just checkin’ ta see if yah needed anythin’, Suh.”
Scott thanked George for the inquiry. In honor of Mr. Pullman, many of the passengers referred to, and some even addressed, each of the porters as “George”; but Scott had ascertained that this particular young man was in fact actually so named. Scott paused politely, to allow Teresa to respond as well, and was mildly surprised when she did make a request, asking for some hot water. George readily agreed, and once he’d departed, Teresa set about removing some clothing from her traveling case. Discreetly, Scott turned his back, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt and then settling in at the small desk.
Now Teresa was sequestered inside the dressing closet and Scott was attempting to keep his thoughts focused on the paper in front of him. During his solitary rides prior to leaving Lancer, and again on the stage from Morro Coyo to Stockton, he had carefully considered what he wished to include in the tribute he would deliver at his grandfather’s memorial service. Although Scott had managed to write down most of his ideas, his thoughts still kept straying to Murdoch, and what Teresa had said about him.
His grip on the pen slackened as he mentally reviewed scenes from that memorable first day at the ranch, attempting to apply the tint of fear and uncertainty to his images of Murdoch. It was at least a partial explanation of why his father hadn’t ever communicated with him. While Scott couldn’t recall everything they’d said to each other in that initial meeting, he was able to remember some of it in distinct and vivid detail. Now he examined the words, wondering if there could have been a hint of guilt or a note of apprehension hidden beneath the gruff and angry tone.
Scott hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t heard it.
But it wasn’t entirely impossible.
When Teresa emerged from the dressing room, Scott realized he'd wasted considerable time in a fruitless inspection of his slim catalog of memories involving Murdoch. Teresa, he noted, had changed into a fresh white blouse, a plain one with half sleeves and a simple collar, in contrast to the ruffles and high neck of the rose colored garment she had been wearing when they’d left Sacramento. She smiled softly, and Scott assumed she’d seen him sitting there, staring at the wall. He quickly lowered his head and set to writing once more.
While still remaining keenly aware of the young woman’s every movement, Scott stared at the lines he’d written, pondering the challenge of organizing the disparate thoughts into a coherent address. He continued to avert his gaze while Teresa replaced a few items in her trunk, turning only after she had resumed her seat on one of the red plush upholstered chairs, facing away from him, towards the sofa.
She’d taken up her embroidery once more, the slight incline of her head as she examined her work exposing the length of her neck. Her hair was up, leaving the shorter strands at the nape to form a soft fringe. One longer tendril of dark hair had escaped, and gently wound its way down the pale skin towards the white band of her collar.
The dark head lifted, and Teresa glanced back over her shoulder, catching him again, gently putting a question mark to his name.
Quickly, Scott gestured towards the delicate hands whose movements usually drew his attention.
“I was noticing that . . . you’re very good at that.”
“Maria taught me. We started when I was six or seven.”
“She’s a good teacher,” Scott acknowledged with a smile. “But was she always such a difficult taskmaster?”
When he’d first arrived at the ranch, the Easterner had enlisted Senora Maria’s assistance in learning the basics of the Spanish language used by so many of the ranch employees as well as the local inhabitants. Teresa was well aware of Maria’s enthusiastic acceptance of the task and her continuing determined efforts to instruct “Senor Scott” in her native tongue.
“She never threatened not to feed me!” Teresa laughed. “But, of course, she taught me how to bake, too. I remember spending hours and hours in the kitchen with her, while Daddy and Murdoch were out working the herd.”
They talked about that for a while, how difficult it had been for a little girl to wield the big rolling pin, how her father and Murdoch had offered enthusiastic praise for her culinary efforts and then dutifully eaten every single bite. As they conversed, the silver needle resumed its movement within the ring of the embroidery hoop, rising up and then plunging back down again, always trailed by the twisted strand of colored thread.
Teresa was quite fluent, so at her instigation, they’d tried slipping into Spanish for a bit. It was a simple conversation, about different types of foods, but for some reason Scott found himself hesitating over words he’d known for some time. Teresa must have noticed, since after offering a few corrections, she shifted back to English with a quick apology.
“I’m sorry, Scott, you have work to do and I’m keeping you from it.”
Scott sighed, and turned back to his writing. Although the ink had long since dried, he went through the motions of blotting the uppermost page, and then set the sheaf of papers face down upon the desktop.
“I think I’ll read for a bit,” he said, retrieving his book from the cushioned seat of the other armchair and then returning to his spot on the sofa.
Teresa worked steadily for a few minutes, the thread gradually growing shorter. When she could no longer continue, she set the needlework aside and announced that she was going to take a short walk. Thinking she might be en route to the water closet, Scott refrained from offering to accompany her.
“I thought I might go take a peek in at one of the dining cars,” she said as she slipped into a tan wool jacket. “But I won’t be long.”
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Returning to the chapter he had tried to read on the stagecoach, Scott finally reached its conclusion and the Battle of Eylau’s inevitable result—or rather, lack of one. Technically a French victory, it was still the first serious check to Napoleon Bonaparte’s string of military triumphs. The chapter ended with Marshal Ney’s assessment the next morning, as he rode over bloodstained snow littered with frozen corpses: “Quel massacre! Et sans resultat!” Of course, the same could be said of a great many battles.
For some reason, Grandfather had always been particularly fascinated by the French emperor. The two of them had visited Napoleon’s tomb in the Hôtel des Invalides during their stay in Paris.
With a few notable exceptions, Scott’s gifts from his grandfather had tended to be in a practical vein: books and clothing, useful items such as pens and writing paper. The trip abroad had easily been Grandfather’s most extravagant ---and memorable--- present. His grandfather had been well-read, and had delighted in pointing out the sights of each European capital: the ruins and monuments, museums and cathedrals. They’d stayed in the best hotels, dined at the best restaurants. At meals, it had been their ritual to offer toasts appropriate to each city.
Scott closed his eyes, and other images, from different moments in time shuttled past, flowing at a rate more rapid than the steady forward progress of the train. In addition to the memory of the older man sharing in his young grandson’s delight over a fat spotted pony, there was also the vision of Grandfather smiling as Scott opened the cover of a gold pocket watch or lifted the lid of a small tin box to reveal a colorful collection of fishing flies. He could picture the two of them strolling through Boston Common, as well as walking along the Thames or standing beneath the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. There was Grandfather watching as Scott blew out the candles on a boy’s birthday cake, Grandfather’s undisguised pride as he toasted Scott’s twenty-first year.
Most of all, he remembered his grandfather holding his hand . . .
The words of the text swam in front of his eyes. Mindful that Teresa could return at any moment, Scott swallowed hard and fought to maintain his composure. He sat ruffling the pages with one hand, and, once he’d won the battle, firmly closed the book.
Putting Napoleon aside, Scott reluctantly considered returning to the desk, to resume once more the daunting task of consigning a wealth of fond memories to the space of a few pages. Grandfather’s conflict with Murdoch, his visit to the ranch, the Degans, Julie—of course none of that was forgotten---and none of it would be mentioned. Scott was determined to craft a dignified and heartfelt tribute to his grandfather and confident in his ability to do so, but perhaps not today. Instead, he pulled out his watch and checked the time. Teresa had been absent for a good while, but they still had nearly two hours before the evening meal would be served. Scott snapped the watchcase closed and returned it to his pocket. It was a fine watch, the cover beautifully engraved by George Southworth down in New Haven. Yet another of Harlan Garrett’s gifts, the watch had replaced the one that had been taken from him when he’d been captured during the War.
Grandfather had given it to him as part of their celebration of Scott’s twenty-first birthday. He’d also presented his grandson and heir with the expected partnership, a junior one, of course. But it was the final gift that had been unanticipated, a copy in miniature of Scott’s favorite portrait of Catherine. They’d dined alone together at the club-- Grandfather had offered a toast and then sent Scott off to spend the remainder of the evening with Julie. Scott had asked her to marry him that very evening, and given her his grandmother’s ring.
A few nights later, he’d celebrated his birthday, his partnership and his engagement with a gathering of friends; Will Hayford had been among the group of young men. They’d all gotten quite drunk, Scott most of all. In the wee hours of the morning, it had just been the two of them, he and Will, when Scott had offered up a final toast—to Murdoch Lancer. After his twenty-first birthday had come and gone without any message from his father, Scott had given up hope of ever hearing from him. The bitter toast, seconded by a less than articulate, but nonetheless tipsily supportive Will, had been something about hoping that the man might someday know exactly how much his son hated him. Then Scott had belligerently announced that he no longer cared if he ever heard from his father.
A rational and sober man might have pointed out that antipathy and indifference were not generally compatible emotions.
But it wasn’t entirely impossible.
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In the end, Johnny had to convince Murdoch that it just wasn’t possible for the two of them to go to Boston.
“Let it go, Murdoch. There ain’t enough time.”
They were seated at the long dining table having supper, separated by those empty chairs, Scott’s and Teresa’s. Murdoch set his knife down on the edge of his plate—it made a chinking sound—and reached for his wineglass. He took a long sip and then carefully replaced the glass before he finally spoke.
“Johnny . . . I think it’s important that we support your brother in this.”
Johnny sighed. “I know, I know.”
“Well then—”
“Look, Murdoch, you said yourself it’d be more’n two weeks travel just to be there for that one day. That’s a long time for us both to be gone. With the drive and everything else, well, I just think it would be smart if one of us stayed here, is all.”
Murdoch leaned back in his chair.
“An’ I don’t mind stayin’.”
When Murdoch lifted his chin and regarded him contemplatively, Johnny held his gaze. Murdoch lowered his eyes first.
“You talked to Scott about this.”
Damn, if the Old Man didn’t sound just like Scott right then, making a statement instead of asking a question. But it really was a question, and one Johnny didn’t mind answering.
“Yeah, we talked some. He said if we didn’t get ta Boston, he still ‘preciated the offer. That some other time might be better, he could show us around more then.”
“So you think he’d rather we didn’t come?”
“Maybe. But, look, it weren’t like that. Murdoch, you know this don’t really have to do with us. It’s about Scott sayin’ good bye to the man tha— It’s Scott sayin’ good bye to his grandfather.”
Murdoch nodded thoughtfully, then picked up his utensils and turned his attention to the beef on his plate.
Johnny reached for his milk. “I only met Garrett the one time.” He took a few gulps, draining half of the glass before he set it down again. “You didn’t seem ta think much of ‘im, even before he showed up here.”
“That doesn’t matter now.”
And that’s where Murdoch would have left it. First, he seemed to concentrate on his meal for a few minutes. Then he calculated out loud, to try to figure when Scott and Teresa would be arriving in Boston, and said that he’d send Scott a wire then. After that, Murdoch kept the conversation centered on the ranch.
Once they’d finished eating, Murdoch settled into his big leather chair, his after dinner scotch in one hand and a book in the other. Johnny flopped onto the sofa and lay there awhile, idly turning the beaded leather bracelet on his wrist. Finally, he just decided to go ahead and ask.
“How long since you been back to Boston, Murdoch?”
Murdoch looked up at that. Reluctantly, Johnny thought. Murdoch carefully set his drink down on the table beside his chair.
“A long time, Johnny. Too long.”
“You went back there after my Mama left.”
Murdoch closed the book. “How do you know that?” he asked cautiously.
Johnny exhaled, took a moment to ponder how he was going to answer. Just one brief moment was all it took to decide he’d better stick to the straight truth, since that’s what he was hoping to get out of Murdoch.
“Maria told me—now, it ain’t her fault, she didn’t want to, but I asked her. She said she remembered Scott’s mother. It was back when Melissa Harper was here visitin’.”
Murdoch looked puzzled by the reference to Melissa, but he didn’t respond; it looked like the Old Man wasn’t going to volunteer anything. Which sure was no surprise.
“Thing is, Maria, she felt kinda guilty for tellin’ me about it, so she . . . told Scott too.”
That got a reaction from Murdoch. “Scott knows that I went to Boston?”
“Yeah.”
“He never said . . .”
“Well, he’s known for a while. Then I guess before old man Garrett left, the two of them talked some about it.”
Murdoch looked troubled, and his hand reached for his glass.
“What I was wonderin’ was . . . how come Scott didn’t grow up here?”
Murdoch drained his scotch and then took such a long time to answer that Johnny was about ready to give up. When he’d gotten information before, from Maria, he’d satisfied his own curiosity, but Johnny hadn’t felt it was his place to be the one to tell Scott. And now Scott wasn’t even around anyway. Johnny was just starting to push himself to a sitting position when his father finally began to speak. Murdoch seemed to direct his halting words to the empty glass he was holding, but at least he was talking.
“When I lost Cath—after Scott’s mother died . . . I . . . I couldn’t have raised an infant here, not then, not alone.” After a long exhale, Murdoch continued, woodenly. “The baby came early, I wasn’t there, Harlan was. He took your brother and went looking for a doctor. Eventually they went back to Boston. Catherine and I, we’d talked about that, that she should go back there for a while. She didn’t want to . . .”
Johnny sat on the edge of the sofa, his forearms resting on his thighs. He waited a beat, to be sure Murdoch was finished. “So when Garrett took off with Scott, you didn’t go after him.”
There was another silence. Even though he kept his own eyes fixed on the floor between his boots, Johnny could still feel Murdoch’s gaze. But it was the barely suppressed anger in his father’s voice that made him look up.
“My wife was dead.”
“I know—”
“Your brother was just a baby, new born. The midwife . . . I talked to her. She didn’t . . . she didn’t think he would survive. I was days behind Harlan, and . . . I needed to get back here.”
There was a finality in Murdoch’s tone, and maybe that was why Johnny stubbornly decided to press on. Even if he wasn’t exactly the right son to hear the story, he was the only one around.
“But you did go to Boston?”
“Yes.”
“So . . . how old was Scott?”
“He was . . . five.”
Johnny nodded; that matched what he’d already heard. He got up, removed the glass from Murdoch’s hand, and continued on to the liquor table. Johnny waited until he had his back to Murdoch and was occupied with refilling his father’s glass before posing his next question.
“So Murdoch, why’d you wait so long?”
“I couldn’t leave her, Johnny, not while she was carrying you.”
And just like that, the tables turned. It wasn’t just about Scott any more. Johnny knew, in his head, that it wasn’t his fault. But still, he hated any suggestion that the reason Murdoch had ignored or neglected Scott might be because of his mother, because of him. Johnny looked around for a glass for himself.
“The travel, it was harder, took a lot longer in those days. After you were born, well, I couldn’t leave her then either.”
“And there was always the ranch,” Johnny said pointedly, turning to face Murdoch with a glass of imported whiskey in each hand.
“Yes.” There was a touch of defiance in Murdoch’s eyes, though his tone was matter of fact. “We didn’t have the men we have now.”
Johnny stepped nearer, extending the glass. They made the exchange without their hands touching, but Murdoch didn’t look away.
“There’s something else you want to know. Go on and ask.”
Now here was an opportunity. Johnny considered and then rejected the idea of asking another one of Scott’s questions. What would he do with the answer, after all? Best leave those for Scott. Besides, he did have one of his own.
“You ever tell her about him?”
Murdoch’s gaze dropped away then. “No.”
Johnny moved back to his seat on the sofa, sitting back against the cushions and resting his ankle on the opposite knee.
“I figured.”
He took a sip before he continued. “She’d a told me, it woulda fit right in with her lies about you throwing us out, if she could’ve said you had another son you didn’t care about either.”
“Johnny, I searched for you----”
“I know, I know.” He did. They’d gone over all of that, long ago. And Johnny had already decided that if Mama had known anything about Scott, she would most likely have filled his head with stories about how his gringo father favored his older, gringo, son.
Murdoch sighed. “Your mother. . . I wanted to tell her, but . . . she was . . . jealous of Catherine, didn’t even want any reminders here in the house. And there were times . . . so many times, she promised me a healthy son, ‘one that would live,’ she said. It just . . . it just never seemed to be the right time.”
They both worked on their drinks for a bit then. Johnny was pretty sure there never would have been a “right time.” Kind of like his waiting for the “right time” to tell Murdoch about what happened down in McCall’s Crossing, he thought wryly. But that’s the way it usually worked, when you kept secrets, held things back. It was always best to just get it said.
“So how come everyone here thought Scott was dead?”
Murdoch didn’t even ask how Johnny knew this time, or if Scott knew about that, too. He just slumped a bit more in his big chair. The Old Man’s tired voice matched his posture. “I never intended it that way, Johnny. When I came back here alone, they all just assumed. Even Paul. By the time I realized what they all thought, well, I wasn’t sure myself if the baby had survived. It was a long time before I heard from Harlan.”
“You did hear from ‘im?”
“Yes. Months later.”
“But you didn’t tell anyone.”
“To what purpose? Your brother was on the other side of the country.”
“Your son, Murdoch,” Johnny corrected him quietly. “Me, I wasn’t even born yet. I never knew I had a brother til I came here. But you knew you had a son---”
“And didn’t do anything about it, is that what you think?”
“Don’t matter what I think Murdoch.”
There was another long silence. Maybe Murdoch was thinking the same thing, that Johnny wasn’t the right son to be hearing this story. Johnny wasn’t expecting the Old Man to say anything more, and was very surprised when he did.
“Harlan wouldn’t give him up, he had legal custody. He said he’d fight me, put Scott in the middle.” Murdoch’s tone was flat. He set his empty glass down on the side table. “I’d waited too long.”
“So you had ta gave in.”
Johnny’d tried to make the statement sympathetically, but Murdoch’s cheeks still flushed at the words. “I didn’t have the time or the money to fight him in court,” he said tightly. “I came back here, kept looking for your mother, tried to find you.”
“And tried to forget about Scott.” Johnny tossed what was left of his whiskey.
“No! I never-- I never forgot.”
Johnny shook his bowed head, studying the glass he held cradled in two hands. “But you left him----”
“He was better off, Johnny. There were things Harlan could do for him, that I couldn’t . . ”
Listening to his father, seeing his big hands clenching the leather armrests, Johnny had to wonder how many times Murdoch had had to say those things to himself before he’d come to almost believe them.
“But I did go back to Boston,” Murdoch added quietly. “I traveled across the country again to see him, when he was eight.”
Johnny’s head came up slowly. Scott had suspected as much. When Melissa Harper had been at the ranch, Murdoch had said something about last seeing her when she was just three years old. Scott had picked up on it, and Johnny had overheard his brother asking Melissa if she’d ever been away from Boston as a child. She’d said she hadn’t. And Scott was about five years older than Melissa.
“Seems like Scott woulda remembered----”
“He wasn’t there. He was up north, on a fishing trip with his uncle.”
So Murdoch had taken a second wasted trip, come back empty-handed again. It probably would have been a lot to ask, for him to try it a third time. Still, an awful lot of years had gone by. Johnny realized he was doing it anyway, asking Scott’s questions, even though he’d told himself he wouldn’t. Maldita sea, he just wanted to know.
“So . . . did ya ever write to Scott?”
“No, Johnny. Harlan would never have allowed him to read a letter from me.”
Johnny thought about Scott’s response to that question, all those other things Scott had told him about Garrett’s side of the story. He wasn’t sure if he believed all of it, or any of it, even if Scott seemed to. Not that it really mattered, since none of that was his to share with Murdoch.
And, of course, Murdoch probably shouldn’t have been answering these questions, not if he hadn’t ever had this conversation with Scott.
“You and Scott, well, you gotta talk to him, Murdoch.”
“I know, Johnny, it’s just never seemed---”
“Like the right time?”
Murdoch sighed. “It won’t be easy for Scott to hear those things about his grandfather, especially now.”
“Murdoch . . .”
“What?”
Johnny hesitated. Despite all the horrible things his mother had told him about Murdoch Lancer, as a small boy Johnny had still sometimes dreamed about his father riding into town one day. He’d always pictured a man who’d be sitting tall, astride a golden horse, bringing all kinds of wonderful presents. Johnny knew that over the years, Murdoch had tried, and failed, to find him; his father seemed to blame himself for what he knew of Johnny’s deprivation and difficult childhood, and even for his decision to become a gun for hire. Johnny firmly believed that if Murdoch Lancer had ever been able to locate his runaway wife, the man would have come charging in, snatched up his son and used any force necessary to bring him back home.
What Johnny needed to know was why Murdoch hadn’t done that for Scott.
“Look, I know Scott grew up in a big house an’ all, but I guess I don’t see how you coulda let a man like that raise him. I mean, not that Scott didn’t turn out fine anyway, ‘cause he did, but . . . it just seems like you didn’t have any reason t’expect it.”
Murdoch had been gazing across the room, staring at nothing. But now he turned to look Johnny right in the eyes. “Oh, I had reason, Johnny. And I’m grateful . . . that Scott turned out to be so very much like . . . his mother.”
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 11.
“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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“Grateful for what----you let somebody else raise your son!"
Although Scott was typically mild-mannered, and unfailingly polite, Murdoch had observed early on that his elder son had a temper. But he’d rarely seen Scott as angry as he had been then.
But it was the truth, he was grateful. Also angry, bitter, resentful---and Lord knows his shoulders had been burdened with over twenty years of guilt as well. But he was thankful that as a child, Scott had always been safe and well cared for, and that he’d been raised to be the sort of young man anyone would be proud to call “Son.”
At least Scott knew that part of it, that Murdoch was proud of him, surely there could be no doubt of that? He’d as much as told him so, more than once. Scott had to know how much he cared about him. Now. But the past, the past still loomed between them. It was like some kind of rogue bull, deceptively placid while grazing, yet those horns were deadly and could do a lot of damage. Best to leave it alone.
After Johnny went upstairs to bed, Murdoch sat alone for a time, brooding in his leather chair, staring at the empty hearth. This was the second time that Johnny had asked questions about why his older brother hadn’t been raised here at the ranch, why Murdoch had never contacted Scott. They were obvious questions, ones he’d expected Scott to demand answers to right away.
Those questions pushed him up onto his feet, but it was his answers that propelled him through the kitchen and out the back door, until Murdoch found himself leaning against the adobe wall, looking up at the night sky.
Pardee and the present had been the priority when the boys first arrived, and not answering questions about the past; Murdoch had insisted upon it. Unbelievably, his sons had accepted his decree. In fact, Scott had only raised a single question at that first meeting, a pointed one, despite the almost cavalier fashion in which he had posed it--- “What do I call you?” ---followed immediately by an insincere assurance that no apology was “necessary.” Murdoch still clearly recalled his own churlish response, harshly dispensing with each son’s history in a few blunt sentences. But he’d been more than a little irritated by Scott’s cool tone, the smoothly polished manners, his expensive and too formal attire. The young man’s physical resemblance to his mother had been achingly evident, but Murdoch had been hard pressed to recognize anything of himself in the stiffly self-confident Easterner. He had looked at Scott and seen “Harlan Garrett’s grandson,” a reluctant visitor, rather than someone who belonged here, at Lancer.
How wrong he’d been.
Murdoch pushed himself away from the wall, and walked with a halting step towards the stable. As he eased in through the side door, he recalled how the “Eastern dandy” had helped fight the fire, working right alongside the Lancer vaqueros in the charred field.
Inside the barn, some of the horses whinnied a welcome. His Toby, the massive roan with the wide white blaze, was in a stall at the farther end, beside Johnny’s Barranca, but in the nearest stall Brunswick tossed his head at Murdoch’s approach. In the adjacent space stood Rambler, the sorrel that had carried Scott up into the mountains to create the decoy for Pardee.
Although Rambler was no longer Scott’s primary mount, he was still stabled here with the horses used by the household. Recently, Jelly had started to include the animal in the remuda and today one of the hands had claimed Rambler. Brunswick was more spirited and not easy to handle. In Scott’s absence, only Johnny had ridden the stockinged chestnut. Johnny had been on Brunswick yesterday; Murdoch had found it unsettling, spying his younger son at a distance, astride his brother’s horse.
Brunswick nickered softly at him, and Murdoch wished he’d brought something from the kitchen, a bit of apple or a lump of sugar. Instead, he stroked the white blaze.
“I miss him too,” he admitted softly.
Murdoch sighed and moved down the center of the stable. His old injury was acting up, and his uneven steps echoed woodenly on the hay-littered planks. His thoughts hurried away from him, moving backwards to the time when he’d first become acquainted with his sons. Scott, the city dweller, had convincingly demonstrated his horsemanship, had quickly proven himself with a gun. Surprisingly, Scott had been the first to actually agree to the offer of a partnership in the ranch, and then given every indication that he really did intend to stay.
Johnny’s plans had been less certain. When the fighting was over, Murdoch had ventured some conversation with his younger son, once Johnny had started to recover from his bullet wound. When Murdoch had asked how he was feeling, Johnny had responded with an abrupt question about his mother’s departure from the ranch, saying that he’d “heard a few things”---- Murdoch had never known from whom. No matter, the two of them had talked and cleared the air, really cleared it. It had been difficult for Johnny to accept that his mother had lied to him. And it had been difficult for Murdoch to hear what few details Johnny had been willing to share about his life with her. Murdoch would never look back without feeling deep regret, but at least Johnny had heard the truth: Murdoch had loved his mother, and over the years, had tried to find them, putting considerable time and money into the effort.
While Johnny was recuperating, Scott had kept busy outside the hacienda, taking charge of the cleanup efforts, laboring alongside Cipriano Sanchez and the other men. Since his decoy plan had proven effective and he’d successfully led the defense of the hacienda, the Lancer hands held Scott in high regard. But Murdoch had realized that any Easterner, no matter how versatile, would still have a great deal to learn when it came to the specific skills needed on a ranch, and so he had asked Cipriano to see to his son’s instruction. He knew that Scott hadn’t always had an easy time of it, but the young man had never complained, and Murdoch respected him for that.
Like everyone else back then, Scott had put in exceedingly long days. In the evenings, it had been the three of them, Scott, Teresa and himself. Once Johnny was on his feet, Murdoch had made sure that his sons had opportunities to spend time together, get to know each other. But in those early days, beyond brief conversations---usually updates on what was happening at the ranch---- Murdoch hadn’t spent any time alone with Scott. He’d made sure of it.
He hadn’t made it easy for Scott to ask him any more questions. Scott had come up with his own answer to the one inquiry he had made, calling Murdoch by his given name, or, later, addressing him with polite formality, as “Sir.”
Until that disastrous conversation here in the Great Room, Murdoch had only rarely heard his elder son use the phrase “my father.” That day the young man had seemed uncharacteristically hesitant, reluctant to initiate the discussion. And then Scott had asked it, the very question that Murdoch had expected to hear on the very first day. He hadn’t had a good answer then, and when Scott finally asked why he’d never come to Boston to “claim him,” Murdoch still didn’t have one. Murdoch couldn’t even recall now exactly how he had replied, other than saying something about how it hadn’t been possible.
“But you’re my father,” Scott had said to him. As if he had needed to be reminded.
Murdoch stopped opposite Toby and the horse raised its large head to eye him quizzically.
“I’m not sure why I’m here either.” Murdoch knew he needed to go back into the house, go to bed—at least lie down and rest even if he couldn’t get to sleep.
He retraced his steps, but his thoughts remained behind, still with that conversation in the Great Room.
Thanks to Johnny, Murdoch now knew that Scott had expected him to say that he *had * come to Boston. But Murdoch hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, to admit that he’d tried and failed. And so, he’d failed, yet again.
When Murdoch hadn’t offered him an explanation, Scott had simply walked out. Days later, after Harlan had left, Murdoch had been prepared to try to explain at least some of it, but he’d waited for Scott to come to him. Waited too long; looking back, he should have known that Scott wouldn’t ask again.
And now he’d learned that Scott had talked with his grandfather instead. Who knew what story Harlan, desperate to redeem himself, might have told him.
As he entered the hacienda and slowly made his way back through the darkened first floor rooms and up the stairs to his bedchamber, Murdoch acknowledged that he had only himself to blame---after all, he’d had plenty of opportunity. He could have raised the issue any time during that first year, brought up the topic once he’d learned of Harlan’s impending visit, or even once he’d realized what his former father-in-law had in mind. Yes, he’d assured Harlan that he wouldn’t try to persuade Scott to stay, foolishly agreed not to attempt to influence the young man’s decision, but he hadn’t promised not to answer any questions Scott might ask.
Guilt had reined in his tongue. He couldn’t convince himself that he’d kept silent about his trip to Boston in order to spare Scott, and it certainly hadn’t been from any desire to protect Harlan. It had been purely to shield himself from seeing the inevitable disappointment in his son’s eyes.
For no matter what he said or how he explained it, it still would be obvious that he hadn’t tried hard enough. And then he still would have to face the other questions that surely would follow ---including the one Johnny had asked--—why had it taken him so long?
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“You kept my son away from me for twenty four years!”
That was one of the first things that he’d said to Harlan, when Scott’s grandfather had finally shown up here at the ranch. He’d been waiting to say it for a very long time. Over the years, Murdoch had proclaimed his hatred of the man each time he announced his grievance to Paul, Sam, Cleve: “He’s kept my son away from me.” Murdoch had often uttered the words to himself, but he hadn’t ever truly believed it was that clear-cut, not really, not in his heart. Otherwise, he would have said them to Scott.
Murdoch picked up the mallet to attack yet another bent nail, pounding with far more force than was necessary to straighten it. He often came here to the forge to work off his frustrations, to hammer out his anger, to try to force feelings of disappointment and regret to ooze out of him like the sweat seeping through the clothing beneath the leather apron.
How could he ever get rid of his burden of guilt?
Surely not by methodically tapping at crooked nails.
He’d had a sleepless night, knew he wasn’t fit to live with, and had decided to avoid everyone for a few hours. Reaching into the bucket, he drew one thick nail out, decided it was too rusted and tossed it aside. It took a moment to fish out another, his large hands made clumsy by the heavy leather gloves, the pointed pieces of metal shifting and eluding his grasp. Finally he threw two of them down on the anvil, reached for the tongs, selected the more twisted of the pair and began his assault.
Murdoch couldn’t recall many specifics of the angry conversation that had marked the unwelcome reunion with his former father-in-law. The anger had been all on his side, or so it had seemed. Harlan Garrett had appeared calm and supremely confident. The Bostonian had displayed exactly the same haughty demeanor that had so easily intimidated a poor young immigrant, back when he’d first dared offer himself as a suitor to Catherine.
Catherine. So lovely, so wise, so sophisticated--- yet at the same time, so very down to earth. It had been more than twenty-five years . . . Now her father was gone too. Despite his feelings towards the man, they’d had their love for Catherine in common; with Harlan’s passing, Murdoch couldn’t help but feel the loss of a connection to her.
Murdoch’s last glimpse of Harlan Garrett had been of a subdued, chastened man taking leave of the ranch, with Scott driving his grandfather to meet the stage. But in that initial interview, Garrett’s control had slipped only when he’d spied his daughter’s portrait. Not that Murdoch had been inclined towards sympathy. Though he’d voiced it less often, he had always wanted to blame her father for Catherine’s death.
He’d voiced it that day, determined to draw first blood, but, surprisingly, Harlan hadn’t defended himself; he’d barely dignified the accusation with a response. Garrett hadn’t struck back, hadn’t bothered to point out that it had been Murdoch himself who had brought Catherine all the way out here, to California, that it had been Murdoch who had sent her away during the deadly raids. Not that he’d needed to; it had all been said long ago.
Harlan hadn’t even denied keeping Scott from him; much the opposite, he’d acted as if Scott had been better off having nothing to do with his “dreamer” of a father. Harlan had always referred to them as “sugar dreams,” but Catherine had shared those visions of their future together.
When they’d lost her, it had been Harlan who had been there to lay claim to the child. Scott, who would never know her, was their strongest tie to the young woman they’d both loved so dearly. But Murdoch had been given little hope that the infant would survive, and in all honesty, he hadn’t been sure he could face raising their son without her, hadn’t been sure he could face much of anything at all without Catherine.
Murdoch halted the hammering motions long enough to use his forearm to swipe at the sweat beading on his brow. Catherine. God, he’d loved her. He’d come to depend upon her as well, her calm, quiet strength, her perceptive and compassionate nature, her loving support. She’d been willing to work alongside him to make their visions a reality—practical dreamers, they’d been.
And despite what he’d said to Johnny, Murdoch had never dared dream that Scott would be so like her.
After his return from Carterville, Murdoch had been determined to put reminders of Catherine aside, believing that would ease his grief. He’d refused to think about the child who had once figured so prominently in their hopes for the future, though he’d been honestly surprised to learn that everyone at the ranch believed the baby had been lost along with his mother.
Surprised—and relieved. The rhythmic beat of the mallet upon the anvil increased as he recalled his acquiescence. There was no need to try to explain. Not that there was anything shameful in allowing his son to be raised by relatives, ones who could offer him all sorts of advantages. There had never been any question but that Scott would be well cared for, and most of all, safe, growing up in Boston.
Still, he’d been glad not to have to see the judgment in the eyes of those who wouldn’t comprehend how dead he felt without Catherine, who wouldn’t understand his willingness to be so far away from their ‘nino.’
Ashamed as he was to admit it now, back then, he had been willing. It had taken time and hard work to rebuild the ranch. He couldn’t have cared for a child; what, after all, had he known about babies, especially ones who came early, who might be frail or sickly? His infant son was motherless, but he, he’d lost his wife, his helpmate. His Catherine.
To the few letters he’d received from her father, Murdoch had sent short, polite replies. It was good to know that the child was thriving, but he hadn’t allowed himself to be much interested, let alone happy---happiness had simply been beyond him. When he’d received Joe Barker’s request for help, he’d lost no time in packing up his saddlebags and heading south. To earn money for the rebuilding, he’d said; but mostly it was to leave his empty house behind. The ranch he’d entrusted to the care of the foreman, old Ben Johnson, by then mostly recovered from the bullet he’d taken during one of Haney’s attacks, and to the new man, Paul O’Brien.
He’d worked with Joe for a time, thrown himself into the job. It was a wonder he hadn’t ended up in the cemetery in Abilene with the other deputies; he’d been told quite candidly there was a special section for them. That would have been good enough; no need for Joe to bother sending his body all the way back to the ranch.
Then he’d met Maria.
Magical Maria, who had drawn him forcefully from beneath the suffocating blanket of dark and brooding loneliness under which he’d ridden all the way from Lancer to Matamoros. Only later had he realized that the blazing heat of their love had been too intense to last; but anything less would have failed to thaw his frozen heart.
She’d been several months pregnant when they’d returned to the ranch. He himself had been reborn, and with a renewed faith in the future was already making plans for a life that would include his new wife and their child—--and for the first time he’d begun to contemplate the possibility of Catherine’s boy coming home as well. He’d briefly considered leaving straightaway, alone, bringing Scott back in time to welcome his new brother or sister. He’d even thought of taking Maria along with him. Neither plan was practical; he was afraid to risk her traveling, and, even if he’d dared to leave Maria alone in her condition, he simply couldn’t be away from the ranch again so soon. But while riding out on the range, overseeing the herd, he often traveled across the country in his mind.
Murdoch sighed, and examined the bucket of nails. The number had decreased considerably, as he mechanically removed them, straightened them, dropped each one into the wooden box lying on the ground on the other side of the anvil. An unnecessary exercise, they could afford many new boxes of nails. But back then, when he was first starting out, he’d had to count every penny.
But he wouldn’t have accepted a penny for his thoughts, since even back then, he’d avoided conversations about the past. He’d told Maria about Catherine, of course, or, at least that he’d been married before. But Murdoch had said nothing about the circumstances of his first wife’s death. Maria had been sympathetic, and hadn’t asked many questions, but once at the ranch, she’d quickly learned the rest of the story.
In contrast to Catherine, who had been full of quiet wonder and contentment, Maria had been invigorated by the child she carried, her body becoming ever more ripe and sensual. But her moods—first anger at her growing discomfort, railing at him, he was to blame—then, without warning abruptly shifting to tearful apologies and fervent promises that she would give him a strong, healthy child. Always stopping short of saying that she would do what “Catherina” had been unable to, but her meaning had been clear. She’d insisted too, that her child would be a son, to inherit his father’s grand estancia.
How could he have told her that Catherine had already given him one?
Not unreasonably, Maria had requested that they occupy a different room, a different bed than the one he had shared with his first wife. But he hadn’t recognized the extent of her insecurity until the day she had walked in to find him seated at his desk holding Catherine’s picture in his hand.
She’d furiously accused him of still being in love with his dead wife. He’d had to deny it. Then he’d hidden the picture away.
And then, at last, Johnny was born, a precious gift from the beautiful mother he so resembled. Murdoch had held the dark-haired infant whenever he could, never tiring of watching him yawn, blink, smile. But at times he found himself picturing another child, one with Catherine’s coloring. For it was only after Murdoch had cradled his younger son in his arms that Scott had become real for him and his heart had ached at the thought of all he’d missed. He’d become more determined than ever to go after his first born, unite his family---- but how to break the news to Maria?
She’d become moodier, after Johnny was born, and he’d been caught up in the tides of her emotions, swept along in the ever-changing currents. She accused him of not trusting her, of keeping secrets. Of course, it was partly true, and at times he’d feared that she had somehow found out about Scott.
The sad truth was that Murdoch hadn’t trusted her, or at least that he hadn’t trusted her not to react with hurt and bitter anger, not to accuse him of planning to displace her child with another. Looking back, it had been a mistake, not telling her. Then again, she might have left him even sooner, had she known.
But she’d never known, though it had taken the previous evening’s conversation with Johnny to confirm that fact. Maria had told Johnny terrible lies about him, and she no doubt would have used Scott as a weapon as well. After she’d left, he’d gone after her, tried desperately to find her, and failed. He’d returned to the ranch sporadically until finally one day he had announced that he was through riding south, that instead he was going East, to fetch his son. Catherine’s son.
Murdoch had known even then what it would look like, to Ben, Paul, and the others, once they’d gotten over their stunned surprise. They must have thought that he hadn’t really cared about Scott, that he was only trying to replace what he’d lost, the child that Maria had so cruelly taken from him. It must have seemed that way to Harlan, and would have appeared so to a Boston judge---if Murdoch had dared to face one.
That was what Scott must think now.
Murdoch’s foot found the bucket, and he kicked it hard against the wall.
His breathing ragged, Murdoch stood staring at the dented container rolling on the ground, some of its contents spilling out onto the hard-packed dirt.
A replacement . . . In a way, it had even been true; he loved Johnny so much and he wanted to be a father again. Catherine’s death, the ranch, Joe, Maria, Johnny--- none of it seemed now to be a good enough answer to the question of why he’d waited so long to go to Boston. How could he present his grief as an excuse? Still, there was no question that Scott should have heard the story from him. Fifty-five years old, and he hadn’t learned anything. Not a damn thing.
Murdoch wearily crossed the yard, but not to retrieve the bucket—instead he turned his back on it and sat down heavily on the wooden bench. He swallowed hard as his head dropped into his hands, his sudden anger now completely smothered by regret.
What he’d told Johnny had been true—he couldn’t have afforded the time and the cost of a court battle, a battle he was likely to lose anyway, and which could have proven harmful to Scott. He couldn’t have matched what Harlan could provide---was already providing. What reasons could he have given for taking the child from the only home he’d ever known? He’d had little else to offer the boy. He could no longer promise that Scott would have a loving stepmother and adoring younger brother, couldn’t offer evidence in court of his own strong paternal feelings towards him, couldn’t have justified allowing five years to slip by. Not challenging Harlan had been a painful, but practical decision.
And he’d been a stranger to his son. Scott hadn’t known him. It had been humiliating, standing there in a house in which he’d never felt welcome, looking down into that serious child’s face. Being introduced as Harlan’s “friend” Murdoch. Why the hell hadn’t he properly identified himself? What could Harlan have done? He’d often wondered how his life might have changed if only he’d insisted upon staying for the boy’s birthday party. It was unlikely that Harlan would have risked disrupting the event by forcing him out. How many times over the years had he berated himself with the same damn questions? He hadn’t done anything, hadn’t said anything other than “hello”---- just stood there grasping that small hand, looking into Catherine’s eyes under hair that matched hers, and seeing Harlan Garrett’s grandson.
He’d been convinced the man would never relinquish custody, and would even place the child in the middle if necessary—but Garrett might have been willing to compromise to stay out of court. It hadn’t occurred to Murdoch until he’d already been on the way back west, that he could possibly have negotiated and salvaged some connection to his son.
<<“My son”>>—he’d kept telling himself that. He’d treasured that glimpse, tried to hold onto the image. But God help him, he hadn’t been able to picture that polite, well-dressed little boy living here at the ranch.
There’d been only considerate silence when he’d returned, empty-handed. No one had said much of anything, not even Ben or Paul, though they must have had questions. He’d told those two some of it, after a few rounds of drinks in town, on a Saturday night. Others had no doubt heard some of the details from them. But for the most part, it was almost as if the trip to Boston hadn’t taken place. Murdoch had been quite grateful, when in the aftermath, everyone else at the ranch had generously chosen to avoid the topic altogether.
Not that he’d stayed put very long. He’d formulated new plans to try to track down Maria and Johnny, then headed back out on the trail. It was a miracle he’d held onto the ranch in those days.
Murdoch rose wearily, removed the leather apron and hung it on a nail. Then he slowly walked over to the bucket, carefully folded his long legs into a crouch and wearily began to gather up the scattered nails.
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<<“You’re gonna have to take care of Scott.”>>
Teresa’s eyelids fluttered open and she stared at the ceiling of the darkened drawing room. It was Johnny’s voice that had wakened her, repeating what he’d said that morning when she and Scott were leaving the ranch. It was wonderful how the two brothers looked out for each other, and so like Johnny to be concerned about Scott. Not that Scott very often needed taking care of---in fact he was the one who usually seemed to look out for everyone else.
With a sigh, she rolled onto her side, one arm reaching up to hug the pillow under her head, and felt the soothing, constant motion of the train carrying them across the miles even while they slept. She had hoped that even if she couldn’t “take care of” Scott, she would at least be of some help to him. But so far, she’d been no help at all.
Learning the truth about who had actually summoned him to the ranch had clearly unsettled him, though they hadn’t spoken of it again. Scott had been very quiet the past few days, spending his time reading, writing letters or working on the piece he was going to deliver at his grandfather’s memorial service. Today though, he’d talked quite a bit about Boston, outlining the events that would take place there as well as describing his house and the people she would meet.
She’d finally asked him what it had been like, growing up there with Mr. Garrett. Scott had told her about their travels together and shared a few happy memories of life with his grandfather. The changing seasons had figured prominently in his recollections and the demarcation was clearly much more dramatic than it was in California. Scott was especially happy that it would be almost autumn when they arrived, though he said he was sorry that he wouldn’t be able to show her “Boston in winter.”
Not surprisingly, in speaking of his childhood, Scott made no mention of his father’s absence from his life. Teresa wondered how much he’d known about Murdoch, but she’d been reluctant to bring up her guardian’s name. She’d half hoped to hear some hint that Scott was sorry that he hadn’t grown up at the ranch with Murdoch, some suggestion that he felt he’d missed something. But Scott hadn’t said anything to indicate that he had any regrets at all. In fact, it was becoming quite clear that if it were not for the sad purpose of their eastward journey, Scott would have been very much looking forward to returning to Boston.
<<“You just make sure and bring him back.”>>
When Johnny had whispered those words into her ear, she’d thought he was joking; of course Scott would come back to Lancer. But now, lying here in the dark, she was afraid. Scott had family in Boston, and friends. It sounded as if there were so many things to do there—the theater and the symphony, dances and dinner parties. He’d talked about taking her shopping in the city, had mentioned dining at several favorite restaurants. What if Scott had had his fill of herding cattle and clearing streams and drinking warm beer at the saloon in Green River? She was certainly well aware of how much he disliked the dust and heat of California.
And now Scott knew that Murdoch hadn’t sent that Pinkerton agent. His “invitation” to Lancer hadn’t been from his father after all.
And that was her fault.
Teresa wasn’t sure if she’d allowed an unhappy sound to escape her lips, but she pressed them firmly together when she heard the rustle of movement in the other bed.
The bed she was sleeping in had been formed from two plush armchairs. Each evening, George or one of the other porters knocked and requested permission to set up the drawing room for sleeping. The curtains were drawn and pillows, sheets and blankets removed from overhead storage compartments. The sofa pulled out into a very roomy bed and Teresa had slept in that one the first night. Each drawing room could accommodate four people, but since Scott was still using a berth in the adjacent sleeping car, Teresa had had the space to herself.
Then, last night, they had dined with the Miss Harringtons, two middle-aged sisters from New York state, Miss Virginia and Miss Louisa. The dining car had been added to the train in Ogden and in Teresa’s mind it rivaled even Sacramento’s Eagle Restaurant in elegance.
The compact kitchen occupied the center of the dining car. Teresa had had a glimpse inside; she couldn’t imagine how so much food could possibly be stored and prepared in such a small space. There were dining rooms at either end of the car, finished in black walnut and well lighted by large hanging lamps. The tables were covered with beautiful snow-white linen cloths and were each set with silverware, china and crystal glasses for four people. Each dining room held six tables; when Scott and Teresa had entered the car, Miss Louisa had waved them over and invited them to join her and her sister at their table; they had previously become acquainted while dining at one of the eating houses.
Miss Louisa and Miss Virginia were aspiring travel writers, hoping to write a guide for ladies planning excursions across the country by train. The two sisters were apparently from a somewhat moneyed family, were well-read and peppered their conversation with phrases from a smattering of languages. Miss Louisa had previously informed them that her sister was a “très” talented watercolorist and cellist, while Miss Virginia had extolled Louisa’s ability as a pianist. She had also assured them that her older sister was quite an accomplished gardener, as well as something of an authority on ferns. Most entertaining, to Teresa at least, the two ladies had vied to outdo each other in describing their misadventures in the kitchen; it seemed that one thing that neither woman could do was cook.
As usual, Scott had helped her with her seat, and he’d hardly settled in his own chair beside her before the Harringtons had started asking questions about their drawing room. Scott had politely invited them to visit and see the compartment for themselves. After much protestation, insisting that they “didn’t wish to intrude,” the sisters had happily accepted. And before they had finished the main course, Teresa had invited them to leave behind their berths in the sleeping car to occupy the double bed in the drawing room.
She’d hesitated; after all, Scott had hired the room, and he was paying fifty dollars for it. But she’d caught his eye when Miss Louisa was bemoaning the noise and discomforts of the sleeping car and Scott had smiled and nodded his encouragement.
“For shame, Sister!” Miss Virginia had said, scolding Louisa and accusing her of hinting for just such an invitation. Red-faced, Miss Louisa had quickly apologized and insisted that they couldn’t possibly impose in such a manner.
Then there had been an awkward silence, into which Scott had inserted a smooth assurance that as the space was available, it would be no imposition at all. Both of the women had smiled happily and thanked “Mr. Lancer” profusely for his kindness. On her side, Teresa had made sure the first evening to emphasize to the sisters that Scott would need quiet and privacy each day in order to work on his eulogy. The next morning, she’d risked being rude by reminding them again, and had been gratified when they had vacated the compartment promptly and stayed away during the day.
Now, the Harrington sisters were apparently sleeping soundly, while Teresa continued to lie awake, thinking about Scott and Boston, wondering about his grandfather and Murdoch. She kept recalling different parts of conversations she had had with Scott; in particular, painfully reliving her revelation about Dr. Jenkins having hired the Pinkerton agent. And she kept hearing Johnny’s voice, telling her to be sure to bring Scott back.
Teresa squeezed the pillow more tightly and tried to quiet those voices inside her head. She told herself not to worry, things always seemed worse in the night. She reminded herself that Scott had chosen to come West, and decided to stay. He had to come back. She knew him, and she knew he was happy living with them at Lancer.
But Johnny knew Scott better than anyone; if Johnny was worried, then perhaps she should be too.
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 12.
“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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“Sending for that boy was one of the smartest things you ever did, Murdoch.”
Murdoch had merely nodded in response to Sam’s comment; it was exactly the kind of blunt statement that Sam Jenkins didn’t shy away from making, no matter who was sitting across the table.
Sam had been out early to help deliver the Ramos baby, and had stopped in on his way back to town. The plain-spoken country doctor had easily been persuaded to join them for dinner. In the course of the mid-day meal, they’d discussed Scott and his trip to Boston; Sam hadn’t heard the news about Garrett’s passing and had numerous questions about the impact the event was likely to have on Scott. Johnny seemed to know a good deal about Harlan’s will and all that Scott was in line to inherit from his grandfather.
Once he’d finished eating, Johnny headed back to work while the two older men lingered. Although it was a bit early in the day for it, Murdoch poured himself a half tumbler of scotch, and then moved to one of the blue armchairs, while Sam seemed content with another cup of Maria’s strong dark coffee. Murdoch waited as his friend remained at the table a moment, thoughtfully stirring in his customary single level teaspoon of sugar before joining him in the sitting area.
Once settled on the sofa, Sam took a few appreciative sips before he finally spoke.
“So Murdoch, how long do you expect Scott to be away?”
“That’s hard to say, Sam. He has a lot of things to take care of. I’d say he’ll be gone a month, at least.”
Sam carefully placed his half empty cup and saucer on the side table near the sofa, and then turned the full force of his steely-eyed gaze upon Murdoch.
“If I read the boy right, Johnny’s worried. Is there any chance that Scott might not be coming back?”
“He’ll be back, Sam, I’m sure of that.”
Sam continued to stare at him, unblinking. Murdoch stubbornly waited for his old friend to ask a question, to openly express his clearly held doubt.
“What makes you so sure?” Sam asked with a sigh.
Murdoch lowered his eyes, taking no pleasure in this particular victory. “He has Teresa with him,” he said evenly. Then he finished his scotch.
Sam shook his head, a disapproving expression taking hold of his angular features. “So Scott has to bring her home, is that it? Was that your idea?”
“No. Scott invited her to go with him.” Murdoch sighed as he set aside his empty glass. “Originally, Johnny and I planned to follow them, but we would have needed to leave today to get to Boston in time for the memorial service. And we would have had to come straight back.”
“It would have been a lot of traveling.”
Murdoch nodded. He considered refilling his glass, actually filling it this time, but decided to wait until after Sam had left. Sam reached for his coffee cup once more, stirred what remained and then savored it before speaking again.
“You were very lucky, Murdoch, that Scott was willing to listen to that agent, and came out here. Best thing that could have happened, if you ask me.” There was a chinking sound as Sam set the cup back on its saucer. “Too bad you were stubborn enough to wait until you were practically dead before you finally decided to send for him.”
Murdoch had spent the last several days chewing upon the things he should have done differently when Scott was a child, dwelling upon the now pressing need to talk to his son about the past. He’d somehow mostly avoided thoughts of more recent failures. But there it was again, the other piece.
“Well . . . I didn’t, Sam.”
Sam snorted. “Didn’t die? No, you didn’t and I’d put that down to stubbornness as well. It was a touchy business, taking that bullet out.”
“I didn’t decide to send for him.”
“What do you mean? Teresa told me—”
“I told Teresa to send word to Scott if I *didn’t * make it.”
“Now, that’s not what the girl told me—”
“I know, Sam. She lied----and I’m glad, damned glad, she did.”
“Well. I never . . . well, it’s a wonder Scott came, the message we sent.”
Sam drained his cup. Then, shaking his head, he slowly rose and moved to refill it from the coffee pot that still sat on the dining table. Murdoch watched him repeat his ritual with the sugar.
When Sam returned, instead of resuming his seat, he stood sipping at his coffee, looking down at Murdoch speculatively. “First he’d ever heard from you, isn’t that right?”
“Sam, Garrett would never have let Scott read a letter from me.”
Sam shrugged, and set his cup down on the side table. “I suppose that was true enough, when he was a child.”
Despite the thoughtful tone, his friend’s words stung just as much as any finger-pointing accusation. Murdoch made no effort to hide his irritation. If he wanted another drink he was damn well going to pour himself one, and it didn’t matter if Sam Jenkins had anything to say about it. In fact, if Sam had any comments to make about how stiffly he lifted himself out of his chair, or the fact that he was limping as he stepped over to the liquor table, then let him. The long days were taking their toll; Murdoch knew he was in no shape to go traveling across the country.
Murdoch waited for Sam to make some caustic remark, but when he looked back over his shoulder, his friend was preoccupied with wiping his bulbous nose with a handkerchief. After deliberately repocketing the fabric square, Sam reached for his coffee cup again.
“You did go to Boston, once?”
The question prompted Murdoch to turn his attention to refilling his still empty glass. It was another one of Sam’s annoying habits, asking questions when he already knew the answers. When Johnny was born, Sam Jenkins was just starting up his practice; he’d delivered the baby believing he was Murdoch’s first child. The two men hadn’t been well acquainted back then, but Sam most certainly did know about that wasted trip east.
“It was after Maria left, wasn’t it?”
Murdoch set the cut glass decanter down on the table with considerably more force than he’d intended.
“I went again, a few years later. I didn’t tell anyone.”
“And?”
“And, Scott wasn’t there. He was visiting relatives. I stayed with an old friend. I’m sure Harlan never even knew I was in town.”
“Does Scott know?”
“No. At least, I haven’t told him,” Murdoch added glumly.
“Well, I think you should.”
Sam was right, of course, not that that made it any easier to hear. Johnny had said much the same thing, that he and Scott “had ta talk.”
Murdoch couldn’t deny the truth of that, any more than he could deny that the conversation should have taken place a long time ago. And he should have written letters, of course he knew that too, had tried to so many times over the years. He’d never known quite where to begin, never known how to explain things to a child. And if he had actually sent a letter, how, after all, would he ever have known if it had arrived safely in Boston, let alone made it’s way into Scott’s hands? Still, with each passing year, he’d been burdened with the ever increasing weight of what he “should do.” Finally, with his son’s twenty-first birthday looming, Murdoch had found a new determination, valiantly struggling to write page after page, only to send them crumpling to the floor in anger and frustration. He was a stranger to his son; what reason did he have to think the young man would have the least interest in anything he had to say? Murdoch had come to view it as his one last opportunity, certain that if he ever actually sent a letter to Scott, that would be the end of it. Since he had no real expectation of receiving a reply, Murdoch steeled himself to endure the anticipated silence of rejection, and swore that he would never try again.
Perhaps that was why he hadn’t been able to bring himself to finish writing that letter.
It had been easy, when Scott was a child, to self-righteously refuse to send any messages that would prompt a response from Harlan, exulting over how much the boy was thriving in his care. Convinced that Garrett would have withheld from Scott any and all communications from California, Murdoch had resolved to deny his former father-in-law that small satisfaction as well.
He’d only deviated from that course once. A few years after his second wasted trip East, Murdoch had decided that his son was old enough, and so had swallowed his pride and sent a letter to Boston, inviting Scott to the ranch for the summer. It would have been a long, difficult trip, but he’d thought to forestall Garrett’s objections by offering to meet the boy en route or even travel all the way to Boston himself, if need be. The journey wouldn’t have been dangerous at that time of year, at least not until they reached the mountains. He’d promised that Scott would be back in plenty of time to resume his studies in the fall. After ruminating over the plan for months, Murdoch finally sat down and wrote a letter, sending it into town with one of the hands the very next day, before he could change his mind.
Of course, he’d expected it might be a month or more before he would have a reply. He’d spent that time alternately regretting offering Garrett the opportunity of a summary refusal, and worrying that the man might actually agree and the boy would come—and be utterly miserable. As months passed, he repeatedly interrogated the hapless ranch hand he’d entrusted with the missive—Tom something or other, the man had moved on by the next season. Murdoch had been consumed by impotent anger and, finally, despair, believing that Garret hadn’t even deigned to respond.
But weeks after he’d given up hope, when the summer was already half spent, an envelope finally arrived from Boston. It contained a politely formal explanation that “Scotty’s” plans for the summer had already been made well in advance, that he “always” spent time with Harlan’s half-sister, Cecilia Holmes, and her husband up in Maine. The following summer would include as well a trip to Canada with friends, and then after that Harlan himself planned to take his grandson on a tour of the Continent. There were a few lines extolling the benefits of European travel. Garrett had concluded the brief letter with an assurance that it was doubtful that “Scotty” would be very much interested in visiting a ranch.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried. He had, dammit! Two humiliating trips to Boston, a rejected invitation. Back then, it had seemed like too much, but now Murdoch knew that it hadn’t been nearly enough. And he hadn’t wanted to admit to Scott how little he’d done.
But Scott had never asked, Murdoch reminded himself defensively, only the one time, and then he’d never raised the question again. Of course, that meant Scott had assumed there was nothing to be said. Or else that he’d gotten his answers, elsewhere.
After Sam had finished his second cup of coffee and headed back to town, Murdoch sat for a long time with only his dark and brooding thoughts for company. Sitting in the daylight this time, and now he could see his course more clearly. Moving to the chair behind his big desk, Murdoch purposefully cleared off the polished surface. Carefully assembling writing paper, pen, ink and blotter, he started to write a letter, one that was many years over due.
He worked steadily throughout the afternoon, and was just signing his name when Johnny came in for supper.
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Throughout the afternoon, Scott watched the passing scenery, enjoying the increasing familiarity of the countryside. Not that he recognized the particular areas through which they were passing, but the forests, fields, trees and hills, reminded him of New England, even though they had yet to officially enter his home territory. The train would arrive in New York City quite early the next morning and in Boston some five hours after that.
They’d already dined and the porter had made up the drawing room beds; the Harrington sisters wished to retire early in preparation for disembarking from the train the next day. So Scott sat here in the common area of the parlor car looking out the window as the sun slowly set. Now that the lamps inside the car were lit he could no longer actually see anything outside, but that wasn’t what he’d stared at for the past hour anyway. Scott found that as they drew nearer to Boston, he was becoming more preoccupied with memories of growing up on Beacon Hill.
He looked forward to his reunion with Aunt Cecilia and the various members of his grandfather’s household staff, a few of whom had been employed for as long as Scott could remember. What was difficult to imagine was entering that house knowing that Grandfather wouldn’t be there.
Teresa shifted slightly in her seat; she’d sat quietly beside him for the last hour or so. He’d been well aware of the furtive, concerned looks she’d been sending in his direction for the past several days, and reasoned that she still felt unhappy about her revelation concerning his summons to Lancer. Scott himself had tried, unsuccessfully, to put it out of his mind; it certainly wouldn’t have helped to talk more about it. They’d said all there was to say.
He had thought a bit about Teresa’s question—did it really matter who had sent the agent? An emphatic “yes” had been his initial mental response, but after giving it some thought, he was less sure. Learning that the ‘invitation’ had been extended by well-meaning friends might actually be an improvement over believing that Murdoch Lancer had finally sent for him simply because he needed another gun to help defend his ranch. Giving the man the benefit of the doubt, perhaps his father had refrained from contacting him at that time precisely to avoid the appearance of only doing so out of need.
<<”My father.”>> Those words evoked very different feelings now than they had only a few years before. Almost immediately, Scott had been favorably impressed both by Murdoch’s accomplishments and the obvious loyalty he commanded from his men. Over time, Scott’s sincere admiration had been joined by affection, even if he still couldn’t quite imagine calling Murdoch “Father.” He did, however, often address Murdoch, very deliberately as “Sir.” As a child, Scott had been told that “Sir” was the ‘proper’ title for any older gentleman, and of course it had been expected for officers in the army. But once his military service had ended, Scott had resolved that he would in the future reserve the term only for men who had actually earned his respect. Murdoch Lancer had done so.
Scott had thought the feeling was mutual, but the rebuff he’d been given when he’d finally asked Murdoch why he’d never come to Boston had for a time called that into doubt. Now, having learned the truth about his summons to the ranch, Scott couldn’t help but wonder how his father truly felt about him, and what other secrets were yet to be revealed. Scott would never regret having met the man, but the question still remained whether or not, left to his own devices, Murdoch would have ever sent for him.
It wasn’t a question that anyone could answer. Weary of the wing beats of his own ever-circling thoughts, Scott wished to be free of the confines of the train, with its constant noise and motion. He’d welcome equally the opportunity to ride the range or to walk along city streets. Instead, he turned to Teresa with a question about her thoughts on train travel, now that she’d “done so much of it.” She smiled warmly, responding with a fine approximation of her customary enthusiasm.
“But I suppose that it’s no longer very exciting for you,” she added.
“I have spent considerable time on trains.”
“Really? How old were you when you took your first trip?”
Scott had to consider that for a moment. “Well, we sometimes took the train north to visit Aunt Cecilia and her husband at holidays, and in the summer. I must have been about seven or eight years old, the first time I traveled to Maine on my own.”
“All alone?”
Scott grinned. “Yes, and it seemed like a great adventure at the time. But Grandfather put me on the train in Boston and Uncle Elwood was waiting at the station in Brunswick to take me off. Then they reversed the process, for the return trip.”
“How far is it?”
“I’m not sure of the distance, in miles. But I’ve heard that when Aunt Cecilia first married, the trip took them two and a half days. Now, it’s only six hours.”
“It’s nice that your grandfather was always there waiting for you.”
“Well . . . not always. Once I was older, it would be our driver, James, who would wait on the platform. Grandfather would stay in the carriage, or if it was during the work day, wait for James to bring me round to his office.”
“Will he—James---be waiting for us when we get there?”
“Yes. I’ve already asked the conductor to have a wire sent from New York, letting Aunt Cee know the time of our arrival.”
Scott had been sitting with his hands lightly clasped and resting on his thighs. Now he studied his hands for a moment, remembering. Sighing, Scott stared once more through the darkened pane of glass.
“The last time Grandfather met me at the station, I was coming home from the War.”
When Teresa didn’t reply right away, Scott dared hope that he hadn’t uttered the thought aloud. Though they’d often talked about their pasts, he’d always carefully kept the conversation away from any references to the War, and particularly anything that might touch upon his imprisonment.
“You . . . you must have been so happy to see each other again.”
Scott nodded soberly, without looking at her. “He was waiting on the platform that time, I saw him from the window as the car moved past.”
What Scott couldn’t try to explain was what he’d actually felt when he’d seen Grandfather there waiting. He wasn’t sure that he’d ever understood it himself, exactly, the reasons why he felt ashamed. Despite having eagerly anticipated arriving in Boston, despite his absolute joy at the thought of being in familiar, comfortable and safe surroundings once more, Scott had suddenly been reluctant to leave the confines of the railroad car. He had, in fact, remained motionless in his seat until all of the other passengers had departed.
“I’m sure you couldn’t wait to get off the train.”
“No,” he’d said, and then lapsed into silence.
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When Scott finally stepped out onto the platform, he entered a whirl of motion, with people hurrying about, some of them struggling under the weight of their traveling bags, their clothing buffeted by the stiff spring breeze.
He himself was empty handed; the thread-bare coat and ill-fitting uniform he’d been given upon his release from Libby fluttered about his gaunt frame. The long hair in front of his eyes obscured his view. Pushing the blond strands away from his face, Scott had no difficulty making out his grandfather’s stiffly erect form some distance down the platform, a solitary island in a sea of movement.
Grandfather faced away from him, looking in the opposite direction as Scott started walking towards him. Other passengers were being welcomed with warm smiles and hugs. Scott had to weave his way through groups of people loudly and happily exchanging greetings. Finally, his grandfather turned towards him, eagerly searching. But there was no sign of recognition, not right away.
Scott couldn’t blame Grandfather for that; when he looked in a mirror he had a hard time recognizing himself. He’d tried hard to scrub away the filth, and on the surface he had, but he knew the stain had gone deeper; perhaps that was why he’d kept the protective layer of beard, trimming it instead of shaving it all away. His face had changed in other ways as well. He wasn’t the same—how could he be? Anyone who looked into his eyes would know.
Resolutely, Scott continued his approach, willing himself not to falter when he drew close enough to see the uncharacteristic display of emotion on the older man’s face. Willing himself to conceal his dismay at how much his grandfather had aged.
Coming to a halt, a few feet way, Scott had to bow his head when Grandfather spoke his name, embarrassed by both the familiar diminutive and his own emotional reaction to it. His hands remained thrust deep in the pockets of his second-hand coat when his grandfather reached out to awkwardly pat his shoulder.
“Scotty?”
Grandfather repeated the name, a note of uncertainty in his voice.
They exchanged a few formal words of greeting; Grandfather was pleased to see him, Scott was happy to be home. The crowd continued to surge around them.
“And where are your bags, Scotty?”
“I . . . don’t have any, Sir.”
And with that, Grandfather took charge, forcefully escorting Scott to the carriage and directing James to take them home “straight away.”
The driver held the door, smiling broadly. “Welcome back, Master Scott. It sure is good to see you home.”
Scott managed a quick, “Thank you, James,” and then Grandfather was urging him inside.
Once they were settled, Scott near the window, and his grandfather seated beside him, the older man had tried to combat the lengthening silence with a battery of matter-of-fact statements. Scott half listened while Grandfather informed him that the entire staff would be waiting to welcome him; Mrs. Hudson had a special supper prepared. His grandfather mentioned that a new gardener had been hired, with elaborate plans for plantings later in the spring. He observed that Scott would no doubt immediately notice the new shutters, but assured him that nothing inside the house had been changed.
Scott nodded woodenly, staring out the window at the familiar cityscape while Grandfather forged on, for some reason eschewing his favorite topics of business and politics. Instead he relayed the news that an elderly cousin had passed away last winter, there’d been less snow than usual this year, countless friends and acquaintances had asked after him. An awkward silence ensued once the arsenal of information was depleted. Surely the past year in Boston could not have been so uneventful?
“Grandfather . . . tell me . . .”
“Yes, Scotty?”
“Tell me who won’t be coming back.”
There was a long pause, and for a moment, Scott thought that he might have to ask again. Then, slowly, tentatively, his grandfather began to list the names of the fallen. There were so many names, too many, but only some of them were painfully familiar. There were social acquaintances, such as Robert Emmett, killed at Bull Run. Andrew Smith, a former employee, had died on another battlefield. Other men were identified by the names of those they’d left behind. Mrs. Hudson, their long time cook, had lost a nephew; their neighbor Mrs. Wilmot mourned her husband, an officer in the infantry. Thankfully, there was no mention of any close friends, like John Hayford who’d died at Gettysburg prior to Scott’s own enlistment. The litany ended with a reference to Simon Merrill, one of Grandfather’s business associates, whose own grandson had died in captivity, in Andersonville.
“Thank you, Sir. I . . . wanted to know.”
Grandfather didn’t say anything, though Scott thought he might have nodded. He himself sat motionless, still looking out the window with his hands loosely clasped and resting on his thighs. They’d entered an area of imposing brick structures, much like their own residence. When he felt his grandfather reach for him, Scott blinked hard to keep those passing houses in view. For the remainder of the trip home, he held on tightly.
When the carriage turned into the drive, his grandfather was still holding his hand.
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