By Chris W. and Sharon C.
Teresa O’Brien carefully picked up the cup and saucer of fragrant, steaming tea and prepared to exit the Lancer kitchen, smiling over her shoulder at Senora Maria and assuring the older woman that she would be returning shortly. The kitchen had been tidied, the breakfast items cleared away, and Murdoch Lancer’s dark-haired young ward was happily anticipating a few quiet moments before starting the day’s household tasks.
The previous day had been devoted to laundry, a fortunate circumstance in view of this morning’s already high humidity. Since today Senora Maria planned to be occupied with ironing, the baking would, of necessity, fall to Teresa. Later, there would be lunch to prepare and a list to write for the upcoming excursion into Green River for supplies. Teresa was also hoping to find time that evening to write a letter to Melissa Harper in San Francisco so it could be posted during the trip to town. The young woman had decided to reread Melissa’s latest lengthy missive over a cup of tea in order to be able to consider her reply while rolling out the biscuits.
Melissa Harper, formerly of Boston and now residing in California with her Aunt Kate, was the daughter of Murdoch’s old friend Jim. So that he might read Melissa’s description of life in San Francisco, Teresa had left the folded pages on her guardian’s desk. She proceeded slowly down the passageway, holding the saucer before her with both hands and hoping that she would be able to locate the letter amongst Murdoch’s collections of paperwork. Teresa suddenly halted when she heard the sound of angry voices emanating from the Lancer Great Room.
“So we ain’t goin’ to talk about this?”
“I’ve told you what needs to happen!”
“Well, maybe I don’t see it that way.”
“I’ve made my decision!”
Teresa closed her eyes in dismay. She easily identified Johnny, who was using his “Madrid voice,” icy cold and deceptively soft. Murdoch Lancer’s tone was decidedly hotter and louder, although the older man was clearly straining to maintain self-control.
“So what I think just ain’t important.”
“When you’ve been at this as long as I have—”
“Like that’s ever goin’ to happen!”
At the sound of quick, angry footsteps moving towards the front door of the hacienda, Teresa drew closer to the wall. The faint jingle of spurs marked the steps as Johnny’s even before the figure of Murdoch’s younger son entered her line of vision. He stopped to snatch his gun belt from the hat stand in the entryway, barely glancing back towards the room at the sound of his name uttered in a remonstrating tone by a familiar, calm voice. “Johnny. . . .”
Teresa practically sighed in relief. <<Scott is with them. Scott will smooth things over, make those two see reason . . .>>
The young woman’s newborn hope was instantly crushed as Johnny, who had been intent upon hastily strapping his weapon about his hips, now took a few quick steps back into the Great Room, harshly interrupting Scott’s mild suggestion that the three of them sit down and finish their discussion.
“The way I see it, we never started a ‘discussion’ so there ain’t nothin’ t’finish!”
“Look, Johnny, perhaps—”
“Look, Boston, why don’t you just stay outta this!? Mebbe you don’t see nothin’ wrong with salutin’ and followin’ orders, but I do!” Grabbing his hat with one hand as he swung the heavy front door open with the other, Johnny Lancer exited without a backwards glance, slamming the door forcefully behind him.
The wooden sound was still reverberating in her ears, when Teresa heard Scott begin again.
“Listen, Murdoch, I think that—”
“Scott, don’t! Johnny needs to stop questioning everything and do as he’s told . . . and you . . . you need to stop trying to cover for him! You just encourage him!”
Murdoch’s heated interjections were followed by the sound of more angry footsteps, this time moving away from Teresa, and she guessed that her guardian was about to exit the glass-paned French doors. This assumption was confirmed by the sound of another door slamming—a lighter sound, different from that of the heavy carved wooden panel through which Johnny had so recently departed, but equally vehement.
Both Johnny and Murdoch had somehow sounded almost angrier with Scott than they had been with each other. <<Poor Scott>> Teresa thought sadly as she stared into her teacup, then squared her shoulders and stepped with a determined air towards the entrance to the Great Room.
Clad in his customary beige-checked work shirt and dark trousers, Scott Lancer was standing motionless and alone in the center of the large space, his attention apparently intent upon the band of his hat, which he held in two strong hands, one gripping the crown while the other grasped the brim. Beyond Scott’s bowed head and pensive profile, Teresa could see that one of the French doors was standing ajar, evidently having bounced open in the wake of his father’s angry exit.
As Teresa stepped through the entryway, still bearing her cup of rapidly cooling tea, the blond head snapped up and the pursed lips and discouraged expression were quickly replaced by a welcoming look, although Teresa couldn’t help but notice that Scott didn’t smile. <<He looks so tired,>> she thought regretfully, <<and the day hasn’t even begun.>>
“Good morning, Teresa,” he said, greeting her with his usual pronunciation of her name, “Teh-RAY-sa.”
A wisp of a smile betrayed her delight at the elegant nuance. “Good morning, Scott,” she replied brightly, momentarily disconcerted that both of them were behaving as if they were encountering each other for the first time that day, ignoring the fact that they had engaged in pleasant conversation over breakfast. Of course, even then, they each had been seeking shelter from the storm that was brewing between Johnny and Murdoch. Teresa masked her concern for Scott by busying herself setting her cup and saucer down on the table by the blue chair, then continuing past him to close the glass-paned door with a firm click.
Turning back to face the silent young man, she discovered that he was watching her carefully. “So what are you going to do today?” she asked cheerfully, quickly smoothing her rose-colored skirt with both hands before she walked back across the room.
Gesturing with the hat in one hand, Scott responded that he was heading out to the south pasture to finish stringing wire on the fence posts which had been laid in the previous day.
“You’re doing that alone?” the petite brunette asked skeptically as she settled into the armchair and curled her legs up beneath her. “That sounds like a big job.”
In a characteristic movement, Scott glanced down at the floor before meeting her eyes, addressing the tone of her question as well as the words.
“We ran out of wire yesterday, or it would have been finished,” he explained ruefully, and Teresa instantly guessed that Scott had shouldered the responsibility for that miscalculation. “It will take me most of the day, but it frees up a crew for other things.”
Teresa nodded as she reached for her tea. At supper the previous evening, Murdoch had expressed his growing concerns about the current shortage of able hands. Exacerbating the situation, young Walt had been injured in a fall a few days ago, while two or three other men were sick, laid low by some illness that was going around. And a pair of hardworking brothers, having received bad news about a family member, had simply up and left.
Easing his hat onto his head, Scott murmured that he’d better be going. “I’ll see you this evening.”
“Bye, Scott.”
Collecting his own gun belt from the hat stand by the front door, Scott turned and departed for the kitchen. Since his parting comment indicated that he did not intend to return to the hacienda for the midday meal, Teresa assumed that Senora Maria, who had a marked fondness for her employer’s elder son, had prepared a generous lunch for him to carry along to the worksite.
Teresa knew first hand that the Lancer cook was not the only woman who found Scott Lancer intriguing. His Eastern manners and calm, serious demeanor set him apart from so many of the men she knew, his father and brother included. Not that Scott didn’t have a temper, of course he did, and she’d seen that first hand. And he wasn’t one to stand by when a situation called for action.
Teresa took a quick sip of her tea. Frowning in disappointment at the now almost lukewarm beverage, she paused for a moment to contemplate the pale liquid in the delicate teacup. With a sigh, she reluctantly returned it to its saucer and then slowly stood and headed towards Murdoch’s desk. There was Melissa Harper’s letter, in plain sight, resting atop a stack of mail. But rather than returning to the blue armchair and her now unappealing tea, Teresa instead took possession of Murdoch’s big leather desk chair.
Absently tapping the edge of the large desk top with the envelope, Teresa couldn’t help thinking about Scott. She was worried about him. It seemed that he was too often caught between his father and his brother, especially when the two of them disagreed.
Teresa knew that when Murdoch’s sons had first arrived, there had been a great deal of concern over whether or not either of them would stay. The three strong-willed men hadn’t gotten along perfectly; there had even been a time when Johnny left. Scott had never openly expressed dissatisfaction to the same extent, or perhaps his nice, polite manner and his habit of addressing Murdoch as “Sir” had the effect of tempering his own objections. Despite the fact that he actually had a home to return to, no one had seemed to worry very much that Scott might leave.
Perhaps they didn’t realize how much they each needed him? She herself had come to count upon Scott—to say the right thing, do the right thing or just to listen with a sympathetic ear and then offer a word of assurance or encouragement. Often times, he’d effectively intervened when Johnny and Murdoch had disagreed—but apparently not this morning.
While there was no question in her mind that both Murdoch and Johnny had genuine respect and affection for Scott, sometimes Teresa feared that they took the Easterner for granted.
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Arriving at the previous day’s worksite, Scott Lancer reined in the draft horse that, in light of its lot in life, he’d whimsically christened “Armstrong.” Setting his hat back on the crown of his head, he studied the line of fence posts that stood waiting to be girded in strands of wire. There was more bare wood than he remembered.
The new style of wire they were using here had sharp metal points interspersed along its length, a fairly recent innovation. The older fenced areas on the ranch had but a single strand of smooth wire, which was too often singularly ineffective in keeping wayward cattle out of places where they didn’t belong. The hands were constantly riding the fence line to check for places where the wire had been broken by the weight of some stubborn animal pressing against it. The wire that Scott would be working with was comprised of a twisted double strand that acted as a cable for the flat, double-pointed pieces of metal distributed along its length. An experienced horseman, Scott had yet to develop an appreciation for cattle. Sometimes it seemed as if a thousand head of cattle might have but one brain amongst them. One thing was certain; contact with these man-made “thorns” would be painful enough to teach even the densest bovine to keep its distance.
The remaining section of fence along this gully was less than two hundred yards long, but it would be a tedious, difficult job for a lone man. Scott speculated that he should be able to complete the task by mid afternoon then catch up with one of the other work crews to finish out the long day. After drawing the wagon up to where they’d stopped work the previous day, he methodically set about removing the tools from the rear of the bed—the wire stretchers, the cutters, hammer, nails. Before hefting the two large coils of wire, Scott exchanged his usual work gloves for a much thicker pair that would afford greater protection from the metal points.
Clambering up into the wagon once more, he drove along the line of bare posts, planning to leave the vehicle at the spot where he would eventually finish up. There was a large, shady tree there under which he could stake the horse. With a lot of effort and perhaps a little luck, he might even make back it to that spot by lunchtime.
Once he’d unhitched the animal, Scott gave Armstrong a friendly pat and then set off on foot back down the fence line. He’d managed only a few steps before he decided that he didn’t need to be encumbered with his gun belt. Divesting himself of the weapon, he draped the belt over the brake handle of the wagon before setting off down the line once more.
As he contemplated the task ahead of him, Scott realized that he actually was glad to have the physically challenging job. It would keep his mind off the less than auspicious start of the day. Well, maybe not. Here he was “mending fences,” just as he’d tried to do earlier that morning.
<<Tried?>> He shook his head at that; he’d been singularly ineffective.
As he walked along, he contemplated the array of wooden fence posts. They were solid, rooted, unbending. And rather tall. Who did that seem like? He smiled ruefully to himself at the irreverent thought.
This straight line of wood and wire was so stark, a contrast to the meandering stone walls of his native New England. Not that you saw many of them in Boston, no, there you found stately brick walls and wrought iron gates. Where Murdoch was a wooden post, he mused, perhaps Grandfather would be a stone pillar. Equally unbending.
Teresa, now Teresa would be a hedge, soft and flowering, he thought as he arrived at his starting point.
It was time to put those entertaining thoughts aside. He was still new enough to this task that it would require his full concentration. Scott set to work laying out the first of the three strings of wire that he would attach to the fence posts. This new-style “barbed” wiring was tricky to work with. The coils were heavy and cumbersome. Then there were those sharp metal points. Scott counted at least three scratches he’d acquired the previous day. Picking up the hammer and a handful of nails, he started to attach the wire to the first post.
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Well into the job now, Scott dropped the wire stretchers and stopped to assess his progress. Both the bottom and middle wires were attached to this particular post, only one more strand to go. Then another one, two, three . . . eleven more fence posts. Then he’d be finished and, best of all, he’d be back at the big tree. He could see the fortunate Armstrong grazing in the blessed shade.
Not that it was really sunny, but more hazy. And humid. The changing color of the distant sky might even hold the promise of rain later in the day, he surmised. But right now, Scott was hot, dirty and thirsty. Drops of perspiration dripped from the fringe of his hair, dampening his collar. His wrists and hands, slick with sweat within the stiff, heavy gloves, itched from bits of chaff and dirt that had fallen inside the cuffs, but it would be too much effort to stop now to tug them off and then worry them back on again. He was tired and it didn’t help that the air was so heavy.
Drops of sweat rolled down the side of his face, more was edging towards his eyes. Removing his hat, he swiped at his forehead with the rolled fabric of his shirtsleeve, just above the cuff of the gauntlet on his left hand. Promising himself the reward of a drink from his canteen as soon as he’d finished with the post before him, he went back to work, grunting with the effort necessary to pull the wire tight enough.
Once that post was finished, he took a long drink before starting to move his tools and materials down the fence line. As he trudged back and forth between the two posts, Scott’s thoughts turned to his father and brother once more. Was this what it was like sometimes, going back and forth between them? Or was it more often like this morning, being caught in the crosswinds?
As he began tugging at the wire to get the bottom strand in place, he recalled his earlier assessment that Murdoch in some ways resembled this wooden post. And Grandfather . . . and Teresa . . . . But what about Johnny? Perhaps the analogy failed with his brother; Scott couldn’t immediately think of a type of fence or wall that could describe the younger man. Then he looked down at the heavy wire in his gloved hands, and grinned.
Was that it, did Johnny resemble the wire? Johnny was certainly tough, but not as tough as he had appeared to be at first. There were those sharp points. Scott felt that he was getting much better at reading his brother, but still sometimes Johnny would catch him by surprise. As Scott forced the wire into place then strained to reach the hammer, another thought occurred. Maybe Johnny represented the antithesis of the wire, twisting away from restrictions, refusing to be bent to their father’s will, wary of attachment. And therein was the rub. Neither man would budge, enough. What, he wondered, would it take to get them to work together?
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Only a few more posts to go. It was near time to stop for lunch, but Scott had already decided that he couldn’t do that, settling for another long drink from the canteen instead. The job had gone more quickly than he’d dared hope, in part because he had been pushing so hard. And he’d been pushing so hard because the sky was looking distinctly more ominous. As much as he didn’t want to be out in the open when the storm hit, neither did Scott want to return to the hacienda without being able to report that the work was, finally, done. Truth be told, he really wouldn’t mind getting a little wet—even a lot wet, if necessary—in order to complete the task before packing up and leaving . . . .
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Johnny urged his palomino to a quicker pace as he approached the Lancer arch. Off to his left, he could see the sky had darkened with the approaching storm. He and Cipriano had been heading up a crew, and Johnny had volunteered to ride back and let Jelly know that the crew in the west quarter would be returning to the main compound for the mid-day meal and that there would be no need for anyone to drive all the way out there with the chuck wagon. Clearly, the experienced Lancer segundo believed that there was more than just a bit of rain in store, as Cipriano would never have curtailed the work detail merely out of concern that the men might get a little wet.
It had become progressively more humid. The air seemed to have a weight to it; it felt for all the world as if it were pressing down on him. Casting a glance over his shoulder once more at the threatening sky, Johnny pressed his hat more firmly on his head with one hand while he spurred Barranca on. He wanted to arrive before Jelly started packing things up, in order to avoid being subjected to more of the older man’s bluster than was necessary.
As it turned out, even after he’d relayed his message, Johnny still couldn’t shake Jelly, who trailed horse and rider right on into the stable. Occupied with unsaddling and caring for his animal, Johnny only half listened as his whiskered friend went on and on about the impending storm, which was “goin’ ta be a doozy,” as well as other types of weather he’d seen first hand—hurricanes, twisters, blizzards. That got Johnny’s attention.
“You don’t really think there’s a blizzard comin’ now, do ya, Jelly?” he asked with a grin.
“Well, a course not, it ain’t cold enough. Not yet anyway,” was the emphatic response, then Jelly resumed his narrative of the storms he’d been lucky to survive. He described “wind like ta gouge a man’s eyes out if’n he faced into it” and “rain comin’ down so hard that a fella would drown if he jist opened up his mouth ta say somethin’.” Johnny looked out through the big barn doors. It was hard to imagine that the oppressive stillness would turn into anything like the storms Jelly was describing.
It was only when Jelly had finally run down enough to think about getting back to some chores of his own that Johnny was able to wedge in another question. Nodding towards Scott’s chestnut horse that was moving restlessly about in the next stall, Johnny asked when his brother had returned. “Scott ain’t back yet,” Jelly announced, pleased as always at knowing more than someone else, no matter what the topic. “He took a wagon out this mornin’.”
Although he had no idea how Scott had been planning to spend his day, and wouldn’t have minded knowing, Johnny perversely refused to give Jelly the satisfaction of being able to dispense more information. Abruptly taking his leave of the bewhiskered handyman, he exited the barn and jogged to the front of the hacienda, carrying the buckskin jacket that he hadn’t needed. Depositing his gun belt and hat on the stand just inside the entrance, he ambled into the great room, feeling somewhat relieved to find it was empty. Tossing his tan jacket over the back of one of the sofas, Johnny admitted to himself that he wasn’t especially eager to resume his earlier argument with his father, and particularly not without Scott’s calming presence.
And he did surely regret those shots he’d taken at Scott this morning. It really hadn’t been fair to accuse his brother, the former horse soldier, of “always following orders.” While it seemed as if Scott was more often than not willing to go along with Murdoch’s decisions, the man did ask his share of questions, even offer his share of challenges—he just seemed capable of doing it without turning Murdoch Lancer into some kind of wounded bear. Heaving an audible sigh, Johnny strolled around the room, wondering if maybe after he’d stormed out, Boston had somehow managed to put their father in a milder frame of mind.
It really wasn’t what Murdoch demanded that irritated him, it was how. Johnny didn’t have the least doubt about the extent of the older man’s ability or knowledge. Truth be told, both he and Scott were green enough that they’d willingly go along with Murdoch most of the time, if just given a choice.
Deciding that he needed something and figuring that it was still too early in the day for anything stronger, Johnny headed towards the Lancer kitchen to scrounge up a cup of coffee, though not without first casting a longing glance in the direction of his father’s well-stocked liquor cabinet.
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Carrying his own steaming mug of coffee in one large hand, Murdoch Lancer stepped out the back door of the kitchen to scan the skyline off to the west. It had grown ominously dark and the veteran rancher felt a sense of foreboding. No wonder, he thought wearily, assailed as he was by various aches and pains exacerbated by the weather conditions and worries about being short handed and falling behind in the week’s work. Clearly, the various crews wouldn’t be able to put in anything like a full day today, which would put them even further behind. Dipping his head to slurp up some of the hot beverage, he caught a glimpse of Jelly’s distinctive plaid shirt though the open barn door, and Murdoch decided to seek shelter there.
“Hey Boss.”
“Good mornin’, Jelly.”
“It’s still mornin’ all right, but I can’t hardly say it’s a good’un.”
Murdoch secretly agreed, although he was reluctant to openly echo the other man’s sentiments. Noting that Barranca was munching contentedly in his stall, he asked a question instead. “Johnny back?”
“Sure is. Cipriano sent ‘im back ta say the crew’s comin’ in early. Should be here afore noon.”
Murdoch heaved a sigh, his mind already working on the problem of revising the schedule for the next day. “Well, I’m sure that when he gets back, Cipriano’ll let me know how much they got done.”
“I ‘magine he will.”
Leaving the stable, Murdoch slowly walked around to the front of the hacienda, past the front entrance to the French doors. The changing weather had been bothering his leg and he hoped that a short walk would stretch out some of the tight muscles. Pausing at the double doors, he looked once more in the direction from which Cipriano’s crew would be returning. He knew that Scott had been planning to join up with them after he finished the fencing in the south pasture. Murdoch had to admit to himself that he was reluctant to go inside and risk resuming his argument with Johnny without Scott’s calming presence.
As he entered the great room and slowly closed the glass-paned door behind him, Murdoch regretfully recalled his hasty exit earlier that morning. Although Scott had defended his brother upon occasion, it really hadn’t been fair to accuse him of "covering" for Johnny simply because he’d tried to mediate the argument. But Murdoch hadn’t been willing to stay and discuss the situation with Scott either. In contrast to Johnny, Scott had a more careful approach. His elder son would usually listen patiently and then, like a skilled marksman squeezing off a single shot, pose a question that would delve directly to the heart of the matter. Often, it would be about the very same point that Johnny had already made. It wasn’t really what Johnny said but how that irritated him; Johnny’s swift, rapid-fire spray of questions. But in either case, Murdoch Lancer ended up feeling like a target, standing in the unwelcome position of having to defend himself, to justify decisions that would have gone unquestioned such a short time ago.
Murdoch sighed. Truth be told, he should be grateful that the boys cared enough, were interested enough, to ask questions. Seeing that the Great Room was unoccupied, Murdoch strode directly to the liquor cabinet and added a healthy dose of brandy to his rapidly cooling coffee.
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Surrounded by the aromas of baking biscuits and simmering stew, mingled with the steamy smell of Maria’s ironing, Johnny savored his cup of coffee as he stared out the kitchen window at the storm. It had hit in earnest a few minutes ago, bursting out of anvil-shaped clouds. The rain hammered the window, blown by a fierce wind that made the bushes shudder and the few trees scrape and bow. All this just as Cipriano’s crew pulled up. No luck for the poor ranch hands.
Bracing himself, Johnny eased through the back door of the kitchen to lend a hand with unloading the wagons. He reached the adobe wall before he realized that he was still holding his coffee. The rain was coming down harder now, and he was getting drenched. Rather than carry the cup back inside, he set it on top of the wall and hurried on, ready to joke with the men about how it felt to be putting in a half day. Johnny wondered again where Scott was working that morning, where his brother would be coming from when he finally turned up. Looking around, it was apparent that it no longer mattered; the sky in every direction had the same sullen cast and anyone still out was going to be pretty damp.
Once the tools had been put away and the animals tended to, Johnny stood in the barn talking with the hands until Teresa called him from the kitchen doorway, announcing that it was time for the midday meal. Johnny hurried back inside. Teresa took one look at him and insisted that, before sitting down, he change his wet clothes. With Maria chiming in as well, Johnny knew he was outnumbered, unlikely to be fed unless he complied.
Once he’d reappeared, having changed his trousers and traded his familiar salmon-colored shirt for a soft green one, dinner was finally served. Hearty bowls of the stew that Maria had originally planned to serve for supper, complimented by Teresa’s golden biscuits, proved a most suitable repast, appropriate to the now raging weather.
Their accustomed seats placed both Teresa and Scott between Murdoch and Johnny, though sitting across from her put Scott somewhat out of the direct line of fire. Teresa wished that Scott were here now, but his place opposite her stood empty. Perhaps, she thought, he was in his room, washing up or changing his clothes, which he would need to do if he’d been caught in the storm that was now forcefully assailing the windows. Of course, after his experience that morning, she wouldn’t have blamed Scott one bit if he preferred to avoid his father and brother for a while. The two men had greeted each other civilly enough, but the young woman was not willing to take any chances and quickly steered the conversation towards the next day’s trip into Green River.
It was not until spoons were scraping the bottoms of bowls—a second helping each for both Johnny and Murdoch—that one of them finally commented aloud on Scott’s absence.
“So what d’ya think's holdin’ up Boston?”
“I don’t know, Johnny,” Murdoch replied with furrowed brow. “He was supposed to meet up with you and Cipriano’s group as soon as he finished that south pasture fence.”
“That what he was doin’? He coulda met up with us if we’d a stayed out there all day, maybe.”
“All day? He only had a four or five fence posts to string.”
Johnny snorted. He’d been working in the south pasture with his brother and a number of hands the day before. “Four or five dozen, maybe.”
Murdoch glowered. He’d been displeased that the work hadn’t been completed, but he would never have allowed Scott to undertake such a big job alone; he should have taken at least one other man with him.
“He’s not back yet,” Teresa informed them in a worried voice. “At least, I didn’t hear him come in,” she added as she rose from her seat as if to head upstairs to investigate.
“He’s not up there,” Johnny informed her, and, with a dismayed look out the windows, Teresa sat back down.
“I wonder if he tried to wait this out,” Murdoch mused aloud.
“Well, usually Scott’s smart enough to come in out of the rain—” Johnny offered.
Murdoch eyed the drops of water racing down the windowpanes. “There could have been a problem—”
Then, simultaneously, “Guess I’ll head out . . . .” Both men stopped and looked at each other.
“I’ll go meet up with 'im, Murdoch,” Johnny assured his father.
“I think you should both go,” Teresa interjected firmly.
Murdoch nodded. “Get our coats and some raingear, Son.” Then, “Teresa, honey, would you ask Jelly to saddle up some horses?”
The young woman hastened to comply with her guardian’s request. As she was about to exit the kitchen door, Maria addressed her in insistent Spanish, directing her to put on the warm shawl that hung on a peg beside the door. It was much colder now, and Teresa had to fight her way against the wind and rain to reach the stable. She found Jelly in the barn, polishing off his last biscuit. Even though the handyman took his midday meal with the men, knowing how much he liked her fresh-baked biscuits, Teresa had earlier brought him a basket of them, warm from the oven.
“Boss know Scott ain’t back yet?”
“Yes, he does, Jelly. Murdoch and Johnny are going out after him.”
“Bout time!! I’ll git their horses ready,” Jelly replied quickly, calling out for Miguel to assist as he moved hastily towards the stalls. “It sure is bad out, why it’s stormin’ so hard, Scott’ll be . . . .” Realizing that the young woman was already concerned, Jelly thought better of finishing his colorful description. “Scott’ll be . . . wetter 'n a drowned rat.”
A few minutes later, Teresa watched with Jelly as Murdoch and Johnny headed off. Then, collecting the biscuit basket, she retreated towards the house. Ducking her head against the chill rain, she failed to notice the lone coffee cup sitting on top of the wall, now filled to overflowing.
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The cold front had settled in, bringing with it a bone-chilling, soaking rain. Water rolled off of the horses’ rumps; the animals’ ears, pelted by water droplets, twitched intermittently from the impact. Both Murdoch and Johnny shivered a little beneath their shiny oilskins, and they hunched their shoulders against those errant raindrops which tried to insinuate themselves beneath the collars of the jackets they wore under their loose-fitting raingear. It was too noisy to talk, so both men were lost in their own thoughts.
Murdoch, on Toby, his large, white-faced bay, was in the lead. Even though Johnny had actually worked on the fence line the day before, Murdoch had questioned Scott closely—and irritably—the previous evening and thought that he had a pretty good idea of the location of the section that had been left unstrung.
Johnny followed on Barranca, leading the sure-footed Rambler as a mount for Scott. As he stared out at the rain from beneath the brim of his hat, it occurred to Johnny, too late, that they hadn’t thought to bring along raingear for his brother. Not that it was likely to matter much; Boston was sure to be soaked to the skin by now. Well, no damage done; spending some time being cold and damp just made a man truly appreciate a good fire, a hot meal and a glass of imported scotch. Johnny grinned as he wondered whether they would find his big brother sitting forlornly beside a broken-down wagon or a lame draft horse.
They approached the worksite without having seen any sign of Scott and the wagon. The huge old oak tree, which marked the end of the fence line, loomed faintly through the sheets of rain.
As they drew closer, it became clear that something had happened here. One of the main branches of the tree had been sheered off and had crashed to the ground, breaking up and scattering leaves and smaller branches. A few yards further and the wagon materialized through the layers of sheeting rain. It sat forlornly in the mud, minus a wheel, most of its load spilled out the back. Nearby, fence posts staggered drunkenly, the wire ripped away in places, some strands drooping in the rain and others tied into grotesque dangling knots. But still there was no Scott.
“Dios. What the hell happened, Murdoch?”
Not until they reached the wagon and dismounted did they finally see him.
END OF PART ONE
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NOTES:
Michael Kelly’s “thorny fence” was patented in 1868, however, he didn’t go into production until 1876. By then other inventors had devised variations, so we are assuming that the wire Scott was working with was similar. For an image of Kelly’s wire, go to: http://inventionatplay.org/inventors_bar2.html
To see an antique wire stretcher, go to: http://www.tonasket.wednet.edu/es/Kidslinkgrant/mjenkins/braxkay.htm