Scott lay motionless on the muddy ground pinned beneath one of the uprooted fence posts. Incredibly, his body seemed to be wrapped round in wire, some of which was still attached to the post. The tools he must have been using were scattered nearby.
Both Johnny and Murdoch were on their knees beside him in an instant. He was breathing, but Scott was so still that it was impossible to know whether he was asleep or unconscious. He was lying on his right side, his hair splayed behind him and sodden with mud. Scott’s clothes, torn in places, were soaked through, and the rain rinsed away little tendrils of blood that seeped from the dozens of scratches and lacerations that had been made by the sharp barbs. The wire was, in fact, coiled around him, which meant that he had to be lying on top of at least some of the metal thorns. A strand of wire was looped around his head. It was fortunate that Scott’s eyes were closed since one of the points was dangerously close to his eyelid; another had scratched a bloody groove just above his left ear.
Johnny wormed his hand beneath the wire in order to shield Scott’s face and then bent close to speak his brother’s name while Murdoch cautiously began to examine the post and wire that imprisoned his son. Scott was well and truly caught.
“Scott? Hey, Scott, c’mon an’ wake up now.”
Somewhere in the distance, in the dark and the cold and the wet, Scott Lancer thought that he could hear his brother’s voice. Then it was right there, near his ear, saying his name. He jerked fully awake then groaned at the intense pain caused by the small movement.
“Easy, easy now. Don’t try to move.”
It really was Johnny. But for some reason Scott couldn’t see him, there was something blocking his view.
“Shhhh. Keep still. It’s okay,” Johnny said softly. Then Scott felt the warmth of his brother’s hand resting gently on the side of his head.
He let his eyelids droop closed and tried to make sense of the various pains afflicting him. His head was throbbing, and the rest of his body seemed to be assailed by both dull aches and more insistent, sharp, piercing sensations. He wasn’t sure if he could move. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to try.
“Hey, Brother,” Johnny drawled softly, lowering his face to be nearly level with Scott’s and spreading his fingers apart to peer through them at him. “What did you do!?”
Still unable to respond, Scott reluctantly opened his eyes and squinted vaguely at Johnny.
“Is this how they string fence back East?”
He didn’t quite understand Johnny’s gentle ribbing, but, along with the reference to “back East,” Scott heard the unmistakable note of concern in his brother’s voice. Fuzzily, he thought maybe he should come up with a smart retort, but it was so very cold and he was just too dazed to make the effort.
Murdoch moved into Scott’s line of sight then, and Scott murmured his name before closing his eyes. He was hardly able to grasp the fact that his father and brother were here to help him. In fact, he could hardly remember what the trouble was, period.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Johnny looked up at his father who knelt on the other side of Scott. “Murdoch, what the hell happened?”
“It looks like a wind burst took down part of the fence. The storm must have hit right on top of him.”
“Guess that’s what split that tree.”
Murdoch nodded. “And Scott must have been right near this post when it came out of the ground. We can’t just bend this wire away. We’re going to have to cut him out, Johnny.” Murdoch looked up at the sky. “And we’ll have to do it quickly before we lose the light. It’s hard enough to see with this infernal rain.”
Johnny nodded his agreement. He looked around. “D’ya see the wire cutters?”
Murdoch rose heavily to his feet. “You stay with your brother and keep him still. They must be here somewhere . . . .” His large, oilskin-clad figure moved off as he scanned the ground between Scott’s still form and the damaged wagon.
Johnny remained crouched beside his brother, his position altering the fit of his own oilskin poncho. He could feel the chill water rolling down the back of his neck and see raindrops dripping from the brim of his hat.
Murdoch returned with the wire cutters in hand and immediately set to work. He carefully snipped away the section that looped loosely around Scott’s head. It was slow going here. Eventually Murdoch had cut enough of the strands so that they could lift the injured man’s head a little and pull the rest of the wire away from Scott’s face and shoulders.
Johnny smoothed back the wet hair that was plastered to Scott’s forehead and, with his other hand, cupped the side of Scott’s face to lift it away from the muddy ground. Freed from the imprisoning wire, Scott turned further into Johnny’s hand, seeking the warmth he sensed there.
Next, Murdoch set to work on the wire that snarled the fence post in place. It seemed to take forever to cut it loose. The wire was not easy to cut and the incessant rain only made things more difficult. Even the smallest tug on the wire elicited from Scott a wince or reluctant gasp.
“Easy, now.” Johnny bent over Scott, murmuring encouragement. He looked up at his father. “He’s gotta be lying on some of them points, Murdoch.”
“I know that, Johnny,” was the older man’s tense reply. “I’m trying not to pull at it.”
Finally, Murdoch had cut through the strands of wire that were attached to or wrapped around the fence post. Carefully, he stood up and lifted the heavy post away. Then, in frustration, he hurled it to the ground as hard as he could, startling both Johnny and Scott.
Scott reacted to the pain caused by his own slight movement, his eyes flying open and his lips parting, but no sound came out. The activity seemed to rouse him a little, which was good. But he was starting to shiver, which was bad.
“Murdoch just got rid of that fence post you liked so much, Brother,” Johnny said reassuringly.
Scott considered that, struggling to recall what his father had said about that post.
“You mean . . . so . . . attached to . . .?”
Surprisingly, the play on words came reflexively to his fogged brain but, though Scott tried hard to force the words out, few were audible even to his own ears. He made the effort to keep his eyes open now, listening to his brother and attempting to follow what was happening as Johnny softly began to narrate their father’s actions.
Murdoch got back to work on the strands wrapped around Scott’s torso. When he cut through one piece, the wire, released from tension, sprang towards Scott’s face and he flinched, jerking his left arm upwards, or trying to, but it was pinned by the rest of the coil that still imprisoned him. He bit back a cry of pain as something gouged the flesh of his forearm. As Scott pulled away from the barb, a trail of blood welled up in the deep, new scratch, the dark red ooze instantly diluted by the rain.
In an effort to stop him from causing more damage, both Johnny and Murdoch reached for Scott’s arm.
“Scott, don’t move!”
Scott froze instantly at the sound of his father’s voice, the harsh and angry tone. Fighting both the pain and the sudden feeling of panic at realizing he was still trapped, Scott closed his eyes and concentrated on trying to slow down his breathing.
Murdoch reached through the wire to touch Scott’s hand. Scott’s right arm was pinned beneath him and he still wore a glove on that hand, but the left glove was missing. Blood from the new scratch trickled down his arm towards the back of his bare hand, his long fingers resting in the mud. His whole body was shaking, shivering more noticeably now.
“Scott . . . Scott . . . try not to . . . Scott, don’t move!” Although he spoke forcefully, Murdoch’s misery was apparent.
“You heard the Old Man. I think that was an order,” Johnny said lightly. “Now you just do as you’re told, Boston.”
Scott knew that it was Johnny’s hand holding his head and face up out of the mud, so the faraway, light grasp of his fingers had to be Murdoch. He’d caught the note of worry in his father’s commanding voice the second time he’d been instructed not to move. Being careful to stay still, trying to stop some of the shivering even, he looked up and forced himself to reply to his brother’s teasing comments.
“Well, Johnny . . . I’d salute . . . but . . . I don’t think I can.”
His brother’s other hand, which had been patting Scott’s shoulder, suddenly stilled. Scott sighed and closed his eyes again, regretting the quip. It probably hadn’t been a good idea to toss the younger man’s words back at him. Was it only this morning that they had argued? Follow orders . . . . Salute . . . . Damn, but his head hurt. And he still didn’t understand exactly what had happened, how he had ended up lying here in the rain.
But as far as not being able to salute, well, that was true. When he’d shifted just a little bit, his pinned right arm had announced itself in the form of a shooting spasm in his forearm, while the shoulder now offered an interesting combination of both throbbing and piercing pains. It was taking all of his willpower to remain still, to fight the tremors threatening to overtake his body, when he just wanted to escape . . . .
Murdoch spoke again. “Scott, I’m going to move your left arm just a little.”
While Johnny watched closely, Murdoch helped Scott lift his arm and shift it back a bit, giving Murdoch the room needed to snip away the wire that pinned it to his side.
“O.K. Scott. The wire is loose now. If you can lift up on your elbow just a little, we’ll pull the wire out from under you.”
Scott lay immobile, his face a picture of concentration as he tried to move the arm that was beneath him. “Scott?” Murdoch tried again. “Can you help us?”
Again, there was no response. Johnny tried next.
“Scott?”
“I told you . . . can’t,” Scott hissed painfully through clenched teeth.
Johnny and Murdoch looked at each other.
“Johnny, you lift him up. I’ll try to pull the wire out myself.”
As soon as Johnny managed to shift his brother a little, Murdoch carefully fished out the cruel strands of pointed wire that Scott had been lying on. Rather than put Scott back down on the muddy ground, Johnny scooted forward a little on his knees in the mud, in order to pillow his brother’s head on his leg.
Murdoch gently grasped Scott’s right arm, and instantly his son choked back a cry of pain and reflexively tried to curl up against it. That strained the wire still wrapped around his lower body and the points dug deeper into the wounds that were already there. Murdoch immediately released his son’s arm.
“I’m sorry, Scott—”
“Easy, easy there, Brother.” Johnny tried to quiet Scott and keep him from moving any more as the injured man attempted to catch his breath and recover from the excruciating pain.
“Johnny, that arm might be broken. We’ll have to splint it before we move him very far.”
“Yeah, well, but let’s get him free of the rest of this first, Murdoch, then we can worry ‘bout that.”
Nodding his agreement, Murdoch picked up the wire cutters but still hesitated. “Scott . . . Scott, what else hurts?”
Scott squinted painfully up at the figure of his father looming over him. “Well . . . ah . . . everything.”
Johnny grasped his brother’s shoulder once more. “We’re almost done.”
In fact, it was going more quickly. Scott’s work pants and boots gave him more protection from the sharp metal barbs so Murdoch’s work didn’t have to be so painstaking.
Finally Murdoch stood up and, pressing a hand to his aching back, stretched it out. He stooped down beside Johnny, peered at Scott and ran the back of his finger over Scott’s forehead. “Let’s move him away from this,” he said as he indicated the tangle of wire that he had cut and bent away from his son’s body.
Johnny whispered to let Scott know they were going to move him. He nodded slightly and mumbled, “Okay.” He felt Johnny’s hands hooking under his shoulders, was aware of Murdoch grasping his legs, and then finally felt himself being lifted up and away from that hideous wire web. He pressed his lips together as the movement sent pains coursing through his right arm, which he attempted to cradle in his left hand.
They settled Scott down in a seated position, Johnny behind his brother so that Scott could rest against him. Instead, Scott hunched forward, holding his injured arm and shivering uncontrollably as water dripped from his muddy hair. His wet clothing seemed to wick away what little body heat he had left.
“Gotta get him warmed up,” Johnny told Murdoch urgently, fumbling under his oilskin to remove his own jacket, which was still warm and dry.
“Wait a minute, Son, let’s get this wet shirt off of him first.”
As if from a distance, Scott felt someone tugging at his clothing. The pain in his arm had subsided a bit, but the dull throbbing in his head continued.
It couldn’t be . . . were they really stripping off his shirt? It was so cold out and it was still raining . . .wasn’t it? A little bit . . . . Stripping . . . no, they were cutting it off . . . .
Scott glanced up at Murdoch’s serious face then tried to look over his shoulder, searching for Johnny, to see what he made of all this.
“Don’t worry none, Boston. You know you got plenty of these shirts.”
Removing the sodden remains of the beige tattersall shirt revealed a collection of fresh gouges and scratches on Scott’s arms and chest, the new wounds on his back mingling with the older scars there.
“He has some pretty deep cuts, Johnny. And we need to get them cleaned out. Some will need stitches. I don’t know whether the fence post did any more damage . . . .” Murdoch counted out his worries to himself. “But first, his arm needs a splint . . . .” He set off to look for something to use.
As soon as the shirt was stripped away, Johnny placed his jacket around Scott’s shaking shoulders. He tried to pull the front edges of the jacket together without jostling Scott’s injured arm.
“Johnny!” Murdoch called back over his shoulder. “Take off his belt, we’ll use it for a sling.”
Supporting Scott with his right arm, Johnny edged around; it would be too difficult to unbuckle his brother’s belts with one hand from behind.
“Hey Scott, how come you ain’t wearing your gun belt?”
It took some time for the question to seep in. Through quivering blue lips and chattering teeth, Scott tried to reassure the younger man. “Johnny . . . it wouldn’t have done any good.”
Johnny smiled at the earnestness of Scott’s reply. But then he surveyed the devastation of the downed fence line, the broken wagon, the tree, the fallen limb. . . . “You got that right, Brother,” he said softly. “You sure got that right.”
Scott saw Johnny looking toward the tree and wondered what his brother was staring so hard at but just couldn’t keep his eyes open or his head up to see for himself. Then, just as he was about to fall asleep, someone was feeling his face and touching his hands. “You’re cold as ice, Scott, now you got to keep awake. You hear me? You gotta stay awake.”
“Sure,” Scott mumbled, his eyes still shut tight.
“So . . . tell me . . . how’d you manage this, Boston?”
“Wasn’t . . . easy.”
“Well, it sure ain’t the way we were doin’ it yesterday. So tell me . . . .”
Scott opened his eyes but didn’t look at Johnny. After a moment, he murmured, “I was packing up . . . .” He fought the urge to drift off again, forced himself to remember. “The storm . . . ,” he whispered.
Scott recalled hurrying to try to get the wagon packed before the storm hit, keeping one eye on the roiling black clouds that almost hugged the ground. They had come up so fast and now seemed to be racing directly toward him. He’d never seen anything like it; it reminded him of an enemy cavalry charge. Suddenly, the air around him exploded. He heard a tremendous crash as the tree split and had only a brief glimpse of fence posts and wire flying through the air before he was struck and slammed to the ground. The force of it knocked him senseless.
When he came to, he was soaking wet. The rain pelted down around him and a heavy weight pressed against his ribs and across his thigh. He tried to move his arms but could not. He tried to lift his head and felt the wire brush his face. When he instinctively turned away, one of the barbs gouged a bloody furrow above his ear. Initially confused, he was horrified when he figured out that he was entangled in the wire, recoiling from the very idea. It took all of his self-control to keep from moving.
After he had recovered himself a little, he’d tried wiggling his free hand to see how much room he had to maneuver. None. The pain that had coursed up it to his shoulder when he’d struggled to shift his right arm was so intense that he’d thought he would be sick. The rain pummeled his senses. He couldn’t think. He felt the heat leach out of his body into the wet ground. He shuddered violently at the memory.
“Scott?”
“Scott, are you still with me?”
Johnny’s voice caught his attention and he managed to nod. “I was packing up . . . ”
“There was . . . wind. Such wind. And noise. I couldn’t manage every . . . everything.” Scott couldn’t begin to describe it all, and he was simply too tired to explain. Suddenly, he remembered hearing Armstrong’s frightened whinnies. His eyes opened and he craned his head, “The horse! Johnny! Where . . . ”
Johnny wrapped his arms around Scott. “Easy, Brother. The horse probably took off for home. He ain’t here. But here comes Murdoch. We’re gonna splint up that arm of yours and then get you home too.”
Murdoch had finally returned with a few slats of wood that he’d rummaged from the bed of the wagon. His father gently explained what he was about to do, and Scott reluctantly relaxed his grip on his injured arm, steeling himself for the pain he knew would come.
“I’m going to do this fast, Scott. We need to get you home.”
True to his word, Murdoch made quick work of attaching the slats with strips of fabric from Scott’s torn shirt. Then he buckled Scott’s belt, hanging the loop about his son’s neck and placing the injured forearm inside the circle of leather.
“Finished,” he said to Scott’s pale, pained face.
When this sank into Scott’s soggy awareness, he sagged back into his brother’s grasp, exhausted. Johnny pulled his jacket more snuggly around Scott’s shoulders once more.
“Now, Johnny, let’s get him on the horse. We’ve got to get him home and warmed up.”
“Hear that, Boston? We’re going home. Can you stand up?”
Scott’s reaction to the news was either a vigorous nod or an unusually strong shiver. Johnny helped his brother get to his feet, keeping a tight grip on him. Between the debilitating cold and the stiff numbness of keeping still for so long, Scott’s legs buckled and he was only saved from hitting the muddy ground again by Murdoch’s quick grab. He sagged between the two of them. Johnny shifted and took more of Scott’s weight, “He can’t ride Rambler, Murdoch. If you get Barranca—”
“No, John. I’ll take him with me.”
“Murdoch! You won’t be able—”
“I said I’ll take him. He’ll have an easier ride on Toby. He’s been through enough.” Murdoch tightened his grip on his son.
Johnny was equally determined. “Now Murdoch—”
Scott’s head lolled and he whispered softly. “Please . . .”
Johnny cast his eyes to the ground, just missing Murdoch’s rueful glance in his direction.
“Johnny, Toby is bigger—but if you want to ride him with Scott—“
“No, you’re right. I can ride on ahead on Barranca .”
Johnny took Scott’s full weight as Murdoch picked up the wire cutters again and used them to slice an opening down the front of his oilskin. Then he moved the few steps away to snag Toby’s reins. He climbed heavily up into the saddle then scooted back as far as he could and unbuttoned the big coat he wore beneath his now slit oilskin raingear.
“Ready, Murdoch? I’ll lift him up to you.”
Together, and in spite of Scott’s attempts to “help,” they managed to get Scott up and sideways across the saddle. Murdoch folded the now barely conscious man against his chest, being careful of his splinted arm.
Johnny, meanwhile, untied his bedroll and shook out the blanket that had been kept dry by the canvas tarp it was wrapped in. He handed it up to Murdoch and helped tuck it around Scott. Finally, Murdoch wrapped his coat around Scott for warmth and then his oilskin to keep out the rain, which was threatening to start again in earnest.
Through the haze of pain and exhaustion in which he languished, Scott sensed the warmth emanating from Murdoch’s broad chest and turned into it, pressing his face into the soft flannel of his father’s shirt and tucking his good arm close between them. Only the top of his blond head was visible in the bundle, and Murdoch had difficulty understanding Scott’s murmured question.
“What was that, Son?”
“. . . fence . . . s’it . . . okay?”
Murdoch hesitated for a moment, surveying the line of broken and listing posts. “The fence is fine, Son. You did a good job.”
Reassured, Scott renewed his efforts to burrow in to get warm. Although it was surely a reflex rather than a conscious intent on his son’s part, Murdoch couldn’t help but smile. He held Scott as close as he dared without putting pressure on his wounds. As Johnny collected Rambler’s reins and prepared to mount Barranca, Murdoch kneed Toby into motion.
Before riding after his father and Scott, Johnny circled the large tree, stopping to make sure that the unfortunate draft horse lying beneath the huge fallen limb was indeed dead.
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Eventually the gentle rocking gait of Murdoch’s broad-backed mount lulled Scott to sleep, and he relaxed further into his father’s arms; even the shivering seemed to abate. It took a very long time to reach the hacienda since Murdoch had to walk Toby in order to keep a secure grip on Scott.
When they finally did arrive, Johnny, who had ridden on ahead, was waiting for them. Miguel had been sent for the doctor and other Lancer hands had already taken care of Barranca and Rambler. Frank helped Johnny lever Scott down from his precarious perch across Murdoch's saddle. Pried out of his warm spot and exposed to the cold air, the injured man roused enough to stand on his own with one arm wrapped around his brother’s neck and holding on tight.
Frank resettled Johnny’s jacket around Scott’s shoulders, and they all started toward the front door. Suddenly Scott stopped and looked at his brother.
“Johnny?”
“Yup, I'm right here.” Johnny pressed Scott forward.
Scott looked around in confusion and mumbled, “Murdoch?”
Johnny glanced back over his shoulder at his father then urged Scott forward. “He's OK, Scott. He's a little stiff.” He chuckled, “Take him a while to get down off that horse.”
Scott wasn't through with roll-call yet. Shuffling along, he inquired, “Armstrong?”
“Arm . . . ?” Johnny looked at the head drooping on his brother's chest, “Who?”
“Armstrong.” Scott shivered.
“Who's that?”
“. . . Cus . . .ter.” Johnny could barely make out the whispered reply.
“Custer! You ain't making any sense, Brother.” Johnny hitched Scott a little higher on his shoulder. “We'll get some of this mud off of you and maybe you'll be able to think straight. C'mon now . . . that's it.”
By the time they made their way inside and upstairs, Murdoch had dismounted and joined them. Teresa had already produced a large basin of warm water and clean cloths and had gone back downstairs to warm some blankets.
Working together, Johnny and Murdoch slipped off the jacket and then peeled away the rest of Scott's wet clothing, managing to wash away the mud and blood while being careful to keep those parts of him that they weren't working on tucked into the warm blankets. Though exhausted, Scott was aware and tried to help, plucking at the buttons on his trousers, trying to protect his splinted arm which ached so much he wanted to be sick, and moving this way and that as best he could upon request.
By the time they settled a clean and sleepy Scott in his own bed, Dr. Sam Jenkins was there to stitch up the worst lacerations—these were on Scott's right shoulder and thigh where he had lain with the barbed wire beneath him. Although the patient had been severely bruised by the fencepost, fortunately no ribs had been cracked. The doctor examined Scott’s injured arm, declared it to be fractured, not broken, and resplinted it. Dr. Jenkins departed, leaving instructions for warming Scott up.
That's why, after seeing the doctor off, Johnny was climbing the stairs with a steaming cup of hot chocolate and one of the several blankets that Teresa was keeping warm in front of the big fireplace downstairs. He opened the door quietly, and the worry on his face melted away into a smile as he saw his brother sleeping soundly, looking relaxed at last. He glanced at Murdoch who sat in a big chair on the opposite side of the bed.
“How's he doin'?”
Murdoch regarded him and, inching his hand under the covers to feel Scott's chest, said, “I think he's warming up a little.” Nodding at Johnny he added, “That fresh blanket will help though.”
Between them they exchanged the now-cooled blanket that was sandwiched between the sheet and a top quilt for the warmer one that Johnny had brought. They tucked it closely around the sleeping man. Scott reacted by burrowing into the warmth a little more and sighing.
Johnny pulled a small wooden chair up to the bed, sat down and reached for the hot chocolate. Slipping an arm under Scott’s shoulders, Murdoch lifted him up to meet the cup of hot, sweet liquid that Johnny held to his brother’s lips, cajoling him to take just a little. Grumpy about being manhandled yet again, Scott resisted, mumbling and turning away, until Murdoch’s commanding voice reached him through his sleepy fog. He managed to down about half of the proffered beverage before Johnny relented and Murdoch settled him back down.
“He didn’t like that too much, did he?” Johnny chuckled.
Murdoch laughed too. “No, not too much. Maybe next time we should give him the drink before we tuck him back under the blankets.”
“Yeah.”
Johnny turned down the lamp on the bedside table and then sat for a moment, watching his brother, unaware that Murdoch was watching him.
"Johnny, I want you to know that I should have listened to your idea this morning."
“Yeah. Well, we did agree you would call the tune . . . .”
From this tentative start, the conversation began to flow. The two men sat together in the shadows, talking late into the night, their unnecessary bedside vigil allowing them to take full advantage of this lull in their sometimes stormy relationship. Scott slept on, unaware of their watchful presence, although at times he was vaguely conscious of the murmur of voices moving lightly over him like a gentle breeze.
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Teresa O’Brien carefully picked up the mug of aromatic, steaming coffee and started for the Lancer Great Room. The coffee was well laced with sugar, to which she expected Scott would object. He preferred his coffee black, but he was still recovering and therefore subject to Dr. Jenkins’ and her own ministrations. She would prefer that he have tea, but she knew he would draw the line at that.
Well, she just was happy that he was up and about after the horrible accident with the barbed wire three days ago. That night, Johnny had galloped into the yard, soaking wet and without his jacket, calling for one of the hands to go after the doctor even as he dismounted. There had been no time for him to explain much about what had happened, he had just shouted something about a fence and barbed wire. But even that scanty bit of information had been sufficient to send her hurrying back inside to heat water and collect bandages.
She had seen Scott when they brought him in. His bare chest and arms, even his hands, were smeared with blood, and he was shivering so badly that he couldn’t stand up without help. Murdoch followed close behind, and she thought for a moment that he’d been caught by the wire too. His face was haunted and, under his coat, his shirt was bloody and wet. Murdoch immediately joined Johnny in tending to Scott while she set about gathering blankets and warming them in front of the big fire they’d made downstairs when it got so cold.
Apparently it was Scott’s blood that had stained Murdoch’s clothes. Later she learned that he’d held Scott as they rode home, in fact, Johnny said that “the Old Man” had insisted. Johnny had also described her guardian’s determined efforts to free his elder son from the wire, as well as how Murdoch had tossed aside the fence post which had injured Scott.
When she’d gone into Scott’s room to say good night, Murdoch softly observed that they’d “been lucky today.” In response to her question about what had happened, Murdoch had shaken his large head. “I’m really not sure, Darling. I just know that it could have been worse.” And he’d gone on to tell her about Johnny; how his younger son had tended to his brother, known exactly what to say to the injured man.
In addition to the scratches and lacerations that marked him, Scott was also covered with dark, painful-looking bruises. She shuddered to think about what it must have been like to be trapped and unable to move for so long. Once Scott was feeling better, he’d talked about the storm. Scott's description confirmed for Murdoch his initial speculation that his son had fallen victim to a "downburst" or "wind burst."
Cipriano concurred with her guardian's assessment. The Segundo had taken some men out to the site the next day to retrieve the wagon and bury the poor horse. When the crew returned, the Lancer foreman described the scene to Teresa and Maria. He speculated that it might have been a “torbellino descendente” or “descending whirlwind” which had hit. Cipriano had solemnly assured the two women that these storms were very dangerous—“muy peligrosos!”—and that Senor Scott was fortunate to be alive.
And the rest of them were very fortunate as well. Although Teresa had sometimes feared that they took the Easterner for granted, Murdoch and Johnny had demonstrated their affection and concern in the care and attention that they had given Scott. They had worked together to bring him home, and continued to take turns keeping him company as well as consulting with each other about his progress. Most importantly, Teresa had been delighted to note that during the time Scott had been kept in bed, there had not been a single disagreement between the two men.
Scott was up and about now but sore and moving stiffly. Well, he would have to take it easy for a little while; at least for as long as his arm was in that sling. For the moment, he was relegated to the sofa in front of the fire and, perhaps later, he would work on the books for Murdoch.
Continuing on her way with Scott’s coffee, Teresa suddenly halted when she heard the sound of angry voices emanating from the Lancer Great Room.
“We need to talk about this!”
“Why? You tell me what needs to happen. I’ll get it done!”
“You don’t really want to do it that way.”
“Just make a 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.
Stepping into the foyer, Teresa could see into the Great Room. Scott’s blond head rested on the back of the sofa; Murdoch and Johnny were standing in front of him, facing each other.
“I want to know what you think—”
“I ain’t been at this as long as you have!”
Scott looked up at his father, then his brother in turn. Clearly exasperated, he started to slowly rise from his seat only to have both men round on him.
“Wher’you goin’, Boston?”
“Scott, sit right there!”
Then both together, “Stay still!”
“Well, finally! Maybe something you can both agree on!” He slowly and painfully pushed himself to the edge of the cushion and muttered under his breath, “Like that will ever happen.”
Looking abashed, Murdoch and Johnny just stared at Scott for a moment then both moved to help him up. Teresa suppressed a giggle as Scott held up his hand to ward them off—the look on his face alone was enough to pin them in place.
Continuing to fix them with a baleful glare that dared them to make a move, he finally reached his feet, rounded the arm of the big piece of furniture, and spied Teresa standing in the entryway. Ignoring a chorus of “Scott!” and “Boston!”, he made his way over to her. Looking down into the cup that she held in her hand then back up at her, he lifted one eyebrow. “Is that for me?” he asked hopefully, managing a small smile when she assured him that it was.
Scott glanced back over his shoulder toward the Great Room. “Those two are just like wood and wire,” he said dejectedly. “What will it take to get them to work together?”
As he shuffled off to the kitchen, Teresa trailed after him, determined that he would have his coffee and smiling at the thought that perhaps *she* could tell him what it had taken.
THE END
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NOTES:
For an explanation and photographs of Downbursts, please go to:
http://ww2010.atmos.uiuc.edu/(Gh)/guides/mtr/svr/comp/out/home.rxml
Microbursts:
http://ww2010.atmos.uiuc.edu/(Gh)/guides/mtr/svr/comp/out/micro/home.rxml
Extreme Microbursts!
http://ww2010.atmos.uiuc.edu/(Gh)/guides/mtr/svr/comp/out/micro/dvp.rxml