Homecoming

Murdoch sat at his desk, holding the two tintypes. Opposites, he mused. In almost everything. His first wife was captured in a square frame, her fair-as-summer-wheat hair piled high on her head. His second, in the round frame, had black-as-sin hair down about her shoulders.

A knock on the door startled him and he fumbled a bit with the two pictures before he set them face down on the calendar on his desk. "It's open."

The door opened with the tiniest of creaks. They were here. His eldest came first, his second-born close behind.

The two of them looked strong enough. Lord knows they would need all their strength to survive at Lancer.

Murdoch studied them as they descended the steps into his study.

Eyes turned down in the corners, just like Catherine's. And like Catherine's at various times, they held a dangerous glint of simmering anger. The high-necked ruffled shirt lent an air of studious civility, the cut of which Murdoch could only assume was the most recent fashion in Boston. A long thin hand swept up to smooth back the blond hair in a graceful gesture. So very tall, though.

He turned to the other.

The trimmed short jacket was worn over an embroidered shirt, more in keeping with western tradition. In color, the jacket was a match for unruly black hair curling about the ears. Piercing blue eyes studied him back, alight with determination. With a rustle of crinoline, a small hand shot out and slapped the lacy reticule on the corner of the desk with a resounding thud.

If he was a betting man—and he was—he'd put a ten-spot on there being a derringer in that purse. A .45 caliber at that. Murdoch sighed and massaged his forehead in soothing circles with the tips of his fingers.

Scottie and Johnnie. His daughters had come home.

He looked down at his calendar and swept aside the two picture frames to mark the auspicious day: April 1st.

Well, there was only one thing left to do now. "Drink?"

The End

April Fool's!