It's been a long day without you my friend
And I'll tell you all about it when I see you again
We've come a long way from where we began
Oh I'll tell you all about it when I see you again
When I see you again
See You Again by Wiz Khalifa w/Charlie Puth
When I See You Again
Prologue:
The porch rocking chair creaked, and Will Matthews strained to lift himself from it. "I'd better go pitch some hay to the horses."
His grandson grinned up at him from his perch on the steps. "Bent up like you are, you'd be hard-pressed to pitch peanuts into a can, let alone fork hay into the stalls. I'll do it, I'm about to turn in anyway. Pa said it'll be a long day tomorrow with the herd."
Will considered the offer with some hesitation, he was no shirker and it wouldn't do to show the boy otherwise. But Lord, was he hurting tonight. He nodded his boney head a couple of times. "You're young yet..."
"Grandpa, I'm seventeen!"
He gave a wry grin. "Corley, you're young, and it's hell getting old. You'll understand someday." His voice softened. "I appreciate the help."
Sharp barks, one echoing into the next, came from the barn.
His grandson had gone ten steps when there was a flash of black and white at the barn door. Will squinted. It was Ferguson's dog, from the adjoining ranch. Close enough he could see its shaggy head and a feral eye-glow in the reflection of the setting sun.
That old dog knew better. "What's Blackie doing here?"
"Hard telling, Grandpa. We saw him at the pasture, but he peeled off around noon to chase something or other. Just as well, because Pa was fixing to run him off to home anyway. Dog was acting queerly around the cattle. You suppose Ferguson cut him loose?"
"Ferguson likes that dog better than he likes his wife. Huh. Probably taking after me and feeling his age. Go fetch him out, will you? He'll spook the milk cow."
Corley bent down. "Here boy."
It lifted its huge front paw with a guttural growl that sent shivers up Will's spine.
"Boy, don't move," he whispered. He tried to straighten up but couldn't. Folded and feeling older than his years he tried once more and made it to his feet on a burst of panicked prayer.
With a look of pure puzzlement, Blackie cocked his head, as if listening to a sound only he could hear then pivoted and ran.
They watched the dog cannonball his way through heavy bush honeysuckle, high-tailing it for the trees—just a shadow in the dim light.
Will scratched at the wisp of hair on the back of his head. "What's gotten into that animal?"
"Should I go after him?"
He hung on to Corley's arm. "No. If Ferguson wants that poorly-mannered dog then he can just as well look for' em himself."
Chapter One
"It's the green of the grass. Now we have green in Boston…," Scott waited until the groan was let out, "but I think the area by Tio Creek is the greenest, spring or summer."
Johnny heaved out an aggrieved sigh.
"What? You would argue?"
"I've seen pretty so maybe I can say a thing or two about it."
"I assume we're not talking about the regal Miss Hempstead."
Johnny's grin was halfway there, but only flashed on the left side where he likely thought Scott couldn't see. "She's real pretty, too. But in a different way, nothin' green about' er."
"No, I don't suppose there is."
Scott looked at him briefly, if there was one word to describe Johnny this morning the word was happy. Not a usual occurrence to be sure, because one rarely spoke to Johnny before he had his first cup of coffee in the morning and even after the second, it was dicey. Not if they didn't want the should-be-patented hostile-eyed stare. Forget the gun, the stare was lethal in its own right. It appeared Miss Hempstead was doing something right.
She wasn't the only one. He and Johnny had finished the fencing earlier in the week, ahead of schedule, and were on their way to visit the Red herd. The campagneros y palominos of Lancer had a growth spurt the last year and were now divided into two colorful herds, Red and Yellow. This chore was the last one Murdoch had left before going to Modesto. He would be pleased when he returned home tonight.
"So what about outside of Lancer, Johnny? Anything catch your eye, besides the aforementioned lady friend?"
"Minerva's." It was said quickly, with all the certainty of laying down a straight flush, aces high.
"Another lady friend? I should probably tell you to broaden your horizon, but I'm too busy being scandalized by your social calendar."
"Minerva's isn't a lady, it's a place. Or it was, about five years ago just outside of San Diego."
He waited silently because that's what you did with Johnny when you wanted more. Eventually, on his own time, you'd get it.
"Minerva's was the name of a cantina. The real beauty was about a mile away. A small pool, so green and blue you thought it was part of an ocean."
Johnny wasn't budging much, but Scott recognized the miniscule signs of give, though: a twitch, two fingers raised.
"I was working." He shrugged. "It was a real quiet place, meant a lot at the time." Johnny looked up but kept his face angled away.
It was as close as he'd get to today. They rode in silence for the most part, the rest of the way to the pasture.
After everything that had happened this last year at Lancer: Johnny and Wes, Murdoch and Joe Baker and even Lieutenant Daniel Cassidy, the smell of fir and horses still gave Scott a thrill, made him feel solid, gave him a sense of purpose. A sense of belonging.
They made it over the rise and could see horses in shades of grey, brown and yellow, with a few foals nudging at their mothers. But something was wrong.
He reined up. "We have a problem."
Three of the horses had made a perimeter of sorts in a triangular fashion. Each at one point, they kept the rest of the herd bunched together in the middle. They were the protectors.
Johnny stood in his stirrups. "Probably a deer. Can't see anythin' from here, though."
"Do you want…?" He hadn't finished before Johnny read his mind and rode off to the right. He bunched his own reins and urged his horse down to the mottled grey mare standing stock-still on the left.
Nothing. He couldn't see where anything was wrong. He dismounted and walked slowly towards the worried mare and hadn't gotten more than a few feet when she bolted to the rest of the herd. Suddenly he felt exposed.
From the side, came a harsh breathy, wet noise. The smell of animal overpowering.
He was looking at it in the screen of underbrush, was bending down a little, when he saw Johnny coming towards him at full gallop, pistol drawn.
For a long moment, Scott stood steady then turned in the direction of whatever it was that Johnny was aiming at, saw the dog coming right at him. Tom Ferguson'sdog. Hadn't Ferguson and he wildly searched his brain for a name—Blackie—hadn't they both been in town at the granary not two weeks ago?
Scott braced himself for the dog, and for the shot, which he reckoned would converge on him at the same time. It hit him at the same time as the bullet.
The bullet passed through the dog's thick neck, and kept going. Whispered past Scott's shoulder at an angle meaningful enough to draw blood, but not to lodge permanently. It ended up in the tree trunk behind him. Odd, that—Johnny never missed what he aimed at.
It ricocheted off Scott's chest, yelped, and fell back, blood pouring from its neck, but it shook itself and came again. He staggered back on his heels, not feeling the hit to his shoulder and managed to get his hands around its neck, grabbing for something more than skin and fur. It was useless, too slicked with blood.
The dog twisted his head, wrapped gleaming white teeth around Scott's forearm and bit down. Johnny yelled and Scott saw him flail his arms and his mouth might have been moving, but it was all so removed, might as well have been underwater.
As Scott watched, Johnny shot again. The bullet hit the dog on the shoulder, but it was snarling and foamed. It leapt back and flashed away, covered in blood now, parting the bunched frightened horses like Moses, and headed deeper into the woods. The day was hot, Scott realized, he was drenched in sweat, head swimming.
Johnny was shouting, but Scott had trouble hearing him, his ears still ringing from the close gunfire, his nostrils filled with the sour odor of burnt powder.
He stumbled back against the tree and slid down, didn't feel a thing, only a ringing in his ears, and a strange feeling like he'd been running for a long time. Long enough to see grey spots.
Staring where the dog had gone, relief came over him in a wash. He tried to wipe the sweat off his forehead, but his arm wasn't working quite the way it should. And his sleeve seemed torn to shreds.
But it wasn't just his sleeve.
His vision doubled, then blacked out completely.
tbc