Bellum Justum
WHN - Legacy
Chapter 1
A tidal wave of early morning sunlight splashed through the wide open windows and doors, touching off all of the kitchen's adobe brick and Spanish tile in pink fire. The rays warmed the space as well as, if not better than, the banked fires of the large cast iron stove. They picked out the silver strands coursing through the loose bun of Maria's otherwise black hair as she bustled around the room and its assorted occupants with practiced efficiency, singing a corrido while she worked.
Unmoved by the beauty of the morning, Teresa was the very picture of gloom sitting at the kitchen table, absently humming snatches of Maria's song as she added to the etchings already carved into the old table top. It was hard to feel guilty about the series of flower petals she was adding to the existing gashes and bashes. It had never been a thing of beauty. She was, however, glad that they had finally gotten back to taking breakfast there, instead of in the formal dining room, where they'd been relegated for the last week; forced into those strange, formal meals, while the rest of the world got to go on doing things as normal. All for Mr Harlan, who could have cared less – but Teresa sure didn't know how.
She felt like a traitor for even thinking it, he was Scott's grandfather after all, but she wished Mr. Harlan had stayed in Boston. Scott was hurt because of him. Murdoch was gone, left for the Tabor's three days ago to see to Scott himself, taking Mr. Harlan with him (thank god) and sending Johnny home (another blessing). Maria had come to stay with them like she usually did when Murdoch was away, but it didn't change the fact that the reason he was away was because his son had almost been killed.
Murdoch had been sending word, nightly: Scott was fine, getting better by the day. He had even turned up in person for a couple hours this morning to pick up some fresh clothes for Scott and to change his own. He'd had breakfast with them and for a little while she could almost pretend things had gotten back to normal. Murdoch and Maria presiding over the first meal of the day in shifts, like always, while they ironed out the final details of the day's plans; all of the noisy confusion of folks stopping in for a quick bite and a warm cup of coffee.
Except the day's plan included: How to Get Scott Home Without Finishing Him Off and What Kind of Medical Supplies They Might Need to Hand If They Managed to Get Him Home in One Piece. It made her feel sick inside.
And now Murdoch was gone again, taking Johnny with him, to bring Scott home. She wanted to go too and help collect her brother, but Murdoch had vetoed this proposition right out of hand. Enough to deal with, he'd said, without having to keep track of her.
Keep track of her, like she was a piece of luggage or something. This business she resented bitterly and made no bones about saying so. Her formal protest went over about as well as could be expected, and now she wasn't allowed out of the house at all; had been made a prisoner at the kitchen table that she'd missed so well with only her school books to keep her company.
She'd been staring at the same page for the better part of an hour, chopping at her steak and eggs until it was a decidedly unsavory mess. She's lately moved on to etching little flower petals in the table when Maria came by and swatted the back of her head.
"Ow!" Teresa rubbed at her head. "That hurt!" she protested, even though it hadn't really hurt at all.
"What has gotten into you?" Maria asked, taking the knife out of Teresa's hand and removing her plate. Teresa made no answer. She had no answer, had no idea what had gotten into her. Maria scraped the half eaten breakfast into the slop bucket and turned back to Teresa, sighing. "Have we got anymore tomatillos in the hothouse?"
"Yeah," Teresa said and angrily turned a chunk of pages.
"Then since you are clearly not studying, why don't you put yourself to some good use and go pick me some."
Teresa pushed her chair back from the table, its legs barking over the tiled floor, and dragged her socked feet all the way to the back doorstep where she sat down again to pull on her boots. She was stamping into the second when Maria gently toed her out of the way. Without looking up, she scooted over to let the older woman by, but Maria sat down beside her instead, filling up the remaining space in the doorway. She looked over at Teresa, slouched glumly into the door jam, and sucked her teeth.
"These dungarees are almost ready for the rag bucket, I think," she said, giving a light tug on the tear in the bib pocket where her pruning shears had cut through.
"We can fix 'em!" Teresa shot her a sour look, as if this day wasn't already appalling enough. The very idea of turning her favorite pair of bib-alls into a pile of rags!
"By 'we', of course, you mean me," Maria concluded.
"You could show me," Teresa scrunched her face, already planning where she was going to stash the dungarees between wearings. "I learned a lot last time."
"Hm." Maria's look was skeptical. "You learned quite a lot."
"That suit came out real nice, you have to admit it."
"Yes," Maria begrudgingly admitted. "Yes, it did."
Teresa sighed. "Scott liked it, anyway."
"Talking of which, I saw that wretched cat has returned to Esco's room."
She snorted and collapsed a little further in on herself. Maria put an arm around her shoulders and drew her in close.
"He is going to be just fine, niña. You do not need to worry."
Teresa nodded.
"They'll be back before you know it and then you can see for yourself."
She nodded again and Maria gathered her up into a tight hug.
"Maria?" Teresa gasped.
"¿Sí, mija?"
"I can't breathe!"
Maria laughed and crushed her a little tighter before letting her go. "Better?" she asked and, getting a smile out of Teresa, prodded her up off the step. "Off you go, my girl. Andale."
The trip to the greenhouse was a tonic, the greenhouse itself a balm. Just walking through the door helped to calm her nerves considerably, something about all of that life gathered together made even the worst of days seem bearable. There was very little that gave her more pleasure than spending time out there, looking in on all of the plants, singing silly little made-up songs to them and especially to her corner of exotics.
She'd always been good at growing things. It had been with her whole life, like breathing and reading books; couldn't remember a time before any of them. She'd been turned loose in the gardens pretty much as soon as she could walk and before that, as local legend had it, Maria carried her around in a papoose while working in the garden herself. Maria, shaking her head in dismay as Teresa grew older and it became abundantly clear that it was going to be generally safer for all concerned to keep her out of the kitchen, sent her out to the gardens in a permanent capacity last year; the whole running of which was now more or less under her control. Mostly. She'd had a fight on her hands when she announced a few months ago that she wanted to try growing orchids.
Impractical, the M's unilaterally agreed. Maria said that they were too time-consuming and hard to grow, "Next it will be bonsai trees". Murdoch, wondering how Maria knew about bonsai trees, said they couldn't be eaten and therefore should not be taking up space. Unimpressed with their naysayery, Teresa argued that food wasn't all there was to gardening, that beauty was practical too, and just because it hadn't been tried before didn't mean it couldn't be done. Murdoch shot it all down, said he wasn't going to fight with her about it, she had her college boards to study for; and that had seemed the gloomy end to that. Then, a few weeks later the college boards arrived and she and Murdoch ended up having to spend two days in Green River for the testing.
The tests were grueling, to say the least, but some of it was actually kind of nice. She hadn't altogether forgiven him for the orchids, and suspected that it was in part his way of making up for it, but they got to eat fancy dinner at the hotel's new restaurant after she was done testing, both nights. And she enjoyed having him mostly all to herself.
Meanwhile, her brothers, who had sat silently, and rather uncomfortably, by through her whole fruitless campaign, had taken the opportunity of their absence to build her a little addition off the big greenhouse. A space just for her to try her hand at whatever exotic thing she could get to come up.
"Early birthday," they'd hedged, even though her birthday wasn't for another six months, when the vein in Murdoch's forehead began to visibly pulse. "Every girl needs a space of her own and since you've turned her loose to boss the entire grow operation, it's only fair that she have somewhere to boss it from, close to the…uh…well, the operation."
They'd set it all up, ignoring Maria's dire predictions of doom and mayhem, put together a small L shaped bench in one corner and even hauled a little secretary's desk they'd found up in the attic out there for her. It wasn't big, couldn't hardly get more than one person in there at a time, just enough room for her and her plants. And she couldn't have loved it or them any more than she did at that moment.
"You spoil her," Murdoch had grumbled.
"You started it," Johnny countered, not quite under his breath, and ended up detailing outhouses for his troubles. But Murdoch let it stand and even sprung for the first seed order.
She smiled at the memory as she made her way down the rows of tomatillo and tomato plants, picking the beautifully ripened fruits looking almost ready to burst out of their skins from the vine. She popped a few smaller grape tomatoes in her mouth along the way, inspecting the leaves and moisture of the dirt and still humming Maria's corrido as she went before finally making it to her office.
Shouldering the door open, she gently dropped the small burlap sack of fruits on her desk before freeing a few lady bugs out of the little atrium occupying the corner with the hard won orchid shoots and cranked open a couple more windows for cross-breeze before settling in at her desk with her planting calendars and yield ledgers and almanacs.
She had only planned to glance through them, but soon found herself lost to her studying and bookwork. She'd been at it long enough to completely lose track of time when the solid thump of a set of boots on the wood plank flooring of the Big Green brought her back to the here and now. A moment later Maria's youngest son, Diego, knocked and stuck his head through the door.
"Thought you were supposed to be out on Ribbon Creek all day today," Teresa said by way of greeting.
"Yeah…" Diego answered. "Change of plan."
"Could you be a little bit more vague?"
"Mmmm…" Diego pretended to give the matter a bit of thought. "Perhaps." He finally answered, eliciting a rather unladylike snort out of Teresa. "You been eating your pen again?"
He stepped all the way into the room at her confused look, his long legs carrying him across the space in two steps, and drew his thumb up the blotch of ink running out of the corner of her mouth.
Smiling, she looked at her right hand; it too was stained with ink at the fingers. "Comes with the territory," she said.
Diego looked over her shoulder at the notes and ledgers spread out around her desk top, not a stray drop of ink on them. He shook his head. "I don't know how you do it. I don't know how you keep all them pages so neat and tidy."
"Hard won experience. I wanted as little to do with Ms. Eslinger's ruler over my knuckles for sloppy work as possible, I guess."
"Yes, Old Lady Eslinger's ruler and my knuckles became well acquainted through the years. I'll happily take my chances stringing barbwire, thank you very much," Diego said and Teresa laughed, taking one of his hands in hers.
"Looks like they're holding their own against the barbwire, Mr. Cipriano," she lied, turning the hand over to inspect it front and back, the many little white nicks and scars standing out against the deep brown of his skin, before lacing her ink stained fingers with his. "So, what brings you out here visiting?"
"Mama said you'd probably still be down here, wanted me to come fetch you."
"Oh, sugar. I was pretty sure she just asked for these tomatoes to get me out of her hair, I didn't think she really wanted them back right away."
Diego shook his head. "If she did, she'd have come down here herself two hours ago." He tugged on her hand, prompting her up from her seat. "Walt Jr. just came in, said Senor Murdoch was just up the road."
At this announcement her throat constricted painfully and her skin went all cold and prickly.
"He didn't come in with any bad news," Diego hastened to add and she knew she must look as horrible as she suddenly felt. "Just that they would be here shortly."
She dipped her head and steadied herself with a deep breath before lifting it again, her face stony with resolve. Diego smiled, brushed a quick kiss across her lips and, her hand still in his, led her out of her sanctuary.
She heard the jingling of tack and clomp of hooves as soon as they were outside and couldn't stop herself running up the grassy hill, out of her garden, following the sound to the front of the house where Murdoch was reining the buggy horses to a gentle halt; couldn't stop herself yelling his name. He'd handed the reins over to whoever was in the passenger seat and climbed stiffly out of the driver's side looking hot and like he could sleep for a week. He met her at the back of the buggy, caught her up before she could get any further.
Johnny was the next one out, looking almost as tired as his father. Teresa tried to pull away, tried to go to him, but Murdoch held her fast and she thought she might choke on the tears and anxiety piling up at the back of her throat. Mr. Harlan climbed out of the front passenger side of the buggy and she almost didn't recognize him, he was so curiously attired. Gone was the richly tailored black silk suit she last seen him in, replaced with a pair of dungarees and a light cotton work shirt, blue plaid and too short in the sleeves. He came round to help with the limp, pallid creature wearing Scott's clothes that Johnny had just pulled from the back seat, head wrapped in a heavy bandage, spots of red dotting the right side.
A frisson etched its way up her back and she felt nauseous with it, remembering another time, not so long ago. Murdoch had come home in much the same condition, pale as death, bandages and blood everywhere. Her father was on a litter. No bandages for him. He was already dead.
"It's not as bad as it looks, Pea," Murdoch tried to assure her, shook her, breaking up some of the ice flooding her veins. "Come on."
It was almost like a funeral procession, Teresa couldn't help thinking. Everyone was so quiet and somber. Murdoch had gone to Scott, got a bracing arm around him, taking on the bulk of his son's weight as he helped him into the house, Mr. Harlan trailing close behind.
Motivated to action by her utter distaste for Scott's grandfather and a desire to keep him from visiting anymore hurt on them, she began pushing her way through the crush of on–lookers gathered at the doorstep, keeping the back of Harlan's grey head in her tightly focused glare. She ran into Johnny at the epicenter of the crowd, he was yelling at everyone not helping to "back the hell off, god damn it"; would have shoved right on by him too, but he'd grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
"Hey, you alright?" he asked, and when all he got in answer was her venomous glare turned on him, Johnny looked to Diego who was right behind her. "She alright?"
Teresa bristled, yanking her arm free. "Let go of me. I'm fine," she said to Johnny and then turned on Diego, "And I can speak for myself, thank you very much."
"Yeah, Johnny," Diego raised his hands in mock surrender. "Teresa can speak for herself."
"How's Scott really?" she demanded, turning back to Johnny. "And don't lie to me."
"He's fine, too," Johnny snapped.
"He doesn't look fine at all to me."
"Well, it was a rough ride." Johnny wilted a little, his shoulders slumping. "Probably shouldn't have moved him, but he insisted he was ready. Wanted to get home."
"Home where, to Boston?" The bitter words were out before she could corral them.
"Why don't you ask him," Johnny pushed by her and elbowed a young ranch hand out his way.
"Now is not the time, Teresa," Diego said, shaking his head in dismay.
But all of the pent up worry and frustration she'd been feeling for days was fast bubbling to the surface and her willingness to check it fading faster. "So when's the good time, then, Diego? After Mr. Harlan finally gets the rest of Scott's head blown clean off?"
"You're angry.
"You're damn right I'm angry," she said, her tone biting.
"And just who exactly are you angry with?" Diego tried to reason with her as the crowd began to nervously disburse.
"Right now…every last one of you," Teresa said and, brazening her way through her more immediate fears, stormed into the house.
Diego found her stalled in the back stairwell, afraid of what she was really going to find upstairs. None of her wildest imaginings had stacked up to the reality and she just couldn't fathom it. What has happened to my brother? She wondered again and again. Diego took a seat the next tread down from her and they sat quietly together for a few minutes as little motes of dust sifted in and out of the shaft of light that shone in through the window at the first landing.
"Fighting with Johnny isn't going to help anything, you know," Diego said, his subdued voice easing into their mutual silence.
"Can we just skip the lecture, please?" Teresa sighed. "I've been coddled and handled enough for a lifetime today and I'm just about sick to death of everyone treating me like some silly girl that doesn't know what's going on. Or like I'll shatter if I know the truth."
"You're not really advancing your case any, acting this way."
"And just what way is that, Senor Cipriano?"
"Well, moping in the stairwell for starters, when Scott's upstairs, sick, and seeing your sunshiny face is the certain antidote to all that ails him."
Teresa swatted his arm. "You are so full of manure!"
He turned around to find her smiling at him and returned it, taking both her hands in one of his. "No one thinks you're a silly girl. Least of all me," Diego said, sobering. "And I think you have every right to be angry. You just gotta learn to pick your battles, querida."
"I know. And I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you."
"Yeah, you did," Diego said, his smile returning. "But it's okay, I can take it."
Teresa scooted down a step to sit next to him and he twined his fingers with hers. They sat together a few minutes more before Diego finally cajoled her into going to see about Scott's condition for herself.
Scott's room was as quiet as a church on Tuesday when Teresa and Diego got there, and dim with all of the curtains pulled shut. No one had noticed them come in and so they stashed themselves in the corner by the dresser where slowly, her anger dimming, Teresa's senses began to let things in: Maria at the nightstand, stirring something into what looked to be water, the sound of the spoon clinking rhythmically against the side of the glass; Murdoch, perched on the opposite side of the bed, laid out the medical things. He'd already unwrapped Scott's head, and she winced in sympathy as Murdoch applied some kind of ointment to the nasty, stitched up gash; Mr. Harlan stood stiffly behind Murdoch and, idly, she wondered again where his expensive suits had gone.
Johnny, seated at the foot of the bed, whistled. "That's one helluva sewing job, Brother. Murdoch ought to take up quiltin'," he teased, though his attempt at light-heartedness sounding forced.
"Watch your language," Murdoch grumbled absently as he applied another glob of ointment and then a square of gauze before winding the first layer of bandage.
"Why's it so dark in here?" Scott asked, his face pinched with the pain.
"Do you know where you are, Son?" Murdoch calmly went around Scott's head once more with the bandage.
Scott lightly sucked his teeth. "Of course I know where I am," he said, flinching as Murdoch checked the security of his work. "I may be seeing ten of everything, but it seems like I was seeing ten broad daylights just a few minutes ago."
"And so you still would be," Murdoch assured him, "had we not shut all of the curtains. Thought your eyes mightn't like so much light. Hold still for me please."
"Well, can we at least crack a window or something? It's hot as hell in here."
"That's just the dregs of your fever talking, buddy, and probably not a little of that concussion, too. The windows are already open." Murdoch secured the tail end of the bandage and handed Scott the glass of water Maria had prepared. "But we can open your balcony door."
Scott eyed the glass suspiciously, one pupil significantly larger than the other giving the illusion that he had one black eye and one blue. "I drink anymore water and my eyeballs will be floating in their sockets," he grumbled.
"You need it," Murdoch insisted. "Drink up. Drink up for the Fat Lady."
This was Murdoch's stock answer to most forms of protest. Anything they didn't want to do must be done anyway, for the Fat Lady. And there was no real arguing in the face of such absurdity. Teresa had yet to figure out who this Fat Lady was, though she'd spent the time, while washing the stupid windows or whatever, adding to her already rather gruesome mental portrait. And she wasn't the only one. They'd compared. Hers was worse than Diego's, but not as bad as Johnny's. His Fat Lady had a beard. And Scott's Fat Lady, with his passion for detail, was worst of all. His had a terrible odor. And bedsores.
Harlan moved to open the balcony door, parting the sash and securing it to the door knob. A beam of sunshine fell upon the dresser, bathing the contents of its top in light as he turned to return to his grandson's bedside and stopped cold. Harlan cast a deeply horrified look at the small house cat, the orange patches of its calico coat strategically enhanced with barn door red paint, and neatly dressed in a tiny black suit. It was rather incongruously posed as if prepared to do battle with something twice its size, to the death if it should come to that, and sitting in pride of place in the middle of Scott's dresser top.
Harlan's mouth dropped open, then closed and dropped open again before he found his words. "What in the name of heaven is that?"