Thank you guys so much! I'm so glad you're enjoying it! You know, I think I saw a western with Mark Harmon in it once, and that may be where the duster comes from. And if not, I still think he'd look damn fine in one.
THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE TONY
By TIPPER
"Never apologize. It's a sign of weakness." -- She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, 1949
CHAPTER TWO: THE TRAIL HERD
If anything, the town was almost anti-climatic. Blinking in the too bright sunlight, Tony stared at what could have been an old movie set—as if he'd knitted it together himself from stills from El Dorado, How the West Was Won, Silverado, Shanghai Noon and countless other films that flitted through his mind's eye. Signs hung from clapboard wooden buildings proudly proclaiming themselves as general store, undertaker, mercantile, boarding house, bank, hotel…everything you'd expect. And there were so many horses! Animals were everywhere, tied to hitching posts, drinking from troughs, watching him balefully from all too knowing big brown eyes. People roamed around, dressed in a mixture of clothes—women in both Victorian style dresses and in riding clothes, men in brown working clothes and gray suits, children in pinafores and short-pants. The last were giggling and playing what looked like blind man's bluff in the middle of the street. And at one end of the street, a white steepled church oversaw the town, ringing out the ten o'clock hour, while at the other…nothing but sky.
He felt a strong grip on his arm, and he was carried off the boardwalk onto the hard-packed dirt, steered around piles of manure and bits of dirty snow (which explained the chill in the air—winter?), and prevented from walking into other people while he gazed around in wonder. He caught a few hellos, and he answered as best he could, nodding at people who all looked familiar, though, in most cases, he couldn't tell from where.
And then they were on the boardwalk again, and Tim was guiding him down the street, past shop windows, the telegraph and a newspaper office. Hang on, newspaper office?
He halted abruptly, staggering Tim, and stared at the paper on display in the front window. It showed just enough to be tantalizing—something about a group of wagon train attacks nearby—but that wasn't what he was looking for. Instead, he focused on the date at the top, and the name of the paper.
The Galatea Journal (Galatea…why was that name so familiar?), Galatea, Colorado, February 1, 1884.
Shit.
"What?" Tim asked over his shoulder. "The Wagon Train thing? Yeah. They're saying its Apache."
"Apache," Tony whispered.
"I don't think so, myself. I mean, we're really too far north for that. The last reports over the wire is that they've been contained down there, in the mountains east of Prescott."
Tony frowned, remembering. "You mean, Geronimo?"
"Who else?"
Yeah, Tony thought dazedly, who else?
"But you ask me…" Tim lowered his voice, pulling Tony away from the window and down the boardwalk. "I'm thinking it's one of us. White men, I mean. Not sure who yet, though I've some good ideas. Wagon trains means homesteaders, and there's been a lot of talk in the saloon that they're threatening the livelihood of the ranchers. Wouldn't take much for the same kind of range wars happening down in the New Mexico and Arizona Territories to spark up here."
Tony snorted. He meant the Lincoln County War and Tombstone. Sure.
"You don't agree?" Tim asked, apparently taking his silence the wrong way.
"No, you're probably right, Pro…Tim." He looked up then, feeling a rumble beneath his feet, and his hand went instinctively for the gun at his hip. He'd strapped the gunbelt on when he'd left the saloon, having seen it done a million times in the movies, and he could see the wear on his trousers where it was supposed to be tied. Now, resting his hand on the butt of the gun, it felt as natural as anything.
Tim, similarly, had his hand on his gun, and was studying the group of riders storming into town from the west, kicking up dust, and shouting at the tops of their lungs. There were about a dozen of them, all men, all dirty, all wild.
"Trail herd hit town last night," Tim muttered, brushing back his coat so that his deputy star was clearly visible. "Wasn't expecting them to be coming in quite this early in such force. Abby won't be ready for 'em."
Tony frowned, but imitated his brother and revealed the star on his chest.
Wait, did he just think of Tim as his….?
All thoughts left his head as the obvious leaders of the cowboys pulled to a halt in front of them, two ragged looking men with hollows in their cheeks and the brightness of exhaustion in their eyes. They were both grinning ear to ear with dirty teeth, and the one on the right cocked back his hat to reveal scraggly blond-gray hair and a graying beard.
"You boys the law?" he asked.
"Part of it," Tim answered. "Who are you?"
"I'm Johnny Acres. I'm running about five hundred head through just west of here, heading up to Cheyenne. This here is Roger Castille, my foreman." The man to Acres' left lifted his hat, revealing pale blue eyes and a head of black hair. He was clean shaven—mostly. Patches of dark stubble showed here and there, as if he'd been rushed. A cold chill ran through Tony upon seeing his face—he knew him. He didn't know how or from where, but he was certain he'd seen him before, and that memory was not a good one.
Acres was still talking. "I've got about half my men with me. The other half are with the cattle, but, come tomorrow, the men'll switch off so the other half can come in for a spell."
Tim nodded once, seeming oblivious to Tony's discomfiture. "You just passing through?"
"Nah," Acres replied. "We aim on staying a couple of days, give our men a rest. We're ahead of schedule and they could use a little time on real beds, hit the gambling hall, that sort of thing." He smiled then, almost a smirk. "Iffin you get my meaning."
"We get your meaning," Tim replied, not smiling back. "But if you want to spend any time here, we require that your boys leave their guns at the jail."
Acres' smile fell fast, eyes turning sharp. "Oh?"
"Just as a precaution," Tim continued. "It's as much for your boy's protection as the folks' here. People are a lot less likely to pull a gun in a fit of pique if they don't have a gun to pull." He arched an eyebrow. "If you get my meaning."
"A fit of pique, huh?" Acres repeated, and a little of the smile had returned. "Well, maybe we'll consider it. I'll ask them."
"Put it this way, Mr. Acres," Tony said brightly, "they don't leave their guns with us, the doors will all be closed, from restaurant to saloon to hotel. And the restaurant here is one of the best in the state." He got an eyeful from McGee on that last one, but he ignored it. "Seems to me, it's worth a couple of days of people not being able to kill each other with guns to get a hot meal, a real bed and maybe win a few hands of poker. Whaddya say?"
Acres just stared at him, as if curious he had even spoken at all. Then, like a flash, the older man was laughing. Tony grinned some more, patting Tim on the back, and nodding.
"Great, great, so with that all settled…" he began.
"Nothing's settled," Acres said, still chuckling, "but we'll see." He wiped a hand over his eyes, as if to wipe away tears of laughter. "But know this…." Just as quickly as he'd laughed, Acres was completely sober, staring at Tony as if he could see through him. "If we decide to keep our guns, those doors will be open, or we will open them for you. Get me?"
Tony's grin froze on his face, and, for a moment, he wondered if, should he die here, would he really be dead?
Finally, he hummed a little and shook his head. "You know what?" he asked, grinning again at the trail boss. "I'm just going to let you go talk to your men and decide what you want to do. And we'll be ready for you, one way or another. How's that?"
Acres smirked, and shrugged, leaning back in his saddle. "Fine with me."
Tony nodded again. "Right then. Let us know. We'll be at the jail."
Acres chuckled, but he and Castille both swung their horses around to go and speak with the knot of men hanging back, waiting for the go ahead to dismount.
Tony continued to smile; he couldn't help it. This was sort of fun! Even if Castille was still giving him the heebie jeebies with that face of his.
He heard Tim sigh heavily next to him, then a hand plucked at his sleeve jacket. "Come on."
"Hmm?" He turned, confused. "Why? They haven't told us their decision yet."
"You said we'd be at the jail. We may as well be." Tim started walking away, and Tony looked past him to the small adobe building a few storefronts down, with the sign "Galatea Sheriff" hanging over it. Okey doke. He jogged after the other man.
Tim glanced over his shoulder as he unlocked the door, still frowning at Tony, and disappeared inside. Tony was about to follow when Tim reappeared and tossed Tony a rifle. Before Tony even understood what was happening, Tim was chambering his rifle and placing it against his shoulder, pointing it directly at Acres.
Tony just blinked. "Um…."
"What's the matter?" Tim asked without dropping his bead on Acres. "Thought you liked that rifle."
Tony clamped his mouth shut, not sure how to answer that. Instead, he chambered the rifle he'd been tossed and pointed it at the ground. Tim steeled his jaw, clearly seeing Tony's lack of aim in his peripheral vision, but not saying anything.
Acres turned at stared at them, his gaze narrowed to slits. The men with him had all quieted, and then one of them pointed towards the saloon. Tony followed the point, and saw Gibbs standing on the boardwalk, also pointing a rifle at the men. Upon being spotted, Gibbs cracked the lever on his rifle.
And, a little further down, another man stood in front of what was proclaimed the Mayor's Office, wearing a neat pinstriped suit and holding a rifle to his shoulder as well.
Vance. Well hell. Still in charge, even here.
Acres turned on his horse, forcing the animal in a circle so that he could see every rifle pointed at him.
"There's more guns pointed at you than just four!" Gibbs' shouted. "You really want to risk it?"
"Is there really?" Tony asked in a whisper.
Tim just frowned more deeply. "Not funny," he hissed under his breath.
"Take that as a no," Tony mumbled to himself. Great. Not that he wouldn't bank on Gibbs and Vance both being able to take on the whole bunch with just the two of them, but still….
Acres twisted around to face Gibbs, stared at him a moment, obviously taking in the full star on his chest, and raised a hand.
"No need for that, Sheriff," he called. "We're leaving our guns at your jail, as your deputies suggested."
"Then do it," Gibbs ordered. Acres just nodded, and his men dismounted, all immediately unbuckling their gun-belts as they hit the ground. When the first group started over, gun-belts in hand, Tim lowered his rifle.
"Keep them covered," he said. "I'll go get the receipt book."
Tony snorted a laugh. Receipt book. One hundred and twenty five years in the past, and McGee was still the one doing all the paperwork.
Tony couldn't take his eyes off Castille. It was driving him crazy, not knowing where he'd seen the man before. As Tim took the foreman's gun, dropping it in the box he'd put next to the desk in the jail, Tony found his hand still resting on his own gun, as if waiting for Castille to make a move.
The man's blue eyes regarded Tony unhappily, no hint of anything but bleakness in their depths. Tony lifted his chin in defiance to that stare.
"What are you looking at?" Castille demanded finally, practically ripping the receipt Tim handed him from the younger man's hand. "Something the matter?"
Tony just shrugged. "No. Just think I know you from somewhere."
Castille snorted, grimacing. "I ain't wanted, if that's what you're thinking."
Tony's eyes narrowed. "If you say so."
The other man frowned, glared at Tony a second longer, and then disappeared out the door, fuming the whole way.
"Shouldn't antagonize them," Tim offered quietly, taking the name of the next cowboy to hand him a gun.
"He antagonized me."
"How?" Tim asked, ripping the receipt free of the book and handing it over. "You were the one staring at him."
"He just rubs me the wrong way, and I trust my gut."
"Oh, right. The famous Dinozzo gut." Tim shook his head. "I just hope your trust in it doesn't get you shot in it one day." He waved in the next cowboy. "Name?"
Tony frowned at that—the famous Dinozzo gut? How could he have a Dinozzo gut if Gibbs was his father? Shouldn't that be the famous Gibbs gut?
He rubbed a hand across his forehead, knuckling the spot above one eye that was beating an annoying drumbeat.
Tim waved out the last cowboy, dropped the final gunbelt in the box, and looked up at Tony. "I'm going to put these in the safe. You'll be okay for a minute?"
Tony dropped his hand from his head and frowned. The headache had migrated, and his ears were buzzing. Somewhere, he thought he could hear the high-pitched whine of a heart monitor going off.
"Tony? You okay?" Tim's voice was almost lost in the cacophony, and Tony frowned more deeply, trying to wave him off. It'll pass; it'll pass. Just hold on. He tried to nod, to make Tim go away.
"Of course, Probie. Why wouldn't I be?"
Tim blinked once. "What did you call me?"
But Tony couldn't answer. The world had abruptly turned completely black.
Hands clapped loudly in his ears. What the…?
"Come on, Tony, wake up."
Hands clapped again, and Tony flinched.
"Ow…loud." He waved a hand upwards, stopping whomever was clapping loudly right over his head. What sort of sadist….?
"There you are, my boy. You had us worried for a moment."
Ducky?
He peeled back his eyelids, which felt glued to his eyeballs, and blinked a few times before recognizing the walls of the jail. He was lying on a cot in one of the cells, and Ducky was looking down at him, curiosity and concern in his gaze. Tim wasn't there, but Jimmy was, standing in the cell door and worrying the brim of his black top hat in his hands, looking ready to go fetch anything the doctor asked of him.
"You with me, Tony?"
"I, um…." Tony frowned, and started to sit up. Ducky pressed a hand to his chest.
"Not just yet. You fainted, Tony, clean away, so Tim tells me. That's not normal, as I'm sure you know. Tell me, is it your head?"
Tony frowned more deeply, and rested a hand on his head. "How long was I out?"
"A few minutes only. We dragged you in here, I clapped my hands above your head a couple of times, and here you are. Tony, I need to know—is it your head?"
Tony stared at Ducky for a long moment, and thought about his answer. It was 1883. There were no X-Rays, no Tylenol, no ibuprofen, no nothing. Just good intentions, dirty knives and alcohol. If there was something wrong with his head, what could Ducky really do? And if involved anything like a lobotomy (did they come up with those yet?), then he was having no part of it. 19th Century medicine was staying far away from him, no matter how smart Ducky was.
"Just dizziness from trying to do too much too soon, Duck," he answered, finally. "I've been in bed for, what, two weeks? I probably should have sat down once I was in here, but I stayed on my feet, and it was a little much." He pushed up again onto his elbows. "I'm fine."
Ducky's eyes narrowed behind the wire-rimmed glasses. "Why don't I believe that, young man?"
Tony just smiled softly, and asked, "Where's Tim?"
Ducky looked puzzled. "What do you mean, he's right…." He stopped, looking around the little jail, then up at Jimmy. The young man just shrugged.
"He was here a second ago, Doctor."
A shriek pierced the room, and Tony was on his feet so fast, he nearly knocked Ducky over. Shouting an apology over his shoulder, he made it to the front door in time to see Tim putting himself bodily between Abby and Castille in the middle of the street. Abby was carrying a basket of food, and she staggered backwards as Tim pushed her back. Tony saw the flash of metal in Abby's hand—she was holding a knife, probably from the basket, and had probably pulled it to protect herself.
"What's the big idea, Castille?" Tim spat. "She said to leave her alone!"
"Aw, you know," the other man said, leering at Abby over Tim's shoulder. "She don't look married, and, at her age, that usually means something."
"Yeah, it means I've got taste!" Abby snapped.
"You're damned pretty, you know that?" Castille pressed. "Hell of a body on ya. I love 'em tall." He stepped forward, as if to go around Tim. "What say we—"
"What say you back away before I gut you," Abby snarled, still holding the knife.
"Abby," Tim warned. "Let me handle this."
"Then handle it! Make him go away before I do something he'll regret."
"Wow," Castille smiled. "What a mouth on her! Come on, darling, give me a chance. I'll show you a good time."
"And by good time," Tony interjected, sauntering over, his hand on his gun again, "you mean, you'll buy her enough alcohol to blitz her brain, and then try to get her into your bed before she sobers up enough to remember what a slimeball you are? That about sum it up?"
Castille whirled around, reaching for the non-existent gun on his own hip, before curling his hand into a fist. All smiles were gone as he glared at Tony. Tim obviously hadn't been seen as a threat, Tony on the other hand….
"Back off, Deputy. This don't concern you."
"Pretty sure it does, Castille. You're bothering a friend of mine, and foolishly ignoring my brother who, quite frankly, is probably saving your life right now. Abby is very good with a knife."
Castille snorted, glancing at Tim and Abby, before returning his dark stare to Tony. "This is between me and the girl."
"The girl has made her opinion of you pretty clear, seems to me. She wants you to leave her alone. I don't think there is anything more to discuss."
"And if I think there is?" the other man challenged.
"Then you'd be wrong. And if you don't want to be dead wrong, you'll leave now and not talk to Abby again unless it's to buy a drink from her in the saloon. Is that clear?"
Castille sneered. "You think you're so tough. I seen your type before. All flash, no fire."
Tony chuckled coolly. "You really want to test that theory?"
For a second, something flared in Castille's eyes, and Tony frowned. It was such a familiar look; it made him all the more certain he'd seen this man before. He just couldn't….
"Castille! Get your butt in here!" Acres had apparently had enough, and was standing on the boardwalk in front of the saloon. "There's other women! Stop picking fights you won't win!"
The flare in Castille's eyes grew even hotter, and Tony felt half a second of genuine fear, but from what, he wasn't sure.
"Castille! Damn it!"
And, just as suddenly, the fire was gone from the young cowboy's eyes.
"You're a lucky man, Deputy."
Tony inclined his head. "And you're an ass."
At that, Castille huffed a laugh, spat on the ground in front of Tony, and turned away, stalking towards the saloon. Some of the other cowboys hanging with him laughed, clapping him on the back as he walked. Apparently, they thought he'd won that fight somehow. Which made Tony wonder just what might have happened if Castille had, in fact, made it a real fight.
Not that Tony was slow with his fists, but, well, with the way his head was right now….
"Thanks, Tony," Abby said, sighing a little. "I don't like that guy."
"Me neither, Abbs," Tony replied, still watching the batwing doors swing where Castille had disappeared. When he returned his gaze to Abby and Tim, he found Tim staring at him, something inscrutable in his face. Tony frowned. Tim lowered his eyes, and, clearly unhappy, walked away.
What the hell was that about?
"This is for you, by the way," Abby said, jerking his attention back. She was by his side now, patting the basket. "I was bringing it to you in the jail. Breakfast and lunch, seeing as it's nearing mid-day now." She glanced at the clock on the church before smiling once more at Tony—sure enough, it was already past eleven.
"I do love food," he admitted. He leaned over and lifted up the red and white checked cloth hiding the basket, and drew in the smell of hot biscuits. Heaven. "Thanks, Abbs. You're a lifesaver."
"Back atcha," she agreed cheekily. "Shall we?" She offered her arm, and he took it, leading her back to the jail where Ducky and Jimmy still stood, watching them from the doorway. Once inside, Ducky continued to hover as Abby laid out the food for Tony on the desk. Jimmy stayed by the open door to the outside, watching the town.
"There," Abby said, finished with a flourish. She put the basket to one side. "Put the dishes back in there and bring it back when you're done." She took a step back. "Need anything else?"
"Don't think so," Tony said, mouth already watering. Did he know Abby could cook this well? He couldn't remember.
"'Kay. See you later, then." She spun cutely in place and headed towards the door.
What? Hey! "Wait," Tony called, stopping her. "Someone should walk you back."
"I'll do it," Jimmy said, all dimples and eager to please. Tony arched an eyebrow.
"We'll be fine," Abby promised, already taking Jimmy's arm and leading him out of the jail. Tony made to follow, to make sure they crossed the street without a problem, but Ducky blocked his way.
"We weren't finished, Tony."
"Doc, I need to make sure…."
"Tim's out there. They'll be fine."
Tony grimaced. "Tim won't be able to handle—"
"He's been doing just fine these last few weeks. He can handle what's going on far better than you think. He's not ten years old anymore."
Tony studied Ducky a second, about to challenge that, and then frowned suddenly. Ducky was right—Tony didn't think of Tim as a trained agent…deputy…. Clear as crystal, he remembered a gangly boy chasing after him, wanting to play cowboys and Indians and to go fishing with his big brother. He was someone his dad said needed protecting. No wait. Wait.
How…how could he have a memory like that?
"Tony?"
He was leaning against the desk, and Ducky had a hand on his arm.
"Tony, what's going on in there? You need to tell me, or I can't help."
He shook his head. God, what was going on with him? He knew things, he realized, had memories of things, understood things he couldn't possibly know.
"Tony?"
He sighed heavily, and then forced a smile for Ducky's benefit. "I'm fine, Doc. Just need some food in me. I'm probably light-headed from eating nothing but broth for two weeks, don't you think?"
Ducky's eyes narrowed, clearly not buying it for a second. "I'm not stupid, Tony. I need to know—"
"I'm fine, Doc." He pressed a hand to Ducky's arm, as if he could physically imprint the statement. "I'm fine, I promise."
Ducky simply frowned, his brow a mess of dark lines, and shook his head. "When did the word 'fine' become the defense against my profession?"
Tony just shrugged and smiled. Ducky eyed him a moment longer, and then tapped the desk with his fist.
"You're to stay here, young man, until I return with something that should help with those headaches I know you're having, even if you won't admit it. Promise you'll stay here."
Tony nodded. Why wouldn't he? With this whole table of food to eat, it was as pleasant a place as any. Except maybe that cute little bistro on the corner near the Yard. What was it called again? Maria's? May's? Mirabel's? No, no, that was the brothel on the edge of town. It…damn it, what was it called?
He shook his head, not even aware he'd closed his eyes, but when he opened them, Ducky was gone. Sighing, he stood and made his way around the desk, settling down to stare at the chicken pot pie that had begun to grow cold on the desk.
Someone cleared their throat, startling him. Trying to cover it up with a cough, Tony looked up to find Director Vance standing in the open doorway.
"Deputy," Vance greeted.
"Dir…Mayor, um…" Tony stood, not quite sure what he should be doing. Shake hands? Bow? Do a little dance. He smiled at that last thought, and Vance's gaze narrowed.
"Something amusing, Dinozzo?"
Whoops. "Uh, no. No, sir. Um…" He cleared his throat and attempted a somber mien. "What can I do for you, Mayor?"
"Just checking in, son. It's been almost two weeks since I saw you last. Your father and brother have been keeping you well hidden while you were under the weather. Are you well now?"
Tony gave a nod. "Seem to be. A few…" he waved a hand, "issues. But I seem to be on the mend."
"Good." Vance looked out the door—he hadn't actually fully entered the jail, as if he didn't feel like he belonged inside. It reminded Tony of the way Vance always hovered just outside the cubicles, as if aware that, inside was not his domain unless invited. The Mayor frowned at whatever was outside; Tony could guess what it was.
"This trail herd," the quiet man began, frowning a little, "think they'll be trouble?"
"Probably."
Vance gave a nod. "You well enough to handle it?"
Tony frowned. What kind of question was that? "Gibbs thinks so."
"Your father…." Vance grimaced, gaze narrowing again. "I've never been all that keen on the fact that he made his sons his deputies." Dark eyes caught Tony's again. "I always thought he'd send McGee away when he went to college. Tell him not to come back. But McGee did. Over and over again."
Tony's expression caught, and something like chagrin bit into his chest. He'd hoped his brother would stay out East too. Tim deserved to be lighting up the world (literally—electricity was his science), not stuck in this backwater town on the edge of Colorado. But, outwardly, he just shrugged.
"Family won't betray you."
Vance grunted. "Sometimes to their detriment." He stared at Tony a moment longer, and then gave a head shake. "My apologies, Dinozzo. This latest threat to our peaceful home has me wound up." He gave a small smile. "I am glad to see you well again. It would be nice to see your father looking a little less like the world was about to end."
Tony just smiled back, not sure how to respond to that, and Vance seemed to take that as a thank you. With another nod, the quiet man slipped back out of the door. It was only then that Tony noticed Vance still carried a rifle in his hand. Funny how he hadn't noticed before—as if it were a natural thing to see.
Tony sighed again, and dug a fork into the pie. If the fork stabbed through to the pot's bottom a little harder than necessary, it was just because he really was hungry.
As he ate, he considered the fact that he felt convinced that this was a dream, but part of him also seemed convinced that this was all real. It was because he felt at home here, like he belonged. And the longer he thought about it, the longer he breathed this place in, the more solid he felt.
He was polishing off a truly spectacular piece of blackberry pie about half an hour later when Ducky reappeared, smiling. Tony tried to smile back, and not look too suspiciously at the black bag Ducky had in his hand. What did headache medicine really mean in the 1880s?
As if in answer to his question, Ducky moved over to the stove and picked up the kettle, filling it with water and placing it on top to boil. Of course, Tony remembered. Willow Bark Tea. The memory of its bitter taste was sharp on his tongue.
And how could he know what it tasted like, he screamed inwardly. Aspirin. Aspirin was what you took for headaches, not Willow Bark Tea….
Seemingly oblivious to Tony's discomfiture, Ducky started to talk. "It feels a little like being on the cusp of some terrible sporting event out there," the sage doctor mused. "All those restless cowboys standing around, waiting for some great sport where, undoubtedly, some poor soul will be humiliated and killed. Seems not unlike the anticipation I imagine must have surrounded gladiatorial games in Ancient Rome. Did you know that most gladiator fights were not held in the great arenas but in private homes? Most assume they were much grander than most of them were…."
As Ducky rambled on, Tony found himself thinking more about what the doctor been telling him earlier, about needing someone to talk to. Fact was, the old man was right. But, just as sure as he was that admitting to the man that he was having black-outs was a bad idea, he knew he couldn't tell Ducky about this. But who else….?
Jimmy suddenly appeared in the door, nearly running into Ducky as the other man began pouring the tea into a tin cup, the young man panting as if he'd been running.
"Sorry, Doctor," he uttered hurriedly, getting out of Ducky's way before grinning anew at Tony. "Hey, your father wanted me to tell you that the noon stage is arriving. Should be rolling into town in a few minutes."
Tony's eyes widened—of course! "Ziva! She's here?" Of course. Ziva would help! He grinned, and Ducky gave him the oddest look. Tony ignored it, patted him on the back, and headed over to the door. He grabbed Jimmy's arms as if he'd hug him. "Ziva's here!" he said again, laughing.
"Tony, wait! The tea!"
He stopped, turning to see Ducky watching him worriedly, holding up the tin cup.
"And you really shouldn't run," the doctor implored.
Tony just saluted cheekily. "Promise I'll drink it later, Doc. But I can't miss her arrival. I'll be back! Honest!" And he bounded out of the jail house door. The last thing he heard before being bathed in sunlight was Ducky muttering, "Oh, dear."
He stood on the edge of the boardwalk, scanning the town. He spotted Tim and Gibbs over in front of the hotel, talking. And coming towards them at a slow clip was, quite clearly, a stage coach led by six horses. Damn—that thing was big! Looked like it fit at least six people, maybe even eight.
He jogged over to the others, who both stopped talking as he approached. Gibbs was, as always, impossible to read, but Tim's expression was a mix of concern and unhappiness. Reaching them, he slung an arm over Tim's shoulder and gave him a half-hug.
"You didn't think I'd miss her arrival, did you?"
"Are you alright?" Tim asked, not buying the joviality for a second.
"Fine, fine. Ask Ducky. It's all good."
Tim frowned. "No, it's not." He shoved Tony's arm off his shoulder. "You dropped like you'd been pole-axed in the jail! Then you come outside all grit and bristle even though I had the situation with Abby well in—"
"Tim," Gibbs ordered softly, "later." Tim frowned, but did as he was told, crossing his arms sullenly. In the meantime, the stage had stopped, and the driver jumped down, smiling brightly at them.
"Full complement today, Sheriff."
"Bill," Gibbs replied, nodding at the driver. "Good ride?"
"Quiet. My favorite kind." Bill had the door to the stage open and was dropping the stairs. Then he backed up, whistling up at his bag man to start dropping luggage off the top.
A couple disembarked first, with a small child, who grinned up at Gibbs. Gibbs smiled back—man never could resist a kid. Tim greeted the couple by name, welcoming them home. Tony continued to watch the stage.
An older woman and her daughter emerged next, neither of them remarkable, although Tim called one of them "Mrs. Lowell," which, for some reason, made Tony's hackles rise. But it all faded when a shapely, but practical boot hit the first step, and Ziva leaned out of the small door.
She took the three of them in, and they all studied her right back. She was dressed in a long wool skirt, a long duster and a red shirt. Her hair was pinned tightly to the back of her head, and her face was as lovely as ever. She also wore a gunbelt. It was odd to see a woman carrying a gun, but on Ziva, it would have been odd had she not worn one.
She smiled then, and Tony smiled back, walking forward to offer her a hand.
"It's so good to see you," he said warmly, feeling a little like the last piece of this little jigsaw world was popping into place. She nodded back taking his hand and stepping to the ground.
"You must be Tony," she said, and then turned to Gibbs. Her smile grew deeper, more genuine. "Hello, Gibbs."
"Ziva." Gibbs had that warm smile of his—the kind he only reserved for people he truly loved. To Tony, it was expected, but, based on Tim's expression, his younger brother was clearly surprised.
"And you must be Tim," Ziva finished, offering the young man a hand. Tim stared at it a moment, then took it. Ziva smiled again. "I understand that you've returned home from Boston not that long ago."
"He made it into Harvard on a scholarship," Gibbs said, and there was no hiding the pride in his voice. "Though it meant ten years of his being away from home, he's done now, and close to obtaining a doctorate in engineering. He just has to finish his…." He paused, frowning slightly. "What is it called again?"
"Dissertation," Tim supplied in the same resigned voice he'd used earlier that morning. This was a thing, apparently.
"Dissertation, and he'll be Dr. McGee." Gibbs patted his boy on the back as he finished.
"McGee," Ziva repeated, tilting her head. She smiled up at Tim. "Gibbs is not your surname?"
"Not by choice," Tim replied sourly.
"It's important that they remember their roots," Gibbs explained, his tone firm. "Plus, I promised their mothers."
Mothers. Right, of course. They weren't related. They were adopted. No…wait…that wasn't right either.
Another memory bubbled up to the surface, of Gibbs sitting him down to tell him that he'd remarried. A woman named Diane, a widow. She had a son, a two-year old boy, and an six-week old daughter. They were going to come live with them here in Galatea. Tony was going to have a new little brother….
Diane died of consumption not long after she arrived, and her daughter soon after. Gibbs had brought up Tim and Tony on his own, and Tim kept Diane's last name. Tony, too, wasn't blood—Gibbs had married his mother when Tony was one. And, just like Tim, Gibbs had insisted both boys keep their mother's maiden name as their surnames.
He'd resented it. So had Tim. For a long time, they thought it was because Gibbs didn't want his name associated with them. But, over time, they realized it was Gibb's way of keeping their mother's alive. Still…it hurt.
And Gibbs didn't like them referring to each other by those last names, which suggested, at least to Tony, that Gibbs wasn't all that happy about it either.
But Gibbs always kept his promises. At least they got to call him "Dad."
Dad.
It was nice calling him that. Really, really nice.
"Get her bags, Tony."
Tony flinched at the order from Gibbs, knowing he'd been caught day-dreaming, and he scrambled to get the bags Ziva was pointing out. Tim already had two suitcases in hand and a duffel over his shoulder. He was clearly waiting, and Tony blushed.
"Right, sorry, coming."
"Sign of weakness," Tim quoted airily, moving to follow Gibbs and Ziva inside.
"Whatever." Tony tried not to grin. "McSmarty-pants."
Tim laughed, and another piece of this world slotted into place.
As he walked into the cool darkness, he felt more and more at home, and that other place…that other place more distant.
TBC….
I do love that John Wayne quote.