It started with the desk—all of those books and papers tantalizingly stacked and his frustration mounting. He'd known it was all wrong the second he accused Murdoch of kicking them out, all wrong; knew it even as the words were leaving his mouth. This knowledge did nothing, however, to lessen his frustration. He took it out on the desk, took a vicious swipe at it, felt a certain satisfaction at the way the books landed so haphazardly, all that loose paper fluttering to the floor. It was so satisfying, in fact, that he couldn't resist taking another, mightier swipe at the rest.

"Oh, you wanna throw things?" Murdoch sounded almost pleased. "Well, I can throw things, too." And with that, he flipped a whole tray of glasses to the floor.

Unfazed, Johnny ripped the couch apart with wild abandon, knocking all sorts of statuettes, pictures and decanters of liquor over on his way across the room to the bookshelf where he pulled down two shelves of books.

"That's the spirit!" Murdoch egged him on, yanking down a set of drapery and then knocked out a couple of shelves himself. Johnny picked up his father's model clipper ship, held it over his head ready to make kindling of the thing when something, perhaps the absurdity of the situation, but more likely the oddly appreciative glint in Murdoch's eyes coupled with the fact that he looked about ready to attempt a bit of arson, shocked Johnny back into his senses. He stood there, gulping air and staring at the man, all of the fight gone out of him, when a strange, near-hysterical laughter burbled up in him, perverse and almost as appalling as finding himself simultaneously on the verge of tears.

It had all come on so suddenly, so violently that for a second Johnny wasn't sure what he was going to do and it was all made worse by Murdoch looking at him so tentatively and unsure, as if his son were seconds from detonating. Johnny honestly wasn't altogether certain that he wasn't on the verge of exploding into billion little pieces, though when Murdoch stepped through the wreckage, took the ship out his hands and put it on the dinner table, he thought he just might. Damn well hoped he would.

"Are you alright?" Murdoch asked.

Johnny turned away, certainly not all right and unable to remember a time when he'd been more embarrassed. His gaze was firmly planted on the floor, his arms wrapped around himself; he looked as if he were trying to keep his body from flying apart. He wanted to run. Yet, as badly as he wanted it, he couldn't seem to make his feet follow through with the flight plan he had in mind. It was as if Murdoch had a gravity field all his own and far more powerful than his son's. Johnny had begun hoping, instead, for a great hole to open in the floor and swallow him up right there or, barring that, Murdoch would leave. But the old man just stood there, looking at him; witness to his shame and misery.

When Murdoch finally moved toward him, Johnny retreated a step, "I'm okay," he said, sounding anything but, and terrified that he was going to find himself in his father's arms. Murdoch shot him an inscrutable look and used the table as a brace to crouch down and rescue some scrap out the rubble that had once been their living room. Johnny cast a surreptitious glance at his father through the veil of his lashes, curious in spite of himself. Murdoch caught him looking and promptly thrust a tintype into his hands.

"You don't have to choose," he said.

Johnny took it mutely, not quite sure what he had just received much less what to say, especially after Murdoch cupped the back of his head and pulled him in close. "The rest… We can deal with the rest," he said. "But the first thing you need to know is that is not a choice you ever have to make. Do you understand me?"

It was clear that Murdoch was looking for some kind of yes or no answer. Stunned and spent, all Johnny could give him was a jerky nod, even though he wasn't altogether sure he really understood anything at all. Murdoch looked around the room and shook his head. "What a mess," he muttered and patted Johnny's cheek before picking his way through the rubble to the dining room door and out, shaking his head all along the way. His father had gotten almost all the way out of the room before Johnny thought to turn the tintype over and what he saw there came as such a shock that he sat down right where he was.

He had no idea how long he'd sat in the middle of the floor, memorizing every detail, every scratch; the contented smile hovering on his mother's lips; the intelligence in her eyes, the shine of her black hair which had always fascinated him; the broach clasped at her throat that he'd always known. It was her favorite; she wore it when she was getting fancied up— used to tell him stories about how a tall, handsome prince had given it to her. Johnny had always figured she was full of fancy. Or drunk. But look how she leaned, so trusting, into his father, so clearly in love with the man. And his father! Somehow he'd never really thought of Murdoch as having ever been any younger than he presently was, never mind that he apparently used to wear a mustache! How he held her with such care, like he knew that having her nestled in beside him was a miracle.

Hearing the sound of approaching voices, Johnny sighed, glanced at the tintype once more before tucking it between the pages of a book and picking up the nearest scrap that he could lay hands on. Murdoch was right, Johnny figured as he read the scrap he had picked up. He didn't have to choose between them and that was the place to begin. His forehead wrinkled, he read the scrap of paper again, thinking he might also have to figure what on earth Murdoch was still doing with a ten year old receipt for the very hat that he'd clap on head when he went out to give the men their orders this morning. And what was that receipt doing stuck somewhere in the book shelf? Taking a real look around, he noticed presently that the big shelf behind the dinner table seemed to have held a lot more than books and knick knacks.

Moving, he crabbed it over closer to the shelves, realizing for the first time that there were all manner of scraps and oddments scattered about. Those shelves, it seemed, were something of a treasure chest, giving Johnny a glimpse into the oddest corners of his father's life. There were, of course, books, which up until now had held very little interest for him. He figured he'd been missing out because for six months he'd been living with this treasure right under his nose and hadn't even known it.

There were those strange little paintings that Scott said went with something called a stereopticon. These he'd known about, though he'd yet to see what this stereopticon contraption looked like. There were letters, some obviously recent, some yellow with age, none that he dared read. Old cigar boxes spilled forth watch fobs and cuff links and hat bands. He hadn't been dreaming it, and maybe only half out of his mind, when he'd thrown that jar and a bunch of marbles exploded from the shattered glass. He could almost understand the four year old theatre tickets. Almost. But, Jesus, what in God's name was the old man doing with a tin of baby teeth?

"I like what you've done with the place," Scott said, nodding appreciatively from the door way where he leaned, taking in the destruction and picking off his gloves.

Johnny looked up, his smile hovering somewhere between sheepish and nonplussed, from where he sat in the middle of the floor. "I was thinking it was maybe time for some new curtains," he said, swiping at his eyes and trying to cover it by glancing at one set of the now half naked French doors.

"I've heard of a bull in a China shop, John, but this is just ridiculous."

Johnny flashed another brief smile, pointing in Scott's general direction. "You're a mess."

"Yeah, well…" Scott used his gloves to slap at the mud on his thigh. "You should see Teresa."

"Should see Teresa wha…whoa." Teresa cut herself off, coming around Scott and skidding to a halt. "Oh. My." Her mouth opened and then closed again as she surveyed the wreckage, one foot hovering on the down step. "Huh," she said, and then after a bit more thought, "well at least the clipper ship survived this time."

Scott and Johnny looked over at her. "This time?" Scott asked.

"Oh, yeah. Won't be the first time this room's been taken apart." Teresa snorted. "That's at least the third model clipper."

"Get the feeling there's a really good story there," Scott said, smiling.

"Couple of 'em," Teresa assured and then pointed towards Johnny. "Whatcha got?"

Johnny looked down at his hand and the little black tin with tiny pink flowers painted all over and shook it, raising his eyebrows at the resultant rattle. "Guess the old man keeps a lot of stuff tucked away in these books," he said.

"Yeah, those shelves are something else, aren't they?" Teresa swiped impatiently at her rebellious hair. "No telling what all he's stuck in there."

"I'll say. Scott, you know about this?" Johnny pitched his brother the little tin. It rattled once in the air and then again when Scott caught it.

"I've come across a few odds and ends," Scott said, briefly inspecting and then shaking the box. "Nothing to get excited about."

"Guess it wouldn't be until you saw it scattered out all over the place and then had to pick it up," Johnny conceded. "It's one thing to have to re-shelve a bunch of books, but try figuring out where a tin of teeth goes in all of that." Johnny waved a hand generally about. "Or better yet, what in hell it's even doing here in the first place."

Scott stopped rattling the tin, a look closing in on horror creeping across his face.

"Oh, I was wondering where those got off to." Teresa started to step all the way into the room but Scott threw out an arm and blocked her, his horror temporarily shifting, as he gestured to all of the broken glass scattered around the floor.

"Where are your boots?"

Teresa looked down at her feet, one heavy-duty sock sagging lazily around her ankle, and wiggled her toes. "Maria wouldn't let me through the house with 'em on after I dropped her off the milk." She stepped back.

"Wait a minute." Johnny waved a hand for attention. "Can we revisit the teeth issue here for just a second?" he asked, pointing to the tin which Scott promptly handed to its rightful owner.

Teresa started to laugh. "They're mine. Daddy and Murdoch saved 'em. So, we're going down to go stomp on some grapes in a little. Wanna come?"

"Guess I'm not contagious anymore," Johnny said, satisfied by this explanation for the teeth, and hiked up a pant leg. "But probably chicken pox and wine grapes don't mix."

"Strangest family in the neighborhood, indeed," Scott muttered, shaking his head. "Next we'll be turning up boxes of chicken heads and vials of toe nails."

"You could watch." Teresa shrugged, apparently unconcerned by either the chicken heads or the chickenpox. "Better than being cooped up in here all day."

"Yeah," Johnny looked around at the mess, "Better get this all straightened out before I go anywhere though."

"Mm," Scott agreed. "I guess you probably should. Looks like a cavalry unit stormed through here."

"I really don't even know where half of this stuff goes."

Scott stepped down into the room and crouched to pick up a largish shard of glass. "I'd say a good deal of it now goes in the refuse bin," he said, adding the shard to the trash pile Johnny had already started.

"Doesn't really matter where it goes," Teresa said, taking a seat in the doorway. "Maria'll just come through and put things pretty much where she wants them anyway. The main thing is just to make sure she can actually get in here."

"One of these days you're going to have to tell us how it is you know so much about it," Scott said.

Teresa smiled, but did not elaborate as she re-appraised the wreckage.

"I think maybe this one can be fixed." Johnny said, drawing her attention as he picked up the body of a largish figurine that had once been a sleeping dog.

"There aren't many things that can't," she said and bent to pick up the dog's head which had rolled over to the entryway. "Probably take a little while for me and Scott both to get washed up and changed. If you're not finished by then, I'll give you a hand."

"Speaking of which," Scott got down to cases. "Who's going first, you or me?"

"In the bath?" Teresa asked, tossing Johnny the decapitated dog's head as she heaved herself to her feet. "I'll flip you for it."

They faced off, Teresa watching stoically while Scott dug a coin out of his pocket and positioned it on his crooked thumb. "Call it in the air," he said, his tone matching the solemnity of the transaction, and flipped.

"Tails!" she said and bolted.

"Why, you little…" Scott let the coin drop to the floor and shook his fist in the air. He turned to Johnny who was starting to laugh and threw him a wink before giving chase.

"If you cut around the side you might be able to catch her!" Johnny called after them.

"No you won't!" Teresa cried, apparently streaking through the kitchen if Maria's loud admonishments were any indication.

"Miracle of miracles," he muttered to his reflection, wiping the last traces of shave cream from his chin with a face towel, and not bothering to answer the knock on his bedroom door; pointless, since it was opened half a second later anyway. Arguably the most privacy loving of them all, Scott was at a complete loss to explain how his room had become one of the busier in the house, and he'd resigned himself early on to the fact that his was a family undaunted by the prospect of a closed door. That he'd managed to nearly finish his morning ablutions undisturbed was almost more surprising than the fact that whoever this was, and from the weight and position he guessed it was his father, had bothered to knock at all.

"Welcome, welcome!" Turning, Scott leaned back against the wash counter, threw the towel over his shoulder. A bath, some clean trousers, and a shave had done wonders for his mood. "A fair and pleasant morning to you, Sir!" He waved his father through the door.

"Well, it's morning, anyway," Murdoch said, hesitating at the threshold, one hand on the knob.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," Scott invited. His father back upstairs once he'd gone down for the day was more than a little heart-stopping, but the day had been something on par with extraordinary almost from the word go, so Scott decided to just let this one slide for the time being. "It's so rare that we get visitors here at our little outpost, and when we do, we like to…"

Rolling his eyes, Murdoch waved him silent and committed to the room. "Enough," he said, closing the door. "Have you had your breakfast?"

"Yes, Sir." Scott answered, eyes darting suspiciously from the closed door, to the leather binder under Murdoch's arm, and then up to his face. "I hope that you've not come to tell me something horrible. Like I no longer have the day off."

"No, nothing like that, Scott." Murdoch smiled, though it was far from easy or comfortable, and Scott felt his previous good humor dampen appreciably. "But, listen, I appreciate you helping Teresa with the barn chores this morning."

"I don't know what made her think she had to take care of it all on her own, goofy girl." Scott grimaced. "There was no reason not to split it."

"She's a lot tougher than she looks, but still…"

"Murdoch, you didn't come back up here to thank me for doing my job." In common with his father, Scott was generally not one to beat around any bushes and, the fact was Murdoch's obvious discomfort was quickly starting to erode at his nerves.

"No," Murdoch frowned, "no, I didn't."

"What have you got there?" Scott asked, pointing to the leather binder and guessing that it was the likely impetus behind this strange visit. Murdoch suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable and unsure, a combination which had Scott's skin prickling.

His father pulled the folder out, glanced down at it before looking back at him. "It's a Pinkerton report. On you."

"Is there, um…" Shocked and at an uncharacteristic loss for words, Scott ran a hand through his hair, still wet and plastered at odd angles from his bath. "Uh…why?"

"Do you mean, why do I have it?" Murdoch asked, obviously unsure how to go about any of this.

"Well, presumably the Pinkertons didn't track us down without there being some sort of a report," Scott said, trying for blasé as he picked his shirt off the corner of the mirror and missing the mark entirely. "I mean why are you giving it to me...now?"

"Your brother found his last night…"

"Oh." Scott blinked. Casting about for his senses, he missed a button on his shirt and had to start over again. "So, that was what all of that hullabaloo was about."

Murdoch nodded. "Part of it. I had been searching for the right time to speak with you both, privately. Should have dealt with it before now. But what with one thing and another… It almost seemed easier to forget about them. And then… Well, here." Murdoch stepped forward, offering up the report.

"I don't..." Scott took a step back. "I don't want that."

Murdoch stepped into his son's retreat. "Scott…"

"I received a gift from you once, on my twenty first birthday," Scott blurted and then immediately wanted to kick himself. He had no intentions on ever bringing that up, had no idea why he did just then; the words just fell right out of his mouth. But it had the bonus effect of stopping Murdoch coming at him with that file, and for that he was grateful. Scott shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said.

"A bottle of Taliskers." Murdoch remembered, eying him carefully. "I didn't know if you ever got it."

Scott turned away, felt his world starting to slide around; a nauseating, disconcertingly familiar sensation. "I sent a note."

"I never saw it."

Scott studied his father for a moment then looked away and crossed his arms over his chest. "When I didn't hear back I thought maybe you were dead. Until that Agent Welby stopped me on the street and said you wanted to see me."

"I didn't know…"

"And then you almost were…dead" Scott cut him off, turned towards his windows, suddenly, inordinately glad that he'd left them open. He shook his head. "I've figured a few things out, Murdoch. I know some of what happened, why you did it that way. I understand."

"You don't know everything, Son."

"I know enough." Scott nodded, almost as if to reassure. Though whether the reassurance was for himself or his father was unclear.

Murdoch sighed and advanced another step. "Scott…"

"So, I don't need that," Scott said, pointing off hand at the file and retreating from the thing as if his father were offering him Pandora's Box. "I don't want it."

"Well, I want you to have it." Murdoch stopped, obviously not expecting the conversation to take this turn, though he still held the file out. "It's only fair."

"Fair?" Scott swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. "Fair to whom, exactly?"

"Fair to you. And your brother."

Scott gave a short bark of surprised laughter. "Well, I don't see how there's anything at all fair about those things, Murdoch. To any of us."

"No. No, maybe there isn't, Son, but I still want you to have it."

"Burn it." Scott glanced back to the windows, pictured himself falling backwards out of them, arms wide, his body weightless for a few blissful seconds, unblinking eyes filling with drops of rain, the rain drops rolling down his face turned up to the storm soaked sky… He snorted, wondering where the hell his head got off to sometimes. "Whatever truths, half-truths, or out and out lies are in there, Murdoch, I don't need to read about it. I know what happened to me. I was there."

"I know, Son. And I can't change the fact that I wasn't, but now we're here." Murdoch speared him with that same firm look of unshakable resolve that he'd pinned Johnny with earlier and dropped the folder on Scott's bed. "All of us."

At once, Scott stilled. He sucked in a slow deep breath, closed his eyes, and let his chin sink to his chest. It had all happened so gradually that he had hardly noticed, but he'd seen the pure truth of the matter in his father's face this morning. And recognizing it now as his truth too, it settled into him; a simple, reassuring fact. He hadn't really needed his father to say the words but, Scott silently conceded, they sure were damn nice to hear.

The sweet scent of clean air permeated his room and into him, sinking into his skin, still warm from the bath. He listened to the raindrops pattering off the leaves of the hibiscus, his mother's hibiscus. It had actually let up quite a bit, the rain, and the sun was doing its level best to penetrate the clouds. But that morning's storm had been necessary to settle the dust, clear the air. Make ready their ground for new things to grow. Teresa was right. "Rain is life," he murmured.

"What was that?" Murdoch came a couple of steps closer.

"Can I ask you something, Sir?" Scott looked up then, looked Murdoch directly in the eye.

"Ask," Murdoch said, looking for all the world like he was bracing for another go round.

"Do you, uh…" He hadn't laughed, exactly, but he'd been unable to contain the smirk. "Do you have a Pinkerton report on Teresa, too?"

Murdoch blinked and Scott blinked back at him, his smirk widening into a toothy grin. Rolling his eyes, Murdoch cuffed Scott on the back of the head. "Oh, you're about as funny as a crutch."

"I'm just saying…" Scott picked a comb off the bureau top and put it to use.

"I'm just saying, don't be a smart ass," Murdoch warned with a disbelieving shake of his head, a reluctant though genuine smile hovering on his mouth, before he headed for the door.

"I mean, I think she's going to feel left out, that's all," Scott called to his father's retreating back.

"I'll see you downstairs, Son," Murdoch groaned, still shaking his head as he closed the door.

It was a bad time to be in this room, he knew it before he even stepped in. There was already an excess of bodies in Maria's kitchen, asking for this, pleading for that and generally getting into her way. Someone had set off the dogs outside, who'd in turn set off the chickens, and the whole lot commenced to barking and squawking out in the back yard before young Diego all but fell through the door, nearly ploughing Murdoch down and startling poor Felicia, already nervous and shy, into dropping a whole basket of clean laundry onto the floor.

Maria turned on them as Murdoch caught the panting boy around the collar and helped him to regain his feet. Diego went immediately, and with heartfelt apology, to help Felicia with the disorganized tangle of jeans and shirts.

"¿Diego, que haces aquí?" Maria snapped, already sounding worn out. Before he could answer she turned on the new girl, Annunciation, who was weeping over a pile of onions and apparently about to chop her fingers off. Maria took the knife from her.

"Papa sent me over to deliver a message to Señor Murdoch, Mama," Diego pleaded his case.

"En la cocina, Mijo?" Maria cast her son a baleful look.

"Well," Diego shot is mother a guileless grin as he stood up and handed Felicia's basket back to her. "I was hoping you had some biscuits, too."

Murdoch almost laughed at the young man's sheer audacity, but managed to compose himself sternly, arms crossed. He'd taken up a place in the back doorway and out of the proverbial line of fire. "What did Cipriano send you to tell me, son?"

"That Ribbon Creek is up over its banks and the bridge has been washed away." Diego gesticulated widely. "He is taking a few men off the fencing clean-up crew to go see about fixing it."

"That's fine, Diego. Tell him I said thank you and I'll be out that way in a few hours," Murdoch said and cast a quick glance at the plate of biscuits on the breakfast table.

"Gracias!" Diego grabbed two and was well on his way out the door when the loud pounding of boot heels had them all looking to the back stairs. Teresa shot into the room seconds later and Murdoch caught her by the back straps of her clean, though well worn bibs.

"Ack!" Teresa chuffed at her abruptly aborted sprint.

"Hey!" Murdoch reeled her in. "Hey, hey, hey! Come here a second," he said, as if she had a choice. Maria shook her head and turned back to Annunciation's hack job with the onions. "Where are you headed off to in such a hurry?" Murdoch asked, capturing her by the hand and pulling her closer still.

Teresa lifted her face to him, all eyes. "Goin' down to stomp on some grapes," she said, her hair already coming loose from its pigtails.

"I see." Murdoch gave her hand a shake, could feel the energy thrumming though her. "Have you had your breakfast?" He asked and she nodded. "Oh, good. Now, let me ask you this, what have I told you about running in this house?"

Teresa flashed a smile at him that could have lit up the heavens and Diego seconded it. "Don't," she summed up the gist of their prior conversations on this subject.

"That's what I thought I said." Murdoch spun her round and sent her back on her way again with a swat. "Off you go, Diego," he ordered and gently nudged the boy out the door.

Diego was off like a shot and Teresa made it about five paces, almost to the hall, before she bolted, disappearing down the corridor and out of his sight. Murdoch shook his head as Maria came over from the stove carrying two cups of coffee. "It is my guess that you have not had one of these yet this morning," she said in commiseration and pressed one of the cups into his hand.

"You are too right, my dear friend," he clinked his cup with hers, "but things are definitely starting to look up now."

"Do you want bacon or sausage for breakfast?" Maria asked, shooing Teresa's fat and notoriously lazy cat away from the door before returning to breakfast.

"Bacon," Murdoch decided, reveling in the normalcy of the question when there came a loud thump down the hall followed by an 'Ooph!' and some laughter and Scott congratulating Johnny on the grace of his dismount and then all of their voices mixed up together moving quickly away. "Lord have mercy, Maria, what on earth did you feed these changos for breakfast this morning?"

"They fed themselves," Maria threw up her free hand, "so whatever it is that those monkeys have gotten into," she said with resign, cracking eggs into a bowl and whipping them with a fork, "se trata de un rompecabezas para mí."

"Hm. A puzzle indeed. I'd have thought that Scott would have exercised some sort of civilizing influence at least on Johnny and Teresa," Murdoch grumbled. "But, lord, if he isn't starting to run just as wild as those two!"

Maria laughed. "I think perhaps Escocito does not have much of a choice in the matter. Juanito and Teresa, those two bárbaros are his weakness."

"Barbarians? I like that."

"It is good," Maria glanced at him before pouring the whipped eggs into the pan with the bacon, "They are happy, no?"

A whooping sound brought his attention out into the yard. "Mostly, I think so, sí," he said.

The morning's down pour had turned to a light mist and the early sun slanted through the clouds here and there, turning the world into a peach. Across the dusky green of the wet grass Johnny sprinted, like a new colt, Teresa, fearless girl, not far off his heels and Scott behind them both at a more subdued pace. They raced across the yard, towards the gardens and the vineyards beyond.

"Juanito seems to have made a full recovery," Maria commented as she paused beside him at the door and Murdoch snorted.

"Well, I'll tell you, Maria…I think he's going to make it after all."

"I hope the living room is doing just as well. Come, eat your breakfast." She put Murdoch's plate down at his place at the head of the table and cleared her throat, dropped her voice a strange, husky octave and planted her fists on her hips, attempting a largely unsuccessful slouch. "And then clear out of my kitchen. Old Man."

Laughing, Murdoch looked out on the expanse of his land, at the back corrals and the rolling hills and the mountains beyond, breathed in the freshness of the new day. Maria quickly patted his arm, then went to give Miss Annunciation something a little less disconcerting to do, and Murdoch's eyes were drawn in the direction of the playful shouts of his children.

Scott had finally taken up the chase, his long legs carrying him into the lead. Just to know that even one of his gifts had gotten through to his older son in all of those long years was even greater than the giving of it. He was certain now, they had not been sundered.

Johnny caught Scott up again and jumped on his back. "Why did you kick me and my mother out?" The question, pushed out of his son like so much poison, froze the blood in his veins. And all at once Murdoch understood that the fight he thought he'd been having with Johnny all these months was not the fight Johnny was having with him; or, more to the point, the argument Johnny had been having with himself. Love his father and lose his mother all over again. Murdoch sighed. It was so easy to forget sometimes just how young he really was; how much he needed them both.

Teresa tripped and rolled in the wet grass, then sprung up with a gleeful shout, her long pigtails bouncing at her back. The three of them tussled and rollicked along like spring cubs, disappearing from his sight over the crest of a hill. Murdoch sighed and took his place at the table, sat down breathlessly in his chair. They were still young enough to try to run between the rain drops and not care that someone might be looking.

"It's enough." Maria was suddenly there, refreshing his coffee, looking him sternly in the eye. She gave his hand a quick squeeze. "For now, it is going to have to be enough."

End

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