October, 1870
.
"Murdoch! Murdoch Lancer! I don't believe it!" Marcy recovered her breath from being caught up in a whirlwind, one hand on her breast, the other fanning her face. She felt warmth spread through her, a fluttering in her chest that she had better not dwell on, respectable middle-aged woman that she was. "Good lord, Murdoch!"
She'd have known him anywhere. His great height helped there, of course, but he hadn't changed that much in twenty years. He stood as straight as ever and his hair was still thick and plentiful; greyer now, of course, and there were fine lines around his eyes that hadn't been there twenty years before. He didn't sound quite the same, either. The burr beneath his words had faded and he spoke with the slow ease of the men of the southwest. He looked very prosperous. That was an expensive town suit he wore and it would have had to be custom-made for him; not many tailors would carry stock in his size. The ranch must have done very well. She would have known if she'd kept an interest in what happened at Lancer, but there had been Tom and Jeff to consider, and by the time she could have turned and looked back, too many years had passed. She hadn't known if she'd be welcome, if Murdoch—
Well, she'd long ago known she was too timid to grasp her chances and that memories were cold comfort.
It was so good to see him. He looked pleased to see her too, smiling and genial, rocking back on his heels. That was a change in him, too. She had never seen him look so contented. He looked at ease with himself, confident and assured. Like a ship come to harbour. It would be nice to think the sight of her had something to do with it. So nice.
But Murdoch Lancer, as she lived and breathed!
"Marcy." He took her hand in both of his and held it. He'd done that once before. Long ago. His tone was warm with pleasure and maybe even affection. "Marcy Dane."
She blinked the sudden tears away. If only... well, everyone always said those were the saddest words in Webster's dictionary! She'd be a fool to repine. But still, she felt a pang of something like regret under her delight at seeing him again.
He guided her to a table in the corner of the hotel dining room, out of the way and private, ordering coffee for them on the way. "You're as pretty as ever, Marcy Dane. Whatever are you doing here in San Francisco?"
Well, she couldn't tell him that, could she? That wasn't the way to begin, by heaping all her troubles on him. "Oh, business. Just business. I live in Sacramento now, Murdoch. I have a boarding house there. I bought it with the money you gave me for the claim. I still feel guilty about that. You paid a lot of money for worthless mud."
He waved a hand. "Well, you never know. One day we might strike gold there!" They laughed together at that fantasy, and he went on. "A boarding house? I hope it's been a snug little business for you, Marcy."
"It's not a large one, but it's enough for us. And of course, with the railroad and more and more travellers coming to California, we do very well." She laughed, pleased when it sounded trouble-free. "It's a lot easier to travel here now than when you did it, or Tom and I."
He smiled and nodded. "It is that! Where is Dane... Tom? Is he with you?"
There was no pain now about Tom. "No. Tom never recovered from the scarlatina. Doctor Jenkins warned that that would be the case, you'll recall. His heart was weakened. He died, oh, sixteen years ago now. Jeff was about Emmie's age at the time. Only a little older."
"Jeff?"
"My son. Jeff, after Tom's father. He's almost twenty now."
"Ah. Of course. He was born on the farm at Lancer, wasn't he? I was in Mexico at the time."
Marcy nodded. He had rushed south to try and find Maria and Johnny when they vanished. He'd been gone for months and before he'd returned, Paul O'Brien had arrived to take over the farm and she had taken Tom and the baby away to make a new life. This was the first time she'd seen him since. "Yes."
"I was sorry that you and Dane had left Lancer before I got back, but there was so much happening…. Still, I'm glad everything went well for you then and later. Is Jeff here with you, Marcy?"
"No." She looked down and grimaced at the delicate china plate the waiter was placing in front of her. "He's... er, he's in the army. The cavalry."
"You must be very proud." Still in that warm voice, that kind voice.
The pastry chef at the hotel was an inspired genius. The tiny chiffon cakes were decorated with coloured frosting in the shapes of flowers. How pretty they were! They looked too good to eat.
When Marcy could trust her face and voice, she looked up at Murdoch and smiled. "Of course. What of you, Murdoch? What's your news? You look very well."
She wondered who had sewn on his shirt buttons. It must have been a good seamstress, because she would swear that he puffed up his chest with so much pride and delight that any ordinary thread would have snapped under the strain. What if he'd married again? She had to look away, quickly, lest what she felt about that showed in her face.
Fool!
He had always been married. And so had she.
"I have my boys back, Marcy. Both of them! After all these years, I have both my sons with me." Murdoch beamed. He positively beamed. "I can't tell you what that means to me."
Marcy stared. "They're home? Oh Murdoch, how lovely!" She lowered her voice, an ache in her throat that came out of nowhere. She hoped she wasn't sickening for something. "You found Maria and Johnny, then? I knew it would be all some misunderstanding, and as soon as she cooled down a little..."
He sobered. Shook his head. "No. No, Marcy. I never found them. Johnny didn't come home until earlier this year. The same time Scott did, in fact."
"Oh." Marcy hesitated, then patted the large hand that lay nearest to her. "Maria?"
"From what the Pinkertons have been able to find, she died a good ten years ago. Johnny was on his own soon after, I know, but he doesn't talk about that or about his mother. I'd hoped to get some inkling... some reason... anything to understand what went wrong and why she went. But Johnny maybe doesn't know. He was very young."
"Have you asked him?"
He looked so horrified at the notion that she almost laughed. Men. They were all the same. Some had more charm than others, some were more dependable. But none of them ever liked talking about anything important.
She patted his hand again. Maria was gone, and Tom was gone. What did that mean? What could she make it mean? "I'm sorry, Murdoch. Still, Johnny home at last! That's the important thing. He was such a handsome little boy. And that smile! I've never forgotten that smile of his. So much charm. He and Emmie... ah well. He won't remember it, I dare say."
"No. He was too young." Murdoch drew a deep breath, and perked up, chest swelling out again with contented pride. "The smile's still there. He's been through a lot, has my boy, but the smile's still there."
"I was very fond of him." And indeed, she felt the ghost of small arms around her neck and they weren't Emmie's. The ghost of a voice asking for a 'tory, or an imperious "Up!" and it wasn't Emmie's voice. She had Emmie with her always, of course, with an old photograph and a curl of hair in the locket around her neck. But this little memory had bright blue eyes, not brown, and a shock of hair of true black. She was glad that Johnny had found his way home. So glad. She said so.
Murdoch nodded, seemingly too full for words. It was a moment before he could speak, and it was with more pride and satisfaction. "And Scott, my elder boy Scott. Catherine's son, and her image! You'll like him too, Marcy. He's a fine gentleman. A bit of a dandy when he got here, but he's settled into cattle ranching well. He went to Harvard."
"Fancy!"
"I've made them full partners." Voice indistinct now. The chiffon cakes made no more than a single bite for a man of Murdoch's size. "We're running the ranch together." Another little cake vanished. "So, Marcy. What else has happened to you since we last met? Have you... have you married again? I can't imagine you not being beset with suitors!"
Was that anxiety in his voice under the awkward gallantry? He appeared to be watching her intently, waiting for an answer. She dropped her gaze to his hands. They were flexing and curling. Maybe he was anxious, at that. She let the warmth of that spread through her, reaching all the places that had been cold and chill for the last twenty years, and she smiled.
"No. I never married again, Murdoch. There was only ever... no. No. There was no one else. I'm not married."
"Ah." There was no mistaking that smile of satisfaction.
"And you?"
He shook his head, and she let the smile through. The look they gave each other... well.
He leaned forward and touched her hand. "You don't have to go back to Sacramento just yet, do you? Come back with me to Lancer instead. I'd love to show you the ranch again. I've made a lot of changes."
After twenty years, the thought still gave her a pang, like the jab of a needle. She'd never gone back. Not once. She'd never been able to close the door on that heartache and she didn't think she could bear to see the little stone in the grass on the hill above the ranch house. One hand closed on her reticule, and the daguerreotype she carried with her everywhere; the other on her locket.
Murdoch was still talking. "Walt Peters is still with me, did you know? His eldest boy started working as a hand this last year, too."
She moistened dry lips. "Walt? Good grief. He's still at Lancer? Did he marry… I don't remember her name. The pretty girl who was related to the Señora? Elena! That was it."
"He did indeed marry Elena, who is Cipriano's cousin. They have three boys, all getting well up now. Young Walt's rising eighteen and the other two aren't far behind. Cipriano's my foreman now, with his eldest boy as his segundo. You obviously remember the Señora, Marcy. She's very well and I'm sure she would be delighted to see you. You were good friends, I think."
She nodded. Walt had been a stalwart in time of trouble and could never be thanked enough. She remembered Cipriano too, of course, and all these years she'd thought of Cipriano's stately wife with gratitude and affection. But just the mention of the names brought a stab of pain and the memory of the lace-edged linen covering Emmie in the walnut coffin. "I don't know, Murdoch. I... It will be hard. I haven't..."
He closed his great hand over hers, engulfing it. "I know, Marcy. I know. But the Señora's cared for Emmie's resting place all these years. She lost the little Isabella, you remember, at the same time. It seems to comfort her to care for your Emmie."
He had changed. This Murdoch wasn't as bluff as the one she'd known. He'd learned something, if he understood what she couldn't say.
It was hard to speak. "She was always very kind."
"She was. She is." Murdoch smiled. "She is much loved and respected. Both her boys are married now, and she must be the most graceful grandmother in the district!"
Marcy looked away, uncertain.
"I'd like you to come back with me, and meet my boys. You'd like to see Johnny again, wouldn't you? You always said you wanted a boy just like him. Is your Jeff just like him, I wonder? And Scott... I'd like you to meet Scott at last. Fact is, I'd just like you to come back to Lancer, Marcy. I was sorry you left."
Oh. She felt the smile tug at the corners of her mouth. She looked up at him, through her lashes, and nodded. She mouthed her assent to him, letting her lips shape the word.
He sat back, slapping his hand on his thigh and looking delighted. "Wonderful! Well, then, Marcy Dane, you and I are going to have dinner this evening and start getting reacquainted. What do you say to that proposition?"
This time she said it aloud. "Yes. Yes, please, Murdoch."
.
.
.
The journey to Lancer was a sweet time, something to put away in her memory and cherish.
Murdoch was as correct and upright as she remembered, very considerate of her and very much the gentleman. He acted as if she were made of spun sugar, and just as delicate. He lifted her into and out of buggies, steered her around puddles and obstacles. He tucked her hand under his arm when they went walking, and if he sometimes held it in his, her small hand lost in his big one, still he didn't take advantage. He did kiss her goodnight though, the last night before they left San Francisco and started the journey south to Green River.
They talked a lot on the way, mostly of the past they'd shared rather than the years they didn't. Marcy didn't want to dwell on separation and Murdoch told her that he'd had twenty years of son-less purgatory he would rather forget.
"I wouldn't admit that to just anyone, Marcy, but I know you'll understand."
Marcy did. She didn't want to talk of the lost years any more than he did. She told him enough so he understood that the first years after Tom died had been a struggle and she'd seen lean and difficult times since. But she didn't want to seem too pathetic to him, and she hadn't dwelt on it. It struck her that she had said very little about Jeff. But what could she say? She couldn't say what she really felt, that Jeff was so much Tom's son that she despaired. If only she hadn't had to leave Lancer all those years ago; Jeff might have had one good man to look up to. He might have turned out to be more reliable with that example before him. He might have turned out less like Tom.
She'd managed one last visit to Jeff before they left. She didn't tell him where she was going, just that it would be a little time before she could visit again. She hid the visit from Murdoch under the pretence of business, unspecified. Murdoch was too much the gentleman to pry and she pushed away the feeling of guilt. It was too late for him to mould Jeff, but he might still have helped her. Well, perhaps he might have done if she'd told him straight away about her problems with Jeff, the way that she should have. But how could she tell a man rejoicing in the return of his long lost sons, that the one she'd had all the years he'd been so bereft, was so unsatisfactory?
Of course, the longer she was silent, the more impossible it was to speak. She couldn't think of any way to tell Murdoch now that Jeff in trouble without it seeming fraudulent, somehow; that she'd been lying to him and cheating him, trying to fool him by pretending to be a respectable widow when really Jeff had shamed her and… no, that was disloyal. Poor Jeff. He just needed to be given another chance, and people did misunderstand him so. He wasn't a bad boy, really. He was just so very like Tom, and heavens but she'd loved Tom once, loved him beyond endurance. She'd do whatever she could for Jeff. Of course she would. It wasn't Jeff's fault things went so badly with him. People were so unfair and judgemental.
And so she kept silent about it. She didn't want Murdoch to be disappointed in her. She feared he'd be more disappointed in her silence than he would be by Jeff's difficulties, and she'd left it too late for remedy.
She didn't brood for long. Murdoch diverted her with reminders about the time that Johnny and Emmie had been playmates. Johnny had loved Emmie, Marcy recalled. Emmie repaid the compliment by using all of the superiority of her three years against Johnny's bare two, and ruled her young admirer with a ruthless hand.
"Possibly Johnny's first love, but most assuredly not the last," said Murdoch, shaking his head. "He's too susceptible by half!"
Marcy laughed. "I suspect he came by that honestly, at least."
"I'll admit to having eyes and admiring a lovely lady when I see one." And Murdoch bowed over her hand, his eyes shining.
She blushed and he looked self-conscious and they both drew back. It wasn't time. It was too soon. A moment of confusion, of embarrassment, and she carried on reminiscing instead. She knew how to hide in the past, in diversion, as well as Murdoch did. Better. "Do your remember the time they wandered off and you found them in the meadow?"
Murdoch snorted out a laugh. "Do I! That wasn't the first time that boy scared me witless! Or the last." Murdoch stopped suddenly and his mouth tightened, and Marcy wondered if he was thinking of all the empty years where all he could do was be scared for his missing sons. But Murdoch's mouth curved into a smile. "I wish I'd had a photographer handy that day. I'd be able to keep Johnny in check for life with a picture of that. All I'd ever have to do would be to threaten to show Scott, and the boy would come to heel fast enough."
The expression in his eyes softened with the memory and Marcy let her mouth smile with his at the memory of Johnny bedecked from head to foot in flowers. Johnny had even had them in his hair. Even while she laughed at the bittersweet memory, Marcy wondered if Emmie missed the wildflowers. If it were one tenth as much as Marcy missed Emmie, it would be unendurable.
.
.
.
They didn't talk of the future, not really. But it lay there, between them. It was in every glance, every talk, every smile. It was too soon to put it into words. Some things were best left unsaid. Especially, thought Marcy whenever the spectre of Jeff rose up, when some things were impossible to say.
.
.
.
On the day that Murdoch was expected home, one of the Lancer hands brought a buggy into Green River and left it at the livery for him to collect. Marcy exclaimed over how much the town had grown, and admired the wide main street with all its stores and shops and the Grand Hotel on the corner.
Higgs's store was still there, though larger and more prosperous, and the doctor's sign still swung outside his office. The saloon had been painted and joined by a couple more.
"Mrs Higgs is well, I think," said Murdoch, on being prompted for news of the people Marcy had known. "She's very stout these days. Elizabeth Jenkins died from the consumption the year after Mari— not long after I got back from Mexico. Sam Jenkins is still here though. He never remarried. I don't remember Reverend Fletcher, I'm afraid. I went with Maria to the church in Morro Coyo, you'll remember, but I went back to the Protestants a few years ago and Fletcher had already left. We've had about five ministers since." Murdoch's mouth twitched at her next question. "No, Marcy. Not one of them has had much in the way of a chin."
Some things never changed then. But what change there had been made her feel old.
She didn't dwell on it. Murdoch handed her up into the buggy and drove her out of town. He didn't boast about the ranch on the way. Not exactly. But he did take pains to tell her when they crossed Lancer's borders, and point to the cattle and the meadows or, once, a small herd of mustangs kicking up their heels and galloping off up the hill before them with flashes of dun and sorrel amongst the dust they raised. The country was taking on the hues of autumn—russet brown, crimson and burnt orange—and they passed more than one wild crab apple heavy with rosy fruit. It had the feel of her old spice box about it, all warm earthy colour and rich scent. Marcy admired and exclaimed, and Murdoch was cheerful and complacent.
They paused on the hill top above the bowl in the mountains where the hacienda stood, almost the same spot where she, Tom and Emmie had stopped for their first sight of the ranch all those years ago. Marcy leaned forward, taking it all in. It was so familiar, and yet it too had changed.
"Why, you finished repairing both wings of the house!"
"The hacienda's really too big and the south wing isn't in use at all. I hope that one day one of the boys will want it, whichever one is first to bring his bride home to Lancer. Then we can really settle down to making this the family place it was always meant to be."
She half turned in the seat and put both of her hands on his forearm. The muscles were firm and hard. "But not quite yet? You'll want some time with them yet."
He stared straight ahead, looking down to the house. His face was half in shadow under the brim of his Stetson, but she saw the smile. "You're right. Not quite yet. I don't want to change things yet. I've a lot of catching up to do before I want to share either of them."
Oh. She squeezed his arm and let her hands drop. Oh. How much did that apply to the boys marrying and how much did it apply to himself? She sat demure and quiet beside him as he took the buggy down the winding mountain road, nodding and agreeing with everything he said. The hollow place under her breastbone ached and complained. There was nothing she could do. She would just have to wait and see.
"The boys are home!" The unfeigned pleasure in Murdoch's voice made her look up.
The house was only a few yards away now and two young men were lounging on the loggia. They had been intent on a chessboard set on a small table between them, but as soon as they looked up and saw the buggy, they jumped to their feet and came to meet them. One tall and blond, who had to be Scott, and the other... the other had to be little Johnny. Little no longer, and heavens to Betsy!
"Murdoch! Johnny... why, he's so like Maria!"
Murdoch stiffened. "There's no real likeness." He pulled up the buggy before she could respond to his curt tone. "Boys." He looked up at the sun, pushing back his hat. "Early to stop work for the day, isn't it?"
Johnny smiled, a slow smile that wrenched so hard at Marcy's memory that she gasped. "That's what I told Boston here, but he reckons he's still on whatever time it is back East, and that's quittin' time. 'Sides, we reckoned you'd be put out if we quit early to greet you back, and you'd be put out if we didn't and either way you'd bellow—"
"And this way, we get a shorter day out of it." Scott touched his hat brim. "Ma'am. Murdoch didn't tell us he was bringing a guest."
"A very welcome one, too." Murdoch made to get down but Johnny was at the side of the buggy before Murdoch could get out to help Marcy.
Johnny tipped his hat to her and held out both hands. That familiar smile was dazzling. "Help you down, ma'am?"
Marcy put out her hands and grasped his arms. "Good lord! I'd know that smile anywhere! How wonderful that you're home at last, Johnny."
He looked only slightly puzzled as he swung her down. "Ma'am?"
"Marcy knew you years ago, Johnny. When you were a child." Murdoch jumped down from the buggy and came to take Marcy's arm. Johnny let her go and stepped back. Murdoch took her to the loggia just as a girl ran out to join them calling Murdoch's name. "Teresa, honey! Come on in, Marcy. Come on in and meet everyone properly. Marcy, this is my eldest son, Scott. Catherine's boy, home from Boston. Johnny, you know, of course although he's grown a mite since you saw him last. And this is my ward, Teresa O'Brien. I think you may have met her daddy? Paul became my foreman later—after your time, of course. Boys, Teresa, this is an old friend of mine, Mrs Marcy Dane."
Marcy laughed and shook Scott's hand, and nodded at Teresa who beamed a welcome. Murdoch stood back, looking on and smiling.
"I think there may be a story or two there," said Scott, bowing over Marcy's hand with more grace than his father. "We'd love to know more about Murdoch, Mrs Dane. I hope you have plenty of good tales to tell us."
"Well, I may have one or two—"
"Have you been travelling long?" demanded Teresa. "You must be tired! The road from Green River's dirty this time of year, isn't it? Would you like something? Some lemonade? Come in and rest—"
"And you knew my graceless little brother, ma'am? Well, I wouldn't mind hearing more about that. He's very close mouthed about the past, so any snippets there are gold nuggets to be treasured."
"He was very young," said Marcy, laughing. "Only a baby."
"Don't tell us you changed his diapers! We've been looking for tales like that to take down his crest a bit." Scott laughed and turned his head sideways to grin at Johnny. "Murdoch never says much about those days, but maybe he'll have tales of his own that will make you blush, ma'am!"
"I know better than to tell any," snorted Murdoch.
Still laughing, Marcy turned to look for Johnny, where he was standing to one side, watching them.
The smile was gone. He looked back at her, his face expressionless. He was both there and a great distance away, locked away from her as if behind a window, a sheet of clear ice between them. The bright blue eyes were cold. Just as Murdoch's had, his hands flexed and curled, flexed and curled. But not from anxiety. More, she thought, from a readiness to action, to do something. He was as taut as an arrow on the nock of the bow.
Marcy's laughter faltered.
"Do you remember Mrs Dane, Johnny?" Smiling, Scott turned. His smile faded. "Johnny?"
"No," said Johnny. "I can't say that I do."
He smiled then, but it wasn't the smile of before. It wasn't the open hearted smile of the child or the conscious charm of the young man. This was older and colder. It had something of the grave in it.
He came close and his eyes were hard, looking into hers. "But that don't matter, does it, ma'am? Because I might not remember, but I know all about you. You're a real fine cook, I hear. A real fine cook." He glanced from her to his father's reddening face. His mouth twisted again into that smile that was no smile at all and Marcy, her heart thudding, saw the ghost of Maria Lancer's sneer and realised that coming back had been a mistake. It was a terrible mistake. "Oh yeah. I've heard a lot about you."
~end~
