Disclaimer: Lancer belongs to whoever owns it nowadays, and sadly, it's still not me.
The Chair
Bewildered, Teresa paused and found herself in Murdoch's study. She blamed the unexpected letter in her hands from an acquaintance in San Francisco. Honestly, all it took was a few lines about sea lions on the wharf and she was gone, back to watching the waves and the funny-looking beasts play in the water those times Murdoch had taken her along to the big city.
She looked out the window—the heavy leaded-glass not as sparkling as Maria would wish—of the study, which overlooked the browns and greens of springtime at Lancer. There wasn't a sea lion in sight.
The clock in the hallway chimed twice as she made her way around the large desk to Murdoch's Thinking Chair in front of the hearth with a faded red afghan thrown over the arm. She had bestowed the name upon it when just a silly young girl, because the Patrón had a curious habit of coming in here to sit and stare at the fire. She was not to disturb him. Only later, through her father, did she understand those thinking-thoughts were mostly of a familial nature, having to do with Scott and Johnny and everything that surrounded that.
She left her letter on the side table and ran her hand across the backrest. As chairs went, it was perfectly fine. The leather had gotten darker over time, though, and there were battle scars in its folds around the arms and in its seat. The trim around the edge had been lost ages ago. All in all, very untidy. An idea grew and blossomed the more Teresa looked at it.
She heard footsteps in the hallway.
"Scott, Johnny!" she whispered fiercely. "Come here!"
Scott's eyebrows quirked together, and he looked at Johnny. "Why are we whispering?"
Teresa shushed him. "I don't want Murdoch to hear."
"I left him outside with Cipriano looking over the new well being dug." Scott cleared his throat and spoke in his normal, deep voice, "I think we're safe for the time-being, even from his ears."
"Then come on in, I have something to show you."
"It's a chair, Teresa." Johnny swung into it and hoisted one leg over the arm, making himself comfortable. "And it's a pretty good one except for all these scratches."
Scott folded his arms. "I'd have to agree with Johnny here. It is a chair, although I'm certainly no expert on the matter."
Teresa rolled her eyes at their jokes. "Murdoch's birthday next month?"
They looked confused for a moment, then the sun came out.
"You both forgot about it, didn't you?"
"There's been a lot going on lately with the fencing and branding…," Scott began.
"I'm not even sure the old man remembers," Johnny finished.
"Well, I do, and I think it's the perfect present for him. You know how he likes to sit in here after dinner."
Scott hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Get up, Johnny. Let me try it out."
He sat and sank a little into the worn cushion. "You may be on to something, Teresa. It's quite old and used." He ran his fingers against the grain of the old leather. "There's only one problem. None of us are furniture makers."
Johnny snapped his fingers. "What about Dick Ross over in Green River? He made my old saddle look like new."
Scott looked up. "Can he build furniture?" He tipped his hips side to side and the chair creaked. "It probably won't be enough to replace the leather."
Johnny let out a soft sigh and Scott pursed his lips. Neither was a good sign.
"Maybe a new rifle would be better, Teresa." Johnny's grin softened the blow. "Or a box of those cigars he favors, huh?"
"A bottle of Glenlivet?" offered Scott.
She felt her shoulders deflate. "I suppose you're right."
Scott turned to Johnny. "On the other hand, it wouldn't hurt to ask Mr. Ross and see if he's capable of making a chair. Right?'
Teresa turned to him. "Oh, Johnny, could you? Tomorrow?"
"I wasn't planning on going to town tomorrow." He felt the distressed, shiny-with-age leather on the wide chair arm. There was something about it that appealed to him. Then his eyes crinkled at the corners and he said, "But if my brother here could help uncork the stream over in the south pasture, I might find the time."
She beamed when Scott nodded.
One Month Later
"Johnny, get it off my foot," Scott huffed out.
"Well, move your foot out of the way."
Teresa blew a whisp of hair away from her forehead and pulled. "We're almost there, just a little more."
They slid the new chair into the exact spot the old one had occupied. Then sank into it. Scott on one arm, Johnny on the other and Teresa on the seat cushion.
"The old one wasn't near this heavy," Johnny groused.
Scott thumped him on the shoulder. "That's because you didn't do any heavy lifting with the old…"
The front door opened with a whistle on its hinges and heavy bootheels sounded in the foyer.
"Here! Help me with the sheet!" Teresa whispered.
They got it thrown over the chair just in time.
Murdoch stood in the doorway to his study. "I was wondering where you all were."
Scott, Johnny, and Teresa had formed a united front hiding something behind them. Murdoch put his hands on his hips. "Does someone—anyone—care to tell me what's going on here?"
Teresa nudged Johnny who elbowed Scott.
Scott took a step forward, apparently the designated speaker. "You see, Sir, we wanted to wish you…"
"A happy birthday!" Teresa cried. She turned around and swept the white sheet away.
He stood there, flummoxed. "What on earth did you do to my chair?"
Teresa looked up, her dark eyes wide. "We got you a new one."
The leather was hand-tooled, the polished brass rivets placed along the backrest and under the arms. He bounced his hand on the full seat cushion then sat. He shifted his bulk angling for the familiar feel. The chair was handsome and well-made, he should be grateful for it. He looked at the three hopeful faces surrounding him and managed a smile.
"Do you like it, Murdoch?" asked Teresa.
He hesitated. It had been forever since he'd had what his Da would refer to as a proper birthday with gifts. There never seemed to be the need. Scott and Teresa were laughing for the sheer fun of it as Johnny lounged against the desk, grinning like a satyr. Monkeys the lot of them. "Of course. It's a wonderful gift."
Teresa pulled him up. "Maria has dinner ready with apple cake for dessert. And a cigar for after in your new chair."
As he went out the door, arm in arm with her, he gave one last glance at the beautiful—but wrong—chair.
Dinner had lasted far longer than most with lively conversation centering around how Scott and Johnny managed to get the chair—big as it was—right past his nose and into the house.
He circled it now, almost wary. He sat down. The cushion was firm, the leather smooth. There was not a thing wrong with it, yet it simply wouldn't do. He picked up his unlit cigar and made his way down the hall to an unused bedroom where the boys had stashed his old one.
With a quick flick of a match, he lit the lantern and sat down. A certain lassitude came over him and he relaxed into the old cushion, pulling the afghan over his lap. The chair had been crammed in between the wall and the bed, so he toed off one boot then the other, stretched his legs upon the bed, and closed his eyes.
They flew open when he heard Scott's voice. "Ah…Murdoch. We saw the light coming from the room. We didn't mean to disturb you…"
Johnny brushed past his brother's shoulder. "What's the matter with the new chair?"
He could feel his face color at the interrogation. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It's fine workmanship. Did Dick Ross have a hand in making it?"
Johnny nodded.
"I thought so. He does have a talent. We'll have to send him Lancer business from now on."
Soft footfalls outside the door signaled the last of the brood coming to roost. Teresa stuck her head around, "What's going on?"
"He doesn't like his new chair," murmured Johnny.
"What?" She came into the room.
All three voices chorused at once, talking nonsense about presents of rifles, cigars, and bottles of Glenlivet. He raised his hand and…nothing happened. There was a time when he could command a room like that but apparently family didn't always abide by customary practices. He raised his voice, "Quiet!"
Black, blond, and brown heads all turned towards him.
"I do indeed like my new chair, but it's not my old chair." At their looks, he continued, "Let me explain." He motioned for them to take a seat. While Scott sprawled in a lean against the dresser, Johnny took a spot on the opposite end of the bed, and Teresa on one arm of the chair.
"Honey, do you remember how afraid of lightning storms you used to be as a little girl?"
Teresa nodded.
"Where did you always end up?"
Her eyes widened. "In your Thinking Chair. I thought it would protect me somehow because it was so big."
"Paul would find you curled up in this very afghan, sound asleep. Storm or no." He chuckled. "But you weren't the first."
He raised his eyebrows at Johnny. "You, my boy, would climb into my chair and take one of the arms for a ride to Modesto. It was your first pony. And one your mother and I had no worries of you falling off."
Johnny grinned and shook his head.
He looked at his eldest. His sprawl had become straighter after each story. A peculiar sad expression on the shadowed face reminded Murdoch that he hadn't unlocked the mysteries of this one yet.
"But Johnny, you weren't the first, either." He stared at Scott. "That particular honor goes to your brother."
The blond head came up. "Me?"
"Your mother couldn't sleep because you kicked—a lot. She would go downstairs to the study with a glass of milk and sit in the chair until you quieted. It never took that long after she got settled in her afghan. Whether it was the milk, the chair, or the blanket, we'll never know." Sometimes, he would go down with her and pull her onto his lap, and they would talk about the new baby into the wee hours of the morning.
He was not a man known for his sentimentality. Yet small things that came out of the past meant more to him than he would have ever imagined since his sons had come back home.
Teresa squirmed on her perch. "We never dreamed …I'm sorry, Murdoch."
"Sorry for what, honey?"
"Sorry that we replaced it."
He thought he saw the three of them exchange a look. "Don't be," he said firmly. I'm an old fool. My new chair just needs a little broken in and it will be perfect." He made a show of yawning. "I'm for bed…as you all should be. And thank-you for the birthday."
He snuffed out the lantern and made his way to the door, holding his boots in one hand. Memories, he thought. They had a way of making one either regretful or happy. He was smiling as he went out the door.
L
L
L
The day was long, the work hard and Murdoch was mighty glad to be back at the hacienda. He had passed his sons on their way into town to attend the Green River Festival dance. Oh, to be young again! He looked around his study and smiled quizzically. His old chair had made a reappearance in its spot, complete with the faded red afghan over one arm. The new chair was beside it, angled just so, creating an atmosphere almost convivial. He picked up the note on the small table between them.
This way you don't have to choose.
It was signed Scott, Johnny, and Teresa.
Pushing the afghan to one side—because old habits were hard to break—he sat down and heard a familiar creak of the frame as he reached for his cigar. Perhaps, just perhaps, they would make new memories together.
~End~
4/28/2021