A/N: Many thanks to TwoDonkeys for the beta on most of this story. I'm quite sure it wouldn't have been finished otherwise, ;-).
Bah! Humbug!
Stave One
Surely, it was the fever that had made him so wobbly in the saddle. It had been cooking ever since Jaime, the youngest of the Cipriano brood, climbed up on his lap and sneezed in his face. Twice. In one spectacular moment earlier in the day, he thought he saw a small-ish red dragon hiding near the corral, blowing smoke rings. Yet it was only Jelly who had pilfered one of Murdoch's fine Casa Fernandez cigars. Oddly disappointing, that.
Scott had worked out how many steps it was to the kitchen door the day Pardee rode into Lancer's courtyard. Carrying Johnny—who was heavy, it seemed, with a lead bullet in his back—had made it necessary. He counted them down now in order to make it there.
Luckily, he didn't have to fiddle with the knob, because he hadn't really factored in waiting at the door, which would require being upright for far longer than he'd bargained. Murdoch opened it as soon as his feet hit the porch, an expression on his lined and fallen face that Scott couldn't quite work out.
Johnny and Teresa crowded behind him and the house was warm with wood smoke, pot roast and gingerbread, the heat pumping from the iron stove.
Scott went in without words, racking shivers prevented any articulate form of speech. He was led to his room, realizing that at some point along the way he had bumped into the Christmas tree because pine needles and a festive blue ribbon clung to his coat sleeve. Generally, he exhibited more grace than that. He tried looking backwards to see if the thing was still upright, but Johnny had a grip on his elbow, marching him forward like a martinet intent on winning the drill competition.
Darkness fell in the amount of time it took for Murdoch to remove his boots and tsk at the bump on the back of his head the size of a curled-up mouse. His father would tsk more if he knew how it happened. A slight altercation between the ground and himself, when his mare decided they had come across a horse-eating stump. She did the only legitimate side pass of their short tenure together then zigzagged and crow-hopped backwards over a ditch. He didn't mind the exuberant dance so much, but he wished his horse would care a little more about whether or not he stayed with her.
Only one cold cloth and Murdoch must have deemed the fever the worst because it rested on his forehead, dribbling water down his neck.
"Stay down," Johnny said softly when he made a move to sit up. Scott met his eyes, wondering if his brother could be pushed on that. Nothing except hard determination there, no pushing back allowed.
"My horse…"
"Is in the barn, snugged up and eating hay." Only then did he relax.
Murdoch found blankets and Teresa brought him some hot tea. He wouldn't at first drink it but then he did. As he was settled under the fifty plus pounds of blankets, eyes heavy, head pounding, he heard the scrape of a wooden chair across the tile.
I should get up; I'm ruining Christmas Eve. He couldn't see beyond the lamp, could only make out shadows against the spilled light, the crack of the stucco around the door frame.
"Yeah, not his usual entrance, always looking so dandy and refined." Johnny made a good effort not to sound surprised. "Did you see the tree? Almost knocked it clear into the kitchen."
More sliding of something—could no one pick up chairs anymore?—across the floor and the clatter of porcelain and cutlery from the kitchen before Murdoch answered. "He should have said something about feeling ill."
It was a fair rebuke now that he was looking from it on the backside. The shadows moved and Scott felt as though he was melting into the bed, every part of his body sinking. It was glorious. Damn it, what the hell had Teresa put in the tea?
"It's not his way, is it Murdoch?"
Scott didn't catch his answer, and Johnny said something else and it was hard to concentrate because he was so warm under blankets that might have been used last during the Buchanan era. Their words were all running together, and Johnny had that exasperated tone he rarely used. Scott wasn't sure what was meant by it, but he thought that just maybe he could let his father and brother sort it all out.
"He'll be all right," Murdoch said, clearly. "Here, his book goes over there, on the table."
A pause while Scott wondered if it was the right table—there was a preference, of course—and he must have fallen asleep, because it was full dark when he opened his eyes. Candlelight played on the ceiling and the comforting smell of wood smoke and citrusy Eau de Cologne filled his nostrils.
He startled. There was only one man in the world he knew who wore Eau de Cologne.
Grandfather.
Seeing Harlan standing in the bedroom was seventeen different types of odd, starting with his impeccably combed white hair, the high forehead, long tapering hands worthy of any piano recital, and the shiniest, blackest shoes Scott had ever seen. Perhaps the oddest thing was the tightly wound scarf around his head, tied in a great bow on the top of his head. He carried two books, held by great chains. Scott tipped his head sideways to read. They were accounting books.
"Grandfather?"
"Schotttty."
"Pardon?" It seemed only polite to ask.
"Myyybooo."
Scott tilted his head trying to suss out the mangled words. He pointed to his own head and made a few circles from top to chin, raising his eyebrows.
Hint taken, Harlan untied the scarf and stuffed it into his pocket.
"Ah, what are you doing, Grandfather?" he whispered. "More importantly, does Murdoch know you're here?"
"Bah! Humbug!" Harlan waved one hand in the air dismissively. Don't worry, my boy. I'm here for you."
Grandfather walked backward from him; and at every step he took, the window raised itself a little.
That did nothing to put his mind at ease.
Scott lurched up and managed to swing his legs over the side of his bed. "You're here for me? Excuse my ignorance, but aren't you supposed to be back east at the Tremont House? Or is this another ploy to get me to return to Boston?" He looked around the bedroom. "Where have you got her hiding this time?"
He called out, half expecting Julie to step out of his wardrobe.
Harlan was pretending like he didn't know what Scott was talking about, but there'd been a twitch, his eyes had flicked to the side for one telling second. One hand hovered, then he yanked the window all the way up giving Scott an icy glare. "You left without so much as a by-your-leave that day…"
Scott cut him off with a wave of his hand. It wasn't his leaving for California after the Pinkertons had found him (although he'd never been lost), that episode had been graced with loud disagreements on both sides. No, he knew what Grandfather was edging towards. It was a much older argument.
The day he left for the Army had not been particularly auspicious. And he knew better than to debate points—especially those better left in the past—all he was going to do was exacerbate the situation.
Outside, he could hear the stamp of a hundred horses or more. Male voices clamoring. Fever or no, his curiosity was piqued. Until he looked down to find himself clothed in Union blue.
tbc