Stave Five

The End of It

Scott's first thought was that something was different. He defined the difference as then and now, because the black, gyrating mass of the cemetery was gone. Grandfather was gone. It was hard to identify just where he was because he had no sense of time or space. There came a point, however, when he began to measure things. Something heavy dropped on the tile. A horse whinny from the corral. Light—heshrunk away from it.

As he began to discern one shape from another, and slowly, so slowly, he made a few connections. The ceiling. The lamp. The window cracked open. Murdoch slumped in the chair beside the bed, his clothes rumpled and stained. Asleep, with his head flopped to one side almost guaranteeing a stiff neck.

Scott ran his hand over his chest to his face and felt the bristles outlining his jaw. Then up and over to finger the small bump on the back of his head. Lastly, he massaged his forehead to get rid of the stinging headache. Something fluttered in his eyes. When he pulled his hand away, he found a blue ribbon entwined in his fingers. He rubbed the bit of satin against his palm.

Just a dream.

He put it on the bedside table, and smiled, because his book was in was right where he could reach it.

Murdoch gasped awake. An expression on his lined and fallen face that Scott couldn't quite work out. because it seemed to include a lot of things including fear, and one that he could only identify as love.

"Thank God." He put his cool hand to Scott's forehead. "Your fever is finally down."

That jiggled something in his memory. An urgency. He grabbed Murdoch's wrist. "What day is it? Did I miss Christmas?" His voice came out in a croak.

Murdoch's eyebrows came together. "No, son. Today is Christmas." He palmed Scott's forehead again. "How are you feeling?"

He relaxed back in bed. "Good. Better anyway. I was afraid I missed it."

Murdoch's face shone in the strange half-light from the window, his eyes bright.

"I'm all right," Scott repeated as his father didn't seem terribly convinced.

"You should eat," Murdoch said, and stood, but kept one big hand on Scott's shoulder. "Or sleep."

Scott looked up at him through bleary eyes. "I could use some water."

Murdoch nodded, appeared grateful to be moving, doing something. He lifted the empty jug. "I'll get some fresh."

He stopped at the doorway and stared back at Scott, eyes unreadable from across the room. His father looked terrible, like he'd been up all night. He let out a deep sigh and left the bedroom.

Scott's clothes were thrown over the top of the bureau, but they were too far away so he reached for his book instead. A book for the season, a fire-starter for all his dreams. The canny Charles Dickens and his Christmas Carol.

He thumbed through the pages. He hadn't thought about that snowball fight in years. Carter had been there for him when he was dithering over the Pinkerton's message, just like he'd been there during the war. Today he would be spending the holiday surrounded by family. Scott grinned. Perhaps Carter would like to spend time with the Lancer family at some point. He would write a letter to Boston soon.

He opened the front cover of the book. He was not a sentimental man by nature, but the words written there made his heart feel glad. In his father's scratchy handwriting it read: To my dearest Catherine, Forever yours, Murdoch.

"God bless us, every one," he murmured and placed the ribbon inside and closed the cover.

Furtive whispers came down the hallway accompanied by stuttering bootheels.

"I'm awake. Come on in."

Teresa and Johnny appeared at the door like two Magi, bearing gifts. He had a jug of water and she held a precariously perched teacup, steam rising from its top.

His eyebrows rose.

She raised one of her own. "There's nothing in this except honey, Scott. Just like there was nothing in the first one you had yesterday."

Had he said something aloud about it? "Well, yesterday was a million years ago. Let's have that cup." He raised up, waited for his vison to clear, then found a pillow already patted to his back. She nudged his leg over and sat on the bed.

Johnny set the jug down on the table. "Murdoch's in the kitchen making you some eggs and toast. He thought you might want something more than colored water." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Fact is, he kind of kicked us out. Said he wanted some thinking time. I'm thinking maybe the eggs'll be runny and the toast burnt."

"He was worried." Teresa handed him the tea. "As we all were, Scott."

"Yeah, where did you go?"

"Go?"

Johnny nodded. "You were talking to your grandfather for most the night. Made Murdoch kind of nervous."

Teresa squirmed on the bed. "It made us all kind of antsy."

The spectacle of Harlan Garrett in chains and a great white bow around his head spouting Dickens would make anyone antsy.

"Scott, you mentioned Caroline's name a time or two. I wanted you to know there's nothing there for me." Johnny grinned. "You must've hit her too hard with that basket, made her head all addled."

"Johnny Lancer! Caroline is not addled."

He nodded. "Yeah, it was like dancing with Teresa here."

Scott smothered a laugh at her feigned indignation. "I don't think you're making it better, brother."

"I should probably go down and help the old man. Eggs and toast may be a little above his cooking skills."

Johnny tapped the doorframe on his way out. "Thanks, Scott. I know what you were trying to do and, well…it means a lot."

Teresa stood and cocked her head in that assessing way of hers. Thinking.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. Or will be."

Johnny grabbed her arm. "He will be if we make the coffee before Murdoch gets out his frying pan."

She laughed all the way out the door.

Scott rested his head back on the propped-up pillow, balancing the cup and saucer on his chest and smiled. He felt suddenly warm inside but didn't think it was from the tea or the fever.

~o~O~o~

His sea legs were wobbly, but he was not having Christmas dinner in bed. He'd slept most of the day away, but no dreams thankfully. Scott slowly made his way past the festive tree towards the familiar din of the kitchen and clinking of plates and glasses from the dining room.

He stopped at Murdoch's study, thought for a moment then went inside. He found his mother's picture on the shelf below the books, along with Maria's. He picked up the heavy metal frame and tried to envision her as a young woman out and about in Boston.

"I was wondering where you went. Dinner is almost ready." Murdoch came to stand beside him.

"She was expecting at the time." His father's eyes softened. "We didn't know it until after this was taken. She was so very happy." He saw the vacant spot in the bookcase and put his finger where the book had stood.

"The Christmas Carol was one of her favorites, especially this time of year. I didn't realize you were reading it until I saw it on your table."

"Dickens is an old friend, he helped foster the best snowball fight I've ever attended." He waved off Murdoch's look, "It's a long story."

"Maybe we could hear it sometime?"

One he felt he could tell now that he was reminded of it. Scott nodded and absently ran his finger along the frame's edge. "Speaking of stories, you never told me the how you met my mother."

Murdoch hitched his good hip against the mahogany desk and worked his way into a comfortable slouch. Scott could see the gears turning in his father's head. Working hard.

"Well, the short story is your grandfather was to blame. Which I'm sure he wouldn't attest to, but I can't find too much fault because it brought me and your mother together."

Scott made a rolling motion with his free hand. "Go on."

"She came out of a clock repair shop and dropped Harlan's watch. I picked it up and took it to the house at Tremont Street. When she answered the door, I was lost."

"That's it?" Oddly disappointing, after the events from last night, albeit they were vestiges of a fever.

Murdoch's eyes darted to the side; brow furrowed. Stalling. "Ah, not exactly."

"Not exactly?"

"You see, we sort of met on the boardwalk. Some would say…," he brought his hands together in a clapping motion, "well, our first meeting was rather violent, if you must know."

Scott dearly enjoyed watching his father dangle off the ledge.

"Needless to say, your mother was a strong woman."

He heard the breath Murdoch took. "And she gave birth to a strong son."

They let that sit for a moment. The room smelled of Christmas: pine, spice, pipe tobacco, and was dusky with December's early sunset coming in through the great window.

Murdoch cleared his throat and stood up straight. "Let's go to dinner before Maria gets in a huff and throws it out."

~o~O~o~

One week later…

Scott unpacked the bottle of wine and a tin of gingerbread hastily put in his saddlebags by Teresa. She winked when she did it as a show of solidarity, but that just made him more nervous.

He took a deep breath, looked for any errant mud holes along the neatly contained brick footpath to the front porch. He straightened his back, head held high. And walked up to the handsome house, made pretty with a red bow and sprigs of greenery around the doorframe.

The End