I am about to post the last three chapters. First, thank you, everyone who left a comment as a guest. I'm afraid I can't respond directly to you, but I appreciate your comments. Fanfiction gives authors the power to delete any unwanted guest comments, and although I usually let all guest comments appear, occasionally one is so annoying or incomprehensible it gets deleted.

As most readers know, I've been pulling some of my favorite fics out of my archive and posting them bit by bit. I wrote this story a long time ago, somewhere between 2002 and 2011, when I was still into the Lancer fandom. A few years ago, I reviewed some of my stories and dusted them off, but I haven't read them for ages. I can't even remember who did the murder in this story! Enjoy...

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CHAPTER 18 - TEARS

It was past midday when Johnny awoke, and he was not feeling at all good. His mouth was dry, his tongue was swollen and his eyes had a heap of grit in them. The recent surgery on his back was causing more pain than the initial cut, if that was possible. A bleary-eyed, clumsy attempt to reach for some water ended with the glass being knocked to the floor. Between the crash of the splintering glass and his subsequent swearing, it was no wonder that Teresa came rushing in looking very concerned.

"Johnny, your language! This isn't a saloon," Teresa admonished as she picked up the shards of glass.

Johnny fell back on his pillows and refrained from saying something that would really curl the girl's hair. He said sourly, "You musta had a better night than me."

"No, I didn't, not at all, but I'm trying to keep busy so I don't have to think about it. Did you get any sleep?"

"Yeah," he said in defeat. "I just can't sleep without that damned medicine but when I take it, I have bad dreams." He rubbed his face and stretched his arms. When he looked up, Teresa was holding out a tin cup.

She asked tolerantly, "You wanted water?"

He managed a smile of thanks, but as she started to move away he caught her hand. "Don't go."

"I wasn't going anywhere." She sat on the edge of the bed and smiled fondly back at him while he drank his fill. She brushed a lock of dark hair off his forehead. "Your poor face, it's all blue and green."

Johnny frowned at the thought of his discolored face. He inspected his right hand and forearm. They, too, were changing from purple to shades of green, and was as sore as his ribs and other bruised parts, but he could tell all his injuries were improving. He even felt a bit stronger than he had the day before. Within his long and often risk-filled life, things had always improved after a while, though sometimes more slowly or agonizingly than at other times. But in the end he always recovered and wasn't yet crippled with arthritis or maimed like some he'd known. "At least my fingers didn't drop off or nothin'," he said with a crooked smile. "It could have been me lying out there in a pool of blood."

"Johnny! Don't even joke about something like that!" Her smile faltered, then her face crumpled as she burst into tears.

Johnny sat up and awkwardly gathered Teresa into his arms. She sobbed into his bare shoulder, but her weight against him was too much so he laid back, Teresa still encircled in his arms. "It's all right," he soothed. Unsure of what he could say to stop her crying, he stroked her arm and just waited out the storm.

She cried and sobbed until she gulped air, eventually wearing herself out. When the tempest had passed, she realized that she was lying against Johnny's bare chest and sat up quickly. Sniffling, she groped around for a handkerchief but was unable to locate one.

Johnny reached past her and whisked a small towel from the top of the bedside table. "Here, courtesy of the hotel," he offered. He watched her dab at her eyes, but even when they were dry, Teresa didn't look up. He tried to catch her gaze, but in the end he had to raise her chin with a finger. "Hey, what's goin' on in there? This isn't because that old man got himself killed, is it? Because there isn't anyone on this ranch who isn't glad of it. Except maybe Scott, and he'll get over-"

She shook her head and covered her face with the damp towel.

"Hey, hey, don't hide that pretty face," Johnny cajoled. He pulled the cloth away and peered at her. "C'mon, you can tell Johnny, can't you?"

"Nuh. . .no."

"Sure you can. It'll be just between you an' me," he promised.

Teresa wiped a stray tear away with the back of her hand. "It was…awful," she started.

Johnny ran a hand down her arm in sympathy. "Killin' ain't never pretty."

She swallowed, then said, in a voice so quiet he could hardly make out the words, "I heard the sheriff say the Gundersons might have killed him. . . but that's not true, Johnny, it's not."

"Of course not," he said with a snort. "That's ridiculous. Why would Gabe say that? Nobody's gonna get hanged for something they didn't do around here."

"I think Mr. Rinaldo put it in their minds, but they let him go because they don't think he did it. Now they're looking for someone else to lay the blame on."

Johnny asked, "Gabe and Murdoch? Or is Scott at the head of this posse, too? Heck, they might as well pin it on me, if they're looking for a suspect. I'll be happy to take the credit. Why, someone might even give me a medal. Or put on a parade in my honor. Yup, I'll just have to confess to the crime." He suddenly he felt considerably better, and surprised even himself when he laughed aloud.

"Oh no, Johnny, you can't do that! I won't let you." She got off the bed in a hurry but stood there in misery, wringing the cloth of her skirt with her hands.

Her face was damp with fresh tears. Johnny wanted to reach over and brush them off, but he just said, "I think we both know what we have to do."

She looked towards the door and came to a decision. "I'll tell Murdoch and the sheriff, I'll explain that it couldn't have been you. You didn't kill him," she insisted.

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Scott stopped in the kitchen long enough to get some lemonade out of the cool sink and drink his fill. He removed the bandage around his forehead, tossed it in the washing pail and took a cursory look at his wound in the hall mirror. He saw nothing that wouldn't heal if left alone. Dr. Mendez had wanted to suture the gash, but Scott wasn't in favor of getting stitches. Any scarring was going to be hidden by his hair, and it had almost stopped bleeding by the time the doc had inspected it. He still had the remnants of a bad headache, but it wasn't enough to slow him down.

About to continue down the hallway to Johnny's bedroom, Scott halted in mid-stride. He returned to the mirror and opened the drawer of the ancient carved table that stood below it. From his pocket he took the object he'd found in the pool of the fountain, and looked at it for a few seconds before he shoved it in the drawer.

When he entered the bedroom Scott was caught up short by the sight of Teresa in his brother's arms, sobbing. Johnny, his arms wrapped around the girl's waist, saw Scott over her shoulder. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged a little.

"Teresa, honey, what's going on here?" Scott asked.

Teresa left the sanctuary of Johnny's arms, throwing herself at Scott. "I'm sorry, Scott, so…so…sorry," she cried, her words muffled by his jacket.

He took her firmly by the arms and sat her down on a chair. Kneeling next to her, he peered into her tear-streaked face.

From his bed, Johnny explained, "She's been upset since she came in. I thought she got over it but then the waterworks started again."

"Look, Teresa. Look at me," Scott ordered. "Just take a deep breath, that's right. I know it was a horrible thing for you to be the one to find my grandfather out there, but. . ." He wasn't sure how to proceed, but at least she had stopped sobbing. "He's gone now and. . ." What could he say? That Harlan Garrett would no longer be a thorn in his side and he felt relief and that, in turn, caused him immense guilt? That he was so tired he was at the point that he didn't care who had killed - no, murdered - his grandfather. After all the pain the old man had caused, not only to the Lancers, but to people back in Boston over many years, would some people secretly rejoice at his death? No doubt.

"I don't want to go to Hell," Teresa wailed.

"You're not going to hell," Scott replied with certainty. "Not like some I know."

That didn't appease Teresa. "I'll end up there and so will he."

Johnny barely suppressed a chuckle. "Believe me, Teresa, Harlan Garrett has had a special place set aside for him and you'll be nowhere near him." One look at Scott told him their obvious loathing of his late grandfather hadn't unduly upset him. Johnny pulled back the covers to sit on the edge of the bed, moving slowly. He winced with a hand bracing his bandaged back.

Scott opened his mouth to suggest Johnny shouldn't be getting out of bed, but one warning glance from his brother stopped him before he uttered a word. Sighing, the blond man moved a chair closer to the bed. "Look, I need to say a few things, and now's as good a time as any." A glance up at the two people who meant a great deal to him showed they were watching him attentively. He wasn't sure where to start, but after a pause the words just came spilling out. "I want you to know that I haven't acted as I should have over the past few days. Back when you had words with my grandfather, Johnny, I should have followed you into Morro Coyo and just enjoyed a game of poker with you." Johnny protested, but Scott halted him with a motion of his hand.

"I look at past actions," he continued, "and know I should have done something different, even if I'm well aware it's fruitless to beat myself up over should-haves. But I can apologize to you, Johnny, for not stepping in earlier to send my grandfather back to Boston. It was because I didn't take immediate steps that his dangerous behavior went from bad to worse, and I regret that because of my inaction you were badly hurt."

"Scott, you don't have anything to-" Johnny started.

"Just hear me out, please." Scott leaned his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his hair. With a big breath, he straightened then gave a fleeting smile to Teresa, who was listening raptly to his every word. He took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

She wiped away the remnants of tears from her brown eyes, and managed to produce a small smile in return.

"I felt compelled," Scott said, "to hunt down those men when I rode out with the posse. I hungered for revenge, something I'd never felt before, not like that. I suppose it was my way of compensating for letting you down, Johnny. I was doing it to ease my own guilt."

"C'mon, Scott, are you telling me you could have prevented Garrett from tryin' to stick that knife in me?" Johnny gave a wave of dismissal. "He was a man on a mission, had hate and killin' on his mind. Even if you'd tossed him off our land, he'd have come sneakin' back or tried some other way. You're not accountable for his actions any more than you are for mine, brother."

"Maybe, but if you'd told me the truth about him trying to smother you, if we'd stuck together, maybe we could have forced him away, for once and for all."

"Maybe if you'd confronted him you'd have got yourself stuck with the sharp end of his cane," Johnny retorted. He pointed to Scott's head wound, visible along the hairline. "He turned on you anyway, didn't he? Hitting you over the head ain't gonna win him no wings."

Teresa pointed out, "You two are saying 'maybe' an awful lot. Nobody knows what they might do in any given situation, especially when they're under pressure. You can't go around second-guessing everything you've ever done. That's enough to drive a person crazy."

"All right, we won't do it any more, agreed?" suggested Scott. "No more hiding what we're doing from each other." He looked at his signet ring with a smile. "We'll stick together like the fortress. We combine our strength and nobody can harm us."

Johnny nodded his agreement. "About time. Grab me that shirt, Teresa, and find me some pants. How about you two give me a hand and get me into the living room so we can find out what the sheriff and Murdoch are talking about? See if we can settle all these rumors about innocent folks gettin' accused of killing Garrett."

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Sheriff Gabe Stillwater had a great deal of respect for Murdoch Lancer, and even more for the power the man wielded as one of the foremost leaders of the community.

Together they'd viewed the body of the deceased. After a cursory inspection, they agreed that the man had been killed by a weapon with a round, narrow circumference. It would be up to Dr. Mendez to do an autopsy to confirm the official cause of death. He'd hoped that it had been an accident, mostly because he did not want to have to arrest anyone on the Lancer ranch for murder. He had a deep abiding respect for the law, but at times, and this was one of those times, some leniency was allowable. If he were able to conclude the killing was in self-defense, he would be more than happy.

Accepting a beer and a sandwich from Murdoch, Gabe sat on one of the great room couches and relaxed for the first time in several days. From their conversation, he had the distinct impression that Murdoch didn't even care if they discovered who had killed Garrett. "Look, Murdoch, I can see how you're relieved that this Mr. Garrett is outta your hair, and I can't say I blame you, considering what he did to your Johnny, and to Scott, too. But we still have to act civilized and make some serious attempt at figgering out who did this. It wouldn't look too good otherwise."

Murdoch ate the last bite of his sandwich, dusted crumbs off his lap, and took a swallow of his beer. "You know, Gabe," he said, holding the amber brew up for inspection, "when a man gets on in years, he should mellow, like this beer. It isn't easy to let go, though. With my sons being hurt and all these goings-on, I haven't attended to the running of this ranch as well as I should have. So why don't you spend your time looking for the person who put old Harlan Garrett out of his self-induced misery, and I'll spend mine taking care of my family?" He sipped the beer and added, "I brewed this myself. Tastes pretty good, and if I can say so, it rivals some back-East brands I've sampled." He peered at the confounded sheriff. "Sheriff, you should take up brewing beer or something. Time for us older men to mellow, don't you think?"

Gabe managed a thin smile. "I'll leave that to you. I gotta get back to town soon or else the place'll be overrun with drunks and petty thieves. I been away too long." He motioned towards the glass doors on the far side of the room. "Looks like the doc has finished the autopsy." He went over and opened the door to allow the physician to enter. "C'mon in, Doc."

Dr. Mendez greeted the men but refused a seat. "I can't stay. Just got word of an emergency."

Murdoch quickly stood and asked, "What about your conclusions?"

"I'll write up a full report later, Mr. Lancer. Tell Scott he can arrange to have the body embalmed in Green River. They'll get everything ready for shipping the remains back to Boston, as he asked."

"Did you determine the cause of death? I'll need it for my forms," said the sheriff tiredly.

Dr. Mendez said, "Short version is that Mr. Garrett had more than one hole in him." At the astonished looks of Lancer and the sheriff, he demonstrated by pointing to his own neck. "One here went through the throat."

"So that's what killed him," Murdoch said with certainty.

"Not exactly. There's a second puncture wound about here on the victim." The doctor placed his fingers on a point just below his ribs. "The angle suggests an upwards thrust. Went under the ribs and pierced the heart."

Sheriff Stillwater was astounded. "So the killer stabbed Mr. Garrett twice!"

"Er, no." Mendez appeared discomfited. "It was a different weapon, I'd say, and was thrust from the left direction. The wound in the neck was inflicted from the right."

Murdoch and Gabe exchanged looks. Murdoch suggested, "Could have been one of the stabs was from behind."

The doctor pulled out his watch and held it to his ear. "Maybe, but there's more to this than meets the eye. What's the time, gentlemen? My watch seems to have stopped. I must have forgotten to wind it." Looking up to see Murdoch and the sheriff waiting impatiently for him to report the rest of his findings, Mendez coughed and said, "Mr. Garrett's life did not end because of blood loss, or not entirely. Even if he'd survived the wounds, which is unlikely, my professional conclusion is that he would have died a very nasty death within the hour anyway."

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