Chapter Four
The brunt of the storm had finally moved on, leaving behind a steady light rain. It had been three days since Scott had brought Johnny home, and although Johnny still had a mild fever, the constant hot compresses had drawn most of the infection from his arm and the laudanum had kept him mercifully quiet.
Flashfloods and sodden roads still kept most ranches in the area isolated. It would be another three days before anyone could travel. And longer if this rain didn't stop soon.
Scott finished his breakfast, a far cry from the meals either Maria or Teresa set forth each day. He could whip up a fried egg or an omelet, but he had to admit that he had gotten used to the Mexican breakfasts, with their spicy sauces.
He broke the yoke in his egg and watched it spread across his plate, stopping an inch away from his limp bacon. It was better to watch the intricacies of a sunny side up egg than the growing tensions between Murdoch and his old friend Arthur. Whatever had come between them seemed to be festering more each day they were forced to be together.
Sometime today, when Murdoch was sitting with Johnny, he would speak to Arthur and try to find out what was causing the rift. He knew the fragility of friendship in times of crisis. Words could be said, feelings could be hurt. Whatever it was, he hoped to get to the bottom of it and reunite the two.
Arthur set his fork down on his plate, overly loud in the silence. "Compliments to the chef,"he said, trying to keep his voice light. "I'm afraid I always massacre my eggs. You surely didn't learn to cook at your grandfather's house. I'm sure he had a staff of cooks around the clock."
Scott saw the angry scowl Murdoch aimed at Arthur.
"Grandfather had some of the best cooks in Boston. I use to sneak into the kitchen and watch them. When Grandfather was away, Myrtle would let me help her."
"I'm sure your grandfather would not have approved." Arthur chuckled, easing the simmering tension.
"She would have been fired on the spot if he had found out."
"Is Myrtle still working for your grandfather?" Arthur asked.
Scott shook his head. "I'm sure she is long retired, or dead. She was not young when I knew her."
"You must miss Boston."
"Sometimes. Especially when it's a hundred degrees out and I'm pushing some dumb cow out of the underbrush. At those times I can see myself sitting in the balcony of the Arena Theater."
"On the corner of Chandler and Tremont Streets, right"
Scott nodded, noticing how intently Murdoch was now following the conversation. It was odd that it should pique his curiosity. Most conversations about Boston bored his father to tears.
"Nothing could be better than a night at the opera," Arthur continued.
"Opera?" Scott laughed. "Mr. Bell, the Arena Theater was a far cry from the opera. At the Arena you would see burlesque acts, singers and pantomime. For an opera you would go to the Boston Museum."
"Yes, of course."
Murdoch looked between the two men. "Why would you go to a museum to watch an opera?"
"A very good question, Murdoch." Arthur nodded to Scott to answer the question.
"The Boston Museum is a theater, but it also houses a gallery of curiosities. Oneof my favorites was the wax tableaux. A collection of full size figures sculpted in wax. It was an amazing sight."
"I have to admit it gave me the shivers. I would much prefer to stroll down State Street or Commercial Street."
Scott nodded. "My favorites were Winthrop Square and Franklin Street. I can't imagine what it looks like now after the fire. I'm sure it will be remembered as one of the worst fires in history. Over seven hundred buildings were lost."
"A terrible disaster. I'm afraid I haven't heard all the details. I hear very little from back east of late. You must get regular reports on the comings and goings in Boston from your grandfather."
"I get a letter from him at least once a month."
That statement seemed to surprise Murdoch. "I had assumed Harlan had washed his hands of you since I haven't seen any letters."
Scott shrugged. "I guess they have always arrived when I'm in town. And I didn't think either you or Johnny would be very interested in what he had to say."
"Probably not."
Suddenly feeling a little uneasy, Scott stood and excused himself from the table. "I made some light chicken soup for Johnny. I was hoping he could start eating something more than broth."
"Good idea," Murdoch agreed. "If he can hold that down, maybe some toast soaked in milk."
Scott nodded, feeling two sets of eyes watching his back as he ladled the soup into a bowl. It seemed that whatever was between Murdoch and Arthur Bell somehow involved him too.
Scott knocked lightly on Johnny's bedroom door and received a soft, but truculent, answer. "It ain't locked." Scott sighed heavily. His brother was beginning to feel trapped. It was both a blessing and a nightmare. It meant that Johnny had gotten through the worst, for now. It remained to be seen what Sam would have to do to set his broken arm. But it also meant that Johnny had beaten the life threatening infection. Now it was up to him and Murdoch to keep their patient quiet and in bed until Sam could look at his arm.
He opened the door and stepped in, a smile growingin spite of himselfat the sight of Johnny petulantly staring at him from the bed. It was times like these that he found it impossible to believe that his brother had at one time been the infamous Johnny Madrid. Now he looked like a very sick, very vulnerable young man. Murdoch had spent the night watching over his youngest son and at some time had lifted Johnny into a semi- sitting position, his back supported by a nest of pillows. There was no longer any blood showing through the heavy bandaging trapping his left arm against his side.
Even across the room Scott could see the glazed look brought on by the laudanum, but Johnny's complexion no longer looked pasty white. The drug, whether Johnny liked taking it or not, was controlling the pain and keeping him quiet. But even the opiate would not keep him down for much longer. They certainly had their hands full.
"Morning," Scott grinned. "I thought you might like something besides just plain broth. I made a very nice chicken soup, if I do say so myself."
"I'd rather have huevos rancheros," Johnny grumbled.
"I'm sure you would. But one: I can't cook like Maria, and two: you aren't ready for anything but soup."
"Maria would make it for me."
"No, she wouldn't. Not until Sam had a look at you. Nice try, Brother."
While Scott talked, he unobtrusively slipped a napkin under Johnny's chin and dragged the chair sitting next to the bed closer. Filling a spoon with the savory soup he raised it toward Johnny.
"I'm not a baby, Scott. I don't need spoon feeding."
Scott sighed. "I know you don't like to have to admit that you need help. But, Johnny, you are as weak as a kitten. Let me, let us, help you. That's what families do. They help each other. And they take the help when it is needed."
Scott saw the conflict in Johnny's eyes. He was asking a lot of his brother. To admit he needed help, to allow anyone to care for him was a big step for the ex-gunslinger. He had lived a solo existence for most of his life. To trust anyone was the biggest step of all.
After he had been felled by Pardee's bullet he had needed help. But he never once accepted it willingly. He fought everything they did for him. Never wanting to admit he wasn't able to take care of himself. Now, again, he needed help. Would he accept it this time? Had he learned to be a part of this family enough to allow the family that loved him to care for him?
The answer came in a soft sigh. Johnny nodded toward the bowl. "Well, you better get spooning, 'cause I'm starving."
Scott grinned. "We can't have that."
Johnny was only able to take a few bites, but it stayed down and he soon fell asleep. Scott pulled the blanket over Johnny's chest and gently brushed his cheek. There were simple moments in life when the smallest of things seemed the most important. This was one of them. Johnny had trusted him, and that was a gift that was immeasurable. He had read once that every journey begins with a single step. This morning had been one of those steps.
It took another two days for the rain to stop and the roads to dry up enough to become passable. Reluctantly, Scott agreed to be the one to ride into town and bring Sam back. He didn't want to leave Johnny, especially with Murdoch and Arthur acting so strangely, but Murdoch would never leave Johnny's side and Arthur was too old to make the journey safely.
There was also a concern about Sam. Would the old doctor be able to sit a horse long enough to get to Lancer? There was no way his surrey could get through the mud that still covered the roads. It was horseback or nothing.
Murdoch handed Scott his rifle and he stowed it in the rifle scabbard on his saddle. "Take care," he said. "If you can't get through, come back. Johnny is holding his own now."
Scott knew that. He also knew every day that Johnny's arm was left unset made it that much harder for Sam to correct it. If they couldn't get Sam out here in time, Johnny could have a useless arm. He would do anything to keep that from happening.
"I'll get there and bring him back. Might take some time to track him down. Who knows where he might be."
Murdoch laid his hand on Scott's knee. "The most important thing to me and your brother is that you come back safely. Johnny can live with a busted arm. He wouldn't want to live without his brother."
Scott was overwhelmed by Murdoch's uncharacteristic sentimentality. His odd behavior was getting worse by the day. Whatever was simmering between him and Arthur was spilling over and affecting everyone. Even Johnny. Johnny had noticed it too, and had asked about it. Scott could tell him nothing more than he knew himself. Which was nothing.
Tipping his hat, he turned his horse toward the Lancer arch and rode away.
Another morning and Johnny watched the sun brighten the sky outside his window. He felt every bit as much a prisoner here as he would in a real jail. His shackles were his own body, too weak to even climb out of bed, and the iron bars were the window and door leading out of his room.
Murdoch and Scott were his wardens, as calculating and tough as any warden he had met in his frequent stints in Mexican jails. They were not cruel or vengeful like real wardens; they used love and guilt to keep him in this bed.
If he laid very still, he found he could go for longer periods of time without the dreaded laudanum. But that gave him time to think. To try to remember.
He had only faint memories of what happened. He had to rely on Scott and Murdoch to tell him what really happened…what he had told them in his delirium. He vaguely remembered the stump and Barranca nuzzling him awake. But after that, nothing until he awoke here in one of the downstairs bedrooms.
There was also something else going on, something he could not put his finger on. A feeling of tensionthat went beyond his accident, and no one was willing to tell him what it was. He had sensed it the minute he was cognizant long enough to put two and two together, and had asked his brother, but Scott seemed as confused as he was.
Murdoch seemed worried about something, and it went far beyond the ill conceived guilt his father felt for sending him out to tackle the stump. He could see it in his eyes. He could see it whenever Scott came into the room. For the first timesince Pardee had attacked, Johnny saw distrust in Murdoch's eyes. Not for him, but for Scott. What could Scott have done to test Murdoch's belief in him?
From the very beginning, Scott had been the favored brother. It didn't bother Johnny all that much. He knew Scott was the son any man would be proud of. College educated… a war hero. And what did he have to offer? A reputation as a fast gun? It was a miracle that Murdoch had not told him to hit the road once Pardee had been taken care of. And in the months that followed, hard as they were at times, he came to feel that this was his home, and Murdoch was his father.
Now he felt a riff, and it worried him.
A light cough startled him and he looked toward the door to see Arthur standing there. He had been so lost in thought that he had not heard the man walk down the hallway. Was he feeling so comfortable here that he was losing his instincts, or was the laudanum still addling his brain? In either case, he did not like that he had lowered his guard so completely.
Feeling the awkwardness of the moment, Johnny waited for Arthur to speak. He watched as the lawyer crossed the room and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the night stand and offered it to him.
"Your father is out looking over the damage from the storm. I thought I'd look in on you."
"Gracias." Johnny accepted the water and drank half a glass. "Where's Scott?"
"He left at first light this morning to bring Dr. Jenkins out here. It seems you have quite a reputation for not behaving. They want the doctor here as soon as possible."
Johnny snorted.
"Can I get you anything besides the water?"
Johnny studied the old man. He was near to Sam's age, he guessed. Never saw him in anything but a suit and bowtie. Johnny knew he was an old friend of Murdoch's. But something had happened to test that friendship. If Scott hadn't mentioned it, he would have seen it himself.
"I'm fine, thanks." Johnny handed the glass back. "You've been friends with Murdoch for a lot of years," he said, determined to find out what was going on between his father and Arthur.
Arthur nodded. "I met Murdoch when he and Catherine first came to Morro Coyo. He still had a Scottish brogue back then." He laughed.
"Never could figure out how a refined woman like Catherine Garrett could marry a man like Murdoch Lancer. I mean, he ain't exactly refined."
Arthur had to laugh. "Catherine may have been refined and used to the finest social circles in Boston, but she had a temper. She was as strong as any woman born out here, had to be to survive this wild land."
"But she didn't. Survive I mean."
"It nearly broke Murdoch's heart when he found out. But who knows what would have happened? Perhaps she would have died in childbirth here as well as on the road. And if she hadn't, then your father would never have met your mother."
"Was she happy here? At leastin the beginning?"
"She seemed to be. Your father had a propensity for marrying strong minded women. Maria had a temper, and when she let it go the whole valley could hear her. But your father took it in stride. She was so beautiful and so full of life. After he lost Catherine, he seemed to lose that spark of life. Your mother brought it back to him."
"Then destroyed it again when she left," Johnny said dourly.
"He was a broken man when she took you away from him. I thought I would never see him happy again. But when you and your brother returned, despite the hardships, he was happy."
"Was?" Johnny prided himself in reading men. He could see, an instant before they knew it themselves, when a man was ready to draw his gun. And he could tell when something was biting at a man's craw. Arthur had something on his mind and Johnny was bound to find out what that was.
"Murdoch has a lot on his mind right now, not the leastbeing your health."
"It's more than that. I've been hurt before. He almost looks lost. I don't know what's causing it. And I can't help him if I don't know what it is."
"It isn't my place to discuss it. It falls under lawyer client privilege."
"If it has to do with the ranch then it concerns me too."
"It's not about the ranch. And even though it concerns you, it is not about you. Now, I think I have said more than I should, and you need your rest."
"If it's not about me, is it about Scott? Is Scott in trouble?" Johnny reached out and grabbed Arthur's hand as the old man turned away, the action drawing a gasp of pain from his lips. "I asked you a question. Does it concern Scott?"
"What's going on here?" Murdoch demanded from the doorway.
Johnny looked at his father and held him fast with a look that said he would not be denied. "We have some talking to do."