Chapter Six
Murdoch sat at his desk, his ledger open to the same page, the same column of numbers he had been hunched over for the past three days. It was at the end of the month when bills had to be posted and accounts balanced. But he could not get past the growing dread that Arthur might be right, and the man he called son was an imposter.
He shifted position and his knee bumped the bottom drawer of his desk. He almost felt ill at the thought of the paper that sat locked in a file at the bottom of that drawer. He had not looked at it again after Arthur showed it to him. He didn't have to. He knew every word by heart as if it had been branded into his brain.
Now his days and nights were haunted with questions. Were the stories Scott told of his years growing up with Harlan Garret just that - stories? Facts and fabrications carefully planned and executed to deceive him?
Murdoch had spent six months in Boston after coming out west, smitten by the woman he knew he could not live without. She had been beautiful and headstrong and, for some unexplainable reason, madly in love with the boy fresh off the boat from Inverness. They had married despite Harlan Garrets objections and left for the wilds of California with a handful of money and a dream of a life together. Then fate had stepped in. Now twenty six years later he had their son beside him, or did he? He saw Catherine in Scott's every move, in the slightly crooked smile, in the dip of his head when he was contemplating a verse of poetry, or the fire in his eyes when he debated a passage in a book that mesmerized him. How could a stranger know these things? Scott was his son, he knew it in his heart…but his mind would not let the question rest.
A soft clearing of the throat drew Murdoch from his inner reflections, and he looked up to see Scott standing in front of his desk.
Scott looked exhausted. Not only was he taking up the slack created by Johnny's accident, he was also overseeing the cleanup after the storm. The job was daunting, and Murdoch knew he should be out there directing the men himself, but he could not pull himself away from the house, away from Johnny's side. Just incase.
"We've tallied the herd," Scott said, his voice mirroring his fatigue. "And we didn't lose as many as we thought. The main herd made it to high ground before the flooding."
Murdoch nodded; even that news did not brighten his spirits.
"However," Scott continued, "most of the fencing is down. I put Cipriano in charge of the
work crew. He's going to concentrate on the areas that are a danger to the cattle first. I sent Emanuel into Morro Coyo to buy fencing."
Murdoch jerked his head up. "All the fencing?"
Scott dragged a chair over to the desk and sat down heavily. Murdoch could see the weight of decision weighing heavily on him.
"I told Emanuel to talk to the other vaqueros from the surrounding ranches. We were hit hard, but so was everyone else."
"And…?"
"I told him to buy only what we needed. And, if another ranch needed more we'd discuss it."
Murdoch realized he had been holding his breath. He studied the young man sitting before him, the man he proudly called son. Could he ask for a better son? He saw the strength of leadership and the compassion for his men. If this was not the Scott of his loins, he was the Scott of his heart.
He nodded. "As long as everyone sees it the way you do we'll come out of this just fine. Why don't you get cleaned up and I'll have Maria bring your dinner up to Johnny's room. Your brother is being exceedingly cooperative. But I have the feeling the dam is going to break any minute."
Scott laughed; a sound Murdoch hoped he would hear for a long time to come. "He's been 'almost' the perfect patient. I have a feeling that will all change tomorrow when Sam takes that splint off and puts his arm into a cast. Care to wager a bet that he'll find some way to saddle Barranca?"
Murdoch laughed. "That would be a fool's bet."
"No takers, huh? Didn't think so."
"In fact," Murdoch added. "I think it might be the perfect day for you to spend with him. You've been doing the work of two men, you could use the rest. And Johnny could use a big brother."
The smile that spread across Scott's face nearly killed Murdoch. What was he going to do?
Johnny looked down at his arm dejectedly. The still wet cast glistened in the sunlight pouring in through the open window. A rubber sheet covered the bedcovers protecting them from the messy plaster. It was nearly as heavy as the wooden splint, but at least his arm was in a more comfortable position. Bent at the elbow, his arm now rested across his waist.
"There now, that should be a little more comfortable." Sam smiled sympathetically. "I know its still a bit cumbersome, but in a few days you can be up and walking around."
"A few days!" Johnny would have bolted from the bed if Sam wasn't pushing down on his shoulder.
"Johnny, behave yourself," Murdoch warned.
Sam kept the pressure on Johnny's shoulder. "It takes three days for the plaster to harden properly. After that you can move around the house freely, even outside. But, no riding, Johnny. Not for at least a month."
"A month?" If Johnny had stared at anyone else but Sam Jenkins the way he stared right now, the man would have been out the front door. However Sam never let Johnny intimidate him, and Johnny knew it.
"If you took a spill and broke that arm again it might never heal properly. I'm telling you Johnny, stay off horses and…" he winked back at Murdoch and Scott, "fences."
Finding Sam not the least bit funny, Johnny harrumphed loudly and turned his face away, dismissing them all. Three days was an eternity tacked onto the time he had already spent in this bed, but he would stay. He would stay because that is what families did, they stuck it out together. That was the hardest thing he had to learn, living here at Lancer, with a father and a brother. That comfort accepted was sometimes more important than comfort offered.
He heard Sam putting his supplies back in his medical bag and felt a gentle tap on his knee. "I'll be back at the end of the week. Make sure you have someone with you when you get up. You're going to be weak as a kitten after all this time in bed. But you're young and strong and you'll get your strength back in no time."
"I'll see you to the door, Sam." Johnny heard Murdoch offer. He didn't miss the uneasiness in the old man's voice. He wondered if anyone else had heard it. "Johnny, Teresa will be up in a few minutes to clean up this mess before lunch. Scott, would you mind helping her?"
"Not at all." The sound of the chair being pulled closer, and the heartfelt sigh as Scott sat in the chair, was the answer he was hoping for. He wanted time to talk to both Scott and Teresa. The old man was getting worse by the day.
"Very well, I'll see you this weekend, Johnny," Sam called and the door closed leaving Johnny and Scott waiting in silence.
Murdoch walked down the hall stopping abruptly. Sam had to side step him to keep from plowing into his back.
"What is the matter with you, man? You were acting like a horse with a burr under his saddle in Johnny's room. The boy is going to be all right. You did everything you could, and you did the right thing."
"It's not that, Sam." Looking at Sam as if he was looking at the last friend he had on earth, he asked. "Do you have time for a drink?"
"It appears you need more than a drink. What's going on here, Murdoch?"
Murdoch led the way into the great room, his steps heavier than usual. Sam had not seen the man in so much turmoil since his sons had first come home. Of late they had settled most of their differences. It would be a great exaggeration to say they were the perfect family. But they had come a long way, and at least until now, they seemed to be getting along.
He watched Murdoch pour him a drink and a double shot of scotch for himself. Murdoch was not a heavy drinker, and seeing him with the liquor nearly reaching the top of the glass worried him.
"What's wrong, old friend? I haven't seen you like this in a long time."
Murdoch heaved a sigh and dropped into his favorite chair facing the roaring fireplace. "I don't know what to do, Sam." The pain in Murdoch's voice scared Sam.
"Can you tell me what's bothering you? The ranch? Johnny?"
"Johnny?" Murdoch hissed. "Why does everyone think it is Johnny when there is a problem? It's not Johnny. It's…" His voice trailed off as he turned his head toward the fireplace.
"Murdoch, we've been friends for a lot of years. Been through our share of hard times, and good times. I thought we could talk, that we could come to each other when there was a problem. Whatever it is, it's tearing your insides apart. It doesn't take a doctor to make that diagnosis."
Murdoch raised his glass to catch the reflection of the flames in the clear liquid. "Arthur Bell came out to the ranch the day Johnny was hurt. He brought me news that I still can't believe. New that I don't want to believe."
Sam waited. Murdoch was not a man who could be rushed. He was also not a man who could be easily thrown for a loop. At this very moment, Murdoch looked like he was hanging on by a thread.
"Arthur showed me a letter from the Pinkertons. He's acted as my lawyer for more than twenty years and handled most of the correspondence when I was looking for Johnny. Sam…they have reason to believe that Scott…that Scott may be an imposter."
"What!"
"They think the man that arrived here was not the real Scott Lancer."
"My God man, you can't believe that. Scott looks just like Catherine. He talks about Boston, Harlan Garrett. He knows…"
"Knows what?" Murdoch demanded. "Everything that was in the Pinkerton report or could be found by spending a few days in Boston?"
"You really believe this?" Sam asked incredulously.
Murdoch downed the scotch and climbed heavily to his feet, walking over to the liquor cabinet to pour another glass. "I don't want to. But…Sam how do I know? Scott says he gets a letter from Harlan once a month, but I've never seen the letters. He says it's just his good luck that they come in when he's in town. I have one picture of him, standing next to General Sheridan. Is that Scott Lancer? I don't know."
Sam was stunned. He knew Johnny. He had held him in his arms as a two year old. There was no doubt in his mind that he was Murdoch and Maria's child. But Scott…He had never thought to question the man who arrived to meet his absent father and collect a thousand dollars "listening money". Still, he could not believe that Scott was an imposter. The idea was ludicrous.
"Murdoch…I don't know what to say. Have you made inquiries with the Pinkertons?"
"Of course I have. Arthur's been writing to them. But you know how long it takes to get answers back from them. I don't know what to do Sam. Damn it, I love him like a son. If he's not, do I want to know?"
The question seemed suspended in silence, only the crackling of the fire daring to intrude.
Finally, Sam found his voice. "You have to know. If nothing else, it's fraud. But, Murdoch, if the Pinkertons are wrong…"
Murdoch nodded wearily. "If I ask Scott to prove who he is then I'll lose him. And Johnny. I'm not fool enough to think that Johnny stayed here for me. He stayed because he found a brother he had always wanted. It's just in the past couple of months that Johnny and I have found our way. Then I do something stupid like goad him into pulling a stump out that I know takes two men. Sam, I don't want to lose either one of them. I love them both."
Sam seldom found himself lost for words. But at this moment, he couldn't think of a thing to say.
Murdoch stood up, swaying slightly. "Sam, I know you know the way out. I'm going to rest for awhile. I haven't been sleeping well the last few nights."
"Murdoch…promise me you won't say anything until you know more. You have too much to lose if the Pinkertons are wrong. I have doctor friends in Boston, let me write them. I'll be discreet."
Murdoch nodded, then turned back as he headed for the stairs. "Arthur thinks if he is an imposter, that Johnny's accident may not have been an accident. And eventually he will own Lancer."
Sam felt his heart jump in his chest. The ugly shadow of doubt had just ingrained itself in his mind. Could he ever look at Scott the same way again?
"He just has a lot on his mind," Teresa said, paying more attention to getting the mess of plaster wrapped in the rubber sheet than Scott's questions. "He's worried about Johnny and all the damage from the storm. He'll be himself again soon."
"There's something more," Scott persisted. "He seems on edge all the time. It's like…"
Johnny looked at Scott and smiled faintly. "It's like you are me."
Scott flinched, but could not deny it. Murdoch had always treated him differently than he did Johnny. Maybe that was why it bothered him so much now. While not considering himself the favored son, he felt that he had a closer relationship with their father than Johnny had. He had hoped in time that they would be equals. But now it looked like he had done something to topple his place in Murdoch's eyes. For the life of him he could not figure out what.
Teresa wrapped the rubber sheet in a bundle and threw it on the floor. "You are both over reacting."
"Are we?" Scott helped Teresa straighten the blankets on Johnny's bed to his brother's chagrin. "Has he asked you anything unusual?"
Teresa thought for a moment. "No, just…well, he wanted to know if I ever saw you writing to your grandfather or if I ever saw one of the letters he sent to you."
"Why would he ask that?' Johnny asked.
Scott shrugged. "I never shared the letters with him because I didn't think he would be interested. I know there is no love lost between the two of them."
"That's an understatement." Teresa said, starting to look concerned.
Scott looked to the other side of the bed at Teresa as if he was trying to decide if he should ask the question that was most on his mind. "Teresa, when you were cleaning my room, did you go through my writing desk?"
Teresa looked up surprised. "Even if I had the time to clean your room, I would never invade your privacy."
"No, never." Johnny smirked. "You'd never invade our privacy by running into our rooms without knocking."
"That's different," she answered, indignantly. "I may forget to knock sometimes, but I would never go through your personal possessions. Scott, did someone go through your desk?"
Scott nodded. "Grandfather taught me to keep a neat desk, everything in its place. Things were disturbed."
"Who…" Teresa began.
"Murdoch?" Johnny asked. "If he was so interested in the letters between you and your grandfather, then maybe…"
"He wouldn't have found anything. The last letter I received from Grandfather angered me so much that I threw all his correspondence into the fire. He demanded that I return to Boston where I belong. He said that he had spent too much money and time on my education for me to waste it here playing cowboy. It was childish, I know, but I enjoyed watching the letters burn."
Johnny groaned in frustration as he tried to shift the heavy cast into a more comfortable position. "Nothing makes sense," he said, pain and fatigue straining his voice. "But until we figure this out I'd stay out of his way for the time being."
"You're probably right," Scott sighed. "There's enough work to keep me busy for a month."
"Murdoch's not about to talk about it until he's ready, but maybe I can find out something."
"And I'll see what I can find out too," Teresa said, combing the black bangs back from Johnny's forehead. "For now, though, you need to rest. We'll figure this out together."
Johnny's eyes closed despite his best effort to keep them open. The house that had settled into a comfortable home was now falling apart round them.