Chapter Eight
Scott wearily followed Cipriano's lead as they made their way toward the line shack. He had spent three grueling days assessing the damage wrought by the storm. The land that was not still underwater was mired in thick mud. It seemed that every once in awhile, Mother Nature had to prove her power to the lowly humans on earth, lest they erroneously forget who was in control.
Dismounting with a tired groan, Cipriano pulled the reins from his hand. "Jose will see to the horses, Señor Scott. If this roof did not leak, there will be food and blankets waiting inside. If not, there is firm ground a mile north. We will sleep under the stars again tonight"
Scott shuddered at the thought as he looked toward the door, still closed despite the fierce winds. He was so cold and wet he wondered if he would ever be warm again. So far, three of the four line shacks had leaked so badly that everything inside was ruined.
Saying a silent prayer, he opened the door and smiled. Though it smelled of mildew from the damp air, it seemed to have weathered the storm. Even the blankets on the two bunk beds looked dry and comfortably inviting.
"I'll start the stove and see what there is to eat," Scott said.
"Si," Cipriano smiled. "There will be suficiente here. Your padre always keeps the line shacks well stocked with food and medical supplies. He is a good patrón. He takes care of his vaqueros, and they in turn would do anything for him."
The mention of his father brought back that unsettled feeling in his stomach. He really didn't need to be out here checking line shacks. Cipriano and his men could have handled the job. But, he had needed to get away. Not since the first day he had set foot in the great room had he felt so awkward in his father's presence. The clandestine looks, the sentences started and abandoned. He felt like a stranger in his own home.
At first he had attributed it to Johnny's injury. But once Johnny was out of danger, Murdoch had seemed to distance himself. It was as if his father blamed him for his brother's accident. If there was fault to be meted out, Murdoch need look no further than his own hot headed disregard for Johnny's safety.
Thinking back on it, he realized things had seemed to mellow out over the past month. No longer were Johnny and Murdoch censoring their words, afraid that they might say the wrong thing and start another battle. Instead they seemed comfortable with each other. They were at last a family. Then he had retuned to find Johnny so horribly injured and now they were back to square one. No…a new game had been started, with Scott playing the outcast.
"Señor." Cipriano looked concerned. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
Scott flinched, realizing he had been daydreaming. "No. No thank you, Cipriano. I'll have dinner ready in a few minutes."
Cipriano nodded. "We are all hungry, si?" Then his voice softened. "I have spent many nights talking with your hermano. If there is anything you would like to discuss..." The old Segundo shrugged. "My ears, they listen, but my mouth repeats nothing."
"Thank you, Cipriano, but I'm fine."
"Si." Cipriano chuckled. "You are as stubborn as your hermano. But even he understands that he needs an amigo when times are hard."
Scott dipped his head, suddenly aware that he was taking up some of his brother's mannerisms. "Thank you, Cipriano. I will keep that in mind."
"Si. You will find dry wood for the fire in the corner over there. Your padre insists that everyone who uses the line shacks replenishes the wood."
Scott looked to the corner and saw half a cord of dry wood stacked against the wall. Even though he could not restock the dry wood, he would make sure he stacked wet wood in the barn to dry.
Stepping inside, he pushed the door closed behind him. He went straight to work, checking the stove and the flue. Satisfied that the stovepipe was clear he began stacking wood inside the fire box. He had watched Johnny carefully place kindling in the stove first, then coax the small flame into a flickering fire before adding the split logs. He had grown up in the pocket of wealth and prestige in Boston, never once having to start a fire at the Garret mansion, or worry about when or where his next meal would come from. Then came Harvard, and for the first time he had to fend for himself. Looking back on it now, he had to laugh. At the time he had thought having to eat at the dorms dining room with the rest of the students a hardship.
Johnny had grown up far differently, his education not learned from a book, not abstract concepts and ideas, but real life. Knowing and respecting the land, making it work for him. Scott knew he had learned the art of survival when he was in the cavalry, pinned down behind enemy lines then captured. But he had done only what he needed to live day by day. Johnny knew how to co-exist with the land. He envied Johnny sometimes.
Satisfied that the stove was venting properly, Scott began to rummage through the pantry. Cipriano was right. There was an abundance of food. Cans of beans and jars of pickled vegetables, peaches and stewed tomatoes lined the shelf. At last, something more than just beans and beef jerky.
By the time Cipriano and Jose returned he would have a meal fit for kings.
The sound of Jose snoring softly from the top bunk lent a somnolent feeling to the line shack. Scott sat in front of the stove watching the flickering fire through the half open door. Behind him he could smell the faint odor of Cipriano's cheroot. It was times like these that he knew why he stayed here…why the lure of Boston no longer enticed him.
Looking back on his life in Boston he knew he had been a mere actor in a play. Everyone in the business world was. A character was created and preformed from the moment you woke until you laid your head back on the pillow to sleep. His grandfather had taught him well. No one had known who the real Scott Lancer was. Not even Scott Lancer. But here, where men spoke their minds, where a man's word was his life and his life was his word, Scott knew who he was. No more genuflecting to the false deity of the corporate world; he was free to be himself.
He remembered how content he had felt over the last few months, more sure of himself and his life. For the first time feeling a part of a real family. To find that he had a brother he had never known existed was amazing in itself. But, to have Johnny be that brother…He had learned more about life in the few short months they had been together than all his years at Harvard. Johnny showed him how to love the land, how to use and not abuse what nature had to offer. And in turn, he had opened Johnny's eyes to a world that he loved: books. To his surprise Johnny could read, slowly, and with many questions about words and ideas, but more often than not, his brother would come up with a different interpretation that made him rethink his own ideas.
Suddenly he shuddered at the thought of how close they had come to losing Johnny again. If he had not taken the long route to the house to avoid the steep descent to the valley he never would have found Johnny. Would Barranca have brought him home in time? No one would ever know.
A log popped and hissed inside the stove and Scott watched the bright yellow embers drift toward the floor, disappearing before they hit the planking.
He heard the wooden chair Cipriano sat on protest beneath his weight, then the slightest sagging of the floor beneath him as the old Segundo joined him, chair in hand.
"May I join you, Señor Scott?"
Scott grinned, noticing Cipriano had brought his chair with him. "I was getting a little lonesome."
Cipriano set his chair next to Scott, settling into it, his legs stretched out before him.
"Ah, this is much better."
Scott studied the old man's face. There was a wealth of information there. Not just in ranching, but in life. Did he have the answers to the questions Scott was seeking?
"Dinner was muy bien." Cipriano sighed. "Your hermano, he would have added chili peppers to the beans and called it dinner."
Scott chuckled. "The hotter the better."
Cipriano patted his stomach. "Si. Too hot for me sometimes."
A companionable silence settled around them. This is what his life had been missing.
Night sounds drifted into the shack, a wolf howling in the distance, mournful yet comforting, an owl hooting from a nearby tree. Above all, though, was the din of frogs croaking from every direction. It sounded like millions had taken residence in the flooded fields.
"Are there always this many frogs?" Scott asked in amazement.
"Si. Ten sounds like a hundred, and a hundred sounds like a million. But they are good to have around. Watch this." Cipriano grunted as he lifted his tired body out of the chair and carefully opened the front door. "Holá," he called softly and it was suddenly deathly quiet. He waited, shadows flickering across his face from the open stove, until first one frog then another started croaking. Soon the air was filled with their sound again. "They are as good as a watch dog, and they do not need a bone." Cipriano chuckled.
Scott could not help but laugh out loud. "I learn something new everyday."
"Si. A smart man knows that he has much to learn. Juanito listens and learns all the time. He tells me you are the same."
"He does?"
"Si. He thinks much of his hermano. As I know you think much of him. But you are worried. He will recover. He is a strong man."
Scott frowned, the levity suddenly gone. "I know. But he always pushes himself so hard."
"That is his way. The way he learned to stay alive. You can not change that anymore than you could change the color of his eyes. It is who he is."
"I will try to remember that next time he does something altogether foolish."
"He is lucky to have you as his hermano. But, now I must go to bed. We have one more line shack to check before we can go home tomorrow."
Scott nodded. "It will be good to be home." As Scott said the words he didn't know if he meant them. He would go home for Johnny. Murdoch? That was another question.
Johnny had spent a restless night, Murdoch's words haunting him. The thought that his father, their father, could think of Scott as an imposter brought bile to his stomach. He would not believe it… could not believe it. Because in doing so, he was accepting that the most important person in his life was a liar. And he knew with every instinct within him that Scott was his brother, son of Murdoch, grandson of Harlan.
The thought of boarding the train and traveling clear across the county frightened him more than any gunfighter he had ever faced. But he would travel anywhere if it helped Scott. And he knew, without hesitation, that Scott would do the same for him.
After breakfast, Johnny had spent the morning with Jelly. He would only tell the old handyman that he was taking a trip, something he wanted to do, but hadn't had the time until now. With his arm out of commission, and unable to do any ranch work, it was the perfect opportunity. But he was still not willing to leave the protection of the ranch unarmed. Even though his gun hand was not affected, he couldn't strap on his gunbelt, and he wasn't prepared to ask anyone to buckle it on for him. So he went to Jelly with his problem, and by the end of the day, Jelly had rigged a lightweight holster that hid inside the sling that supported his cast.
The combination of the cast and the gun sheathed in the holster pulled the sling uncomfortably around his neck, but with time he would adjust to the extra weight. He practiced all morning, not coming close to his fast draw, but it was far better than no gun at all. He could only hope that Boston didn't have any fast draws looking for a reputation.
Murdoch had reluctantly bought a ticket on a train leaving Stockton tomorrow afternoon. At first Murdoch was categorically against the idea. Johnny was wholly out of his element. But Johnny had his mind made up. And once his son was determined to do something, a herd of wild horses could not change his mind. No one bothered to ask where he got his stubborn streak from.
That afternoon he packed a small traveling bag. He was used to traveling light, and he didn't want to deal with anything more than he could handle.
He didn't see Murdoch standing in the doorway watching him. Every move he made seemed awkward and painful. If it wasn't his dislocated shoulder, it was his ribs that still raked across his chest with every move. He didn't tell anyone how much he hurt. There were worse things in life than a little pain. Like losing his brother.
"Are you planning on packing a suit?"
Johnny swung around, startled that Murdoch had made his way down the hallway without him noticing. That was happening all too often of late.
"Not planning on going to any parties."
"Maybe not, but..." Murdoch held up the dreaded formal suit he had tailor made for his son. "In Boston, a well dressed man speaks louder than a six shooter."
Johnny was lost for words.
"It won't hurt to pack it," Murdoch cajoled.
Johnny reluctantly nodded and stood back while Murdoch folded the suit to put in his bag.
"May I?" Murdoch chuckled as he pawed through the bag. "I think I can make this a little neater."
Johnny grinned. "I never was good at this."
Murdoch dumped the contents of the bag onto the bed and began to reorganize. He didn't flinch at the boxes of bullets Johnny had packed, and he didn't ask how he was going to load his gun single handed. In the end, he had repacked the bag with room to spare.
"Sam sent word that he was coming out this evening to take a look at your arm."
Johnny lifted an eyebrow. "Nothing is keeping me from that train tomorrow."
"I know. And so does Sam. But he worries, like I do."
Johnny turned quickly toward the window, still not accustomed to people worrying about him. He cleared his throat. "No need to worry."
Murdoch smiled. "It's a father's prerogative. Now why don't you try to get some rest before dinner? I'm not supposed to say anything, but Teresa and Maria have been working all afternoon to make you a special dinner. That can only mean that I'll be up all night."
"Then you'd better get yourself some sleep too."
Johnny pushed his plate away, declaring silently that he could not eat another bite. Teresa and Maria had outdone themselves, the table laden with all of Johnny's favorites.
"Gracias," he grinned when Maria tried to offer him another tamale. "I will explode, Mamacita. I won't have to eat for a week."
"You had better eat properly, young man," Murdoch admonished.
"Don't worry, Murdoch, I'll see that he behaves." Sam wiped his mouth with his napkin, then pushed his chair away from the table. "Delicious ladies, even though I will probably use my entire supply of bicarbonate tonight."
Johnny looked toward the old doctor. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means my stomach can't take spices like these and…"
"You know what I mean. About seeing that I'll behave."
"Oh, didn't Murdoch tell you?" Sam asked innocently.
Johnny turned to look at Murdoch, anger seething just below the surface. "Tell me what?"
"Well…Sam was planning a trip to Boston next month to visit an old friend, and we thought, since you were going to Boston…"
"No," Johnny said emphatically. "I don't need no nursemaid."
Sam rolled his shoulders back indignantly. "I am no one's nursemaid, young man. I happen to be going to the same place in a few weeks and I thought it would be nice to have some company on the trip."
"No, I travel alone." Johnny started to stand up and his left arm accidentally hit the edge of the table, eliciting a sharp gasp.
Sam shook his head in frustration. "As much as you want to believe that you are ready to travel, you are not. And especially not alone. Have you thought about how you are going to do the most mundane things? Like button your pants in the morning? I know Murdoch helps you with them now. But he won't be there. You won't let him. You need help Johnny, whether you like it or not.
And what will Scott think? He will already be suspicious that you left before you were healed. He won't for one instant believe that you are ready to travel alone. Nothing but Val throwing him in jail would keep him from following you. If he knows I'm with you, then maybe Murdoch can keep him here until you find what you are looking for in Boston.
Be sensible for once in your life. Besides," Sam seemed pleased with his next statement. "If you want to find the right people in Boston, then who better than a doctor to lead you to them?"
Johnny looked around the table and knew he had been set up. His anger waned as he realized he could not be mad when he knew they were just trying to help. Accepting help, he reminded himself, was as important as giving it.
Not willing to let them have the last hurrah, Johnny leveled an irate look around the table before he huffed and walked away, calling back over his shoulder. "I hope you don't snore or we'll be riding in different cars."