Chapter Twelve
"You God damn son of a bitch! Who the hell are you?"
Scott had barely closed the front door when Murdoch came barreling toward him, his face frozen in anger, grabbing him under the arms and lifting him off his feet. He was driven back against the wall, Murdoch's face just inches from his.
"Who are you?" Murdoch demanded again, pinning Scott's shoulders with his huge hands.
"What are you talking about?" Scott gasped, his breath ripped from his lungs by both the impact with the wall and the shock of Murdoch's sudden attack. He had never seen his father so out of control. And to have that anger aimed at him…
Scott's knees nearly buckled when Murdoch released his grip. He watched in a daze as Murdoch ripped a letter from his shirt pocket and threw it at him. It fluttered to the ground, finally resting next to his boot.
"You tell me," Murdoch growled.
With a shaky hand, Scott leaned down and picked up the letter. As he opened it he saw the Pinkerton Agency logo on the top right corner and began to read.
Disbelief turned to anger. "You can't take this seriously!" Scott shouted. "You really believe…?"
Murdoch's face turned darker as he pulled a telegram from his left shirt pocket. He flung it at Scott and waited, breathing hard while Scott picked it up.
Scott opened the telegram. He felt like he had been sucker punched. The words blinded him, the paper they were written on nearly singeing his hands.
"No," he breathed.
"Two months!" Murdoch shouted. "He's been dead for two months. How could you still be getting letters from a dead man?"
Scott couldn't answer. He had received a letter two weeks ago. It had surprised him at the time. Most of his grandfather's correspondence was polite and succinct. A few lines about Boston, about the business and a plea that he return home where he belonged. But this time his words had been threatening…demanding. He was to return to Boston or forfeit any claim to the Garrett estate. He would lose everything. Angry at the attempted blackmail, he had thrown his entire grandfather's letters into the fire.
Scott shook his head. "I received a letter from Grandfather just two weeks ago."
Scott's answer seemed to only enrage Murdoch further. "How! From a ghost? How long were you going to play out this charade of yours? What did you think you would gain by it? Take over Lancer?"
Scott looked at Murdoch, for the first time realizing what his father was saying. "You can't believe…"
"What else am I to think? I trust Sam."
"Sam?" Scott looked at the bottom of the telegram. Sam Jenkins. "Johnny and Sam are in Boston?"
Murdoch nodded. "Johnny was determined to prove that you were who you say you are, and Sam wouldn't let him travel alone."
"He shouldn't have stepped foot off this ranch in his condition."
"There was no stopping him. You know your bro…." The word seemed to freeze in Murdoch's throat.
Scott crumpled the Pinkerton letter in his hand and threw on the floor. "If you'll excuse me, I have to pack."
"Where are you going?" Murdoch demanded.
"Why would you care? You want me out of this house."
"Scott." For the first time Murdoch didn't seem as certain as he had been when Scott first entered. "Don't…"
"Don't what? Don't go? If I'm the imposter you think I am, then you should be happy that I'm going."
"I don't know what to think."
Scott took a step closer to Murdoch, his own anger vying his father's. "Think about this. You just did what my Grandfather's pleading and threats could not do. You just convinced me that I don't belong here. I'm catching the next train back east. Hopefully Johnny will still be there and I can assure him that I am, and always have been, Scott Lancer."
Scott brushed past a stunned Murdoch Lancer. Never in his wildest dreams could Scott have foreseen something like this. He reached the stairs and took them two at a time. He couldn't get out of this house fast enough.
Scott grabbed one of the traveling bags he had used on his trip out here and threw it on the bed. He never thought when he first stepped foot on Lancer land that he would be staying. Now he couldn't believe he was going. This was his home. He loved it here. He loved his family and the hard work and, above all else, his friendship with Johnny. It had been a hard road at first, trying to figure out the enigma that was his brother. And even though Johnny was still a mystery at times, he couldn't think of life without him in it.
Now what would happen? Suddenly the impact of his grandfather's death hit him and he sagged against the bed, covering his face with his hands. It shouldn't have been like this. He had hated him so much the past two weeks. If he had only read the letter more closely, had thought to scrutinize the words more. Would he have found that it hadn't been sent by his grandfather? He would never know because in his anger he had burned the letter. All the letters. He had nothing left here of the man who had raised him. Who had loved him in his own selfish way. But in truth, it didn't matter anymore. This was no longer his home. He had plenty of memories to surround him in Boston.
Taking a deep breath he retuned to his job of packing. Once he was settled in Boston he would send money for someone to pack up the rest of his belongings and ship them back east.
He grabbed the traveling bag and made one more stopbefore leaving the room. Pulling the top drawer of his dresser open, he rummaged beneath his clothes until he found a small leather wallet. Clasping it in his hand, he squeezed it once then headed for the door.
He found Murdoch where he could always find him, sitting behind his desk.
Scott's footsteps brought a tired set of eyes up to look at him. The old man had aged over the past two weeks, but now it seemed he had aged another ten years in the last half hour.
"You should wait until Johnny returns," Murdoch said softly, as if he knew his words were falling on deaf ears.
Scott shook his head. "I don't stay where I don't belong. If…if Johnny leaves before I can get to Boston, tell him I'll write him."
Murdoch raked his fingers through his grey hair. "What am I supposed to think?" he asked. "What was I supposed to do?"
"Trust me," Scott answered simply as he tossed the wallet onto Murdoch's desk.
"What's this?"
Scott sighed deeply. "A thousand dollars listening money. According to you, it's not mine."
"Scott…"
"I'll send for the rest of my things when I get settled, and I'll leave my horse in town. You can send someone to pick him up tomorrow."
Murdoch stood up slowly. "Don't go, Scott. We can figure this out, somehow."
Scott smiled ironically. "Johnny said that one day you would say something that you could never take back. We both figured it would be Johnny you would say it to. Seems we were both wrong. Say goodbye to Teresa and Maria for me. I'll talk to Jelly and Cipriano on my way out."
"Scott…"
"I'll stop in Arthur's office before the stage arrives tomorrow morning and have my name taken off the deed. And Murdoch, just so you know…" Scott damned the hitch he heard in his voice. "I am your son." He turned and walked out of the great room, the heavy front door closing behind him.
Sam straightened his coat and cleared his throat before knocking on Garrett's front door. News of Harlan's death had devastated Johnny and rocked his resolve. But not for long. Johnny was determined to prove what he knew to be fact: the man he called Brother was the real Scott Lancer.
When Johnny first explained his plan for getting inside the Garrett mansion, Sam had vetoed it immediately. But Sam knew, with or without his help, Johnny would get into the house somehow. And the plan did have merit.
So now, he waited as Harlan's man servant answered the door.
"Yes? Can I help you?" The man was near Sam's age, tall and dressed in a three piece black suit. His voice was deep and refined and ever so proper. Sam had to wonder what Johnny's reaction had been.
Sam smiled pleasantly. "Dr. Samuel Jenkins. I met Harlan a few years ago. He said to be sure to stop by if I was ever in Boston."
The butler looked uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, Sir. Mr. Garrett passed away two months ago."
Sam reached out suddenly, looking for something to support himself, the shock appearing too much for the old doctor.
"Sir! Can I be of assistance?" Harlan's man servant asked, alarmed by Sam's reaction.
Sam patted his chest. "I just need to rest for a minute," he panted, struggling to grab the doorman's arm. "I don't mean to be a bother, but I need to rest. Bad heart you know. Just for a few minutes."
The doorman looked back into the house nervously, then helped Sam in, guiding him to the front parlor.
Johnny wore the black suit Murdoch had insisted he take, and was thankful for his father's forethought. With the black sling replacing the white one, he blended in with the gentlemen walking along Beacon Street. When he reached the Garrett Mansion grounds he surreptitiously stepped off the paved walkway and disappeared, unnoticed, behind a tree.
He made his way around the back of the mansion, crouching low. The weight of his cast made it hard to balance, but he was able to keep close to the ground. He tried opening four windows at the back of the house before he found one unlocked. Peering as best he could into the room, he decided it looked empty. He carefully raised the window, finding it harder than he thought with one hand, and slipped inside.
A huge four poster bed dominated the room, with a satin bedspread nearly the same color as the flowery wallpaper. He didn't think anyone could crowd more furniture into a room if they tried.
The room looked tooclean, too cold to be anything but a guest room. As quietly as he could, he made his way across the room, thankful for the thick carpeting dampening his footsteps, and opened the door slowly. He could hear Sam and someone else talking down the hall and he quickly went in the opposite direction. His heart was in his throat as he carefully opened each door along the hall, looking for Harlan's office. Scott had once said he was never allowed, as a boy, to enter his grandfather's office.
Johnny was sure he remembered Scott saying that Harlan's office was on the first floor. He was at the fifth door, the sound of Sam' voice still following him down the hall, when he opened it onto a room lined with books and a desk that would put Murdoch's massive desk to shame. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him. Several windows lined the side wall, but thankfully it looked out on a wide expanse of trees and grass instead of the street.
Now that he was inside, he didn't know what he was looking for. It was painfully clear that Harlan had not been in this room for sometime. There was no paper work on the desk, and only a hint of the smell of fine cigar smoke and expensive bourbon lingered in the walls and furniture. Scott had told him once how different Murdoch's desk was from his grandfather's. Murdoch's desk was clean and organized compared to Harlan's.
Johnny carefully opened each drawer, finding them all empty. It seemed that someone had stripped the room of anything that was Harlan Garrett. Whoever was running Garrett Enterprises now was not doing it from this office.
Swearing silently in disgust, he carefully opened the door and headed for the stairs leading to the second level. He had to find Scott's room. He could still hear Sam talking. They had agreed that it would be dangerous for either of them to stay more than half an hour in the house, and Johnny's time was dwindling away too quickly.
He made for the stairs, praying that none of the steps creaked beneath his weight. The second floor hallway was long and wide. He tried to remember if Scott had ever mentioned what room he was in. He couldn't remember. He found two more guests rooms then opened the door to a room he knew instantly was Scott's. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Scott's cavalry hat and holster hung on the wall. Johnny walked around the room, picking up figures, some made of pewter, and others of crystal and wood, mementos of a privileged life. Yet Johnny knew none of this meant anything to Scott anymore. His life and his heart were in Lancer.
Bookshelves lined one wall. He opened the closet door and found more clothes hanging inside than all the clothes at Baldemero's store. Suits and frilled shirts hung next to plaid pants and heavy woolen sweaters. He saw only a few empty hangers. Why would Scott travel all the way to Europe and not take his best clothes? Johnny remembered the tales Murdoch told of his trip across the sea from Inverness. The way he had watched and wished he could join the first class passengers, with their fancy clothes and fancier food. Scott would be one of those first class passengers. It seemed more likely that his brother had packed for a trip out west, knowing that most of these clothes would be useless out there.
Reluctantly turning away from the closet, he moved over to the writing desk in the corner of the room. A quill and inkwell sat next to a sheaf of writing paper. A book on western saddles sat on the corner, a bookmark saving the last page read. Why would Scott be reading a book about western saddles if he was headed for Europe? Johnny rifled through the envelopes and letters in the top drawer, some addressed to him in a masculine writing style. Still others held the unmistakable touch of a woman's hand. Then he saw it. What he had been hoping to find. A train schedule from Boston to Sacramento. He picked it up, studying the underlined times. Scott had been planning this trip. Why else would he have a train schedule if he wasn't traveling out west?
Afraid that someone might destroy the evidence, and yet not wanting to take it from Scott's room, Johnny opened the bottom desk drawer and lifted several newspapers his brother had saved. Beneath them, to Johnny's surprise, he found a framed picture of Scott standing next to General Sheridan: The same picture that sat on the bureau in Scott's room at Lancer. There was no denying now who Scott was.
He needed to get word to Murdoch before he said something to Scott. It had been a mistake to send that telegram about Scott's grandfather before coming here. Johnny said a silent prayer that his father would find the strength to keep quiet just a little longer. It would only be a matter of days before this was all cleared up. Questions of who and why would have to be answered. But Scott's identity would no longer be in doubt.
Thrilled to have found something to prove Scott's case, Johnny was anxious to get downstairs and out of the house before he was seen. If Sam hadn't already left, he would any minute. Turning toward the door, his cumbersome cast caught the edge of the bureau. He gasped in pain and surprise, then froze as he saw the stained glass shade of an oil lamp totter on the chimney. The whole lamp tipped over, crashing to the floor.
The sound was enough to wake the dead.Johnny looked around for a place to hide, knowing that someone would be up to investigate any minute. The closet would be the first place a person would check. Taking a chance, he carefully opened the door. The sound of raised voices neared as Garrett's man servant raced up the stairs.