Chapter Fifteen
Murdoch heard soft footsteps approach his desk and knew he owed Teresa an explanation. But how could he tell her that the man she had taken into her heart, the man she trusted to be her older brother, was an imposter?
Scott's parting words…"I am Scott Lancer," echoed in his mind. Scott was so surprised by the accusation. So hurt by the revelation that Harlan Garrett was dead. Murdoch had a growing feeling that he had made a terrible mistake.
"Where did Scott go in such a hurry?" Teresa asked. She stood next to the desk now, her arms folded around her waist. Murdoch knew that stance. It was the one where Teresa would accept nothing but the truth. She may have been young in years… but she was wise in life.
"He's going back to Boston," Murdoch answered. The words sounded so final. But he had no one to blame but himself. He had handled everything so badly.
"Why? He didn't say anything. Scott would never leave without saying goodbye."
"It was a sudden decision."
Teresa stared Murdoch down and he suddenly felt so old and so tired. He couldn't do this any more. He couldn't keep the secrets that had haunted him since Arthur first gave him the letter from the Pinkertons.
Murdoch collapsed back in his chair, closing his eyes to ward off the inevitable. "Teresa, would you mind asking Maria, Cipriano and Jelly to meet us in the garden in half an hour?"
He heard Teresa's voice tremble. "Yes, of course. But Murdoch, what…?"
Murdoch looked up at her, praying that she would not hate him when he told her what he had done. "I'll tell you all at the same time."
Teresa nodded and headed back into the kitchen. They all had the right to know.
Murdoch walked toward the garden as if he were a condemned man. He was about to shatter the love and friendship these four people held for Scott. And what if he was wrong? Would they ever forgive him? He knew Scott never would.
He found Teresa, Maria, Jelly and Cipriano standing apprehensively by the bench near the bed of roses Teresa tended to so lovingly. He held up his hand when he saw them all ready to pounce on him and motioned the two ladies to sit down.
How could standing before these people be so hard? He ran a one hundred thousand acre ranch, was president of the Cattle Growers Association, yet he couldn't find the words to talk to his own family and friends. "I…I received a report from the Pinkerton Agency that said…" Now as Murdoch tried to explain the unexplainable, he found it hard to believe it himself. But the evidence was damning. What other conclusion could he come too? "A week before Scott met with the Pinkerton agent with my invitation to come here, a man boarded a ship bound for Europe. Everything points to that man being Scott Garrett Lancer."
Teresa looked at him in confusion. "Thatcouldn't be. Scott came here. He came home."
Murdoch shook his head. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Everything points to the man who we thought was Scott being an imposter"
"No!" Maria wrapped her arm around Teresa and pulled her closer, her eyes flashing at Murdoch. "It can not be so. Scott is your son. Just as Juanito is your son. You deny him also?"
"I'm sorry, Maria. I can only go by the facts, and Scott's inability to prove who he is."
"Did ya ask him?" Jelly spat. "Did ya give him a chance before you threw him out?"
"I didn't throw him out. We had words, and he left."
"I kin just bet ya had words. Did ya think that maybe HE was telling the truth?"
"I've done nothing but think," Murdoch shot back. He didn't need these accusing eyes on him. He felt guilty enough. He wanted them to understand what it had been like. The long days and even longer nights wondering, worrying. Seeing Scott slip further and further away as he rebuffed him at every turn, but too afraid to ask him the question that hung between them.
"And Johnny? He didn't believe it, did he?" Jelly asked. "Not fer one minute. Because he trusts his brother."
"No," Murdoch admitted. "He didn't go to Chicago with Sam. They both went to Boston to confront Harlan. He never answered any of my telegrams."
"But…" Teresa began.
"Harlan Garrett is dead." He hadn't meant to blurt it out like that. He wanted to break it to them gently, not punched in the gut like he was. "He's been dead for two months. Do you think if Scott were really who he said he was, that he would not know about this grandfather's death? And those letters he said he received from Harlan…did you ever see them? Even one?"
Teresa looked startled. "But that doesn't mean…"
"There were just too many questions."
"Pardon, Senor Lancer." Cipriano removed his hat and crushed it against his chest nervously. "But you are a fool. You let facts on a piece of paper, written by strangers, destroy your trust in your son."
"What are ya goin' to do about it?" Jelly demanded, juttinghis bearded chin out.
Murdoch looked into each face, imploring them for an answer. "What can I do?"
Teresa rushed over to him, wrapping her arms around his huge chest. "Go after him. You tell him that you don't care what the Pinkertons say. You love him and want him back. We want him back. He's your son, Murdoch. I know he is."
"It's not that easy."
"It is if you love your hijo," Maria said. "Do you love him, Senor?"
Murdoch nodded yes. He did love him. He was the son he had waited a lifetime to have stand at his side. To have both his sons standing at his side, this ranch their legacy.
"He'll never believe me…he…"
The sound of an approaching horse drew their attention to the courtyard. Val climbed out of the saddle, stretching his back as he headed for the front door.
"Over here," Murdoch called, and Val hurried toward the garden, his hand outstretched with a telegram.
"It don't make much sense," Val said as Murdoch took the note. "But Mr. Bell said it was real important."
"Thanks, Sheriff," Murdoch mumbled as he opened the note.
"Dear, God…" he breathed, his legs nearly buckling beneath him.
"What is it?" Teresa cried.
"It's from Sam. He and Johnny have found proof that…proof that Scott is my son. What have I done?"
"Better question is - what are ya gonna do about it?" Jelly asked.
"What can I do? Scott will never forgive me for doubting him."
Jelly stepped forward. "You can put yer pride in yer back pocket where it belongs and go after him. You'll never live with yerself if ya don't."
Murdoch turned to Val. "When you get back to town would you buy a ticket for me on the morning stage to Sacramento, and ask Arthur Bell to arrange passage on the train to Boston."
"You're going to Boston too?"
Murdoch nodded. "Jelly and Cipriano can take care of things here. I have to bring both my sons home."
It had been dark for hours as Sam handed the cab driver a hefty tip and stepped out of the carriage. He had spent hours searching the city for Johnny, returning frequently to the hotel to see if his wayward patient had returned while he was out looking. Wet and cold after leaving the comfort of the cab to talk to as many people as he could,he was still left with more questions than answers. He had spoken to the constables, not saying more than he had to. Someone had been shooting at the cab Johnny was in; whether the bullets were meant for him or the woman who was shot, he didn't know. And until he did, he didn't want to jeopardize Johnny's safety anymore than it already was.
As of now, Johnny was a subject of suspicion. He was with the woman when she was killed, and hehad disappeared.
He walked through the lobby, looking toward the front desk, and the clerk shook his head. He actually looked as if he were concerned over Johnny missing. Sam doubted it very much though. It was Johnny, the son of a rich ranch owner, who concerned him.
Fishing his hotel key from his pocket, Sam was surprised when the doorknob turned without the need of a key. He felt a moment of relief; Johnny must have slipped by the clerk downstairs. But his stomach dropped when he saw, by the light of an already lit lantern, that his clothes were strewn across the floor. Even the contents of his medical bag lay scattered across the room.
Thinking twice before stepping inside, Sam thought it better that the hotel staff, and then the constables, didn't know about this. For all he knew, Johnny was in hiding and to cast more attention on him would be the last thing he needed.
Moving as silently as he could, he walked over to Johnny's adjoining room and listened at the door. Someone was moving around in there. He knew it wasn't Johnny. Johnny was quieter than that.
Hoping that they were through with his room, Sam opened the door leading into the hallway just far enough so he could see. He waited, the sweat beading on his forehead, his old bones cramping in his frozen pose…then he heard Johnny's outer door open and close. Two men walked by. They wore three piece suits and bowler hats and a distinctive bulge under their right arms. Shoulder holsters. That most likely meant they were not lawmen.
A shiver went down Sam's spine. There was more to this than they had ever imagined. He hurriedly packed a few essentials in a tote bag and picked up the contents of his medical bag. There was a back way out of the hotel; Johnny had found it within minutes of their arrival. Johnny always looked for a quick exit incase it was needed. For the first time Sam realized why Johnny couldn't rest until he knew every entrance and exit to a new building. As Sam reached the exit he thanked Johnny profoundly. With tote bag and medical bag in hand, Sam snuck out the back door and down the stairs to a narrow alley. He just had to find a place to stay where he was safe until he could find Johnny.
Sam was lost in thought as he walked down the streets. The rain had stopped for awhile and now it was starting to sprinkle again. It would not be long before it was again a sure and proper rain. The weather was not on his mind, however. It was Johnny. Where was he? Was he hurt? Worse…? No, he would not go there. Johnny was a survivor. But where was he?
The truth of the matter was, Sam could do little to help him right now. He couldn't send a telegram to Murdoch. Whoever ransacked their rooms would be waiting for him at the telegraph office. Where could he go? If he checked into another hotel he would be no more than a prisoner there, afraid to leave for fear of being spotted. No, he needed an ally. Someone who could ask questions and not be noticed.
As he walked down the paved sidewalk, he realized he was headed toward Beacon Street. It was the only place he knew for sure…and Weatherly was the only person he knew by name. But he was Harlan Garrett's man servant. He would be loyal to Garrett in death as well as life. Could he trust him?
He needed help. Someone's help. The rain began to fall again, cold and heavy. If Johnny was out in this with his cast, he would be in a miserable state. Somehow he had to find him. And that meant trusting someone.
Sam knocked at the door, knowing he might be making the biggest mistake of his long life, but he had no choice. He had learned to trust his instincts about people. And even though Weatherly had not been completely honest with him, he didn't think he had really told a lie, just failed to tell the whole story. Sam hoped he would get the whole story from the old servant this time.
Sam could see the light of a candle move through the window on the other side of the door and watched the door open slowly. He couldn't remember a more astonished look as Weatherly saw him standing on the doorstep, his hair hanging limply over his face, dripping onto his soggy clothes.
"Dr. Jenkins! What on earth are you doing here?"
"I need your help, Weatherly. Scott needs your help."
Weatherly peered over Sam's shoulder into the darkness before hustling him into the warmth of the house.
"What is going on?" Weatherly demanded. "Why are you on foot on a night like this?"
Sam wiped at the water dripping down his face and Weatherly was suddenly doing the job he had done for years,taking care of others.
"Come into the parlor, I have a warm fire going. And I will get you some dry clothes and a towel. Does a hot toddy sound good?"
Sam could not keep the smile from his face. "It sounds wonderful, Weatherly. And then we must talk."
"Yes, Sir. Of course. I will be back in a moment."
Sam stood in the doorway to the parlor and looked at the roaring fire. He hoped Johnny was warm wherever he was. He should have left a note with the desk clerk at the hotel, just in case Johnny returned later in the night. But in his heart he knew Johnny would not trust the hotel, not when he was connected with the death of a woman. How had this mushroomed so out of control?
"Here you are, Sir." Placing a set of clothes on the back of one of the sofas, Weatherly gently pushed Sam into the parlor. "They belonged to Mr. Garrett. You two are…were about the same size. Get changed and I will make that hot toddy."
Sam could not help but feel guilty. All this and where was Johnny? And Scott? Was he on a train headed this way already? And Murdoch…what of Murdoch? This was a nightmare for everyone, and he could see no light at the end of the tunnel.
Sam sipped the hot toddy and allowed it to warm his throat and then his insides. He was dressed in an expensive pair of woolen pants and a soft silk shirt. Weatherly had also provided him with a pair of warm socks and slippers. If he had felt guilty before, he felt absolutely horrible now.
Weatherly sat down on the opposite sofa and sipped his own hot toddy. "I hope you don't mind me joining you, Sir."
"This is your house, Weatherly. It is I who is joining you."
Weatherly raised an eyebrow as if to refute Sam's words, then another thought came to mind. "What in heavens name brought you here at his hour in weather like this? Are you in trouble?"
Sam nodded. "I think I am." He leaned forward. "I'm sorry about your cook. You must have been close working side by side for so many years."
"My cook? I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about."
Sam shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. "No one told you?"
"Told me what? If you have something to say, please say it, Dr. Jenkins."
"Mr. Garrett's cook was killed down at the wharf late this afternoon."
"Heddy? No. You must be mistaken." Sam watched Weatherly's face drain of color. "Not Heddy. What would she be doing down by the wharf? She knows as well as anyone what a dangerous place that can be. Especially for a woman. How was she killed?"
Sam hesitated. "She was riding in a carriage that was under attack. She was shot in the back," he finally said.
The hot toddy in Weatherly's hand slipped from his paralyzed fingers and hit the floor, the china mug shattering into pieces. He rubbed absently at the wet spot on his knee where the hot liquid had burned him. "Shot…but why? Who?"
"Weatherly, she was with Johnny Lancer, Scott's half brother from California. He came here to unravel a mystery, but it seems it goes much deeper than anyone had thought."
"Johnny?"
"You know him?"
"Not in person, of course. But I know how much Mr. Garrett despised him. How he thought it was the ex-gunfighter who was keeping his grandson away from him."
Sam thought his heart would stop. At last, he was hearing the truth. Garrett had received letters from Scott. And Scott had received letters from his grandfather.
He picked his next words carefully. "Weatherly, Murdoch Lancer received a report from the Pinkerton Detective agency that said Scott was an imposter. That the real Scott Lancer had left for Europe a week before the man who claimed to be Scott received the invitation from Murdoch to come to California."
"An imposter? Heavens, no. Mr. Scott decided to go out west instead. It infuriated Mr. Garrett to no end. It was an embarrassment to him. To have his grandson leave him in favor of a father he had never met, to a wasteland like California.. He wouldn't have it. Mr. Garrett was a powerful man. He could make almost anything happen. But he could not control his grandson. So he started telling everyone that Mr. Scott had gone to Europe. Everyone believed him. Those who didn't were persuaded to."
"That is why you lied to me when I first came to the door?"
"Yes. It was my duty to follow Mr. Garrett's wishes, alive or dead. But," Weatherly shook his head sadly. "I will not follow his orders if it will hurt others. Especially Mr. Scott."
Sam followed the rim of his mug with his finger, lost in thought. "What do you think your cook had to tell Johnny that was so important that it cost her her life?"
Weatherly shook his head. "I don't know, Sir. But I am determined to find out. I was very fond of Heddy. Her killer, or killers, will not go unpunished."