Thanks for the reviews, all you anon or not-signed in folks. Sorry I can't respond directly to each and every one of you, but I do enjoy knowing people are still reading my stories.

Chapter 2

"I need towels, cloths, water!" Scott barked commands as he carried me to the back room. I don't know how he managed, 'cause I'm no lightweight, but the urgency of his actions was either fueled by adrenaline or the fear he'd drop me and make a mess out his chivalric act.

The pressure from the arm clutching me across my back was sending intense shafts of pain through my entire body, knife-hot right down to my legs. I couldn't even get a breath to cry out, the pain was so blinding. Mercifully, Scott finally put me down, and in my relief I let out a moan.

Scott said something intending to ease me, I guess, but no way did it make any difference. Every breath I drew was agony. I heard that back-shooter, Joey, speaking from the doorway. "Listen, I can put your brother out of his misery for ya." He sort of laughed but there was little humor in it. Even hurting as I was, and pretty involved in my own pain, I still wanted to go over and show him what misery could be like. Funny how I felt that almost as intensely as the jabs of pain in my back.

"Get the Hell out of here," Scott ordered in a deadly voice.

I wanted to tell Scott 'that's the way to go', but I couldn't make any words come out. I tried to move, to get away from the pain in my back, but it only made it worse. I must have cried out again 'cause there was a gentle hand laid on my arm to hush me.

"Johnny, Johnny, try to be still, okay?" His voice was husky. I opened my eyes and took in my brother's face. He had that look I'd seen too often: a mixture of strength and concern and fear. I realized he thought I was going to die.

Joey spoke from somewhere behind me. "Don't forget, Lancer, when you come out I want to see your hands in the clear, huh?"

Scott ignored him and remained leaning over me as the guy left. I couldn't get a clear picture of what'd happened or why I was lying in a strange place, a dark room that had a couple of pieces of furniture in it, and only one small window, way up high. The walls were swirling around, forcing me to close my eyes again.

Hands on my legs, hoisting them up on the couch. Hurting, tensing up, arching my back and making it so much worse, enough pain that I groaned aloud in protest. "No. . ."

"Don't move, Johnny."

"Scott . . . I feel sick." He pushed something under my head to cushion it. He got a hold of me under my arms, apologetically warning me, "One more time, just one more time," as he pulled my body further up the couch. I almost passed out, it was so excruciating.

There was a clap of thunder so close it rattled the window, and it reminded me that I'd just come in from the rain. I just couldn't recall why I'd been out in it. "Scott? Scott?" My lips felt thick and my words came out all slurred, like I'd been on a bender. My head sure felt like I'd been boozing for a week. "Where are we? Would you tell me what happened?" I asked plaintively.

"Cantina. You got shot, remember?" The cushions sank as Scott sat down on the edge of the couch. I felt him leaning over, then rolling me forward a bit and he started prodding at my shoulder and back again. Every nerve seemed to be on fire and I desperately wanted him to stop, just stop.

He stopped poking at my back and paid attention to my head. "You got a little crease," Scott said lightly.

"Uh? Oh. Oh, my head . . . it hurts." I remembered being shot at, all right. What I really wanted to know was why some local gun hawk had taken potshots at me. I regretted mentioning my aching head 'cause Scott then cupped his hand under my cheek and lifted it a couple of inches off the cushion to peer at it, setting it throbbing even worse.

It took an awful lot of effort to keep my eyes open, but I was trying to gauge Scott's reaction to my condition as well as keep an eye out for more trouble. It looked like they were going to leave us alone for a bit, which was fine with me. I sure needed time to recoup. I shivered even though I felt like I was in a sweat lodge.

I saw Scott trying to smile confidently as he threw an old overcoat across my legs. "You've had worse." Then he turned his head away, muttering impatiently, "Where the Hell's that girl?" He suddenly yelled in the direction of the open door, "Get in here with that stuff!"

Scott, my even-tempered, military-trained, sensible brother, sounded like he was about to lose control.

I winced at the noise. "Hey, you sound like the Old Man," I complained. When he shifted as if to get up, I reached out and held onto his leg, needing him to stay. There was no reason to panic. Not yet, anyway. I felt nauseous, my head was killing me, I had a couple of holes in me and I was running both fever and chills at the same time. There were two cold-blooded killers waiting in the next room to put some lead in my head and Scott's. But we were still alive, so all wasn't lost.

Scott settled back to stay and said, "Sorry," with an understanding smile. I couldn't keep my eyes open and I let the darkness fall over me, the sound of rain rushing loudly in my ears.

"Here are the things you wanted," came the girl's voice, as she hurried into the room. Then Scott was pressing something against my back, hard, hard enough to jerk me out of that comfortable place I'd found.

"Give me your hand," Scott ordered the girl. "Keep pressure on it." I gritted my teeth and looked up at the window, at the blue lightning flashing in the window, at the watery shadows being cast across the room, then at the girl's red dress. Her white apron had dark splotches across it, which I eventually realized must be my blood. I just endured while they bound up my wound, Scott's hand pushing something under my chest and then pulling it tight across my back. I caught sight of some calico just like the tablecloths that'd been draped across the tables in the dining room.

Scott was talking to the girl, and I heard her tell him her name was Theresa. She had a defiant face on her and didn't look too much like she was going to cooperate. I thought of another girl with a similar name, waiting back home. She was probably wondering where the Hell we were as she put the finishing touches on a Christmas tree that Jelly'd cut down and fixed up in the corner of the great room.

We'd never make it back in time now. I'd never get to experience Christmas with my new family, after all. And Scott- I felt bad for him. He'd been looking forward to this holiday time, talking about gifts and food and things he'd done back home with his family and friends. 'A Christmas just like back home,' he'd said. I was used to doing without the things he took for granted, but he'd been lonely, not for company, but for the Christmas rituals that had been a part of the life he'd left back in Boston. Lonely for traditions. As if he'd heard my thoughts, he patted my arm and said, "Don't worry, brother. We'll get out of this and back to Lancer for Christmas."

"Just like back in Boston, right?" I managed.

"Just like Boston," he agreed. "Snow falling over the green, sleigh rides with the girl next door, skating on the pond on the Commons, eggnog in front of a huge blue spruce, all decorated and standing in the front parlor."

"Sorry. . ."

"Sorry for what? This wasn't your fault, Johnny."

"No." I coughed and took a minute to recover. My voice came out in a hoarse whisper and Scott had to lean close to catch my words. "Sorry. . . no snow. No sleigh, no skating. Might be able to rustle up a girl and some eggnog for you."

He laughed quietly and a little sadly. "We'll be fine. I'll get us out of this." He straightened up and looked at the girl as if he'd forgotten her presence. She was standing there listening, all stiff with animosity.

Taking her arm, he stepped away from the couch. Scott spoke to her in a low voice, accusing her in a terse voice of setting up a man called Montgomery. I knew who they were talking about. Montgomery was a rancher, one of the biggest landowners in the area. He was the kind of hombre who liked to get his own way, who used strong-arm tactics in an off-hand manner, who bullied smaller men easily - not because he relished it but because it came natural to him. It was just the way he did business. Even though we'd had him to the hacienda once for some shindig, Murdoch didn't like the rancher and made a point of avoiding doing business with him.

"No," the girl protested. "You don't know how it is!"

"Then how is it?"

"Victor Montgomery had my brother killed!" she spat.

"Which brings us right back to my point," he said coldly. "You set him up."

"Well, he can be very convincing when he wants."

"Who can?"

Her eyes dropped. She'd said too much.

Scott pressed her for an explanation. "Your brother was a rival of this Montgomery?"

"No, he worked for him. My little brother's own boss killed him!"

A spasm gripped me and I bucked against the pain. I reached out and Scott was there in an instant. I had to hang on to my brother's knee until the cramping eased. I sweated and worked at slowing my breathing, trying to squash the waves of nausea that threatened to overcome me.

"Take it easy. Take it easy, I'm right here," he said calmly.

I don't know if simple words like that can help a man when he's so low, but maybe they do if they come from kin. Maybe it's sorta like a kid who's sick with fever, hearing his mother saying she's nearby, that everything'll be all right. It could just be in the knowing that you're not alone that makes it bearable. Even if you don't really believe the words. I took what comfort I could from them.

The girl was vehemently saying how her brother was just a kid, that Montgomery had had him killed for no good reason. Something about her brother being accused of ruining a deal with loose talk. How it couldn't be true, how her brother was always getting the raw end of the deal. I thought that there must have been more to it than that, even though I've known men who've killed for next to nothing.

"This is no personal vengeance killing," Scott reasoned. "Montgomery's an important rancher, and those two men aren't locals, they're guns-for-hire. Seems like someone is pushing in on Montgomery's territory. What you've done is put us all right in the middle of a range war."

"No! It's because of my brother. They said Montgomery has to pay! That's why."

Someone was pressing a hand hard on my shoulder blade, and it felt like a blade being forced into an open wound. I knew they were only trying to help, but I just couldn't tough it out this time. Protesting, I squirmed to get away, only to be held down by Scott.

"Easy, Johnny, easy," Scott soothed. "I know it hurts, but you have to stay still. We have to stop the bleeding back there. Let me look at your head again, okay?" He adjusted the cloth beneath my head and I winced and closed my eyes when he prodded. Something cool and damp was pressed against my face and I relaxed a bit.

Scott spoke harshly to the girl, which wasn't at all like my brother. "Besides killing for a living, I get the feeling those two men might not tell the whole truth. You understand?"

I heard one of the shooters calling from just outside the door, demanding that Scott return to his table. Scott ignored him, still talking to the girl, every word flooded with urgency. "What time is Montgomery arriving?" She must have refused to answer because Scott's weight shifted suddenly, as if he grabbed her. I heard struggling and found myself becoming anxious. Scott was losing the little bit of control that he had over the situation, and here I was, unable to even lift my head off the pillow. "Theresa, listen to me," Scott pleaded. "If they can do this to my brother here, what about those people out there? Innocent people?"

I could hear the stubbornness in her voice, the refusal to listen. "They wouldn't hurt –."

"Don't be stupid. They might not hurt you, but after they've killed Montgomery, you think they'll let any of us out alive? These don't look like the kind of men who leave witnesses. Let me try to stop this madness. What time is he coming?" he demanded impatiently. "What time?"

"Midnight!" she cried, as if the words were torn out of her.

There was another call for Scott to go out to the dining room. "Lancer! Get out here now!" This time, there was a far more dangerous edge to the demand.

Scott quickly gave orders to Theresa. "Okay, listen. You stay here. Keep him covered and warm. Keep his face cool. If he needs me, you call me back in." His hand touched my shoulder, so very briefly.

"Scott," I croaked, and struggled to open my eyes, but just the girl was standing there, with a stricken look on her face. My brother was gone.

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