Thanks to everyone who left comments. There are a lot of guests whom I can't thank individually, but I appreciate getting feedback and knowing people are still interested in my stories. Although I don't write Lancer fanfiction any more, I do have a few 'old' stories I'll be adding to this site.

Chapter 5 - Epilogue

Thus stand I on the brink of this new year,
Darkness upon me—not the work of fear.
Powerless I know to check the river's sweep,
Powerful alone my own soul's truth to keep.
~ Frederika Richardson Macdonald

The two Lancer men sat with Teresa at the kitchen table, eyeing each other warily. Murdoch huddled over his cooling cup of coffee like a dog protecting a juicy bone. Scott was pushing the remains of his breakfast around his plate with a fork, avoiding his father's gaze.

Teresa looked slowly from the older man to the young blond one sitting across from her, noting how handsome his mouth was, even when set in a stubborn line. She took a breath and carefully pointed out, "You know that putting this off isn't going to make it any easier."

Scott shifted his gaze from his curdling eggs to his father, then turning to Teresa, asked sharply, "You think that any part of this has been easy?" He stood quickly, his chair legs noisily scraping along the tile floor. With palms flat on the tabletop, he leaned over the clutter of breakfast dishes, and challenged his father. "Has it been easy for you, Father? Don't you think that it's time you took some responsibility and handled this situation? He's your son."

Murdoch slowly raised his eyes to angrily meet the blue ones of his oldest son. "Don't you come in here and judge my actions, young man." He stood up to meet Scott. "If you think for one minute that you're the only one who has suffered here this past week, then you––."

"Hell's afire! You two quarreling again?" Jelly strode in and placed himself between the two Lancer men. "Hasn't there been enough suffering here? Ain't you got no respect?" Placing a hand on each of the men's shoulders, the old wrangler said in a quieter voice, "How about you just shake and make up? This is no time for the family to be divided like this. You're like a couple of bulls facing off at the watering hole in the middle of the dry season."

Scott looked sheepish and backed away from the table, arms crossing his chest. Murdoch put out his large hand, offering it with a sorry expression on his weary face. "I don't know what's got into me these past few days. I'm not inclined to lash out in times of trouble. Must be getting old."

"Sorry, I was out of line, sir," Scott said as he accepted his father's handshake. "Temper got the better of me. Must be the strain."

Jelly made a satisfied noise. "See there? We've all been a bit out of sorts since, well since… poor Johnny. . ." His words came to a halting stop as he glanced up at the ceiling, then took out a large handkerchief and mopped his eyes.

Teresa looked relieved that the two men had regained control of their runaway emotions. "Good. That's settled. No more quarrels, all right? We're all disappointed that Johnny couldn't be here for Christmas. But you did the right thing and brought him home." She squared her shoulders and stood between the two Lancer men, a head shorter than either of them. "So who is going to do it?"

They both hesitated for a minute. It wasn't that they didn't know what needed to be done– it just hurt so much to see Johnny like that. It was Scott who slumped his shoulders and agreed, "I will, then." He took a breath as if accepting a challenge and waved off Murdoch as he opened his mouth to speak. "No, I said I would take care of this and so I will."

As Scott moved over to the sink and filled a bucket with warm water from a large kettle on the stove, Teresa went to assist him. She gathered up a sponge, some towels and soap, and placed them in an empty bucket. When she started to follow him from the kitchen, Scott brushed her off, not unkindly. He said in a gentle voice, "Teresa, this is no job for a young lady. I can do it alone. I think I owe this much to my brother."

"Scott," Teresa said in a hushed voice. "I could help if you like. I helped wash the body of my father when we prepared him for his casket. . ."

Placing a hand gently on the young woman's shoulder, Scott smiled a little and shook his head. "No, I'm his brother. I'll do it. Taking care of him is an honor, really. He saved my neck plenty of times."

She took a step back, acknowledging his right and his need to do the task at hand.

Scott hesitated at the door as Murdoch met him, reaching out to touch his arm. "Scott, son, you know I'm not shirking––."

"No, Murdoch. I can handle this alone. I know that if it weren't for you, Johnny never would have made it this far. It's due to you that he found a place here at Lancer to really call home. He told me that more than once, you know. You made all the difference."

Murdoch seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment. He held onto his son's sleeve, then released it, saying huskily, "I can still come up with you."

"No. I want to do this," Scott said, nodding in assurance. With a bucket in each hand, he passed by the entryway to the great room. The morning was dull and all of the curtains were still drawn from the previous night. The fireplace was cold and no lamp had been lit. In the dim light he could make out branches of holly, colored paper chains and large swags of greenery adorning the room. The spruce tree, covered in glass balls, candied treats and other ornaments was only a dark mass, hovering in the corner, a forlorn reminder of a Christmas that had been no cause for celebration.

As Scott hesitated, looking sadly at the unopened gifts sitting around the tree, Jelly passed him and drew the curtains back with a flourish. "Time we got a little bit of light into this place, don't you think?"

Scott just nodded at the wrangler and made his way upstairs to the room at the end of the hall. The door to Johnny's room was closed. He braced himself and then entered.

~ • ~

Placing the bucket of water and the one containing the washing cloths on the floor near the door, Scott slowly approached the bed. He stepped forward quietly, his eyes on the still figure that lay shrouded in a sheet with only the head exposed. Standing with his knees barely touching the bed, Scott just looked down at his brother.

Johnny's hair was pushed back from his pale forehead, the furrow from Joey's first bullet evident along the hairline. Although the bleeding had stopped long ago, there had been considerable bruising down the entire right side of his face. Johnny's eyelashes were dark against colorless, drawn cheeks, the stubble shadowing his slack jaw giving his face a gray look.

Scott could see the edge of the bandage that wrapped around Johnny's chest and shoulder, just above the edge of the white sheet. He pictured their own doctor re-bandaging the wounds, mumbling under his breath as he spoke placating remarks to the waiting family; false words that had held no hope.

Scott was suddenly overcome with emotion, his eyes shutting to keep the tears at bay, his hand rushing to his mouth to stifle the sound of grief. How could a simple stop for a meal at a wayside cantina have wrought such terrible consequences?

Shaking off his feelings of regret and anger, the blond man ran his fingers through his hair and heaved a great sigh. He had to get on with the job he'd come up here to do, and he would do it without complaint. As he turned to retrieve the bucket of water, a whisper of a voice spoke to him from the bed.

"Scott? What's the matter?"

In an instant Scott was back at the side of the bed, leaning over his prone brother.

"Johnny! Johnny, I didn't know you were awake," he replied in a hushed voice. "Nothing's the matter. I just came up to see how you are, and if you're in a better mood than you were earlier."

Johnny blinked several times, then stared up at Scott as if he couldn't recall what he was talking about. His slightly puzzled look changed to one of realization, his features hardening. "I'm fine, I guess," he said offhandedly. He coughed once and seemed to be gathering his strength. "As fine as can be expected," Johnny continued more loudly, "considering the way you hauled me all the way back here along what had to be the rockiest road in the county, then had that sawbones mess around with me again. I'm bound up tighter than a turkey, what's going on? You got something in your eye?"

"What? No. Maybe some of the porridge you threw at me early this morning."

"I threw porridge at you? Oh yeah. I wasn't really awake. Well, what're you giving me that pap for anyhow?" Johnny eyed the washing-up items that his brother was holding, seeing them for the first time. "What's that stuff for?"

"I have to wash you, Johnny."

"No you don't. How about some real grub?"

There was an obstinate look about his brother's mouth that Scott didn't like, but at least there was some color coming back into his cheeks. "I'm afraid I do," Scott said as he raised a hand to stop any further speech from the invalid. "Now, before you cause another ruckus, can you let me speak?"

Johnny sighed and looked away peevishly. Scott took that as a sign of acquiescence and continued. "The doc didn't want to bother you by cleaning you up properly, after all you've been through, but the truth is, brother. . . you reek." When Johnny opened his mouth to protest further, Scott spoke over him. "No wash-up, no food," he warned firmly.

Johnny looked away for a moment, then replied decisively, "No porridge. Tastes like cement."

Scott tried not to smile at the bargaining. He was just glad that Johnny had enough life in him to quarrel, much less want to eat something. "It's our forefathers' national dish. We should have an appreciation for it running through our veins."

"More like tequila and enchiladas." He hesitated, then added, "Sorry I messed things up this morning. I didn't really mean to toss that bowl of porridge all over you." He moved his left arm from under the sheet and held it out, examining it, flexing his muscles. "I feel sorta clumsy, but at least it works. Better than this one," he added, peering down at his right arm, hidden under the bedclothes. Johnny pulled back the sheet to expose his right side.

His torso was swaddled in linen bandages and a sling held his right arm close to his body. It was bent at the elbow so his forearm rested across his belly, with only his hand exposed. Johnny wiggled his fingers and a look of relief came over his face. He reached over with his left hand and experimentally touched his ribs, but found a tender spot under his arm and grimaced. "I seem to remember someone cutting the slug out." He looked sharply up at Scott. "My arm, it's okay, isn't it?"

Scott shook his head. "I don't know. It may take time to heal. Doc said the bullet tumbled around a bit in there. Johnny. You're just lucky to be alive."

"Yeah I heard some talk about me having next to no chance." He looked up at Scott and asked, "I guess I ruined some folks' Christmas, huh?"

"I think we both did, brother, but that's not what's important. You're home now and it looks like you're doing a lot better than expected, so. . . ."

Johnny was concerned about the fate of the guns-for-hire. "We sure ruined Joey's Christmas. You said you killed him, didn't you? What about Lockley?"

"In custody," was Scott's terse reply. No matter how necessary it might have been, the firing upon another man was not something he felt good about. "Lockley's been taken to the county jail to await trial."

Johnny looked around his room, taking in his surroundings as if getting his bearings. "What day is it? I seem to have lost track."

Scott had to think for a second before replying, "It's January first." Johnny looked surprised so Scott explained the events that had followed the shooting of the two gunmen, back at the cantina. "We got you to Montgomery's home, the doctor took care of your wounds and I sent one of his cowhands to tell Murdoch what had happened. You were in pretty bad shape when he arrived, along with Isidro. Once he got there, though, you seemed to get better and in no time you were complaining and wanted to be home. The doc sort of let us take you after a few days. We got here last night after making a two-hour trip in seven hours. The wagon we borrowed was lined with straw and a feather mattress, but it was still difficult to keep you from hurting. I regretted it after only one hour, to tell you the truth. But early this morning you woke up and obviously felt a whole lot better because you hit out at the bowl of porridge and . . .well, that brings us up to now."

Johnny looked nonplused, and admitted, "I don't remember any of that. Just waking up feeling lousy and being sort of mad that you were trying to feed me that stuff. Whatever happened to the meal we ordered at the cantina?"

"I don't think we were ever served. Too bad, because I really wanted to taste some of that wine. Do you recall being taken care of in Montgomery's home?"

Johnny searched his memory and asked tentatively, "Were there a whole lot of furry faces on the walls or was I a bit out of my head?"

Scott laughed aloud. "Montgomery offered to put us up, even if we ruined his family's Christmas. He knew he owed us his life and his whole family was very accommodating. The house was a great big place, close to town, overstuffed with furniture and decorations of every kind, including a huge collection of taxidermied animals. Apparently, Montgomery's wife is an avid hunter. Mounted deer, elk, and small stuffed creatures sitting on every surface." He shuddered theatrically.

"Oh, so I wasn't dreamin'." Johnny looked relieved. "I thought I'd died and gone to some Hell inhabited by wolverines and moose and they were gonna get me with their sharp little teeth. Get me up now, will you?" He looked up at Scott, who had gone still at his words. "What did I say?"

"Nothing." The tall blond gave a sudden grin. "I don't think that moose have sharp little teeth. You sure you want me to sit you up? Are you strong enough for this? I still need to get you washed, Johnny."

"Sure, maybe roll me over so I can put my feet on the floor and I'll be all right."

Scott slowly eased his brother into a sitting position, making sure that Johnny was able to stay upright before removing his arm from about his shoulders. A couple of suppressed groans came from the wounded man, and his breath was a little labored, but he seemed intent on sitting up. With eyes closed and lips compressed, Johnny remained seated on the edge of his bed, slightly bent over, coping with his pain.

Scott waited to see if raising his brother had been such a bright thing to do, and eventually Johnny's eyes opened. He took a deep breath and looked up at Scott. "I've got to ask you something. Did I die back there in that cantina, do you think?"

Sitting down on the bed next to his brother, Scott took the time to consider his reply carefully. Should he make his words sugarcoated, tell Johnny that he was never really in danger of dying? Or tell him the truth – that all hope had gone? In the end, there really was no choice. Johnny knew the truth and just wanted to hear it from his brother. "I thought you were almost gone by the time the doctor arrived," Scott said in a low voice. "You weren't fighting it, Johnny. You told me you never asked God to give you anything." Struggling to retain his composure, Scott added, "Well, I sure as Hell asked for something. I begged."

Johnny looked down at his right hand, clenching it into a fist. "I can feel it fine now. Maybe I need the pain to remind me I'm alive, 'cause back there, when I couldn't feel anything, it was. . . like I had no body. Like I had nobody." He met Scott's eyes and smiled a little. "I'm sure glad you asked. How about we get me cleaned up all pretty and you ask Murdoch and Teresa to come and visit for a spell?"

"And maybe we'll bring up some of those Christmas gifts that are still under the tree."

Grinning, Johnny said, "Happy new year, Scott."

"Happy new year, Johnny."

~ • ~ the end ~ • ~

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