Author's Note: Thanks for all the reviews. I hope you guys are in this for the long haul. There are about 70,000 words in this story. Don't worry, I'll break it up into manageable bites. I did a lot of research for this story (pre-Internet, in actual books!) about train travel and Boston and other things we'll get to later. The Pacific Hotel Express did exist. But any mistakes are my own. Call them poetic license.
Chapter 2
Homeward Bound
The Garrett Mansion, Boston
Justin Michaelson dragged himself up the stairs, returning clean towels to their proper cupboard.
The footsore footman thought wearily that it was a sad day when a man was reduced to doing maid's work. The irony of the thought was bitterly amusing. "A sad day" was an understatement.
It was small comfort that everyone was as tired as he was.
The Garrett family dinners were always wearing on the staff, for the visitors stayed overnight and breakfasted whenever they were ready the next morning. It was a lot of work getting the rooms made up and the dinner prepared, but at least the dinners were only held on special occasions, such as celebrating Mortimer and Evangeline Garretts' anniversary.
The party had gone off splendidly until the traditional nightcap, when Harlan, master of the house and patriarch of the Garrett tribe, clutched his heart, collapsed to the ground and was sick all over his precious Persian rug.
No one had gotten any sleep after that. The family sat up and worried, relieving their jitters by making hurried trips to the center of town to fetch the doctor, to wake the pharmacist and to send telegrams to absent relatives.
The servants fetched and carried for the family and the doctor until the crisis passed.
The sky was showing signs of dawn, but the Garretts were only now drifting to their separate rooms. In fact, Michaelson realized, everyone seemed to have disappeared, which was a relief.
The staff was just finishing cleaning up. Soon Michaelson would be able to disappear into bed, too. He was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open, he thought as he set the towels on a table next to the cupboard.
Then a few whispered words opened his tired eyes wide.
"… and as soon as he's dead, we'll have everything," the whisper crooned from behind the East Room door.
"Make it soon," another voice replied, also in an unidentifiable whisper.
"As soon as I can," the first whisper promised.
Michaelson was stunned. His weary mind revolved what he'd heard and could only come up with one explanation. Someone in the house was trying to murder Mr. Garrett.
The footman took a shocked step backward, and the precariously balanced towels thumped to the wooden floor. The quiet sound seemed as loud as a train wreck in the silent hall.
With a panicky glance at the East Room, Michaelson fled around the corner. But he wasn't fast enough to avoid the sharp eye that peered through a crack in the door.
The eye narrowed. The crack shut firmly, decisively.
Michaelson's heart pounded. He was a timid soul and not overly bright, but he was unconditionally loyal to Harlan Garrett. He knew he had to tell someone about what he'd heard, but who?
He hadn't been able to identify the whispered words, not even to tell whether the whisperers were male or female. The conspirators could be anyone in the house — the family members, the staff, even the doctor! He couldn't trust anyone.
Then he brightened. There was someone he could trust, someone who couldn't be involved because he was 3,000 miles away.
Not knowing Scott Lancer had already been summoned, the footman sat down to compose a letter. It never occurred to him to send a telegram. Telegrams were for rich people.
In the early morning hours, he slipped out of the house in a downpour to mail the letter. He started home, satisfied he'd done his duty. The satisfaction didn't last long, for Michaelson was a born worrier. He was sure he'd done his best for the family, but perhaps it wasn't strictly a family matter, after all.
A well-trained and loyal servant, Michaelson considered it almost sacrilegious to talk about the Garrett family outside the house. But it gradually dawned on him that if someone was trying to kill Harlan Garrett, it was a matter for the constabulary.
He dithered outside the Garrett mansion for a long moment, then turned away. He decided to catch the streetcar into town and hand his burden of worry to the constables. He headed for the main street where heavy produce and grocery wagons were clattering over the cobblestones, as the city of Boston began to come to life.
His head was bent against the wind and rain. Concentrating on keeping his balance on the slick cobblestones, Michaelson didn't pay any attention to the footsteps approaching rapidly from behind him.
Lancer Ranch
It was still early morning when Scott kissed Teresa, shook Jelly's hand (to the old wrangler's embarrassment) and mounted his horse.
There were tears in Teresa's eyes when she handed him a box of food for the trip. Scott leaned down and lifted her chin.
"Why the tears, Teresa? I'd think you'd be happy. One less mouth to feed," he said with forced cheerfulness.
"Oh, Scott!" Teresa hugged him fiercely, nearly dragging him from his horse. He responded by pulling her off the ground so he could look in her eyes directly.
"Don't worry, little sister. I'll be back before you know it," he said.
He kissed her forehead and set her gently on her feet; then he extended his hand to his brother.
"Johnny."
Johnny took it in a long, warm grip.
"Vaya con Dios, brother," the younger Lancer said.
At last, Scott turned to his father.
"Murdoch?"
The Lancer patriarch stepped forward and enfolded his son's hand in a tight, two-handed grip. He had to swallow twice before he could speak.
"You tell Harlan I said there couldn't possibly be anything wrong with his heart, because everyone knows he hasn't got one," Murdoch said gruffly. "Then he'll have to get back on his feet so he can come out here to tell me what he thinks of me."
Scott smiled faintly. "I'll tell him sir," he promised.
Murdoch squeezed Scott's hand, released it reluctantly, and stepped away from the horse.
"Take care of yourself, son."
Scott sat up in the saddle to survey his family. There were so many things he would have liked to say, but none of them needed to be said, and there was a lump in his throat that prevented him from speaking anyway. With a last eloquent look, but no further words, he pulled his horse around and rode out.
Everyone watched in silence for a while, then turned to their chores; but Murdoch kept watching until Scott disappeared from sight.
He finally went inside lost in thought. He remembered his first meeting with Scott, so formal and aloof, and with Johnny, so wild and angry. It was hard to deal with the two of them, with their different points of view. And yet … Murdoch had often thought that his bargain — an equal partnership for their help on the ranch — would never have worked if his sons hadn't coincidentally arrived at the same time. There was so much emotional barbed wire separating Murdoch and his boys that he might never have broken through. But since neither had known of the other's existence, they had started from scratch. The respect they had developed for each other's differences had allowed them to accept Murdoch, too.
He had often thought that without both sons, he'd have had neither.
That thought crystallized the decision Murdoch had been putting off all night, maybe putting off too long, he discovered when he looked at the time. Scott had been gone for hours.
Murdoch strode into the kitchen shouting for Teresa and Jelly who came running. His terse instructions brought sparkle to their eyes for the first time that day. They leaped to do his bidding.
Murdoch took most of the remaining emergency fund out of his safe and decided he had everything he needed accept his second son, who naturally was nowhere to be found.
Murdoch bellowed through the house and the outbuildings and finally located Johnny cleaning the stables with savage intensity.
"Johnny! What are you doing there?" Murdoch shouted.
"Murdoch! What does it look like I'm doing?" Johnny replied in exasperation, wiping the sweat from his face.
"You can't catch a train smelling like a manure pile!" Murdoch said in good humor.
Johnny froze. "What'd you say?"
"You heard me. Get changed. You've got a train to catch."
"Murdoch, are you sure? What about the ranch?"
"I handled it before you were born. I can handle it now." He added more seriously. "I've never been more sure of anything, Johnny. I think Scott needs someone with him and I can't go, so you're elected. Now, jump!"
Johnny jumped.
In under thirty minutes he was bathed, changed and on his sturdy palomino. He made hasty farewells, but Murdoch's voice stopped him as he turned to go.
"Bring him back, Johnny."
Johnny flashed his father a smile. "Even if I have to drag him," he promised.
He kicked Barranca into a ground-eating gallop.
The palomino hit town at a dead run just as the eastbound passenger train blew the "all aboard" signal. With a fleeting memory of Adam's "heroic" ride Johnny yanked loose his saddlebags and dashed for the station as the whistle sounded to clear the tracks. Slowly, ponderously, the train began to move, puffing like an old man climbing a flight of stairs.
Saddlebags over his shoulder, one hand on his hat, Johnny vaulted the station gate. He tore through the departing crowd. Women yanked their children from his path. Men clutched at their sweethearts or their baggage.
On the track, the train was gathering speed, but Johnny was already running flat out. With a convulsive effort, he caught the rail at the end of the last passenger car. The conductor hauled him aboard.
Johnny bent over, clutching his knees, hauling in lungfuls of welcome air. Face still red from the effort, he straightened.
"Whew!" he told the conductor eloquently.
"I take it you didn't have time to purchase a ticket at the window, sir," the conductor said, successfully stifling a smile.
"No," Johnny agreed. "No, I didn't. I was running just a little late," he admitted, pulling a wad of bills from his pocket. "Can I buy one clear through to Boston?"
The conductor raised his eyebrows just a hair.
"Yes sir," he said politely. "You'll have to transfer trains a couple of times, but I can give you a ticket for the entire trip. First class?"
For the week-long, cross country journey, first class was the only remotely comfortable way to travel in 1872. But Johnny checked first to see what arrangements Scott had made.
"Yes, we have another gentleman aboard who is going to Boston. He's in the lounge at the moment, I believe."
"Then I'll have company, won't I," Johnny said blandly, as he shelled out the money for a first class ticket.
Scott was absently watching the scenery speed past the window when a shadow fell across him.
"Is this seat taken?" a familiar voice asked.
Without waiting for an answer, Johnny plunked himself down in the empty seat facing his brother. He slouched there, peering out from under his dusty hat, grinning infectiously. As usual, Scott couldn't help but catch the infection.
"What are you doing here?"
"Me? Oh, I'm just following orders, brother," Johnny replied vaguely, brushing off his hat and his jacket.
Scott knew only one person gave his brother orders.
"But why?" the elder brother asked.
"Well … maybe Murdoch thought you need some company, or maybe we thought you needed protection from the wiles of those wicked Yankee traders…" Johnny paused and grinned widely. "… Or maybe I just wanted to see Boston."
Scott shook his head in amusement.
"Don't you ever give a straight answer to a straight question?"
Johnny slid his hat over his eyes and propped his feet on the seat next to Scott.
"Maybe," he answered.
Scott snorted. "The old home town is never going to be the same."
Pacific Hotel Express, eastbound
Their good fortune at catching the Pacific Hotel Express allowed the Lancers to eat at their leisure, instead of grabbing a quick bite at the overcrowded whistle stops along the way, as passengers — first class included — had to do on most trains. And the food in the restaurant car was excellent. As good as some of the best hotels back East, according to Scott. Johnny didn't argue with his mouth full.
They spent their days in the lounge reading, talking or playing two-handed poker. Johnny found that Teresa packed a book of stories in his saddlebag. He determinedly plowed his way through the high-flown language of some of the authors. Occasionally he had to turn to his brother, who was immersed in The Odyssey, for help with an unfamiliar word or phrase that he couldn't puzzle out from the context. That Poe fellow was particularly aggravating since he kept throwing around French phrases. The punch line of one story was in French, which greatly annoyed the half-Mexican rancher.
Besides translating, Scott offered a few lessons in literary figures of speech. Johnny listened as intently as if his life depended on it. When he took on a chore, he didn't do it halfway. Scott kept the instruction simple, but the Harvard-educated Lancer didn't condescend to his unlettered brother. He'd been on the opposite side too often in lessons about cattle handling and western ways.
The Lancers kept to themselves in the first class compartment. Their fellow passengers were excursioners from Philadelphia on their way back home. They thought the West was pretty quaint and the brothers didn't care to be objects of their curiosity.
They did get into some lively conversations and one good poker game in the second-class compartment. But the acquaintances were short because most of the "real Westerners" were only traveling short distances between one small town and another along the Pacific route.
Johnny, who'd never traveled first class before, enjoyed the novelty of sleeping in a bed while continuing to travel at a faster clip than a horse could do. The Pullman berths were cramped and lacked privacy, but the two vaqueros had slept in much worse conditions on the trail. Despite the lurching and swaying train, Johnny slept soundly each night.
Scott didn't sleep so well, but it had nothing to do with the accommodations.
His brother's cheerful company kept the worries and fears at bay during the day, but they came back to haunt him each night. He tossed and turned for hours before falling asleep.
Johnny could see Scott was fretting, but couldn't think of anything to do but try to take Scott's mind off Harlan. The farther they traveled, the more tense and quiet Scott became.
Finally Johnny persuaded him to wire his cousin Caroline for news.
##
Johnny strolled on the station platform, stretching his legs while Scott stood in line to send the telegram. The station was only a whistle stop. The train wouldn't have paused at all if it hadn't been waved to a siding to let the westbound pass.
Johnny watched with interest as the station manager hauled out a heavy mailbag. He hung it up on a hook and swung the long arm out over the track as the ground began to rumble with the approach of the westbound. The younger Lancer stepped back to watch, and it was a trick worth watching.
The train roared through the station. Its whistle shrieked a warning and the wind of its passing sent dust swirling in a choking cloud. An iron hook projecting from the open door of the baggage car snatched the mailbag from its perch, which vibrated like a tuning fork. The mailbag disappeared into the baggage car as slick as a conjuror's trick.
Then the westbound train was gone, fading down the track like a memory, carrying Justin Michaelson's letter to Morro Coyo.
##
The eastbound train whistled for its straying passengers. Johnny swung aboard but paused on the platform waiting for Scott. The train was beginning to crawl forward when Scott dashed from the telegraph office. Johnny pulled him onto the car.
Scott paced in the parlor car more nervous than ever. He bounded off the train at each stop to check for an answer; but it was two hours and several stops before the reply came.
UNCLE HARLAN MUCH IMPROVED KNOWING YOURE COMING STOP JERRY AND I WILL MEET YOU AT THE STATION STOP LOVE CAROLINE STOP
Johnny thumped his brother on the back.
"Told you Harlan was too tough to die!" Johnny crowed.
Scott sat down and relaxed, really relaxed, for the first time since he'd received the original telegram. In fact, he relaxed so much he fell asleep.
Johnny grinned fondly, tucked the telegram into Scott's pocket and began another wrestling match with his book.
##
The next morning, a few miles outside of Boston, Johnny swung his stocking feet from the upper berth and nearly thunked his brother in the head. Scott, who was bending over his packing, ducked and caught Johnny by the toes.
"Watch what you're kicking," Scott warned and shoved upward on the soles of Johnny's feet.
The younger Lancer rocked backward, disappearing behind the berth curtains, then reappearing on the rebound. He deliberately brought his feet down to playfully graze both the sides of Scott's head. Scott tilted his head back to eye his brother with terrible sternness.
Johnny peered down with his most kittenish smile.
"That was fun. Do it again," he requested.
Quickly, Scott slapped Johnny's feet sideways, so his brother pivoted in the berth and tumbled face down into his pillows.
Scott stood up straight to watch Johnny flounder clear of the tangle of bedclothes and curtains. A feat that was made more difficult when the train began weaving through a series of curves.
Using his elbow to prop up his head, Johnny looked Scott straight in the eye.
"You know, at this rate I'm never gonna to get my boots on," he said.
Scott bowed deeply, gesturing that the corridor was all Johnny's. With a laugh, the dark-haired Lancer bounced into the aisle and reached into the upper berth to retrieve his boots.
He tried to balance on one foot to pull on his boot, but a lurch of the train toppled him into the lower berth. He sat up and gave Scott a comical look.
It made Scott laugh, which gladdened Johnny's heart.
"I don't think you can break those broncs, boy," Scott drawled. "Mebbe ya oughta plug 'em 'n put 'em outta their miz'ry."
Johnny smiled in appreciation of the creditable imitation of one of the Lancer hands.
"I'll tell you, son. The pair of boots ain't been born that I can't break," Johnny vowed from his seat in the lower berth.
With a grand flourish, Johnny drew on one boot and then … the other!
He looked triumphantly at Scott, who applauded. Johnny held out his hand.
"You know what Murdoch says, brother. When you take a fall …"
"… You've got to get right back up and try again," Scott finished as he hauled Johnny to his feet.
The conductor interrupted their horseplay.
"Excuse me, sirs. The engineer just got word that there's been an accident on another line up ahead, so we won't be sidetracked in Albany after all."
"Then we'll be in Boston ahead of schedule?" Scott asked.
"Yes sir. Nearly two hours," the conductor said, as he passed by to spread the news.
"Looks like we'll have to wait awhile before your cousin comes to fetch us," Johnny commented, as he reached for his gun belt.
"I suppose we can find some way to keep ourselves amused," Scott returned. "You won't need that, you know," he said gently, nodding at the gun.
Johnny looked as startled as if Scott had said he didn't need his pants. A professional gunfighter from age 15, he had been carrying guns every day since he was 12. Out West, a man even wore a gun to church, though it hung on a peg in the cloakroom during the service. His gun was a part of him.
Scott waited patiently, understanding Johnny's hesitation.
"Boston's a law abiding town, Johnny. You won't need them. They'll only lead to trouble. Constables usually meet the eastbound trains to remind westerners that Boston is a civilized city. You don't want to get thrown in jail first thing, do you?"
Johnny saw his brother was dressed in his best suit, with no gun belt. Scott's guns were visible in the open valise.
Tense as a nervous cat, Johnny fingered the well-worn pearl handles of his Colt revolver.
"You're asking a lot, Scott."
"Not a lot," Scott replied, holding out the open valise in invitation. "I'm just asking you to trust me."
There was only one reply Johnny could make to that request. He dropped the gun belt inside and watched Scott strap it up.
"It's your range, brother. I'll ride by your rules. But I have to tell you, I feel half naked. Come on, let's go raid that restaurant car one last time. I'm starved," he said, clapping his arm around Scott's shoulders.