Chapter 8: There's No Place Like Home
The Garrett mansion, Boston
Scott hovered solicitously at his grandfather's elbow as the Lancers and Harlan walked slowly down the staircase.
The descent was a long process with Harlan pausing to rest every other step. He complained that he'd had to promise this to Fraser before the doctor would give him permission to get up, but he was secretly glad he had that excuse. His heart pounded with each step and his breath came in short gasps.
Harlan was frightened to find himself so weak; but the distress that Scott couldn't hide pained the old man even more. Finally Harlan insisted that Scott go ahead to greet their guests who were gathered in the parlor.
"Your brother will look after me," he asserted.
Recognizing Harlan's motives, Johnny backed Garrett up; but Scott was too worried to be reasonable.
When it looked as if he would refuse outright, Harlan snapped in stern tones, "Mind your manners, boy. Don't argue with your grandfather."
He sounded so much like the old, energetic Harlan that Scott had to smile and give in. But as he left, he gave Johnny a pleading look. The dark-haired Lancer son nodded in reassurance.
"Honestly," Harlan moaned, loud enough for his departing grandson to hear. "You'd think I was climbing Mt. Everest."
But he was glad Scott couldn't see that his hand on the banister was trembling with weakness. He hoped Johnny's sharp eyes wouldn't see it either.
"Poor Scotty," he said, to distract Johnny's attention. "It hurts me to see him so upset."
"I think it's my fault," Johnny said with regret.
Harlan looked at him in surprise. It was the last thing he expected to hear the Lancer boy say.
"I keep putting my foot in it, Harlan," Johnny explained. "I keep saying things, asking questions, that bring back bad memories."
Harlan dismissed the idea with a wave of his free hand.
"Memories aren't your fault, Johnny. Good or bad, memories are a part of coming home," he said.
A wave of dizziness hit him and he leaned heavily on the banister. He couldn't hear Johnny's voice over the pounding in his ears, but he felt the ex-gunfighter's gentle hands coaxing him to a seat on the stairs.
When his heart eased its frenzied beating, he looked at Johnny's worried face and continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "If Scotty seems to overreact to your questions, it's only because he's upset about my imminent death."
For all the emotion he showed, Harlan might as well have been talking about balancing his account books. He noticed Johnny's surprised expression, smiled gently and patted the young man's knee.
"You're still young. You don't understand. I've been ready for death since my poor Emily passed away; but I've fought it viciously, first for the sake of Katherine, then for Scotty. Now he is a grown man with a life of his own, however hard that was for me to accept. Now I can make my peace and go with a clear conscience. My only regret would have been if my selfish actions of the past had pushed Scotty away from me."
"It would have had to be some push," Johnny said. "Scott is awfully loyal."
"A Lancer trait, I've noticed," Harlan replied, with an approving look that caught Johnny off guard. "I've had time to think since I returned from California," Harlan continued in a faintly apologetic tone. "I realized that I didn't have to have Scotty with me. As long as I have his love, it doesn't matter how far away he is." He paused and then went on in a quiet voice. "And to think I almost threw away his regard, just to bring him back to Boston."
He stared at the foot of the stairs, but he didn't see them.
Johnny softly broke the silence.
"Harlan, you know how I grew up — wild, hard and alone. Sometimes when Scott talks about his childhood, I envy him. Not for the big house, the money or the fancy schools. I envy him for having you."
Harlan looked at the sincerity in Johnny's honest face and was suddenly glad, as he'd never been before, that his daughter had met Murdoch Lancer.
"Johnny, I want you to tell Murdoch something for me. Tell him, I'm glad Scotty won't be alone when I'm gone. I'm glad he has you and Murdoch to care for him."
"I'll tell him," Johnny promised.
He sealed the deal with a warm handshake, which he then used to pull Harlan to his feet. With Johnny supporting the old man around the waist, the pair finished off the staircase in what amounted to a rush and made for the nearest chairs.
When Johnny ushered Harlan to his overstuffed chair and placed a hassock under his feet, Scott was busy handing around sherry and canapés. It was the footman's usual job, but Harlan hadn't hired anyone to take the place of the deceased Michaelson. Scott had claimed the host's prerogative of serving his guests and chased a harried Hodges back to his usual chores.
Before Scott could disengage himself and join his grandfather and brother, Caroline swept over, took Johnny by the arm as if he was an old friend, and began making introductions.
If she was somewhat over effusive, at least she was more polite than her husband. He clutched a glass of sherry and a canapé to avoid shaking hands and only grunted in reply to Johnny's greeting. Gerald hardly even looked at the younger Lancer. Instead, he kept his sour gaze fixed on Scott's activities.
Johnny hardly had time to shrug, before Caroline dragged him to the first couple. Forty-year-old Mort Garrett had the lined face and gray-streaked hair you might expect from an underpaid teacher with four children to provide for. His small, dark-haired wife was careworn but still pretty. She looked fragile, but that was deceptive. When she met Johnny's eyes, he saw a serene strength that laughed at obstacles.
It was obvious neither of them knew what to make of Johnny, who hardly seemed to match his fearsome reputation. But they were both too polite to say so. They greeted him pleasantly, which was more than the next Garret did.
A gawky scarecrow of a man about Murdoch's age examined Johnny as if he were a mildly interesting rodent, not as revolting as a sewer rat, perhaps, but not up to the standard of a household pet, either.
Frederick shook hands with Johnny firmly and muttered a conventional greeting, but only because it was the proper thing to do.
The woman next to him was even worse. Though Winifred was of a different generation of Garretts, she was near to Frederick in age. Her thin features matched his, but the beaky Garrett nose looked out of place on her smaller face. It and the fierce look in her eyes made her look like a hunting hawk, Johnny thought. He considered her long, stringy neck. Or maybe a buzzard was more appropriate.
She didn't say a word to the Westerner. She touched his hand with the tips of her fingers, then snapped her hand away.
The dark-haired young woman next to her smiled weakly and squeezed Johnny's hand with reassurance.
While Caroline was trying to make the next man, her grandfather Marcus, understand who Johnny was, the younger Lancer stole the opportunity to talk to Mary.
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Schoenwald," he said.
Fred must have heard, because he threw a cold glare at the young pair. Mary returned an equally frigid glance, then returned much a warmer regard to Johnny.
"You'd better just call me Mary. Everyone here politely ignores the fact that I'm no longer a Garrett," she said.
Seeing she smarted under the weight of unspoken criticism, the independent-minded Lancer asked why she came to the dinners at all.
Her frozen features thawed.
"Because of the boys. They love their grandfather and I have to admit he loves them, too."
"He looks too cold to care much," Johnny said frankly, but too softly for anyone else's ears.
"The problem is, he cares too much," Mary contradicted, as if she had given the matter a lot of thought. "He's wonderful with the boys. I even thought he was getting to like me, before I remarried. The trouble is, he's so honest himself. My marriage seems to him to be disloyal to Richard."
"He doesn't seem to like me much, either," Johnny commented.
"He hasn't made his mind up about you, yet. He's always slow to judge. Once he decides, though, it's almost impossible to get him to change his mind."
She sighed for her own difficult position. Johnny patted her shoulder and would have offered words of comfort, but Marcus Garrett chose that moment to suddenly recognize Johnny's presence.
He had been delaying Caroline with a monologue of complaints and criticisms. He interrupted himself to demand, "Who's this?"
"Who are you?" it became, when he turned to Johnny directly. "You don't look like a Garrett."
"I'm not," Johnny said shortly.
"Then what are you doing here?" Marcus was outraged that a stranger had infiltrated the sanctity of a Garrett family gathering.
The son of Harlan's oldest brother, he was two year's younger than Scott's grandfather, but looked much older. His hair and eyes were wild. Despite Caroline's attempts to calm him down, he began a rambling tirade about the greatness of the distinguished Garrett family and the perfidy of the lower orders who tried to weasel their way into Garrett good graces and steal the family fortunes.
Mary flushed, but Marcus' tirade didn't seem to be aimed at her, or anyone in particular.
Johnny found the idea of Garrets being next to godliness rather amusing, and listened politely to the hoarse voice. But the rest of the people in the room, found the repetitive verbal assault either embarrassing or, since it was so familiar, boring.
"Marcus!" Harlan didn't have to raise his voice, because all conversation had ceased. It still held a snap of command that stopped Marcus in mid-word. The old man turned vague, surprised eyes in the patriarch's direction.
"Johnny is my grandson's brother," Harlan explained firmly. "You might say he's a Garrett-in-law."
"Why didn't someone say so?" Marcus complained, as if he would have allowed anyone to get a word in edgewise. Caroline sighed with fond exasperation.
"I knew he didn't look like a Garrett," Harlan's nephew muttered to himself. Then he appeared to lose interest and sank into silent contemplation, for which they were all grateful.
Mary met Johnny's eyes, then raised hers toward heaven. Johnny grimaced back, as Caroline tugged him over to the next group, which was frankly hostile.
The Desmonds chatted together, pointedly ignoring Johnny. However, they didn't care to snub Caroline also, so they were forced to listen to her introductions. Their faces expressed impatient politeness as they heard her out. Their gazes had turned thoroughly venomous by the time they transferred to Johnny. In unison, the sour-faced trio, Garrett, Arthur and Maybell Desmond, looked Johnny up and down.
Arthur Desmond had a round face, with a pug nose and eyes set too close together. Maybell Garrett Desmond had a grim, lantern jaw and the Garrett nose. Her son combined his father's round face and tiny eyes with his mother's prominent nose. All three looked equally unattractive with their well-practiced sneers in place.
Johnny returned their unfriendly stares with a broad, amiable grin. He greeted the parents politely, then slapped Gary on the shoulder, which he hoped was still sore from his armlock. Gary winced.
Johnny apologized profusely, loud enough to carry to everyone in the room.
"Say, you're not still sore from that little scuffle this afternoon, are you? Why I'd think an experienced saloon brawler like yourself could throw off the effects of a little scrap like that in no time."
Gary gaped in fury. His mother rounded on him.
"Garrett! What is this awful person talking about? Have you been fighting again? Is that where you got that bruise on your jaw? You told me you slipped in the bathtub!"
She appealed to her husband, who merely agreed with her as usual. Gary and Caroline tried to pacify her, but Maybell scolded on.
Johnny casually scanned the room as he drifted away from the argument.
He saw with satisfaction that Scott and Harlan, who had been told the whole story, were fighting to hide their grins. Harlan was slightly more successful.
Marcus looked around in befuddlement, wondering where all the noise was coming from, while Winifred watched the quarrel with eager disapproval.
Gerald, Fred and Mary had started a loud conversation about breeds of dogs to cover their embarrassment as well as the sound of dissension.
But darned if Cousin Fred isn't trying to hide a smile, too," Johnny thought, as he turned to the only adult he hadn't met yet.
Annabell Garrett ignored her sister's voice with the ease of long practice. She smiled warmly at Johnny, greeting him with both hands held out affectionately.
"Johnny! It's so good to finally meet you. I feel I already know you from Scott's letters."
"It's nice to see a friendly face," Johnny said ruefully.
"Don't mind Maybell," Annabell said with a winsome smile that belonged to a girl decades younger than her white hair implied. "She's never happy unless she's tearing up someone, and you happen to be handy. So, are you enjoying your trip to Boston?"
Johnny didn't know what to answer. He involuntarily looked toward Scott, who was hovering around his grandfather. Scott was doing a great impersonation of a man having a good time, but the muscle twitches at the hinge of his jaw gave his true feelings away to those who knew him well, which included Johnny and Annabell.
She patted Johnny's hand gently.
"I'm sorry. I should have considered the unhappy circumstances. It's sad about Harlan, of course. He was taken ill so suddenly. But to my mind, it's even sadder seeing Scott like this again."
Johnny regarded her with surprise. Before he could ask what she meant by "again," Caroline swept him away to the final stop on his tour of the Family Garrett.
It may have been kindness that led Caroline to leave the Garrett children for last. But since she didn't know Johnny's affinity for kids, it was more likely she just wanted to get him as far from the rest of the family as possible. Not a bad idea, as far as Johnny was concerned. Though exactly who Caroline was trying to protect was up for debate.
The six Garrett kids were clustered together on hassocks and chairs near the unlit fireplace.
Lively, unashamed curiosity had kept their eyes on Johnny throughout his circuit of the room. What scandalized the parents, thrilled the children.
As Johnny and Caroline approached, the four boys, who ranged from eight to thirteen, scrambled to their feet, agog at meeting someone from the wild west. They shook hands eagerly, vying unobtrusively over who got to go first. They settled their squabble amiably by giving precedence to the oldest; so Johnny met Mort's son Will, then Mary's two boys Jim and Hal, and finally Mort's youngest son, Ted, who was disgusted at being last, since his birthday was only two weeks after Hal's.
Etiquette said that Johnny should have greeted the girls first, but until he got the tide of boys settled, he couldn't even reach Laura and Lisa. The sisters remained demurely seated, tough it took a yank on Lisa's sleeve to keep the energetic six-year-old from joining her brothers.
Laura was a fine-featured self-possessed young lady of fifteen, whose bright eyes exhibited a lively curiosity about the world around her. When Johnny stooped to kiss her hand as if she was a dowager empress, he made a friend for life. But when he did the same for Lisa, the wide-eyed, round-faced child turned suddenly shy and fled behind her sister's skirts, where she could peek out like a curious squirrel.
"Are you really a cowboy?" Hal asked breathlessly.
"And a gunfighter?" Ted chimed in.
Johnny laughed at their eagerness.
"Well, cowboy is a Texas term. In California and Mexico, we say vaquero; but, yes, I'm a cattle rancher by trade. The gunfighting, well, that was in a past that I'm not awful proud of."
"It sounds terribly dangerous," Laura said. "You must be an expert marksman."
"How many notches do you have on your gun?" Jim asked.
The boys waited for his reply, hanging on Johnny's every word. It made him uncomfortable. It was such hero worship that had led him to believe that a fast gun was the path to glory — a path which instead had led eventually and inevitably to a firing squad in the Mexican desert. Only divine intervention, in the form of a Pinkerton man hired by Murdoch, had spared his life and given him a chance to discover what life is really about.
"I never notched my gun, Jim," Johnny answered seriously. "Killing a man isn't something to be proud of. Would you want the man who killed your father to brag on it?"
Taken aback, Jim could only stammer out a negative.
"I don't suppose the Reb who killed him is ashamed of it. It's kill or be killed in a war. Some would say I've killed more than my share, but I can still sleep at night, because I always followed my own rules and I never shot anyone in the back. But following the rules don't make killing right. Each killing kills a little bit out the killer's soul, too. There's a poem I heard that said it best, "Each man's death diminishes me, So send not to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee."
"If you feel that way, why did you become a gunfighter," Will asked seriously.
"I didn't feel that way then," Johnny answered. "I grew up thinking being good with a gun would make me important. And it did, for a while. It also almost got me killed before my 21st birthday," Johnny said lightly, trying to ease the mood, since he'd made his point.
Laura sensed his goal and tried to help.
"What about Cousin Scott?" she asked. "Is he any good with a gun?" The boys laughed. They felt no hero worship for the distant cousin they had known as long as they could remember; but they liked Scott. They were interested in Johnny's reply, but a voice interrupted before they could hear it.
"Jim, Hal, come over here and see your old grandfather," Frederick ordered affectionately.
"But grandfather!" they protested.
"Don't argue," their mother said, with an apologetic look at Johnny.
Jim looked mulish and Hal unhappy, but they went obediently. Johnny and Frederick shared a heavy stare. Laura had to repeat her question before Johnny answered.
"How do you mean 'good'?" Johnny asked. "If you mean accurate, well … he hits what he aims at. That's as accurate as anyone needs to be."
"Is he as good as you?" Will teased.
"We never held a shooting match," Johnny laughed. "I'd have to guess I'm better with a pistol, but Scott might be able to outshoot me with a carbine. He's a demon with a rifle."
"Is he as fast as you?" Ted asked seriously.
"No," Johnny said slowly. "No, I guess that's the big difference between Scott and me."
"Your speed?" Laura asked.
"No our brains," Johnny answered. The children giggled, but Johnny insisted he wasn't joking. "See, Scott isn't fast because he thinks too much. He spent his childhood learning how to think. I spent mine learning how to react without thinking. When Scott hears a shot, he has to think about grabbing a gun. I don't. I just grab it automatically. It's saved my life a few times. It's also caused me some embarrassment.
"Some boys played a joke on a little girl one time. They planted one of those pop out, springy 'snakes' in her lunch pail. Well, she screamed and I blasted the blazes out of that toy before my brain had time to tell my gun hand it wasn't dangerous. Scott would have recognized it as a practical joke before he fired.
"Now I'm kinda trapped by my reflexes. I learned how not to think too well. When Scott came to California, he didn't know anything about bulldogging or roping cattle. Why should he?"
"It must have been funny watching him learn," Ted giggled.
"It was," Johnny admitted, with a small smile of remembrance for days of muddy faces and torn pants. "But the point is, he learned. The new hands don't know there was ever anything to laugh at. And the old hands, they brag about him. But me," Johnny sighed ruefully. "I have to count on my fingers to add up the ranch books. I just never learned how to think."
"You don't seem stupid to me," Laura said.
"He's not," Scott said, as he came up with a drink in his hand. "Don't let him try to tell you he is, Laura."
"I won't, Scott," she promised.
"Here, brother," Scott said, handing Johnny the glass.
Johnny sniffed the clear liquid with caution that turned to surprised pleasure. He sipped. "It's tequila!" he sipped again. "And good tequila, too. Where'd you get it?"
"My superior education enabled me to deduce a way to find this rare Mexican nectar," Scott said with a straight face.
Laura and Will laughed.
"I'll bet I know how you got it, Cousin Scott," Laura cried.
Scott smiled at her. "You tell the man," he suggested.
"You asked Hodges to find it, didn't you?"
"The lady from Boston wins the prize," Scott said. To his brother, he added, "If it exists, Hodges knows where to find it."
"Remember the time he got strawberries for my birthday," the girl said. "It's in January," she explained to Johnny.
"That's what made me think to ask him," Scott said. "Can I get you something?" he asked the girl, when he saw her glass was empty. "More sarsaparilla? Or perhaps some sherry this time?"
Laura was pleased by the compliment, but she knew her mother would disapprove. She wouldn't have had time to drink either offering. As she declined with thanks, Hodges entered to announce dinner.
To Be Continued (duh)