Chapter 9: Dinner at Home

The Garrett mansion, Boston

Under Hodges strict supervision, the staff had outdone themselves to honor the return of Scott and the visit of his brother.

The maplewood table was as wide as a man is tall, long enough and polished well enough to skate on. Of course, you couldn't see the high gloss, covered as it was by acres of snowy Irish linen decorated with delicate embroidery. Crystal goblets sparkled under a chandelier of equally crystalline brilliance. The silver, Mrs. Hodges pride and joy, gleamed with the love of a thousand polishings.

Johnny admired the effort it took to get the room spotless and shining, but what he liked best were the vases filled with bright spring flowers, yellow daffodils, white carnations, purple foxglove, topped by red and pink roses. They added their scent to those coming from the kitchen, creating a perfume finer than any made in France.

Even the vague Marcus sniffed appreciatively.

Harlan occupied the master's seat at the head of the table, with Scott at his left and Johnny at his right. Annabell was seated next to the Westerner with polite Mort and his wife as an extra buffer next to her.

Caroline and her silent husband were next to Scott.

As usual the children were clustered at the foot of the table, where Harlan could get a clear shot with a stern look if the antics grew too boisterous. It wasn't uncommon for the querulous Marcus to be stuck down there as well.

The rest of the family usually alternated places at the table. Frederick, Winifred and the Desmonds knew why they had been relegated to the foot of the table on this occasion. It didn't bother Frederick, but the others were fuming at the "insult."

Caroline laughed and chatted with Scott at her right. She tried to draw her glum husband into the conversation, but Gerald didn't seem interested in remembering when. He just grunted and concentrated on the first course.

While Scott traded reminiscences with Caroline and Harlan, Johnny had a chance to question Annabell about Scott.

"What did you mean about being sorry to see Scott like this again?"

Annabell kept her voice low. "I hate to see him so tense," she said.

"You must know Scott pretty well. Most people wouldn't realize he was upset."

"I know. He hides his feelings because he doesn't want to burden others with his problems; but when something really bothers him, it rubs his nerves raw. He hides the big thing, but overreacts to the little things," the white-haired woman said. "I helped nurse him after he escaped from the prison camp. He was wounded and desperately ill for months. Even when his body healed, his nerves didn't. He could talk about the camp without emotion, but a piece of burned toast would drive him into a frenzy. And then he would be in tears because he was sorry he yelled."

"He hasn't been that bad," Johnny protested.

"No, Paytonville was a special case. But I can see the news about Harlan has hit him hard. Maybe too hard."

Johnny looked a question.

"Death is easier on us old folks," she said. "I've seen so many loved ones die — my parents, my fiancé. Death only saddens me now. It's lost the power to shock."

"It will be especially hard on Scott because he and his grandfather are so close," Johnny said.

"And because he may be blaming himself for running off to California and leaving Harlan alone," Annabell added. "I don't think it's good for him to repress his feelings like this. Get him to talk to you, Johnny. Maybe it will help."

Johnny promised he would.

"What are you two talking about with your heads so close together?" Caroline asked archly.

"I was telling Johnny what naughty children you were," Annabell lied glibly. She launched into a funny story that proved her point.

The whole table joined the laughter, though Gerald's was somewhat bilious.

"Enough about the distant past, I want to hear about the wickedness you boys were up to this afternoon," Caroline said with a devilish glint in her eye.

Johnny hesitated, but Annabell looked at him encouragingly and Harlan muttered, "Go ahead, boy, but make it funny."

Johnny did. He thought to be kind, but the furious, forbidding look on Gary's face was too much to take. None of the Desmonds were laughing when Johnny finished, but everyone else was. Except Winifred, of course. The tale of drunken rowdiness only caused her to purse her lips in disgust.

"Johnny, tell the story about the lonely widow in Abilene," Scott urged.

Johnny obliged with the funniest story of Johnny Madrid's hectic life. It was about how, with a pinto pony, an unloaded Winchester and a freshly baked cherry pie, he'd brought a husband-to-be to justice — the justice of the peace, that is.

Even Arthur Desmond cracked a smile at that one; but Johnny's best behavior couldn't crack the toughest nuts.

He shrugged to himself and vowed that he wouldn't let them bother him. In fact, he realized, if he looked at it as a game, it might fun to see how they tried to skunk him. The thought made him feel better.

Normally the dinner conversation evolved into private conversations among neighbors. This time it degenerated into a tug-o-war with the far end of the table doing most of the tugging, trying to pull Johnny into an error. Johnny fended them off, with some help from the sidelines. Harlan could have stopped it, but he believed in letting people fight their own battles, and didn't expect his relatives to do much damage to the resilient Californian.

Johnny's story about the pinto pony got Frederick interested in the Lancers opinion on guns and horses. Johnny disposed of the gun question quickly, before the "enemy" could ask him how many men he'd killed. He and Scott were waxing lyrical in defense of the quarter horse as opposed to Fred's thoroughbreds.

"Of course, a thoroughbred is fast, but speed isn't so important on the range," Scott said. "Stamina and agility are the prime factors. A cow pony can travel through country that would starve a thoroughbred. A good quarter horse can stop on a dime and reverse direction at full gallop in less that its own body length. Believe me, that sort of agility is of paramount importance when you're working unruly cattle."

As Fred considered the point, Maybell found a chance to break in.

"Speaking of horses, Frederick, didn't I see a new painting in your home the other day?" she addressed her first cousin in sugary tones.

Fred's eyes lit up. Next to guns and horses, he loved his collection of paintings, which featured horses and hunting scenes. The George Stubbs painting of a mare and foal at play was his most recent acquisition, sent from England by his European agent. It was his current pride and joy and he was delighted to talk about it.

Maybell skillfully turned the conversation in the direction of art in general, rightly assuming that Johnny would know next to nothing about the subject.

Not content with merely leaving Johnny out of the , she, Winnie and Gary kept dragging him in, asking him his opinions of the painters.

Johnny kept his mouth as full as possible of the excellent food, smiled his most engaging grin and kept his answers short.

"No ma'am, never heard of him." "You don't say?" "If he's as good as that, I'd sure like to see one of his paintings some day."

Winnie's waspish comments about the sad state of education in the West stung a bit. His lack of learning was one of the things he really regretted missing in his childhood. Still, Johnny shook off Winnie's barbed comments like a horse shakes off flies. He didn't think twice about them.

However, he could see that his brother was getting hot as the comments got nastier. Johnny caught his eye and shook his head.

Scott subsided with a grimace that suddenly turned into an impish grin.

Cutting across Winnie's strident description of a painting, Scott said, "Do you think that Gainsborough landscape is an allegory about man's never-ending struggle for perfection?"

It was complete tommyrot, of course. Gainsborough painted portraits primarily, plus a few landscapes. He never painted allegories, which belonged to an earlier age.

His comment stopped Winnie cold, however. She had never studied art. She had never studied anything, except other people's business.

Scott continued without giving her a chance to break in.

"I've heard that said, but personally I don't believe it. Gainsborough never painted an allegory in his life."

Scott continued to expound on allegories, ignoring the puzzled looks of his brother and grandfather, as he ignored the efforts of the Desmonds to hijack the conversation. Scott didn't let anyone get a word in, until Johnny's face lit in understanding.

"Then an allegory is like one of those figures of speech, except in paintings, right?" Johnny said.

"Exactly."

Johnny and Scott renewed their exuberant discussion of figures of speech, concentrating on the book Johnny had been reading on the train.

Johnny liked the book because, among the stories, were two by a couple of recent writers named Hart and Twain who wrote about people the former gunfighter could relate to.

They had the added advantage of being new stories, which had been much talked about, but which Maybell and Winifred hadn't read. Several of the others at the table had, including Laura who was delighted to be able to join the adult's conversation.

When Maybell caught the gist of the conversation, however, she snorted.

"I don't know what kind of things they're teaching you in those schools today," she scolded Laura.

Laura's schoolteacher father bridled, but his wife's hand on his arm held him silent.

"Imagine letting a girl your age read trash like that, all about ruffians, unwashed, uneducated. The schools my Garrett went to would never …"

"I always found the value of a formal education to be vastly overrated. Don't you agree, Uncle Harlan?" Frederick interrupted.

"I wouldn't make such a sweeping generalization, myself," Harlan replied seriously, too seriously. "Schools do have their place and I won't say I was ashamed to send Scotty to Harvard, but your grandfather would have agreed with you."

"Oh! That's right," Annabell said in lavish surprise. "Grandfather didn't believe in higher education. Didn't he apprentice his sons in the business as soon as they learned the basics of reading and writing?"

"That's right. I only attended school up to the sixth grade, and your uncle Malcolm was the same."

Maybell's face turned the color of dirty milk, as she remembered the family history she had chosen to conveniently forget. One did not lightly offend the family patriarch. Harlan could be as ruthless in family matters as he was in business. Besides, he was the richest Garrett relative and his only direct heir was living in the wild, dangerous West where many a man died young. Maybell certainly didn't want to cut her ties with Harlan.

"I remember," Annabell continued sweetly, enjoying her sister's discomfiture. "And grandfather kept father and Uncle Fred out of school entirely, didn't he?"

"Yes, so you see Johnny and I have more in common than one might think. Don't we boy?" Harlan said.

Johnny agreed as Maybell hastened to mend her fences.

"I hope you don't think I was implying any insult to yourself or," she added reluctantly. "Or to your grandson's brother. Believe me, it was the farthest thing from my mind …"

She continued in the same unctuous line. Harlan, Frederick and Annabell enjoyed watching her squirm, but her hypocrisy made Scott feel sick.

"Excuse me, sir," he said abruptly, throwing his napkin on the table. "I need some air."

With a pointed glance at the Desmonds, he stalked out of the dining room.

A jerk of Harlan's head, sent Johnny after his brother.

Scott hadn't gone far, just far enough to cool his aching forehead against a tall marble statue.

Johnny spoke his name softly.

Without turning around, the elder Lancer said bitterly, "Sometimes she makes me so sick."

The venom in his brother's normally controlled voice frightened Johnny into defending Maybell.

"She's just a little narrow-minded. Nothing I haven't run into before," Johnny said.

Scott lashed out.

"Just narrow-minded! How can you defend her! Didn't you hear? Weren't you listening to what she called you?"

Inside the dining room, the family concentrated on finishing coffee and pretending they couldn't hear the angry sounds from outside. Maybell was still chastened by her bout with Harlan, but her son was fiercely glad to hear sounds of discord from the brothers. He was only sorry he couldn't make out the words.

Caroline set her cup down . Her trembling hand caused it to rattle in the saucer. The sound was loud in the silent dining room.

Those nearest looked in surprise. Her husband looked away, just as swiftly, however. His eyes were filled with wounded pride.

Caroline cleared her throat.

"Why don't we adjourn to the front room," she said. Emotion made her voice husky.

"Good idea," Harlan said briskly. He led the parade away from the table, away from the veranda and the hot words coming from beyond the French doors.

Johnny bowed his head against the storm. Knowing Scott's anger wasn't meant for him, he was content to let his brother blow off steam.

"She's a poisonous snake and she's brought up Gary just like her. They make me so mad I'd like to scream!"

"But why are you screaming at me?" Johnny raised his voice in a heatless shout.

Scott stopped in mid-word, blinking as if he had just awakened. Sense returned in a rush. He collapsed onto a bench and buried his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Johnny. I don't know why I'm taking this out on you."

His words came with great effort.

"Because that's what brothers are for," Johnny said matter-of-factly.

His face gray with emotional exhaustion, Scott attempted a rather ghastly smile. "I don't even know why I'm so upset. Maybell wasn't any worse than usual."

Johnny just looked at Scott, waiting. He knew Scott did know what was really bothering him, but Johnny wouldn't push his brother into talking about it. He could only provide a willing ear.

"I can't imagine grandfather dying," Scott said finally. His voice was choked. "All my life he's been here. When I skinned me knee and ran in crying, there he was. When I fell out of a tree and knocked myself silly, he was the first person I saw when I woke up. When I came home from the war, all broken up inside and not really sure who I was any more, he was here. And because he was just the same, he was like a landmark, which helped me find myself again. He made me whole enough I could even leave him again. But all the time, in all my travels, even at Lancer, I knew he was here, just the same as always. When he dies, it will be like … like the Rock of Gibraltar crumbled into the water. God, Johnny, I've never been so scared in my life." Scott's voice was empty of everything but pain. "What will I do without him?"

His eyes held the hopeless look of a man with an empty canteen who topped a rise only to see barren desert all around.

"Scott."

The elder brother wrenched his attention back from his contemplation of desolation. He focused on his brother.

Johnny stood ill at ease, obviously searching for a way to express his feelings.

A stirring of affection eased the emptiness in Scott. He thought it was strange. Johnny was frighteningly competent in so many ways, but when it came to matters of emotion, he could be very much the little brother.

Johnny realized Scott was still waiting for him to say something. The younger Lancer grinned apologetically, appealing in his schoolboyish awkwardness.

"I'm no good at this," he said, fidgeting. His grin widened slightly. "I try to think what Murdoch would say," he confessed. "But all I can think of is, no matter what happens, Scott. No matter what you decide to do. You won't have to do it alone. Just remember that, OK?"

Scott didn't, couldn't, reply. Johnny saw his eyes brim with tears, before Scott turned away.

"Damn, I've done it again," Johnny swore at himself silently.

Scott stared up at the stars for a long time. Johnny shuffled uncertainly behind him, wondering why he'd come when all he did was add to his brother's misery. He finally decided to leave Scott alone and was sneaking off, when Scott stopped him with a word.

"I'm sorry, Scott," Johnny burst out. "I've done nothing but make things worse since I cam. I'm sorry I said the wrong thing again."

Scott interrupted the self-chastisement. "You've got it wrong, Johnny."

When he stepped out of the shadows, Johnny marveled at the change he could see in Scott's eyes.

The sadness and pain were still there, but the fear and the awful emptiness had been banished. There was even a credible smile on his lips.

"For once, little brother, you said the right thing."

Johnny's surprised stare helped Scott recover even more equilibrium. The elder Lancer slapped his brother on the cheek affectionately, then flung his arm around Johnny's shoulders.

"Come on, let's see if Mrs. Hodges saved us any of that pie," Scott suggested.

Still locked together, they walked to the kitchen door grinning like a pair of fools.

They were still licking crumbs from their fingers when they rejoined the family in the front room.

Caroline broke off in mid-word and ran to greet her cousin. Expressions of concern trembled on her lips, but she'd hardly uttered a word when the shatter of a breaking glass cut her short.

Gerald drew bleeding fingers away from the brandy glass he'd slapped down on the table. He didn't seem to notice his cut hand. He had greater pains on his mind.

"You're running to him again!" he shouted at his wife, who shrank back in surprise.

Gerald had been drinking steadily all evening, enough to loosen his tongue but not enough to slur his words or dull the obvious anguish in his voice.

"You always run to him, always talk about him! I know it was only an accident you married me. I know you always preferred Scott, but do you have to parade it in front of the family?"

His voice rose in agony, and his fist rose too, as if he might strike Caroline or Scott; but then he let his hand drop.

"I love you Caroline. If you can't love me, couldn't you at least pretend?"

He turned blindly and blundered out of the room.

Caroline clung to Scott for a moment in shock, then realizing her position, she flushed and chased after her husband.

Scott stood stock-still. Johnny's heart sank, fearing the unexpected scene had brought on a relapse. But Scott was merely suffering from surprise. Frederick shoved a glass of brandy in his hand.

"You need this more than I do," he said.

Scott drained it in a gulp.

"Thanks," he gasped.

"Feel like it's partly my fault," Gerald's father explained. "Knew something was bothering the boy, but I never dreamed it was this old thing, or I would have warned you. Thought all this was dead and buried years ago."

"So did I," Scott said mildly. "I think I'd better talk to Gerald. Straighten him out."

"Better wait until morning," Frederick suggested. "Leave him with Caroline tonight."

Mort and Eve hustled their children out the door. They were beginning to feel the family gatherings were jinxed. Still, this dinner was not as bad as the last one when Harlan collapsed with his heart attack.

The rest of the guests quickly shuffled off to their rooms before anything else could happen.

Gary paused to pump Scott's hand.

"I really enjoyed myself tonight, Scott. Can't say when I've had more fun at one of these shows," he said with obvious sincerity.

Scott squeezed his cousin's hand hard, preventing Gary from escaping.

"Don't press your luck, Gary," he warned gently, but with a wolfish smile.

He released his cousin. A snarl began on Gary's face, as he turned away, only to come face to face with Johnny who had been standing right behind him. The unexpected encounter with a known killer, who would have been glad to break Gary's neck that afternoon, wiped all trace of defiance from Gary Desmond's face.

Johnny just clapped him again on his sore shoulder.

"Sleep tight, Gary," was all he said.

Desmond shivered. He slunk out the door, but when he knew the Lancers couldn't see him, he cast a hate-filled glare in their direction. With that gesture of independence, he went upstairs.

Acting as host in place of his grandfather, Scott saw all the guests to bed and bribed the children with sweet rolls to keep them in their rooms until late the next morning. He knew, after the late night, the adults habitually slept until noon.

Scott settled his grandfather down, looked in on the clean up, and ordered the staff to sleep late.

His chores done, Scott sat on the edge of his bed and listened to the clock strike two. He had taken off his shoes and tie, and was trying to summon enough energy to change into his nightclothes, when Johnny, already in his nightshirt, came through the connecting door.

"You look beat," the younger man said.

"I feel beat," Scott admitted.

Very slowly, the fair-haired brother changed and crawled into the bed. The whole evening had taken on the overtones of a nightmare, as far as Scott was concerned. He was glad to put it behind him.

"So what did you think?" he asked his brother ruefully.

Johnny pondered for a moment, then replied so seriously that he set Scott to laughing uncontrollably.

"It wasn't as bad as I expected."

Eastbound train

Murdoch lay cramped in a sleeping compartment too small for his broad-shouldered frame. Despite the discomfort and his worry over the ominous letter, the rancher slept soundly, as he'd trained himself to do during a lifetime of roundups.

Lancer Ranch

Teresa closed up the Lancer ranch house for the night and blew out the lamps. It wasn't the first time she'd been alone in the big house. However, fear for her family, so far away, made all the shadows seem darker, and all the night noises louder and more dangerous.

She lay awake for a long time and when she slept, it was a restless, dream-broken slumber.

Garrett Mansion

Scott fell asleep in the middle of a conversation with his brother. He was totally exhausted — mentally more than physically. Johnny's soft voice didn't rouse him.

Realizing his brother was asleep, Johnny sat and rocked. He felt completely content, as he watched the lines of care erased from Scott's face.

The house seemed so peaceful, he hated to leave. Finally he crept from the chair, turned down the gas lamp and went to his own room.

A healthy young man with a clear conscience, he slept as well as usual.

There were many in the house who didn't sleep well that night. Some lay awake in pain, some because their consciences weren't as clear as Johnny's, and some because bitterness churned their stomachs and tumbled their thoughts.

And there was one who didn't sleep at all.

When Scott awoke, he felt more himself than he had since he had returned Adam Jeffers' playful salute and accepted the fateful telegram.

He bounded up, dressed swiftly yet impeccably, and with cheerful rudeness burst into Johnny's room without knocking. Fair is fair, after all.

Johnny was a huddled lump under the covers when Scott threw back the curtains and flung up the windows to let in glorious golden sunshine and sweetly scented garden air.

"What are you doing?" the lump asked.

"Rise and shine, brother," Scott said exuberantly.

The lump developed an eye.

"Dawn has broken. 'Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain tops'," the Harvard-educated Lancer quoted.

The eye liked what it saw. A rumpled head emerged. The pair of eyes liked what they saw twice as much.

Prowling around the room, which had been his playroom as a child, Scott's eye fell on the rocking horse, which Harlan had given him for his second birthday. A shadow of sadness touched his eyes when he thought of his grandfather. He didn't try to suppress the sadness. He let it flow into pleasant memories, which banished the shadow.

Scott grinned at the slugabed's assessing expression.

"Well, come on," he ordered. "You're the one who said dawn was the proper time to get up."

Johnny looked at the sun blazing in and estimated it must be at least 9 o'clock.

"That's not dawn," he observed.

"No," Scott agreed.

"We're late," Johnny commented.

"You are," Scott corrected.

"Why didn't you wake me?" Johnny cried in mock dismay as he swept the bed covers aside.

Scott scorned to answer him.

While Johnny poured water in a basin and splashed his face, Scott explored the memories in the playroom. It still contained many of his favorite toys, the ones his father couldn't bear to get rid of. The rocking horse had been his favorite for many years. Even after he got too big to ride it, Rocket had been his confidant and companion. He found the sailboat he and Harlan had made together. The mast had been glued crooked by childish fingers, but somehow the boat had sailed, though with a decided list. Even the furniture offered memories — the chair in which nurse Anna, his favorite of the many, had rocked him to sleep. The bed was more recent, moved in after the war ended for him, when he again needed a nurse nearby.

With this sour memory intruding on the bittersweet, Scott turned away only to find that memories lurked everywhere that morning. He found himself nose to nose with Johnny's Colt. Fixed tight in its holster, the revolver dangled from the well-used gun belt, which was slung over the limb of a hat tree.

This brought more recent memories, more vivid for their newness — powder scent mixed with dust kicked up by churning hooves; staring into the face of danger with his trusted brother at his side, or at his back. He remembered being held hostage and watching Johnny walk coldly into that house of death because Lancers take care of their own. Scott smiled at the memory, though his father and brother didn't find it amusing.

He patted the Colt, thinking it looked lonely hanging from the hat tree. And Johnny looked unfinished without it, especially since he had donned the everyday clothes he wore on the ranch.

Johnny licked his palm and tried to plaster down his unruly, dark hair. He caught his brother's eye in the mirror.

"What are you looking at?" he laughed.

"Someone who's half-starved," Scott guessed shrewdly.

Johnny expressed shocked agreement, as if he'd only realized the truth of Scott's statement. Scott punched him lightly in the stomach and led the way out the door. His brother followed, grinning widely.

Like the day before, the brothers had the house to themselves, though the hour was further advanced.

They brought their breakfast into the dining room, which was again set for the house full of guests. While they ate side by side, they looked out the French doors at the garden.

When Scott commented on the garden pond, Johnny replied that he hadn't really seen the garden. He'd been in it, the morning and the night before, but hadn't seen much in the dark.

Scott sprang to his feet with enthusiasm.

"Then I'll have to show you the garden, brother. The rose beds are particularly beautiful this time of year," he announced.

Johnny laughed at his brother's eagerness.

"Can it wait until I finish?" he asked with his mouth full.

Scott strode around the table and flung the French doors wide. He stepped out on the veranda, breathing deeply and blinking at the sudden change from the shaded dining room to the sunlit garden.

A faint noise drew his attention to the windows of the east wing. The light reflected from the windows was blinding, but Scott thought he saw someone moving by an open window, Johnny's room, he realized.

He leaned back, shading his eyes against the glare.

"Hello!" he called "Who's …?"

The crash of the gunshot brought Johnny to his feet, overturning his chair, as Scott was thrown to the flagstones.

And, finally, there's the real To Be Continued