Note: Once again, thanks to everyone who left comments, including guests. I appreciate knowing that Lancer fans are reading my story.

CHAPTER 12 - LETTERS FROM HOME

'Tis of the essence of life here,
Though we choose greatly, still to lack
The lasting memory at all clear,
That life has for us on the wrack
Nothing but what we somehow chose;
Thus are we wholly stripped of pride
In the pain that has but one close,
Bearing it crushed and mystified.
~ Robert Frost

Scott said he was going to be out all day because he had to catch up with work around the ranch. He apologized and said he wouldn't go except he was way behind, but Johnny could see his brother was itching to be away from the hacienda. Away from the invalid. Who could blame him?

It was overcast and the house was very quiet. Johnny suspected that his father had fallen asleep in front of the fire down in the great room after lunch. At mid-day, Cipriano brought up some food and ate his meal with Johnny, then later helped the bed-bound man with his personal matters. The vaquero was such big a man he made lifting another man seem easy. His touch was both gentle and impersonal, and Johnny was grateful for that.

Johnny encouraged him to talk about Jelly, and heard the details about how the old ranch hand had selflessly tended the sick folks at the ranch during the influenza epidemic.

"The last sick person was getting better," Cipriano explained sadly. "And then, as if God decided to play a joke on all of us, Jelly came down with the influenza. We thought we were all out of danger. It was a very sad time, especially with the little children who were taken by God."

They talked for a little while longer, but then every subject they touched upon suddenly seemed fraught with awkwardness. How could Cipriano talk about breaking horses or riding when he could see with his own eyes that Johnny would never be able to ride a horse again? How could he talk about the cattle getting fat grazing up at Cooper's Canyon or how beautiful the wildflowers were along the Morro River to a young man who was trapped in his room? The stilted conversation paused and stuttered and stopped. As soon as he was no longer needed, the vaquero left.

Maria was supervising a couple of the girls who helped her in the house, and when they finished cleaning the bedrooms she came in to tidy up and to chat with Johnny for a bit. When the housekeeper was about to leave, Johnny stopped her. "Maria, one more thing. Can you locate my gun and shoulder holster? I haven't seen it since. . . Maybe Scott took it. And the gun-cleaning kit is over there, in the bottom drawer."

Maria found him the cleaning kit, oil and tools in a leather pouch, and then went to locate Johnny's gun for him. She returned some time later with the weapon in its holster. "It was on the bureau of Señor Scott, so here it is." She quickly handed over his rig, glad to be rid of it.

He pushed himself up to a near-sitting position. "Did anyone go to town and pick up the mail yet?"

Maria said she would go and see, but before she left she put some extra pillows behind Johnny. She patted his leg and smiled at him. She didn't mind mothering him at all.

Glad to have something to do, Johnny laid out the gun-cleaning kit on its oilcloth mat, removed the ammunition from his Colt and started to wipe down the barrel. At least he could occupy his hands for a while. He hadn't given his weapon a thorough cleaning since the night he had killed Hal Granger. Even if the gun hadn't been fired, he cleaned it on a regular basis, just to make sure everything was in prime working order.

People often viewed him as being unfeeling about the men he killed, Johnny knew, but that was far from the truth. He never regretted a justifiable killing, as Granger's had been, but he always felt bad about them just the same. There was nothing good to be found in taking a life. He'd learned that lesson early on. The memory of the recent shooting, like others in his past, was shoved to the back of his mind and didn't warrant being revisited. He had enough of his own troubles to think about, anyway, without worrying about dead folks.

It was only when Johnny finished cleaning and reloading his revolver that a wave of despondency washed over him. His mind kept returning to his prospects, or lack of them. He couldn't foresee any future for himself, try as he might. When Scott had suggested he move back to Lancer, to return to the place he would always think of as his real home, he'd felt an inkling of promise.

But after thinking it over, Johnny decided he couldn't bear becoming any more of an encumbrance to his family. Even if he could somehow get around a little, he would still require assistance for his most basic of needs - for the rest of his life. There was no way he wanted to be a dead weight and even if Scott and Murdoch assured him otherwise, it would get tiresome real fast. They would soon become resentful and he wouldn't blame them a bit.

Having Natalie care for him was not an option, yet the thought of living, or merely existing, in a sanatorium for invalids was such a frightening alternative, Johnny's heart pounded just thinking about it. He didn't want to live like that, couldn't, but he could see no other solution.

Maria returned, huffing and puffing from taking the stairs, and Johnny was reminded that she was getting on in years. Not that she looked it with her sparkling eyes and still-dark hair. "Here is mail for you, Johnny. One of the boys just brought it from town." She handed Johnny two large, heavy envelopes and one smaller one. She smiled broadly at the young man, believing correctly that the small letter was from his wife.

When Johnny didn't immediately open it, Maria was disappointed. "You'll be happy to reunite with your esposa soon, I know. A lovely girl. Well, I go downstairs now, Johnny. Your father is out to the barn but I told him I would take good care of you. Now I will have a siesta in the kitchen but if you want anything, you shout." She went out and left the door open a crack.

Once Maria was gone, Johnny turned his attention to the envelopes sitting on his lap. He knew the return address on the top one. It was from Levi Leeds, his business manager. Johnny had recently offered the man a partnership and he had hoped he would accept it. They had only been working together for the past year, but Johnny had found Leeds to be a good asset to the company. He was talented and organized and had a good feeling for the customers' needs. The business had been expanding at a rapid rate and Johnny had been talking to Leeds about opening a New Orleans office and warehouse for the imported goods. He had decided a couple of months back that he would need someone's help with the expansion, but now there didn't seem to be much point.

Johnny read the correspondence from Leeds and found man was enthusiastic about the partnership. For the first time in days, Johnny momentarily forgot about his health problems, but as soon as his hopes rose, they were dashed when reality reared its ugly head once again. Who was he kidding? It would take an active, whole and healthy man to run his business, and he was none of those.

Johnny sighed as he opened and then dumped out the contents of the other big envelope. It was some of his business mail, forwarded to him at his request by his secretary, an older and rather stodgy man called Mr. French. Nothing appeared to be urgent, so he put it all aside with disinterest.

The smaller envelope sat on the blanket, just waiting for Johnny to pick it up. He held it to his nose, expecting to find the scent of Natalie's perfume, but none remained. Reluctantly, he tore it open. She had written a long letter and Johnny read it slowly. He was only partway through when his back started aching. When he was finished, he slumped back on the bed and felt his spirit drain out of him. All thoughts of his company's expansion were banished and once again his outlook seemed impenetrably bleak. He swore at himself for being so defenseless that a few well-placed words from his wife could hit him so hard.

To make matters worse, what had been an annoying back pain quickly escalated. If he remained perfectly still, and took shallow breaths, Johnny was able to tolerate it. It was not emanating from the place where the doctor had dug for the bullet fragments, but seemed to cascade up his entire spine, deep in his backbone. It was unlike anything he'd experienced before and it worried him. Johnny lay there unmoving for some time, but it was severe and persistent; he knew he needed something to take the edge off or else he'd go crazy.

Getting weak in your old age, boy. You've had worse. Put up with it. If you complain they'll start you up on that morphine again and you know you don't want that to become a habit.

As Johnny worked at controlling his breathing, concentrating, trying to quell the pain in his back, he wondered how Scott had managed to keep what he had discovered about Jenny to himself. Secrets tended to eat away at a man, that was for sure. Look at how the strain of knowing his wife had poisoned herself and her unborn child had taken its toll on Scott.

Most likely, Scott would always question if he could have saved his wife. . .if he'd only known Jenny's fears and the lengths she had been willing go to in order to prevent having a deformed child. Imagine the guilt he must be carrying around, weighing heavily on his soul, knowing he had missed seeing his own wife's torment.

Johnny now knew why his brother had acted distant around Teresa and the children. God, how can Scott look at them and not feel intense regret? He had missed his chance with Jenny and may never find such joy. Johnny hoped, with all his heart, that his brother would be able to start over, to find a loving woman and have those children he deserved.

A wave of agony hit Johnny, and he gasped and gripped his bedding. He was scared about having a lifetime of pain, but then a surge of anger washed over him and he shoved the gun cleaning kit, still at his side, off his bed. It fell onto the floor with a clatter but he didn't care. The sudden movement set off a whole new set of jabbing sensations and a groan escaped his lips, partly from aggravation. At least there was nobody around to hear him. He damned life for throwing such impossible hurdles in front of him and Scott.

Johnny swore for a bit, then called for Maria, but she must have been out of earshot - there was no response. The occasional sound of men working outdoors drifted up, even though his windows were closed. Johnny yelled again but there was only silence. He was alone in the big house and nobody was going to come to his rescue. If truly desperate, there was always his revolver. It was sitting between his legs, secure in its leather holster. He thought of shooting a round off to attract attention, but the thought of everyone coming running, although almost comic, was an unwelcome solution. All the same, he pulled his revolver out of the holster and up onto his lap, where he could feel its comforting weight.

He was thirsty, so with great effort, Johnny leaned over and reached for a glass of water left on the bedside table. He drank most of it and was about to put the glass back on the table when he saw the little dark brown bottle of pills sitting there. After looking at it for quite a while, he picked up the bottle. The label indicated to take one. There were four tablets remaining. Johnny took all of them.

The medication Johnny had taken started to have an effect on him. He rubbed his eyes when they became bleary, but it didn't help much. The good thing was the pain had started to recede. The room was swimming and his head was feeling thick so he lay back on the inclined bed, one hand preventing his gun from slipping off his lap. With the paralysis creeping up from his legs to his thighs, he knew what was next: hips, then abdomen. Knowing that it could eventually reach his chest, fear coursed through him. Dios, I don't want to lie here, slowly suffocating.

He ran his fingers over the smooth metal of the Colt and remembered when he had bought it. There had been something about it that had just seemed right when he first checked its balance in his hand. Over the years he'd come to rely upon it, like a friend, in both good times and bad. It had been expensive, though not the priciest gun he'd ever owned, but value was a tenuous concept. His skill with the weapon had been his ticket to a freedom that no amount of money could buy, when he was barely more than a child.

Freedom had always been something Johnny had greatly valued. When he had married Natalie, and set off with her, he had proven he was not bound to Lancer. He had been free to leave and to make his own way in the world. Johnny thought of the few short years he had spent at Lancer as a way station to the rest of his life. There he had learned about family and values and the mechanics of running a large enterprise. His cigar business, which had initially been only a sideline, had grown into a moneymaker; although he reveled in its success, he was not bound to it. In the course of every stage of his life he had learned something of value to take along to the next one. But this, the paralyzing of his limbs, had put a full stop on his whole existence. There was nowhere left to go.

Scott had once asked him if he was just going to spend his life killing time, among other things. From that moment on, Johnny had tried hard to find a worthier purpose to his life than providing the protection of his gun to the highest bidder. He'd turned around and committed himself to the Lancer ranch and to his newfound family, and had worked hard at walking the line. It had lasted quite a while, until he'd known in his gut that it was time to move on. But now Johnny could see no purpose in the next stage of his life. Scott had expected his brother to be dead before he was thirty. Well, that birth date was coming up real soon and maybe Scott was likely to be proven correct, once again.

Scott's confession about the death of his wife weighed heavily on Johnny's mind. He couldn't stop picturing Jenny and the unborn child dying so tragically. His thoughts turned to Tallie, who had changed into Natalie, and hurled him into a tailspin he had never recovered from. What had become of that girl, who had once loved him for himself?

Picking up his gun with both hands, Johnny held the cool barrel against his cheek. He was tired, so very tired. He closed his eyes and found himself praying, the words spilling out, his eyelids suddenly smarting with held-back tears. He just needed guidance, some sign that would show him the way.

Is this the end of the road? Is this all there is left for me? Gripping the gun as if it was a talisman, Johnny's lips moved with whispered pleas. "Dios, me hace fuerte. Give me strength."

"You have plenty of strength, Johnny."

Johnny turned his head on the pillow, wondering if he was hearing things. A murky shape came forward and turned out to be Val. Now what the hell was he doing here? Johnny groaned, "Go away. Just go, Val."

"I can't do that, Johnny. Not with the way you're hangin' onto that pistol there." Val sidled over warily, then stopped several feet away from Johnny's bedside.

Looking slowly from his Colt, still gripped in his hands, and back to the lawman, Johnny realized why Val was looking so fearful. "I'm fine. You should go."

"Now I don't think I can rightly do that. How about you point that thing in another direction?"

The sheriff took a tentative step forward, but Johnny did something he never thought he'd do in his lifetime. He raised his gun to point it at his friend. His hand wasn't steady and neither was his voice when he rasped, "Go. . .go 'way. Now, I. . . I mean it!"

Val hoisted his hands in capitulation, then reluctantly back-stepped his way out the door. Johnny's shoulders sank back into his bedding and he rolled to one side. He wrapped his arms around his head, still gripping the gun in one hand. Rocking with an agony that had nothing to do with physical pain, Johnny moaned. Dios, what am I doing? Tell me what to do.

There was a rush of footsteps and next thing Scott came in, halting just inside the bedroom. With a glance back to someone just out of sight in the hall, he said in a low voice, "I'll take care of this. It's all right. We'll be fine." Scott then stepped inside and closed the door firmly behind him. "Johnny?"

"Go away!" was the muffled response.

"I can't do that." There was silence for a minute, then Scott said, "Look, the sun's coming out. How about I open the windows and we get some fresh air in here?" Without waiting for consent, he walked purposefully across the room, pulled the curtains out of the way and flung the window open wide. "That's better than hanging around in the dark."

Johnny turned onto his back and drew in an irregular breath. The Colt was still in his hand, resting on his chest with the barrel directed towards his jaw. He held his weapon loosely, as if he wasn't paying attention to where it was pointing. When he tried to speak and found the words wouldn't come out, Johnny concentrated and spoke slowly. "I want to be left alone."

Scott's heart was in his mouth, seeing that the barrel was pointed directly at Johnny's head. If he accidentally pulled the trigger. . . Scott sat gingerly on the edge of the chair by Johnny's bed and nonchalantly gathered up the letters that were strewn across the blanket.

Johnny reached for his mail with his free hand, as if alarmed that Scott would read the letters.

"I was just moving them, Johnny. How about we talk?" Scott watched as Johnny's eyelids slowly drooped, then saw how the blue eyes widened as he shook himself awake. Scott realized that his brother was struggling to overcome the narcotic effects of his medication. He reached over to look at the container of pills and removed the cork from the small bottle. "How many of these did you take?"

"Dunno," Johnny mumbled in a slurred voice. "Not enough. I'm done, anyway. There's nothin' left."

Scott was pretty sure there had been four or less remaining, because he had made a mental note to replenish the medication the next time he was in town. He damned Johnny for taking the pills so recklessly. With careful control of his expression, Scott took a deep breath and said evenly, "It's not the end of the world, Johnny."

"Maybe not for you. You've got everything ya need here."

"Have I?" Scott replaced the empty bottle on the bedside table. "Johnny, can you put that gun back in its holster?" He picked up the leather shoulder holster and gently placed it on Johnny's stomach. "I can't talk to you with that pointing at your face." He held his breath waiting, watching Johnny's face for any telltale sign he was going to do something stupid.

Johnny blinked a couple of times as he thought about his choices.

"Johnny, put that gun back in its holster," Scott said firmly. He was surprised his voice wasn't shaking.

Johnny held his gun close, clinging to it like a lifeline. His mind was working so slow that thinking at all was a great effort, but all of a sudden, as he looked into Scott's eyes he saw things clearly. He obeyed his brother. "All right." He slipped the revolver into the holster then carelessly shoved it out of the way, down by his knees.

Scott let out the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. He had to bite his tongue to refrain from telling Johnny what an idiot he was, and instead asked, "You have any idea how many times I wanted to drink down a whole bottle of scotch, or do worse, after Jenny died?"

"But you didn't."

"Well, yes I did. I drank most of an old bottle of rum one night. Got sick as a dog. I did some other pretty dumb things that I'd rather forget, too."

"Does Murdoch know 'bout wha' happened to her?" He hoped the old man didn't know. It was sure to break him.

"He knows some of it, and may have guessed the rest. I encountered him that night I was drunk, after having it out with Sam, and I'm afraid I said too much. He never speaks of it, but I think he knows." He looked at Johnny, who was struggling to remain awake. "Maybe," Scott said, "If I hadn't been so sure that proper medical procedures would fix everything, I wouldn't have pushed you into having that operation on your back. I'm sorry, Johnny."

With a great deal of effort, Johnny was able to say, "Nobody's to blame." He touched his hip with fumbling fingers. "This. . . needed Sam's touch."

"Maybe next time you'll jump the other way when a whore takes a pot shot at you," Scott said with a slight smile. He watched his brother submit to the medication he'd taken and knew he'd have to get hold of the doctor to see what steps they needed to take. Scott just hoped that when the wounded man awoke he was going to be over his self-destructive mood. Standing, he looked down at Johnny's face, seeing the lines of pain ease as he dropped off into sleep. The letters, crushed and in disarray, slipped from his lax fingers and fell onto the floor.

But Scott was surprised when Johnny spoke again. It was a mumble, almost too slurred to discern.

"Was. . . Natalie. . .she shot me."

***–***TBC