Note: Thanks to the guests who have left comments. I can't reply directly to you but I appreciate you leaving FB.
To the guest who mentioned Poldark: I remember that show! I wonder if Elizabeth's death in Poldark influenced my story. Hmmm…could be…
To Gail - I am posting a chapter just about daily. I'm glad you're enjoying it.

CHAPTER 13 - SOLUTIONS

Where there is no hope, there can be no endeavor.
~ Samuel Johnson 1752

As soon as Johnny passed out, Scott opened the door to let Murdoch and Val in. He told them in a hushed tone about the disaster that had just been averted, playing down Johnny's mishandling of his revolver but neglecting to mention his brother's final admission that Natalie shot him. Scott then ran out to the bunkhouse and sent a fast rider to locate Dr. Jenkins.

Murdoch shook Johnny, trying to rouse him from the deep sleep he had fallen into, but it was apparent that Johnny wasn't about to awake for some time. Every breath he took was slow and shallow; his face was pale in contrast to his dark hair.

How many times had he hovered over Johnny's bed in the past, often believing it would be the last time he would do so? Yet Johnny led a charmed life, and so far had survived each subsequent injury and recovered as if nothing had even happened.

Murdoch looked down at his son, at tendrils of hair clinging to his damp forehead, at the bluish circles under his closed eyes, and at the creases that were etched between his brows even as he slept. Johnny's face was shadowed with a day-old beard that merged with the mustache he was so inordinately proud of. Further down, under the bedclothes, was the outline of Johnny's body - the useless legs a reminder of all the things he could no longer do.

But it wasn't that Murdoch was looking at a damaged and broken man so much as seeking the youth who had first arrived at Lancer some years earlier. Where had that defiant spark and enthusiasm for life gone, he wondered. Had all of the hard knocks finally beaten him down? Had he succumbed to the fear of living with a life of limitations? No, it wasn't possible that Johnny would just give up. Murdoch sighed and tucked the blanket in around his sleeping boy.

As soon as one of the men had saddled up and was on his way to find the doctor, Scott returned to check on his brother. When he saw that his father had drawn a chair up to Johnny's bedside and had settled in, Scott went downstairs to the kitchen to join Val. They ate some supper while they waited for the doctor to come. At least with three doctors in the area, there was a chance that one of them would be available.

But Scott couldn't stomach much food, and all he and Val could do was exchange uncomfortable glances, neither one fully understanding what had occurred or why, nor knowing what they could do to help Johnny. Right after Scott convinced Val to go home, having assured him that they'd send word if there was any change, the doctor arrived on horseback. It was not Sam after all, but Charles Irving, the doctor who was sharing the burden of doing rounds with the older physician.

Dr. Irving, a slim man who rivaled Scott in height, was sandy-haired with freckles splattered across the bridge of his long nose. He was as brisk in manner as Dr. Jenkins was soothing, but Scott had already learned not to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

After a cursory overview of the unconscious young man, Dr. Irving picked up the empty pill bottle. He hadn't gotten along with Dr. Beauregard since the day he'd met him, and disagreed with the physician's free use of narcotics. Giving a bed-ridden patient a steady dose of morphine was, in Irving's opinion, irresponsible, and this kind of overdose was all too common. It made him quite angry. He kept his back to the relatives of the patient as he schooled his emotions.

"I believe he took four," Scott volunteered.

Irving muttered something under his breath then pivoted to face Murdoch and Scott. "My esteemed colleague, Dr. Beauregard, is a bit heavy-handed when prescribing medications, and the ingestion of quadruple the dosage is something I am somewhat concerned about."

Murdoch stood and spoke with barely controlled anger. "Somewhat concerned?"

"Mr. Lancer," the doctor said, deferring to the older man. "The good news is that right now your son seems to be merely sleeping heavily. Even so, I recommend an antidote to counter the narcotic effects, just to be sure he doesn't slip deeper into its grip."

Scott stepped forward. He had, after all, recruited Irving, and had dealings with him in the past. "What do you intend to use as an antidote?"

For a minute, it appeared that Dr. Irving was affronted at being questioned by Scott, but when the blond man didn't back down from his stare, the doctor replied, "A stimulant by way of injection would be my first choice. It has its drawbacks, and can over-accelerate the heart. Or I can give him an elixir of my own making. . ."

His face reddening, Murdoch said, "Let me tell you, Dr, Irving, that is my son lying there, and he's in this condition because you doctors think nothing of passing out dangerous medications as if they were sugar pills. That is my boy, and if you think for one minute I'm about to let you-." Scott took hold of his father's arm, but Murdoch shook him off. "No, Scott, I won't have some potion given to Johnny."

Scott stared at his father, thinking of Jenny and the drink she had taken - the one that had killed her. But this was not some midwife with unclean practices and dangerous herbal remedies. This was modern medicine, based on science. He looked into his father's eyes and saw a pain in them that gave him a feeling that the old man knew full well what had really happened to Jenny. Without taking his eyes off his father, Scott said firmly to the doctor, "My brother doesn't like needles." He then turned to Dr. Irving. "No needles. No potions."

Irving's gaze slid over to Johnny's unconscious form and then warily back to Scott. "Perhaps some smelling salts first, to see how he reacts?"

Scott glanced at his father, and then nodded his approval. Both he and Murdoch watched closely as a small vial was uncorked and wafted back and forth under Johnny's nose. At first there was no sign of any reaction, but suddenly Johnny inhaled, spluttered and coughed and tried to turn his head away. Dr. Irving continued moving the pungent-smelling vial back and forth until it roused Johnny enough to elicit a groan and for his eyelids to flutter. He then took a deep breath, shifted and went back to sleep.

"He should be fine," said Dr. Irving. "I'll leave this with you, sir." He corked the smelling salts and gave them to Murdoch. The Lancer men thanked him for coming out, and Scott saw the doctor to the kitchen for some coffee, then finally on his way.

After a brief discussion, they agreed that Murdoch would remain in Johnny's room, just in case. Scott turned in early, emotionally exhausted. It was only once he was in bed that Scott realized he hadn't told his father what Johnny had said about being shot by his wife, but he figured he'd wait to hear the rest of the story before disclosing anything to Murdoch, if at all.

Johnny slept through much of the next day. The following morning, although he finally awoke and appeared to have come to his senses, Scott had no chance to talk to his brother alone. It seemed that as soon as one person left Johnny's bedroom, another would arrive. Teresa was in attendance, and was bright and positive despite the early hour. She had left her children with Bettina back home so she could give Johnny her undivided attention, she said. Val would come along later, after work. Scott realized that Murdoch had enlisted Val and Teresa to keep a very close eye on the invalid. It looked like the only secrets in their family were the ones buried very deep.

Upon reflection, Scott wished that he hadn't been so open with his brother about Jenny's death. It wasn't that he wanted to hide the truth from Johnny, but he was afraid that it might add to his depression. And Scott very much wanted to know if the words his brother had allowed to slip past his lips as he lost consciousness had been the ramblings of a drugged man. He had a bad feeling it was the truth.

What could have made Natalie pick up a gun and use it against her husband? Johnny would never harm any woman - that he was sure of. No doubt that something was going on between Johnny and his wife. Look at how he never said anything about her unless asked, and even then no more than was required. Thinking back, Scott remembered snippets of conversations that should have made him see there was something wrong with the picture. Now he'd wait until they were alone and he'd get the truth out of Johnny, for once and for all.

Scott brought breakfast up for Johnny, who didn't appear to be suffering much from his overdose. The patient gave him a wan smile but apart from saying he still felt a bit woozy, he didn't complain of any pain. Johnny was placid and simply accepted help to be raised so he could eat. It seemed to Scott that his brother appeared to have forgotten everything that had occurred only two days earlier.

Scott was out most of the day, supervising a team of workers who were cutting timber on the far side of the east ridge. When he got home at sunset, he was surprised to find Val playing cards with Johnny at a table in the guest room upstairs. There were cushions behind Johnny's back and more at the sides of the armchair, helping to support him.

"Just to give Johnny a change of scenery," explained Val. The two friends were joking around and sharing a drink of scotch, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. For some reason, it annoyed Scott greatly that only a couple of days before his brother had been suicidal and here he was, apparently in fine fettle. Val had even cajoled Johnny into donning a shirt and pants, even though the shirt was worn loose and he didn't have socks on his feet.

Johnny appeared able to sit up, which was a very good sign, but Scott could see how much effort it was taking his brother to project normalcy. "You two seem to be having a good time," Scott said as he picked up the bottle of scotch that Val had half-hidden under his chair. He raised an eyebrow. "Not that this is supposed to be on Johnny's menu."

Val looked Johnny over, weighing him up. "Aw, he's doing fine, Scott. A little nip won't hurt him."

Indeed, Johnny looked almost normal, seated at the table with his bare feet placed neatly on the carpet. He even had some color back in his face, and he had shaved, although the mustache remained. There were signs of recent illness, though, especially in the lines near his mouth. Johnny smiled tentatively at Scott and the lines temporarily disappeared, but then the smile wavered and he dropped his gaze to the playing cards in his hands.

Trying not to sound like he was questioning Johnny's ability, Scott asked, "You sure you're okay, Johnny?"

For an instant Johnny looked at him with anger, but then he shrugged and shifted in his seat. Johnny couldn't disguise the pain it caused him, but he said truthfully, "I'm just glad I can sit up, brother. I need to do this."

Scott studied Johnny for a long moment and then nodded. "It's good that you're out of bed. I'm glad." At that point he was pretty sure that his brother did recall how low he had sunk, how close he had come to hurting himself. If moving ahead, putting the past behind him was how Johnny wanted to handle things, then who was Scott to interfere? Deciding to act as if everything was back to normal, Scott asked casually, "You fellows want something to eat? Johnny looks like he could use a steak. How about some real food?"

Val, never one to turn down a meal, nodded, but Johnny's face took on look of reticence. "I can't go. . . I ain't going downstairs." He shuffled the cards and didn't look up.

"We can eat up here," Val suggested. He looked from one brother to the other. Scott wasn't taking his eyes off Johnny. He wanted to have time with him alone, Val could see plainly. He cleared his throat and said, "I'll go down and bring some grub up here then. Bet Maria has somethin' spicy on the cooker."

"Wait. . . " Johnny tossed the pack of cards on the tabletop. "I want to. . .can you help me back to my room?" He avoided Scott's gaze. "I'm kinda tired." He hated having to ask to be returned to his room like a sack of potatoes, but he didn't want to be carried downstairs, either. Not just yet. He wasn't ready to make an appearance down there.

Val and Scott positioned themselves on either side of Johnny, and each of them got an arm around his waist, making sure to avoid touching his lower back. After Johnny had slung his arms around their shoulders, they lifted him and linked hands under his legs, making a seat on which to carry him. With a few grunts and some close calls with a door or two, the three men managed to get to Johnny's bedside. Johnny's arms slipped from around their necks and he eased himself into the center of the bed without any assistance.

Whatever had caused that excruciating pain a couple of days ago had gone as suddenly as it had appeared. Johnny fervently hoped it was never going to come back. The area that Sam had cut into in order to extract the bullet fragments was tender, and there was an ache in his back muscles, but not in his spine. Right now he felt exhausted but the pain wasn't bad at all, all things considering.

Johnny thanked God and didn't question the workings of it all. Scott kept looking at him like he wanted to say something, but Johnny wasn't looking forward to the lecture that he was certain was due to come his way any time.

Val sensed some tension between the brothers and chuckled awkwardly. "Getting you back in here was a bit like wrassling with a monkey. I'd better be goin', or the little woman'll be checking me out for the scent of another woman's perfume."

"Thanks, Val," Johnny said. "Maybe we can finish the game another time. And don't forget to take the bottle of scotch with you."

"Sure thing. Be over with Teresa tomorrow, most likely." With a raised hand and a smile, Val took off.

Without being asked, Scott lifted Johnny's legs and swung them over and onto the bedding. "Do you want a blanket over your legs?"

Johnny nodded and watched his brother fuss a bit, getting the blanket tucked around his useless legs. The effects of the pills he'd taken had finally worn off, and he felt better than he had in some time. Not great, but better. For now that was enough. Ingesting four of those pills at once had been a bad miscalculation, and Johnny had a feeling he was lucky to have awoken at all, but it was what had preceded it that was going to be difficult to explain. He wasn't sure that even he knew why he'd picked up his gun. Johnny could see that Scott was champing at the bit, wanting to say something, but his brother held his peace.

After a few minutes, Johnny figured he might as well start the conversation just to get it over with. "I guess I was sorta out of it a couple of days back. Good thing Val came along."

Although it was too early for his brother to retire, Scott moved to the dresser and pulled out Johnny's nightshirt.

Johnny cleared his throat. "Val says he came over to fetch Teresa's sewing stuff that she left behind and that's why he came up here. . ." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Guess I'm lucky to have him for a friend." When Scott didn't reply, Johnny put his head on one side and asked, "Are you mad at me or something?"

Dropping the nightshirt on Johnny's lap, Scott stood with his arms crossed. He was angry but he bit his tongue. He knew that once he lit into his brother, there would be no stopping him and the last thing either of them needed was to fight with each other. "Now why would I be mad at you, Johnny?"

Johnny leaned back and surveyed Scott's unforgiving expression but then he dropped his gaze. "It could be because I was a damn fool and took too many of those pills there." He motioned to his night table, but the pill bottle had been removed. "And maybe because I was . . .cleaning my gun and. . ." The gun cleaning kit was on the bureau, he'd noticed. He suddenly realized his holster and his letters were missing and leaned to one side to see if they'd ended up on the carpet.

"Johnny, you'll fall out! What are you looking for?"

"Where'd they go?" Johnny demanded.

Scott moved around the bed but there was nothing on the floor. "I put your gun over there," he said, indicating the bureau on the far side of the room where the holstered gun sat with its leather straps wrapped around it. "If it's okay with you," Scott said in a tone that made it clear he wasn't really asking permission, "I'm going to keep it out of your reach." He waited for an argument.

But Johnny was more concerned about the location of his correspondence than his Colt. He tried to open the drawer of the night table, but it was awkward from the position he was in.

Scott impatiently brushed him away and opened the drawer. He asked, "Is this what you're looking for?" When he pulled out a bunch of letters, Johnny quickly reached out to take them. Scott found the behavior strange and very unlike his brother.

Johnny looked through the envelopes to make sure nothing was missing, then tucked them in the bedding by his side. When he saw that Scott was eyeing him curiously, Johnny flushed and said, "Private stuff, that's all. And I'd like my gun a bit closer."

Scott frowned and glanced at the gun, but didn't move to fetch it.

"I'm not gonna use it on myself, Scott," Johnny said sardonically. He knew he never would have crossed that threshold, but it was apparent that Scott believed he had intended to turn his gun on himself. Well, he had fleetingly thought about it, but that was back then, when he was under the influence of the medicine and a dark depression. This was a new day. Not much better an outlook, but at least he had a clearer head. Scott wasn't going to give an inch, he could see. "Look, brother, you can trust me. I seem to recall I wasn't feeling too good that night but I'm better now. I'm fine."

"Trust you?" Scott scoffed, "You know, Johnny, you think that saying you're fine makes everything all right again. As if nothing ever happened."

"All right, all right, I admit it, I was wrong to help myself to those pills, but I was hurting and. . . I needed, Hell, I needed something to take the edge off. I was cleaning my gun, is all. Honest." He shrugged a little and gave a smile.

"You nod your head and smile and say all the right things," Scott said angrily, "but then you turn around and do exactly what you want to do. And damn the consequences! Val saw you with your gun to your head, Johnny. And then you pointed it at Val when he came in to help you! You can't deny it!"

Unable to face how close to death he'd been the night before, Johnny did indeed deny his intentions. He reasoned, "It wasn't planned. I'd never hurt Val. He knows that, and as far as seeing me holding a gun to my own head, well, he's used to seeing too many off-the-wall characters in his line of work. Whatever he thinks he saw, he was wrong. I'd never do something like that. Now lay off me, will you?"

"You don't remember that I came in here and found you hanging onto that gun like it was your only remaining friend? I saw you, too." Although Scott had not intended to light into his brother, once he started, he couldn't stop. "You have to think, Johnny. Think about what your actions would have meant to your father. How would he have felt if you'd killed yourself, and under his own roof? He'd have found some way to blame himself, that's for sure. How could you even contemplate bringing such a burden down on this family?"

"Because I am a burden!" Johnny yelled back, "I've been nothing but trouble since the first day I came here all those years ago. Isn't that what you mean? And now you're saddled with me, you'll all have to fetch and carry for me the rest of my life? No. No! I'm not as all-out selfish as you're making me to be, Scott. You won't have to worry about me being around much longer."

***–***TBC