Chapter Fourteen

The Lancer patriarch was trying hard to keep his true feelings from bubbling over into a verbal assault on the young man sitting across the bed from him. He held back, because he realized that he was mad at Johnny Madrid, not his son, Johnny Lancer. It had taken him a long time to separate the two, which at times like these, he wasn't entirely successful at doing.

Since his sons had come home, Murdoch had made a conscious effort to give Johnny the benefit of the doubt. It was true what Johnny had said; he didn't invite these men, or indeed any of the others who came after Madrid's reputation. But, in the end, he couldn't deny that, intentional or not, Madrid had brought them, and as much as Murdoch hated the idea, Johnny Madrid was as much his son as Johnny Lancer was.

Looking at the expression of pure misery on Johnny's face, making him look like a lost little boy, Murdoch's heart couldn't stop itself from going out to him. If only he could reach out and hug this son the way he had when Johnny was a baby and was hurting. His boy was hurting now, but Murdoch just couldn't make himself react in a physical way. He tried to soothe his conscience by telling himself that he doubted Johnny would appreciate the gesture anyway.

Murdoch was no closer to sorting out his emotions about his youngest son than he had ever been. Reality struck when he realized that he had to just sidestep that issue and concentrate on his oldest boy. However, he felt the need to offer up one last effort to deal with Johnny's feelings.

"Do you think your brother would blame you for this?"

When Johnny didn't answer, Murdoch repeated himself.

Johnny shook his head. "Said he didn't," he mumbled, remembering the words Scott had said to him before he had passed out in the street. "Not...your...fault."

"If Scott doesn't blame you, then there's no reason why I should."

Johnny raised his head and stared at his father, slightly stunned, not quite trusting what he had heard. "You mean that?"

"Yes, Johnny, I do," Murdoch replied without hesitation. "We need to talk, but now is not the time."

Johnny nodded. 'All right,' he thought, 'two of us are being too generous', however, he'd wait to see what his father would have to say to him. For now, he still stubbornly hung on to the blame he held for himself.

"Yes, you should," was all he said out loud, before going back to his task of trying to bring his brother's fever down.

Murdoch was still no closer to sorting out Johnny's emotions or his own about his youngest son than he had ever been. Johnny had accepted Murdoch's words too easily. The young man's feelings may be at stake here, but it was Scott's life on the line, and that had to come first.

When Murdoch again felt of Scott's forehead, he frowned. He hoped it was his imagination, but he believed his son's fever was even higher than it had been when he had first arrived.

"I'm going to get Sam," Murdoch declared, trying to keep his voice even, as he slipped out of the room.

Johnny didn't have to ask why Murdoch was going to get the doctor. His heart sank even more when he duplicated his father's move and touched his brother's heated skin.

"C'mon, Boston. You gotta get better. I couldn't live with the guilt if..." Johnny stopped and took a deep breath. "...if you don't wake up and let us know you're in there fightin'." He didn't mean to express any doubt about that last statement, because he knew Scott was no quitter. "Damn it, brother, you just gotta turn the corner, like Sam always says when one of us is being stubborn about gettin' better."

Just then, Sam walked into the room, followed closely by Murdoch. He checked Scott and came to the same conclusion as the other two Lancers had done.

"His fever's up."

"All that cool water isn't workin', is it?" Johnny asked angrily. His frustration was building.

Sam gave the young Lancer a sad smile, knowing the anger wasn't directed at him. "That's one of those questions you can't really answer, because you don't know how bad it would be if you weren't doing it."

Johnny searched the man's face, trying to decide if that was really ture, or if his friend was trying to keep him from feeling worse, as if that was possible.

"Keep using the water, Johnny. If Scott's fever doesn't come down after a while, we'll have to use stronger measures."

"What does that mean?" the dark-haired young man asked.

"Put him in a tub of ice," Murdoch replied before the doctor could answer. When Johnny turned to his father, the big man said,"I've seen that used a time or two, in the past."

"Murdoch's right. It's not something I like to do unless absolutely necessary. It causes a shock to the system and can cause other problems, but if his fever doesn't come down, it could kill him, or cause brain damage."

Johnny picked up the cloth and began soaking Scott as fast as he could, heedless of the fact he was dripping water all over himself and the bed.

"Easy, Johnny," Sam said softly, laying a restraining hand on the youngest Lancer's arm. "Just keep doing what you were doing before. I'll bring more water, and this time I'll put a little ice in it."

All the way out the door, Sam was hoping that colder water applied the way Johnny was doing it would be enough. He didn't want to think about having to put Scott in a tub of ice water. Even if that brought his fever down, if it happened too fast, it could cause convulsions, and that way led to nothing but a bad outcome.

Sam sighed to himself. Scott could still die from blood loss, or from infection, if it developed, or being too hot or being too cold. Even the convulsions could simply shut his heart down. Not good. Not good at all.

x x x x x

First was the heat. No, he thought. First was the pain, a searing, white-hot feeling that lanced through the area between his neck and his left shoulder. It felt like he was being branded.

His mind wandered after that, seeming to circle around but always coming back to the pain. Had he somehow fallen into a fire? No amount of trying could bring to mind the last conscious thought he had had. He couldn't even remember what he had been doing, much less how he had become injured, for surely pain this intense had to come from an injury.

He tried to move away from the agony, but it relentlessly followed him, the tendrils of heat working their way into every inch of him. He tried to run, but he had no sensation of movement. That didn't make sense, did it? Was he tied up? Had he been shot and then bound, or possibly the other way around?

Then, the heat began to built up. It was much more that just his neck that was bothering him now. The discomfort started small but soon grew and spread. Again, he wondered if he had fallen into a fire. No amount of searching produced a place where he could escape the inferno that was building inside of him.

Suddenly, there was relief. A cool feeling moved up and down his face and upper body. It felt so good - for a while. Much too soon, though, the heat overtook him again. The coolness was still there on the surface, but underneath, his body was still burning. Before he knew it, the searing pain intensified in his neck. What was happening to him?

His next thought was to just lie still. It was evident he wasn't going to be able to move away from the pain and the strange feeling of cool-tinged heat. Maybe, if he lay perfectly still and tried to will the increasing agony away, it would work. What else could he do? He needed help.

He soon became aware of sounds that were drifting through the void and swirling around him. At first, they were vague, not sounding like much of anything, but at least, it was something besides his misery he could latch onto.

Just as they seemed to be coalescing into sounds he recognized as voices, they faded into indistinct noise. Still, he was excited, because he knew that now, he was not alone. Now, he only had to let the people that belonged to those voices know that he was in trouble and needed their help. He had to call out to them, get their attention before he succumbed to the flames that he felt were consuming him.

x x x x x

Johnny had been relentless in his attempts to lower his brother's fever. The idea that if he failed, Scott would have to be put into a tub of ice water, which could do all kinds of other damage, scared him as much as the fever did.

Murdoch had begun to use more of the ice-cooled water Sam had brought to rub on Scott's legs. Between them, he and Johnny were working on him head to toe.

Sam came in to check on the progress now and then, each time saying that even though Scott's fever hadn't come down, it also hadn't gone up. It may not have sounded like much of a victory, but to the oldest and youngest Lancer, it was definitely a step in the right direction.

Suddenly, Johnny's head jerked around, as he stared down at Scott. "Did you hear that?"

"What?" Murdoch asked, having no clue what Johnny was talking about.

"I think I heard Scott." He didn't really explain but instead stood up and leaned over his brother. "Scott? You tryin' to talk?"

There was no sound and no movement from the blond. Nothing that would indicate Johnny had really heard his brother, so with both a look and a sigh of disappointment, he sat back down.

Then, he heard it again, was a distinctive groan, one indicating discomfort.

This time, Johnny dropped the wet cloth over the edge of the bowl and shifted from the chair to sitting on the edge of the bed. He placed both hands on either side of Scott's head, turning it toward him. "Scott, can you hear me? It's Johnny. Say something, brother."

There was a louder groan from the older man.

Murdoch went to the door and yelled out for Sam, who came running. He couldn't tell from the man's bellow, if there would be good or bad news awaiting him.

"Need...help," were the desperate, raspy words that Johnny, who had his ear down near Scott's mouth, heard his brother say.

When the doctor entered the room, he heard Scott mumble something but couldn't make out what it was. "Is he saying something?"

Johnny looked up, first at Murdoch then at Sam. "He said he needs help."

Bending back down, Johnny whispered, "We're doin' everything we can, Scott. You just keep fightin', and we'll help get you through this."

"Hot."

"Yeah. You got fever, but we're gettin' that down some." It was a small lie, but he was more concerned about reassuring his brother than being brutally honest. He wanted Scott to believe he was getting better and shouldn't give up.

Sam, ever the believer in honesty, had to deflate the Lancers somewhat. He was thrilled that Scott was able to communicate, though he knew it didn't necessarily mean he was better.

"Murdoch, Johnny," Sam addressed the two men, "Scott may not be waking up."

TBC