Chapter Fifteen

Johnny frowned in confusion. He didn't understand Sam's words, because they went against every similar situation he had ever experienced. "He was talkin', Sam. How could that mean he might not be wakin' up?"

"It could mean quite the opposite. He's in a lot of pain, and he's overheated. That's the only thing occupying his mind. He may be unconsciously reaching out for relief by seeking a place of peace that will send him farther away from consciousness, where he knows the pain will be much worse than what he knows now."

Sam watched as Johnny slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sam. I just can't believe that. I know you're the doctor, but I think Scott is tryin' to come back to us, because he knows that he can find peace with his family." Johnny was attempting as hard to convince himself as he was Sam.

"I'm not saying he isn't coming back, Johnny. I'm just trying to let you know there's a possibility that he isn't. You have to be prepared for that."

Murdoch listened to the exchange between his son and his long-time friend but still didn't know what to think. He so wanted to believe that his youngest son was right and that Scott really was reaching out to his family. But, Sam was a damn fine doctor and knew what he was talking about. He knew his friend was not going to offer false hope, no matter how soothing that might be for the time being.

Right at that moment, Murdoch couldn't trust his father's heart, because it was probably telling him what he wanted to believe, not necessarily what was true. He almost laughed to think that he was so clear headed about being so confused.

Johnny, on the other hand, was not the least bit confused. He had complete faith that Scott was indeed waking up. He refused to let any other outcome enter his mind.

Johnny re-wet the cloth he held and ran it slowly over Scott's face. "You'll be fine, Scott," he whispered, offering encouragement, sure his brother could hear him. "I'm right here, brother, so talk to me."

He sat on the edge of the bed. While he continued his ministrations, memories from the past invaded his thoughts, which he began to express verbally. "I never thought I'd end up with a Boston dandy for a brother. Then, you went about makin' me see that there's more to a man than his appearance. Well, the way you appeared when I first sat next to you on the stagecoach. Boy, was I in for a surprise.

"I got to know you, got to work out what kind of man you are. Now, I have, I'm not about to let you go. You understand me, Boston? You're comin' back, and I won't take no for an answer. We'll deal with the pain, and whatever else you're sufferin', together. You got that?"

The more he spoke, the more commanding and confident he became. His softly-spoken voice was firm yet filled with affection, as he did his best to keep the fear at bay. He was startled by the sudden thought that he was more afraid now than he had ever been in any gunfight in his past, including facing the Flemings and Pony Deal.

As Murdoch listened to his youngest son talk quietly to his brother, he felt a twinge of... He wasn't sure what it was. It was pride, for sure. Pride that his sons had become so close after having been raised apart and in such different circumstances. But, there was more to it than that. There was also a small bit of jealousy, something he wasn't happy to confess, even in the privacy of his own mind.

He would have given anything if he could just make himself say the same kind of things to Scott that Johnny just had. Why was it so hard for him to express his feelings for either of his sons?

He loved them both more than his own life, yet actually saying something like that to them was beyond him. Murdoch tried to tell himself that it was his actions let them know how he felt, but honesty made him admit that that wasn't always true. How many times had he yelled at them, or said something in the heat of the moment that he didn't mean, something that had hurt them, for one reason or another?

He could clearly remember times when fear for one or both of them had made him lash out at them in anger. He knew it was a defense mechanism to keep himself from letting that fear overwhelm him. How foolish was that, when words of love and encouragement would have meant so much more to all of them?

There was something else he had to admit. He feared refection. Despite the time that had passed since Scott and Johnny had come home, the pain of that first meeting was hard to shake. He had made inroads in his relationship with his sons, he knew, but there was still a fragile balance that could be blown apart with the slightest misstep.

With Scott the distance between them usually had to do with why he had left his boy in Boston to be raised by a man he neither liked or respected. With Johnny, it was Madrid. Murdoch sighed, as the thought pricked his mind. It always seemed to come back to Madrid.

Murdoch clenched his fist and turned his head away, closing his eyes against the biting truth that had haunted him since the day he had first lost Scott as a baby, compounded by Johnny's loss a little over three years later. What kind of paternal instincts had been wounded by the first even and then snuffed out by the second?

Bitterness rose up in Murdoch's throat, where he felt sure it would choke him. Was he even worthy to try to be a real, flesh-and- blood father to these two young men? Would he now get no more than the brief chance he had already been given to be one to his firstborn?

With the stubbornness of a strong-willed Scotsman, Murdoch felt it was now or never, and if he didn't choose to follow his heart right then, he could lose the opportunity forever.

He stood up and walked around to where Johnny sat. "John, let me do that for a while." He was tempted to say that Johnny needed some rest, but he knew that would be a coward's excuse. That wasn't the reason he wanted to relieve Johnny of his task, and he wasn't going to say otherwise.

Johnny started to protest, but when he looked up into his father's face, he saw a melancholy so deep that only death itself could make it more profound. So, without a word, he stood and moved aside, yielding his position to the Lancer patriarch.

Murdoch took Johnny's place, reaching out for the cloth that his son still held in his hand, heedless that it was dripping on his boots.

Being as careful as Johnny had been not to get the bandage on Scott's neck wet, the big rancher began to duplicate his youngest son's movements, grateful when Sam re-entered the room with yet another bowl of ice-cooled water.

"Your brother is right, Scott," Murdoch said, his voice low but still strong. "You'll come back to us. You just need to concentrate on getting better. We'll deal with the aftermath of what happened as a family. Please, son, you must wake up."

The words were softly spoken and though they were heartfelt, they didn't reflect how awkward he felt and how angry at himself he was for feeling that way. Johnny had spoken to Scott so easily, with no hint of self-consciousness. Why couldn't he talk to his son like that? His unease didn't seem to be affected by the fact that Scott was unconscious.

Murdoch had gotten no farther than the words he had already spoken to Scott, when his eldest son mumbled something that neither man could quite catch.

Before either could lean in closer and ask for a repetition, Scott said, "Johnny, that you?" His voice was raspy, slightly sluggish and barely above a whisper, but it was clear enough to be heard.

"No, son. It's Mur.. It's your father."

After a brief pause, when both Murdoch and Johnny were sure Scott had not heard and wouldn't answer, the blond Lancer said, "Murdoch?"

A small smile broke out on Murdoch's face. "Yes, Scott. It's me. Johnny is here, too."

"Johnny? OK?"

A huge grin spread across the youngest Lancer's face. "Yeah, Boston, I'm right here. And, I'm fine," he added to reassure his brother that nothing had happened to him.

He turned a beaming smile toward Sam, who moved toward the bed. "I told you."

"Yes, you did." Sam acknowledged with a smile of his own. This time, he wasn't about to say a single negative word. In fact, he wasn't going to confirm or deny that Scott was finally coming around, though he had to admit, it appeared that the young man had responded to direct comments by both Murdoch and Johnny and was not just talking randomly, as he would be doing had be been in a haze of delirium. Sam hoped with all of his medically-trained being that it was true.

He moved over to the opposite side of the bed from Murdoch and carefully examined his patient. Sam Jenkins had never been a fast worker, but he was extremely thorough.

When he finally straightened up a while later, he had a cautious smile on his face. "I think his fever's down a bit, not much, but enough to be encouraging." It felt good to be able to say that to this anxious family.

"Then, we won't have to put him in that tub of ice you mentioned." Johnny held his breath. He was afraid he was about to hear more negative news from Sam about Scott's condition from Sam.

"Yes, Johnny. Right now I would have to say that we won't have to resort to that. There's a way to go yet before Scott's fever breaks, but for now, no ice bath."

"Ice bath?" came a whispered question from the figure on the bed.

Johnny laughed. "Yeah. We were afraid we'd have to dunk you in one. Sam still hasn't completely given up on that idea, so you best be gettin' yourself better real fast." Johnny was showing nothing but white teeth.

The entire conversation with Scott, limited though it was, had been conducted with the blond's eyes firmly shut. He had tried to open them, but they felt like lead weights were resting on each one. When he heard Murdoch ask him to open them, he gave a supreme effort and managed to get them at least half-way open.

"You're doing good, son," Murdoch encouraged. "Keep trying."

Concentrating on nothing else, Scott finally managed to open his eyes all the way. He tried to focus on the shadowy shapes that hovered above him, but the haze made him feel like he was looking through a low-lying fog bank.

It was obvious to Sam that Scott wasn't seeing clearly, but he needed to know how much the fever and blood loss may be affecting the middle Lancer. "Scott, can you recognize any of us by sight?"

"No," came the unhappy answer, as Scott blinked slowly several times. He scrunched up his face in frustration. "Hazy shadows," he declared, as he continued trying to clear his vision.

Murdoch was also frowning. "What's wrong, Sam? Why can't he see properly?"

TBC