The Mesteñero

by PeaceintheDarkness

Episode Tag Chase a Wild Horse (S1E3) for the Lancer 55th Anniversary Event: Murdoch and Johnny continue their struggle to find a way to become father and son with Scott trying to pacify his father while holding on to his brother. Visitors to the ranch cause conflict that may break the family apart. Also found on Lancer Fiction Gateway. Warnings: Violence, Language

The Mesteñero

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Episode Tag: Chase a Wild Horse (S1E3)

Written for the Lancer 55th Anniversary Event

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The incessant tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock bore into his head as steadily as single drops of water slowly, patiently drilling a hole through stone. And the rock of his resolve was undoubtedly just as dented. The grating bong-bong-bong of the hourly chime jarred him from his large leather chair, driving him to stand at the great window behind his desk. He stared at the massive white, adobe arch visible in the distance announcing to all who approached that they had arrived at Lancer. A familiar sense of pride soothed his rising agitation at the sight of the proclamation to the world of the expansive ranch he had worked bone and blood to build. But it wasn't the arch he cared about. Not today.

Murdoch Lancer spun and crossed the Great Room, storming to the French doors flinging the way open, and stepped outside as if his presence could summon the very angels of heaven—or, more fittingly in this case, the demons from hell. All he wanted was the appearance of his son. The timely appearance of his son.

Yes, his resolve to practice patience and understanding cracked with every tick-tick of the damn clock. Scott, his elder son, and Teresa, his ward, both reminded him that Johnny was unaccustomed to keeping the time of others having been on his own for far too many years. Cipriano, his Segundo since the murder of Teresa's father, Paul O'Brian, assured him that Johnny worked hard and well with the other hands earning their respect as a rancher—not a gunfighter. Even Maria, his long-time housekeeper, hmphed and muttered when Murdoch bellowed his disappointment at his youngest, but she had been a second mother to the boy since his birth and had grieved his disappearance when his mother stole him away when he was a toddler. None seemed to understand that Murdoch simply needed Johnny to accept his new life and conform to the needs of the ranch.

Over a month had passed since the brouhaha with Wes and the Strykers. He had even taken Johnny to Black Mesa to corral five wild mares and allowed him time to work with them. And there did seem to be an interest in Johnny's endeavors. A beautiful sorrel had been sold to Aggie Conway. Was that an interest or a kindness? Murdoch couldn't be sure. Aggie had a soft spot for his youngest son remembering the charismatic child that had manipulated the hearts of many workers, friends, and neighbors of the ranch before he disappeared into the night some eighteen years ago. Johnny and Scott intended to take the remaining mares to auction in another month. That would be a better test. Murdoch questioned the efficiency of time though. A man could focus on taming only one horse at a time whereas he could mind a small herd of cattle. Surely, he wasn't alone in understanding the difference!

He was trying damnit. He sent Johnny into Morro Coyo because he knew the boy was more comfortable there. More accepted. Even after Pardee made his base there. The town still favored its Mexican roots and many of the townspeople had lived there since his own estância had been held by Don de la Cal Fernández Velásquez. Johnny was one of their own. And that's where he went the day he left with Wes.

That's where Wes died. Another young life lost in the dirt. And for what? Murdoch didn't even know Wes's surname. Cipriano did the hiring and typically distributed the wages. Murdoch did the books, of course, but Scott had taken over payroll saying he wanted to learn the names of the hands. Murdoch glanced over his shoulder at his desk. The binder detailing the payroll rested on the corner. He could easily flip the pages to find the man's name, his signature. Or was it a mark? Next to it would be the written record of the day Johnny took his $12 and left.

Murdoch refused to think too hard about the possibility that Johnny would have kept on riding if it wasn't for the young fool of a ranch hand acting an idiot doused in a bottle of booze. Murdoch heard it all from beginning to end—from Dan Spencer at the livery and Rafael Baldermero at the mercantile and Nelio Cerda at the cantina and every other man or woman who wanted to bend his ear about that boy of his. They all told how Johnny wasn't drunk, hadn't even been drinking but just sitting to himself with a barely touched beer in front of him. They told bits and pieces that ended with Wes attempting to break the wild stallion and paying the price for his foolishness. They spoke in impressive tones of how Johnny mastered the horse and sold him for what? Dan wouldn't say. Said he didn't discuss his business like that. He even heard from Scott in that damnable calm tone of his suggesting he should do more to bring Johnny home. What? Chase down a wild wolf cub? Force him to stay? Well, Johnny was hardly a cub.

But Johnny had come back on his own. He came back wanting to talk to his father only for Murdoch to try to kick him away. Damn the timing of it all! The Strykers were back, too, demanding vengeance because Eli had died with Johnny's bullet in his chest. Murdoch had given them the mares, but Eli wanted the stallion. That damn horse led to the death of two men! When Johnny pushed him to the ground, Eli pulled his gun. Johnny Madrid earned his reputation. He spun and fired with speed and grace that no man on this ranch could match. The ranch, hell, maybe no man in the San Joaquin valley. No man from here to Mexico and beyond. His son, the infamous gunhawk. One of the best. God help him, Murdoch hated that.

The Strykers were back demanding Johnny. Expected Murdoch to hand his son to them. A life for a life. With almost all the hands working the range, they were outnumbered. He had to get Johnny away. The words still burned in his throat.

I don't need you. Now or ever.

And to see that flash of hurt in his son's blue eyes. The blue eyes that danced like sparkles in a spring stream when, as a child, he ran into his Papa's waiting arms. The eyes roiling with anger like a flooded river when he stormed into The Great Room to meet his father who he believed threw him out with his mother because of his heritage. The eyes that froze as hard as a mountain glacier in winter when they faced the menace of Pardee and again when Murdoch refused to support him when Stryker lied about the wild herd. Johnny only let the hurt flicker. Come and gone like a will-o'-the-wisp on the moors of Scotland. And Murdoch buried his own hurt watching his son's back marching toward the door. Johnny was leaving because Murdoch insisted that he go….

…Until Scott stumbled into the room, a bullet wound taken for his brother, yet still the older brother defended the younger. And Teresa interfered and told Johnny the truth. They fought together, driving the Strykers from their land. And so, Johnny stayed.

Murdoch traipsed to the far side of the house, allowing him to see the well-worn trail that led to Morro Coyo and stared at the arch, shimmering in the heat. A chill shook him for a moment. The Strykers were still out there. They didn't go to the law with their grievances and although they left the ranch quietly enough, Samuel Stryker lost a son. Murdoch had no doubts that the man still wanted his.

The unrelenting chimes announced the half-hour. Murdoch realized his hand was throbbing from the fist he had made. Slowly, he unclamped the cramping fingers. He had done what Scott and Teresa and Cipriano and Maria wanted. He had eased back and given Johnny a little lead in the reins, he traded the gag bit for a snaffle, he loosened the cinch on the saddle. And he trusted him with an important job. He had sent him on a simple errand to pick up the special delivery pouch coming with Jasper Hardcastle's executed contract on the morning stage. It had taken him months to negotiate a prosperous deal for Lancer with Scott's invaluable input to push it through. His eldest son's business acumen was a true asset to the ranch. All Johnny had to do was pick it up and bring it back.

Murdoch sent him into Morro Coyo to meet the stage, knowing he would take a little time for an authentic Mexican meal of too spicy food at the cantina and to enjoy some tequila with a cold beer. Maybe even find some company although the father chose not to dwell on those thoughts. But his son was a young man of twenty whose charm delighted the ladies—well, the women—he sought out. He expected him to shake his mane and snap his tail and enjoy a little time free from the hard labor Lancer demanded—Murdoch demanded—but now he was overdue. Two hours overdue by his reckoning. He had made clear the importance of those papers even as the boy smoothly vaulted onto his palomino!

"Murdoch, ya won't even have time to miss me," Johnny had laughed as he waved his hat and whooped at his brother when Scott yelled, "I'll miss you on that north fence line, Brother!" Johnny wouldn't have seen the nod of approval Scott had given their father before he mounted his own horse joining the crew to follow the wagon filled with posts and wire for a day of true work.

Murdoch's heavy breath uncoiled when he spied the dust rising on the southern skyline announcing a rider long before the figure dotted into view. No, not rider. Riders. As they approached, Murdoch saw the golden horse with the proud rider and recognized Johnny in his colorful clothing and relaxed seat in the saddle long before he could make out his features. As they drew near, the man with him became just as distinctive. A trail-worn vaquero on a large, bay roan gelding. The air between them was obviously familiar. Just the same as the day Johnny brought Wes into the yard announcing an amigo he used to ride with.

The fire in his gut blasted as hot as the wildfires blown by the Santa Ana winds.

Murdoch was trying. That boy didn't seem to give a damn.

xXxXx

"Heeeelllloooo, Murdoch," Johnny shouted a warm greeting with an infectious smile as the pair approached the entry where Murdoch stood. His hat rested between his shoulder blades, the knot of the stampede string under his chin. His dark hair was a tumbled mess proclaiming the free-spirited gallop that he used to travel to and from the nearby town. Noticing things was a skill that had kept Johnny prepared and responding accordingly had kept him alive. Seeing the scowl on his father's face, he opted for diffusion over discussion.

"Gracias, Jose," Johnny's smile continued as he bounded from the saddle and handed the reins of his horse to the waiting teenager who had run from the nearby corral to meet them. He pulled the saddle bags from behind the saddle cantle onto his shoulder. "Stable both horses, por favor (please)." He didn't miss the look of a disgruntled bear that deepened Murdoch's features. "I'll be in to look after Barranca in a minute." He patted the rump of his horse as the stallion was led away.

Placing his hand on his friend's shoulder and pulling him forward, Johnny's smile became slightly forced under his father's glare. "Murdoch, this is Reynaldo de…."

"You did meet the stage?" The gruff voice matched the expression. Johnny saw that Murdoch's steel blue eyes made a dismissive look from Naldo's silver banded hat, along his golden embroidered shirt matching the braids on his bolero jacket, down his black leather pants with silver embroidery along the length of the seam tracing around the silver conchos that widened at the hem to cover his heeled black boots. How his father could see any of his friend's vaquero dress through the layers of brown and yellow dirt, Johnny didn't know but then he was pretty sure that was part of the problem. Johnny saw a man wearing a proud tradition. Murdoch saw a dirty saddle tramp. He swallowed back the angry retort that flipped onto his tongue and followed Scott's big brother advice to try to get along.

"Well of course I met the stage, right as it pulled in—they was running late but I never left the boardwalk. That's why I was there, remember?" Johnny drew on all his years of experience manipulating people to his own ends trying to tamper down the smoke coming from Murdoch's ears. He didn't think he was on a schedule to get back to Lancer, but it was clear the old man thought otherwise. "You know how persnickety ol' Lester can be. He wouldn't let me have the pouch right off the stage. I had to follow 'im into the post office and wait for him, sniffin' while he sorted an' stacked an' then made me sign for it before he'd give it to me."

"The man was doing his job, John."

"I know, I know. An' I let 'im. I didn't give 'im a hard time or nothing. I got yer special delivery right here." Johnny unbuckled the saddlebag that rested against his chest and started to dig when he didn't see what he sought on top. His heart froze as he mucked through the assorted wrong items. He glanced at Murdoch with a grin as he dropped the center strap across his arm and opened the other side. Seeing the rest of the things he picked up, but not what Murdoch wanted, he pushed deeper into the bag. He felt like he was on his belly crawling across loose shale on a mountain, trying to reach the safety of the top, sliding a foot back for every inch he crawled forward. He released his held breath in a whoosh when the corner of the oblong leather pouch came into view. He tugged it free then laid the rest of the mail on top of it.

He carefully pulled the assortment out of his saddlebag, keeping it as orderly as he could under the steely gaze. He passed it off with his smile intact, although he wasn't feeling much pleasure at Murdoch's grunt, accepting the bundle. Johnny didn't want Murdoch to think he was worried about any of it. He really needed his father to have faith in him to be responsible and know he was taking his work seriously. He couldn't help but picture the mountain that was his father, standing on the top of the slippery slope he was trying to climb, arms crossed, face full of doubt that his gunhawk of an embarrassing son could ever accomplish anything of worth.

"An' I picked up all the old mail as well as the new just arrivin' today. Hey, lookee, I also stopped off at Baldemero's and grabbed the newspapers ya like to read," the young man offered with a tinge of pride. "And you may not be too happy 'bout this, but I'm bound to git some fresh-baked cookies from Teresa when you give her this latest mail-order catalogue she's been nattering on about."

"Not all you picked up though, is it?" Murdoch murmured with a fleeting glance toward Naldo as he thumbed through the mail.

"Well, no, an' that's what I was about to tell ya. My bein' held up all worked out for the best, 'cause when I finally escaped from Lester's harrangin' me 'bout makin' sure I put the special delivery straight into your hands, I was just tryin' to git out as quick as I could and walked smack dab into Naldo here. Let me tell ya…."

"Put him in the bunkhouse. Should be some empty bunks," Murdoch spun toward the door. "You'll need Cipriano's approval to put him on the payroll," he added, his back to the two young men.

"Oh no, Murdoch, Naldo ain't here lookin'…," Johnny took a step in his father's direction as the door closed with a resounding bang.

"Fathers can be hard to please, amigo," Reynaldo observed as he sidled next to Johnny laying a friendly arm over his shoulders, giving a side hug while his free hand tapped gently at Johnny's firm stomach.

Johnny lowered his eyes glad for his dark skin that hid the red blush he felt creeping up his neck. Scott's embarrassment was always a dead giveaway making Johnny laugh a little. He'd wanted his new family to make a good impression but if anyone could understand, he knew Naldo would.

"Yeah, turns out mine is just as tough as yours, but louder. Much louder," the younger man allowed a laugh before muttering, "And I never can get it right. Come on. I'll come along to make sure you git the best bunk they got," Johnny nudged Naldo's ribs with his elbow then turned toward the barn. "Let's go get Barranca and Galante settled so you can hit the bathhouse before dinner. They'll be servin' up chow as soon as the men start makin' their way in. And with that look the old man just cut my way, might be safer for me to stay outta his way and join ya."

"Dios mio, Juanito!" Naldo exclaimed, his handsome face bright. "You know how to make me a happy man." (My God, Johnny!)

xXxXx

The steel blue eyes watching him over the top of the coffee mug warned Scott that breakfast was unlikely to be an improvement over the previous evening's dinner. Johnny had avoided the meal altogether by eating in the mess with who Murdoch tactfully described as "another drifter from Johnny's past." The designation wouldn't pass muster in Scott's Boston social circles, but, in truth, they would likely not have acknowledged the young man at all. Or Johnny, for that matter.

Scott's attempt to find his brother and introduce himself to his friend was forestalled when Murdoch pulled him into the study to further discuss the Hardcastle contract Johnny had returned. That conversation led to his recent sojourn into San Francisco to meet with a California state senator along with a sub-committee of the Cattlemen's Association and the promising contact made through a dinner engagement with an old rancher acquaintance of his father's. That the newly introduced gentleman was from New York, and they shared an interest in the theatre and an enjoyable evening out was a bonus. With dawn an unforgiving time for the day to begin anew, Scott took himself to bed when they were done with a promise to himself to speak to Johnny at breakfast.

"'Morning," he greeted as he slid into his place at the kitchen table.

"Good morning," Teresa returned before spooning oatmeal into her mouth, eyes down, as Maria slid a full plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. She obviously knew well enough to remain silent.

With a grunt, the steely eyes returned behind a raised newspaper. He frowned at Johnny's empty spot across the table from him. He knew his little brother was not in his room, but the rumpled sheets and tangled bedspread announced he had been there sometime during the night. Maria and her household staff cleaned the rooms daily.

Keeping his groan to himself, Scott reached for the coffee pot left on the table and filled his mug to the top. He needed more fortification before another round of 'what is wrong with that boy.'

"I have to make a run into Green River today to check for an important telegram," Scott announced as he set his mug to the table, grabbed his fork, and took his first bite.

"Can I ride with you?" With a quick glance at her guardian hidden behind the newsprint, Teresa brightened with a hopeful plea in Scott's direction.

"I hadn't intended on taking a wagon," the blond-haired man demurred gently.

"Horseback is fine. I don't need a wagon. Maria, you can spare me today, can't you?" The girl twisted in her seat to the cook and her longtime replacement mother.

"Sí, mi dulce niña. (Yes, my sweet girl.) You ride with Señor Scott. You can pick vegetables from the garden when you return. It is enough for today."

"Gracias! I had planned to meet with Mrs. Baker to discuss preparations for the upcoming fundraiser dance after church but if I go today, we won't be so rushed. Thank you, Scott. Thank you, Maria," the girl sighed contentedly before a nervous glance at the rustling paper promoted her to add, "Thank you, Murdoch." She rolled her eyes at Scott with a grin.

"I'll saddle your horse. We leave within half an hour," the young man gave her a wink. He grabbed a biscuit from the basket on the table finishing it in two bites before enjoying a piece of bacon. He would just have to adjust his promise to himself and find Johnny and meet his friend when he returned.

xXxXx

The vaqueros and cowboys draped over the fence departed with back slaps, jokes unfit for church—hell, some unfit for any place—and promises of triumph in the on-going bunkhouse poker game. End of day chores around the hacienda assigned— which he had thankfully avoided—Johnny watched them depart to their tasks from where he remained inside the corral. He hit his hat against his knee causing a dust cloud that made him cough. A snuffling behind him was followed by a warm puff against his cheek as the cremello mare nudged his shoulder expressing her displeasure at the continued disruption of her life. The mecate rein tugged at his hand when she stepped back, testing her freedom.

"Shhh, Espíritu Salvaje. Pronto correremos," (Shhh, Wild Spirit. Soon we will run.) he assured her, rubbing gently along her nose under the hackamore bridle.

"Ahhh, Juanito, you forever bring joy to my eyes." Reynaldo opened the corral gate and entered, leading his own horse, Galante. He gripped Johnny's upper arm, shaking him playfully. "Another Mistress has fallen under your spell."

"Well, I think she made sure I did my share of fallin' 'til any spell got through, but we're ready to ride," the younger man smiled at his friend as he continued to stroke the horse. Her feet danced at the nearness of the bay roan gelding who lifted and turned his head, ignoring her.

"As am I," the young vaquero returned the smile, his brown eyes locked on Johnny. "You can show me more of this rancho where you have finally made a home."

"Alright. We can ride along Cantina Creek," Johnny waved to the north. "That last storm that thundered through here sure did some damage, an' I wanna check it out."

"Juanito," a deep voice called from behind them. Cipriano joined them, having climbed the fence to enter the corral. "Fine work, hijo," he stroked the neck of the mare as he stepped slowly around the skittish horse to stand beside the men.

"Gracias," the dark head nodded toward the Segundo.

"Did you say you are doing more work today?" the elder man grinned.

"Sí. This girl needs to run so she knows that her freedom ain't been taken away. She just needs to share it now. Figure I might as well git ahead an' scout out that creek. I'll break it down for you when we git back."

"As long as you simply run for much of your journey, hijo. We work to live, not live to work, no?" The Segundo lovingly tapped the dark-haired man's shoulder. He had been a part of this land for most of his life. As a boy, his father had been a vaquero for Don de la Cal Fernández Velásquez and proudly followed him into the profession. When the gringo Murdoch Lancer assumed the mantle, he had watched and waited until the man proved his mettle and deserved the support of the men who had dedicated themselves to the estância.

He prayed for the soul of the first wife of the Patrón when she was taken with the birth of the first heir who himself was taken from them to be reared another world away. He observed the arrival of the second wife, full of fire and pride, unprepared for the demands of a growing ranch. He welcomed the birth of this son, the boy carrying the heritage of their people yet the blue eyes of the gringo. He loved this niño, and his heart was deeply bruised when he was stolen away in the night by his foolish mother.

The boy's return was a blessing, even knowing the difficult road the child was forced to travel to become a man, and the mantle of pistolero he had donned before he made his way back to his true home. Although the bruised heart of the elder man beat with trepidation that Juanito's own father did not see the strength of this young man, nor the boy see the truth of his birthright paid in full with his own blood, the Segundo intended to do everything in his power to open eyes and hearts of both headstrong men so that their souls would blend and become one with this land.

"Gracias, Cip," Johnny ducked his head, "Gonna run like we're chasing the wind. My kinda ride. Naldo?"

"Running free with my amigo brings good memories and now we shall make more," the young vaquero tapped Johnny's chest with the back of his hand then swung gracefully onto his horse.

Johnny whispered assurances to his green-broke horse as he mounted her slowly and settled into the saddle. She side-stepped and tossed her head, the blonde mane bouncing. Her rider shushed her as he tugged her into place with the thick reins. "Cip, we won't be long. Get the gate?" he asked as the two riders began walking toward the opening.

"Sí. Disfruta del viento en tus caras, mis amigos!' (Yes. Enjoy the wind in your faces, my friends!) The Segundo followed them out and secured the gate. Both men laughed and jumped into a canter through the buildings then roared into a full gallop as soon as they reached the open fields. Cipriano leaned on the fence, his arms crossed on the top rail, his foot on the bottom watching the pair shrink into the horizon.

"Was that Johnny?" a familiar voice, sharply edged, came up behind him. Cipriano straightened with a respectful nod.

"Sí, Patrón."

"What is he doing?" Murdoch carped, watching the distinctive red shirt fade and melt into the hills. His frown deepened when he noted the light horse with dark tail and mane that ran next to his son. The drifter was still closely associated with Johnny, too close for his comfort. He determined to tell his Segundo to avoid placing them on the same work crews. He didn't need another "Wes" situation.

"He is gentling one of the mares you brought back from Black Mesa. He taught her to accept a rider today. Now he is rewarding her with a run."

"I told him that work was to be done on his own time."

"Sí, Patrón. Señor Juanito spent the day herding the cattle to the south pasture as we discussed. He helped return many strays and with the recent rains, a few were pulled from the muddied gullies. The men left before the sun rose. He honored your wishes, Señor Murdoch. He rode the horse when they returned," the Segundo attempted to calm the anger he heard in the jefe's voice. Sadly, the Patrón's patience was often absent when faced with his youngest son. It had become a recurring joke among the men—out of his hearing, of course. He could chastise his trabajadores but changing the impressions of his jefe regarding the lost niño required a gentle touch.

"The new man worked the herd with them? That friend of Johnny's?"

"Oh, no Patrón. Señor Reynaldo is not doing ranch work while…," Cipriano corrected the larger man's error but was cut off mid-sentence.

"So, I'm feeding and bunking his drifter amigos now like another stray he dragged home," Murdoch snarled through a clenched jaw, a blue vein rising in his temple, before the Segundo could finish.

"No, no Patrón! Señor Reynaldo is a…."

"Hello Murdoch! Cipriano!"

Both gray-haired icons of Lancer turned as one.

"Scott! Teresa!" Murdoch raised a hand in greeting as his son and ward brought their horses to a stop near the older men. Cipriano tipped his hat first at Teresa, then Scott. "Did you have a good day in town?"

"A successful one, sir. Although I must apologize for the length of our stay. The expediency of telegraph wires certainly proved their worth today."

"It's so exciting!" Teresa beamed.

"The dance planning?" Murdoch looked at her with a tolerant grin.

"Well, yes, but no. That's not the exciting part."

"The telegram from Andrew Jessup came in as I was standing there," Scott assumed the explanation with a pleasant smile. "We were able to go back and forth and arrive at a quite satisfactory agreement. Let me cool down and stable this beast," Scott patted the shoulder of his faded black horse. "He earned his keep getting us home at Terea's pace."

"We ran them almost the entire way. We have so much to do!" the girl gushed.

Murdoch waved a patient hand. "The delay sounds completely understandable. No apologies needed, son."

"I will meet you in the Great Room for a scotch as soon as I get him settled."

"Can you take mine?" Teresa said the words but swung her feet to the ground and handed Scott the reins of her horse without giving him time for a response. "I must speak with Maria right away. We have so much to do!"

All three wide-eyed men stared dumb struck as the young woman, still in her teens, but certainly the mistress of the hacienda, practically skipped toward the adobe mansion.

"I'll meet you there, son," Murdoch took a measured breath with a slight shake of his head.

"Yes, sir. After a day with Teresa, I need a drink… or two," Scott rolled his light blue eyes and turned the head of his horse to the stable pulling Teresa's along.

Murdoch chuckled, taking a step to follow his whirlwind ward into the house. He jerked to a stop and turned back around pointing in the direction taken by Johnny and the other rider.

"Cip, I expect every hand on this ranch to earn his keep. I want that…that man…on a work crew or I want him gone. Good night."

"Señor Murdoch, about Señor Reynaldo…," Cipriano's interjection was lost as the large man spun and marched away without another look back.

The Segundo shook his head. For all his good qualities that instilled the loyalty of many on the estância, himself included, the Patrón was an insufferably stubborn man. Cipriano began his own steady walk to his horse for his short ride home and the promise of a filling meal. He wanted to talk with Isabella, his beautiful wife, and hear her insight. She loved Juanito, too, and he had no desire to hear again her anguished cries as when she lost her niño the first time. Perhaps he needed to adjust his guiding touch with the Patrón to better understand his second son from a nudge to a knock.

xXxXx

Scott made his way slowly up the wide front stairs after a tense night in the Great Room. Plans fully laid out for the next day, at least until they changed again, Teresa kept her nose on her sewing and his in a book, although he remembered nothing of what he had read. Murdoch slapped at the pages of his newspaper with the occasional thunderous look toward one door to another followed by a glower in the general direction of the bunkhouse. The unrepentant chimes of the grandfather clock became an unrelenting reminder of 'the boy's' unforgiven transgressions. Johnny's name never came up.

And speaking of the scoundrel, as Scott stepped onto the landing and strolled into the hallway, Johnny had just reached his bedroom door having come up from the back stairs, obviously entering through the kitchen.

"Sneaking in, Little Brother?"

Johnny's lop-sided grin remained visible as he looked down at his feet clad only in dirty socks, his boots in one hand and his spurs, rowels held firmly, by the other. He lifted blue eyes from beneath dark lashes and admitted, "Mebbe."

"I don't smell any beer…"

"Ain't been drinkin' on a work night." The grin turned down slightly.

"Your pockets any lighter…or heavier?"

"Ain't been playin' poker neither. Since I've been out doing my work and he's been out huntin' down his, Naldo and I haven't had any chance to talk 'cept in the evenin' but I think I got it all worked out now."

"Well, I hope so, brother mine, because our shared parent has certainly made note of your absence despite his abject refusal to speak of it aloud." Scott graciously opened Johnny's door for him and invited him in with a gallant wave.

"Yeah. I know. Thanks, Scott."

"I do want to make the acquaintance of your friend."

"Boston, some days I wish yer Spanish was better 'cause I sure as hell don't understand half the English you keep spoutin'."

"Hmmm, recap: Murdoch isn't talking about your recent disappearing act, but he is letting us all know that he's mad as a hornet about it, and I look forward to meeting your friend."

"I don't understand why ya can't jus' say that from the git go, 'cause if you would, I'd understand from the beginnin' and we wouldn't need no…recap."

"Duly noted, Brother." The smile on Scott's face touched Johnny like a cool breeze brushing across his face when he'd about given up on finding any comfort in a scorch-filled world. Maybe it made him careless. Or maybe it made him feel safe.

Scott wasn't sure what to make of the grin Johnny shared as his door swung close—a bit of contentment laced with melancholy. He worried about his brother. He wanted him in his life and the more they were together, the stronger that desire grew. But he couldn't help but feel the demands of this ranch and their father kept Johnny with one eye looking for a place to settle and the other wide open for the quickest path so he could make an escape.

Scott was a few steps away headed to his own door when he stopped and looked back as Johnny's softly drawled words sank in. He almost turned back to speak with his brother again, but he thought he heard steps at the base of the stairs. If Murdoch was on his way up, neither he nor Johnny needed those storm clouds opening up. He scurried into his room and shut the door, leaning against the wood as he listened to the heavy foot falls of his father pass by.

Scott took a deep breath and walked toward his bed as he unbuttoned his navy shirt, although his eyes were drawn toward the shared wall of his brother's bedroom. He cocked his head in that direction, but Johnny was as stealthy as a cat on the prowl, and he couldn't hear a thing. He added to the growing list of promises he had made to his brother that he would speak to Johnny about what he thought he heard him say and clear things up if he could. But even as he finally slipped between the welcome coolness of his sheets, and found his eyes easily falling toward sleep, he couldn't help but feel the sadness in his brother's voice when he had muttered the words, "Be mighty nice if I can show him I'm worth somethin' this time," just before the closed door ended their conversation.

xXxXx

"G'mornin', kitchen!" Johnny ricocheted through the room like a bullet stopping to plant a kiss on Maria's rounded and suddenly pink cheek and patted the top of Teresa's head before plopping into his seat next to Scott with a playful elbow nudge to his ribs. Murdoch remained behind yet another one of the several newspapers Johnny had bought him when he went into Morro Coyo.

"Woo-wee, pass the biscuits and ham. I gotta hole to fill this morning," Johnny blasted through whatever conversation had been taking place before his arrival. He piled several scoops of scrambled eggs onto his plate adding the requested items when Scott held the platter in front of his face.

"Don't be shy, Little Brother. Take all you like. You are the last to arrive and the rest of us have been served."

"Well, ya know, Brother, I never wanna look back on a day and think I left something worth having behind. And a good breakfast is always worth havin'." Johnny stuffed a biscuit in his mouth and chewed with a wide grin.

"Can't argue with that," Scott shook his head unable to keep the smile from his face as he returned to his coffee.

"Anyway, I was saying before I was interrupted," Teresa practically stuck her tongue out at the late arrival, "we most certainly must have steak but how should it be prepared, do you think?"

"Cooked," Scott muttered between bites, finishing off his eggs. "Teresa whatever you and Maria decide will be well received."

"There's the cooking but now there's also preparing the guest room. The linens and towels need to be washed and the room properly aired. Oh! Is he coming alone or are there others and how long will he be here? There are breakfasts, lunches, and dinners to think about. And what time did you say he is coming? Are you going to get him or is he coming on his own?"

"Teresa, calm down." Scott made the mistake of reaching out to pat the top of her hand. "It's just a dinner."

"Calm down!" The girl slapped his hand in return "Don't tell me to calm down! He's arriving today!"

Johnny's eyes followed the conversation with amusement. "Something I missed?'

"In fact, yes, John, had you been at the table for dinner, you would know that Scott has an important friend arriving from San Fransico today." The newspaper suddenly crashed to the table like a wall imploding to reveal a granite face, pale blue eyes steaming as if a geyser was about to erupt.

Uncharacteristically, Johnny's eyes widened revealing his surprise at the Old Man's ability to bellow without engaging his full-blown throttle. It worried him that the man had room to blow, and those eyes were full bore in his direction. But the gunfighter was well versed in the game of conceal and control. A neutral mask slipped onto his face as the words settled around him.

"I wouldn't place him in the friend category, just yet" Scott temporized seeing the change come over Johnny. They were still feeling their way in their relationship and the last thing he wanted was for his younger brother to think he was attempting to upstage or ostracize him. "Andrew Jessup is coming. He is more of a business associate. I met him last week through Murdoch's old friend, Gregory Prentiss, when I went to San Franscico to meet with Senator Reynolds with the political sub-committee of the Cattlemen's Association. You remember, Johnny. I mentioned it. He has an interest in establishing a more reliable supply chain to the Midwest."

Johnny wasn't given the chance to reply as Teresa burst in again. "He's from New York! But he's been developing contacts in Saint Louis and the Midwest. Isn't that right, Scott? Imagine having Lancer beef going all the way to St. Louis! And he's coming here to stay at the ranch! It's wonderful but there's so much to do on short notice to make him feel welcome," Teresa bubbled, excited for the company from the city and nervous to make a refined guest comfortable in their rustic home.

Johnny laid his napkin over his half-eaten plate and rose from his seat simultaneously pulling his hat that had been hanging at his back into its proper place to cover his mop of black hair. The snap of his spurs cut through the continued prattle as Teresa gushed about the impending visitor. His walk was so smooth, he almost floated across the floor. Teresa's words slowly stilled as she saw Murdoch and Scott's attention focused solely on Johnny and the girl turned in her chair to watch his departure. Even Maria was frozen in place, her apron skirt gripped in her hands.

Scott watched, mesmerized. He maintained a calm demeanor, but his stomach cramped nervously as he witnessed his brother's transformation. The shiver in his core spun like ice fingers around his spine. He recognized that look. It was the look of Madrid telling you in one heart-stopping glare that he knew his soul was damned, so he planned on taking you to hell with him. Suddenly Scott forced himself to move. He cleared his throat, leaned forward in his chair, and called out, "Johnny. Wait."

His brother stopped at the back door but turned to face the family. All of them stared at him. With a smirk on his lips but no humor in his vivid blue eyes—they were as cold as the ice Johnny wanted men to see—he tipped his hat and replied, "It all sounds great, Scott. You, Murdoch, Teresa, and Maria rollin' out the red carpet an' all. Wouldn't want any friend of the family to feel unwelcome, now would we?"

He spun and cracked open the door, stopping as Murdoch's pronouncement filled the room. Scott grimaced thinking the volume was loud enough to fill the entire hacienda.

"John, I expect you at dinner tonight promptly at 6. I would prefer sooner. We'll be having drinks at 5:30. Come properly dressed."

Johnny barely looked over his shoulder, his back stiff. Murdoch continued his discourse.

"We have a potential opportunity to expand into an agreeable arrangement with a cattle distribution group based on the west coast that can get our beef on the trains going back into the Midwest and potentially all the way back to the Atlantic. It's a huge potential market and we want a share if the numbers are right. Scott has opened the door for Lancer to be a part of it with this contact, and we need to see where it leads. As a partner in this ranch, minimally, I expect you here listening to the discussion."

"I would welcome your observational skills, Brother," Scott interjected. Misreading Johnny's body language as the younger son dropped his chin to his chest, he intended to further soothe over the situation by adding, "Don't worry. You don't have to engage in the conversation. Murdoch and I can do the talking. It would be worthwhile for you to hear first-hand what he can offer. I value your opinion." Scott tapped into his mannerly Boston upbringing keeping his tone conciliatory seeing the unyielding mask across his brother's face. Even with only about a quarter of his face visible, Scott saw the stone mask remain unbroken and was unsurprised when Johnny turned away without speaking and pushed open the door stepping partway across the threshold before he paused again.

"John!" Murdoch accessed a greater volume of his booming voice. "Over the last two days, you have been allowed to spend time with your… visitor …missing family meals for his company, and I imagine some of your work did a backslide since he's been here. I expect you to set aside your carousing for one night to attend to business matters."

"Backslidin' an' carousin'? Is that what I've been doing?" Johnny's words were spoken softly but carried as powerfully as Murdoch's.

"John. Six. Sharp."

Murdoch snapped his paper and resumed reading, brooking no argument to his order. Johnny didn't even turn around. He didn't speak either. He held his body perfectly still, almost frighteningly so, for a full minute before his spurs jingled, breaking the oppressive silence. He left. The door latched closed with a near inaudible click.

"Not a word, Scott. The boy needs to learn there is a time and a place."

At least he didn't slam the door. Scott considered it progress.

xXxXx

Tick-tick-tick

The large Scotsman squeezed his near empty tumbler of scotch with every beat of the incessant clock that drilled into his eardrums despite the convivial conversation among his family and their guest.

His family except for his wayward youngest son. Where was that damn boy!

His attention darted to the face of the grandfather clock standing staunchly along the wall like a sentry announcing seven minutes before the hour. His jaw tightened until it throbbed. He would have taken a hammer to the clock except that Catherine had insisted on its purchase to enhance the quality of the furnishings of the room. His shoulders relaxed briefly at the memory.

"All the best sitting rooms have one," she had giggled, and crooked her arm onto his elbow with a delighted smile as they gazed at her most recent delivery. "I find the sound a comforting companion."

You hadn't met Johnny, my dear, Murdoch hmphed aloud drawing Scott's concerned eye. He inconspicuously jerked his gray head toward the drinks table and was pleased his eldest son dutifully followed him. Taking advantage of Jessup's monologue toward the rapt Teresa regarding the explosion of products that would be at her fingertips when the rails and production houses dovetailed, Murdoch hissed instructions to his compliant child.

"Find Cipriano. Tell him to get your brother out of whatever nonsense he is up to and get back here."

"Yes, sir." Scott set his glass down before approaching the loquacious entrepreneur, taking his elbow briefly to garner his attention. "My apologies for the interruption, Jessup, but as you know, we are a working ranch. I must step out for a moment but shall return momentarily." Jessup gave a slight nod along with a wink to acknowledge the message but remained focused on the spellbound young woman.

"Dresses? Shoes? Hats? While they remain in fashion?" Teresa asked, her eyes dancing at the prospects. She did not attend to Scott or Murdoch, her brown eyes concentrated on the gentleman of culture captivating her imagination. He was not attractive in the conventional sense, but he projected an air of confidence and quality that courted her undivided attention. Certainly not handsome…like Johnny. He was…refined…like Scott. A true gentleman, just like in her novels. His light brown hair was thinning although she thought him in his early 30's. His eyes were a non-descript hazel and he carried the weight of a man who did not engage in much physical activity. His pointed nose stood out more because of his paunchy cheeks but his clothes were crisp and cultivated. He wore a cologne of some sort. Scott was the only other man she knew that did the same. It was nice. And the way he talked, more than the accent far different from anyone she had met, but his usage of words and description of possibilities were from the heart and mind of a man with dreams. She sighed happily.

"Of course, while still in fashion, my dear!" Jessup expounded, knowing it was always best to convince the wife, or in this case, the pretty girl who could wrap the men in this household around her finger. He recognized the dynamics within minutes of the introductions. "And more than that. Jewelry, perfumes, cloaks, shawls, and accessories of every style and for every occasion. Murdoch, you will need to build this young lady a bigger closet!" The salesman in him sought to engage the man he needed to impress but was quite aware of his distracted manner—and wondered at the reason and recognized the need to draw him into his vision—and the contract he needed him to sign.

The bong of the clock absent the ching of the spurs he expected to hear caused Murdoch's eye to crimp with every chime.

Bong-bong-bong-bong-bo-

Scott slipped in through the French doors on the fifth chime sounding and the slight shake of his head accompanied the sixth.

Murdoch was known for his temper, but he was an accomplished businessman. Thoughts of Johnny and his decision to cavort with a no-account drifter when he should be concentrating on the important needs of the ranch would be addressed at a later time.

Bong

"That's the dinner bell around here," he gestured toward the clock with his drink hand. "Please, Mr. Jessup, be seated."

The meal was a success. The table was beautifully arrayed with flowered eyelash lace atop a crisp linen tablecloth further accented by a golden runner matching the yellow rose centerpiece. Tapered candles burned in gold holders. Catherine's china and silver had been unwrapped from the cabinet drawers. Maria tapped two women to assist with the meal preparation and service allowing Teresa to act as hostess. The meat was succulent, vegetables crisp, bread freshly baked and a crème brûlée—which Maria had learned to cook for Señor Scott some weeks before—was perfection for dessert. Scott took charge of wine selection. Murdoch opened a bottle of brandy and splashed the high quality, dark amber liquid into sniffers when the gentlemen retired into the Great Room.

"Certainly a fine repast," Jessup praised both of his hosts with a raised glass once he made himself comfortable in one of the wide, leatherback chairs. "You are certainly doing your part to tame this corner of the wild west and I certainly hope to answer all your questions about sharing your cattle with the hungry markets to the east—for a profit, of course."

"Scott and I are open to hearing more about this proposition of yours and how Lancer might benefit from being a part of it. I must apologize for the absence of my younger son and the third partner of our ranch. He must have been caught up on the range. As you know, this is a working ranch."

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Lancer."

"Murdoch, please."

"Murdoch. Once I had the good fortune to meet your eldest son and we found so much common ground, I was pleased to see for myself the skills this young man brings to your well-known enterprise. He certainly helped bolster the desire for me and my associates to seek you out to explore the potential opportunities such a liaison might bring. You are an astute man, Murdoch, who years ago saw the untapped potential of a lawless land. You are a man of great renown, respected throughout the state, and the arrival of your sons into the business was quite the conversation piece over cigars and brandy. Although I must confess, as I made my plans to meet with you, I had a boyish excitement at shaking the fast right hand of the renowned Johnny Madrid, but I would hazard that we can conduct these talks without his involvement. I would expect a man of his…aaah, background…coupled with his reputation would offer little guidance or enlightenment on securing a mutually advantageous agreement."

Scott stiffened. "Jessup, I believe you will find that my brother is quite insightful on any number of topics."

"Oh, I don't doubt that at all, my good man; however, as I work with an extensive network of ranchers, cattle buyers, railroad executives and other entrepreneurs, your business acumen and presentation will be critical in these early stages. Although Mr. Madrid's presence would certainly bring a degree of curious interest as a side attraction over drinks, it may well prove a deterrent to the extension of a gentleman's handshake on a deal. To be blunt, avoiding lassoing the Lancer brand to the image of a man from, well, south of the border with a gun as a calling card will smooth negotiations for your initial agreements. These men are looking for stable and reliable profit, not a wild west adventure." Jessup gave a placating grin at Scott's frown. "Perhaps Mr. Madrid can assume a more visible role when the time is more suitable."

"Lancer. My brother's name is Lancer as is mine."

xXxXx

The constriction at his neck was the first to go as Scott tugged at one end of the black string tie. The discussions regarding Andrew Jessup's proposals went better than he had hoped once the man focused on the issues and not their family make-up. Damn prejudiced bastards. Throughout his adult life, he had his fill of mindless drabbles about the quality of one person over another based on family of birth, race, education, and the folly of granting the weaker sex greater access to decision-making, but the attacks on his little brother because of his heritage and background sparked an anger that surprised him. He yanked the tie from beneath his collar with a snap and tossed it into the drawer without rolling it up. Sighing, he retrieved it and wound it into a neat bundle and laid it next to his other ties.

He, and he suspected Murdoch, saw the potential of the deal, and he looked forward to discussing it with his father in more detail. Jessup promised to provide a written summation of the proposal before he departed the day after tomorrow. He had settled their guest into one of the downstairs rooms and would spend tomorrow escorting him around the ranch. Scott rolled his shoulders but found it did little to relieve the tension there as he unbuttoned his sleeves. He froze, his eyes toward the hallway door hearing the heavy tread pass by. Clearly, it was Murdoch. Johnny moved with the stealth of a predator except when he wanted to be heard. His father tromped like a bear.

The young man caught his own puzzled expression in the mirror hearing the knock on Johnny's door. His puzzlement was quickly replaced by worry and was pleased he could avoid answering any questions until breakfast. It gave him a chance to devise a diplomatic way to adhere to The Big Brother Handbook and protect another of Johnny's rash decisions. Not for the first time he considered penning the How to Avoid Annoying Your Father Manual to be left on the younger man's pillow but feared it would be tossed unread into one of the several empty drawers in the boy's dresser. He heard Johnny's door opened quietly, the shutting not so much.

His chin dropped to his chest at the firm rap at his own door.

After a short pause deciding there had not been enough time to feign he was tucked in his bed, he straightened, faced the door and stated, "Enter."

"Sorry to disturb son," Murdoch made his way in the room shutting the door behind him. Scott was accustomed to Johnny prowling through his room examining his things and flinging himself on his bed to chatter with him, and Teresa barged in from time to time, but this was the first time his father had been in the room with him. He was surprised at the nerves that rattled his teeth as he set his feet.

"It's no bother, sir."

"With our guest on the floor below, well, your room seemed more private than the study."

"Did you wish to discuss the proposition now, sir?"

"Discuss, of course, but that can wait. I want to know what you found out about your brother."

"Oh," Scott realized his mouth had frozen in that shape as he frantically sought a reply that would keep the civil tone Murdoch had established. He blurted an answer before he fully analyzed the possible responses, "I didn't have time to ask the why of it, so I only know where he went." The words tumbled. Ill-thought out. Falling short of his responsibility to shield his little brother.

"Where then?" Civility had turned cold, the wind warning of a storm.

"He will be away for a few days. Gathering stock."

"What kind of stock?" The air was heavy. Still. The quiet eye of the storm.

"Horses."

Scott heard the admission in his voice and hated himself for it, but an evasion forestalled the inevitable and a lie was unthinkable.

Tick-tick-tick

His pocket watch thrummed in his vest. Scott almost wished Murdoch would have yelled. The harsh hiss of the words abraded like sand driven by the storm.

"Didn't that boy learn anything from Wes and the Stykers?! Does he want to be a part of this ranch, of this family, or is it just a convenience when it suits him! I showed him respect. I explained he was part of the family decision. I gave him a chance to participate in Lancer business. I told him to be a part of this discussion."

"'Told' might be a notable point here," the elder brother said weakly.

"Is that it then? I am to cater to the whims of a gunfi…of an irresponsible boy with no consideration for the needs of this ranch? He chose himself over his family. The why of it is irrelevant. There is no more to be said."

Murdoch left no opportunity for Scott to rebut the stinging words even if he had a defense. His father spun and left, the door reverberating in the room as he slammed it into place.

Scott hurried to follow but his hand failed to turn the knob. He opened and closed his mouth at the sealed door, helpless to respond. He was furious at Jessup's abhorrent attitude regarding his brother and Murdoch's unbending demands of his younger son, and he realized as he slapped the wood with his palm, he was also furious at Johnny for proving them right.

xXxXx

Scott left the main barn with a sigh. Barranca's stall remained empty…he'd been hoping….

He had spent yesterday with Jessup, relaxing the formalities to Andrew. They had toured some of the highlights of the ranch resulting in a few backslaps from the older entrepreneur with affirmations that Lancer was exactly the quality of ranch he and his business associates were seeking—a golden opportunity for all—a long-term relationship with an excellent return—and he apologized for his crass remarks for Lancer's absent partner and was sorry that he had missed meeting Johnny. Whether he meant it or he knew a wise man had best practice diplomacy to cater to the foibles of a potential client—Scott hadn't fooled himself it was anything but the latter. He had been privy to far too many Harlan Garrett schemes not to recognize the practices that had made his grandfather a rich man.

The afternoon was coming to an end when Scott returned home after leaving Andrew at the stage depot in Morro Coyo. As they shook hands, Andrew concluded this trip promising a formal meeting in Sacramento to negotiate the finer points of the contract. He would send a telegram providing Scott and Murdoch with the particulars and he looked forward to seeing them soon. Johnny's name never came up.

He put away the surrey in the storage barn, leading the large horse to the main stock barn and curried Zanzibar himself. His eyes turned to the partially closed barn doors at every sound. He listened for the hoot that accompanied his brother's gallop into the yard, the jingle of his spurs as he trotted along with his horse while Barranca's head bounced with the rhythm to his stall, and the brilliant smile with which his brother greeted him especially after a few days apart. C'mon, Johnny. Get yourself home. We'll handle Murdoch together.

The yard buzzed with activity, crews riding in, the sinking sun promising an end to a long day and well-earned rest. Men laughed, the scents of a coming meal, the lilting Spanish of women giving their own orders to the returning men. Though still a newcomer to the ebb and flow, Scott had to agree with Jessup: his father had given him a home at a quality ranch, a place where he could settle.

Scott neared extended tile of the wide porch of the hacienda when his heart leapt. He spun, a wide smile warming his face. Only one man galloped in announcing his infraction of Murdoch Lancer's rules with a woot and wave his hat.

"Johnny!" he shouted, waving his own hat. Every eye followed his entry into the yard. Scott held his smile but shook his head at his recalcitrant brother leading in a string of seven wild mares, his vaquero friend holding the lead to three of them. At least he could fulfill one of his promises and finally shake the man's hand.

The commotion had the unfortunate effect of pulling Murdoch from whatever had occupied the man indoors and he strode through the large entry doors to stand next to his elder son. His grunt of displeasure alerted Scott of the tone of the coming encounter and braced himself to accept his role of mediator once again. Watching the nearby hands jump immediately to the task of opening the corral and helping to unharness the mares from their leads, the approving voices carried across the yard. The always reliable Walt accepted Barranca's reins as well as the bay roan gelding with the vaquero-styled saddle and bridle ridden by his Mexican companion. With his east coast bred limitations on west coast cowboys, Scott lacked the eye of the established hands and knew his assessment had little foundation; however, neither the horse nor the tack looked typical of that owned by a saddle bum. His curiosity gave him another reason to look forward to meeting the young man striding comfortably in their direction with his unrepentant brother. Johnny's grin was as wide and bright as the clear, open sky above them. And then the dark clouds rolled in.

"I can't for the life of me figure out what it's going to take to get through to that boy! I give a little and he wants to take more!" Murdoch's steam was rising as quickly as the two young men rapidly approached.

"Later, sir. We can do this later."

Murdoch glowered but clamped his mouth shut. His anger notwithstanding, it would not be a public spectacle. He crossed his arms as his youngest son and the other man—Ramundo or Ricardo or something—continued their walk toward where he and Scott stood.

"Woo-wee! Scott! Murdoch! Would you take a look at these beauties! Gave us quite a run to bring 'em in." Speaking as if he hadn't blatantly disobeyed the "tune caller's" instructions and gone in absentia for two days, Johnny waved his hat back at the mares. Their golden manes flowed while flicking their tails, almost long enough to drag the ground, as their feet danced in nervous circles in the corral, eagerly seeking a way out. Scott ducked his head feeling a sudden affinity for their desire to escape the fate pressed upon them. The pair stopped in front of Scott and his father.

"John. You were expected at dinner at 6. Two nights ago," Murdoch fumed. Johnny tapped his Madrid control and did not roll his eyes although thinking to himself that his father certainly got straight to the point.

"You ain't wrong, Murdoch," the blue eyes twinkled with hope, "but you said that dinner was to discuss potential business. I was handlin' the real thing. Before we get to all that, you never met Reynaldo properly and Scott ain't met 'im at all so—what's one of those you need a dictionary words you use, Boston?—let me rectify that situation. This here is…."

The young vaquero stepped forward quickly extending his hand toward Murdoch interrupting Johnny's introduction, "Reynaldo, Mr. Lancer. I cannot begin to express how thrilled I was to discover my good friend Juanito did not walk with the dead. The word of his demise has spread widely in Mexico."

"Not half as thrilled as me," Johnny half-smiled.

"I am here as the agent of Don Reynoso de Zúñiga Villaseñor." Scott saw Johnny's head tilt to one side with an eye cut in Reynaldo's direction, but he allowed his friend to continue.

"From the Durango area?"

"Yes, Mr. Lancer."

Scott joined his brother in a near matching head tilt. He noticed Reynaldo was consciously using all English words despite his dress proclaiming his Mexican heritage. The vaqueros of Lancer typically used a blend of common words and phrases in Spanish even when speaking in English. Reynaldo appeared to be closer to his own age of 24, standing about Johnny's height with hair just as black but with warm brown eyes versus his brother's vivid blue. He had the wiry build of a man who worked hard but he walked with an air of one who was accustomed to respect, not your typical cowboy… not cowboy, but vaquero as his dress attested. He had a mysterious smile like a man who always saw something others didn't and was used to keeping secrets. No wonder he got along so well with his brother.

"Don de Zúñiga's renown for his horses certainly has reached us here in the San Joaquin. I am pleased to say that I have acquired two mares from his stock over the years. We are a cattle ranch but I…we…do some horse trading here and there. What is your interest in the area?" Murdoch asked.

"The Patrón would consider it a simple charge," the young man had a pleasant, self-depreciating laugh, "Search far and wide seeking the horse of perfect physique, temperament, and stamina in order to strengthen the bloodlines of his herds. My journeys brought me to your new country exploring opportunities with the astute seller of such a horse but alas, I have found a less than desirable reception of my inquiries from the ranches I have visited. Imagine my good fortune when Juanito," he firmly tapped Johnny's back causing him to take a small step forward, "tossed me to the ground in his exuberant exit from the Morro Coyo postal office."

"Naldo, there ya go again talkin' like my brother, Scott here. All that uppity education practically ruined ya." Johnny tapped Reynaldo's cheek with a playful slap. Scott swallowed back a brief stab of jealousy at the obvious friendship between the two and the good-natured interactions that Johnny shared with him. Scott didn't know why he thought—hoped—that such banter was something special just between him and Johnny.

Naldo grinned. "I cannot argue with your assessment of my erudite elocution since we last spent time together, although I think the sagacious fellows of Yale might take offense, my friend."

"Now yer just showin' off," Johnny muttered.

"Yale?" Scott raised an eyebrow. "In the spirit of hospitality, you can be forgiven for that transgression."

"And accepted in the same spirit. Juanito spoke with pride of his brother who graduated from Harvard. However, I will credit my alma mater that allowed me to attend classes without the expectation that I would later be sweeping the floors for the privilege."

Scott laughed at the jibe. "Fair enough. The airs of the Hallowed Halls of Harvard have been known to brush away talent in their efforts to avoid chaff. Fortunately, cleaner winds are blowing, and a more welcoming breeze begun. The War of Rebellion did teach a few needed lessons after all."

This time Johnny let his eye roll run free. "Like I said. I'd welcome plain English. Or Spanish. Hell, anything decipherable will do. You two peas can sit in your pod when we're done transactin' business."

"John! Language!" Murdoch scowled.

"Scott, Reynaldo. Naldo, Scott," Ignoring his father, Johnny gestured to his brother and his friend.

"A pleasure to meet you at last and I do apologize that I have been remiss saying so since your arrival."

"I feel as if we have met, Scott. Juanito—Johnny— speaks of you…favorably and frequently."

Murdoch raised his own eyebrow with a slight beating of the vein at his temple. "What business are you referring to, John?"

"Horse tradin' business. Or horse procurement an' horse tamin' business to be specific, Murdoch."

"As I mentioned," Reynaldo smoothed his way back in control of the conversation. Scott saw the growing thunder on Murdoch's face and was relieved that the horse agent was taking charge of his business proposition. "The Don wants to broaden the bloodlines of his horses with the rich stock from the cow ponies of the Americas, but the Americanos are a challenging group resistant to private trade south of the new border. As my good friend knows all too well," he grabbed Johnny's shoulder affectionately. "On both sides, Mexicali and Americano, the wars of the past still wage today. When Juanito and I crossed paths, it was surely the hand of God who brought us together for which the Padre of our local mission will receive a fine donation. And to discover that my friend is now a rancher in his own right, how could negotiations not begin, yes?

"Lancer is not typically in the horse business. We are a cattle ranch," Murdoch announced as if that ended the talks.

"We're doing business, Murdoch," Johnny's voice dropped an octave and his eyes inched toward the Madrid stare. "The deal's already done. I gotta good price."

Reynaldo laid a gentle hand across Johnny's chest with his eyes fixed on Murdoch. "The horses are exactly what the Don was seeking and knowing his appreciation of the hand of a talented mesteñero, I offered a commensurate payment."

"And just who is the mesteñero you intend to use? Someone in the area? Might want to use the man myself sometime," Murdoch's eyes darted back and forth between the horse agent and his younger son.

Scott wondered at the look of surprise as Reynaldo turned briefly to Johnny who frowned and dropped his head.

"Why, Juanito, of course. There is none finer."

Scott didn't want to guess if the redness in his father's face was due to anger or embarrassment. "What is a mesteñero?" he asked both to break the tension and because he wanted to know the answer.

Reynaldo drew in a soft breath and smiled at Scott, grateful for the distraction. "He is the breaker of horses, but it is more than that. The true mesteñero is gifted with teaching the caballo salvaje, wild horse, to be one with man, its spirit unbroken but accepting of a new life with its rider. Your brother is one such mesteñero. And to have the magic of his gift to be instilled in these animals," the vaquero waved toward the corral, "the Don was a most happy man."

The pleasant lilt of Reynaldo's laugh successfully lowered the barometric pressure surrounding the men. "When I telegraphed the Don and advised him that Juanito would personally help to tame the wild horses, this shyster," Naldo patted Johnny's back, "was able to up the price of purchase to an amount only a starry-eyed dreamer would consider."

"Or a man who knows what a good horse he's gettin'." Johnny's boot toe kicked at the dirt.

"Indeed! A fine wild horse tamed by the mastery of Johnny Mad…Lancer is well worth the gold bullion your fine son insisted upon. Both the peso and dollar currencies have their disadvantages when dealing across the border. He knows the Don has it to spare and he is a man who will pay a fine price for the best of the best." Reynaldo deftly reached inside his bolero jacket, dusty and worn from the days on the trail. He pulled out a heavy bag, extending it to the Lancer Patrón. Murdoch accepted the bag with his eyebrows pulled together and unlaced the drawstring.

"This is gold," he murmured.

"Half now and half when the mustangs are delivered. Or I shall come to retrieve them. Perhaps Juanito should avoid a trip south of the border. I cannot say that all the Dons are as welcoming of his influence among the villagers."

"Your…umm, your Don is a good man, Naldo. I wanna do this for 'im," Johnny assured his friend with a meaningful glance at Murdoch almost daring him to argue. "He certainly gave me a leg up when most just had a kickin' in mind. And, I know, I know, Murdoch. It hasta be done in my off time. I know how ya feel about it. Reynaldo knows I need about three months to finish the herd since a ranch this size don't give much time-off."

Scott looked from the gold to Murdoch to Reynaldo to Johnny and back around again, his smile widening with each pass.

"That's a mighty fine business agreement you negotiated, Brother. Mighty fine."

Johnny allowed himself a brief hint of a satisfied grin but noting Murdoch's posture and expressions, he nudged his friend. "Naldo, you go ahead and start getting' cleaned up. I'll join you for dinner in a little bit."

"Of course. The Cowboy Mess Special: beans," Reynaldo winked at both Johnny and Scott. He turned toward the bunkhouse, his spurs ringing.

Scott crossed his arms and joined his brother waiting for Murdoch to say… something. Scott certainly hoped it would be praise. He was disappointed.

"You aren't planning on eating in the mess hall again, are you? A meal is not unexpected when dealing with a business matter."

"I don't know, Murdoch. Seems to me invitin' Naldo to the family dinner table now is just as insultin' as not invitin' him in the first place."

"John, had you explained…."

"And when'd ya give me a chance to explain? You were too busy doin' the tellin' so there wasn't much time for listenin'."

"It seems to be sorted now. Ask Reynaldo to join us for dinner. I don't know why you are bothered about it."

"So, you have it all sorted to your satisfaction now, Murdoch? And you don't know why I should be bothered. Mebbe I best explain so it's clear that we're communicatin' with one another.

"Scott's "he's not a friend" but could be a business associate someday had Teresa in an all-fire tizzy getting a guest room all spruced up for him and you yellin' at me to be on time and suited up for dinner. Meanwhile, as a sign of our hospitality, one of my few true friends who I can trust to watch out for me when a dust storm blows in, a friend who came here wantin' to shake on a business deal, was shuffled off to find himself an open cot in the bunk house and left alone to scrounge for his meals. Mi casa, su casa, it ain't."

"You have to understand, John…."

"What, Murdoch? What do I gotta understand? That anyone who rides in with me must be a saddle tramp hoping for a place to lay over or a gunhawk wantin' to lay low for a few days? Is that what I gotta understand 'cause I think I got that real clear."

"John, it's just, when I saw you ride in with Reynaldo, it felt like maybe we were starting over again, that's all. I thought we had moved past it, but we were right back to you and Wes chasing horses when the fence needed doing and then you fighting the Strykers over those horses leading to people being hurt, being dead. I jumped to conclusions. I misread you."

"Yeah, Murdoch. That is what we're doing now. Startin' over again. You think you're misreadin' me. Well, I'm thinkin' the same about you. You almost had me convinced you weren't like the other rich gringos lookin' down their noses at the dark-skinned greasers who need to know their place and the dirty little mestizos needin' to be thrown out with the trash 'cause their kind don't need to be dirtyin' up the pretty streets on the nice side of town. And they sure as hell aren't welcome inside your hacienda."

"Stop! I will not tolerate that language spoken at Lancer!" The cause of Murdoch's red face was no longer in question. Johnny braced himself for the fist he suspected might be coming for his face, but he wasn't pulling back. Not an inch. Maybe Mama told at least some of the truth about them not being wanted here.

"Nah, you may not tolerate hearin' it but you sure don't mind thinkin' it 'cause puttin' it into practice sure came easy," Johnny was inches from his father, daring him to yell or hit or just admit maybe he was wrong, damn it.

"Stop this. Now," Scott spoke with a calming tone completely contrary to his pounding heart. He laid his hand across both chests and pushed but neither would give. Long seconds passed as Scott continued applying pressure. Finally, his father broke the impasse and stomped through the door.

"John, we are taking this inside."

Johnny dropped his head and wrapped his arms around his chest as Scott released both men but not before Scott caught a glimpse of his brother's blue eyes melting from ice to a hint of tears.

"Nah, Murdoch. I'm done for today," he drawled to the retreating back. "Maybe we can try again tomorrow."

xXxXx

Reynaldo crossed both arms, one atop the other, on the corral fence, his chin resting on his forearm. Several other ranch hands, including the Lancer Segundo, Cipriano, watched with practiced eyes as Johnny stood silently in the center of the large oblong ring, the place where he had waited unmoving for over an hour as the silver dapple mare circled him, approached, ran, and circled again. Whispered words for her ears only drew her to him. Only in the last fifteen minutes had she allowed his touch and then a full stroke along her neck, her withers, and finally she smelled his hand as he caressed her nose then moved his fingers to massage behind her ears. The other hand dipped into a pocket on his jacket, removing a strip of apple which she snatched, but moved only a few steps away. She returned quickly, her nose sniffing at him. Speaking with a lilt Naldo knew was Spanish, Johnny slid his feet away from her nose and laid both hands upon her back.

"Estar en paz, Espíritu Salvaje. Mañana correrás a tu nuevo hogar." Naldo knew Juanito's soft words had carried in the stillness to the attentive audience with several among the vaqueros whispering their approval. (Be at peace, Wild Spirit. Tomorrow you shall run to your new home.)

"Cipriano," Johnny beckoned. The Segundo needed no other instruction opening the gate to bring a hackamore bridle and light saddle with blanket to the Lancer son. The first of the seven mares Naldo would take to Mexico kicked her feet and darted away. She retreated but shied from the fence as more hands began to gather along the rails. They knew a better show was about to start. Johnny tossed the bridle on his shoulder leaving the saddle and blanket at his feet and resumed his quiet stance. Once Cipriano closed the gate behind him, the mare returned to Johnny, nosing his pocket. She was rewarded with another piece of apple.

Somehow, the entire ranch held its silence as Johnny first haltered then saddled the jittery mare. He spoke to her and presented her with another gift of apple, calming her. His reassurance through touch and sound continued unabated. And then he placed his foot in the stirrup, leaning across her back, telling her what he was doing and what he wanted from her in return. She danced sideways but not enough to remove the man from her. She neighed anxiously and he talked softly, the conversation understood by all who watched.

And then Johnny lifted his free leg over her back and settled into saddle, patting her shoulder. "Ahora somos uno, Espíritu Salvaje." (Now we are one, Wild Spirit.) The mare shivered, her confusion evident at the weight placed upon her, but she listened for a time until her fear and pride erupted. She arched her back, all hooves rising off the ground.

The growing crowd surrounding the corral yelled and some waved their hats in the air as Johnny held his place against the onslaught of the muscled animal. His familiar spurs absent from his boots when he was first breaking a horse, his legs moved with her trying to exert control. The mare had other ideas and began a twisting whirl that flung the man from her.

The corral drew a breath as one, silence again. Reynaldo bit his lip, his chest pressing forward into the fence rail. Johnny thudded to his side, rolling with grace to his feet, his head turning until he found the raging mare.

Cipriano jumped inside the fence, but Johnny waved him away, his eyes following the mare as she continued to kick and buck her fury until she realized the insult to her freedom was gone. She stopped for a moment, her sides pulsing in and out, continuing to snort, yet she walked back to the man waiting for her, seeking his comfort. She laid her head over his shoulder and snorted into his ear, his long, dark hair rising with the puffs of air. He placed his arms around her neck and offered assurance between them.

Everything around them paused until the mare nodded her head up and down, her golden mane flying, as if in answer to something that was said. His hands never leaving her dark coat, Johnny returned to her side but without the previous introduction to his weight, he sailed into the saddle in a single, nimble move. In response to his audacity, she did not hesitate to resume her spinning, twisting dance.

Cries of excitement rose all around him as Naldo brought one hand to his mouth, his brow furrowed as he watched his friend, one arm raised to control his balance, his trim body moving as an extension of the near thousand-pound horse, his black hair blending into her long mane. Naldo's heart beat with a rhythm of emotion that he could never share that only calmed when the Mistress of the corral tired into a run then a canter and finally a resigned walk around the rim of the corral just out of reach of the rails now full with observers. Johnny continued to speak to her, soothe her, and then lean down toward her ear as he stroked her neck. Her sides heaved when she brought them, she and her rider, to a standstill, both glistening with sweat, their eyes half-closed.

The whoops and hollers of praise moved like a wave around the corral. The pair in the center did not seem to hear. Johnny spoke to her, his head cocked down to look toward her brown eyes, and she shook her head. He patted her neck again and Naldo heard him say, "We can wait until you are ready, Espíritu Salvaje. You tell me when." After a few minutes more, an understanding was reached, and Johnny clicked her into a slow walk. The shouts returned.

"Magnífico," Naldo muttered to himself.

"The horse?" The voice startled him. So intent on Juanito, he had not realized that his hermano (brother) had stopped only a few feet away from him. The light blue eyes, more settled than those of his brother, studied him, more questions promised in that gaze.

"And the rider," Naldo acknowledged with an odd quirk to his lips.

Scott raised an eyebrow as he stepped a little closer. "I had never witnessed the breaking of a horse until I came here. They came to me ready to ride," the young man admitted. It is an experience I shall never tire of watching."

"What you see is uncommon, and you are indeed fortunate to be a part of the experience. Many a vaquero…or cowboy…can break a horse but few among them are true mesteñeros. Under your brother's hand, the horses you will sell will be in demand." Naldo felt a twinge of regret seeing the blond-haired gringo wince. Juanito had shared the refusal of their father to consider more than a passing nod to diversifying into the horse as well as cattle trade. From the brother's expression, Naldo saw he shared his remorse. Scott took another step closer so that only about half a foot separated them and he placed one foot onto the lowest rail. He tipped his hat back as they both followed Johnny around the ring, the horse trotting, her head beginning to nod with renewing energy.

"So just how did you meet my little brother?"

Naldo laughed, a nice laugh, full of warmth. The question was unexpected here at the fence but knowing that these brothers had been introduced no more than a season ago, he was not surprised. "He didn't tell you?" He turned to look at his corral companion. Naldo then slammed his forehead with his palm, "Of course he wouldn't tell you. My friend is a man of secrets. We never knew where he came from."

He paused and for a moment, Scott assumed this friend was as secretive as his brother and no more would be said, but then his soft voice began a tale that absorbed Scott.

"True, it is Juanito's…Johnny's story to share; however, it is also my story, but to tell the tale, I must begin with a confession. I was not entirely truthful about who I am. I am more than an agent for Don Reynoso de Zúñiga Villaseñor. Only recently have I begun to be the son Don de Zúñiga could be proud to acknowledge." Naldo grinned at Scott's wide-eyed response at the revelation and returned his attention to Johnny clicking the horse into a canter on the far side of the corral. "His wayward son is a little less wayward, and the unbending father has learned to bend. Although there remains one thing more that I must do upon my return, I think, to satisfy my father, although I must acknowledge that his patience has been admirable. The time has come to put away thoughts of fancy and accept the duties of an heir." Naldo waved his hand at a fly buzzing nearby. "As I said, it is my story although it is not about me but our Juanito.

"How did we meet…," Naldo's dark eyes never left Johnny, but a different time opened before him as he spoke. "I was fourteen. A proud boy full of pomposity and pretentiousness expecting respect from the peons of my father's vast holdings. I felt the world lay prostate at my feet waiting for, no demanding, the adoration of my servants in all of their guises.

"The Don certainly had other ideas for his arrogant son. He was conducting one of his regular tours and had me ride with him across our holdings. I was thrilled to be treated as a man at last, astride a horse of my own, a sword at my hip, and not secured in the confines of the gilded carriage reserved for the elderly, the woman, and children. My father never hid within those curtained walls. He rode to see and be seen and so he expected me to ride beside him, meeting the people who toiled for us, allowing us the well-kept life that I felt was my due.

"We visited small farming villages and holdings where people led a life where they could grow and care for their families. We ventured into the cities and towns that sprouted from those villages. Most hummed with the prosperity in the lands my father ruled, and we were greeted with cheers and the ringing of mission bells as we rode along the streets. My little boy chest expanded with enough hot air to blow the desert sands from one side to the other." Scott snorted but did not interrupt. Johnny had just cantered by and glanced back over his shoulder at his brother with a grin that made both Scott and Naldo smile in return.

"Although some places we went were rough, even dangerous. My father did not turn away for, as he told me, he was responsible for them all. High, low, good, bad. They all reflected his stewardship. Granted, the Don is no fool and his guards surrounded us, their swords and guns at their fingertips when we entered such places.

"And so it was that we rode into Carmesí where strangers passed through as regularly as the wind and the streets walked with its own tough justice.

"Me, my father, and his entourage entered the squalid village and followed the shouts to what we discovered was their own version of a court of law. A crowd of at least thirty men and boys who thought themselves grown surrounded a niño I thought to be no more than ten. A huge bonfire built against a wall burned at the boy's back and the crowd formed a barricade blocking his escape. Several had knives which they used to drive him toward the fire. La Danza del Fuego, The Dance of Fire, my Segundo told me later. He had seen it before though never with one so young. Justice administered among the lawless. Whether they had given the boy the knife in his defense, or he had carried it there himself, he wielded it deftly looking more like a sword in his small hand. He had numerous cuts across both his front and back telling of a prolonged fight.

"Everything stopped as we rode in and formed our ring behind theirs. The villagers dropped their heads seeing that their Don, and his soldiers, had come. But the boy, clever cur, slashed through a gap in the crowd and attempted to escape. A man cried out, his sleeve now red but the ring of men was deep, and they pushed forward sealing him to his fate. He stumbled but did not fall and waved his blade in defiance of us all.

"My father raised his hand to his guards, and we sat back in our saddles to watch. Seeing that there would be no interference, a satisfied yell like the snarls of coyotes going in for the kill went up among the villagers and they pressed forward once more.

"Such a small boy against so many men. They taunted him with vulgarities, struck him with fists, and nipped him with knives. The little wolf bit back striking with his own blade. As valiant as he fought, they cut him twice, three times for every strike he returned as the gamblers shouted their bets on how long the boy would last against them.

"I wondered at the crime one so young must have committed for such a harsh sentence, but my father allowed the villages to handle their internal affairs within reason. He believes giving men a say in their governance in the small things brings about their compliance with his word. The final sentence for this boy was clear. They intended him to enter the fire, you see. The surrounding circle pressed in inches at a time reducing the safe space the boy had to remain out of the flames. One man was able to give the boy a shove and his bare feet fell upon the coals. He yelped as he leapt forward and lifted his eyes heavenward as he screamed, "Vete a la mierda!" (Fuck you!)

"If his curse was directed to the God Almighty or the gods of men I do not know, although it was at all of us, I expect. But as he lifted his face, I saw his startingly bright blue eyes for the first time. An audible "ahhh" sounded from my father's guards for apparently, they too had wondered at the child's crime. I do not know if my father would have allowed the child to be killed or he simply wondered at the reason for the punishment before he acted. I choose to believe he would have intervened, and I believe that is a just appraisal of his sense of justice. A man grown likely would have seen the face of the devil that day, but an innocent remains innocent within their years.

"Once father wondered no more, he raised his hand and quietly ordered, "Stop." His voice never rose in pitch, but he spoke with the command of a Don and several of the men turned as if to raise their blades against him, but the guns of our guards brought a quick end to that. When they recognized it was the Don himself ending their play, they all stopped, their eyes lowered. I rose in my saddle, smug with my position and status. And wouldn't you know that little mongrel snarled out, "Go to hell! I will fight you, too!"

"My father smiled this smile which I had seen before, usually at the rooster crowing of his son that rode beside him and it caused me to look at him, a question in my eyes. "Take the boy," my father ordered.

"His tormenters stood back with laughter and more taunts as the guards descended, disarmed the boy, and threw him on a horse under the strong hold of the Capitán of my father's private troops.

"I stared, transfixed, at this boy, this child, who wriggled and writhed against an imposing man of both strength of will and muscle. Our eyes locked, those blue eyes as sharp as any blade and cold as the river waters that flow from the mountains in winter. Mestizo, I realized with some understanding. I had never seen one so close. No wonder the village had targeted him. He was mestizo, beneath my notice yet here he was sitting atop a horse next to my father. He spit at me or perhaps at his predicament, but I was certainly his target of the moment.

"Capitán Guerrero slapped his face hard enough to cause his mouth to bleed. "I have ropes and chains suited to little hellcats who insult their betters," he told him. Again, he fought like a wild boar in a trap, but in the end, he succumbed and fell silent in the strong arms. I expected us to leave the little criminal with the rurales whenever they decided to surface, but we went directly to the great rooms held by my father several miles away. I glanced his way as we rode, his dark head slumped forward against his chest, whether in sleep or exhaustion I didn't know, but at least he was still.

"When we arrived at my father's countryside hacienda, the boy struggled to awaken but his eyes fluttered, unable to stay open. "Clean him. Treat his wounds," my father ordered and for the first time I truly saw the many cuts on his body and the burns on his feet and legs. Bright to burnt red splotches spread over the rags he wore. Patches of red marred his skin along with blisters, some of which had burst and wept. I noted these things but truly gave them little thought as I was secretly pleased that our day had ended early leaving me to my own devices away from the scrutiny of my father's lessons on managing the estância. Four guards deposited him with the servants of the house, and I thought our encounter at an end.

"Imagine my surprise when my father had him brought to our table and forced him into a chair, a guard on either side. The clothes must have come from a child of one of the servants, but they swallowed him, nonetheless. The smell was an improvement at least, although I recall bringing a cloth to my nose grousing my derision. I knew better than to challenge the Don in front of the servants, but I felt justified in expressing my displeasure.

The washing did nothing to settle him. It made him struggle the harder; the Capitán of the guard threatened to tie him to the chair to my private applause. But the food, the food he accepted—he ate like a heathen, but he ate. I crossed my arms in disgust and went hungry that night in protest. And then, after he was through, I think my mouth fell to the ground as this cursing, fighting dust devil looked my father in the eye and said, "Gracias, Señor. I will pay for my meal although I have no money. Show me what work you need done." My father had the good manners to cover the smile on his face with his napkin before telling the boy that of course he would work to cover his keep."

"Cipriano! We're ready!" Johnny's voice rang across the corral causing Scott and Naldo to jump. Much of the crowd had dispersed on to other chores or to enjoy a bit of leisure on a busy ranch, but the Segundo and a young vaquero soaking in the lessons in front of him hurried to pull the gate wide. "Now we run, Espíritu Salvaje, so you never forget what you had but that we now share this freedom together," Johnny's words carried over the corral, although Naldo doubted that was his intention though he suspected at least one of the observer's may have thought otherwise. Johnny turned the mare toward the open gate, and they galloped away to a place of their own choosing, unhampered by the enclosures built around them.

Scott glanced over his shoulder catching his father's tense gaze on the rider. He knew that Murdoch was behind them from the beginning; he suspected Reynaldo did as well. He pitched his voice on occasion as if to make sure it carried over the noise. If his father was troubled by his brother's words to the horse, it didn't show. The son cleared his throat. "You are welcome to join us, sir."

Murdoch had followed Johnny as he had been walking, trotting, cantering the mare in figure eights, squares, and circles through the corral, teaching her the feel of his knees, the pressure of the reins as Naldo had talked. The shouts and hollers of the men faded into the distance as only the form of his son taming the wildness of the mare filled his eyes and the sound of the compelling voice of his friend soaked into his ears like a rare rain in the desert. What Murdoch knew of Johnny's past came in neatly inscribed reports from the Pinkerton Agency filled with dates, names, and numbers yet nothing of the life of his son. He followed the galloping mare and her rider until only a pale red blur atop the dark brown steed with flowing white tail and mane dotted the yellow field. He refused to blink afraid the boy might disappear if he looked away.

"Sir?"

"Oh, yes, Scott. My mind was elsewhere," the man swallowed and stepped forward. "You were saying?"

"Please join us, Mr. Lancer," Reynaldo invited, a sly grin on his face unseen by the father but not the brother.

The blond head tucked down, his fingers thrumming against the wooden rail. Scott hoped something of the glimpse into his younger son's childhood had touched the man. He knew it had latched another rope around his own heart drawing his brother closer.

"Go on, Reynaldo. Please," Scott requested.

Naldo resumed where he had left off, astutely aware that Murdoch heard how they had met but for the sake of his friend, thought the next part of the tale told to his father was more important.

"Juanito came to us as a battered child with a ferocious spirit. Insolent, defiant, argumentative—he insulated himself away from us, fearful that my father would return him to the mobs in the streets yet holding himself ready for that day. You should have seen him in all his belligerence demanding that Capitán Guerrero return his knife. "I will find you shoes and clothes that fit," he told him. "The knife you shall have when you can take it away from me." And so began the year that transformed Juanito from a waif lost on the ugly streets to a son of the estância.

"He claimed to be twelve years old though some days it was eleven, others thirteen. I don't think he truly knew. He did not know the day of his birth." Murdoch's gray head jerked toward Reynaldo. That discussion had not come up since Johnny's return home. "Or if he knew, he did not tell us," the young vaquero temporized. "He would not speak of anything that came before the day he was found in Carmesí. For us, that became the day of his birth. And soon he was considered a part of the estância earning a place on the property.

"My father insisted he sit with me and my tutors thinking he required more instruction due to his delays than the classes in the village could offer. In hindsight, I think my father wanted to challenge the boy and the village schools presented only the most basic education. Juanito lacked many skills when we began but he absorbed what was offered, always asking questions, and taking the instructor away from the planned lessons. After a time, they stopped slapping his knuckles for the interruptions and guided him along the paths he wanted to walk.

"Juanito immersed himself within the stables. I was glad to enter the stalls to see him with shovel in hand mucking out the manure and ordering him to saddle my horse. It gave me joy to toss the reins of a sweated animal to his hands and order him to groom and feed the beast. I thought the annoying boy should learn his place. Instead, he learned to care for and train the horses, settling even our most contrary animals.

"He ingratiated himself in the garrison as well. I can hardly say that Juanito benefited from the discipline of the troops, but he cleaned and oiled their guns, sharpened their swords, and learned how to use both. He demanded that if Guerrero would not return his knife until he could take it, then Guerrero had a duty to teach him how," Reynaldo chuckled. "The hardened old soldier fell under that boy's spell as surely as the Master of Horse…and my own father.

"He roamed the grounds like a gypsy never sleeping in the same place for more than a single night. The loft in the barn, a cot in the barracks, a bunk with the ranch hands, even under the stars. Despite our assurances to the contrary, he needed to hide away in the night to keep himself safe, I think, not trusting anyone else to do it for him. But at the Don's insistence, two nights a week he sat at my father's table, much to my chagrin. When I think back on those times, I know that my own haughty behavior contributed to his preference for isolation. I was not kind to the boy in the early days. With regular meals, Juanito filled out and gained height along with the approving eye of many a young girl on the estância.

"In addition to that smile and wit that charmed most people he met, he proved to be magical with the horses and masterful with a gun. He refused to be treated as a vagrant or beneath any man. Not with words, but actions. He wasn't afraid to use his fists when confronted although such behavior was punished on our grounds. Instead, he proved his worth with hard work and diligent attention to the challenges before him. The boy refused to lose. Watching him captivate and control an otherwise dangerous stallion or soundly defeat men years older in target shooting competitions became a joy. Of course, he was knocked down more times than I can count, forcing him to climb to his feet and do it again until he became the one others wanted to watch. And as the months passed, ahhh, each strand he cast became a web that drew me in. I stopped seeing a mestizo boy and saw Juanito instead. And slowly, he became not a rival, but a friend.

He was filled with pride the day he earned the return of his knife. Guerrero was also filled with pride, I think. The boy was still a boy for all he had been with us for over a year, but he listened and learned—a solid defender of the estância in the eyes of the Capitán. But unfortunately, the happiness of that day was the presage of the end.

"About a fortnight after Juanito was given back his blade, he fought with three of the stable hands cutting them all, two seriously. The Don could not tolerate such disrespect and violence among his staff. Juanito would say nothing about his actions, but his hot temper was well known. The only words he spoke in his defense was, "They know."

The aggrieved parties demanded severe punishment: jail time with hard labor and the whip so popular with the rurales. My father tempered that demand with banishment from the estância and the lands ruled by my father. And so Juanito, no longer a child but hardly a man, was returned to the streets to make his own way once again. I was crushed but could do nothing. To argue with the decision of the Don was unthinkable. Capitán Guerrero brought him to the border and left him in this country, in Nogales as I recall, and warned him not to return or a more exacting punishment would be his fate. The Capitán and the accompanying guards of my father rode away as the boy let him know his low opinion of us all.

"It was some weeks later that the Segundo heard the three cobardes (cowards) bragging about how they had rid the estância of the mestizo bastard who sought to rise above his station and make himself a vaquero or perhaps a soldier for the Don. They had bullied the boy from the day he arrived. The night of the fight, they had trapped Juanito alone in the corrals and to cleanse him of his gringo filth, they repeatedly held him under water in one of the troughs until he passed out saying a drowned rat deserved more respect. Apparently, the drowned rat became the vengeful cat. Juanito found them later and attacked. My father was furious at this admission and immediately began a search, but Juanito knew how to move through the streets unseen, a ghost passing through any number of poverty-stricken villages along the border towns.

"Almost two years later, Guerrero, under my father's direction, found him and tried to bring him back, but by that time, young Juanito had started to build his reputation as Madrid and wanted nothing my father had to offer. Such pride. And anger. And hate. Oh, but such life! That charisma carried his fame like a wildfire through the towns and villages. That and the speed of his hand. How a man…no more than a boy still…could snap from irresistible charm to ice cold like quicksilver was frightening. The young pistolero with piercing blue eyes appeared one day out of nowhere on the streets of Nogales striking down hardened men of notoriety and walked away until the next dance of his gun. The mystery of it all. It is entwined in his legend, my friends.

"Once he knew that he was welcomed, Juanito visited us from time to time through the years. We ate. We drank. We told stories as men do. And then he would depart although my father always asked him to stay.

"My father despaired when he heard of his death some five months back. I am not sure he would have mourned this lesser son as deeply. And I wept with him. For Juanito had allowed me to learn the lessons my father needed to teach me. Except for the curse of those blue eyes, Juanito was everything my father wanted in a son."

Scott felt Murdoch grow still beside him. The young man was baffled.

"You consider Johnny's blue eyes a curse?" he asked, the Boston accent particularly prevalent to Naldo's ears.

Reynaldo's low chuckle was laced with melancholia. "I do but for entirely different reasons. For my father, and many among our people, and yours I should add, Johnny walks with the pride of a Mexican but bears the mark of a gringo. He could never be confused with the son of a Don, adopted or otherwise. He lacks the proper lineage to offer desirable matches with acceptable families. Much like the papers which travel with the horses of Don de Zúñiga, the bloodlines of the aristocracy of my people remain important. Even sacrosanct. Juanito's blue eyes cannot be hidden in the folds of creased parchment. For Juanito, it was a curse that resulted in a great deal of torment before he made himself into the man that few would dare taunt him.

"And you?"

Naldo couldn't help but shake his head. This hermano of his friend gnawed at the meat he was chewing like a carcajou. Reynaldo raised his chin toward the fields. He smiled that smile that hinted of secrets he held dear but were his alone. Scott and Murdoch followed his gaze. A short distance away moving toward them, the silver dapple mare moved at a canter, her tail waving behind her. Johnny sat comfortably on her back, the reins loose in his left hand, letting her bring them home. "Juanito does not need words when he speaks through those eyes. Entire conversations are shared in a single glance. I wanted to be repelled by them, but he drew me in with those blue eyes, and as we grew into young men, I became enthralled by the depth of his spirit. The curse for me? My curse is that even when those fascinating blue eyes are looking straight at me, they will always be seeing in another direction."

Scott opened his mouth to push Naldo on his odd statement as the mare trotted into the corral.

Johnny saw the trio on the fence and turned her head with a gentle pull on the reins to join them.

"Gotta love the fire in this girl!" Johnny grinned, first at Naldo, then Scott, his own eyes filled with a spark. He stroked the neck of the mare as she shook her head jangling the bridle. His wide smile spoke of his feeling of accomplishment but dropped at Murdoch's emotionless gaze, assuming his father was unhappy with him again. He wanted to tell him that he finished his assigned work for the day before working with the mare but slipped from the saddle to the ground and lowered his head. Damn, he didn't want to fight today. "She sure has earned me an appetite," he added thinking to make light conversation then just as quickly remembered the contentious nature of his meals since Naldo had arrived. He turned his attention to his boots.

"She certainly is a beautiful mare," Murdoch spoke ahead of the younger men on the rail as he reached over to stroke the brown nose. "She will be a fine addition to Don de Zúñiga's herd. Johnny, you better get her settled in the barn and get cleaned up. Dinner is at 6. Reynaldo, I would be pleased if you could join us. I think we would all be interested in learning more about your enterprise." Johnny's head shot up. He and Scott exchanged looks with slow head turns back to their father.

"Thank you, Mr. Lancer," Reynaldo tipped his hat with an accompanying nod. "It would be an honor, sir."

xXxXx

"The modern conveniences, eh?" Naldo scuffed at the ground with a boot heel. "With the rail lines recognizing the wealth they can harvest south of the border, I can be home in a week instead of month." His gelding waited patiently on the hitching post, the mare tugging at the rope tied to the saddle pommel.

"Well, don't worry about little miss Espíritu Salvaje, there. She's got a good temperament and Galante will keep her calm in the box car," Johnny nodded toward the horses, his fingers tucked into the front of his belt, his palms resting against his stomach.

Naldo raised a finger and waggled it. "Do not tease me about it, but I admit I am anxious to be home."

"Nah,I won't," Johnny's long fingers slapped Naldo's away from his face. "As long as you don't tell anybody I understand how ya feel."

"You are hoping to stay then? At Lancer?" a dark eyebrow raised in question.

"Well, I can't leave until I finish with those cow ponies of yours." Johnny's attention wandered toward the corral where snorts and neighs accompanied the dust kicking up. "An' of course I gotta be here when you come to pick 'em up." Tossing his own dark head, Johnny's chin tucked over his shoulder toward the hacienda at his back. "An' I did promise to help Scott with his ropin' skills."

"I am working things out with my "old man" as well," the Don's son confessed. Naldo's hand moved before thinking it through, and he reached out following his wandering thoughts. He brushed the intricate black embroidery on the plackets of Johnny's white shirt. "My father gifted this to you the last time you came to visit us, what? Last year? The formal dress of the estância. The pattern, here, along the edges of the design," his fingers followed the swirls edging near the open collar, "pronounced you as a favored son of the house. Father rarely bestows this particular design. Do you have the matching bolero jacket and calzoneras as well?" His palm paused over Johnny's heart, pressing gently, the beat giving him comfort.

"Nah. I wasn't able to save much after my last prison stint. The padre hid a few things for me—my working gun, my saddle; this shirt was in my saddlebags—and gave me enough provisions to get me out of Mexico after escaping from the firing squad. You know me, travel light leaving nothin' behind."

Naldo slowly removed his hand, accepting that he, too, must leave things behind. Johnny's face filled his eyes although the young ex-gunhawk studied something over his shoulder. The older man cleared his throat.

"The Generalismo of the Guardia Rural made a point to tell my father of your execution. Knowing his support for you in the past, he wanted to see his pain, I think."

"And why would that sonavabitch care about me?"

"Perhaps because the rurales are offended that a mestizo pistolero is more venerated among the common people than they are. The Capitán who curtailed the last revolution which you led boasted of crushing you."

"Not surprised. The man is a sadistic prick with a grudge. One of the reasons I hafta stay out of Mexico. My reprieve didn't include a pardon. And he did not crush me. Nobody's gonna do that 'though he sure wants another shot at it."

"Just as the Generalismo failed to crush the Don. My father did not give him the pleasure he sought saying he thought it was the duty of the rurales to arrest those who disturb the peace. Ever the diplomat is Don Reynoso de Zúñiga Villaseñor. I wonder if mi padre has made the opportunity to seek out the bastardo to gloat that their bullets missed the notorious Johnny Madrid.

"I will tell you that my father grieved for you. As did I."

"I am sorry you went through that for me," Johnny's crestfallen face dipped but he quickly changed the subject. "I'm not sorry I laid you out in town the other day." He tapped the back of his hand against his friend's waist as he turned back to Naldo with a smile that dimmed the sun with its brightness.

"Not the first time you knocked me on my ass, Juanito."

"Yeah, we did some rough housing in our time."

"Rough housing, of course." Naldo grinned. "Unless I want to extend my journey by missing the train, I must go, amigo." He gave his friend a quick side hug before swinging into his saddle. "Mi corazón canta sabiendo que te volveré a ver mi buen amigo." (My heart sings knowing that I will see you again my good friend.)

"Those apples in yer bags are for Espíritu Salvaje," Johnny nodded at the haltered horse currently tied to the saddle horn of Naldo's gelding, the mare's ears flicking with excitement as her head looked toward the open field.

"Perhaps the Mistress will share, no? Something I have taken pains to learn. Adiós amigo mío. Three months?"

"Three months. Bye, Naldo," Johnny lifted his left hand as his friend turned the gelding's head and trotted away, the excited mare in tow. He walked to the side of the hacienda where he could follow Naldo on Galante and the mare as they followed the worn trail toward the road. They were clearing the Lancer arch when the French doors opened behind him.

"Johnny, we're in here." Scott stepped out, his left arm extended toward his brother with a filled glass.

The younger man blew out a long breath before he turned and took brisk steps to his blond brother. Johnny accepted the glass with a slight tilt to his head and sniffed the clear liquid. Tequila. Good tequila. "Ya thinkin' I'm gonna need this?"

Scott lifted the scotch in his other hand as he draped his arm over Johnny's shoulders and led him inside. "We both do, Brother." The pair stopped, a united front near Murdoch who stood waiting, his own drink in hand, as he studied papers on his large desk near the huge window that revealed the expanse of land stretching before them.

"Reynaldo is on his way to the train," Murdoch couched it as more of a statement than a question. He continued to study the files in front of him.

"Yeah, he's gone," Johnny glanced toward Scott before his attention dropped to the floor. He hadn't meant to sound angry, but he heard it all the same.

Murdoch lifted his gray head casually to face them. His effort at a smile failed but he did manage to avoid a frown. Without further discussion, he pronounced, "John, you should have told me that Reynaldo was Don de Zúñiga's son."

"Does that make a difference…?" Johnny bit back old man before it was said.

"Well, yes, I think it does. Had I known who he was…."

"Murdoch," Johnny interrupted, making less effort to bite anything back, "all I know is when I met them, I wasn't any man's son, but I was a guest at his table from the very first night all the same. The man saved my life that day without askin' who I was before he did it. Guess I'm kinda glad it was him calling the tune that day an' not you."

The elder man cut a defensive look at his youngest son but seeing the plea to avoid yet another argument in his older son's eyes, Murdoch paused to consider his response. "You're right, John. Cip's wife, Isabella, gave me an earful," he commented ruefully as he took a sip of his scotch.

"An "earful"? That esteemed lady of tact and refinement?" Scott raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"A scathing lecture in modulated tones on the societal mores of the decorum expected for a landed Don and his heir, then," Murdoch corrected.

"What?" Johnny looked to Scott for an English interpretation, but his father answered.

"She chewed me out for how Reynaldo was treated," Murdoch shrugged.

Johnny snorted as his attention dropped to the glass in his hand. He spun the liquid as he mulled the comments. Although neither were looking directly at him, he felt Murdoch and Scott's stares as they waited for him to respond. Expecting him to accept…what? Was this meant as an explanation? An apology? He drained the glass; the tequila was smooth—he had to give Murdoch his due for buying a reposado especially since he was the only one that drank it. The warmth spread through his chest but did nothing to still the tension in his gut. He set the glass down, crossed his arms and faced them.

Scott eyed his brother and started to lean against the desk but realized that put him next to Murdoch and he needed to avoid Johnny thinking he was taking their father's side. He took a few steps of his own to lean against the back of the couch.

"So it does make a difference," Johnny muttered as he stalked the room, back and forth, back and forth. His spurs sounded louder with every turn. "When it comes to me anyway. It is different."

"Different? How do you mean?" Murdoch leaned forward, his hands pressed onto the desk, a hard edge creasing his brow.

Johnny recognized the face. He'd seen it far too many times and knew exactly the path the two of them were about to walk. Scott saw it, too. His back straightened, his face with that look like he was planning out what he was going to say to divert one or both of the combatants from the inevitable. Johnny tried to follow his example and think before the words churning in his gut spit out. He wanted to confront them. Explain how it was. Tell them all about how he was treated different from other men. Men. Hell, people treated him differently as far back as he could remember. The backhands and curses showed him that things weren't the same between other little boys and him. Oh, even the gringos could be nice enough when he looked like just another Mexican boy but when they saw his blue eyes…. Yeah, it was different all right. No matter which side of the border they were on.

He wanted to explain what he meant—what it was like—but that would raise a ruckus. Unless he chose to say something different; let it slide, maybe. Unless he chose to…what? Accept Murdoch's view on how things are? How it was gonna be? Accept that how a man was treated depended on the amount of money in his pockets as much as the color of his skin? Where he came from? How he talked? What trade he followed? Is that what it meant to be Johnny Lancer? Accept with a nod that whatever Murdoch Lancer said was the way it was going to be and go dig another post hole?

Tick-tick-tick

The large floor clock counted off the silence.

How did you get in here?

Who told you to come back?

Johnny quickened his pace as the words from Murdoch's lips nipped in his head. He left the last time. Rather than face Murdoch's rules, he left. But he came back. He wanted to come back. He chose to come back, and Murdoch only said those things because the Strykers were out front with guns looking for his head. Murdoch explained it all after the Strykers rode off…but he said it…and it wasn't that hard for the words to come out of his mouth. There's always some truth behind a lie. That's what Mama always said.

And what did he want to say? That he wanted to belong? But did he have to change everything he was to stay? He had to be the someone Murdoch wanted instead of the person he was to belong? How could he make Murdoch understand this ache in his gut without firing off the first shot in their on-going range war?

I thought you did all your talking when you left.

Tick-tick-tick

Murdoch released a loud breath. Johnny could almost see the steam blowing out his ears. He did see the blue vein at his temple jut out, his knuckles turning white. The old man was about to release the opening salvo and after that Madrid would draw. He didn't know any other way and didn't think he wanted to change now. He didn't always start the fight—although with Murdoch, especially with Murdoch, sometimes he did—but he never walked away from one.

The only thing wrong around here has always been you.

Johnny bit at his lower lip as the memory gnawed. His throat burned and his heart galloped faster than a herd of wild horses on the run from a lasso twirling in the air looking to change everything they ever knew. At some point, Scott snatched his arm and pulled him next to him on the back side of the couch. Johnny didn't resist. He needed to slow things down. Needed to be in control. Needed to think. He folded his arms against his chest as Scott's shoulder touched his, silently telling him he was there.

I thought I made myself clear but in case I didn't, listen and listen hard—I don't need you. Now or ever. Now get off my land.

Johnny leaned against Scott. His brother accepting the weight, holding him up. Supporting him. Johnny's chin dropped to his chest; his arms squeezing hard at his hands tucked in his armpits.

Tick-tick-tick

Johnny held his eyes shut for a few seconds before finally speaking. He couldn't talk about what Murdoch obviously thought about him. Not yet. He wasn't ready to hear his answers. Not yet. But he could talk about something else. Something close.

"What I mean," Johnny said softly, just stating what they had to see was nothing but truth, "it's just that things sure were different around here when Scott's friend from San Francisco showed up than when my friend rode up from Mexico."

Murdoch sniffed as he walked in front of the desk, suddenly feeling stifled by the barrier between him and his sons. He didn't have anything to hide after all. He had explained things. He had his reasons for what he had done and said. Good reasons with all the troubles because of Wes, the Strykers and those damn horses or the lost cows and the labor that had cost.

He straightened, filling the room with his six foot five inches, and released his breath. If the boys were going to lean, so should he. He settled back against the desk. He avoided making eye contact concerned that one of those insolent looks from Johnny would set him off in a direction neither wanted to go and looked at his sons' feet. Scott's dusty boots were crossed at his ankles. Johnny's were spread almost as if he was preparing for a gunfight, his left toe tapping in rhythm with the clock.

"I acknowledge that I should have done better by Reynaldo," Murdoch admitted. "Johnny, this is your home. You do not need my permission to invite a guest. I forgot that. Although you might want to let Maria know in advance when you plan to ask people to stay if you want to avoid her spoon across your backside." Neither boy smiled so Murdoch barreled on. "And I'd appreciate knowing, too.

"But John, I needed you to do better regarding Andrew Jessup," Murdoch heard himself and winced inside. His tone started conciliatory enough but grew harsh as he spoke. He couldn't seem to get things right when it came to Johnny. Those extra jabs to force the boy in line struck out with the ease with which he herded cattle, keeping them in their place bunched with the herd. It just seemed so much easier with Scott.

Or maybe not. Scott uncrossed his feet as his head jerked in Murdoch's direction. Johnny reacted by starting to stand until his brother wrapped his arm around Johnny's back and pressed down on his far shoulder to press him down and hold him in place on the back of the couch. The younger man cut a disparaging look toward his brother but held his place, his chin back to his chest. When the scowl on Johnny's face seemed to be his response, Murdoch went on.

"The meeting with Jessup was important to ranch business and as you are a partner, I felt it was important for you to be a part of that discussion." The dark head lifted and turned slowly toward Murdoch. A cold stare, well-practiced through the years of Madrid, was directed to the older man. Refusing to be intimidated by his youngest son, Murdoch hardened his stance in return. "I was giving you respect, John, but you failed to return that respect to me and your brother."

"Muuurdoch," the drawl extended his name as Scott appeared to press down harder on Johnny's shoulder, "I get you don't trust me the same way you trust Scott. I get that my past eats you up inside and I even get that you aren't the only one out there who wonders if I belong here at all."

"John, I never said that…."

"Well ya sure said maybe living with this kind of land just isn't for me. Ya sure said I gotta make up my mind who I am and where I belong. And ya damn sure said if it wasn't gonna be here, ya wanted to know it now."

"Johnny,…," this time Scott interrupted, pulling his brother toward him. He could feel the slight tremor in his muscles as his back started to flex and didn't have time to guess which emotion was brewing or what direction the boy might blow. Johnny refused to give him time to think it out.

"No Scott. You're gonna listen to me. You're both gonna listen to me. I know I don't talk as good as you. And I know when I do, I don't say all the right things. And I know I don't dress the right way or act the right way a rancher is supposed to dress and act. I know a lot of folks are keeping their heads down but watchin' me all the same and worried about what I might do. I know all these things, Murdoch. That's why I was trying so hard to prove you can trust me a little.

"I did my share of the work and more when Naldo got here. He went out on his own to see if the herds he found were what his father would want. Cipriano even begged me to send someone with the Don's heir to show that the estância respected him. That we were proud he chose us and to take him to some good places to find the horses he was hoping for. But no one was pulled from Lancer duties. Not me. Not anybody. Naldo went out on his own. But once he decided he wanted to work with me, to work with us, with Lancer, I had to go with Naldo to cut the mares from the herd he picked out. I could hardly ask the man to bring in the horses by himself and turn around and pay us for 'em.

"Murdoch, I needed to show you that I can contribute, too. Like Scott. I needed you to see that I do have skills outside of this gun that you can use. And more than just another ranch hand which you can hire outta the saloon to sit on herds and clear out creek beds. For you to believe that, I knew I needed to show it, not talk it. If I'd been here with Scott's friend, I'd just be sitting in the back of the room stayin' outta your way. Not proving anything. Putting money—real money—in your hand, that was proving something. I had to show you this land is for me. That I can be who I am and still belong. Murdoch, I wanted you to know it." Johnny's head dropped, his voice grew tired, "And I wanted you to want me here."

A sharp look from Scott threw a temporary blanket over Murdoch's building fire. The Scotsman drew in a gasp and for a moment he saw his anvil slamming into metal glowing in the flames as he pounded it to his will. His gaze jumped to Johnny leaning against the couch, his arms wrapped tight around his chest, his eyes down, hiding the hurt that seemed to be there too many times when the two of them spoke. The superimposed images threw Murdoch back to the day about a month ago when his son rode away with Wes — I'd do fine…I'd just do fine if you didn't push so hard — the struggle in his boy's words painful to recall.

He had tried, hadn't he? He took Johnny to Black Mesa. Took him? Not joined him? Allowed him go into Morro Coyo to get the contract he needed. Allowed him? Not encouraged him in ranch business? Listened to Johnny's complaints. Johnny's complaints? Not concerns?

He had been alone, and he invited his sons back to share in the ranch he had built for them. Or had he been alone for so long he forgot how to do more than make demands and expect obedience. His blood, sweat, hard times and pain built this ranch but if he was left here alone—what has he gained? Murdoch shook his head lamenting that had he raised his boys, they would be different. Scott with his respectful words that questioned him all the same. Johnny with his fiery will that bucked at his every request. They would be different—but would he be satisfied with sons that bowed their heads to his every word? Lacked the independence and spirit that made these two men who they were? Is that what he wanted? Sons that needed him to make every decision? Would they be able to hold onto this ranch he built if only he called the tune? Could he listen to any of the songs his sons wanted to sing?

He called it their home, but was it? Or was it Murdoch Lancer's home and they only stayed here until they chose to leave. Leave him. Alone.

Tick-tick-tick

Where's Johnny?

What difference?

Scott had asked him that question the morning of Pardee's raid. His answer was cold, indifferent. Flames burned Murdoch from within, the smoke filling his nostrils choking him, the fury of the fire roaring in his ears. Burning until there was nothing but a dry husk of a man, a scarecrow hung limply on a dead plot of crumbling ground.

My God, man! It's all the difference!

"Johnny," Murdoch stumbled to his son, his crusty eyes burning. He coughed the soot from his mouth as he lay his calloused hand on his boy's shoulder. His son pulsed with life, a golden light within the gray fog that clouded Murdoch's vision. "Scott." Another weary hand found his other son. Proud. Vibrant. A pillar standing tall among the rubble.

Speak, man! Speak while you still have someone who cares to hear you!

"My sons. Without you, Lancer is nothing. I am nothing. Wanting you here was the hope that kept me fighting for this land. Needing you here gave me the strength to call for you when that hope was slipping away. Having you here breathes life into this old man.

"John…Johnny. Scott. I have been the Patrón for so many years, I have forgotten how to be a father. I had so little practice at parenting before it was taken away. Mistakes…some of which cost me dearly," Murdoch's tired eyes glanced at Scott, "and hurt the two I most wanted to protect." He squeezed the shoulders of his boys who watched him, faces rapt as his words fell like rain on the scorched earth their father had wrought.

I love you. Murdoch heard the sound of that inside his head, felt it fill him soothing the emptiness that remained within the hard shell he had built around his heart. But to say those words aloud would share the grievous pain of the loss he suffered when these boys were taken from him. The walls held firm. But a crack allowed him to continue.

"You boys are putting in the work to become ranchers. It's about time I started to do the work to accept you as my sons, just the way you are. Something you both deserve. And accepting you means hearing what you say and doing the things you want…within reason," he added quickly at the sparkle in Johnny's eyes. Scott laughed. Murdoch smiled in return. His smile grew bigger when he realized it was the first time he had heard that joyous sound from his stoic son who held himself in quiet reserve, that beautiful laugh replacing the roaring in his ears.

"So, I can take time as part of my workday to spend with the horses?" Johnny raised a hopeful eyebrow, his tentative question swirling like a spring breeze clearing the smoke. The wind kicked up with a flurry stirring the ashes, revealing the new sprouts reaching for the sun. "'Cause ya know that brings in…Scott, what's that fancy ledger word you use when it means I'm paying my way?"

"Revenue?" his brother asked, his smile warming the room.

"That's the one," Johnny slapped Scott's stomach. "'Cause it brings in revenue and ya know I'm not wasting ranch time. And horses are smarter than cows anyway."

"Within reason," the gray head nodded. "We are a cattle ranch."

"With a little bit of horses," the younger son pressed.

"Within reason," Murdoch and Scott said simultaneously then laughed together.

Johnny sighed and leaned back, his shoulder against his brother, before a smile erupted, and his blue eyes danced. "Well, I am a reasonable fella."

Scott and Murdoch shared open mouthed, incredulous stares. Scott pulled his brother into a side hug as he ruffled his hair and exclaimed, "Oh brother!"

"You two have squandered enough of my time," Murdoch stated gruffly, his demeanor shifting as he stepped back. Both Johnny and Scott stilled, the younger suddenly wary, his hand dropping to the butt of his gun which sat low on his hip. "Need I remind you again, this is a working ranch."

"No, sir," Scott straightened, his reserve re-established, his emotions masked once more. Johnny's threatening mask slid too easily into place, his eyes hooded, but the sense of danger throbbed around him like a mountain cat about to attack.

"Scott, Johnny, we have been paid an advance for the delivery of stock. I expect that to take priority for the rest of the day." Murdoch turned and marched toward the front door. "We need to select the next horse to be broken today. Johnny, you can begin your gentling techniques to prepare her. Scott, get with Cipriano to teach you what tack will be needed and how to put it on her when the time comes to get Johnny on her back. Then the two of us can watch a mesteñero finish his work."

The large man talked as he walked then disappeared leaving the double doors open. The brothers stared at one another as stunned silence settled over the room.

Outside, a voice boomed.

"MOVE!"

The brothers scrambled running into one another as they hurried across the room. Arms entwined as they pushed through the doorway to exit first, the doors slammed behind them. Soon, excited voices broached the walls of the now sunlit room and slowly faded as they moved toward the corral. The room fell into peaceful silence. Calm. Quietly waiting for the family to return home.

Tick-tick-tick

Epilogue

Don Reynoso de Zúñiga Villaseñor settled back into the high-back leather chair and rested his hand over the letter he finished reading. He dragged deeply on his cigar then watched the smoke laze above his head, drifting toward the tall ceiling, his eyes not fully focused on the fresco mural. He heard the crisp clip of boot heels and spurs on the tile before the knock sounded on the door to his office he had left ajar.

"Enter."

The Don was unsurprised as his son, Reynaldo peeked through the opening before stepping in and closing the door behind him.

"The mare is settled in the corral. I left her with one of the older brood mares to help calm her," Naldo offered.

"Did she, what is the Americano phrase, enjoy "riding the rails"?" he asked, using English words for the slang.

"Enjoy may be a bit suggestive," Naldo grinned. "She did not kick in the box car walls. Galante was happy to part from her for the quiet of his stall. You are pleased with the words of Señor Lancer?" He gestured toward the letter on the large mahogany desk.

"Indeed yes. I may have you translate the English for me to ensure I read it correctly as I get little practice, but I am confident we shall have a fine and lucrative relationship. You did well, my son. How is our young Juanito?

"As you knew all those years ago, he was destined for something special. Perhaps he has found that road at last."

"I am pleased that his fortunes have led him away from the dangers of living his life by the gun. It is good that the name Johnny Madrid will be known as more than a pistolero. A famous pistolero, but a pistolero, nonetheless."

"It is good." Naldo laughed, his brown eyes chuckling along. "However, he has chosen the name of Johnny Lancer to carry him forward. But you know our Juanito. He chafes a bit at becoming a rancher, I think, but it suits him."

Reynoso puffed on his cigar and grinned. "Our Juanito never took the easy path but certainly left a wide road behind him so there was no doubt he had come that way."

"It was a shock, a wonderful shock, to find him alive and doing well. Very well."

"He receives proper respect as the son of the Patrón?"

"Yes. As you might expect, his reputation presents challenges but," Naldo shrugged, "he is Juanito. Once people come to know him, they embrace him."

"I seem to recall that you wanted the boy removed from the estância in the early days," the elder man commented knowingly, blowing a puff of smoke toward the ceiling.

"And I did find myself wanting to embrace him when he left," Naldo admitted, a slight blush hidden under the grime of the road. The young man dropped his eyes to the floor and toed the thick rug with the toe of his dusty boot. "There is another matter I need to discuss with you. We can speak of the details once you have time to consider; however, long hours in the saddle with only Galante to keep me company helped me to reach a decision. It is time for me to assume my duties as your heir. I am now prepared for you to select a wife for me."

The Don raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. "Has my young stallion finished servicing the wild mares of the open prairies?"

Naldo had the decency to flush slightly and avoid his father's eyes. "For a time, I was desirous of something that was not mine to have. When I thought it was forever lost, I found I wanted to have nothing because nothing could take its place. I then found it was not lost to me but must be accepted in its proper place. I discovered a new truth. Knowing it was still there, and I could share one part of it, a different part, was a gift unto itself. I am prepared to serve my land and its people. It is my honor to do this for the estância. For my family."

A melancholy smile touched his father's lips thinking he understood his son's dilemma. "Although we wed as strangers, I came to love your mother in my own way, Naldo. And she, the same for me. We both loved you with full hearts. You are of age, of course; however, our position is strong. Many offers have come to my table, but we will take the time to make an advantageous match. Marriage will not bring your life to an end, my son."

"A different phase of life, yes?" Naldo ran his fingers through his hair then grimaced at the dirt he felt on his fingers. "Before choosing a wife, my next duty is to find a tub of hot water and a soap that does not smell of horse sweat or leather."

"Go," the Don waved his hand. "Lucia is making your favorites for dinner and would be most distressed if anything other than the smell of her fine cooking came to the table."

"Yes, Father. It's good to be home, sir."

"It is good to have you home, Reynaldo."

The ring of spurs faded as the young man bounded up the stairs. Reynoso sighed as he stared at the empty doorway his only son had left behind. His fingers tapped on the parchment of the letter, his thoughts wandering through the past. He and Naldo had not made a trip together for several years. Perhaps he should experience "riding the rails" with his son when he returned to collect their mares. His Juanito could not yet return to Mexico. The rurales demanded his blood—and likely far more. The Don knew the dangers of that authority and the heavy hand exerted to keep the populace bringing wealth to the landed gentry. They had the troublesome Johnny Madrid in their grasp once. He would not escape if they took him again and his punishment would be great.

But he wanted to see his rescued boy again—the son of his heart that he had buried when word of his execution had reached him.

And he wanted to meet this Murdoch Lancer—this gringo father of his that left the boy alone to fend for himself in a harsh world. He wanted to meet him and judge for himself if he would encourage Juanito to remain or if he would find a way to return him to his own estância. And there was another heir, an older son and brother to his Juanito. He wanted to meet him, too.

Reynoso picked up the letter and eyed the fine, strong script of Señor Lancer. He skipped the salutations and discussion of the business between their rancheros. He and Reynaldo could review that after dinner. The final paragraph he read slowly, taking his time to put the English words into Spanish.

As you know my son Johnny, I suspect that you are aware that he is a private man, and he rarely speaks of his past. Reynaldo shared with us the nature of your meeting Johnny when he was a boy. He explained that you became like a father to my son when he was in desperate need, the father I longed to be but could not. This is a debt that I can never repay. You are to be further commended for raising a fine son who reminded me of the great gift I was given when my Johnny found his way back to me. You and your family will forever be welcome in our home.

The Don chewed his cigar, his eyes once again lost among the intricate patterns painted on the ceiling. He tapped the edge of the letter against the desk.

Yes, he and Reynaldo would go together to the Lancer estância. He would meet Murdoch Lancer and the eldest heir, Scott. He had questions about how the mixed-blood boy became lost on the streets of Mexico to fight for his very existence. He wanted to witness for himself that the boy was treated well as befitting the son of the Patrón. He felt compelled to take steps to ensure that his boy would never again enter the violent life of the pistolero. He longed to watch his grace as a mesteñero among the horses—his horses—once more.

But mostly, he just needed to see his wild spirited boy for himself and hug his Juanito again.

~~~The End~~~