Chapter 9

Scott stepped out of the church and scanned the area. His lips curled upward when he spotted his brother leaning nonchalantly against the Lancer rig.

"Johnny!" His brother straightened and waved a hand in acknowledgement. Scott's long strides rapidly shortened the distance between them. "Last night…?"

"Everything went fine last night, Scott." Johnny let a touch of exasperation into his voice. "I told you it would."

"I know, but…"

"You're a worrywart, worse than somebody's old abuela." Johnny saw the question flicker on his brother's face. "Grandmother, Scott, grandmother, you're worse about worrying than an old lady."

Only since I met you, little brother. "We won't mention the fact that I so often am given reason."

"Scott, Johnny." Their names caused the two men to turn toward the church to see their father motioning them to come.

"Murdoch wants to introduce you to the reverend." Scott looked at his brother and saw the reluctance.

Johnny swept his hand down gesturing toward his clothes. "Scott, I ain't…"

"You're not attending services. They're on the porch, so you don't even have to go into the church; just stand back and any lightning bolts shouldn't do more than minor damage." As Scott teased, he gently nudged Johnny's side.

Johnny snorted. "If one hits me, the brother standing next to me is going to be part of that minor damage." Johnny took two steps forward and then halted.

"Johnny, please, …" Scott placed a hand on his brother's arm; Johnny shook it off.

"I'm coming. It's just…it's just…fact is, Boston, I weren't raised to wear no gun on holy ground." Johnny's hand settled on his pistol.

And that's just the way Murdoch will see it. "Umm…"

"Boys." At the sound of their father's voice, Johnny drew in a slow breath and then unbuckled his gun belt. He stepped back and placed it on the seat of the rig. Turning back toward the church, he fell into step beside his brother as they answered their father's call. The next voice they heard came from behind them.

"Madrid!"

Johnny reacted instinctively. Spinning toward the sound, he pushed Scott away with his left hand as his right went to his hip. The motion was fluid and amazingly swift and would have been deadly if Johnny's gun had not been lying on the seat of the Lancer's rig. It took everyone watching several seconds to realize that Johnny Madrid's gun hand was empty; some did not comprehend that fact until he was lying on the ground with his hand flung out and no pistol nearby.

Johnny's shove sent Scott to the ground where he hit sideways landing on his shoulder. Johnny fell before Scott could scramble to his feet, and in the end Scott half crawled to his brother's side. The next minutes would forever seem a swirl of motion and sound with still pictures of individual moments scattered in the mix: Johnny's blood flowing over his fingers has he pressed down against the wound, Murdoch's face has he bent and lifted Johnny with a strength that belied the moniker "old man", and Sam's running ahead to prepare his surgery dragging Teresa with him by her arm.

Eventually the world grew still, far too still as Scott sat in Sam Jenkins's office. Sam had pushed him out of the surgery into an adjoining room, and he had remained because he knew there was too much truth in Sam's declarations that he would hinder his brother's treatment if he insisted on being in the surgery. Teresa was assisting Sam, previous experience making the girl more useful than himself, and Murdoch was simply immovable. He had laid Johnny down but had not moved from his son's side and had managed to maintain some type of physical contact throughout the preparation for the operation. Scott listened to the click of rosary beads. Maria and Cipriano had joined him when word of the shooting spread, and Maria had been praying continually since Scott had explained the situation. Val had come, asked a few questions, and left to pursue the shooter who had run as soon as he realized he had shot an unarmed man. Scott stared down at the floor. He kept his breathing shallow in an attempt to avoid the smell of blood emanating from his clothes. Blood. So much blood. Too much blood. Blood on the street. Blood soaking Johnny's clothes, soaking Murdoch's clothes, soaking mine. Blood on everyone's hands. Johnny's blood.

Finally, the door to the surgery opened, and Sam stepped out closing the door softly behind him. Scott was on his feet in a second.

"Scott, I've…the bullet is out, and I've repaired what damage I could."

"He's going to be fine. He's going to be fine, isn't he?"

"It was a bad wound, Scott. He bled a great deal." Sam eyes were filled with shadows.

"But he's going to recover? He is going to recover?" Scott felt his hands clenching.

"Only God knows."

"Madre Dios!" Maria's voice caught Sam's attention and turned his eyes toward her. As her hand came to her throat, sunlight caught the silver rosary she held.

Sam took a slow breath and turned his eyes back to Scott. His words were soft and delivered hesitantly.

"Would Johnny want a priest?"

"He's conscious?" Scott's eyes widened in hope, but Sam shook his head. "Then..."

Maria realized the meaning of the doctor's question and broke into sobs and a stream of unintelligible Spanish.

The realization came to the Protestant Scott more slowly. The last rites. Sam's asking if Johnny would want the last rites. Scott stumbled back a step and turned away.

"Scott." Sam Jenkins reached out, but Scott stiffened before the doctor's hands could provide support.

"Yes, yes, he would. I…"

"I shall go." Cip had risen, and his voice was filled with a desire to be useful. "I'll bring the padre."

Scott acquiesced. "Thank you." He watched Cip walk toward the door; then suddenly stepped after him. "Wait. Cip?" Scott came to a stop inches from Cipriano. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Will a priest come? Will a priest come for Johnny Madrid?" He saw the flicker of thought in Cipriano's eyes.

"I shall bring Padre Benito; he will come." Cip turned and exited. After a few seconds, Scott walked slowly over to join Maria's prayers with his own.

Scott stood when the door opened, and a priest entered with Cipriano at his heels.

"This is Padre Benito, Senõr Scott." Cipriano gestured toward the man in the black cassock.

"Father." Scott reached out his hand and then gestured toward the interior door. "My brother is this way."

The three men stepped forward with Scott leading the way. He opened the door slowly and stepped inside the darkened room. Murdoch looked over his shoulder, saw Scott and the priest, and was on his feet in one swift movement. Before Scott could speak, Murdoch was across the room blocking further entrance.

"No!" The word was a low, vehement hiss. Murdoch stepped forward causing both Scott and the priest to take an instinctive step back.

"Murdoch." Scott's utterance held both confusion and admonition.

"I'll not have it! He is not going to die; he's not." A fire burned in Murdoch Lancer's eyes, and when he again stepped forward Scott backed into the outer room. Padre Benito placed a hand on Scott's shoulder and maneuvered himself between Scott and Murdoch.

"Senõr Lancer…" The priest's tone was soft and soothing.

"No last rites, Father." Murdoch's tone was adamant. "There is no need."

"Senõr, your son was baptized a Catholic?"

"Yes, but…"

"You placed your son in God's hands that day, Senõr. God will bring him home in His own time; nothing we do will change that. Would you deny your son the opportunity to cleanse his soul?"

"Patrón." The single word brought all eyes to Maria as she stood face washed with tears clutching her rosary. "Please."

"Johnny would… Murdoch, he…he would want it." Scott's voice broke.

"He's not dying." Murdoch's declaration was much softer, but he stepped to the side and let the priest walk past. "And he's not going to be alone." Murdoch followed the priest and closed the door behind him.

Scott ran his hand through his hair and let out a very slow breath.

"Senõr Scott." Scott turned and looked at Cipriano. "I brought you this." Scott noticed the shirt in the Segundo's outstretched hand and let his eyes fall to his own bloody clothes.

"Thank you." He took the shirt without wondering about its ownership or how Cipriano had acquired it. He stood with it in his hand for a few moments and then bit his lip looking at Maria. I'm not leaving, but…

A stream of soft Spanish slid from Maria's lips, and she shook her head. "As if I have never seen…. The kitchen, change in the kitchen; there is water for washing." More Spanish followed. Scott did not understand her words, but her tone was familiar. He had heard her use it on his younger brother.

"Yes, the kitchen; I'll wash up there. If Sam or…"

"We will get you, now go."

Scott went. He found Teresa in the kitchen. Her head was buried in her arms, but she jerked upright when she heard his footsteps.

"Johnny?"

Scott shook his head. "The priest went in to him."

"Oh." The exhalation was soft, and her fingers twisted the material of her skirt.

Having no reassurance to offer, Scott retreated into the mundane. "I came to change my shirt."

Teresa's eyes fell to his chest and slid quickly away. "That would be good."

"Umm" Scot cleared his throat.

Teresa's brow furrowed; then her eyes rolled. "It's not like I haven't seen you without a shirt."

"Maria and Cip are in the other room."

"I helped Sam cut off Johnny's clothes."

"Johnny wasn't conscious."

Teresa gave a soft snort. "All right. I'll go sit with Maria."

Scott had washed his upper body and buttoned up the slightly large shirt before he heard footsteps enter the room.

"Senõr Lancer." Scott held his breath as he searched the priest's face. "The doctor says that it is now a matter of waiting. You may join your father if you wish."

"Yes. Thank you, Padre. I…my father, earlier he… I'm sure he didn't mean any offense. He…" Scott's words faltered.

"He loves his son." The statement was a simple observation. The corners of Padre Benito's lips turned up slightly. "And he is ready to fight God or any of his representatives to keep him here."

"Is there any way we can fight, Father?"

"No, but you can pray as shall I. Perhaps we could pray together?"

Scott rubbed his hand against his pants leg. "I'm not a Catholic."

"Yet you were the one who sent for me."

"Johnny… I…we had spoken. He…he may not have attended Mass, Father, but he still has his faith." Scott bit his bottom lip.

"Then that is all that is important. He is now prepared for whatever happens. We shall pray that God will grant you all strength, and if it pleases God that strength will heal your brother."

"Yes, umm, you believe that, well, that now, that with the Last Rites, that now Johnny's been forgiven even…even though he couldn't speak for himself."

"I believe God does not need words to know your brother's heart. If your brother desires forgiveness; he has it."

"But he didn't…I mean I thought Catholics needed to confess to a priest." Scott sighed. What more do you want him to say? It's hardly the time for a lesson in the intricacies of Catholicism. "It's just, well, in the past Johnny, well, he's done…"

"A sin is a sin, my son; God can forgive them all. Shall we pray?"

"Yes." Scott listened with bowed head to the priest's words and then added his own vehement amen.