Chapter 9

The light dappling across his face made him aware of the ungiving cold at his core. He couldn't seem to find his arms or legs but understood that he was being carried.

"Lay Scott on them there blankets," a voice he thought he should know flitted across what little consciousness the light granted. "Git them wet clothes off 'im. Boots an' all."

"Here? In the open like this?"

"Kyle, sometimes keepin' a man alive means a little less dignity an' a lot more dry blankets. Gotta wrap 'im up tight now."

As the movement around him increased, odd sensations tingled at his fingertips and toes, sensations that suddenly flamed. He groaned as those voices disappeared. Scott flipped on his axis trying to locate the fire. A brazier blazed in front of him. One arm darted up to block his eyes as he stepped back, stumbling as his feet felt like they were wrapped in burlap. The tent. He was in the tent in the woods…in Virginia. Wasn't it? But he ran out of there. Didn't he? There was a cavern, no, …a mine. There was. He was sure of it. He thought he was sure. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist, confusion making ripples across his brow. A headache was building diverting his attention from…from whatever this was.

The sound of shuffling cards made him spin.

The brown-haired man attired like a riverboat gambler stood before him, close enough to touch. Scott opened his mouth to snap at the man to take a step back, but he locked onto the golden eyes that reflected the brazier behind him as if the fire danced inside the man and he could only blink. And swallow. Hard.

"Return for another hand?" the man asked as he turned to the side, his arm crossing in front of his body in a wide arc as if gesturing him into a gala ball. Scott's tongue darted across his lips and wondered at the roughness then glanced at his dirty clothes. They were damp. He wasn't dressed for any occasion but a tussle with some beeves. Beeves? Where had he heard that? Certainly not in Boston.

"You have me at a disadvantage, sir," Scott squared his shoulders. The man responded with a roguish grin, a tilt of his head, and repeated the hand gesture, his rings glittering. Scott's eyes followed the movement to see a second man, a large man with grayish white hair, seated at the same square table from before. He wore a tan shirt with pale gray stripes forming a box pattern and a leather vest. He idly shifted the cards in his hands with a rough side shuffle as if he was unsure of the game. The man looked up, their blue eyes locking together. The man started a smile, then froze as if he was unsure of that, too.

"Murdoch?" Scott questioned, a name rising to his tongue.

"I think…I think I owe you a hand?" the man attempted the smile again. "I want you to join me…if you are willing, son."

Scott dropped his gaze, the headache, the burning in his limbs, the tumble of memories churning in his mind. He was forgetting something. Something lost. Something important.

"Wait!" Scott pushed the Dealer aside as he rushed to the table, his palms pressed against the surface. Murdoch…Murdoch Lancer… his father… when had he become more than a name and become his father? But the man withheld something…something important. Something Scott wanted. Needed. Demanded. The older man held out the deck of cards as if in supplication, pleading for Scott to accept. The younger man hesitated, the pounding in his ears increasing as he stared at the appeal in the man's eyes. His father's eyes. He had his mother's eyes. Murdoch told him that…and so little else.

As if hearing his thoughts, Murdoch gestured toward the empty chair. "Join me. Please. There are so many things you should know. The truth of things. Some things rest at my feet. Others were beyond my control. If you are willing to listen, I…I am willing to tell you what I know."

Exhaustion drove Scott into the seat, but his eyes lifted in anticipation. How he had longed for that conversation but never found the courage within himself to begin. Damn Boston Brahmin dictates of demeanor and deportment. Ask nothing. Feel nothing. And damn Murdoch for slamming the door shut from the moment he first stepped into the Great Room. A door his own stubborn pride refused to broach.

"I want to tell you. Tell you the things no one told you."

Scott leaned forward in the chair, his brow beginning to furrow along with a growing ache. He wanted to hear those things. Wanted to know his father cared enough to bring him fully into his life, past and present so they could forge a future. Wanted to hear the missing pieces, the missing parts, the missing….

"Johnny!" the memory surged. "Where's Johnny? Murdoch, where's Johnny?!"

Murdoch's face grew puzzled. Scott jerked to his full height knocking the chair over. His face grew flush with the rising pain in his limbs and anger spilled from his eyes. The Dealer moved to stand next to him, capturing his attention with his strange, yellow eyes.

"Johnny is not what you are missing."

Scott jolted back, snapped from the tent as if yanked by a cord pulled by a puppet master.

"Careful, Kyle! Don't knock 'im around like that!"

"Johnny! Where's Johnny? Murdoch, where's Johnny?!" Scott fought against the blankets binding him, the hands stopping him from sitting up.

"Hold on there, Scott. They're brinin' him along. Cip had to wrap up all them injuries from that maulin' first. Had to get that sluggish bleedin' stopped. Boss! Boss! Kyle, go git the boss. Hurry up now!"

"On my way, Jelly," the youngster leapt over the side of the wagon and ran into the mine, shouting, "Mr. Lancer! Mr. Lancer!"

"Now jus' be still, Scott. We'll be on our way soon. You had a powerful run-in with that cold 'thermia an' we're gonna git ya in yer bed in front of a fire with some warming blocks an' so many quilts yer gonna think yer in that "Princess an' the Pea" story you was reading to us the other day. Doc's been sent for an' he'll know ju' what ya need. Rest easy now, boy."

Scott stopped momentarily as if listening to Jelly although his eyes were unfocused. His attention snapped from side to side in a fruitless search. He felt lost, unsure of where he was, but the more he concentrated, the more he was sure of what he sought. He took several labored breaths against the building agony that shred his muscles, tearing his limbs from their sockets before he began to shout, "Johnny…where's Johnny? Murdoch! Where's Johnny!" He continued to thrash against the blankets wrapped around him.

Murdoch maneuvered his way through the broken planks of the mine entrance, loping awkwardly toward the wagon.

"Boss! Hurry! Tell Scott Johnny is on his way!" Jelly pleaded as he lay across the younger Lancer to hold him down. "This boy is jerkin' like a bronco!"

"Scott, son! Settle down. Look, Scott, look," Murdoch did his best to avoid his need to control through demands and gentle his tone. Offer reassurance. He leaned over the side of the wagon and pressed hard against Scott's struggle to escape. "Johnny's coming… Johnny's here. See. He's here. Calm down now, son. Stop fighting me. Settle down, Scott. Walt, Frank, lay Johnny in the wagon. Next to his brother. That's right. Be careful." The orders began to flow as naturally as the swollen creeks following a spring rain.

Several minutes passed as the hands carried the youngest Lancer from the confines of the mine and laid him on a blanket, pulling it next to his combative brother. Scott managed to pull one arm free from the folds of the blankets around him and grappled across the men until he snatched a hold of Johnny's dangling arm.

"Gentle now, gentle," Murdoch attempted to soothe his eldest by stroking his hair and tenderly pressing him back against the cushion of blankets spread across the wagon bed. Scott's pale eyes shone with intensity, the color heightened by the blue tint of his eyelids, his nose, his lips. He attended every move as his brother was positioned into place beside him, although the younger man gave no sign that he was a part of any of the activity affecting him.

Scott slowly exhaled once Johnny rested next to him. He started to lean in his brother's direction, but the movement drained what remained of his expended stamina. His pale blue eyes rolled back into his head, his shrieking muscles going limp, and he returned into a place of unconsciousness.

"Now there's a blessin' we won't call for too often." Jelly leaned back against the sideboard of the wagon, looking spent after the thrashings of the elder son. "Git Scott tucked back inta those blankets. We gotta git these boys home."

"No, leave them be. Cover them up just as they are," Murdoch ordered. Scott's hand gripped Johnny's refusing to relinquish the connection. The father rested his hand atop those of his sons. "Leave them be."

xXxXx

He wasn't cold.

That was the first thing that broached his thoughts. He wasn't cold. But he did hurt. Not the kind that took over and made you want to put a bullet in your brain to make it stop kind of hurt but the kind that gnawed at your bones enough to keep you fighting back. It was powerful enough to make him open his eyes.

He stood in a dark place, just enough gray to see. Not that it told him where he was. He could make out his left hand moving. Not the right, damn it. Felt like a burning stick shoved in his shoulder that flamed all the way to his fingertips when he did that. Looking down, he could see his boots, splattered dark with something.

Mud. He had been in the mud.

He'd been in Hell.

He was still in Hell.

His hand shot for his Colt when the sound of someone approaching echoed in the darkness. He swallowed back his groan knowing he couldn't beat anyone to the draw. He could barely move his arm. Felt tied down like someone had strapped it against his chest. Maybe that was part of his torment. Facing down every man he killed only it was him lying in the dirt when it was done because his mind knew he should react, but his body couldn't move to draw.

Funny, how he took some comfort just feeling the weight of his gun on his hip. Even if it meant facing a gunfight he could never win. Johnny Madrid never ran from a fight. Nothing in Hell was gonna change that. He spread his feet, balancing on his toes, prepared to roll one way or the other. Dodging could make up for what drawing couldn't finish. He wiggled his fingers. Yeah, the left still worked. The Devil may have thought it all out but that didn't mean Johnny had to play his way. He never did take to following the rules.

"You," Johnny stated as the figure moved into his vision. He found the butt of his gun with his free hand but doubted his ability to lift it. His left side shrieked in protest when he tried. Anger narrowed his eyes but only until the neutral mask he had perfected spread like black oil in a pan of clear water. The golden eyes locked onto his as The Dealer crossed his arms, thin fingers wrapped at his elbows, his rings sparkling despite the absence of light. Or maybe he brought the fire that made them spark with him. Surely the damn preachers were right about something.

The suddenness of his memories almost made Johnny take a step back, but years of discipline kept his feet planted as if encased in stone. The ragged look of his brother as they stumbled out of the rocks away from the water-filled shaft and struggled to find the shelter of the abandoned mine only to discover a different way to experience Hell did make him swallow the bile burning his throat.

You failed to pull him out of that shaft. You dragged him into your damnation. You let him die. You let him die and yanked him straight into your tribulation. The pain ignited, its sparks burning every part of his being. He blinked against the tears that proclaimed his weakness, his guilt. The complete depth of his damnation.

"Save him. Take me. That was the deal," Johnny rasped when he found the strength to speak.

Something danced in those yellow eyes.

"That was the deal!" Johnny shouted taking a step forward, the gun awkwardly pulled from its holster with his off hand, an inept finger on the trigger guard of his gun.

A light distracted him causing him to peer over The Dealer's shoulder. His scrutiny revealed a room, dimly lit. The window in that room must have been opened because a diaphanous curtain hanging like a cover between the spaces of where he stood and where the room began seemed to shift with a breeze as he watched. Staring, he took a half-step to his right side, keeping the gun pointed at his adversary's chest. His mask fell away into confusion.

The lantern on the nightstand revealed two men, shoulders straight, alert, engaged. Comfortable in their shared company. One sat in a ladder-back chair, the other leaning against a bed headboard.

"Oh, what a sight that was! Your grandfather, his face red, his lips moving to speak, but your mother pecked him on the cheek and carried on as if all was right with the world proclaiming, 'I knew you would understand, Father.' She swirled those petticoats like a master and sashayed out of the room saying, 'I shall alert the kitchen to bring refreshments, and we shall discuss the announcement." The gray-haired man in the chair was speaking, both eyes and hands dancing. The young blond in the bed laughed.

"Grandfather always presented her as the perfect, dutiful daughter. I should have known she would have learned the art of manipulation at his knee."

"Your grandfather was not pleased to accept our marriage but Catherine…your mother, against the counsel of several matrons of the upper crust of the elite, refused to wed in secret. Her true friends gave a nod and a wink of approval. It was not the event of the year that Harlan Garrett envisioned but it did make the society pages. 'Garrett Heiress to Wed Scottish Sophisticate.'"

"Now that's headline I would love to see," the young man dropped his head back as he laughed. "Grandfather must have choked on his Armagnac."

"I have those papers somewhere. We can look in the attic. I should have brought them down for you before."

"I would like that, sir," the young blond grinned.

"Your mother saved all of her letters from Boston. She was loved by many. None more than me," the older man ducked his head at the admission. "They're yours now, Scott."

"Thank you, sir…Murdoch. Father. I look forward to reading them."

"Murdoch? Scott?" Johnny whispered, taking another step toward the room. Both were…content. At peace. A memory shared. A past restored. A kinship settled. A smile tugged at Johnny's lips. "Murdoch found him. Scott's okay."

"Patrón," a knock interrupted the father and son chat as the unlatched door was pushed open. The lantern light expanded to show the vaquero bringing himself through the threshold and half-way to the bed. "You asked me to bring you word upon my return. We found the puma where Señor Scott described. Despite the work of the scavengers, the pelt was salvaged although after these several days, what meat remained was spoiled and left behind. The condors will clean it up soon enough. I sent Walt and Kyle to Morro Coyo for supplies. Mañana, we will begin repair to the open shaft and reseal the mine entrance."

"Thank you, Cip," Murdoch nodded in the Segundo's direction.

"Make sure that bracing on the shaft on the hill is extra thick, Cipriano. That is not a tumble I care to repeat," the young blond shared a wry grin.

"Sí Señor. Or one you wish your hermano to witness given his reaction the first time." The Segundo left with his own chuckle.

Murdoch patted Scott's thigh. "I think you will come to regret sharing that story of Johnny teasing you about the rope with the men, my son."

"Scott made it home," Johnny muttered with wonder, a warmth filling his chest. "Alive. He's alive.

"He's alive!"

Johnny leapt into the air lifting his fist into the air. He spun in place, his whoops echoing around them. He thrust the gun back into its place at his side before he steadied himself. His own pain pushed aside, his eyes drifted over the men in the room, a gentle smile that filled his entire face soaking in the scene.

"You sent him back. Like we agreed. And Murdoch's talkin'. Finally talkin' to Scott about his Mama and how things were. 'Bout damn time the Old Man figured it out. 'Bout damn time.

"Never wanted to be beholden to nobody," Johnny cut a glance at The Dealer. He hadn't moved but Johnny now stood next to him although they faced opposite directions, "but I'm beholden to you all the same."

"Fold?" the baritone of The Dealer filled the area, his eyes spinning like twirled gold. Johnny's attention remained in the bedroom, watching his family. His father. His brother. His Scott, he snorted to himself. Who would have thought one man could make him care so much.

"Son," Murdoch's low voice rumbled into the dark space once more, "Sam says you are out of danger now. No lost digits. No long-term damage from the hypothermia. You can move around for short distances, but your body did suffer trauma. You are supposed to be getting rest. Wouldn't you be more comfortable in your own bed?"

"No, Murdoch. I want to wait here. I want to wait for Johnny."

As if the sun broke through the curtains, light spread across the room. Scott rested on one side of a large bed. His hand placed comfortably on the chest of a body lying next to him. A pained expression crossed Murdoch's face. "Sam cleaned and stitched the wounds, but the infection from the claws and bite brought such a virulent infection. He can't say that Johnny will li…." The words stuck in his throat, and he chose others, "…when he might wake up. We can't seem to break the damn fever, and he warned it may only get worse…."

Scott lifted a hand to stay the words. "The pain's not so bad now. I'll stay here."

Murdoch closed his eyes against a different kind of pain. "I need to tell him…to tell Johnny how proud I am of him. Words of praise never came easily from my father, your Seannair, and so I have trouble finding the words when they are due. He works so hard every day that it is easy to overlook."

"Then you should tell him every day," Scott encouraged. "You know he's only going to want you to repeat it a few times. 'What was that ya said there, Murdoch?'" the brother mimicked with a grin, bringing one cupped hand to his ear. "'Not sure I heard that, Old Man.'" Their father smiled.

"I want to repeat it, Scott. Over and over until Johnny knows it. Knows how I feel. Until you both know it. Make up for the years you didn't hear me say it. I'm proud to be your father. Proud to call you my sons. Nothing in this world matters to me as much as the two of you."

"Murdoch is proud of me? Me? He wants me?" Johnny needed to hear the words out loud. needed to hear the words out loud.

The confusion was back on Johnny's features as he tore his gaze from his family and focused on the unsettling golden eyes that seemed to have an eternity to wait. A thin eyebrow raised as the Dealer asked again, "Do you fold?"

"Do I…?" Johnny paused as the words nestled into place as he watched his brother lean back into the pillows at his back and his father move his gaze protectively from one of his boys to the other.

"Nah," he answered with the hint of a smile amazed at the cards set before him. "I'll play this hand."

Johnny pressed the toe of his boot against the ground as he bumped past The Dealer headed toward the bedroom. He hesitated at the lace-wing like curtain that separated him from the room where he longed to be. He drew a deep breath and stepped forward, never looking back. The delicate strands brushed against his skin, the dizzying sensation making him spin away into a vortex of brilliant colors.

"Scott! Your brother!" Murdoch shouted at the movement of the dark head back and forth against the pillow, a faint groan turning Scott's head. Jumping from his seat, Murdoch hurried to the other side of the shared bed to lay his hand on the forehead of his youngest.

The dark lashes fluttered against the pallid skin, the lids struggling open, pupils shrinking in the sudden light to reveal rings of vivid blue.

Scott bent to position himself within Johnny's gaze, his arm laying gently across his waist avoiding the swath of bandages, a smug smile brightening his face.

"Hello, Brother."

The End

August, 2024

End Notes: Although she doesn't realize it, Wendy's unfinished story was the impetus that sent me on my personal Lancer fanfic journey. I fell in love with the character of Johnny Madrid Lancer when the show initially aired and the memory of that stayed with me through the decades. James Stacy was incredible, and I will always hold a special place in my heart for him due to the gentle influences he made in my life.

I wandered into the fan fic world a few years ago within a different, less traveled fandom and didn't feel the inspiration to write for others, although I did enjoy reading them. Wendy's story "Missing" changed all that when an idea of "what happened next" wheedled its way into my brain and wouldn't let go. I am very grateful that she provided the nudge as writing for Johnny, Scott and the rest of the Lancer family introduced me to some great people who share my fascination with the fandom.

This wasn't the first Lancer story I managed to write, but it was the one that started it all.

Thanks Wendy!

And a historical note: Wild Bill Hickok was killed at a poker table in 1876 holding black aces and black eights. The fifth card is not known. Western lore turned this into The Dead Man's Hand. Although this came a bit later than Johnny and Scott's cougar hunt resulting in Scott's dilemma inside the mineshaft, a little poetic license was taken because, you know, this is fiction, and the device worked for the story.

~Shelly~