Letting It Stand

 

Letting It Stand

Chapter One

 

The smell of fresh cut wood always did something to Murdoch. Soothed him, maybe. Taking him back across the Atlantic, right into the warmth of his father’s workshop—where coils of wood shavings covered the floor and the spiders in the window corners caught sawdust in their webs. In those days, he could tell each wood by its smell: willow, maple, pine. Thirty years on, that ability was lost, but the smell of drying timber could still ease him. When the timber in question wasn’t hiding what he needed. 

 

Blazes. The wagon jack had to be here somewhere. His search led him to the rear of the shed. Ah, there it was! What ranch hand thought it wise to block access to it with a tower of logs? Perhaps the same one who’d abandoned the old wagon in the furthest pasture, leaving its wheels to succumb to the ravages of rot. He reached between firewood, straining his fingers to catch a grip of the cold metal.

 

About to wrestle the jack from its hiding spot, voices outside stilled his hand. Teresa and… Johnny. He brushed cobwebs aside to see through the cracked pane of glass. Too far to hear now, he gauged their tone from the way they moved and the expressions on their faces. Teresa had her hands on her hips as she followed Johnny, while the shake of Johnny’s head and the slap of his hat against a fencepost suggested frustration, but at least it looked like he gave her more than the monosyllabic answers Murdoch received. His shoulders slumped. Why couldn’t those two get along? Fingers crossed, Johnny remembered who he was talking to. Unfortunately, Teresa wasn’t a stranger to the odd cuss word or two.

 

His breath was fogging up the glass. Teresa looked cross now, and Johnny was smirking.

 

Her small hands squeezed into fists, but when she opened her mouth and yelled, “Murdoch”, he eased back from the window so she wouldn’t see him. Coward. She stormed off towards the hacienda, still calling his name, leaving Johnny watching her go with an exasperated look on his face. Johnny waited a beat, kicked out at the fencepost before throwing his arms up and trailing after her.

 

No doubt he’d hear all about it later. From Teresa, of course. In the two weeks since Johnny decided to stay, things had gotten… better. Yes, they were better, if better meant a son who didn’t snarl and snap when in the same room and didn’t call him ‘old man’ as much. But otherwise, Johnny remained as closed up as a freshwater mussel scooped from the Ness’s cobble bed.

 

He ought to be thankful. After all, Johnny’s willingness to be anywhere near his ‘old man’ was an improvement, although when the two of them were alone, Johnny soon found someplace else to be. Still, it was progress, even if he remained the only person in the family incapable of prising Johnny’s shell open. With his thick, clumsy fingers, he was wary to try, yet he should. There were things he needed to know.

 

Turning back to the jack, Murdoch tried again to extract the darn thing from between the stacks of wood. A sharp twinge shot through the back of his leg. “Damnation.” His hand shot to the sore spot and rubbed.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be taking it easy, sir?” Scott’s voice came from behind him.

 

Ignoring the twinge, he reached and got a firm grip on the tool. “Not anymore,” he grunted, pulling it free. “Sam thinks the bullet’s shifted, alleviating most of the pressure on the nerve.”

 

“Didn’t Doctor Jenkins say that if it shifted once, it could shift back?”

 

Scott sounded concerned. He needn’t be. 

 

“Well, I suppose that’s a possibility, but as I told Sam, I refuse to sit idly by on the off-chance it does.” He propped the jack against the wall and dusted off his hands. “How’s the field coming?” His son had stopped in the doorway, peeling off his gloves. Being Saturday, work finished around midday, but Scott had stayed out there longer by the look of him. Sweat patches marked his beige shirt and his damp hair curled out from beneath his hat. If Harlan saw his grandson now, what would he say?

 

Scott grimaced. “One down. Two to go.”

 

“Good. That’s good.” He gestured to the window. “Do you know what that was between Johnny and Teresa?”

 

“I could make an educated guess.”

 

“May I hear it?”

 

“I suspect Johnny’s finding Teresa’s concern for his welfare somewhat hard to take.”

 

“I’ll have a word with her.”

 

“No. Johnny’s a big boy. He can handle it. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to be reminded that doctors give out medical advice for a reason.” 

 

Oh, so Scott wanted to make a point, did he? Smart Alec. Any comparison of Johnny’s injury to his own was entirely without merit. He scoured the woodpile for decent logs to split into kindling. “I gather you and Johnny are going into town with the others tonight.”

Saturday night had always been a time for the younger ranch hands to let loose, sleeping off their hangovers most of Sunday. That had stopped when Pardee came. Tonight marked another sign that things were returning to normal.   

 

“We are.”

 

He dragged a few hefty chunks of firewood over to the small chopping block. Then a couple more. Scott was quick to lend a hand. Maybe too quick. He wasn’t an enfeebled old man anymore. “Is that a good idea?” He’d been in town earlier—Green River—so not where his sons were headed tonight. But, still, word of Johnny Madrid staying at Lancer had spread.

 

“Why wouldn’t it be? You never objected to me going before.”

 

“I don’t object now.”

 

“If you’re going to say Johnny shouldn’t be riding yet—”

 

“No.” He snorted. These sons of his! One minute he was so old he’d forgotten what it was like to be young, and the next minute they thought he was born yesterday. He straightened up and met Scott’s gaze. “That horse has well and truly bolted, hasn’t it? You and your brother would do well to remember there’s not much I miss on this ranch when it comes to the comings and goings of people and horses.”

 

He swept the block clear of sawdust and reached for the axe, weighing it once in his hands. It was too large for this task, but it had a solid grip. “I made this one myself,” he said, turning it over. “Used ash for the handle. It made it lighter, but not as durable. It didn’t last.”

 

There was a furrow in Scott’s brow; a slight crease showing his confusion. Murdoch sighed. If he was straight with Scott about his worries, they might go away. “I can’t help but think about Pardee’s Indian. What if there are others out there who come for Johnny, like Pardee’s men who got away, or the others who decided not to attack when they saw Pardee tied to the fence? It’s been some time, but what if—”

 

“You want to know what I think?”

 

“You have the floor.”

 

“Eventually, you’ll have to stop feeling guilty about taking those bullets from Johnny’s gun.”

 

Was it guilt? It left that same bitter aftertaste. “It’s not just that. I hope we’re moving past that. I…” God, he hated the hint of vulnerability in his voice. 

 

“You have moved past it and so has Johnny. We all accept that he sleeps with a gun under his pillow and wears one in the house because, right now, that’s what makes him feel safe. If he didn’t think going to town was a good idea, we wouldn’t be going.”

 

“You honestly believe your brother would hide away here if he suspected trouble?” Scott knew Johnny better than that.

 

“No, he would have faced it already.”

 

That might be true, but it wasn’t comforting. Yet he couldn’t keep Johnny at home any more than he could control what other people thought. “You know, I ran into Jeff Porter this morning. He’s the President of the Cattleman’s Association. He’s talking about resuming meetings. They want to discuss bringing law to the valley, something I was pushing for well before Pardee.”

 

“That sounds sensible.”

 

“Mm… hmm.” Something more than pack law was well overdue. But call him cynical—it wasn’t Pardee’s attack on Lancer that had pushed law enforcement higher on the Association’s agenda, but rather the arrival of Johnny Madrid in their God-fearing midst.

 

Jeff Porter almost confirmed it: ‘I don’t suppose having the law here concerns you these days Murdoch, now that you have a gunfighter permanently on the payroll.’

 

So, that was how the cattlemen saw it. Would they accept Johnny as a rancher, or would he always be Johnny Madrid? And what about Johnny himself—did he even want to be seen as one? Sit around a table with men twice his age? If a more familiar opportunity presented itself, would he ride off and leave them behind? They weren’t due to sign the partnership agreement until next week, as Morgan Randolph had gone out of town.

 

“Will the meeting be at Lancer?”

 

“I don’t know yet. Porter will organise it.”

 

Scott nodded, folded his gloves into his righthand pocket. “Well, I’d better go clean up.”

 

Murdoch swapped the axe for a hatchet and lined the blade up with the wood.

 

“You said you made the axe?” Scott’s smile softened the interruption. “I had no idea that woodwork was a hobby of yours.”

 

He relaxed his arm. “Not so much lately. I learned as a boy, from my own ‘old man’. Spent most of my childhood watching him work.” Perhaps he shouldn’t have told Scott he’d made the axe. It wasn’t the finest example of craftmanship. The handle brought up his callouses when swung too long.

 

“Perhaps you could tell me about it sometime.”

 

“About my childhood, or how to make an axe?”

 

Scott shrugged. “Why not both?”

 

A touch of challenge resonated in Scott’s tone, yet his face remained free of any such expression. His son’s blue eyes sought a connection with Murdoch’s and, for heaven’s sakes, no matter the harshness that came later, his life in Scotland was a piece of his past that warmed and soothed him. He could share it. The chance to work alongside his son, showing Scott what he wanted to know rather than what was required… He could do that. His smile bloomed warm and welcoming. “Why not indeed. We’ll find the time.”

 

******

 

Even a weak sun made Scott squint after having grown accustomed to the dim light inside the woodshed. As the door creaked shut behind him, a chilly breeze swept around the corner of the structure, prickling his skin and sending escaped wood shavings dancing across the yard. From inside, the hatchet thudded to the satisfying crack of splintering wood. Was it premature to feel a little of that satisfaction himself? Scott smiled, despite the cold. Getting Murdoch to agree to talk about the past was like chopping wood, and hard knotted wood at that. Just as the wood splintered unevenly, so could Murdoch’s willingness to open up.

 

He was still rubbing the chill from his skin when he opened the back door into the kitchen and Teresa looked up from stirring the pot.

 

“If you’ve changed your mind about dinner, Scott, there’ll be plenty.”

 

He hung his hat from the wall peg. The scent of the lemon soap the women added to the water when mopping made him scrape his boots. They all knew better than to trek dirt over a washed floor.

 

Scott patted his empty belly, the hunger gnawing at him. Lunch seemed like hours ago. “No. I agreed to dinner in town, so dinner in town it’ll be.”

 

Teresa snickered as laid out the silverware for herself and Murdoch. “So, you’re really going along with this? Eating in señora Mendez’s café with Manny, Pedro, and the others?” Her eyes glinted. “Didn’t you eat there once before?”

 

Did it count as eating? Taking one bite of a dish that almost blew the roof of his mouth off. “That was before I spent a month in Mexico, Teresa.” He had more of a tolerance for heat now, even if he’d never been able to stomach quite the same level of spice as Johnny or Tomás. 

 

“Ah.” She was nodding in mock understanding. “And did you dine in Mexican cantinas every night while you were there? I thought you lived mostly on the trail while looking for Johnny?”

 

Next time, he’d come through the front way and avoid the kitchen. She was enjoying herself far too much. “Speaking of Johnny. What were you two arguing about this afternoon?”

 

That soured her like she’d taken a bite out of the soap she’d washed the floor with. “He’s incorrigible.” She marched around the table, setting two dinner plates on the tablecloth with a dull thud. “And I wasn’t arguing. I was simply asking him to have some consideration for doctor’s orders and the time we all spent nursing him.”

 

“We both know Doctor Jenkins will give Johnny the all-clear next week, so if he’s sneaking away from time to time on four legs instead of two, where’s the harm?”

 

“He was jumping fences, Scott. On that chestnut horse Cipriano says has a mean streak.”

 

Of course he was.

 

He sighed. The stew was making his belly grumble, so he gave it a stir.

 

“Ooh, wait ‘til I tell Murdoch.” Teresa took the spoon from him, then stuck it back in the pot like she was stabbing someone. Johnny probably. Specks of stew went sailing, but she didn’t seem to notice.

 

Was this how his life would be in this newfound family of theirs? Acting as a buffer between Johnny, who did whatever the hell he wanted, and everyone else? He’d play the part of peacemaker for now, but they were in for a shock if they thought it was a role he intended to adopt forever. 

 

“Given that the cease in hostilities between Johnny and Murdoch is in its infancy, I don’t think telling Murdoch is wise.” Although he’d likely find out, anyway. “Let me talk to Johnny. Where is he?”

 

“Upstairs? He whitewashed the small barn today, but it looked more like the barn whitewashed him. Murdoch told Consuela that you’d both be back early because you’re going out, so she made sure there was hot water in both your rooms. That was a while ago now, so you’d best get a move on.”

 

“You couldn’t have mentioned that earlier?”

 

“I’m mentioning it now.”

 

Right. He’d take these stairs; it was the quickest way to his room. The first step had already creaked when he glanced over his shoulder. “The stew smells like it’s missing something, by the way.”

 

“What?” She dived for the spoon to taste it, wincing as she tried not to burn her tongue. Scott took the rest of the stairs with a grin. 

 

Pleasingly, the water was warm and, along with the soap he’d ordered from Boston, it swept away the day’s sweat and grime earned from hours spent that morning labouring in the burnt and blackened alfalfa fields. It had taken the best part of a week and an entire crew to get one field ready for replanting come spring, and there were two ruined fields left to do.

 

Standing before the mirror, he put down his silver-handled hairbrush and fastened the last button on his shirt.

 

“What’s takin’ so long, Scott, huh? You ain’t pretty enough already?”

 

Johnny’s lean in the doorway was as casual as his drawl, and how did he have the audacity to ask that question while standing there with his red shirt gaping open? And was that still a streak of whitewash in his wet hair?

 

He gave his own hair one last flick and grinned. “I am now, little brother.”

 

In the mirror’s reflection, Johnny frowned, as if contemplating that particular moniker. Perhaps remembering how Scott last used it while on his knees on a dusty Mexican street after Johnny challenged him to a gunfight. He’d wanted to bring Johnny down a peg or two then, even the odds a little.

 

They might be on much better terms than their first meeting in Mexico, but Johnny still needed reminding who was the older, wiser brother now and then.

 

Scott reached out and playfully roughed Johnny’s hair. “Look at you, boy. It’s only been a few weeks and already you’re sprouting a grey hair for every blade of grass on this ranch. Just like the ‘old man’.”

 

“What?” Johnny ducked under Scott’s hand and popped up in front of the mirror, his fingers gripping the few strands of paint coated hair that a quick dip in a bathtub must’ve missed. “Damn stuff gets everywhere.”  

 

“On you, anyway.” He had two jackets in the armoire. He’d go with the tan tonight. Where had he put his billfold? As he scanned his room, Johnny wandered about, trailing his fingers along the dresser, picking up Scott’s things, putting them down, sniffing his cologne and screwing up his nose. 

 

“Is there something in particular you’re looking for, brother?”   

 

“Noo, I’m just… curious.”

 

“About?”

 

Johnny smirked as he shrugged. “Oh, I dunno… like why you have more’n one hairbrush for starters.” He picked up the long-shaped brush and swiped it through his hair in the spot where the paint was.

 

“This clothes brush…” Scott took it from his brother and made a point of brushing down his shoulders, “… is great at removing all those telltale horsehairs. You could do with one.”  

 

Johnny let out a laugh and dropped onto Scott’s bed, bouncing lightly on the mattress as if comparing it to his own. “Teresa talked to you? Boy, she got herself in a pucker.” Scott waited for the smirk, but the frown was back on Johnny’s face, as if the reason for Teresa’s reaction outside was genuinely lost on him. “D’you know she threatened to tell the old man on me?” Johnny stretched out his legs and shook his head. “What’s that about, huh? Am I s’posed to be worried or somethin’?” He stifled a yawn with his sleeve.

 

Teresa was right: incorrigible indeed. “I suppose whether it worries you depends on whether you care that you’ve broken your word.” His billfold was hiding in the bedside drawer. He slipped it into his inside pocket. A glance back saw Johnny tracing circles on the red and white blanket on the bed. “You agreed not to take unnecessary risks.”

 

Johnny blew out a noisy breath. “I tell ya, brother, I’ve agreed to a whole lot lately when I shoulda kept my mouth shut.” Was he talking about doctor’s orders, their trip to town or his decision to stay at Lancer? Johnny slapped his thighs and stood, fingers moving to his shirt buttons. “Are we going to Morro Coyo or what? Not that I can see what’s so darn entertaining about that town. It was as boring as hell when I was there.”

 

“Probably not how the residents of Morro Coyo viewed your stay.”

 

“My stay?” Johnny lifted his chin from his shirt. “I was well-behaved. It wasn’t me flinging tequila into people’s faces or throwing myself through store windows.”

 

Johnny had this grin when teasing, the kind that made laughter trump the urge to punch him, but only just. “Too soon?” he asked with his hands up, smirking as he backed out the door.

 

Scott followed him into the hallway. “You keep going, little brother, and I’ll leave you here to spend another Saturday night with Murdoch and Teresa. Come on, get your boots before I pass out from hunger.”

 

Johnny headed towards his room. “Y’know, you sure do scrub up well, Scott. I’m kinda disappointed though…”

 

He almost sighed. He was about to take the blasted bait. “Oh?”

 

“I was hoping you’d be wearing them plaid pants and ruffled shirt I hear so much about.”

 

If Johnny stayed on the prod like this, it was going to be a very long evening. And he would be having some strong words with Teresa O’Brien come tomorrow morning. That was if he survived the night ahead.

 

***TBC***