Letting it Stand Chapter Seven

 Letting it Stand

Chapter Seven

 

 

Oh, boy, had he been wrong yesterday—this was purgatory. Johnny’s feet ached something fierce, and he was pretty sure he had blisters on blisters, ‘least that’s what it felt like. They weren’t what smarted the most, though. Goddammit. Teresa didn’t have to damn well ditch him miles from home without a horse.

 

She’d be back at the hacienda by now because the afternoon looked done. The wind was pushing darker clouds across the sky. The only glimpse of the sun he’d seen all day was a flat line of gold across the mountain tops. It’d damn well be nightfall before he made it back to the house. Dios. He kicked at a loose stone on the road, sending it shooting into the undergrowth. He might walk in a straight line, but his temper sure was going in circles. Mad at himself one minute, mad at Teresa the next, mad at the shitty luck that brought him the likes of Matt Cody and soon, Frank Evers, to Morro Coyo.

 

He glanced over his shoulder again.

 

Up ahead, the road curved, and then the trees turned into bushes; bare, twig-like branches snagged his sleeve with their thorns until he moved away from the road’s edge. The road ran alongside Lancer now; he’d seen a property sign a blister or two back, but that didn’t mean he was anywhere close to home. Not on foot. At this point on the way into town, he and Teresa had settled things, and she’d returned to talking his ear off. It’d been annoying, but in a way he was getting used to. A good way? Jesus. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t gonna talk to him again anytime soon and Murdoch—hell—it was tempting to walk back and start a gunfight in Morro Coyo rather than listen to what his old man had to say.

 

Around the bend, the road straightened out some, and far up ahead he could just make out Scott and the buckboard. Dios. His shoulders relaxed, and his boots eased up on his feet. He hadn’t been so pleased to see his brother since the firing squad. But then, instead of coming closer, Scott turned the horses in the wide spot and stopped, just waiting.

 

Johnny kept walking, slower now, the ache in his feet creeping back with every step. By the time he got close, Scott still hadn't reacted—too busy squinting at a damn book, lost in them pages like he was in front of the fireplace at nighttime, deaf and blind to what was going on around him. Johnny’s fingers curled into fists. 

“Scott, what the hell are you doin’?”

 

Scott took his time looking up. “What do you think? I’m waiting for you.”

 

“Sittin’ out here on the road where anyone could come along an’ just—”

 

“Just what?” The book snapped shut. “I saw you walking. Figured you could keep at it a little longer.” 

 

“Tell that to my damn feet! You couldn’t drive further up the road?” 

 

“This is the closest turning point. Oh, and you’re welcome.” Scott’s expression had cooled in that warning way. “Now, are you getting up here? Because this business between you and Teresa has already interrupted my day.”

 

He huffed, but Scott was gripping them lines real tight and looked like he might follow Teresa’s example, so he smacked his hat against the side of the buckboard and climbed up just as it lurched for home. “You could’ve brought Barranca.”

 

“Murdoch said take the buckboard.”

 

“Since when d’you do everything the old man says?”

 

“His request wasn’t unreasonable.”

 

“More like he wanted to make sure I found my way straight home, huh?”

 

“That’s a fair assumption.” Scott shook his head. “It was one apology, Johnny. How did that turn into you humiliating Teresa?”

 

“That’s what she said I did?” Ooh, it’d hurt, taking all the blame for this when Teresa wasn’t perfect. She might’ve fooled the old man into thinking her trip into town was for provisions and a baby blanket, but it was a load of malarkey.

 

“That’s what she blurted out to María before shutting herself in her room. I’m curious how you managed that on one simple trip to the store?”

 

Scott handed over his canteen, and he muttered his thanks. At least the cool water made it easier to get the words out. “Well, what can I say, brother? I messed up again.” He splashed his face.

 

“You might want to polish that explanation a bit before we get home. When I left, our exasperated and somewhat bewildered father was having a one-sided conversation with Teresa’s bedroom door. He’ll already know you messed up. What he’ll want is the how and why.”

 

Blazes. He slumped forward, letting his elbows ride his knees, his fingers rubbing his temples to hold off the headache. He didn’t want to explain even once, but he’d have to stick to the story of playing the over-protective—what? Big brother? Jesus. Is that what he was supposed to be now? Another thing he didn’t remember agreeing to. But he’d have to go along with it, as he couldn’t tell them the real reason he wanted Teresa out of town in a hurry, or the real reason he had to get back to Morro Coyo in the morning.

 

He should tell Scott the truth. The feeling pounced on him like clawed paws gripping his shoulders. He sat up, shrugging them off. Scott was hardly a sit back and let someone else handle his problem, kinda man. He’d never stay out of it. Scott had proved that with Pardee. Dammit. He picked at some dry mud on his conchos. If things were the other way ‘round, then, yeah, he’d want to know. But he’d be able to do something about it and Scott… couldn’t. This wasn’t a fistfight, but a gunfight. And Frank Evers had to die, if he found out Scott killed Pardee or not. Leaving Frank alive was not a risk he’d take again.

 

Scott couldn’t win against Frank Evers face to face, and it wasn’t in Scott’s bones to do it any other way. So where was the sense of telling him?

 

Dusty clouds rose in the dusk as they arrived outside the hacienda. Johnny half expected Murdoch to be waiting with his arms folded, but there was no sign of his father, and, even better, no sign of Teresa. The ranch seemed almost deserted. It must be past chowtime for the hands, but the whiff of stew and biscuits still hung around. Usually, that’d be enough to set his belly grumbling—if he hadn’t left his appetite somewhere back in Morro Coyo. Aw, Goddamnit. Had he made a mistake leaving Cody alive back there? That was the question gnawing at his insides where his hunger oughtta be.

 

Only one ranch hand was about, and he’d be danged if he could think of his name. The fella was lighting the outdoor lamps, ambling around the hacienda, and he offered to take care of the buckboard.

 

The inside of the house seemed just as quiet, yet the clock in the living room ticked louder than usual as he peeled off his jacket.

 

“Scott? Johnny?” Murdoch called through from the kitchen, and it didn’t sound like he had steam coming outta his ears, but it was hard to tell from a voice alone. Johnny was drumming his fingers against his thigh when Scott slapped his shoulder and walked on past.

 

“Did you find your brother, Scott?”

 

“I found him.”

 

Scott was quick to step aside and give Murdoch a clear view of him dragging his feet toward the kitchen. He sure didn’t like the way Murdoch’s gaze swept him over in a checking-he-was-in-one-piece kinda way. What was the point in doing that if he was fixing to tear into him? Only Murdoch didn’t seem mad enough for that, although he sure didn’t look happy.

 

Murdoch had been alone; Teresa wasn’t in the kitchen either, and he’d returned his attention to frying steaks in a pan, shirtsleeves rolled up.

 

“Grab the silverware, Scott. I let María go early, so we’re fending for ourselves.” Murdoch already had set plates down on the uncovered table as Scott came over with knives, forks and the tablecloth.

 

“Don’t bother with that.” Murdoch waved the cloth away.

 

“Teresa won’t be happy.”

 

“Teresa isn’t here. She was too upset to stay here tonight, so she’s spending the night at María’s.” Murdoch’s voice tightened when he said that and there was steel in his gaze when it swung his way. “Are you going to sit down or just stand there in the doorway, Johnny?”

 

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well, that depends.”

 

“On?” Murdoch was back at the stove again, removing the pan from the heat, and passing a dish of mashed potatoes across to Scott for the table.

 

“On whether you’re planning on yelling at me when I sit down. I ain’t lookin’ to get my ears blistered. Got enough of ‘em on my feet.”

 

“And whose fault is that?”

 

Surely, Murdoch meant that sarcastically, only the way he said it sounded like a genuine question. Time to let her buck, so he took a breath. “Mine, I guess.” Limping across the kitchen, he collapsed into a chair like he was sinking onto the couch, and began working his boots off.

 

“You’re lucky to be eating at all, seeing as you’ve upset both women who cook for you,” Murdoch said gruffly as he brought the pan over and landed a steak onto each of their plates.

 

Damn. Were these boots moulded to his feet now? “What did I say to upset María?”

 

“Diego is María’s nephew by marriage. You’ve offended María by questioning his intentions towards Teresa.” Murdoch brought a wine bottle over and took his seat at the head of the table. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate that she feels protective over the young people in her family, seeing as how you’ve suddenly developed such a protective streak of your own.” There was no mistaking the hint of sarcasm now.

 

“So, Teresa told you what happened then.” He got his last boot off and almost sighed with relief. Scott took one glance at his feet and moved to the opposite side of the table.

 

“I got the gist of it once I finally coaxed her from her room.” 

 

“It was my fault. Teresa was talking to some boy in the street. I overreacted and made her leave with me.”

 

Scott’s initial surprise had turned into narrowed eyes, and Murdoch paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “She’s known Diego for years.”

 

“Well, yeah, but how was I s’posed to know that?”

 

“Teresa said she introduced you, but you were downright rude to him. She also said she’d told you she was going to find Diego and that she might go to see his mother.”

 

“Yeah, she mighta said that.” He fiddled with the fork on the table.

 

“Hang on.” Scott was frowning. “You went all Johnny Madrid on Diego because Teresa was talking to him?”

 

“Went all Johnny Madrid…” he scoffed. “What the heck’re you talkin’ ‘bout? I didn’t threaten to shoot the kid. Just told him I’d tell Cipriano how he was getting all handsy with Teresa. That’s all.”

 

“Just how handsy was he getting in the middle of the street?” Scott picked up his drink and took a sip, eyeing Johnny over the rim of the glass.

 

Oh boy, Scott was not helping. He’d damn well give him a kick under the table if he still had boots on. 

 

“Not enough for me to shoot him.” The pointed look he flung Scott’s way came right back, so he turned to Murdoch. “I messed up. What more d’you want me to say?”

 

“Say it won’t happen again. I know Teresa can be over-zealous, I’ve spoken to her about it. I also know that she wanted to go into town hoping to see Diego.” He must’ve looked surprised because Murdoch snorted. “Contrary to what the three of you sometimes think, I know a lot more than you give me credit for. But, I won’t have you talking to her the way you’ve done these past few days. Calling her a dumb heifer? When I told you to watch your mouth, John, I didn’t just mean around me.”

 

Madre de Dios. He wanted to put his head in his hands. There were men in Morro Coyo with killing on their minds. He had killing on his mind, yet here he was, Johnny Madrid, getting lectured on name-calling; told off for being a mean big brother. How had it come to this? It’d be amusing if not so darn frustrating. If only they knew what he was protecting them from was far worse than Teresa’s wounded pride.

 

Briefly closing his eyes, he pulled a calming breath through his nose. “I said I’d watch her sink in the mud like a dumb heifer. I was trying to get her moving. Damn it, old man. I’m the one who ended up left at the roadside today. My feet are rubbed raw. I’m tired.” He pushed up from the table, reaching for his boots. “If I take myself off somewhere for a day or two, it’ll give Teresa’s feathers a chance to settle. So, that’s what I’m fixin’ to do. Bright’n early in the morning.”

 

“No.” Murdoch’s hand hovered in front of his lips while he finished a mouthful, and then he pointed to Johnny’s chair with his fork. “What you’re going to do is sit there and finish your meal.”

 

Finish? He hadn’t even touched his food. And why was it that the calmer Murdoch sounded, the more it fired up his temper? Johnny flexed his fingers because concentrating on that stopped his feet from walking right on out of there. “Murdoch, I’m not hungry.”

 

“So, sit down until I’ve finished.”

 

“There’s nothing more to say.”

 

“I disagree.”

 

Goddammit. Murdoch was a stone wall, sipping at his wine and gesturing to the chair again, like he expected Johnny to do as he was told without question. Scott picked up his plate and murmured he was leaving them to it. What was it his brother said by the campfire that time? Something about Murdoch not losing his temper—more likely to talk and reason with his kids than knock ‘em around. Jesus. He’d take a smack or two right now if it meant they quit talking this to death. None of this was working out as intended. It almost killed him to do it, but he dropped back onto the chair.

 

“We’re signing the partnership agreement in Green River tomorrow. Have you forgotten?” 

 

What? His belly clenched, and all the air inside of him escaped through his mouth in a whoosh. Shit, yes, he’d forgotten. “That’s tomorrow?” Murdoch had mentioned something about that lawyer fella being back in town, but he didn’t know they’d fixed a date.

 

“Morgan Randolph’s office in Green River. Three o’clock. We’re all going. So, no, John. You can’t take yourself off for a couple of days.” Murdoch rested his elbows on the table and studied him. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about the partnership.” Murdoch’s tone had softened right up and you coulda heard a mouse breathing as he paused. “Have you?”

 

“You asking or hoping?”

 

“I’m hoping you haven’t, but asking if you have.”

 

Aw, hell. Maybe it was no accident that he’d forgotten the appointment at the lawyer’s office. Mama used to click her tongue and say he only remembered the stuff he wanted to. If he could just put the contract off a while, get tomorrow over with, because, shit, what the hell was he going to do—split himself in two? Show up to the lawyer’s office having just killed a man, or bloodstained with a bullet wound? He could out-gun Frank, but it’d be a close thing. He wasn’t cocky enough these days to believe himself invincible, that walking away without a scratch was guaranteed. Not against someone like Frank. Goddammit. He shifted in his chair. “It’s a bit sudden, ain’t it? I mean, what’s the rush?”

 

Murdoch pushed his plate away, steepled his hands, still studying him in his searching way. “Rush? We would have signed two weeks ago if Randolph hadn’t been called away. I confess, John, I’m at a loss here… I thought this was what you wanted.”

 

It had been. It was. He didn’t want to walk away from the partnership. He wasn’t stupid. This was the right thing for him—everyone thought so. And how could he look his old man in the eye and say he’d changed his mind after all the grief they’d gone through to get here? All that anger he’d thrown the old man’s way? Yeah, he had doubts, but Murdoch was already stepping way over the line of a business partner, even one who called the tune. He had the uneasy feeling that wasn’t gonna change whether he signed the contract or not. He didn’t need another parent to replace the one he’d lost, but he’d landed himself one, anyway. At least if he signed the contract, it’d give him a say in how things went around here. Otherwise, what was he, other than Murdoch Lancer’s kid?

 

“Johnny. Unless you’ve changed your mind, we’re keeping the appointment tomorrow.”

 

So much for a quick take the blame, and then head back to Morro Coyo in the morning. He pressed on the cold steak with a fork until bloody juice seeped out of it. His old man had him penned in with the gate shut, and he’d be damned if he knew what to do about it.

 

******

 

Scott beat some life into his pillow for the third time before flopping back down on the mattress with a groan. Murdoch’s snoring had started as a rumble through the walls about half an hour ago, and it wasn’t letting up.

 

Smothering a yawn, Scott stared at his bedroom ceiling, replaying their day in the workshop. Damn, he’d been on the verge of asking why Murdoch never came to Boston to claim him when Luis interrupted. He sighed and rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye. Had Murdoch known what was coming? For a moment there, it had looked like he might. Like he was steeling himself for the question. 

 

Perhaps the interruption was for the best. Murdoch wanted him before his mother died—that should be enough. Maybe he wouldn’t want to hear more because, how could he stay here, if his boyhood fear turned out to be true?

 

The bed was warm now; he could almost drift off. The comfort was no longer a surprise. ‘Say goodbye to a decent night’s sleep, Scotty,’ had been one of Grandfather’s warnings for life out here. Just another thing Grandfather had been wrong about.

 

Until tonight.

 

Murdoch’s snoring was growing louder; a deep relentless growl, like the sound the saw made when carving through solid wood.

 

Damn it, Murdoch. This was what happened when Murdoch drank too much before bed. Not that he could blame the man after the day he’d had. Forget stirred up memories of the past and unasked questions. He doubted Murdoch had spared those a second thought. This business with Johnny and Teresa was sure to give Murdoch a white hair for every blade of grass, never mind a grey one.

 

Rolling onto his front, Scott found a cool patch on the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut. The snoring wasn’t thunderous, but once heard, it couldn’t be unheard, and every exhale had him thumping the mattress. Urgh, Murdoch. Turn over or something. Please. The clock in his room must have counted out another couple of minutes before he sat up with a huff and flipped the covers back.

 

He swung his legs over the side while reaching for his robe at the foot of his bed. The floorboards were damned cold on his bare feet. At least he didn’t need to worry about the creaking floor waking anyone as he walked across to the window. Not with the noise coming from Murdoch’s room. Brushing back the drapes revealed a cloudy black sky, so he might as well go back across to the bed and light the lamp.

 

“Damn!” He hopped on one foot and bit back a few other curses. He’d forgotten he’d moved the chair. He shoved it away—the legs making a damnable screech in the silent gap between snores. 

 

Perhaps a nightcap of his own was in order. Either that or… he opened his door and jumped out of his skin when he almost collided with Johnny, who had one hand paused midair. What in the blazes was his brother doing skulking around outside his room? Light from Johnny’s room down the corridor revealed Johnny also looked surprised—he’d lowered his hand and sprung back, so they were no longer standing face to face.

 

His brother wasn’t his favourite person right now, and it was too damn late for this. Scott retreated, about to close the door, when a violent snore from Murdoch echoed down the hallway. Good God, if the floorboards didn’t vibrate with that one.

 

They shared a grimace. Scott sighed. “What do you want, Johnny?”

 

“What makes you think I want somethin’?”

 

“You were about to knock on my door, so…?”

 

Was it a smirk or a flash of you-caught-me on Johnny’s face? Either way, Johnny let out a soft huff and backed off even more. “I figured no one could sleep through this, so when I heard you movin’ around, I thought maybe we oughtta… clear the air.” He gave a half-hearted shrug.

 

“Clear it of what, exactly?”

 

“C’mon, Scott.”

 

“If you’re talking about your Teresa cover story…”

 

“My what? Wait, you think I was lying ‘bout that?”

 

Scott folded his arms and leaned against the door jamb. “About what happened in town, no. About why it happened? Let’s just say I’m sceptical about your sudden surge of overwhelming protectiveness towards Teresa. If I was a betting man, I might bet on you setting that up to make Murdoch mad at you. Does it have something to do with you signing the partnership agreement tomorrow?”

 

“Nope. But good try there, Detective Lancer.”

 

Yes. Definitely too late for this. “Fine. Have it your way, brother. Goodnight.” Scott stepped back, closing the door on Johnny with what should be a satisfying click. Only it wasn’t. Damn him. He pulled back the bedcovers, the sheets glowing ghostly white, just as another snore rumbled through the walls. Johnny being outside his room like that had been unexpected. His suggestion that they clear the air even more so. Not Johnny’s usual modus operandi. It was almost like he was getting ready to… oh, hell no. Not again.

 

He wrenched his door open, not trying to be quiet as he marched down the hall. With no Teresa to consider, if Murdoch woke up, then at least he’d get some sleep tonight.

 

Johnny’s lamp was still burning, so he didn’t bother to knock. Just flung the door open and walked in. Johnny was in the middle of pulling his shirt off over his head. His saddlebags were up here, but they often were, and they still looked empty. His clean shirts hung in the open wardrobe, worn clothes and socks littered the floor. The lid was off a can of gun oil, the room smelled of it; Johnny’s gun gleaming on a soft cloth on the table. Nothing unusual about that.

 

Johnny gave him a calculating look, balling up his shirt and tossing it on the bed. “I told you I wouldn’t leave Lancer again without telling you, and I meant it.”

 

Scott relaxed his fists, feeling a little foolish for barging in. Only he remembered the last time only too well—the look of hope on Murdoch’s face as he asked if he was going after Johnny. The look of sadness when he’d said he wasn’t. “Then why the sudden desire to clear the air?” 

 

Johnny shrugged. “Don’t let the sun go down on anger. Ain’t that what folk say?”

 

Good God. It took effort not to scoff. Since when did Johnny live by that philosophy? He’d held onto his anger at Murdoch for weeks.

 

Scott crossed his arms. “Folk might say that, but you’ve never paid attention to it before now. Besides…” he pointed at the dark window, “… you’re a few hours too late, and I’m not the one angry with you. If you want to clear the air with someone, you ought to start with Teresa.” 

 

“I don’t wanna talk about Teresa, okay?” From the look on his face, Johnny regretted initiating this conversation.

 

“Murdoch, then.”

 

Johnny stuck the lid back on the can of gun oil. Kept his attention solely on that. “You’ve talked to him?”

 

“Not since dinner. He wasn’t in the mood for talking after you walked out.” Scott let his arms slip out of their tight fold and cleared some of his exasperation with a shake of his head. It was too late for this; he ought to go back to his room, only… “You do know it’s not signing the partnership agreement that makes you part of this family, right?”

 

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Scott. I get that.” 

 

“Murdoch’ll still be our father, and from time to time he’s gonna remind us of that. Whether you like it or not.”

 

Johnny grimaced, tugging the cloth to pull the gun towards him. “Yeah. I’ve figured that out, too.”

 

“Good, because for a man out of practice, I get the impression he’s warming to the father role.”

 

“Hell. I’ve been gettin’ that impression since he dumped a jug of water over my head.” Johnny was frowning as he picked the gun up and slipped it beneath his pillow, hung his gun belt from the bedpost. 

 

“At least being a partner gives you some clout when it comes to making decisions around here. I know which way I prefer it.”

 

Johnny sighed. “Look. I want to sign the partnership agreement,” he said softly. “That hasn’t changed. Just remember that, huh?” He wiggled his feet and groaned like they still pained him. Maybe he cursed Teresa under his breath. “So, is the sermon over now?”

 

“It’s over.” He still had the sense Johnny was hiding something, but, heck, he’d learned in Mexico that Johnny didn’t like explaining himself, and he was too tired to probe further. Stretching in the doorway, he smothered a yawn. “Consider the air cleared.” Of tension, at least. As a familiar rumble echoed down the hall, he closed his eyes with a groan of his own. “Now, what are we going to do about our father’s relentless snoring?”

 

***TBC***

 

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