A Lancer Thanksgiving
A Lancer Thanksgiving
“I am thankful for my good fortune…my good friends…and my family…” Murdoch smiled around the table, his gaze met by agreeing nods.
“And I’m thankful for stimulating company, the privilege of looking forward to a new adventure every day, and awe-inspiring vistas!” Scott held his glass aloft.
“Oh, um, yeah, I’m thankful for fast horses and fast wom…” Johnny stopped and glanced at Murdoch, then Teresa…”fast trains!”
Teresa smiled. “I’m just thankful that we’re all here together, and we’re going to be together from now on—together with Lancer, the most beautiful place on earth!”
Everyone downed their drinks in agreement. “Can we eat now?” asked Johnny.
“Where’s Jelly?” Murdoch drummed his fingers on the table. When all he received in answer were shrugs, he picked up the carving knife and starting sawing at the blackened bird before him. “So you really cooked this whole meal, darling?” He grunted as he applied his full weight to the knife.
Teresa blushed. “The whole meal!”
Scott and Johnny blanched.
“I’ll go look for Jelly!” Johnny was already pushing back his chair.
Scott pushed him back. “I wouldn’t dream of it…I know how hungry you are! I’ll get him!”
“Sit!” bellowed Murdoch. He was wasn’t going to be stuck eating this charred chicken—or whatever it was---all by himself. It looked like it had died by flying over a volcano.
Besides, Thanksgiving was time for family, and Jelly wasn’t quite family. Nice enough fellow, but not true family. Sometimes Murdoch wondered what he’d done to deserve a family like the people sitting around his table. He smiled benevolently as he looked at his family around the table, his gaze lingering on Teresa. Indeed, what had he done to deserve such a family?
Teresa was an abysmal cook and just as bad when it came to mending and cleaning. When he’d first inherited her from Paul he’d fancied he could shape her into a good little house helper, but now he realized it would be far cheaper to hire somebody competent. He allowed his eyes to rove over her body. Still, she was a frisky little thing, and it wasn’t like he’d had a full bed in years. Was it wise to dump her out just when she was coming of age?
“This looks delicious, darling,” he said, dropping a slice onto his plate. He could swear the plate cracked.
“Oh Murdoch, I know it’s well-done,” she said, and Murdoch wondered if she had actually batted her eyes at him. “But those two---and she pointed her fork at Scott and Johnny---“those two kept stealing my pies and distracting me!”
Scott and Johnny grinned at her like the fools she knew they were, simpletons both. She smiled back. When they first came, she’d entertained thoughts of wooing one or the other, of eventually becoming Mrs. Scott or Johnny Lancer. She’d put too much work into this ranch to let these latecomers take it from her grasp. Murdoch was either senile or just so caught up in his Scottish traditions that once the boys arrived, she was out of the picture when it came to inheritance. Or at least demoted so she’d only inherit if his sons died first. “You’ll marry well,” he’d told her. And that was exactly what she planned to do: Mrs. Murdoch Lancer.
She smiled at the simpletons. “Eat up, boys!” She wondered if she’d put enough rat poison in the pies to work on both of them. “But save some room for more dessert!” Just in case.
Oh sure, Scott talked a good talk, had impeccable manners, and a good mind for numbers. But a trained monkey could do the same, given all the opportunities Scott had been afforded in life. Johnny hadn’t had the same privileged upbringing, but his sole ability seemed to be pulling a trigger real fast—big deal. It’s not like you had to be smart or strong to do that. Or even rich. Again, a trained monkey.
Besides, both of them had some nerve—acting like they were too good for her when she’d “accidentally” burst into the bedroom or bath on carefully timed occasions. Sure, they were good-looking, but did that make up for being second in line, and for a shared inheritance at that? No, it did not. She smiled again at Murdoch. He couldn’t live forever.
Murdoch looked again. Yes, he was sure she’d smiled at him, and not in a ward-like fashion. But then, she’d also smiled at his sons. He sighed. That had been a mistake. Bringing them home seemed like a good idea when he needed help to rid the valley of Pardee. But now he was paying for that. Not that it was entirely his fault; it gad seemed like a gift from above when Johnny had been shot from his horse, although he could see plainly he weas just stunned, he’d tried his best to discourage Scott from saving him. Even then, he thought maybe he would end up with a two-for-one, but who ever could have guessed Scott would make that lucky shot?
He should never had made that offer of a stake in the ranch. But who in their right mind would think either would stay? The stake was pennies to someone as wealthy as Scott, and as far as Johnny---well, he didn’t seem bright enough to realize its worth. Not only had both stayed, but they seemed to have no intention of leaving, just helping themselves to everything in reach.
At first he’d been afraid one or the other would make a move on Teresa. He halfway wished Scott would, so he could shoot him. That would take care of one of them, and nobody could blame him. But that didn’t seem like a good plan when it came to Johnny. He passed the stuffing to Johnny, contemplating him.
“What?” said Johnny, looking up from trying to force his spoon into a bowl of muck that Teresa had identified as stuffing.
The thing was, Murdoch had started to have suspicions. The boys had, if anything, ignored Teresa, treating her more like a sister. That would be fine, except it seemed they preferred each other’s company to pretty much anybody. Scott was so prissy, with his preoccupation with obsessive bathing, perfect barbering, fastidious clothes, and persnickety attitude. And Johnny---with his embroidered shirts—he even had one with little flowers on it, and everyone knew his preference for the pink one---his jewelry, even those conchos might as well have been pearls. Murdoch was sure people in town had to see it, had to be talking. He wondered what they did on the trail. Those two perverts would ruin his reputation.
Murdoch turned his attention to ladling out what he’d at first assumed was some sort of lumpy brown jelly, but Teresa had identified as gravy. He sighed. If his sons were gone, he could afford to hire a full-time cook.
Johnny was slurping up some sort of orange liquid on his plate. He’d eat anything. But that was part of the problem. Murdoch’s food bill had soared since the boys—especially Johnny—had moved in. And Scott was running through firewood for his hot baths like the stuff grew on trees. At this rate he could have just paid Pardee off and come out ahead.
Johnny started gnawing on a drumstick, attacking it like a beaver on a petrified tree trunk. Scott was drinking more brandy instead of eating---another expensive habit. Teresa was beaming like she’d accomplished something, pushing the pie in front of Johnny. Murdoch gulped down his own brandy. At least she was kind of pretty, or would be after a few more drinks. Where the hell was Jelly?
He discreetly plucked a white feather from the bird. And another. Nobody seemed to notice.
The front door slammed open, Jelly stomping in. “God damn you, Johnny Lancer! God damn you, Scott! God damn you both to hell!” And with that, Jelly raised his shotgun and fired.
There was a moment of ear-ringing silence before Teresa started screaming. “My meal! My linens! They‘re covered with blood!”
Jelly fell to his knees. “Goddamn it, I looked all over---I found a pile of white feathers behind the barn! It was them two ne-er-do-wells what done it! They killed my Dewdrop! Killed her and served her up like a Thanksgiving turkey!”
Murdoch pushed his chair back so abruptly it fell behind him with a thunk. Sort of like the sound the boys’ bodies had made. “My god, man, what have you done? You’ve killed my sons! Teresa, get somebody to go for the sheriff! Oh Jesus…Scott…Johnny…my dear, dear boys…”
Thank God! He’d begun to wonder if the old coot would ever find those feathers, even with a trail of them practically leading to the pile. And the loaded shotgun sitting right nearby. Once the sheriff carted the old fool off to jail, it would be just Murdoch and Teresa, just how it used to be. Right after he’d arranged for Paul to be shot.
Yes, there was much to give thanks for. He raised his glass to Teresa, whose tears seemed to have dried quickly.
He stepped over the bodies to join hands with her. As I said earlier, “I am thankful for my good fortune…my good friends…and my family…”
Teresa smiled demurely. “More pie?”
D. Caroline Coile, Ph.D.
Communications Director, International Kennel Club of Chicago
Show Chair, Suwannee Valley Kennel Club
Baha Salukis
386-842-5003
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