A NEW YEAR RESOLUTION

 A NEW YEAR RESOLUTION: Chapter One

 

Scott walked across to the barn, blowing out wispy clouds with each breath. The look on his face must have been enough of a warning for the chickens because they clucked and scattered as soon as he came near. 

 

It had been damnably hard to leave the warmth of the kitchen and if Johnny hadn’t been annoyingly bright no doubt he’d still be there, smothering butter on another biscuit. At least he hadn’t had to fight anyone else for the privilege of filling his stomach.

 

Damn it was cold.

 

What he should be doing is lounging in front of the fire, finishing one of the books Murdoch had bought him for Christmas.

 

The barn side door was open so he went in that way, pausing in the doorway to put on his gloves.

 

And sure enough, the first thing he heard was the usual muttering that always seemed to accompany Jelly.

 

The old man was lugging a sack of oats across to the feed bins--and making far more work of it than he had to. Naturally. How was it that every time Jelly tipped up the sack to fill the bin, piles of oats went everywhere and accumulated outside the bin, rather than inside it?

 

Scott rubbed his hand over his forehead. Sure enough, his brows were drawn down low over his eyes; and he could probably rub his forehead for a week and still not remove the nagging ache.

 

A hand on his shoulder made him half-glance around but he knew who it was in any case. Johnny gave him a smile, laced with bits of carrot between his teeth. That brother of his would never be invited to a Boston dinner. “I heard you coming. Did anyone ever tell you you’re the noisiest eater?”

 

“Nope.” Johnny took another bite and chewed some more then eased his way past Scott. But he’d only gone a few steps when he turned around. “You planning on standing there all day?”

 

“Maybe I am. Have you got a problem with that?”

 

All the good humour on Johnny’s face drained away. “Boy, Scott, what’s got into you lately? You’ve been like a bear with a sore head the last couple of days.”

 

And that was because the last couple of days he’d spent a great deal of his time wanting to kick the wall or throw something—anything— that would smash into a thousand pieces with a very loud crash. He’d considered both options any number of times. Mind you, it had never worked for him when he was a child, no matter how sweet that moment of release when he’d let his anger fly. “Go on. Off to bed without supper. Mules don’t get rewarded for bad manners.” Although he doubted very much if Grandfather knew a thing about mules. “Perhaps you’d prefer to live in the stables like a farmer?” And farming was about as low as it got according to Grandfather. He’d sort of punch the word out as if even forming the letters with his lips was thoroughly distasteful. So of course Scott said he wanted no such thing.  It wasn’t until he was older that he realised farmers mostly lived in houses—and many of them comfortable, if not grand.

 

Perhaps Grandfather equated farming with Murdoch?

 

Johnny hadn’t waited for an answer, which was just as well because Scott didn’t have one to give him. Scott could hear him in Barranca’s stall.

 

Of Jelly, there was no sign. Just the piles of oats around the feed bins to show where he’d been.

 

Scott walked into the gloom. Damn it was cold.

 

Johnny was murmuring who-knew-what to his horse while he checked Barranca’s feet. Scott paused at the entrance to the stall. Johnny was good with horses. Especially this one. Scott took the bridle off the hook then leaned against the partition, watching Johnny go about his business. “That horse won’t be happy with you.”

 

“Why’s that?” Johnny grunted, from his bent position.

 

“You ate his horse treats before you even got to the barn.”

 

Johnny straightened, appraising Scott with one of those intent looks of his.

 

Scott held out the bridle.

 

Johnny looked at it. “Is this a piece offering?”

 

Scott shrugged, letting the beginnings of a smile pull the side of his mouth. It was the closest he could get to an apology right now. And none of this was even Johnny’s fault but that’s how it was when he felt surly with the world.

 

Anyway, he’d make it up to Johnny later. The morning’s work should blow the sour away.

 

Once Johnny had taken the bridle, Scott left him and went to the stall across the way to saddle his own mount, earning a friendly nudge to his chest from the bay as a greeting. Just like Johnny, he’d had this horse since he’d arrived at Lancer. It was a good work horse; strong boned, well- proportioned with a good energy.  Johnny said the gelding had a pair of kind eyes but then Johnny was a romanticist where horses were concerned.

 

He was almost done saddling when Johnny’s voice carried through the barn. “Jelly. Jelly?”

 

The sound of shuffling feet told him Jelly must have heard his name being called.

 

“Jelly, have you seen that new scabbard of mine? It should be on my saddle.”

 

“Nope. T’aint no business of mine what you have on yer saddle. Just what are you trying to say?”

 

If ever a man was less like ‘jelly’ it was Jellifer Hoskins. ‘Bristles’ would have been more apt as a moniker.

 

“I’m not ‘saying’ anything.” Johnny’s reply sounded careful. “I was just wondering if you’d seen it anywhere.”

 

“Well, I ain’t.”

 

“That’s okay. I must have left it inside. See yah, Jelly.”

 

“Goodbye, Jelly.” Scott led his horse out behind Barranca as Jelly stomped back to the tack room.

 

He probably stole Johnny’s new scabbard—just like he stole Teresa’s pearls.

 

Scott stopped in his tracks.

 

Dammit, could he be right?

 

It was odd the way the thought seemed to wrap itself around his head. Someone could have whispered the words in his ear, they were so clear. If he didn’t know better, he would have looked around to see if Johnny had heard them as well.

 

But Johnny had stopped to pick up his old scabbard from against the wall. He looked up the once—and caught Scott’s eye—but his expression was noncommittal. There wasn’t even the slightest hint on his face that he was thinking what Scott was thinking. Once the scabbard was attached, he led Barranca out, for all the world like someone not the least bit put out by the fact his most treasured Christmas present seemed to have disappeared. At least that’s what Scott assumed it had been by the look on Johnny’s face when Murdoch gave it to him.

 

“Are you ready?”

 

“Sure. Our first workday of 1871.” Scott did his best to put some cheer in his voice now that they were out of the barn. It was silly for him to feel...relief?  At least some early January sunlight had forced its way through the mist. Perhaps the day would improve?

 

Johnny was giving him one of his ‘what-are-you-on-about’ looks. “Is that meant to mean something, brother?”

 

Scott lifted his stirrup to check the girth. “No. I suppose not. Unless you’re in the habit of making a new year’s resolution.”

 

Johnny checked, his foot in the stirrup. “Res-ie-what?”

 

Girth tightened, Scott swung into the saddle. “Resolution. It simply means being resolute, setting your mind on doing something. And this time of year, it’s usually about choosing to improve yourself in some way or deciding to finish a task you’ve been working on forever.”

 

Johnny grinned as he settled himself in the saddle. “Well, I’m resoluting to beat that nag of yours to the south pasture.”

 

Barranca needed little urging and Scott wasted no time in following. The bay had a beautiful gait. Ordinarily a race with Johnny would have been the perfect start to the day.

 

Ordinarily.

 

Scott followed but honestly, his heart wasn’t in it. Nor was his head.

 

Maybe it was having to work after the holidays of the past week? Or because the gaiety of Christmas had come and gone and unlike the round of parties in Boston this time of year, he’d be facing a long winter rescuing cows from bogs and standing waist-deep in freezing water, clearing streams?

 

Johnny was four lengths in front but by the way Barranca’s tail was streaming behind him, Johnny had clearly decided to give him his head. Hmm, so his brother meant business.

 

But Johnny didn’t know Scott and Hank had spent a day clearing the creek bed of the old tree that had fallen down years ago. And to think Scott had been annoyed about having to do that while Johnny had been in Sacramento with Murdoch. Well, now was the time to recoup.

 

“Come on, boy. Let’s show that brother of mine what we’re made of.” The bay lifted his pace and Scott could almost hear the wind rushing beneath them as the bay stretched his neck and all four legs worked their mastery. Something inside him seemed to have taken flight as they left the ground then thudded down onto the wet grass in the next stride. Johnny was following the path they usually took but Scott took off down the hill. The bay ran with complete assurance, taking the shallow stream in two strides, head bobbing like a piston, then up the hill to where victory waited for either him or Johnny.

 

Up...up...up.

 

Scott got low in the saddle, spied Johnny coming up on his left. Barranca was fast. Powerful. Johnny’s face was set. Determined.

 

Four more full strides to the top.

 

One...two...

 

Johnny was even with him...

 

Three...

 

No...

 

Four!

 

The bay got to the top of the hill with a final burst of speed, like he knew exactly what was wanted of him.

 

They slowed their mounts down to a canter then a walk on the grassy hill. Scott gave the bay a pat on the neck then realised his cheeks were aching. Well, surprise, surprise, it must’ve been from the grin he’d been wearing for who knew how long.

 

“Well done.” Johnny leaned across, hand outstretched.

 

Scott slapped at it. “You almost had me.”

 

“That was a sneaky move, brother.”

 

Scott laughed. “No more than you getting a head start.” The bay tossed his head just then, looking pleased with himself. “This one would have made a prime cavalry horse.”

 

Johnny started grinning. “You’ll be sneaking him treats soon. A little sugar in your pockets...maybe a sweet, juicy apple.”

 

“Hah! No, I’ll leave all that to my little brother.”

 

They walked the horses on further. Down below in the south pasture, the herd was bellowing at the intruders.

 

“You must have really looked like something...”

 

Scott looked across at Johnny, brows raised.

 

“I mean with you all decked out in your cavalry doodads. I bet the old man would’ve been real proud.”

 

“For your information, it’s called a uniform—and why do you think I photographed so well?” That smile he’d been wearing was spreading a warmth inside him as well. At times like this he knew he’d made the right decision to come to Lancer. So what if he missed the round of Boston—.

 

For no particular reason, his eyes fell on the old rifle scabbard Johnny was using, instead of the tooled leather one Murdoch had specially ordered from a friend of his in Mexico.

 

Even stranger, for no particular reason, the sun went in—or a gust of wind blew down from the mountains up north, straight off the snow.

 

Just for a few moments there he’d been feeling less surly. He really was.

 

Johnny had most likely left his new one in the great room; that was the most obvious answer. And they should have gone inside and checked because then this nagging doubt would have been dealt with once and for all.

 

Dammit, Murdoch trusted the man didn’t he! The suspicion that Jelly had taken the scabbard wasn’t a thought Scott wanted to have. It wasn’t as if he’d asked for it.

 

But he had it all the same.

 

And like that itch on your back that you can’t quite reach, it wasn’t going away.

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

 

Scott thought they had it made when Hank suggested he and the other hands round up the herd over in the trees. That left Scott and Johnny to work with a half-dozen steers near the creek.

 

The sun was shining and Jelly and everything that annoyed him about Jelly, felt like a million miles away. And for once, when he was working with those ‘ornery steer’ as everyone out here called them, it seemed like he just had to wave his hand and every steer was happy to head off in the direction Scott wanted it to go.

 

That was until they encountered a steer who’d clearly enjoyed his summer of munching on Lancer’s green grass. It wasn’t just his size that made him stand out from the bunch, but the pattern of brown spots on his white face.

 

“There’s one in every bunch,” Johnny had commented, somewhat ominously, when they saw the first signs of a stubborn streak.

 

It quickly became apparent that Freckle-Face didn’t like bushes and he didn’t like the wind and he didn’t like the flock of geese that beat their wings and rose up from the creek and into the sky—and he definitely didn’t like the idea of leaving the pasture that had been his home for the past few months.

 

Johnny had been masterful. Confident. “You circle left, Scott. I’ll take the right. We’ll teach this hombre a lesson.”

 

Well, they circled and they circled and they circled again but Freckle-Face was having none of it, showing his displeasure by bawling loudly every time he so much as sniffed something that made him nervous. Murdoch would have something to say if they worked off all that beef weight he’d gained in summer because of his shenanigans.

 

After an hour of correcting Freckle-Face’s every move, which seemed to consist of ten steps forward and five steps back— or maybe it was the other way around—Johnny and he finally stopped and stared down at the steer who was unconcernedly chomping on a clump of grass.

 

Johnny was glowering. “Why you pig-headed old sow.”

 

Scott just looked at him. “And you call that cussing? Come on. Is that the best you can come up with?”

 

Johnny grinned through the frustration on his face. “Sure. You think any self-respecting steer wants to be called a pig?”

 

Scott was familiar with this part of the ranch because it had only been a few weeks ago that he’d cleared the stream—his winning move in beating Johnny. “This is hopeless. We’re not getting anywhere. Why don’t we head him towards those bushes near the creek?”

 

“Scott, he hates bushes.”

 

“Exactly. I have a plan.”

 

Johnny winced. “Your plans always land us in trouble.”

 

“You stay on the right. I’ll drive him towards the bushes and then he’ll deviate to the left and hopefully follow the tracks of the rest of the herd.”

 

The look Johnny threw him didn’t exactly reek of confidence but he rode Barranca over to the prickly bushes and took up his position, nonetheless.

 

Scott urged Freckle-Face on, making the steer get going at a slow run. Johnny rode on the right, whistling and waving his hat.

 

The bushes loomed ahead and it was clear by the steer’s gait that he was already having second thoughts about his direction. He was starting to track left. Scott urged his horse on faster. With Johnny on the right, the steer would have no choice but to go left.

 

It was working.

 

Until the last moment.

 

Of all the stupid, idiotic things to do—Freckle-Face went straight through the bushes.

 

“Johnny, no!”

 

But it was too late. Johnny, seeing what was happening and determined to head the steer off, urged Barranca on and followed Freckle-Face through the gap.

 

Scott didn’t follow. Instead, he rode around the bushes because he damn-well knew what was waiting on the other side. This was not going to be good.

 

Pulling any animal from a bog was a miserable job for man and beast. He just hoped he wasn’t going to have to pull Johnny out as well.

 

The first thing he saw was Freckle-Face, mud up to his knees and looking somewhat surprised to find himself standing on solid ground.

 

Johnny and Barranca weren’t so lucky. Barranca had taken the bog at a run and had nearly got to the other side when he’d stuck fast. Johnny must have done some work to save himself from being thrown over Barranca’s head. At least the mud was only mid-way to his knees. All the same, Scott was dreading that sucking sound of the bog refusing to let go. “Will I toss you a rope?”

 

“Nope, I think I’ve got it.” Johnny was all concentration. He patted Barranca’s neck. “Come on, boy. Come on.”

 

Barranca tried to lunge…then lunged again. The third time his front feet came free and with an ungainly jump, the back legs followed. Thankfully, the bog wasn’t as deep as Scott had feared. Water from the creek must have seeped through here, thanks to his efforts at clearing the creek and increasing the flow.

 

“Is he all right, Johnny?”

 

Johnny walked Barranca around in a circle but there was no sign that he was troubled by his brief run-in with the bog.

 

They both looked around as Hank rode up, looking more pleased with himself than he had a reason to. Scott was beginning to smell a rat.

 

“Hank, you swindling four-flusher,” Johnny called out as soon as he was in earshot.

 

“What’s wrong, Johnny?” Hank was all innocence itself.

 

“You knew exactly what Freckle-Face was like. You boys are just having the time of your lives watching Scott and me try to herd this demon.”

 

Hank leaned on his horn, breathing easy after a few quiet hours of work. Unlike Johnny and him.

 

“Hank, you knew damned well he’d fight like a Kilkenny cat.”

 

Hank was laughing now. “You just need an expert to show you greenhorns how it’s done.”

 

Scott waved his hand. He’d reached that point somewhere between anger and amusement and Johnny had pretty much said everything he felt.  “Be my guest, Hank.”

 

Hank took out a branch he’d stuck under his vest. He whistled, no more than twice, then gave Freckle-Face a few taps on his rump and sure enough, he moved off as docile as a lamb. “Like I said, fellas, you just gotta know how to talk steer.”

 

Scott looked at Johnny. “I think I know what they’ll be talking about in the bunkhouse tonight.”

 

Johnny laughed. “And all over town by Saturday night. We must have looked a sight chasing that critter. Come on, brother, we’d better prove to these cowpokes we aren’t the shave tails they still think we are.”

 

.

 

 

The sun was high in the sky when Scott cantered up the grassy rise then brought his horse to a halt underneath a couple of oak trees. It was good to take a moment and catch his breath after all their work with Freckle-Face. Johnny was right—they must have looked a sight. It was going to be a funny story to tell Murdoch over supper.

 

By his reckoning, it should only take another few hours and they’d have the herd relocated in the south pasture.

 

As Scott watched, a black horse shot out of the bushes half-way down and headed up the hill. He could make out the form of Curly, a lanky Texan Scott didn’t know too well. He’d only been working at the ranch three weeks.

 

He rode right up to Scott, like he was as sure of his welcome as he was of his horsemanship, bringing the black alongside. “After this morning’s work, we got ourselves a herd of choirboys, ‘cepting for those two down yonder.”

 

Johnny was the other side of the herd down below, cantering beside a couple of stubborn steer, whistling and waving them towards their companions with a sweep of his hat and doing plenty of urging. “Come on. Get moving. Go’on. Hep, hep.” Johnny could yell as loud as anyone when he wanted to. Interestingly, he was more likely to yell at steers rather than people.

 

 

Curly stood in the stirrups, his cheek bulging with a wad of tobacco. “That brother a’yours seems to know what he’s about, don’t he jest. Though, begging your pardon, you two gave us a showin’ this morning. Funniest damn thing I seen since—.” A greasy smile slid across his face. “Well, I guess, since I can’t remember when. But I said to ole Hank, ‘Those two boys can stand the gaff, yes siree.’”

 

“I’m always happy to entertain.” He didn’t mean to sound curt but there was something about Curly that was hard to like. That drawl of his was edged with a sneer more times than not.

 

“Not that you ain’t got a way about you as well. Boss. Must be all that cavalry training an’ such.

 

Scott turned his gaze full on Curly but the look on that ferret-face of his was bland.

 

“Can’t say the same for that Jellifer Hoskins though.” Curly followed his words with a spit of juice that hit the ground like a bullet.

 

Scott’s horse took that moment to toss his head and take two steps sideways. And maybe that was Scott’s fault. Whatever the reason, his hands were clenching the reins as he circled the bay until he was facing Curly again. “What do you mean?” His words came out harsher than he’d intended and that was annoying. The last thing he wanted was to sound like he was lording it over the hired help. He wasn’t his grandfather.

 

“Aw nuthin, Boss. Don’t mind me none.” And he pulled his lips back in something that was meant to be another smile but all Scott saw was his stained, brown teeth.

 

At least he could take the edge off his words with a smile. Well, he hoped it looked like a smile. “You’d better get down there with Hank and the boys.”

 

“Sure thing, Boss.”

 

Scott watched him make his way back down the hill but that damned itch was back again. After all, hadn’t Curly simply echoed his own feelings from this morning? The whole conversation was damned annoying. He’d almost forgotten about the whole Jelly situation and now he had that sour taste back in his mouth.

 

Scott scanned the pasture but there was no sign of any escapees up here so he rode back down the hill.

 

Down below, Johnny whistled then waved his hat at Scott. Come to think of it, his stomach had been rumbling for some time. He should have thought of calling a break earlier. Hank and the others seemed to be headed to the other side of the herd so Scott rode to where Johnny had stopped near a stand of eucalyptus trees Murdoch must have planted years back as a wind break.

 

Johnny was sitting on a fallen log out in the sun. He was already eating by the time Scott got there then took out the sack Teresa had handed him this morning.

 

Scott eyed the log but it was a gnarled old thing. The grass looked more inviting. “In spite of Freckle-Face. I think we’ll have our feet up before sundown.”

 

“Sipping on a glass of Murdoch’s Scotch whiskey.”

 

Scott stretched out his legs and leaned on his elbow. “Or maybe two.”

 

“Don’t get greedy, now. Besides, you don’t want him to find out you drank his other bottle while he was in Sacramento.”

 

Scott eyed him before opening his sack. “I seem to recall I had some help when you both came home.”  He peered in. Ham sandwiches. Of course.

 

Johnny gave him a lazy look. “What’s wrong? Ants in your food?”

 

“No.” Plenty of times during the war he’d have dreamed of a meal like this. “No, the meal’s just fine.”

 

Johnny took a swig from his canteen, then held it out to Scott.

 

“No thanks. I’ve got mine here.”

 

Scott looked out over the valley while they ate. He never knew there were so many shades of green until he came out here. It made the mountains to the north look almost like blue bonnets on a green dress. Hmm…he’d blame that thought on Francie and that blue bonnet she was wearing last time he was in town. He didn’t think she wore a green dress, though. Hard to remember—he mostly thought about what she’d look like without either one of them.

 

The herd was grazing, not bothered by a family of rabbits hopping about. They were probably annoyed their field had been invaded.

 

Every so often he’d stop chewing just to take in the quiet. Out here you could hear a breeze stirring a stand of trees a mile away or a crow cawing the other side of the valley. 

 

The north pasture was where Murdoch wanted to dig a new well. That meant re-fencing. Not something Scott was looking forward to. He’d said as much at the time—but once Murdoch had a bee in his bonnet, it was almost impossible to talk him out of it. Much like that day in town when Jelly had thrown himself at their wagon. And didn’t Scott warn him as they drove back to Lancer? Well, it was a waste of time going over all that again. And to think Murdoch says Johnny is stubborn! Truth be told, stubbornness was probably a vice of all Lancer men.

 

“I bet that’s Freckle-Face over there.” Johnny pointed to a steer making its way to the back of the herd.

 

“Good, because he’s Hank’s problem now.”

 

“That’s an evil grin, brother.”

 

“It matches yours.”

 

Sure enough, the steer was slowly eating his way, clump by clump, back to his old pasture. So much for Hank’s theory.

 

“Murdoch’s worried.”

 

That kind of comment was so typical of Johnny. Sometimes he’d just throw a few words into the air, like a lure, to see if he could snag anything. Well, not today, John.

 

“Why, have you been in trouble again?”

 

He got a smile out of Johnny with that line but he still had a determined spark in his eye as he thumped his canteen stopper back on, keeping his eyes on Scott. “Very funny. No, it ain’t me this time. He’s trying to figure out what’s got you tied up in knots.”

 

Now that was a new thought—Murdoch being worried about him. And unexpected. “It’s probably nothing a hot bath and night in town won’t cure.” And he wasn’t going to add anything else but…well. “Why would Murdoch be worried about me?”

 

“Dontcha know? You’re the reliable one. He’s used to all kind of trouble with me—but you,” Johnny looked sideways at him, “I have it on good authority you’ve got your mother’s eyes.”

 

Scott grinned. “I hope not. I can’t imagine my mother looking at Francie the same way I do when I go into town.”

 

Johnny grinned back. “She sure is pretty. But you’re changing the subject, brother.”

 

“I wasn’t aware we were on a particular subject.” He threw his empty sack at Johnny then stretched out flat on his back with his hat over his eyes. “The only subject I’m interested in right now is peace and quiet.” And this was just what he wanted; it wasn’t long before he could feel his body soaking up the warmth. The Californian sun was his best friend in winter.

 

“It ain’t working, Scott. You can’t fool me.”

 

Scott waved a lazy hand at him. “Shut up, Johnny.”

 

“I’ve seen the way you look at him. Jelly’s got you so bent out of shape that…well, Murdoch and me…we’re both noticing.”

 

“If it’s bothering you so much, stop looking.”

 

“I’d have to walk around with my eyes closed to do that.”

 

Scott took in a breath. Dammit all. And yes, he meant to sound annoyed when he let his breath go and sat up. He clearly wasn’t going to get any peace on the matter with Johnny poking at him every ten seconds. “I don’t get it. Doesn’t that old man drive you mad as well? Because he’s driving me crazy.”

 

“Yeah, I get it, Scott.”

 

“And I don’t trust him.”

 

“Murdoch does.”

 

“Yeah, well Murdoch’s a…”

 

He caught the sudden look from Johnny and closed his mouth. Not that he knew what he was going to say anyway.

 

“We both know Murdoch’s no fool. It ain’t wrong to trust.”

 

“It’s possible to be too trusting, though.”

 

“It’s possible to not know what trust is.”

 

“You weren’t there when Jelly was demanding food and ringing that cursed cowbell like he was Lord Muck.”

 

Johnny grimaced. “I know. And he’s got an answer for everything and never admits he’s wrong. I never said it was easy to like Jelly.”

 

“And why should we have to? As soon as he’s paid us back with one hundred days of work, he should be gone. That was the deal we agreed to.”

 

Johnny watched an ant running over his hand. “I dunno. Somehow he’s just becoming one of the family.”

 

“He’s not part of my family. He isn’t now and he never will be.”

 

Johnny flicked the ant off. “Aw, Scott, he ain’t that bad.”

 

“Oh yeah? Perhaps you’re forgetting I caught you cursing up a storm in Spanish the other morning?”

 

Johnny grimaced. “I had to spend most of the morning herding up those brood mares because Jelly left the gate open.”

 

“I’d swear he does those things on purpose. I don’t get it. I know he annoys you as much as he annoys me.”

 

Johnny started fidgeting with the toggle on his stampede strings. Perhaps Scott wasn’t the only one grappling with Jelly after all?

 

“Admit it, Johnny.”

 

There was one thing he’d learned early on about Johnny—he wasn’t a liar.

 

Johnny glanced up at him. “I’m not saying he doesn’t annoy the hell out of me, too.”

 

“And that proves my point!”

 

 “But I saw him with those kids, Scott. And they thought the world of him.”

 

And it always came back to that, didn’t it. Even Scott had to admit it was Jelly’s one saving grace. Every time he’d had it up to his eyeballs with Jelly and was about to damn Murdoch and everyone else and tell the old guy to leave, he’d think of Jelly holding Toogie, tears on his cheeks as he railed at them all for trying to take his boys away. It was true. Who knew what might have happened to the children if they hadn’t fallen into Jelly’s hands?

 

Scott stood up. “I know. You’re right. And that’s probably why I’m so damned annoyed because it feels like the bad half of me is at war with any good parts I might have. Pass me my sack.”

 

Johnny picked up the sack—but he held onto it a moment longer when Scott tried to take it. “You’ve got a kind heart, Scott. I’ve seen it. Murdoch has, too.”

 

Scott took it, then shrugged at Johnny. He appreciated the words. He just wasn’t certain of how true they were right now. “Come on. Get up. That herd won’t move itself.”

 

Johnny squinted up at him, with one eye closed. “I was thinking….”

 

“That’s always dangerous. Let’s get moving. Curly will sit around all day if we let him.” Scott turned to the bay, stowing the empty sack in his saddle bag.

 

“I was thinking…” Johnny started up again…and sometimes he could be as bad as Jelly when he was fixated on a plan… “That maybe you should make one of those new year resolutions you were talking about.”

 

And now the whole topic was making his brain hurt. “Let go of it, Johnny.”

 

“Brother, I just think you oughtta give Jelly a chance. You know. Make a resolution about getting to know him.”

 

“And just how am I meant to do that when I want to strangle the life out of him whenever he’s within ten miles or less of me?”

 

“I don’t know, but you’ve got all that Harvard learning.” Johnny slapped him on the back. “You oughtta be able to work something out, brother.”

 

 

 CHAPTER THREE

 

 

 

Scott put his glass of whiskey down on the table next to his chair then stood up and walked across to the French doors. Murdoch’s pen scratching on paper was making his toes curl. “I don’t understand what’s keeping Johnny out there. It doesn’t take that long to apply a poultice, if that’s what they’re doing.” Scott had already washed up and put on a clean white shirt. So much for sharing a drink with Johnny as a reward for getting back early.

 

Murdoch clearly wasn’t interested. He barely looked up from the ledgers he was working on at his desk.

 

They’d made good time with the rest of the herd, as he’d predicted, but Johnny had been worried about Barranca’s fetlock as they neared the hacienda.

 

As soon as they rode through the corral gate he was off that horse and running his hand down Barranca’s leg, asking if Scott had noticed him limping any?

 

It was just as well Johnny didn’t see him roll his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not imagining things?” Johnny would never have survived in the cavalry—there was no wet-nursing of horses, there.

 

“Maybe. But I could have sworn he was favouring that right front leg a couple of miles from home.” Johnny had practically walked backwards to the barn so that he could check Barranca’s gait.

 

And Scott hadn’t been serious when he said, “Jelly tells everyone he’s the best horse wrangler in the business. Perhaps you should go and find him.”

 

Well, all that was over an hour ago, now.

 

Scott pushed the curtains back a bit further. He’d had a velvet coverlet when he was little. He could still remember rubbing his fingers along the furry pile. He wouldn’t do that with these curtains though; like most things out here, they were faded and dusty, in spite of any cleaning. Still, if Johnny ever got tired of that pink shirt of his, he could have Teresa make him another one out of these old red curtains. 

 

For a second Murdoch stopped scratching. Maybe he was finished? No, apparently he’d only stopped to dip his pen in the ink.

 

Scott could always go out to the barn and see what was keeping Johnny?

 

Hmm…on second thoughts…no.

 

Scott stared through the gloom. A few of the hands were wandering into the bunkhouse. Even in the half-dark, it was easy to make out Curly’s skinny frame. He slouched when he rode and he slouched when he walked.

 

Then again, if Jelly was giving Johnny an earful of whatever it was he was babbling about, Johnny might be glad of an interruption? It was damned boring standing here, doing nothing. He grabbed hold of the handle—but before he even had a chance to push open the French door, he heard a click-clack of heels behind him. Well, that was that. Teresa and Maria were already putting supper on the table

 

Murdoch looked up and glanced around the room. “Supper? Is it that time already?” Then he went back to his ledgers and scratched away some more but in a few moments he lifted his head again. “Where’s Johnny? I thought you’d both come in.”

 

Sometimes Murdoch and Grandfather could be very alike. “He’s in the barn. His horse got stuck in a bog.” He walked across and relieved Teresa of the platter of potatoes she was carrying.  “He’s checking Barranca hasn’t strained anything.”

 

“Thanks, Scott.” But a quick look of concern crossed her face. “Poor Barranca. I hope it’s not serious.”

 

“What’s that you say?” Murdoch closed his ledger then came across to the table. “Something about that horse of Johnny’s?”

 

Scott put the platter on the table. “He’s alright. Probably just strained something.”

 

“He got caught in a bog,” Teresa said over her shoulder as she took a

plate of pot roast from Maria, “Gracias,” then placed it in the middle of the table as he and Murdoch pulled up their chairs.

 

“This is the time of year for’em. I would have thought Johnny knew how to avoid a bog.”

 

“He does.” So much for a fun supper regaling Murdoch and Teresa with their tale of Freckle-Face and bushes and bogs. Instead, he had to listen to Teresa tell Murdoch about old missus someone-or-other who had the grippe.

 

“You remember her, don’t you, Scott? Her son is the one who went East to study.”

 

He vaguely remembered a woman buttonholing him about her son and how clever he was. “I think I do.”