If Scott was a tall cedar in Jane Stanford’s eyes, then she’d certainly agree a towering redwood currently stood in the hacienda's doorway. The silent, unsmiling welcoming-committee-of-one greeted the three travelers as the wagon rolled to a stop - his penetrating stare never wavering from the intended targets. With an abrupt thumb gesture over his shoulder, the patriarch turned on his heels and purposefully strode inside.
“Almost slipped my mind.” Jumping down from the back, Johnny’s grin and casual inflection indicated differently. “Murdoch wants to see you two… how did he put it?” He squinted upwards at a passing cloud. “Oh, yeah - the moment their backsides hit Lancer land.”
Still perched on the wagon seat, Scott’s eyes under a creased brow remained on the spot where his father once stood. “I appreciate your timely delivery of his request, little brother. You’re not joining us?”
“The old man and I danced a few days ago.” Johnny’s sudden attentiveness to proper luggage handling proved convenient considering the present situation.
Scott glanced about. “Where’s Teresa?”
“Hidin’.”
*******
A stick of dynamite occupied the chair of the Great Room’s carved wooden desk as the two summoned children entered. Scott felt fairly confident where his father’s ill-temper would land. However, nothing was a sure bet with Murdoch’s surly mood.
“How was Sacramento, my son?”
“Very productive, sir. I look forward to discussing future vineyard plans with you.”
“Not as much as I look forward to discussing future ranch tasks with you.”
Scott stifled the temptation to point out he had traveled to Sacramento due to his father’s suggestion. Why light the fuse prematurely when the real little match standing beside him would soon to be called upon? “Perhaps a good scotch will help the chore list appear shorter.”
A subtle smile twitched the straight line of the patriarch’s mouth as he rose. “Perhaps.”
From behind his desk, Murdoch’s authoritative amble brought him directly in front of Kinsey - emphasizing the severe distance of disapproval between his narrowing eyes and the top of her head. “Young lady, I had every intention of going to Stockton for the sole purpose of taking you over my knee the moment you stepped off that train.”
Color rose in the cousin’s cheeks while her mouth opened for a possible protest.
“Child, interrupting me would be extremely unwise.”
Protesting lost its appeal.
“Johnny insisted that tanning the seat of your britches would be a wasted effort in correcting the Garrett muleness you’ve inherited.” Murdoch’s eyes briefly settled on Scott. “He made a rather convincing case. However, when applying this same reasoning to justify the role he played in your Sacramento travels, my youngest son was less persuasive.” The elder Lancer returned to his desk. “So I’ll finally be rid of that God-awful pink coop.”
Crossing his arms, Scott dipped his chin. Ah...whitewashing the chicken coop. Murdoch’s childish punishment usually reserved for our bar fight indiscretions.
“Now, for you, young lady -“ Papers shuffled on the desk. “I’ve decided your weekly trips to Sister Rosa’s will resume.”
“What?!” A delicate hand fluttered to contain an escaped gasp.
Wait. Scott’s eyebrows quirked at his little cousin’s initial reaction to Murdoch’s sentencing. She enjoys Sister Rosa and the children.
“No… please, sir. Please reconsider.” Kinsey’s tone was that of a poor beggar child denied bread crumbs. “Not the mission.”
An eye roll accompanied Scott’s revised observation. A poor beggar child denied bread crumbs and sentenced to hard labor.
“You said I needn't continue! You said I’d learned my lesson.”
“It appears I was wrong.” Murdoch’s rumbling tone kept stride with the damsel in distress. “And the only thing I hate more than appearing wrong is having it confirmed by a spoiled, little girl.”
“Denied independence.” Kinsey’s lamenting gathered steam with forced crocodile tears. “My views ignored. My opinions silenced. Held hostage by my gender. Fine examples of the injustice I must endure.”
Macbeth didn’t have this much drama. Scott shook his head and focused on a small crack above the room's arched window.
“Young lady, you are not denied, ignored, silenced or hog-tied.” The judge’s forceful words ricocheted off the walls. “However, you are held responsible for your brash actions and to continue our discussion by pulling out your soapbox is not recommended.”
Producing a lace hankie, the persecuted maiden dabbed tears and wiped sniffles. “Yes, sir.”
Scott observed his little cousin leaving with the slightest hint of a satisfied smile. Casting a skeptical eye received a brown-eyed wink.
Murdoch pointed to the empty doorway. “That little girl is impetuous, disrespectful, cheeky, brazen, headstrong, unreasonable -”
As his father’s list droned on in the background, Scott shortened it considerably. That little girl is a con artist.
********
Finding Johnny was easy. Scott headed for the chicken coop, which had displayed for several months a peppermint candy hue courtesy of Lancer’s young woman activist. It wasn’t a broken saloon mirror which had introduced the little cousin to the paintbrush punishment, but an impromptu trip to Omaha.
“Why did we let her keep slappin’ on this horse-pissin’ pink?” Johnny’s greeting reflected his realization that more than one coat of whitewash would be required to cover up the damage Kinsey had done.
Scott pondered a moment on the relationship between horse piss and the color pink. Finding none, he picked up a spare brush to assist. “If memory serves me correctly the opportunity to stop her never clearly presented itself.” An eyebrow raised at the whitewash’s feeble attempt to make the pink paint… well… less pink. “I understand my cousin owes you her gratitude for avoiding an uncomfortable sit down.”
“Swats from the old man wouldn’t have raised much dust.” Johnny’s paintbrush dipped in the bucket and applied a slosh of whitewash to a rosy-colored board as a hen clucked approval. “Told him to send Half-pint back out to the mission. She hates that place.”
“Is that a fact.” Scott scrutinized a freshly coated windowsill, slowly surrendering its white back to a pale pink. “I thought you’d be glad to wash your hands of those days of a long hot ride just to be surrounded by nuns and kids.”
Johnny’s drawl matched the grin spreading across his face. “Not all are kids and nuns, big brother. Not all.”
“I hope the not all is named Leticia because it’s a lousy name for a horse.” Scott’s brush continued its quest to eradicate Kinsey’s choice of coop color.
“Letica Lopez.” Whitewash splashed on a door frame in one stroke. “You see her the day you were vistin’?”
“I did. She’s very pretty.” Scott shot his little brother a sideways glance. “Bet she bakes a fine loaf of bread.”
“That she does. So I figure why not let the old man provide me the means to keep helpin’ in the mission kitchen while teachin’ that sassy cousin of yours to behave?” Johnny stood back to admire his work. “Goddammit! It’s still pink!”
A crowing rooster offering his opinion was treated with a flying paint brush.
“Well,” Scott handed over his brush. “I hope that’s damn good bread to make several coats of whitewash worth it.”
Johnny’s edgy exasperation dissolved to darkened dismay - an expression worn when he felt misunderstood. “I didn’t take Half-pint to the train station because of Leticia. I was clearin’ a path to keep the little mule safe.”
Resting his hand on his brother’s shoulder, Scott eyeballed the chicken coop. “I’ll be back to help. And then I owe you a cool beer or two in town. I’d like to hear more about the mission's kitchen.”
********
In his quest to locate Kinsey, Scott didn’t get far before a familiar voice shouted his name. An about face inspired the memory of the land clerk doppelgänger in Sacramento. Unfortunately, it was the Lancer original heading his way.
“About time you high-tailed it back home.”
“Hello, Jelly.” Scott’s inflection wrestled with the desire to sound annoyed.
“Plenty didn’t git done around here while you were kickin’ up your heels in Sacramento. And that sassy-lass caused another ruckus. Gittin’ Johnny in all sorts of trouble with her wild ideas of takin’ off.”
With a nod, Scott acknowledged envelopes clutched in the little man’s hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm. “Is that the mail?”
“Yep. Picked it up when I went to town this mornin’. Thought I’d deliver it to the boss.”
“That’s fine. I’ll take it.” Scott held out his hand.
“Well…” A whiskered chin jutted with suspicion as hesitation slowed the transfer of correspondences. “I suppose that’d be all right.”
An index finger pointed to the newspaper half hidden under Jelly’s upper arm. “Planning on reading the Green River Gazette before Murdoch?”
“Of course not!” A flustered huff sailed the paper into Scott’s hand with a query. “Aren’t ya gonna take a look at those envelopes?”
“I will.”
“Might be somethin’ important in there.”
“Well, Jelly, if there is I’m sure you already know about it.” Scott pushed his hat back with a teasing grin.
“Sass runnin’ pretty footloose and fancy free ‘round here and I ain’t got time to be jawin’.” Bowlegs carried the curmudgeon back toward the barn.
********
The little cousin, a picture of contentment, sat at an outside table usually reserved for checker playing and lemonade sipping. Her sketchbook, it’s open pages filled with drawings of Jane Stanford’s flowers, took the place of a checkerboard.
Scott seated himself across from his cousin, placed the mail off to the side and waited.
“I wish I could capture the beauty of the Stanford gardens.” Kinsey’s concentration remained on her sketching.
A bee buzzed.
“Scott… do you think Mrs. Stanford would welcome a visit from Teresa?” The cousin’s pencil outlined a new flora. “Yes. I think she would.”
A crow cawed.
Scott reached out and silently removed the pencil from his cousin’s hand and placed it with the mail. His hand landed on top of Stanford flower renditions and slowly pushed the sketch journal away from Kinsey. Resting his ankle on a knee, he crossed his arms and waited.
Folded hands occupied where the sketchbook had been. “You’re upset.”
“I am.”
“With me.”
“With you.” Scott shifted and recrossed his arms.
“You talked to Johnny.”
“I did.”
“Fine.” Folded hands let go in a nervous flight. “I’ll admit… during our talk in Sacramento I may have… stretched the truth… slightly.”
“May have? Slightly?” Scott sat upright and leaned forward. “The only thing more stretched around here are those ostrich necks yonder.” An index finger jabbed in the air before targeting the space a few inches from Kinsey’s nose. “And speaking of necks, I’m about to wring yours.”
Indignation took hold. “Honestly Scott, I’m at a loss to see the problem. Your father, in his grumpy, grouchy, endearing manner, called a tune. Your brother, seeing an opportunity, secured his trips to Leticia at my expense. Murdoch’s happy. Johnny’s happy. Everyone is happy.”
“I’m not happy. Would you like to know why?” Scott didn’t wait for an answer. “Because nowhere is there a consequence for Kinsey Rose Furlong. Her punishment for manipulation is to happily continue her anticipated weekly visits to the mission. A decision she made some time ago which God shared with Sister Rosa, but not with my father and brother.”
“God is a busy man.”
“And I am not. At least not busy enough to not find time to talk with Sister Rosa. You, young lady, will not be sipping afternoon tea and painting murals. You will spend your time working in the mission’s laundry. Your handling of a washboard needs improvement.”
“Scott, you can’t.”
“I can.”
“I won’t.”
“You will or I find the tune caller and present my rebuttal on the effectiveness of a sound spanking on Garrett muleness.”
“You wouldn’t.” Kinsey’s eyes darkened in defiance.
Scott’s eyebrows dipped in determination. “Try me.”
A soft smile of surrender graced the little cousin’s face. “Why can I bamboozle your father and brother, but never you?”
“Chalk it up to Garrett muleness.” Bamboozled, indeed. Why can’t I stay mad at you, little one?
Scott slid the sketch journal back to its rightful owner while admiring Kinsey’s drawings. “You do Mrs. Stanford’s flowers justice.” A pencil was retrieved and returned. “I’m certain she’d welcome our return visit with Teresa as an added guest. We’ll inquire when writing a thank you for her hospitality.”
Scott’s admiration of Kinsey’s talent captured his focus for a moment until the letters from town demanded recognition. Sifting through the envelopes showed all were for Murdoch and none were from Boston. A tinge of guilt suggested a few lines to Harlan needed to be written as a start to fence-mending. Picking up the Green River Gazette, a misplaced correspondence fell in Scott’s lap. On the front, Kinsey’s name appeared in neat, uniform lettering along with a postmark from Melbourne.
“Freckles, do you recognize this handwriting?”