First and Last Person Apologies

The blank piece of stationary lay on the courtyard table mocking a frustrated author’s lack of appropriate wording. Instead of picking up the silver-cased pencil used for journal writing, Scott’s fingers wrapped around his own cold glass of lemonade from Maria’s kitchen.

At least choosing novels had proved more successful. Kinsey found humor in his selection of Frankenstein as he left the book within her reach on the nightstand. His cousin’s enthusiasm to relate to Mary Shelley’s bandage-laden creature indicated the tale’s first three or four chapters would be denied Grandfather’s oratorical touch.

Since the opportunity hadn’t presented itself during his earlier visit, Scott broached the subject regarding a letter to Seth to inform him of the riding mishap.

Kinsey’s concern was immediate. “Do you think he’ll be upset over the postponement of plans?”

Thus far, Seth Westcott had demonstrated a long path of patience. But like most paths being explored for the first time, one had to consider its eventual end. At least that’s what the young lady’s expression reflected when hearing her cousin’s opinion.

“Oh, it’s not the postponing your soon-to-be husband will be upset over, little one, but the reason for it.”

Scott’s grin greeted a sip of lemonade. Truth be told, he too was a bit curious about the length of Westcott’s path.

Hearing a political discussion of charging elephants and stubborn donkeys between the heads of the Lancer-Garrett families filtering from the Great Room, Scott gladly sidestepped involvement and chose a moment of solitude to compose a necessary letter to Seth. The composition, however, was gathering frustration - evidence being the several crumbled-up rejects littering the table.

Also difficult: maintaining a moment of solitude - confirmed with the unexpected arrival of a younger brother.

A bystander observing Johnny settling down in a casual seating of legs stretched-out with one arm slung over the chair’s back would view the man as relaxed and untroubled. Scott knew differently by his brother’s lack of words, which spoke loudly. Harlan Garrett’s comment regarding the brindle continued to be firmly stuck in Johnny’s craw.

Perhaps a big brother’s silence could dislodge it. Sip.

Johnny’s squinted eyes targeted one of the discarded crumpled balls of stationery. A hand usually swiping a smirk or tugging a hat brim smoothed out the wrinkled paper to read the message it held. “It’s been said that God works in mysterious ways.”

Sip.

Fingers moved to Scott’s next cast-off correspondence and the process repeated.

“As your mother mentioned, a sable cloud turns forth her silver linin’ on the night.”

Sip.

Scrutiny of the written words held on for a moment before fingers released the insight, scratched a cheek and reached for another balled-up piece of paper. “It’s not the e-pip-ha-neee I had planned but a delay is a delay.”

Sip.

Johnny’s gaze traveled to his brother’s neutral mien. “You gonna make me ask what the hell you’re tryin’ to do?”

“I am.” Sip.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

A little brother’s cocked head pushed out a reluctant lopsided grin. “Well, what in the hell are you tryin’ to do?”

“I’d thought you’d never ask. I’m trying to explain to Westcott -”

“Ah, Jesus -”

“Whooooa.” Scott verbally pulled on the reins of Johnny’s protest. “Don’t have that burr my grandfather shoved up your ass journey any further.”

“It won’t. I’m sellin’ the brindle.”

A brow sank in time with a ponderous nod. “I see.” Scott sat back. “That’s your solution to a situation my cousin brought upon herself. Sell the brindle.” Sip. “Brilliant.”

“Keeping that horse could break her goddamn neck.”

“Selling that horse would break her goddamn heart. Is that a lesson you honestly want to teach, brother?”

“Maybe.”

“Doubtful.”

A puff of the cheeks deflated with Johnny’s sigh directed toward the corral. “Yeah. Maybe doubtful.” His attention returned to the table with a finger point of an imaginary gun aimed at Scott’s writing attempts. “What are you tryin’ to do?”

“Without sounding like a callous bastard, I’m trying to inform Seth Westcott our

hope for a delay with family agendas has conveniently landed in our laps courtesy of my reckless cousin.”

The finger-gun pulled its trigger on the last ball of crumpled paper. “What does that one say?”

“Opportunity never knocks twice at any man’s door.”

“Not much of an improvement in hitting the bullseye.”

“Agreed.”

“Mind tellin’ me why you and Grape Crusher want to hold off on get-togethers?”

“Let’s say Roberta Westcott and my grandfather had ample time on the Transcontinental for discussions.” Fingers ticked off the list. “Ranches. Vineyards. Investments. Lawyers.” Scott paused for his thumb to count off the final concern. “Kinsey’s inheritance.”

“And this Westcott woman packed her own bag of burrs?”

“My gut says yes.”

“Half-pint know what your gut’s sayin’?”

“She will in due time.”

“What about the ol’ man?”

An eyebrow raised. “Which one?”

“Guess I’ll take that as a no to both.” Johnny’s hand palmed the crown of his Nevada and flipped it over. A free arm swept Scott’s crumpled rejects off the table and into the leather makeshift bowl. With a wink, all returned neatly to the young man’s head. “Best we keep this under our hats then.”

Scott’s pained look of confusion over his brother’s actions received clarification from behind. “Ah, Scotty. There you are.”

A big brother’s smile of gratitude bounced across the table to his sibling as both young men rose to greet their guest.

“The lovely Miss O’Brien has put me in charge of gathering up the menfolk for the evening meal which she compared to corralling a herd of steers.” Harlan’s chuckle hinted he enjoyed Teresa’s reasoning. “She thought perhaps I would need a bit of practice before my next cattle drive.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Garrett, you just might.”

“Pleeeeassse. John. First names. We’re family.”

“Well, all right, Harrrlan.” Johnny’s grinning delivery of the letter r kept in step with the elder’s manipulation of an s. “I wanna say… earlier -”

“Forgotten, my boy. We were two men who were caught up with concern. An apology is not necessary.”

Johnny’s brow gathered at the patriarch’s incorrect assumption of receiving a I’m sorry, halting a grin in reaching the full potential of a smile.

Instead, the smile found a home on the face of Murdoch Lancer’s oldest son. “It goes without saying, brother. You are the last person who owes my grandfather an apology.”

“And how unfortunate that my wait continues.” Harlan sat down in the seat vacated by his grandson. It appeared the dinnertime cattle drive had strayed off its path.

“Well, now. Glad that’s settled.” Johnny extended a welcoming hand followed by a brush-off of imaginary dust from his sleeve. “I best clean up before Maria puts the roast beef back in the icebox.” Another wink blessed The Last Person, before it strolled away with its owner to a bathhouse water basin.

Harlan's attention turned to the table with a finger tap on the stack of stationery. “And what have we here?”

Scott held his high ground and remained standing. “An eventual letter to Seth Westcott explaining his fiancée’s latest shenanigans.”

“I see.” In no hurry, aging fingers grasped the silver-cased pencil for closer scrutiny. “Engraved.”

“A gift from Kinsey.”

“Such a thoughtful young lady.” The pencil meandered its way back to the point of origin.

Scott opened his mouth to voice an opinion of the obvious stall taking place when his stomach spoke first by way of a growl. An eye roll judged the untimely confession of a hunger hostage.

“Tell me Scotty, do you still enjoy a cold roast beef sandwich during the evening’s late hours as much as you did in boyhood?”

Winnie’s solution for a lad being sent to bed without his supper evidently hadn’t gone unnoticed. A white flag of truce waved in the form of a smile while Scott surrendered and sat down. “I do. Now double-stacked, in fact. I’d be happy to share one with you, sir… say around midnight?”

Harlan matched his grandson’s smile with one of his own. “I believe you and I were the two men who were caught up in concern and misspoke.” The Garrett patriarch leaned in. “Allow me to be the first person to offer apologies. This old soul permitted his cantankerousness to rule the tongue.”

“And I, sir, allowed my temper to choose my words. Please accept apologies from the last person.”

“Let it be known, gentlemen.” Framed in the archway, Teresa stood with hands on hips. “Neither of you will be put in charge of a cattle drive again anytime soon.”

“Tell me, Scotty.” Harlan’s request slid from the corner of his mouth as his eyes remained on the female taskmaster. “Does the double stacked roast beef sandwich include a fine layer of horseradish?”

“Mustard.”