Three moaning hallway floorboards - one on immediate left, two more five paces down and on the right, Creaking stair steps - numbers four and seven, squeaky door hinge leading to the kitchen, loose tile to the right of back stairs - Scott’s list of the hacienda’s tells allowed him undetected midnight raids on the kitchen and unchallenged returns home before sunrise. At his age, it wasn't the concern with “getting caught.” It was more the satisfaction of...what was it George said?
“Good show, Lancer! We certainly pulled off that caper.”
Scott smiled at the memory as his hand rested on the kitchen doorknob. The only caper he wanted to pull off tonight was to sidestep his father, switch newspapers and then fall into bed for a few hours of sleep. He preferred explaining their kicked up heels in Omaha with a rested mind and possibly a poured scotch. “Wish me luck, George.”
Weaving his way through the kitchen squeaks, past the backstairs creaks, down the hallway moans and toward the Great Room, evidence of a lamp’s amber shimmer was detected.
Damn.
Standing quietly in the doorway with tomorrow’s Green River Gazette tucked neatly under his arm, Scott squinted in the dim light which tossed wavering shadows on the walls and hampered defining the room’s familiar surroundings. The desk appeared to be cleared of paperwork - its swivel chair conducting an about-face to admire the domineering arched window showcasing a half moon. Also spotted was a neatly folded paper innocently perched on the side table. Excellent work, Freckles. I commend you.
Scott mentally reviewed the anatomy of his caper. Three steps to the side table. Substitute newspapers. Three steps back to the doorway. Out.
“Scott.”
The low, rumbling voice from the chair hadn’t said “Scott with a Question Mark” as in - is that you. Nor had it said “Scott with an Exclamation Point” as in - you surprised me. The voice of his father had said “Scott with a Period” as in - come here.
“Sir?” Impatient with Scott’s hesitant brain, his feet came to a decision and stepped forward.
The back of the chair shared an observation. “Two empty plates too many were at the supper table this evening.”
“My apologies. Unexpected errands in town sprung up…” weariness left his sentence dangling.
“Unexpectedly?”
“Yes, sir. Unexpectedly. It couldn’t be helped.”
“I see.” The chair’s back continued the conversation. “Was one of the unexpected errands your brother?”
Scott cleared his throat. “Yes, in a way… but he wasn’t the first errand on the list.”
“A welcome surprise.” A glimpse of a hand holding a scotch rested on the chair’s arm. “I won’t keep you. Good night, my son.”
“Good night.” Scott’s eyes drifted to the newspaper parked on the side table. So close, yet -
“Scott.”
“Sir?”
“Before you leave, could you bring me the Gazette? It's on the table.”
“Yes, of course.” A slight smile and a raised eyebrow conveyed Scott’s surmise of the fortunate turn of events as he approached the side table. Switching papers had suddenly become child’s play. Good show, George! We certainly pulled off this -
“Scott.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve reconsidered.” Scott’s hesitant turn of the head to glance across the room was perfectly timed with the 90-degree rotation of the desk’s chair revealing his father’s austere presence. “Let’s take a look at both newspapers, shall we?”
Eyeing a paper in each of his hands produced a reluctant nod of acceptance and a grim smile. It appears a pulled off caper is not in today’s deal of the cards, George.
With the scotch set aside and a desk lamp lit, Murdoch brought his fingertips together - peering over the two publications placed on his desk for inspection. The paper to his left, the one which had fallen victim to Kinsey’s loving hands, looked even less pristine when compared to the paper on his right, Scott's freshly printed midnight edition. A tap of a finger chose the mauled causality on the left.
Standing in front of his father’s desk, Scott gathered what would not be in his immediate future - an offered drink and a suggestion to sit down. To compensate for the missing components of a friendly conversation, Scott assumed a relaxed stance and crossed arms while struggling to maintain a countenance of mild amusement.
Murdoch studied the wrinkled headlines. “Is it my eyes or does Will Jenkins need to invest in a new printing press?”
When encountering his father, Scott’s perspective on a possible heated discussion differed from one with his grandfather. Enduring described opposition with Harlan. But when it came to a confrontation with Murdoch - “It's not your eyes, sir. I believe you possess total clarity… in most situations.” - jousting served as the best descriptive.
“Hmm.” A page turned. “It seems clearing up situations has become a full-time job, lately… unlike ranching which evidently takes care of itself.” Murdoch's hand swiped at the dusty bootprint still visible on the paper’s photograph of California’s governor. “Old Newt fell victim to some foul play.”
“Getting stepped on. A hazard when climbing the political ladder.” Scott readjusted his stance. “That’s my understanding from what I’ve read.”
“Don't believe everything you read.” Another page was selected to scrutinize. “That’s my understanding from what I've heard.”
“Whether it be printed or spoken words, it’s best to gather all the facts before reaching a conclusion. Wouldn't you agree, sir?”
“Agreed.” Holding up Gossip from Around the Globe, Murdoch pointed to the paper’s nonexistent lower right-hand corner. “However, there are times it can be difficult to gather all those facts for a conclusion. Wouldn't you agree, son?”
With a dip of his chin and a surrendering upturned mouth, Scott retrieved the rest of his father’s Green River Gazette from his shirt pocket. “Agreed.”
Taking the photograph, the patriarch held it closer to the lamp for better lighting. “Kicking up their heels in Omaha.” A grunt sufficed as an opinion. “No wonder Will Jenkins couldn't hold a job as a reporter in St. Louis. Scott, sit down.”
“Sir, I'd like the opportunity to explain -”
Murdoch held up his hand. “Sit down.”
Taking a deep breath to clear his fuzzy mind, Scott settled in the nearest chair - letting his exhale briefly puff up his cheeks before escaping past his pursed lips.
“Bad timing with that heavy sigh, son.”
Not only was it obvious their jousting had ended, but also the miscalculation of his father's anger regarding the events in Omaha. “No disrespect was intended. Fatigue can be badly timed.” Scott sat back as he gestured toward the newspapers with a nod. “I’d appreciate the chance to explain the series of mishaps which led up to that damn photograph being taken and then printed in the Green River Gazette.”
“Hmm.” Murdoch placed the returned torn right-hand corner on top of its paper and picked up his half consumed scotch. “You don't need a chance. It was printed in the Gazette due to Will Jenkins being an irresponsible jackass. Kinsey, while secretly returning the paper - and son, if you want something done correctly, do it yourself - there’s not one inconspicuous bone in that little girl’s body - Kinsey provided an explanation detailing the series of mishaps in Omaha while taking responsibility for each and everyone one of them. Also, included in the list -” The scotch became a paperweight on top of the firemen’s ball photograph. “Her slaughter of the free press.” Murdoch paused but refused eye contact. “Regurgitated words taste bitter.”
“Sir?”
“Your words of wisdom to your cousin.”
“Ah.” Scott rested his elbows on his thighs. “I suggested she taste her words before spitting them out. Her unique paraphrasing can be a challenge.”
“Scott Lancer can’t fix what he didn’t break. How did the young lady fair with that one?”
Scott’s heart headed north to his throat as Murdoch’s eyes locked on. He hadn’t just miscalculated his father’s anger - “The young lady was spot on.” He had miscalculated the reason for his father’s anger.
“I see.” Murdoch leaned forward and drilled in. “We had a discussion, Scott. You were to shorten your agenda. Reduce your role regarding Kinsey. Refocus on your life. The importance of your role with this ranch. I thought your priorities were in order.”
Scott’s temper took hold - flushing his face, furrowing his brow and raising his voice. “Yes, we had a discussion. If memory serves me correctly, I agreed with your thoughts to some degree but not entirely. Sir, my priorities are in order.”
“Well, then here’s your chance, son, to explain. Why did you ride into town and insist on fixing something you didn't break?”
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
“Agreed. It was the right thing to do.” Murdoch’s voice lowered in volume while maintaining its authoritative edge. “Coming to me was also the right thing to do…and the better choice. The choice you didn’t make.” Rising, the patriarch finished his drink in one smooth motion. “There’s cold roast beef in the icebox.”
Scott watched his father set the snifter down on his desk and leave the room without uttering another word. What the hell? Son, your priorities are askew. Have some cold roast beef. End of discussion. Rubbing his neck, he stood to loosen the taut muscles making his back feel like a marble slab. Sir - Placing hands on hips, he stared at the contents of his father’s desk. I beg to differ.
Overwhelming frustration hit like a wave. “Goddammit!” Picking up tomorrow's folded Green River Gazette, Scott flung it at the desk like a boy skipping stones across a pond. The paper skimmed across the polished wood to the floor - gathering the desk blotter, snifter, and additional papers to join the journey. The wave receded with only enough momentum for an additional mumbled - “Goddammit.”
Thankfully, the desk pad and snifter teetered but then refused to accompany the helter-skelter of newsprint hitting the floor. An envelope half exposed under the blotter caught Scott’s attention and brought his eyes into focus. Not so much on the envelope but its postmark. “Melbourne?” Realigning Murdoch’s pen-wiper, he examined the correspondence to read the return address. “Pinkerton Agency.”
“Old man asleep?” Johnny leaned in the Great Room doorway.
Startled, Scott pushed the envelope back to its hiding place. “Yes.” Papers were gathered and piled into the swivel chair.
“Sorry I missed him.” A waggish grin spoke more than the words. “Sure looks like you rammed head-on into him, though.”
“An astute observation, little brother. What are you doing home? I thought you were running a bill.”
“Well -” Johnny tugged at his earlobe. “There appears to be at least one entertainment of the evening a man can’t run a bill on.”
Scott didn’t need any more information on the subject. “I've been told there’s cold roast beef in the icebox. No charge.”
Johnny righted his stance. “I might do that. I’d appreciate some company, brother.”
Scott glanced back at his father’s desk before following Johnny to the kitchen. Priorities. For now, it was the right thing to do.
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