It wasn’t the items being tossed in the back of the wagon that were amusingly out of place. A few shovels, a pick, lengths of rope, a hammer or two - the necessary tools for outdoor labor. And a chuckle wasn’t required for the wooden crates of dry goods or burlap bags of grain waiting to be loaded. All were typical supplies the Lancer ranch delivered when someone visited Sister Rosa. What humorously set the scene askew was the cheerful, carefree persona of the young man loading the wagon.
Watching this rare occurrence, Scott’s waggish grin widened. In the past, a combination of afternoon heat mixed with heavy sacks of grain consistently produced various cussing and complaining perspectives from his little brother’s mouth.
Johnny’s direct approach: Mother of Hades! Who filled these goddamn burlap devils with rocks?!
Johnny’s scientific view: Could that burning ball of hellfire in the sky be cookin’ my ass any hotter?
And Johnny’s creatively thoughtful observation: I swear on the grave of a blind blacksmith there’s not enough sweat left in me to piss at an ant and save the poor bastard from de-hi-DRAY-shun!
Today, though sweating enough to save a family of parched piss ants, Johnny donned the expression of a lad discovering a silver dollar on the steps of a penny-candy store. Adding to the phenomenon was his whistling off-key rendition of…
Bach’s Prelude in F Minor.
No, wait. Correction. Yankee Doodle.
Always prepared to hone his obligatory sibling ribbing, Scott leaned against the wagon, pushed back his hat, crossed his arms, gazed up at the heavens and waited to be noticed. The wait was brief.
“Big brother, that sky is the color of a fair, milk-maiden’s eyes.”
The thump from a heavy object landing vibrated the wagon boards against Scott’s back. “Indeed, it is.”
“In fact, this is a damn near perfect day.”
An eyebrow raised. Evidently a re-evaluation had occurred regarding the definitions of hot afternoon and perfect day. Scott’s pondering focus continued skyward.
The grunt of heavy lifting. The thump of a dropped object. The rattle of a wagon board. Grunt - Thump - Rattle. The sequence repeated itself twice more before a query arose.
“Scott, what in the hell are you lookin’ at?”
“Not looking at, little brother...waiting for. I’m waiting for Haley’s Comet.”
Johnny loaded the last crate and swiped a shirtsleeve across his forehead, brushing aside the damp hair hanging in his eyes. “You’re waitin’ for some fella named Haley Comet to come flappin’ down outta the sky? I worry about you, brother.”
“Not Haley...Haley’s. Haley’s Comet. It’s the universe’s version of a giant, glowing, cosmic snowball - similar to a shooting star. But this icy ball of gas and dust never burns out. Instead, it keeps circling around the sun and only passes close enough for us to see every 76 years. People say it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience.” Scott adjusted his hat for a better view of the sky. “Considering I just witnessed you happily load a wagon on a sultry afternoon - another once-in-a-lifetime experience - I figure Haley’s Comet is due to arrive any minute now.”
With a shake of his head and a grin, Johnny’s chin dipped - a frequent response to being caught up in Scott’s good-natured teasing. “Well, now, I don’t know about old man Haley and his cosmic snowball, but I can tell you this is a mighty fine day to load a wagon.”
Taking his eyes off a passing cloud which had served as a comet substitute, Scott turned and sauntered to the rear of the wagon, scrutinizing his brother’s accomplishment. “Is that a fact?”
Johnny hopped up to sit between two crates and swept his arm out in front of him. “It is when a man has been asked to assist in the work of the good Lord.”
Scott cocked his head, frowning as if struggling to solve a complicated math problem. “The good Lord requires larger loafs of bread?”
“You’ve talked to Murdoch.” Johnny’s smile gave the Cheshire Cat competition.
“I have.” From the wagon, Scott snagged a tangled pile of rope, shook it out and began coiling it neatly. “I understand an anonymous donation is Sister Rosa’s inspiration for expanding the mission’s horno.”
“God works in mysterious ways.”
“Right.” Scott guessed God’s influence had little to do with guiding the Lancer boys through the Labyrinth of Love.
Johnny laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back on the stacked sacks of grain. “I can almost taste the saintly offerings from lovely Leticia’s skillful hands.”
“Almost as heavenly as her freshly baked bread.” With a sailor’s coil knot, Scott tied off the circled rope and tossed it on his little brother’s reposed mid-section. “Interestingly enough, I too am experiencing a windfall of culinary good luck.”
Pushing the rope to the side, Johnny sat up. “Yeah?”
“I’m being sent on a Sacramento business trip by our father where he’ll eventually join me upon the completion of your spiritual calling. Our agenda includes dining from the Arcade Hotel’s blue ribbon menu.”
“Arcade Hotel. Where that little lady cooks minnows on a biscuit. What was her name?”
“Emily Browning.” Picturing Minnows on a Biscuit listed as an Arcade speciality brought Scott a smile. “And it’s called a lobster canapé.”
“A can of peas, you say?” Johnny let a sly grin slide in the bad pun while he hopped down from his wagon perch.
Acknowledging his brother’s carriwitchet with an eye roll, Scott continued his analysis. “Let’s examine the chain of events.” Fingers ticked off the list. “One. Sister Rosa receives a financial blessing for a new oven. Two. Murdoch Lancer volunteers his youngest son to assist in God’s work. Three. The Cattlemen’s Association shows interest in southern railroad expansion. Four. Murdoch Lancer volunteers his oldest son to do the legwork.” Hands rested on hips. “Johnny. Mission. Fresh baked bread. Scott. Sacramento. Minnows on a Biscuit.”
Eyes narrowed. “You’re sayin’ the old man is stickin’ his nose into our private affairs?”
“Well, I don’t think it’s our diet he’s concerned with.”
“Where would Murdoch get the notion we need help with our romantic pursuits?”
Squinting toward Lancer’s stucco arch, Scott spotted the black-maned buckskin trotting down the road to the enlightenment of his father’s previous statement.
Son, I’m quite aware how compelling that little girl can be.
Scott nodded toward the incoming rider. “Why is Murdoch’s damn chicken coop still pink?” A wag of a finger signaled his brother to follow. “Let’s have a chat with our little Miss Providence.”
“What an extraordinary day for a ride! Simply glorious. Wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?” Any sign of guilt was well covered by Kinsey’s thick blanket of unbridled enthusiasm as she bow-knotted Buck’s reins to the rail.
Scott observed his little cousin's attire comprising of an old hat which, at one time, had donned his own head; a white-now-paint-splattered shirt pilfered from his dresser; worn britches once belonging to some poor, pantless, unidentified soul and expensive Australian knee-high leather boots that currently sported a crust of California dirt. He would guess Seth’s grandfather would consider her a fine example of a wild pup. A Bostonian socialite would label her an orphaned beggar-child.
One damp auburn curl, which had escaped the confines of the hat’s crown, demanded a closer look. With suspicious eyes, Scott leaned down. “Where have you been?”
A drop of water at the end of the curl elongated in hopes to defy gravity. Failing, it fell to earth, landing with a delicate splat on the toe of a dusty Australian boot. Scott reached out and reclaimed the hat he had relinquished soon after Kinsey’s arrival. A tangled mass of wet hair cascaded to her shoulders, providing the answer to his question. Martin's Lake.
Johnny zeroed in on his target. “Half-pint, you best have a damn good reason for not listenin’ again and tossin’ off your clothes again when you’ve been told over and over no more skinny-dippin’.”
Kinsey begrudgingly accepted reprimands from Murdoch and barely tolerated them from Scott. However, a scolding from Johnny set her sass in motion quicker than a man could say Jack Robinson.
“Well, John, maybe that burning ball of hellfire in the sky was cooking my arse hotter than the devil’s piss ant sunning itself on a burlap bag of rocks.”
Admonishment muscles flexed. “Kid, I don’t know where that mouth of yours finds its words, but it sure could use a good cleaning.”
Informative impertinence shoved back. “My mouth gathers up these words every time they tumble out of your bawdy jaws, so let me know when you’re done with the soap.”
“Halt! This is not the discussion we’re having right now.” Scott plopped the hat back on his cousin’s wet head. “What we are going to discuss is Sister Rosa.”
“Sister Rosa? Guadalupe Mission Sister Rosa?” An expression of morning dew innocence pushed away the sassy scowl of disapproval.
“Just how many Sister Rosas do you know, Freckles?”
“Is there a problem?”
She’s answering a question with a question. Scott crossed his arms. The game was afoot. “You have no knowledge of an anonymous donation to the mission?”
“Should I?”
Spying his younger brother wipe his hand across his bawdy jaws to conceal a grin, Scott sighed heavily and scraped up a few grains of patience. “With these extra finances, the mission is renovating their outdoor horno.
“Well, I’m not surprised. It’s been rather difficult for them to maintain their daily bread supply considering the recent increase of glutinous demand.”
“I beg your pardon.” Johnny’s raised eyebrows confirmed Kinsey’s innuendo had hit its mark. “Tell me this, darlin’, did you convince the old man I should help with enlargin’ Leticia’s oven?”
“Honestly, John.” Kinsey’s smirk screamed every lewd remark bouncing through her head. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
“All right.” Scott forcefully cleared his throat in an attempt to regain control of the narrative. “Let’s talk about my business trip to Sacramento.”
“Sacramento?” Kinsey’s tone suggested she’d never heard of the place.
“Yes, Freckles. Sacramento.” Scott had a fairly good grasp on how the next conversational exchange would pan out, but he fearlessly forged ahead. “The Cattlemen’s Association is interested in railroad expansion south.”
“They are?”
“A telegram arrived from Leland Stanford suggesting we meet.”
“It did?”
“Murdoch wants to sample the Arcade Hotel’s blue ribbon menu.”
“He does?”
Scott tugged at his hat’s brim to shadow a stern, steady stare which demanded a straight answer. “Kinsey Rose, have you been using our father to influence -”
“Scott Garrett! Are you insinuating Murdoch and I are in -”
“Cahoots.” A swift retort cut off indignation’s reared head. Crossing his arms, the headmaster glared down at the student caught cheating on a test. “Yes, young lady, I’m insinuating you and our father are in cahoots,”
“Well, sir, maybe Murdoch Lancer would appreciate the joyful sounds of little legacies running about this ranch and wonders what in Sam Hill his sons are waiting for. Now wouldn’t that surely be the straw that cooked the camel’s goose!” A quick turn on the heels twirled Kinsey’s water-sodden hair around her head, sharing Martin’s Lake with her accusers. Renewed vexation marched the young lady toward the hacienda.
A moment of silence served as the opportunity to not only wipe water droplets from faces, but to question the possibility of a camel owning a goose cooked with a straw.
“Boston, you mind tellin’ me what we just heard?”
“I believe, little brother, it was the most convoluted retelling of our father’s wishes ever uttered in the King’s English dusted with a fine layer of guilt.”