“Kinsey’s with… ” Biting her lower lip, Teresa skipped over the self-evident and moved on to weak rationality. “Johnny’s escorting her to Westcott Vineyards. He thought it would be a good idea.”
“My brother thinks all his ideas are good ideas.” The leather case of mementoes balked at Scott’s attempt to shove it back under his bed. “Dammit!” A kick of a boot convinced the collected memories to rejoin their dust mice neighbors. “When did they leave?”
“Mid-morning.”
“Of course they did.” Scott’s muttered focus drifted out the window while his mindset became that of his younger brother’s. Not to be spotted, Johnny had waited to depart, kept his distance behind Scott, circled around Green River and then returned to the main road leading to Stockton. After an overnight stay in town, he’d finish his quest to the Westcott’s. “Musketeer John delivering Guinevere to Camelot.”
“I told him it’s not his decision to make.”
“It sure as hell wasn’t.”
“He thought in Kinsey’s best interest -”
“Would’ve been to stay put at Lancer.”
“Johnny was just trying to -”
“Stop defending him, Teresa!” The girl’s resounding silence brought Scott’s thoughts back to where he stood. Turning, he rested his hands on the young lady’s shoulders, delivering a slight squeeze of reassurance. “That was undeserved and I’m sorry. It’s not you I’m mad at.”
Teresa’s nodding soft smile accepted the apology while providing an additional fact with a poke of her finger to Scott’s chest. “I’m also not the one who will be telling Murdoch.”
“How unfortunate.” A brother’s smile mirrored his sister’s. “Now I am mad at you.”
••••••••
Not how I’d be dealin’ with it.
Johnny’s previous comment regarding Kinsey jabbed a taunting reminder of the words Scott had chosen as a response.
Oh, I know how you’d be dealing with it.
“Right.” With hands on hips, Scott squinted up at a passing cloud and mentally kicked himself. That cleverly aimed verbal retort was so far off the mark it hadn’t come close to hitting the target. In retrospect when spying Johnny’s edginess surfacing from a situation not being resolved to his liking, a bullseye could’ve been achieved with a long rather lopsided discussion ultimately squelching this latest good idea. “Well, little brother, our discussion is still on my agenda, only now with a slightly different topic and reason for having it.”
Ah ScottyGarrett, even a blind pig will find an acorn now and again.
Winnie’s silver-lining perspective which had always made young Scott laugh ushered in a brighter side to the latest turn of events. At least bets were playing out in Chenoweth’s favor on avoiding attention. No Johnny. No Murdoch. No Cipriano. No -
“Did y’hear what happened t’Gus?”
A dipped chin to the left delivered the appearance of Lancer’s town crier holding a glass of lemonade. Yes, drawing to an inside straight had better odds than being dealt a No Jelly. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Hurtin’ follows that there fella more times than any man I’ve come across durin’ my travels on God’s green and blessed creation.”
Travels on God’s green and blessed creation? Scott silently pondered Jelly’s sudden acquisition of spoken poetic reflection.
“Why, it was just last month he sported a black eye from runnin’ into the outhouse door. Remember?”
I do. I was the outhouse door.
“Now this. Gus’s lucky t’still be alive.”
Gus is lucky to still have a job.
“Ain’t y’gonna ask me what happened?”
Chances are it won’t be necessary.
“Mountain lion.”
Mountain. Lion.
“Can y’believe it?”
No.
“Said the varmint came outta nowhere. They tangled for a bit then the cat gave up and ran off. Gus’s got a few cuts and bruises so he’s restin’ a spell in the bunkhouse. Asked if I could rustle up a glass of lemonade. Said his throat’s a tad parched from wrestlin’ the fanged devil.”
And my brain is a tad strained from wrestling his tall tale. Scott pointed to the glass in Jelly’s possession and motioned to hand it over.
The refreshment reluctantly journeyed from one man to the other. “I suppose you’d like to talk to Gus ‘n set yer mind at ease over his well-bein’ ‘n all.”
That’s one way of putting it.
********
Scott found Chenoweth stretched on his bunk as if not having a care in the world: hands behind head, ankles crossed, grin on face.
“Well howdy, Scott. Jelly yammer the details of my dance with a hellcat?” Gus rose with a wink while reaching for his beverage. “And I ain’t referrin’ to that little redhead workin’ the room at Henry’s.”
Ignoring the ranch hand’s anticipation of dry throat redemption, Scott brought the drink to his lips, downed it in one continuous chug and gifted the empty glass to Chenoweth. “He did.”
“I see you appreciate me thinkin’ on my feet.” Gus chuckled while studying the absence of his lemonade. “Had to come up with a story. Thought I’d make it a good one.”
“Let’s see what you can come up with looking at this.” While reclaiming the glass, Scott fished from his shirt pocket the Melbourne clipping of the Government House Luncheon for Chenoweth’s scrutiny.
“Well, looky who we have here. Captain S.G. Lancer.” Gus’ ill-timed goading continued. “Aren’t you the dandy. And that little cousin of yours sittin’ there so prim and proper.” A greased smirk slid across the hired hand’s face. “Hardly recognized her.”
Like a vice, Scott grabbed the man’s earlobe and dragged Chenoweth to the bunkhouse window. “Maybe better light will help you see things more clearly. The gentleman in the upper right-hand corner of the photograph. Do you recognize him?”
Gus considered the alternative of another outhouse black eye and glanced at the clipping. “Hard to say. I didn’t get a close gander at him.” A rub to his stinging ear had diminished the need for further mocking to a whining mumble. “Godammit.”
Not diminished: Scott’s distaste of the weasel standing before him. “Well, your fist certainly got a good look, so try again and, unlike your work ethic, put some effort into it.”
Chenoweth closely examined the photograph of the man in question. “Yeah. Maybe. I mean there’s a resemblance to the dirty dealin’ bastard from last night, but…” The clipping returned to its owner. “Jesus, Scott. It’s a crumpled up piece of newspaper you got me starin’ at. That’s the best I can say.”
“Right.” Eyeballing the quality of the photograph before stuffing it back into his pocket Scott had to agree; no doubt the one and only time he would agree with Gus Chenoweth. There’s a resemblance. The resurrection of Thomas Yarra still remained a possibility. “Next time you tell your story, the mountain lion best be replaced by a girl’s jealous beau. It suits you better.”
********
When removing a bandage from a healing cut there were two possible techniques: slowly, which prolonged the discomfort of the unwrapping; or quickly, a bit more painful but a speedier process. Spot hitched to the rail signaled Lancer’s patriarch had moved from corralling cattle in the north pastures to corralling paperwork on a polished oak desk. Scott headed to the Great Room while deciding how to undress a wound.
“My oldest returns.”
The son smiled at his father’s correct greeting without the need to look up. “A good guess.”
“Not a guess.” Murdoch peered over his reading glasses. “Your stride is longer than your brother’s. My eyes may be weary but these ears work just fine.” An ornate letter opener sliced the next envelope. “What did you find out today?”
“Murdoch Lancer doesn’t throw the farthest stone, his youngest son has the distinction. Johnny’s taken Kinsey to Westcott Vineyards.”
Riiiiip. Bandage decision made.
Spectacles were removed and tossed aside while weary eyes closed to allow the elder’s brain to absorb the news. Finally, an index finger pointed toward the cut glass container containing the good stuff. “Pour two.”
“I hope that means I’m to join you.”
A grunt indicated the accuracy of the statement.
Handing Murdoch a snifter of warm amber smoothness, Scott seated himself and, out of respect, waited for his father to take the first sip.
“They left this morning?”
“Yes.” An eyebrow cocked. “Once the coast was clear.” Scott observed Murdoch swirl the liquor in its glass, an indication his father had begun mulling over the situation. “Sir, to be honest, I can’t find fault with Kinsey going against our wishes. The thought of refuge at the Westcott vineyards offered too much of a temptation for the young lady.”
The patriarch sampled his drink. “So you’re saying we should funnel the blame solely on her partner in crime?”
Similar to Teresa’s comments, Murdoch’s implied justification of Johnny’s decision did not sit well. A sip and silence countered his father’s query that Scott felt should’ve never been posed in the first place and thus did not require an answer. Instead, a response on a different matter was given. “I spoke with Crawford. Mannheim hasn’t sent or received any correspondence from Melbourne so far.”
“Can we assume the man’s not who he says he is?”
“Perhaps. He’s certainly not in a big hurry to prove otherwise.”
Turning in his chair, Murdoch’s gaze rested on the landscape framed by the room’s arched window. “Is there anything else?”
Kinsey’s predator you chose to eliminate is dealing cards at Henry’s. The statement slammed into Scott’s head and, as much as he wanted to say the words, they were quickly rejected. Why share second-guessing? “Well, I’d say Val’s doing a fine job of doing his job.”
“Hmmmm.”
Observing his father unmoved, lost in his own thoughts somewhere on the distant hills, Scott quietly finished his drink and rose to leave.
“Son?”
“Sir?”
“In the morning, why don’t you head north to Stockton and meet up with your brother on his way back. Keep him company.” Murdoch’s attention returned to the paperwork on his desk while exchanging a snifter for reading glasses. “I’m certain you two will find something to talk about to pass the time.”
********
San Joaquin Valley
Lancer Ranch
My companion assumes to know my mood and habit of thought, and we go on from explanation to explanation, until all is said that words can, and we leave matters just as they were at first, because of that vicious assumption. ~ R.W. Emerson
Assuming. Second-guessing. Ways of thinking I try to avoid but have failed to do so lately.
Today I assumed my father was justifying his youngest son’s poor decision. My assumption proved wrong. I also second-guessed the need for my father to be aware of a man’s presence who he assumes dead. I pray my decision remains a good one.
~ S.
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