“Have you experienced these types of situations often with the young lady?” Seth’s matter-of-fact inflection was one usually reserved for discussing the weather.
“Quite often.” Scott's moment of consideration added clarification. “I've lost count.”
The two men watched the final croquet participant bid farewell to the large well-maintained grassy area. Her high stepping march, suggesting a verbal rant in the makings, dwindled to a halting gait the nearer she got.
“Well then, sir, I bow to your expertise.”
Scott grinned. Even though most of Seth’s life had taken place in California, hints of Bostonian phrasing surfaced. The influence of a mother’s deep-rooted eastern upbringing, no doubt.
Kinsey’s halting gait surrendered to a standstill several yards from the fence line.
Adjusting his hat, Scott offered a wink to their guest. “It appears, sir, your hostess suffers from a bout of confusion. Wait here. This shouldn't take long.”
As his unhurried strides closed the gap, Scott vowed to keep the tormenting to a minimum. However, watching Kinsey turn her back when he drew near clearly proved a full dose of teasing was necessary. Coming around from the side to stand in front of her, he flicked off a small piece of horse dung stuck to his cousin’s shoulder. “Freckles. It appears you’ve run into some foul play.”
“This is not the time for one of your stupid puns, Scott Garrett!” Like steam from an engine about to blow, Kinsey’s words hissed out between clenched teeth. “And don't you dare quote Emerson.”
“Never entered my mind. But now that you mention it -”
“Scott! What is he doing here?”
“Who? Seth?” Scott glanced up to see Westcott’s relaxed stance remained unchanged as a congenial wave was exchanged between the young men. “Well, he’s here to spend time with Miss Furlong, who has - I'm guessing - presented herself as a refined, mature young woman in her numerous correspondences to the man and eagerly awaits intelligent conversations regarding future investments in his family's vineyard. Of course, this is pure speculation -”
“Scott!”
“However, your refinement might now be in question considering the circumstances.”
“Scott!”
“Definitely the claim to maturity has suffered. Your language took care of that one.”
“He was to arrive next week!”
“The Sacramento meeting got moved to an earlier date. Seth’s letter explaining it all sits in the Green River mail office courtesy of your underpaid mail carrier.”
“Benjamin.” The judge’s gavel came down with a bang by the utterance of the name. The poor boy would never see fifteen.
Removing a handkerchief from his back pocket, Scott presented it as he leaned down to be eye-level with the refined Miss Furlong. “Listen to me. You are going to clean the debatable dirt off your face and replace it with a pleasant disposition. Then you’ll graciously welcome our house guest. A guest who, I might add, is politely amused by your recent behavior. Unlike myself who finds nothing amusing about it, which will be our discussion later, I can assure you. Have we reached an understanding?”
A nod replied as tears brimmed at Kinsey’s lower eyelids until a single blink sent them over the edge and down her cheeks - clearing small paths through the smudges. Her embarrassment and his reprimand had served their purpose. Lesson learned. Scott placed his one hand on her shoulder to deliver a comforting squeeze while gesturing to his bandanna with the other. “Hand it over. You missed a few spots.”
The handkerchief made a gallant effort to restore presentability but Scott had to admit a piece of cloth could only do so much. While he stuffed the muckender back in his pocket, a final concern was voiced.
“Scott, I stink.”
Brotherly advice was given.
“Stay downwind.”
His cousin's resilience never failed to bring a grin to Scott’s face. “Mr. Westcott!” Once face-to-face, Kinsey extended a delicate dung-free hand. “Your rescheduled meeting has blessed me with a pleasant surprise.”
But it was Westcott’s response which stretched Scott’s grin into a broad smile. “Miss Furlong.” Seth held Kinsey’s hand with both of his. “I'm the lucky one. If it weren’t for this turn of events how would I know what a challenging croquet opponent you’ll be when we play?”
*******
Before a quick wash-up, Scott turned to Teresa and her Lancer hospitality to assist their guest with settling in. With the day’s dirt and sweat no longer a part of his attire he sought out Westcott. It was no surprise to find him in the Great Room conversing with Murdoch - both men sipping on the good stuff. Scott pledged to join them momentarily.
Choosing the same courtesy so often extended by his younger brother, Scott turned the doorknob to Johnny’s room and walked in without knocking.
“Thought you’d be discussin’ business plans with our house guest.” Eye contact was brief as Johnny sat on the edge of his bed, hair hanging down across his forehead, focused on buttoning up his clean shirt. “Maybe sippin’ on a glass of vino.”
Scott’s patience for nonsense had run dry which made getting to the point immediate and necessary. “I'll be speaking to Kinsey in regards to the stunt she pulled out in the pasture. I want you to steer clear.”
“I have every right -”
“You gave up every right when offering your shit-smeared hand to Westcott.”
“I was just havin’ some fun -”
“You were lifting your leg and marking your territory.”
“Marking my territory.” Johnny studied the last fastener on his shirt before pushing it through its buttonhole. “Yeah. Maybe.” Leaning back to rest on his elbows, he cocked an eye upward. “No harm done.”
“Your opinion, little brother, not mine.” Scott snagged the pillow off his brother’s bed and shook it free from its cotton cover. Eye-balling the floor, he spotted the casualties of Kinsey’s fateful swing in a heap by the dresser. With one scoop, Johnny’s shirt and pants were shoved into the pillowcase-now-laundry-sack. “My cousin needs to practice her domestic skills.”
“You’re handing my clothes over to half-pint? Hell no.”
Scott closed the door behind him - muffling his brother’s final proclamation of displeasure. “There best not be one damn button missin’ on my shirt!”
A knuckle knock on his little cousin’s door produced a timid -
“Yes?”
Scott jiggled the doorknob and found it locked. “Open the door, Kinsey. I want to talk to you.”
“I'm reflecting.”
“You're avoiding.”
“You’re angry.”
“I’m unhappy.” Silence. “I can be angry, if required.” A click of the lock and Scott turned the knob.
Cipranio, fetch Sheriff Crawford. My cousin's room has been ransacked. Dresses and bloomers were strewn about with shoes and stockings scattered underfoot. There was a time when Scott would have turned red while averting his eyes away from the display of a lady’s unmentionables. Kinsey had certainly cured him of that. “Find what you were looking for?”
“Honestly, Scott.” The distraught damsel fell backwards on a heap of petticoats piled on her bed - a slung forearm across the forehead. “I need a few moments to gather my thoughts.”
Scott shut the door behind him while rolling his eyes. Neatness had stalled but drama still flourished. Approaching the musing lass, he held the laundry bag above her to let time do its job. A few sniffs and -
“What is that smell?!”
“The aroma of a consequence.” Holding the high ground, Scott allowed his cousin to meet her fragrant future nose-to-sack as she sat up quickly.
Scrunched eyes, a gag and a hand quickly covering Kinsey’s mouth allowed only two words to escape. “Sumthang diiied.”
“Indeed. Johnny’s shirt and pants. You and a washboard will resurrect them. And before you ask - Yes. I’m serious. Debating is not an option.”
“Fine. Put them in the barn.” Crossed arms accompanied a scowl but, surprisingly, a pout was nowhere to be seen.
“Uh-uh. This reminder stays right here.”
“Unacceptable.” His cousin's sarcasm embraced an earlier statement. “Debating is not an option.”
“I see.” Grabbing a stocking from the floor, Scott tied off the top of the laundry sack with one end and knotted the other end to Kinsey’s bedpost beside an open window.
“What are you doing? That’s silk!”
One toss and the offensive bag dangled outside. “Problem solved, although, don’t let it hang out there too long.” A raised eyebrow and dramatic pause ushered in his reasoning...
“Buzzards.”
Somewhere from the spiritual world, Edgar Allen Poe applauded Scott’s one word delivery.
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