“I’ll do my best to answer your questions. However -” Scott crossed his arms and stretched out his legs as far as the train’s passenger seating allowed. “When it comes to my brother, he sets his mind to being a puzzle.”
Seth’s subtle nod agreed with the stated summary of being a puzzle. “I understand you two didn't grow up together.”
“Yes, that’s true.” The passing countryside regained Scott’s attention. Evening darkness had inched in on twilight which gave the window a mirror-like quality to capture his reflection. A surreal Scott Lancer gazed back at him while speeding across the hills. If raised as brothers we’d certainly be different men today. His thoughts landed back to the present with a smile “It was a challenge for us at first - getting to know each other. A lot of side-stepping took place to choose the right path. Johnny and I find ourselves still sorting things out from time to time.”
*******
“You let her do what?” The flung grooming brush sailed across the stable, bounced off the wall and landed in a wooden bucket with a muffled clunk.
“Impressive throw, little brother. Best two out of three?” Scott refused to fully acknowledge Johnny’s latest voiced dissatisfaction.
“You let that little girl go ridin’ off with a perfect stranger?” Apparently, Johnny was refusing to fully acknowledge Scott’s latest sarky remark.
“Kinsey is not a little girl and Westcott is not a perfect stranger.”
“You want to explain to me how those facts just improved this situation?” Narrowed
eyes drilled in.
Damn. Scott couldn't deny his brother made a fairly good point. A timely rebuttal was crucial. “They’re spending the day at Sister Rosa’s mission.”
“Plenty of opportunity.”
“Opportunity? Opportunity to do what? Hell, Johnny, a person is either tripping over a kid or running into a nun. What opportunity?”
“Trust me. It’s there.”
“Oh?” Scott raised an eyebrow. “Well, the mystery of Leticia Lopez’s disappointment when I chaperoned Kinsey to the mission has finally been solved.” The young lady who helped in the mission’s kitchen had donned a forlorn expression when spying the driver of the buckboard that day. I should have guessed.
“Mighty long ride out and back.” Johnny strode to the bucket and snatched up the brush.
“Long ride, indeed. The perfect time to woo a female - under a hot sun with buzzards circling above.” Scott swept his arm out in front of him. “Why, an innocent lamb couldn’t resist a wolf’s charm under those circumstances.”
Johnny’s chin dipped to his chest as he tossed the brush back and forth between his hands. “The old man know where half-pint is today?” Silence prodded his eyes to raise as his mouth slanted in a grin. “Well, now. Sounds like he doesn’t.”
“He will.” Placating, the conversation ended. “Kinsey’s my cousin. There are occasions where I call the tune, not Murdoch.”
A relaxed swagger returned to Johnny’s steps while he approached close enough to present the brush to Scott’s midsection. “I'll be curious to hear how your melody plays out.”
Accepting the unwanted gift, Scott turned it over in his hands for inspection. “I'd like to think your concern includes Kinsey’s happiness.”
“Well...” Johnny’s slow, lazy words followed him out of the stable. “I’m tryin’ to think the same about you, Boston.”
The flung grooming brush sailed across the stable, bounced off the wall and landed in a wooden bucket with a muffled clunk.
********
“I get the impression your brother didn't lick the stamp on my invitation to visit.” Seth rested his ankle on a knee.
Scott appreciated the man’s unique way of stating the obvious. “It takes Johnny a while to warm up to some people.” Westcott's quick laugh suggested Scott’s diplomacy was also welcomed.
“Your brother was a shootist for a period of time.” The words were not delivered as a question or in a judgmental tone. It was simply a stand-alone statement which offered an opening, without pressure, for Scott to elaborate.
“A shootist. A gunman. Yes. But not the person depicted in cheap paper dime novels that we devoured during our adolescence.”
“The romance of gunning a man down at twenty paces to gain the acceptance of a scorned woman.” Seth nodded. “It’s true. I saved every penny to buy them.”
“ScottyGarrett, why ye be throwin’ good money away on penny dreadfuls? They’ll weaken that fine mind the good Lord gave ye.”
Ah, Winifred. Her words popped into Scott’s head along with the memory of the day he caught the woman reading one hidden behind her bible.“A penny dreadful and a piece of licorice - rotting our brains and teeth simultaneously.”
Seth chuckled at the childhood observation while Scott collected the right words to continue.
"Before he came to Lancer, my brother had few opportunities to make good choices. The choices he did make to gain a name for himself served him well in the beginning. Later, it took him places he didn't want to go. And now...he struggles to completely let go of it."
********
“Boston, you believe in fate?”
Scott pulled on his yellow leather gloves. “Yes and if we don't get this fence mended I can accurately predict what our fate will be.”
Johnny crossed his arms and leaned against the wagon. “Think a man can change his fate?”
“Yes. He starts by helping his big brother fix a broken fence.” Scott reached around Johnny, grabbed the canvas bag of tools and approached the task at hand.
Glancing over his shoulder provided the vision of his little brother unmoved. Some of the more involved conversations with Johnny happened at the most inopportune times - like today - a blazing sun overhead and a cool beer waiting in town. The bag was dropped to the ground with the knowledge that nothing would be accomplished until questions were answered.
Returning to the wagon, Scott assumed a similar stance beside Johnny. “Are you referring to predetermined destiny? A divine plan?”
“A divine plan. The mind of God. Seems to me a fella can’t change what God has in mind for him to do.”
“That’s true… but only if you believe that’s how God operates. I’d like to think he gives us some elbow room to make decisions to alter our fate. Our destiny is our choice.”
“What if fate comes back to bite you on the ass?”
“Then I choose to tell my grandfather it's time he returns to Boston.”
Johnny’s lopsided smile softened the granite edges at the corners of his mouth and around his eyes. “Guess we best choose our old man’s divine plan and get started.”
Scott slung his arm around his little brother’s neck. “The sooner we get started the sooner we can ride to town and fulfill our destiny at Henry’s.”
********
Scott’s hands encircled his knee to assist in a crossing of his legs. The brief recollection left a tinge of regret. He should have offered his little brother a better listening ear. “Johnny is stuck in a world constantly trying to make him something else. I hope Emerson doesn’t mind my paraphrasing.”
“I'm sure Emerson would give his nod of approval. Old Ben Franklin, on the other hand, rolls over in his grave every time Kinsey Rose decides to share his wisdom.”
“I'm certain the Declaration’s all MEN are created equal would be stated differently if my cousin had been sitting with our founding fathers.”
“Hell, that little lady would’ve showed them where to sign.” Taking a turn, it was Seth’s pocket watch which made an appearance to tell the time. Silently the watch slipped into his vest pocket and, indicating their arrival drew near, loose papers were gathered. “May I have your permission to court Miss Furlong?”
The portfolio in Scott’s hand hesitated a moment before continuing its journey to a leather valise. Taking into account the viewed interactions between his cousin and Seth, the direct question was only mildly surprising. A sly smile crossed his face. “It’s not my permission you need.”
“According to Kinsey I do.” Westcott sat back. “I gather she’s estranged from her parents. A crowbar couldn’t pry her mouth open for a conversation on the reason. Although I’m insisting the little lady and I talk to your father once she’s done being madder than a wet hen at him.” Seth’s no nonsense inflection emphasized his seriousness on the subject. “She has the utmost respect for your guidance. I have a tendency to agree with her. So, sir, with your permission?”
The train’s low whistle announced the upcoming arrival in Sacramento. Scott buckled the closure on his bag.
“Sir, you have my permission.” As a joshing gesture, Scott leaned forward to deliver a friendly slap to the man’s shoulder. “God help you, Westcott.”