Tomorrow Speak What Tomorrow Thinks in Hard Words Again

“Speak what you think now in hard words and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day.—’Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.’—Is it so bad then to be misunderstood?” ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

With both men lost in their thoughts regarding all that had taken place since the day’s first mug of coffee, less than a dozen words had been exchanged between father and son during their journey from Green River. Scott had certainly chewed on the current situation and, as the stucco arch guiding riders to the hacienda came into view, one nagging brain itch began digging in for a visit: Why didn’t Godfrey Mannheim have in his possession an official paper giving him authority to question Kinsey?

The answer might be rather straightforward and not uncommon. Being a prominent part of Melbourne’s upper class, the Yarra legacy potentially carried its own set of rules which rose above the law and men like Val Crawford were either scoffed at or bought off. Considering Mannheim’s inconvenienced attitude, this scenario held merit.

However, they’d taken quite the gamble to rely on the status quo in their own social circle when fronting an expensive quest and possible retribution for a son’s death. Did the Yarra family’s blind confidence allow their stooge to show up with only a newspaper clipping in hand, expecting unquestioned access to Kinsey Furlong?

Maybe.

Yes, the brain itch was settling in quite nicely and already making plans to keep its owner up half the night.

“‘Bout time you were gettin’ back. Me and Johnny were startin’ t’ fret.”

“Jelly.” Dismounting, Scott’s heavy sigh muttered the name of the hand-wringer leading the welcoming committee of two.

Gravel cascaded down from Mt. Olympus. “It’s been a long day, that’s only going to get longer. Scrape up some damn patience, young man or make yourself scarce.”

Scott’s jaw tightened at his father’s gruff reprimand. It appeared Murdoch’s promise to Val Crawford concerning flaring tempers and goading sarcasm blanketed more than the presence of Godfrey Mannheim. “I’ll do my best, sir, considering patience is an attribute we could all benefit from right now.”

The patriarch's dipped-brow stare measured his son’s response before delivering a brusque nod and a slow exhale of his own. “Agreed.” A placed hand on Scott’s shoulder offered a voiceless apology.

“I’m hopin’ you can explain things better than this one standin’ here.” The hired hand’s thumb jabbed in the direction of Johnny. “The cat’s got his tongue.”

Scott spotted a hint of weariness dusting his brother’s solemn expression. Evidently, Johnny had stood his ground and gave up little while dodging Hoskins’ Gatling gun of questions.

“Just tellin’ me no one in, no one out. Ha. Hearin’ that, what’s a fella t’ think?”

“Well, right now, Jelly, I think we could all use a drink… including our horses.” Murdoch held out the reins. “Do you mind?”

Scott’s side glance met his brother’s. No words were needed, just their shared silent round of applause for the ol’ man.

“I suppose I could do that.” Hoskins eyed the leather lead in his boss’ hand. “Anything t’ help with what’s goin’ on… whatever that might be that nobody’s sayin’.” Reins were gathered reluctantly and the little man with horses in tow headed to the stables.

“We’ll talk later, Jelly.” Lacking acknowledgment, Murdoch’s offered compromise bounced off a capped head and swishing tails before he turned to a more receptive audience. “Where’s Kinsey?”

“Half-pint and Teresa are camped out inside hashin’ over what Frenchie females wear. Goin’ on and on about feathers in hats so I gladly offered ta yank a few outta the asses of those long-necked vultures Scott bought and stick ‘em in a bonnet.”

Ah, the ostriches. A smirk drew a line on Scott’s face. Johnny would never forgive the birds for eating his shirt. “Was that about the time you were asked to leave?”

“Nooooo. The boot came when I pointed out the plucked birds would save Grape Crusher one helluva paddle across water.”

It had been during their unexpected stay and shared hotel room in Omaha when Scott first learned of his little cousin’s desire to see Paris. Later that night with Kinsey’s screams ricocheting off the walls, he’d fully experienced the demon which plagued her nightmares. However, it had taken a purchased Anne Bradstreet book of poetry and their train ride back to Stockton for Scott to completely know the demon.

*******

Kinsey’s reading of Bradstreet had proved to be an admirable barrier between them thus far in their trip home, preventing a much needed conversation. Little by little Scott broke down the wall and now leaned forward to capture his cousin’s complete attention. “Like Anne Bradstreet you are a brave woman, Kinsey Rose - maybe, at times, a little too brave. But now, I need to see your bravery so we can have a hard discussion.” A deep breath and he forged on. “What that Melbourne bastard did to you was not your fault. Take the guilt haunting you at night and place it squarely on the sonofabitch who deserves it. He’s the bloody mongrel in your nightmares. Do you understand me?”

A slow nod and a moment of thought passed before Kinsey patted the printed poetry on her lap. “Anne’s husband and children were such inspirations for her. I will never have that. A husband. Children. I’m...used.”

Sucker punched. It was how Scott felt. He sat back, staring, stunned at her comment. My God. There’s the demon. “Kinsey -”

“No. Scott.” Holding up her hand commanded his silence. “What if your intended told you a man had already taken her? Tell me it would not make a difference.”

How could he give her an answer to a situation he would need to experience for the reply to be an honest one? Of course, he’d like to think it couldn’t make a difference. Yet, with many men, yes, it would. Unfortunate, but true.

Scott rose to sit next to his cousin. Choosing the right words had never been so important. “If a man looks at the woman he loves and can only see her past and not their future together, then he’s a fool.” Reaching out, he placed his hand on top of hers. “You will stroll the streets of Paris on the arm of the man who deserves you.”

*******

That deserving man would be Seth Westcott. Scott’s mentioning of Kinsey’s desire to see Paris someday was all Seth needed to hear and he’d booked passage with the White Star line, sailing out of New York a month after their wedding.

Frustration crawled up Scott’s neck as he pictured his cousin inside pouring over illustrations of Paris fashions. During what should be a happy time of anticipation for her, Kinsey’s demon in the form of Godfrey Mannheim had returned to take one more bite.

“What did Val have to say?”

“A lot.” His brother’s query brought Scott’s thoughts back to where they stood. “Although Mannheim didn’t hear much to his liking.” An eyebrow raised. “The sheriff’s request for an official document from Melbourne in order to question Kinsey was a particularly low point in the conversation for our friend Godfrey.”

“Yeah. Val can dig his heels in and chafe cojones when riled up.” The youngest Lancer squinted up at the sky. “Guess that bought us some time.”

“Two weeks. Maybe three.” Murdoch removed his hat and sleeve-swiped his forehead. “I’d say it all depends on how influential this man is.”

Scott studied his father’s face. The sweat had been wiped away but not the worry.

“So what do we tell the kid?” Johnny’s question hung in the air seeking an answer.

The patriarch returned his hat to its previous residence. “The truth.”

“With all due respect sir, I believe I’ve earned the right to decide what my cousin is told. I will be the one who speaks with her.” Scott’s firm inflection left little doubt he could be persuaded otherwise.

“All right. But you’ll do it with the family present.” Murdoch’s tone countered. “With all due respect son, I believe I’ve earned the right to make that decision.”

Their presence entering the Great Room didn’t require visual confirmation by the young ladies sitting on the sofa. The Lancer men’s strides signaled the arrival.

“Johnny Lancer, I swear! If you’re holding ostrich feathers you’ll be tarred and feathered in them.” Teresa’s scolding carried too much lightheartedness to be considered a threat but had enough sass which demanded a retort. When none came, she glanced over her shoulder.

The teasing glint in Teresa’s cornflower eyes dissolved. Having shouldered the satisfying good along with the unexpected bad a ranch dealt out, the girl could read a family member’s countenance as well as a seasoned lawyer scrutinizing his jury. Scott donned what he hoped would be a reassuring smile which accompanied a slight nod - indicating he wished to sit next to his cousin. With Murdoch now seated behind his barrier of authority, Teresa rose to stand by his side.

“Look at these bustles.” Kinsey shook her head at the fashion illustration. “How do European women sit?”

“Well, Freckles, I imagine on their derrières.” Considering their weighted conversation about to take place, Scott was grateful for the opportunity his little cousin had offered to lighten the mood.

“Cad. I believe Johnny is rubbing off on you when it should be the other way around.” Like Teresa, when the expected jousting match didn’t commence Kinsey’s focus dismissed Paris and gathered in the Great Room’s silence, resulting in an abrupt conclusion. “Oh bloody hell! Something’s happened to Seth!”

“No!” Scott held up his palms to push down unwarranted panic. “No, little one. Seth is fine.”

“Uncle Harlan?”

A reassuring response rumbled across the polished-topped oak desk. “The Rattler will outlive us all.”

What happened to the No Goading Sarcasm rule? Scott gunned a cocked eyebrow at his father’s prediction. “Grandfather is also fine and currently reminiscing his childhood adventures with Phillip Westcott with great gusto, I’m sure.”

“Aul riiiight then. So, ye best be tellin’ me, ScottyGarrett, what this fussin’ be all about now.” Kinsey’s rendition of Winnie had improved over time, much better than her slaughter of a Bostonian Brahmin.

Resting elbows on his thighs, Scott studied his hands. “Have you ever heard of a man named Godfrey Mannheim?”

Peripheral vision showed his little cousin leaning slightly forward while intertwining her fingers to land at her knees. A strategy she recently implemented to stifle her fluttering hands when speaking. “No.”

Seeking any hint of a tell that the answer she’d given was not the truth, Scott turned his head to meet Kinsey’s neutral gaze. When he observed nothing, guilt washed over him for thinking she would lie.

But then.

A hand escaped its lap prison to reach up for a strand of hair to curl around a finger.