ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 28.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is. . .”
--Latin proverb
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Neither of them spoke. Teresa doubted she could have heard anything beyond the rhythm of her own heart.
She tried to focus upon slowly unfastening each of the top three buttons, but it was impossible to block out the masculine scent or the soft feel of his breath. After the fourth button, she pulled the front edges of his shirt apart.
More fabric.
She’d expected bare skin. Back at the ranch, Scott rarely wore anything beneath his work shirts. He didn’t say anything, just looked down at her apologetically, eyebrows lifted and his head tilted slightly to one side.
“And what are you wearing under this robe?” he asked after another beat or two, placing a hand on either side of her waist. Scott immediately discerned the answer, judging from his dismayed expression.
“ . . . almost . . . everything.”
Scott’s eyes lit up at her response.
“I believe you.”
The phrase seemed so typical of him, the tone as well, and soothed by the touch of familiarity, her nervous apprehension eased. She smiled up at him. This was Scott, after all. Ever appreciative and quick to pay compliments, but also never one to refrain from gentle teasing. The same man who drove her to visit with friends at distant ranches, who joined her in making deliveries to orphans and Indians, who willingly agreed to accompany her to town, waited patiently while she ran her errands, offered carefully considered advice whenever she sought his opinion. An understanding listener and trusted confidant. A watchful protector. She’d always felt safe with him.
She threw her arms around Scott’s neck, and kissed him.
The exuberant embrace could have been over quickly, but Scott turned it into something more passionate, pulling her close, running one hand through her hair. She pressed against him, responding in kind.
Once he released her, Scott regarded her expectantly; Teresa felt emboldened by his look.
“When you came in . . . I . . . hoped you were intending . . . to cross another line.”
He laughed softly.
Then turning her name into an exclamation, Scott lifted her up off the floor in genuine delight, spinning them both completely around before setting her back down again.
She was still laughing in response when he became serious once more, touching her face with one hand, looking deep into her eyes.
“Cross a line, yes; but only so far.”
He seemed to need a response, so she agreed, lacking full comprehension perhaps, but with absolute trust.
Scott lowered his gaze and shook his head slightly in wry amusement. Only then did Teresa realize that the fabric belt of her robe had loosened, revealing the garments beneath.
He reached for the collar of her robe, near the shoulder, and she turned, allowing Scott to remove it as if he were helping her off with a jacket or coat. In another reflexive movement, she wrapped her bare arms protectively around herself as she faced him again. Waiting while he draped her robe over the back of the nearby armchair, she wondered what he would do next.
Scott’s eyes skimmed over her, dropping down to her stockinged feet, then back up to her face. The fingers of one hand gently stroked the skin of her upper arm. Teresa knew he felt her trembling and mutely prayed that he wouldn’t misunderstand.
“Teresa, perhaps . . . you might take off this top layer?”
Weak-kneed with relief, Teresa nodded again, and dropped down onto the edge of the bed. She could feel him watching her, but as Scott began tugging his shirt free of the waistband of his trousers, she hastily turned her attention to her stockings. Teresa wasn’t entirely certain they were considered part of “the top layer” but it was something she could do while seated. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Scott walk around to the other side of the bed, saw him arrange the shirt over his jacket as he passed the desk chair. Reaching beneath her petticoat, she managed to loosen the garters and roll down her stockings.
With returning flutters of anxiety, Teresa next eased her lace-trimmed camisole up over her head; her hair pulled as a strand caught for a moment on one of the decorative buttons. This simple act of undressing was demanding all of her attention and although it sounded as if Scott was similarly occupied, she didn’t quite dare look to see.
Lowering her petticoat required her to stand and stepping out of it left her long cotton drawers in view. Despite the drawn curtains and the darkened room, despite the cotton chemise beneath her corset, she now felt very much exposed.
Gathering up her clothing, Teresa carefully folded the items and deposited them on the seat of the armchair. Taking a deep breath, she finally turned to face the bed. Scott was already lying there, half covered, watching her approach.
He was still wearing that undershirt. However, once she was lying beside him, he stripped the shirt off and dropped the garment to the floor.
<< I do trust him.>>
Perhaps she shouldn’t have had to remind herself of that, but having done so, it was easy to return his smile. It was easy to welcome his embrace. Very soon she was laughing again, as Scott turned the removal of her next layer, the front laced corset, into a delightful new game.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Scott waited in the well-lit corridor while Teresa finished dressing for dinner, feeling happier than he had for a very long time.
Teresa finally emerged, and she looked beautiful. The deep garnet of the skirt and jacket she wore was a becoming color; she’d pulled her hair up and back towards the crown of her head, which showed off her delicate facial features, adding a small matching hat to complete the effect.
She did, however, seem shyly embarrassed by his compliment, her demeanor quite different from when he’d exited the room fifteen minutes earlier--- when she’d been wearing considerably less.
Forbearing further comment, Scott simply offered Teresa his arm and they proceeded to the lobby, where he made some necessary arrangements with the desk clerk. They waited in silence while the doorman called for their cab. Once inside the carriage, Scott initiated some conversation.
He spoke of leaving on the westbound train the next day, and how fortunate they’d been to secure connecting sitting rooms in one of the parlor cars. When their departure had been postponed, Will Hayford hadn’t been able to make similar arrangements on the train from Boston. However, once on board, they had been able to exchange places with other passengers, allowing the two young men to share the sitting room adjacent to the one occupied by Teresa and Mrs. Hayford.
Teresa smiled and nodded, agreeing that it really was wonderful, how well everything had worked out.
Scott observed that now they should be able to remain in the same rooms until they reached California. They talked a bit about the plan to spend a few days in Sacramento before continuing on to Stockton. They both said they were looking forward to meeting Will’s Mrs. Harding and her son.
Neither of them spoke of the fact that they would once more be staying in the Grand Union Hotel. Neither of them mentioned the ranch, or Johnny or Murdoch.
Instead, they reviewed what they knew about the Hayfords’ St. Louis relatives. Mrs. Byron Smith was Amelia Hayford’s younger sister Fidelia. Her husband was “in banking” and they had three children, two daughters and a son. The son’s name was Zachary, as distinct from the more familiar “Zachariah,” while the elder daughter bore the equally uncommon Cassandra. Neither of them could remember the name of the youngest Smith.
They both said they were looking forward to the evening.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“Can’t you see I’m seven?”
Before Scott could answer, Mrs. Smith quickly explained that her younger daughter wasn’t usually allowed to dine with the adults, but as it had been some time since they’d seen her “dear sister and nephew,” an exception was being made.
The little girl’s name was Zona. She was sitting beside Scott, and as the first course was served, he’d politely asked her age.
When he and Teresa had arrived and introductions had been made, Scott had wondered if the little girl might not be close in age to Marie Christine. He wasn’t very good at guessing such things and really didn’t know how much difference a year or two would make—perhaps a great deal.
Although he usually got along well enough with children, Scott hadn’t actually been around them very much. Even when he was a child himself, he’d mostly spent time with boys his own age, rarely associating with anyone younger, particularly not girls.
Scott’s initial attempts to engage Zona in further conversation fell flat; inquiries about her favorite playthings received a decidedly lukewarm response. Although aware of Will’s curious regard, Scott persevered. Finally, Zona confided that she had invited friends in for tea earlier that afternoon.
“Margaret—that’s her name, but I call her Meg---she likes tea the most. Janette is French so she doesn’t talk, ever. And Zoey is my twin, except her hair is blond, with curls.”
Zona’s hair was light brown, wavy, but not curly. On top of her head, she wore a large navy blue bow to match her dress.
Although suspecting that the “guests” might well have been figments of the child’s imagination, Scott decided to play along for a bit, inquiring as to their food preferences.
He was rewarded with a dramatic expression of disbelief. “Well, they don’t eat anything. They aren’t real, you know.”
Across the table, Will grinned widely at the scornful tone, while Cassandra quickly warned her younger sister to “be nice” and then scolded her for going on and on about some “silly dolls.”
“They aren’t silly! Mama--”
“Now Girls---”
“Mother, really--”
Scott couldn’t help casting a longing look at the empty seat beside Teresa. She was conversing with Byron Smith and Mrs. Hayford at the head of the table. The Smiths had a fine home, and their formal dining room was particularly elegant. In the soft candlelight from the chandelier overhead, Teresa looked exquisite. With her hair up, his mother’s pearl earrings were well displayed and the length of Teresa’s neck was also accentuated. The single strand of pearls at her throat echoed the curved collar of her simple white blouse.
Teresa’s soft dark hair had been long and loose and tangled earlier that afternoon, though she’d also worn the pearls.
Just the pearls.
When Teresa glanced his way, Scott caught her eye and she smiled, flushing faintly pink as if she might know what he was thinking. He almost hoped she did.
Abruptly, Will’s foot struck Scott’s ankle.
“Yes, Aunt Fidelia,” his friend was saying. “Scott is part owner of the ranch.”
“I was wondering whether you do much of the ranching yourself, Mr. Lancer?”
Will prompted him again. “You do it all, don’t you, Scott?” he asked innocently.
Scott shot a meaningful look at his friend, who quickly made reference to “herding and branding.” He was more than willing to politely answer all of their hostess’ questions. Mrs. Smith, however, was frequently distracted by the need to address her younger daughter’s behavior.
Her elder daughter, on the other hand, was entirely attentive.
“How exciting!” she exclaimed at one point. “Oh, that sounds so dangerous!”
Scott thought he recalled that Cassandra Smith was sixteen years old. Since the young lady was seated on Will’s blind side, she was happily unaware whenever her cousin rolled his eye at her excessive enthusiasm.
They had almost completed the main course when all conversation came to a halt; the nanny had appeared to collect Miss Zona. With all attention upon her, the little girl walked self-importantly to the head of the table to bid Mr. Smith good night; her Aunt Amelia claimed a kiss as well. Circling around behind her father, she stopped beside Teresa.
“I hope I see you again. You’re very pretty.”
“Oh, why thank you, Zona, that’s such a sweet thing to say.”
“It’s true. I’m not the only one who thinks so either.”
Amid indulgent laughter, Zona marched the length of the table, deliberately ignoring her sister. Coming around on Will’s left side, she bestowed a quick hug upon her cousin before flinging herself at her mother.
“Good night, Mommie!”
“Good night, Darling. Sleep tight, sweet dreams.” Then, as Zona moved towards the patiently waiting nanny, her mother murmured a gentle reminder. “Zona, I think you forgot to say good night to Mr. Lancer.”
The child dutifully turned back with a sigh. “Good night, Mr. Lancer.”
“Good night, Miss Smith. Please give my regards to your twin.”
Scott’s reward this time was a genuine smile. “I’ll tell her. And maybe you can meet Zoey sometime. If she wants to.”
Will chuckled as his young cousin skipped from the room. “Well, Scott, it appears you haven’t lost any of your ability to charm the ladies.”
Mrs. Smith shook her head. “I’m sure I don’t know what to do with that child sometimes.”
“Mr. Lancer, do please tell us more about your cows. It’s all so very interesting!”
Scott smiled politely at Cassandra Smith. As he tried to think of something about cattle that might actually be of some interest to the girl, he slid another glance towards Teresa. Clearly, a few years could make a great deal of difference.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Mr. Byron Smith was friendly, but not an especially talkative man. Across the table, Mrs. Hayford was chatting with her favorite nephew, first asking Zachary about his studies and then inquiring as to future plans. Mr. Smith did share some of his own opinions on that topic, but it really wasn’t a discussion in which Teresa could participate.
It was just as well, as her thoughts were most definitely elsewhere. If she couldn’t be alone with Scott, then she wished she could at least be alone—so that she could think about the time they’d spent together.
Throughout the meal, she’d been aware of his voice, as he conversed with Mrs. Smith and the others at the far end of the table. Scott was always at ease in social situations; he didn’t seem to be distracted by any wayward thoughts this evening. She’d noticed him bowing his blond head from time to time to address the little girl seated beside him. Scott was so good with children; they seemed drawn to him, and he always listened to them with the same attention he offered anyone else.
Now she gazed longingly at Zona Smith’s vacated seat.
Teresa set her utensils down and sat back while the maid removed her plate. It was a fine meal, though she hadn’t tasted very much of it.
Instead, she’d been savoring thoughts about Scott. His hands following the contours of her body, cupping, caressing . . . His mouth on hers, his lips traveling downwards along her throat and . . . The memories evoked an immediate physical reaction; she could only swallow hard, stare at her dessert and wait for the moment to pass.
Although there was an empty place between them, Teresa was well aware of the Smiths’ daughter, Cassandra, and her rapt attention on Scott. It reminded her of her friends at home, the way some of them behaved whenever any handsome man was around.
They were older than Miss Smith, but not much more experienced. There was always gossip--- about girls with reputations for slipping out to the stables during dances, about who’d had to make adjustments to her clothing after “stepping out for some air,” how one young couple even actually “had” to get married. Alondra often made suggestive comments, and Nellie Hilldenbrand could be counted upon to laugh knowingly. Lately, speculation about the saloon girls—why some were more “popular” than others---had been a topic of conversation, since Leah Anderson had overheard one of her brothers talking with some other men and shared their observations. It had been Leah who them about Scott and his ‘friend’ in Green River.
Alondra had nodded wisely and said something about “men and their needs.” At the last social, Alondra had “stepped outside” with Ruben Ortiz--- and then told them all about it. There really hadn’t been much to tell.
She wondered if any of them knew, really knew, anything.
Teresa knew she would never breathe a word about her afternoon--- how could she when it made her breath catch just to think about it? It would be impossible to describe hearing Scott’s reassuring voice mingled with her own gasps and moans of pleasure. His fingers tracing her body, his touch awakening sensations she hadn’t known enough to imagine.
Exhausted afterwards, she’d felt boneless. His strong arms had drawn her near, settled her head on his bare chest. Despite the steady drumbeat of his heart pressing against her ear, somehow, she’d fallen asleep.
When she’d awakened, she’d been eager for him to touch her again, but instead he’d taken her hand, smiling and saying “Now, it’s your turn---”
“Teresa? Teresa, are you feeling all right, my dear? You seem a bit . . . flushed.”
“What? Oh, I’m fine, Mrs. Hayford, truly, I’m fine. It must be the food—or it could be the wine. It’s very good, don’t you think?”
As she finished what remained in her glass, Mr. Smith looked pleased and said something about the vintage. Frowning, Mrs. Hayford beckoned the maid and requested coffee.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
As was customary, the men and women separated following the meal, and it was Teresa’s turn to answer Mrs. Smith’s questions about ranch life. Not long after the men rejoined them in the parlor, Scott suggested that in view of their travel plans for the next day, it might be wise to conclude their visit. She and Scott would return to the hotel in the Smiths’ carriage this evening, and the same vehicle would deliver all four of them to the train station the next day.
Once inside the coach, Scott pulled her close and Teresa gratefully rested her head against his shoulder.
“So . . . did you enjoy the evening?”
“Ye-es. Did you?”
Scott reached for her hand, and cradled it in his. “Well . . . I enjoyed the afternoon more.”
Much as those words sent a tremor of delight coursing through her, she still desperately wanted to ask him for further assurance, wanted to promise him that the next time would be better. There were no words to express how she felt about the afternoon.
“Scott . . . I hope . . . did you . . .”
“Teresa,” he said softly. “Just say you enjoyed it too.”
“Yes. Oh, yes,” she whispered fervently.
Scott squeezed her hand. In the dim light, she could see him smiling contentedly as he leaned his head back against the cushioned seat.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Their parting in the brightly lit corridor was warm and tender, yet still formal and proper enough not to attract the attention of passing hotel patrons. Once inside her room, Teresa leaned back against the door and sighed. Her heart felt like dancing around the room, but she was too tired. Happy, so very happy, but tired.
As she removed her clothes, she couldn’t help recalling how earlier her hands had shivered with needless apprehension. She hung the garments in the wardrobe; there would be ample time in the morning to pack her trunk. After donning her nightgown, Teresa finally removed her necklace and the pearl earrings, carefully placing them in their respective cases.
While she had been out, someone had come and removed the towels and other bath things and rolled the tub away. Before leaving, she’d hastily set the bedclothes to rights, pulling the blankets back into place; when she pulled them down again, she noticed that the linens had not been changed.
Sliding into bed, she wrapped her arms around Scott’s pillow, pulling it close beside her, and resting her head upon it. Breathing in the lingering scent of him, she fell into a contented sleep.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 29.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is. . .”
--Latin proverb
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“So, tell me Scott, what do you know about this woman?”
Startled by the abrupt question, Scott looked up from his correspondence. Amelia Hayford was sitting on the sofa, her head bent towards the wooden hoop in one hand, plying a needle with the other. The needle trailed twin strands of dark red.
“This Mrs. Harding,” she added, unnecessarily; Scott had realized instantly to whom she must be referring.
Mrs. Hayford finally lifted her head and put her needlework aside, focusing her complete attention upon Scott.
“You haven’t met her?”
“No, ma’am, I haven’t, but I am looking forward to doing so.”
“I expect William has told you something about her.”
“Yes, he has.”
The truth was that Scott had heard the woman’s name for the first time on the day his grandfather’s will had been read; after spending a long afternoon discussing business and legal matters with George Hayford and Wade Garrett, he’d stopped by the Hayford residence on his way home that evening. Apparently, Will had mentioned his lady friend to his mother just prior to Scott’s arrival; in fact, after Mrs. Hayford had retired, Will thanked Scott for stopping by in time to “rescue” him.
Will’s Mrs. Harding worked in a bank, an occupation unusual for a woman, and he’d met her there. She was a widow--- a few years older, Will had said---with a ten-year old son. Scott repeated these facts, confident that Mrs. Hayford was already in possession of such basic information.
Sharing a sleeping room had afforded the young men ample time to converse apart from Mrs. Hayford and Teresa, and of course they had revisited the subject of Mary Harding as the train continued its steady progress towards the west coast. Initially, Will had described Mrs. Harding as being of a sweet disposition, an excellent cook and a good listener. Scott had since heard a great deal more about the lady’s attributes, not all of which he felt he should share with his friend’s mother. Nonetheless, Amelia Hayford was clearly expecting him to tell her something.
“Will seems quite taken with her.”
Mrs. Hayford fixed Scott with an appraising look. “He thinks I won’t be. I don’t believe William would have mentioned her at all if I hadn’t decided to pay him a visit.”
“Well, it seems they haven’t known each other very long.”
Reaching up with one hand to tuck a stray lock of hair back into place, Mrs. Hayford looked away. When the strand refused to stay, she rose from her seat and after gesturing to Scott to remain in his, positioned herself in front of the mirror hanging on the wall of the sitting room.
“She’s a Southerner,” she stated flatly as she stared into the glass. “That’s what he’s worried about.”
Scott considered the woman’s patrician profile for a moment before responding.
“Should he be, Mrs. Hayford?” he asked softly. “Worried, I mean.”
“Oh, Scott,” she said, turning to face him once more. “A Southern woman, a Confederate widow, no less. With a ten-year old child.”
Scott pressed his lips together, lowering his gaze and trying not to show his disappointment. “I gather you don’t approve.”
Amelia Hayford smiled sadly as she stepped towards his desk. “Well, of course I’d rather she were younger, never married----and from Boston. Then perhaps William would come back home.”
She patted Scott’s cheek lightly. “Ah, don’t look so concerned, dear boy,” she added, before returning to her seat. “If this . . . Mrs. Harding makes my son happy, then there is no question but that I will most wholeheartedly ‘approve’ of her.”
Mrs. Hayford resettled herself on the sofa, and took up her embroidery once more.
“That is, after all, what every parent hopes for, the happiness of their child.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
<<“What every parent hopes for . . . the happiness of their child.”>>
The thought stayed with him, as Scott attempted to return his attention to the letter he was working on. When Will and Teresa had gone up to the observation car, he’d remained behind in order to finish writing to George Hayford concerning legal and financial arrangements for Marie Christine.
When he thought of her, it was most often by her name, not as “my child,” not as “my daughter.”
When he allowed himself to think of her at all.
Scott hadn’t failed to note the continuation of the pattern of proper names: “Catherine,” “Murdoch” and now “Marie Christine.” It bothered him, this lack of feeling, towards her, beyond a sense of responsibility. Oh, there had been an ample range of emotions at first: surprise, guilt, shame---- and anger at being deliberately kept in the dark.
Determined to do the right thing, he had come to reluctantly accept Aunt Cecilia’s view that, under the present circumstance, his duty was to do . . . nothing. Typically Scott would find such passivity hard to stomach; however, faced with everything else he’d had to attend to, he would admit to some relief that the situation with Marie-Flore and Marie Christine had already been “handled.”
For now at least. Even if by someone else.
In leaving Boston and returning to California, he now felt as if he was turning his back on the child.
He told himself it wasn’t the same.
Murdoch Lancer had always known that he had a son, and had known exactly where that son was. And still, it had taken him five years to make the trip to Boston.
Scott had only just learned of Marie Christine’s existence. He would return, in the spring. He hadn’t abandoned the girl. She had a mother, after all.
A mother Scott had never been in love with. Well, there was another difference.
Scott had known from a very young age that his mother had died, though full comprehension of the word would not come until later, understanding of the circumstances of her death later still. Scott couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he’d learned that he had a father living in far off California, but he’d been younger than Marie Christine when he’d asked questions about why other children lived with mothers and fathers rather than with grandfathers.
As long as he could remember, it seemed, he’d harbored some hope that his father would one day appear at the front door, standing tall and bearing all kinds of wonderful presents. They’d go for a walk, down to the Common perhaps, and his father would carry him on his shoulders.
In later fantasies, the tall man had held his hand. Eventually, Scott had imagined striding shoulder to shoulder with his faceless sire, listening intently to the man’s explanation; he’d been an adult before he’d completely given up hope.
To Harlan Garrett’s credit, Scott couldn’t recall hearing disparaging remarks about his father, other than that he chose to live on a dusty little cattle ranch. Of course, given the man’s silence, his absence from his son’s life, it had never been necessary for anyone to malign Murdoch Lancer; with the passing years, Scott had inevitably formed his own adverse opinion. Or, to put it more simply, he’d hated his father.
Of course, he now knew that Murdoch had made the trip. Aunt Cecilia had suggested that Murdoch had left his son in Boston because he’d wisely recognized that Scott was better off living there with his grandfather. Although it still didn’t account for Murdoch’s lack of communication, it was a more charitable explanation than thinking that his father had lacked the desire to pursue legal custody, or that he was simply in too much of a hurry to return to his ranch . . . and to continue the search for his younger son and runaway wife.
“It was only after your brother was born and I held Johnny in my arms that I began to understand how it felt to be a father.”
That’s what Murdoch had written in his letter, that he’d recognized what he’d missed and became determined to bring Scott “home” to Lancer.
Murdoch had neglected to share how he’d felt when he’d actually met his elder son, though Scott understood from both his father and grandfather’s accounts that the two of them had shaken hands. He’d tried to imagine it, but that’s all it was, imagination, without any real recollection of the event. It was easy enough to picture his five year old self reaching up to shake a tall man’s hand, but if he could see his father’s visage at all, it was Murdoch as Scott knew him, not a man twenty years younger.
He had several times now imagined himself reaching down to clasp a small, upraised hand. He hadn’t been able to see the little girl’s face either, but ever since St. Louis, the child in his vision somewhat resembled Zona Smith.
Not Marie Christine Mathieu. Aunt Cecilia had said “she lacks your coloring” but had allowed that there was a resemblance; he should have pressed his aunt for more information. The little girl believed her father was a soldier, killed during the War, so at least she wasn’t longing for a paternal visit or pining for some sort of communication.
Still, he couldn't shake the growing sense that he should have stayed longer, done more. It seemed increasingly likely that he would travel to Maine in the spring to see her, even if from a distance. For now, at least he could post this letter to George at the next stop.
Scott had finally finished answering the many messages of condolence he’d received while in Boston, though he anticipated that more such missives might await him at the ranch. He sighed as he pictured the hall table just inside the front door of the hacienda. When he’d returned from his business trip to Stockton, it had held a stack of mail, including the large envelope containing both the copy of Harlan Garrett’s will and his aunt’s letter relating the sad and shocking news of Grandfather’s death. Scott wondered now it he would ever be able to pass by that hall table without remembering . . .
It hurt to think of him. While Marie Christine had yet to become a presence in his life, Scott was often unexpectedly, painfully, reminded of the loss of his grandfather. Even though they’d been apart the past few years, there had been the assumption that Grandfather would be there, waiting, in Boston, just as he’d always been. Now at odd times during the day, Scott’s thoughts might be forcefully interrupted by the recollection that he would never see or talk to his grandfather again. All he could do to ease the ache was to try to call to mind scenes from their time together, following the advice in his aunt’s letter.
“Keep close to your heart your fondest memories . . .”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“There were a lot of hard memories, so we came out here to make a fresh start.”
That was Mary Harding’s response when Teresa asked her why she’d moved all the way to California. The train had pulled into the Sacramento station around noon and Will had arranged for Mrs. Harding and her son Asa to join them for supper in the Eagle restaurant. They’d met the Hardings in the lobby of the adjoining Grand Union Hotel. Mary Harding seemed stiffly polite---and more than just “a few” years older than Will Hayford. Her pronounced Southern accent was her most notable characteristic. She was dressed simply, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Rather plain and mousy—at least that was Scott’s initial assessment.
It also appeared that her son wasn’t especially happy to see Will or to meet his guests, although young Asa shook hands politely enough with Mrs. Hayford and Teresa.
“Were you a Yankee soldier too?” he bluntly asked Scott when Will introduced him as “an old friend.”
Momentarily disconcerted, Scott allowed Will to answer.
“Mr. Lancer was a lieutenant in the Union cavalry, Asa.”
“Well, my Daddy was one of the Georgia Sharpshooters. You ever hear tell of ‘em?”
“As it happens, yes, I have,” was Scott’s immediate reply. When the boy continued to regard him expectantly, he reluctantly added, “I believe they took part in the Vicksburg Campaign . . .”
“Yup, the First Battalion was there all right. You had to be real good to get to be a sharpshooter, too. Isn’t that right, Mamma?”
Mrs. Harding had appeared uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, but when her son turned to ask his question, she lifted her chin and smiled warmly at him. “That’s right, Asa, your father was a fine soldier and we’re very proud of him.”
As soon as the child turned away, his mother quickly glanced at Will, who nodded and smiled his reassurance. Offering Mrs. Harding his arm, Will led the way into the restaurant, leaving Scott to escort the other ladies to their table and seat them.
Midway through the meal, Scott concluded that his earlier opinion was in error. As she became animated by the conversation, her smile, most often directed at Will, was increasingly evident and Scott could see that Mary Harding was indeed an attractive woman. Will was seated between Mrs. Harding and his mother, attending to the conversation amongst the three women. Scott had positioned himself opposite his friend, taking the chair next to young Asa Harding.
When Scott asked a few more questions about his late father’s service, the ten year old seemed quite knowledgeable. Captain Ben Harding had been a member of Company B of the First Battalion of the Georgia Sharpshooters, organized by Colonel Anderson, later part of Walker’s Brigade in the Vicksburg campaign. Asa spoke with surprising authority about officers and battles with which Scott was wholly unfamiliar, though he found the accounts interesting. He was aware that in contrast to the limited numbers of Union men serving in the most elite companies such as Colonel Hiram Berdan’s Sharpshooters, General Lee, seeing the advantages of widespread use, had mandated that each Confederate infantry brigade field a sharpshooter battalion. It stood to reason that a larger number of soldiers would necessarily have meant a greater range of abilities and effectiveness, but according to Asa Harding, the First Georgians were all “crack shots” and had met with nothing but success.
Perhaps it was that particular phrase which penetrated during a lull in the conversation on the other side of the table, but the rest of the company fell silent while the next course was served, except for Asa, who was still enthusiastically talking about sharpshooters.
“Speaking of sharpshooters, I have something for you Asa.”
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Will withdrew what appeared to be a dark tube, which he passed across the table. As the boy accepted it, Scott could see that it was actually more flattened than round ---a slipcase for a pair of eyeglasses.
A most uncommon looking pair of eyeglasses, for when Asa pulled them free, the distinctly colored oval lenses drew the attention of everyone at the table. They were an opaque milky white with center circles of clear amber glass.
“Those are shooting glasses, Asa. There are several different kinds, but perhaps your father used something similar. Go ahead and try them on.”
The boy eagerly acted upon Will’s suggestion.
“They’re an unusual pair,” Scott observed. In response to Teresa’s still puzzled expression, he explained that the more typical shooter’s lenses had clear yellow centers amidst frosted glass of the same color, their purpose to cut down on the sun’s glare.
“Things sure do look funny,” Asa announced with delight as he gazed around the table through the spotted lenses. The boy insisted that everyone have a turn at trying them on, though he watched anxiously as the spectacles made their way around the table. Each of them in turn commented upon the altered view.
“It’s a wonderful gift,” Mrs. Harding added, when she returned the eyeglasses to her son.
Asa immediately responded to his mother’s gentle prompt. “Thanks, Mr. Hayford.” He seemed genuinely appreciative.
“You’re welcome.” Will exchanged a satisfied glance with Mrs. Harding.
Scott briefly wondered where his friend had gotten those glasses, and was about to pose the question, when he recalled that at one time John Hayford had planned to take the marksmanship test to qualify as a sharpshooter. While he couldn’t be certain the eyeglasses had belonged to Will’s older brother, it was a possibility. Whether or not Amelia Hayford, smiling benignly at the bespectacled boy, had made the same connection, it was impossible to tell.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
In contrast to Will Hayford, who had announced his intention to go to his office very early the next day, Teresa, Scott and Mrs. Hayford made a much more leisurely start. What was left of the morning was spent escorting the older woman around the city. They viewed the capitol building, still under construction, and several other noteworthy Sacramento sites before stopping for lunch.
Amelia Hayford asked to return to her son’s residence immediately afterwards, saying she wished to spend the afternoon resting. They were all invited to Mrs. Harding’s home that evening, and Teresa was looking forward to it. Although she hadn’t had much opportunity to speak with either of them, Will’s lady friend and her little boy both seemed like such very nice people. Mary and Will seemed well suited and Teresa was looking forward to getting to know Mrs. Harding better.
When Scott declined Mrs. Hayford’s suggestion that they spend the afternoon at Will’s house rather than returning to their rooms at the Grand Union Hotel, Teresa warned herself not to make any assumptions. Still, she couldn’t help hoping, nor could she quell the growing feelings of anticipation as they walked down the corridor to her room.
“Do you mind if I come in?”
She nearly laughed aloud, with happiness and relief, as well as amusement at the formality of the wholly unnecessary question.
“I’d be horribly disappointed if you didn’t,” she managed, as she drew him inside.
Once the door closed behind them, she wasted no time stepping into Scott’s arms. His hands were instantly at her face, then sliding through her hair as her lips parted to welcome his. Soon she was enjoying the long awaited sensation of Scott’s fingers smoothly working the buttons of her blouse. With gentle kisses delivered to bare skin accompanied by mutually appreciative sounds, Scott eased the fabric off of her shoulders with a lingering caress. His lips were firmly planted on her own once more when the larger buttons at her waist were unfastened, her skirt dropping unceremoniously to her feet. As he lifted her camisole overhead, her hair caught on that same button. Scott carefully freed the wayward strand; once the camisole had joined her other garments, Teresa decided that it must be her turn.
“But I’m not finished with you yet,” Scott said when she reached for his tie. Blithely disregarding him, she tossed the black strip to the floor. Turning her attention to the row of white buttons dividing his torso, Teresa was gratified to see that this time he wasn’t wearing anything beneath his white dress shirt.
“We’re in California now. It’s warmer here,” he explained with a smile as he reached for her corset ties. But she’d only undone his uppermost buttons . . .
“Now, Scott, I haven’t----”
He captured her mouth again, effectively silencing her words of protest, but not stilling her hands. Once she’d unfastened all of the buttons within reach, she tugged at his shirt, pulling it free of his trousers. Raising one hand to Scott’s shoulder, Teresa started to remove his shirt.
Releasing her, Scott straightened. Her hands fell away, due in part to his movement, in part to her surprise at its abruptness.
Scott sighed as he shrugged the fabric back into place.
“Teresa . . . I should tell you . . .”
There was something about the look in his eyes . . . and suddenly she knew what he was about to say.
“Scott . . . I’ve seen the marks.”
Now it was Scott’s turn to be surprised; he made no attempt to hide it.
“When?”
“When you were shot, by Cassidy’s men.”
As Scott turned and looked away for a moment, her heart ached for him, for yet another unhappy memory.
The bullet passed through that time, without hitting bone, but with a significant loss of blood. Doc Hilldenbrand, who was her friend Nellie’s uncle as well as the local veterinarian, had patched Scott up, but when he came home with the Cassidys the bloodied dressing had needed changing. After Walt helped him upstairs to his room, Scott had simply collapsed from exhaustion, so it was no wonder he didn’t recall her ministrations.
“You never said anything.”
“No . . .”
“Something else you didn’t want to hear about.”
The words were softly spoken; it was the bitter tone that felt like a slap to the face. She hadn’t wanted to hear about Julie, other women; this was different. When she lowered her head, her gaze fell upon the pieces of her discarded clothing lying sadly on the floor at her feet.
Scott exhaled and he came nearer, extending a tentative hand towards her bare shoulder. “Teresa, I shouldn’t have . . . I didn’t intend that the way it sounded. I’m sorry.”
Teresa looked up then, determined to explain. “I talked to Doctor Jenkins, when he came to see you. He told me what he thought it meant. And he said that sometimes . . . that sometimes when you’re nursing someone, you see or hear things, private things, that should stay private.”
“It’s not anything I’ve been anxious to talk about.”
Scott took a step backwards, then he just stood there, looking at her, with his hands at his waist, the right one clasping the left wrist, his head tilted slightly to one side----and his shirt hanging untucked and unbuttoned. Waiting.
“Was it a punishment?” she whispered.
Scot nodded his confirmation. “After the escape. They . . . well, they had to make an example of someone. I was the only one left.”
With two steps, she was in front of him, taking his hands in her own. Scott squeezed back.
“You know, this isn’t quite the way I planned to spend the afternoon,” he admitted, with a crooked grin.
“There’s still time,” Teresa gently reminded him as she released his hands. Scott pulled her in close. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
“Scott . . . I feel as if I could tell you . . . anything.”
“You can.”
“I’d . . . I’d like you to feel the same way. I know what I said before, but . . . but if there is anything you think I should know, anything you want to tell me about, then, please do.”
Scott rested his cheek against her hair, then lightly kissed the top of her head.
“We’ll talk, Teresa. But there isn’t anything that needs to be said right now.”
The next thing she knew, Scott was picking her up and carrying her towards the bed.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
It had been better. Everything . . . had been better. Most importantly, Scott seemed to think so too. Even lying in his arms afterwards was better; it seemed the most natural place to be. As she rested there contentedly, idly brushing her fingers along the hairs on his forearm, she traced a faint line indicating where Scott would roll up the sleeves of his work shirts. Even though they had been away from the ranch for so long, his wrists and hands were still slightly darker than his upper arms, another lightly tanned patch about his neck and throat. Back in New England, it would be called a “farmah’s tan” he told her, intentionally exaggerating the pronunciation. He hadn’t believed her when she’d teasingly told him that was wholly unnecessary, that his own accent had become much more distinct during their time in Boston.
They talked for almost an hour, about nothing important. When it was time to get up and dress for dinner, she told him again that she loved him and Scott said he was “nevah” going to let her forget that.
She never wanted to forget any of it. But the trip was drawing to a close, and they would be on their way home again soon. In the morning they would take the train to Stockton, with only the last leg of the journey, by stagecoach remaining.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Will’s Mrs. Harding had turned out to be a wonderful woman; she and Mrs. Hayford seemed to have warmed to each other. In fact, to Scott’s amusement, Will had already started to complain of being outnumbered by the two of them.
Despite the early hour of their departure, and the fact that they’d said their farewells the evening before, Will still appeared at the station to see them off. Although he knew he couldn’t thank his friend enough for making the long trip to Boston, Scott still tried. He again invited Will to bring his mother, and the Hardings, to visit the ranch.
“They seem to be getting along well,” Scott observed, and Will had agreed.
“I just may take you up on that invitation, Scott---at least send Mother to you.”
Then Will turned to Teresa, telling her how much he and his mother had enjoyed her company.
“I do hope you’ll all come visit us soon, Will.”
“It will be a while before I can get away again. Besides,” he teased, “haven’t I told you enough of Scott’s secrets by now?”
The line had given Scott pause, even though he knew that his friend was merely referring to the stories they’d told of their boyhood adventures.
Now he and Teresa were seated side by side on the train. They’d each packed only what was needed for the next few days in two of their smaller traveling cases to take on the stage. The rest of their luggage would follow by wagon from Stockton, along with several boxes from Boston, and the crate containing Catherine’s portrait.
Once at the ranch, he’d no longer have Teresa to himself, but would have to share her with family, friends and neighbors. They’d already talked about their arrival, deciding that they wouldn’t make any sort of announcement or do anything to make their feelings for each other known right away. Scott hoped to talk to Murdoch alone first and intended to discuss the possibility of Teresa attending the institute in San Francisco before revealing their altered relationship. Although it was decidedly difficult to contemplate being apart for so long, the opportunity was still something he wanted for her. Teresa seemed to desire it as well, though Scott suspected her intention was at least in part to please him. Regardless, he would be returning to Boston in the spring, and it might be easier to go alone if Teresa were in San Francisco.
He would surely miss her though. Even when they were both at the ranch, he couldn’t expect much time alone with her, let alone afternoons like the previous one . . .
Oblivious to his train of thought, Teresa was gazing out the window at the passing scenery. When she tilted her head, the sand dollar earrings caught the light; she was wearing the pendant again as well. Yesterday afternoon, she’d looked as beautiful wearing silver in Sacramento as she had wearing pearls in St. Louis.
She wore no rings; he couldn’t recall ever seeing anything on her hands. They were neatly folded in her lap. Petite, yet strong and very capable. “Exquisite” was a word that also came to mind. Such hands shouldn’t stay bare.
Scott closed his eyes and exhaled. When he opened them, Teresa was looking up at him and smiling. An inviting, trusting smile.
There was no one sitting in the immediate vicinity. The high seat backs afforded some privacy here. There would be none at all on board the stage.
He took a breath, then reached for her hand, focusing his attention upon it, carefully cradled in his own.
“Teresa . .. there’s something I need to tell you . . .”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Author’s notes:
The descriptions of the two variations of sharpshooter glasses are based on spectacles in my own collection of antique eyewear. :-)
Captain Harding is a fictional character, though the name derives in part from a Captain Benjamin H. Hardee, listed as a member of Company B of the 1st Battalion Georgia Sharpshooters.
First Battalion Georgia Sharpshooters website
http://members.tripod.com/k_thurman/1st_battalion_georgia_sharpshoot.htm
This Civil War site has a number of articles of interest, including:
Civil War Weapons
http://www.civilwarhome.com/civilwarweapons.htm
Sharpshooters
http://www.civilwarhome.com/sharpshooter.htm
The Sharps rifle, used by many sharpshooters, with a description of the marksmanship test.
http://www.civilwarhome.com/sharps.htm
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 30.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is . . .”
--Latin proverb
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“Almost home.”
Scott turned and smiled self-consciously when he realized that he’d uttered the words aloud. He returned his gaze to the passing scenery after she smiled in return, echoing his “Almost.”
Although they still had several hours more in the stagecoach before they reached Morro Coyo, Teresa felt happy to hear him say it; there’d been times on this trip that she’d feared Scott could be tempted to choose Boston over Lancer.
She might have asked him about it, if they’d been alone, but the stage was full, as it had been ever since they’d left Stockton. No one they knew well, though she had a passing acquaintance with the middle-aged spinsters seated opposite.
“And will Mr. Lancer be joining us?” the elder Miss Pettigrew had twittered with a bright smile---a smile which quickly disappeared once she understood that Teresa was not accompanied by her guardian. The sisters clucked disapprovingly over the fact that she and Scott were traveling alone; now both women sat prim-lipped, exchanging meaningful glances whenever the movement of the coach jostled her against him.
They were so very different from the Harrington sisters, Miss Louisa and Miss Virginia, the friendly aspiring travel writers she and Scott had met on the eastbound train. Teresa still had the note the ladies had written expressing gratitude for being allowed to share the sleeping compartment on the parlor car. Because the message had ended with “Best Wishes to a Lovely Couple,” she hadn’t ever shown it to Scott. Perhaps she should have; she wondered what he would say.
Teresa absently smoothed the skirt of her cinnamon colored suit. It had a fitted jacket and a divided skirt; Scott had given it to her long ago and she’d deliberately chosen the outfit for their return home. She also wore her silver sand dollar earrings and pendant. Hopefully, Scott had noticed the jewelry this morning at breakfast, since he had surely noted its absence yesterday. Teresa sighed and wished once more that the other passengers might simply disappear. Not that she had any grievance with any of them, she just wanted ---needed---more time alone with Scott.
Instead, she politely conversed in Spanish with the dark-robed priest seated to her left, newly assigned to Santa Elena de la Cruz, the Catholic mission located on the outskirts of Morro Coyo. They spoke for quite some time about the town and its people, as well as the church, until he took up his rosary.
Many of the Lancer vaqueros and their families regularly attended Mass at the mission. Alondra Zamora and her family were also parishioners at Santa Elena and while talking with Padre Luis, Teresa had remembered the “prayer” that Alondra had taught her, Nellie, and Leah many years ago. It was supposed to make someone fall in love with you, and they’d all been more than eager to try it.
According to the story, Santa Elena had searched throughout the Holy Land until she finally found the True Cross; later she had thrown one of the nails into the sea to save sailors. Alondra couldn’t recall what had happened to the second one, but the prayer--- which seemed more like a magic spell-- asked that the third nail be used to pierce the heart of the object of one’s affections. With great secrecy, they’d each written down a boy’s name and then placed the pieces of paper under a glass of water, just as Alondra instructed. A nail had been pushed through a candle, the candle lit and the charm recited, asking that the person in question not be able to eat, sleep, sit, carry on a conversation or “have a single moment of repose” until he’d fallen in love. Teresa still remembered that part of it.
Para que no pueda comer
Ni en cama dormir
Ni en silla sentar
Ni con hombres ni mujeres hablar
Ni un solo momento de reposo
They’d used red candles. Later, Nellie had peeked at the name Leah had written and the two of them had quarreled. Teresa couldn’t even recall whose name had been scribbled on her own small scrap of paper.
After the Cushmans had moved to the area, she’d told Corinna about Alondra’s charm. They’d both agreed that it was probably nonsense, and expressed grave doubts that Santa Elena would even listen to the prayers of two Protestant girls, but of course they’d decided to try it anyway. The name she’d written had been that of Leah Anderson’s older brother.
When Senora Alverez had come upon them unexpectedly, Teresa had readied herself for a stiff scolding. But Maria had simply collected the matchbox and the candle, as well as those incriminating scraps of paper, and informed them that she needed their help in the kitchen.
As far as she knew, Maria had never said a word to Daddy or to Corinna’s parents. After their guests had departed, the Lancer cook gave her more chores than usual, and Teresa had understood it to be a punishment.
Later, she’d found forgiveness in the Senora’s embrace.
“You will know love one day, mi chica,” Maria had assured her, patting her cheek lovingly. “But you must wait--wait for a good man, one who will give you his heart.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Senora Maria had always given her such very good advice. There was no question that she had quickly grown fond of both of Murdoch’s sons, behaving in a motherly fashion towards all three of her employer’s ‘children.’ It was going to be very difficult not to seek that wise woman’s counsel once they were back at the hacienda.
Not that she needed anyone to tell her that Scott was a good man. She’d already given him her own heart and now she knew without doubt that he had done the same. It was not the gifts or the declarations or even the physical expressions of that love that were the most convincing. It was the trust he’d shown her.
Trust that she now feared he might regret.
Scott had frightened her on the train, when he’d announced that he had something to tell her, especially when he’d sat holding her hand in both of his own, looking down at it in silence as if he couldn’t decide how to begin. Then, finally, he’d said it.
“I have a daughter.”
In the first instant, she’d been too stunned to react.
Then as the words took on full meaning, she’d pulled away from him in order to clasp her two hands together tightly in her lap, a purely reflexive movement she would surely change if only she could have that moment back again. She’d immediately regretted the loss of that connection, regret that she’d seen mirrored –briefly-- in Scott’s own eyes.
Quickly adopting a neutral expression and tone, Scott explained that even though his daughter was eight years old, he’d only recently learned of the little girl’s existence. Flushing slightly, he added that he had known her mother before the War.
It took a moment before the double meaning of the word “known” had come to her, though surely Scott hadn’t intended to be so blunt. Her face had burned at the realization that every line must have been crossed if another woman had borne Scott’s child. If he’d still been holding her hand, then perhaps she wouldn’t have felt as if she were spiraling rapidly downward; as it was, she couldn’t look at him, couldn’t reach for him.
She could still feel him though, watching her and waiting for some acknowledgment of his startling revelation.
“Will you . . . will you bring . . . her to Lancer?”
Her voice quavered and her cheeks flamed hotter, too mortified to explain that it was the child she meant and not the mother.
Beside her, Scott sighed. “It’s . . . complicated.”
The little girl’s name was not “Lancer” but Marie Christine Mathieu—a pretty name but part of the complication, as on paper another man was her father. After hearing about the arrangements his grandfather had made, Teresa realized how disruptive it could be to both the child and her family if Scott were to claim her as his daughter.
She had so many questions, but forced herself to focus upon the little girl. She asked several, but Scott could only shake his head in response to each one and say that he didn’t know.
Although Scott was trying to be matter-of-fact, she could hear the sadness in his voice. After the third question, he reached over and lightly covered her clenched hands with his own.
“Teresa . . .”
Scott waited until she looked up at him.
“I am sorry.”
She still wasn’t quite sure what he’d been sorry about, exactly. That he couldn’t answer her questions, or that he had fathered a child ---or that he’d told her. Scott had made it clear that it wasn’t in the little girl’s best interests for many people to know. The mother knew of course, and apparently she’d actually come to see Scott in Boston. His Aunt Cecilia knew, and his attorney, George Hayford, Will’s brother. Scott hadn’t told anyone else and it sounded as if he didn’t intend to, at least not right away. Scott had entrusted her with a most important secret and she fully understood the significance of that.
And still she couldn’t help but ask the one question that had been uppermost in her mind.
“Were you . . . in love with her?”
There really hadn’t been a good answer to that question. Scott hadn’t replied right away, in part because he’d waited for the portly conductor to lumber past.
“No,” he’d said softly.
There had been nothing more to say then. A short while later, the train had pulled into the station in Stockton. They’d risen from their seats, but instead of stepping out into the aisle to allow her to pass, Scott had stood for a moment, blocking her way, and he’d said it again.
“I’m sorry, Teresa.”
Conscious of the other passengers moving into the aisle and preparing to disembark, she’d only nodded woodenly, and gathered up her things.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Since then, they’d either been here on the stage or at a depot or way station in the company of other travelers, always under the watchful eyes of the Pettigrews and retiring to separate quarters for men and women at night. There’d been no opportunity for private conversation, though she’d thought about it all a great deal.
Scott had been so very young, to be leaving home and going off to fight in that horrific War. And then he’d been captured and held prisoner for an entire year, so perhaps it wasn’t surprising that he’d forgotten the brief time he’d spent with Marie Christine’s mother. She remembered also what Alondra always said about men and “their needs.” Teresa had her own negative opinion about what sort of woman Mrs. Holmes’ maid must have been. Of course, Scott hadn’t made any such excuses or said anything to suggest even a portion of the blame might lay elsewhere, simply stating that he had been “irresponsible.”
She’d always known he wasn’t perfect. Scott had a temper and he could be just as infuriatingly stubborn as his father and brother. Of course she knew about the broken engagement to Julie, though she hadn’t wanted to listen when Scott suggested that Miss Dennison had reasons for calling it off. She knew about the other women, including “Miss Irene” who worked at the saloon in Green River. There was a difference though between “knowing” and . . . this.
She was so eager to somehow excuse him, but could you excuse a child?
Scott hadn’t known about the baby. He’d said that he wished someone had told him when he returned from the War, but it really seemed as if what Mr. Garrett had done had been the best possible arrangement for all concerned. Scott hadn’t mentioned Murdoch at all, but Teresa had thought of him right away, how her guardian had been separated from his sons when they were very small. Surely Scott had thought of that too, but it wasn’t the same. Murdoch had known where Scott was, but Scott hadn’t even realized that he had a daughter. Now that he did, she knew he would do the right thing.
Not that there seemed to be very much that Scott could do. The child had been told that her father was dead. And that, of course, sounded uncomfortably reminiscent of her own situation, though again, it wasn’t quite the same. Even when Marie Christine was older, what would be the point of telling her that she’d been lied to all those years, if her true parentage had to remain a closely guarded secret?
One thing was clear, none of it was the little girl’s fault and surely everyone would have welcomed her to the ranch. But that was unlikely to happen, if Scott couldn’t ever claim her. She dreamed they might have their own children one day, but when Scott held their child, would he always wonder about Marie Christine?
But that was borrowing future troubles, when there was enough to deal with here and now. At first, she’d felt so deeply . . . disappointed. Now, almost two days later, what she hated most was that he’d seen it. She had, after all, urged Scott to tell her “anything.”
She’d grown accustomed to his looking at her with an appreciative gleam in his eyes, but now she saw mostly concern. Scott was pleasant and polite, dutifully helping her in and out of the coach, escorting her to meals. It seemed they were about to resume their previous roles of younger sister and protective older brother.
She did not want that.
But she couldn’t tell him, couldn’t touch him, couldn’t so much as hold his hand, not with the Misses Pettigrew opposite, carefully monitoring the space between them. She certainly couldn’t recite Spanish love charms or light candles, not with Padre Luis at her elbow, though she’d happily burn a hundred candles if it would help.
For now, all she could do was wear sand dollars and hope that Scott would understand.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
It was strange, how on the trip to Stockton, he’d been looking out the window and thinking about women. Back then it had been Julie, Zee, Moira McGloin who had occupied his thoughts. But mostly Julie, since he’d been anticipating seeing his former fiancée in Boston. Contrary to his expectations, that encounter hadn’t been the most memorable one, after all.
He had been deeply in love with Julie; he would never have asked her to marry him otherwise. Despite their attractions, he’d never been in love with Marie-Flore Beaulieu or Barbara Otis or Zee Powers. He hadn’t been in love with Moira McGloin or Miss Jennie Hart. He wasn’t in love with Irene. He understood the distinction between honest affection, a purely physical attraction, a passing infatuation, and truly being in love.
He was in love with Teresa.
Glancing sideways at her delicate profile, recalling how distressed she’d seemed, his heart plummeted once more. It was a wonder it hadn’t been left miles behind by now, lying in the dust of the road to Morro Coyo.
While he fervently wished that there hadn’t been anything to tell, Scott didn’t regret telling Teresa about Marie Christine. The fact that Teresa had never once alluded to those scars proved that she was capable of keeping a secret. There shouldn’t be secrets between them. Though, perhaps it had been too soon to share this one, after all.
Judging from her reaction, his apprehension that she held too high an opinion of him had been correct; in which case he’d come crashing down, pedestal and all. It was up to Teresa to decide if she wanted to put the pieces back together. At least the lack of privacy relieved him of any temptation to try to defend behavior that was patently indefensible. He certainly couldn’t say or do anything here on the stage, not in full view of the sharp-eyed and equally sharp-tongued Pettigrew sisters. The coach would stop soon in Morro Coyo; it was hard to know how long it might be before he had another opportunity to be alone with Teresa.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Finally, the stage came around the corner, the horses barreling down the main street. Connections being what they were, it was entirely possible that Scott and Teresa would not be on board, and they’d have to come back again tomorrow.
Murdoch shifted in the buggy seat. Johnny had long since dismounted and wrapped Barranca’s reins around the hitching post in front of the depot. Now he stood next to the team, one pink-sleeved arm resting along the back of the lee horse.
The stage came to an abrupt halt, the driver hollering “whoa now!” and hauling back on the reins. Immediately, the door swung open and Scott emerged.
It took Murdoch a moment to recognize him. Although his eldest was less formally attired than when Murdoch had last seen him, Scott’s finely cut dark suit didn’t fit his image of the son he’d been missing---a young man in Western-style clothes, with shirtsleeves rolled up and a work stained hat pushed back on the crown of his head.
Scott’s head was bare, and he didn’t look around to see who, if anyone, was there to greet the stage, but instead turned to face the interior of the coach. Murdoch watched his son reach up to assist the Pettigrew sisters, aiding each woman in turn in her laborious descent from the vehicle. Finally, Teresa’s petite form appeared and Scott grasped her around the waist, easily lifting her to the ground.
Murdoch’s heart lightened to see “his girl” once again; she looked the same, her hair, her smile, she was even wearing a vaguely familiar looking outfit. She looked happy, happy to be home. He slid over to the edge of the seat and eased himself to the ground while still keeping his eyes upon his prodigal children. Together they turned now, Scott placing his arm about Teresa’s shoulders, as Johnny walked quickly towards them, grinning widely and saying something about how he thought that they weren’t ever going to come back.
Teresa slipped out from beneath Scott’s arm and ran to meet Johnny, laughing and clasping him eagerly about the neck, telling him how much she’d missed him.
“Is that right?” Johnny asked as he swung her off of the ground and around, planting a kiss on her cheek as he set her down again.
As he drew nearer, Murdoch thought he caught a flicker of something cross Scott’s face. He told himself that it was probably nothing; Scott had always been a bit of a closed book, and there wasn’t any reason to expect that to have changed.
Johnny turned his attention to his brother, looking Scott up and down, commenting loudly on his “fancy outfit,” punching him in the arm. Scott grinned back at him, then snatched Johnny’s hat and placed it on his own head, asking if it suitably complemented his clothing.
Suddenly, Teresa was pressing herself against him. Murdoch enveloped her in an embrace. He whispered in her ear how very much he’d missed her and she replied in kind, before he finally looked up to meet those serious blue-grey eyes.
“Hello, Sir.”
“Welcome back, Scott.”
And just as when he arrived at the house on Chestnut Street, Murdoch found himself tucking Teresa up under his left arm, while extending his right hand to his son.
He’d imagined a warmer welcome, perhaps, but this would have to suffice, standing beside the well-worn coach amidst passengers and traveling cases and passers-by. There was so much more he intended to say, once they were alone. Scott was here now, that was the important thing. There would be time enough.
Murdoch shifted his attention back to Teresa. “So, Darling, did you enjoy your trip?”
Teresa responded with her customary cheerful enthusiasm; with arms about each other, the two of them headed to the carriage, leaving Johnny and Scott to continue their banter while collecting the luggage.
Apparently the rest of the baggage was still on the way, along with some boxes Scott had shipped from Boston. The few cases were quickly stowed in the back and then, instead of helping Teresa up onto a seat, Johnny invited her to clamber aboard Barranca. It was too far to ride double all the way back to the ranch, but Johnny just smiled at Murdoch’s objection and promised they’d wait for them “somewhere up head.” The two of them trotted off, Teresa chattering about the train and Boston.
Glumly noting that Scott didn’t seem any more pleased to see them leave than he was, Murdoch climbed up and claimed the reins. Scott did have a hat after all, an unfamiliar black one, which he placed squarely on his head to shield his face from the sun. Once Scott was settled, Murdoch urged Zanzibar and Madagascar forward while he considered posing some question about the trip.
Before the lengthening silence grew too uncomfortable, Scott ended it.
“What’s happened here, while we’ve been away?”
Even without being prompted by an occasional question from his son, Murdoch knew he could easily fill the space between them with talk of cattle and horses, bridges and fences until long after they reached the arch. It was tempting to do just that.
Murdoch straightened.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been in a saddle, Scott; it’ll take time for you to get used to it again.”
“Murdoch---”
“Your brother is heading to Stockton tomorrow. I thought we might---”
“Murdoch, I read your letter.”
The horses plodded on, the warm dusty air swirled past.
Murdoch’s heart sank. He didn’t want this conversation, not yet. He’d been about to suggest a few days of fishing, just the two of them, but he hadn’t gotten the damn words out quickly enough. Now it was too late, it would seem as if he was postponing. Even now, Scott waited for a response, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, head bowed to study his loosely clasped hands. The hat’s dark brim prevented Murdoch from catching even a glimpse of his son’s face. But Scott was waiting. He must have questions. Murdoch wouldn’t disappoint him again.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
He’d been disappointed even before Johnny had ridden off with Teresa, wishing that his brother had thought to bring Brunswick along. The two of them could have gone on ahead together, and there would have been a chance to hear Johnny’s version of any events that had taken place.
Scott hadn’t been especially eager to address any difficult topics with Murdoch, not right away, and so he’d asked a safe question. He knew from experience that it wouldn’t take much prompting--- it should have been easy enough to listen to Murdoch talk about the endless rounds of work as they rolled steadily towards the ranch.
His disappointment had quickly deepened into anger though, when it appeared that Murdoch was willing to do just that.
Perhaps too quickly. Well, now he’d started it. Scott waited one more beat, ten more yards of road. Then he took a breath.
“I never knew about your invitation. To spend the summer here.”
Of all things. The one topic he had resolved to let go.
Murdoch shifted in his seat, reached up with one hand to push his grey hat up away from his brow.
“I should have tried harder, Son, asked more than once. But . . . Harlan was pretty clear that your time was accounted for . . .
“I know. I read his response.”
Murdoch looked askance at that.
“He kept copies of all of his correspondence. There was a file . . .”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Murdoch nodded; he should have expected as much. He half turned in order to look his son in the eyes, willing Scott to look up at him, but the young man’s attention was still on his own clasped hands.
“Then you know, Scott, that your grandfather invited me to Boston.”
Scott looked up then, with an unexpectedly hopeful expression.
“I . . . wasn’t sure.”
Murdoch grimly shifted his gaze back to the horses. “I should have mentioned it.”
He’d been so careful in his letter to take into consideration the affection he knew Scott had for his grandfather, to remember that his son was grieving. He’d tried to be scrupulously fair. But since he’d never seriously considered accepting Harlan’s ‘invitation,’ he’d never even responded. The truth was, he’d forgotten about it.
They passed the spot where the road turned off towards the Anderson ranch.
“Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you write to me?”
The softly posed questions, asked in rhythm to the hoof beats, were as inevitable as the animals’ steady forward progress.
The answers, when they came, were more halting.
“Anger, mostly. Resentment---of Harlan. A good dose of stubborn, foolish pride. Too much to do here, or so I thought.” Murdoch sighed. “I didn’t think you’d care, Son.”
“You were wrong.”
Murdoch could only nod in acknowledgment of that bitter truth.
“So was Grandfather. You were both . . . angry and stubborn . . . I believe that you each, at times, thought you were doing what was best for me. You were both, very often . . . wrong.”
“It seems Harlan and I had more in common than I realized,” Murdoch ventured.
“Yes, you did.”
Scott waited another moment, then straightened and sat back in his seat.
“That’s not entirely bad.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
They dismounted near the river, a familiar spot. Johnny was sure that none of them could pass by without remembering that first morning. He knew he’d never forget his surprise at finding himself tumbling down the bank, propelled by Scott’s fist.
Johnny had learned quite a bit about both his newly met ‘siblings’ in just a few minutes. He’d found out in short order that the Boston dandy had a temper, and also that his half brother had some strange notions about what it meant to be a family. But it had been Teresa’s impassioned defense of Murdoch that had challenged him to try to see things from the Old Man’s point of view for the first time in his life.
Since then, he’d always been willing to trust Teresa, counted on her to tell him the truth, no matter what. She’d done that with the Strykers, when Murdoch had wanted to protect him by keeping him in the dark. Teresa was sweet and innocent and she didn’t have a single dissembling bone in her entire tiny body.
Teresa was looking back down the road, watching for Murdoch and Scott.
“So . . . how is he?”
Her head whipped around. “Scott?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s . . . he’s fine, Johnny.”
“T’resa . . .”
“It was hard, Johnny,” she confessed with a big sigh. “Mr. Garrett was like a father to Scott.”
“He’s gonna miss’im, I guess.”
“Yes. And then there was the house and the business and . . . so many other things to take care of.”
Johnny grinned. “Sounds like it was a good thing you were there to keep an eye on him and bring ‘im back.”
It also sounded as if Teresa didn’t know anything about what was going on between Murdoch and Scott; well, there was no need to worry her.
“We’ll sit right here and wait for Scott and Murdoch; I just wanted to give ‘em some time to get reacquainted.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
She felt like a princess seated between Murdoch and Scott. They stopped at the overlook for the view of Lancer, and it was just as heart wrenchingly beautiful as ever. It was wonderful to be home, though she wouldn’t allow herself to think they had truly arrived until the buggy passed beneath the Lancer arch. It was a ritual she’d had when she was a little girl, to always make a wish in that brief moment when the structure obscured either the sun or the stars. She wondered if she’d ever told Scott about that.
As they approached the main complex, they passed a sturdy looking bull standing alone in an enclosed area. Johnny reined Barranca in, matching his pace to that of the carriage.
“Hey, Scott, there’s your “Hannibull.”
Beside her, Scott shot his brother a puzzled look.
“You remember, those bulls we spent so much time talkin’ about before you left.”
“So . . . is that the one we chose--- I didn’t remember . . .”
Johnny just smiled knowingly and spurred Barranca on ahead. They passed several groups of ranch hands; the men stopped working to wave and shout greetings in both English and Spanish. When they pulled up in front of the hacienda, dear Jelly was there, busy fussing with the pump, putting on a show of not noticing their approach, while Maria and Juanita stood eagerly waiting by the front door.
Scott barely had time to lift her down before she was swept into Maria’s arms. When the Senora finally released her, Juanita claimed a turn. Maria pulled Scott down so that she could kiss his cheek.
“Hola, Senorita Teresa.”
“Howdy, Miss Teresa.”
After she acknowledged them, Miguel and Walt Senior slapped their hats back on their heads and shook hands with Scott, then collected their few bags and carried them inside. Big José nodded a silent greeting before leading the team and carriage away. Cipriano had been waiting patiently, and after offering his own words of welcome, laid claim to his employer’s attention. Accompanied by his foreman, Murdoch soon headed off in the direction of the bunkhouses. Maria and Juanita bustled back inside to ready bath water and to finish preparing a special celebratory home meal.
Unbelievably, she and Scott were left standing all alone. She moved quickly to his side.
“Scott----”
“Durned if I know how a man’s supposed ta git any work atall done when folks is makin’ such an all-fired fuss.”
“Jelly!” After a guilty start, Teresa hurried to plant a kiss on the older man’s forehead. She couldn’t help but smile at his evident embarrassment.
“Shore has been a lot ta do aroun’ here with you two gone, and then th’Boss.”
Scott tried to hide a smile as he stepped forward to shake Jelly’s hand. “It’s good to see you too, Jelly.”
“You’ll be joining us for supper tonight, won’t you?” Teresa asked.
“Seems I heard tell Maria had somethin’ special planned. Be a shame t’miss it.”
“We missed you, Jelly.” Teresa gave their old friend a hug and to her delight, Jelly squeezed her back. The he looked them both over one more time, nodding his head appraisingly. “Yup, I’d say it was bout time ya decided to come home.”
Announcing that he’d “best get back ta work” Jelly strode off, loudly wondering why “anyone would want to go off gallivantin’ fer so long anyway.” They stood side by side, watching him until he disappeared into the tool shed.
As soon as Jelly was out of sight, Teresa turned to look up at Scott.
“Scott, I’m so sorry.”
“There’s no need for you to be.”
“We need to talk---”
“And we will.”
He shook his head to silence further protest. Scott reached for her pendant and she welcomed the slight tug at her neck as he gently turned the chain.
“I was afraid I wouldn’t see this again.”
She flushed beneath his steady gaze.
“I think it tells me all I need to know for now.”
She nodded, relieved that he understood. Still . . .
“But Scott, you and Murdoch are going fishing . . .”
“We’ll be back in a few days.” Scott smiled down at her and swept a lock of hair behind her ear. “Go ahead, I’ll see you inside.”
“You’re not coming in?”
“I think I’ll try to catch up with that brother of mine first.”
But when she opened the door, he spoke her name; she looked back over her shoulder to find that Scott hadn’t moved.
“Teresa . . . make sure no one else takes you into town for supplies while I’m gone.”
His tone gave her reason to hope the errand would be more than routine, and she couldn’t help but smile as she stepped lightly inside.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
After the heavy carved wooden door closed behind Teresa, Scott turned in the direction of the stables and was surprised to see Johnny sauntering towards the house. Johnny was usually quite painstaking in Barranca’s care, so Scott had assumed he would have plenty of time to talk with his brother while he groomed the palomino.
“Finished already? I was just about to head to the stables.”
“To check on the horses? Brunswick’ll probably be glad t’ see ya---- even though I’ve been riding him.”
“I’ll be glad to get back in the saddle.”
Johnny threw a friendly punch. “Back in the saddle, huh? Well, before you go ridin’ off to Green River, you should know Irene ain’t there any more. She’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yup. Headed off to make her fortune in the hills of San Francisco,” Johnny announced with a grin. “They haven’t replaced her yet an’ Kitty and Caroline are havin’ a hard time takin’ up the slack.”
“She’ll be hard to replace.”
Johnny shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. But then, you’d know better’n me, Boston. Just didn’t want you gettin’ your hopes up and riding over there for nothin’.” Johnny laughed.
Scott studied his brother carefully. Something wasn’t quite right and he wondered for a moment if Johnny had witnessed his conversation with Teresa. Or perhaps Teresa had inadvertently said something when she was riding with Johnny.
“So tell me, Brother, what’s been happening here while we’ve been away?”
“Oh, nothing much. Usual ranch stuff.”
Scott could see he needed to pose a more specific question. He wanted to know whether the events down in McCall’s Crossing had caused any ripples. There was a possibility that if word spread about Johnny Madrid hiring out again, someone might come looking for him. But before Scott could ask, Johnny started talking about the cattle drive. And the bridge repair.
If Johnny had just said “Nothing much,” and left it at that, Scott might not have thought anything of it. But his normally close-mouthed younger brother was volunteering altogether too much information on too many topics.
Not only that, but Johnny was walking backwards while doing it. “Gotta go take care of a couple things, Boston. See you at supper.”
Johnny turned and jogged off, spurs jingling. Scott stood with his arms folded across his chest and watched him go.
“I’m not through with you yet, little Brother.”
With a sigh, Scott opened the front door and stepped through. Reflexively removing his black hat as he entered, he added it to the stand just inside the entry. His well-worn everyday hat was already hanging there, as was his serviceable gun belt; a quick inspection of the piece indicated that Johnny had made good on his promise to “give it a good cleaning.”
Just as Scott had anticipated, there was a considerable amount of mail stacked up on the hall table. Moving resolutely past, he proceeded to his room to get cleaned up, change his clothes, hoping to have a few moments to stretch out on his bed before coming down to supper.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
The Lancer cooks had outdone themselves to provide a festive meal. There were several Mexican dishes--- the milder versions that Scott preferred, though tonight Johnny didn’t mind that one bit. Most of the conversation centered around Scott and Teresa’s travels.
“You mean to tell me all you got ta do was look out the winda at those places when you rode through’em?” Jelly demanded.
“Well, we were in a hurry to get back, Jelly,---- though we did stop overnight in St. Louis. The Hayfords have relatives there.”
At the head of the table, Murdoch looked up from his meal. “What did you think of St. Louis, Sweetheart?”
Johnny could have sworn Teresa blushed at the question. He figured there might be a story there; he’d have to ask Scott. Funny thing, Scott was paying a lot of attention to his own plate while Teresa was answering Murdoch’s question.
Scott glanced up and caught him watching. “So Johnny, Murdoch tells me you’re about to do some traveling of your own.”
“That’s right. Heading for Stockton in the mornin’, staying at the Barkleys’. You coulda been the one to go if you’d gotten back here sooner . . . You got any message you want me to give Audra, Scott?”
Scott looked slightly startled, and darted a glance at Teresa and Murdoch as he shook his head.
“No, no message. So . . . what’s taking you to Stockton?”
“Going to pick up Angus. You probably don’t remember him though, do ya?””
“He’s a bull, ornery one too, I hear,” Jelly announced helpfully.
“A second bull?” Scott asked with a furrowed brow as he abruptly set down his wine glass.
“Nope,” Johnny cheerfully informed him. “Third one.”
“Third?”
“Yeah, ‘cause Fernando’s already here.”
In response to his brother’s bewildered expression, Johnny relented. “See, me and Murdoch finally decided there’s no point in having a rich partner if you don’t let ‘im spend his money.”
“It’s a loan,” Murdoch reminded them.
Johnny laughed. “Yeah, well, it ain’t on the books yet. Guess you’ll have to take care of that, Scott. Maybe you can use some of those big city accountin’ methods.”
Scott shot another quick glance at his father and somehow managed to limit his mirth to his eyes only, nodding soberly at his brother. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“A loan,” Murdoch repeated sternly. Apparently feeling he’d made his point, the Old Man finally allowed himself a smile, and the relaxed conversation resumed.
After the dishes had been cleared from the main course, Murdoch asked Juanita to bring fresh glasses for himself and Scott, since the two of them had already enjoyed their wine with the meal. Johnny watched with interest as his father proceeded to decant a bottle of vintage port. Passing it around, Murdoch insisted that everyone should have a glass.
“I’d like to offer a toast,” Murdoch explained. He stiffly rose from his chair to tower over the table. “First of all, to Scott and Teresa---- welcome home.”
Scott and Teresa sat opposite each other and easily touched their raised glasses together. Johnny reached up and added his own, and then Scott turned to Jelly beside him, waiting until their friend joined in as well.
“Welcome home, Teresa.” Johnny smiled at her as he withdrew his glass. Then he gestured with it towards his brother. “Sure is good to have you back, Boston.”
Johnny took a quick sip and set his wineglass down. The port was just as he remembered, both stronger and sweeter than the wine usually served at the Lancer table. He looked across at Jelly and hid a smile. Jelly was uncharacteristically silent, and Johnny suspected the older man was maybe feeling a bit sentimental, though he was making a business of covering up by shaking his head at the port and scratching furiously at his whiskers.
Murdoch’s shadow still extended the length of the table. Johnny looked up to see that after refilling his glass, his father was lifting it high once more.
“I’d also like to offer a toast in Harlan’s memory.”
That was a surprise. It was to Scott too; he’d been smiling at Teresa, but now turned his full attention to Murdoch.
“Harlan and I didn’t always see eye to eye . . .”
Scott lowered his gaze.
“But I’ve been told we had one or two things in common.”
Scott’s mouth quirked at that, though his eyes remained fixed on the glass in his hand.
“If, when a man passes on, there are those who remember him fondly, we can say he lived well.”
Everyone at the table was watching Scott now, including Murdoch.
“Harlan had many achievements to his credit, but two stand out most notably.”
Murdoch paused, waiting until finally Scott looked up.
“To Harlan Garrett: he raised a wonderful daughter. And a fine grandson.”
“To Mr. Garrett.” “Ta Scott’s grandfather.” “To Mr. Garrett.”
“To Grandfather.” Scott held his glass up, a far away look in his eyes, like maybe he was recalling some of those memories Murdoch had mentioned, before he solemnly drained his glass.
“Thank you, Murdoch.”
Murdoch sat down and passed the bottle. “It’s good to have you home, Son.”
“It’s good to be home.”
“A donde el corazon se inclina, el pie camina,” observed Senora Maria, as entered the dining room with a pie to place on the table.
Murdoch offered the translation. “Home is where the heart leads; it’s an old English proverb.”
“I heard it first in Latin,” Scott admitted with a smile. “‘Home . . . is not where a man lives, but where he loves.’”
Murdoch nodded. “I’ve always thought it meant a man could have more than one.”
Scott lowered his gaze and in that moment Johnny knew that his brother was going to say something pretty important. Looking at the table through the wineglass in his hand, Scott spoke very softly.
“I have to agree.”
THE END
For now
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Author’s notes:
Websites with information about Santa Elena
http://www.mexconnect.com/mex_/travel/jking/jkstaelena.html
The lover’s prayer and translation:
http://ojinaga.com/storeitems/santos/staelenanicho.html
Return to Main Page