ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 7.
“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
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“I expect she’s married by now.”
Julie. Scott had said that, about Julie. It had been Scott’s friend, Will Hayford, who had first mentioned her name, over dinner, last night. Teresa had sat frozen in place, intently waiting for Scott’s response. Mr. Hayford hadn’t noticed, his one eye had been trained on Scott. And Scott’s attention had been upon his plate. The words had come out evenly, but Scott couldn’t help but be sorry. After all, he and Julie had been engaged.
<<Julie’s married.>>
As she stood looking out the window at the roofs of Sacramento, Teresa knew that she wasn’t sorry. Not at all. Julie might have been “a lady,” but she hadn’t been the right one for Scott.
Pulling her robe tighter, Teresa turned away from the window and sat down on the edge of the bed to brush her damp hair. Scott had arranged for her to have a bath and something to eat here in her room this morning, while Scott himself was meeting Will Hayford for breakfast. Then the two men were going to visit a tailor here in the city, to have measurements taken to wire to another tailor in Boston, someone who would make some new suits for Scott.
How her friends would have giggled about that, Scott being “measured.” At least Nellie would have giggled, in response to whatever comment Alondra came up with. Alondra Zamora was easily the most forward of their little circle. Teresa didn’t mind the teasing, most of the time, but then, both Alondra and Nellie Hildenbrand thought they were “in love” with Johnny. Of course, there were other young women who were enamored of Scott, chief among them Corinna Cushman and Leah Anderson. The four girls had long been her closest friends, although lately Teresa was finding it more and more difficult to confide in them.
Continuing to wield the hairbrush, Teresa surveyed her clothing for the day, already carefully laid out. Her cases stood ready; she would finish packing once she was dressed. The outfit that she had traveled in, the cinnamon colored skirt and jacket Scott had given her, was already folded away in her small trunk. A maid had come up to her room the previous evening, escorting a man rolling in a bathtub on wheels. Anna, the maid, had also brought towels and soaps and had inquired as to what time she’d like her bath. Then Anna had asked whether Teresa had any clothes to be cleaned.
Scott hadn’t said anything about that, but Teresa carefully quizzed Anna on everything—how long it would take, how much it would cost. It made perfect sense to pack clean clothes rather than dusty, dirty ones, and Murdoch had given her a considerable sum of spending money. Earlier this morning, while the bath was being readied, another maid had returned several articles of clothing, including her cleaned and pressed skirt and jacket.
It wasn’t much, but Teresa felt some satisfaction in having arranged that herself. She’d made up her mind that she was going to have to ask questions and figure things out on her own, if she didn’t want to be a burden to Scott.
She was used to doing that, asking questions and figuring things out; it came of growing up without a mother. Teresa smiled sadly as she recalled how often poor Daddy had simply been at a loss. Sometimes the local ladies, ranchers’ wives or women from town, would remember to take “Paul’s daughter” under their wing, but being busy with their own families, they didn’t always think of her. Of course, at the hacienda, Senora Alvarez had taught her everything she needed to know about cooking and needlework, but on other subjects, Maria had often encouraged Teresa to consult with some of the women in town, or those she knew from church.
She’d made mistakes, but over time, Teresa had come to be selective about following the advice offered. She had gradually learned which woman’s opinions were to be carefully considered and who should be politely thanked and then quickly disregarded. Mrs. Henderson, for example, was wise in the ways of herbal medicines and teas. The Widow Hargis was a good God- fearing woman, always ready to quote scripture and give instructions on proper etiquette----- and she had also taught Teresa to play several hymns on the old upright piano at the church. Corinna Cushman’s mother was from back East, and was most likely to be up to date on city fashions.
Which reminded her that she couldn’t keep sitting here on the edge of the bed; she needed to be dressed before Scott returned. As she set the brush aside and removed her robe, Teresa reflected that everything had happened so quickly, with Scott’s sad news and the hastily made travel plans, that she simply hadn’t had time to consult with Mrs. Cushman or anyone else. She hadn’t failed to note Scott’s reaction to her wardrobe, however. He’d assured her that his Aunt Cecilia would help, and Teresa hoped that would prove true; in any event, she certainly planned to seek Mrs. Holmes’ frank counsel. And there was also Melissa Harper. Teresa had continued to correspond with Melissa even after she had completed her studies in San Francisco and returned to her native Boston. Scott and his aunt would no doubt be occupied with other things; Teresa was determined that she would somehow get in touch with Melissa.
Clothing wasn’t her only concern, of course, there would be other differences. Teresa was observant, used to studying older women and their behavior, and she intended to continue to do so while in Boston. But the fact remained that in social situations a woman’s attire did attract attention.
Today she would be wearing a simple black skirt and a long-sleeved, high-necked ruffled blouse-- in the deep rose color that Scott had once said suited her. As she stood before the pier glass and fastened the mother of pearl buttons of her blouse, Teresa recalled with some embarrassment the first time that she had come to Sacramento with Murdoch and his two sons.
Scott had somehow convinced Murdoch and Johnny to agree to attend the theater. For the occasion, Teresa had worn this same blouse and a similar dark skirt, with a black- fringed shawl that Senora Maria had given her. The shawl had woven into it flowers of the same rosy hue.
The men had been having a drink in the bar, and she’d met them in the hotel lobby when it was time to leave. Murdoch, of course, had immediately told her how lovely she looked, and Johnny had teasingly agreed, asking why she got to wear “his” color and he had to wear a plain white shirt with his suit. Scott had simply smiled and offered his arm, commenting that the shawl looked “very festive.” When they had arrived at the theater, she’d understood. Most of the women wore tight dresses with low cut necklines, brightly colored ones that also exposed bare arms.
Well, on their next city excursion, they’d attended a concert in San Francisco. That evening, she’d worn a dress she’d made herself, of form-fitting rose-colored satin, with the same shawl. Perhaps still not elegant, but she hadn’t needed anyone to tell her that she looked very nice-- though she’d still enjoyed hearing it. And seeing the quiet approval in Scott’s eyes.
Now, as she smoothed her dark skirt and turned to check the hem in the mirror, Teresa was able to give her appearance a confident endorsement. She’d traveled on trains often enough, after all.
After being jostled around on the stage for a day and a half, it had been a relief to finally board the train in Stockton yesterday for the trip to Sacramento. She’d spent the entire time on the stagecoach sitting next to Scott, but though they’d been bumped against each other from time to time, they’d barely spoken. There was little privacy on the stage and the passengers opposite had seemed to avidly follow the few words they’d exchanged. Besides, Teresa had been occupied in conversing with Mrs. Henderson until she disembarked, and then later with a middle-aged woman, a teacher from the mid-west, who had taken Miz Ada’s seat. Scott had his book, though she hadn’t seen him read much of it.
The three women riding opposite had journeyed all the way to Stockton, so Scott had been the only gentleman other than the stage driver and his outrider at the way station the night before. Conversation over supper had been general and then the men and women had gone to separate rooms to sleep.
It had only been once they’d boarded the train for the relatively short ride to Sacramento that she’d had an opportunity to talk with Scott. She knew that he too was happy to be off the stagecoach, and had half expected him to lose himself in the book that he seemed to have given up trying to read on the stage. Instead, they’d talked about meeting Mr. Hayford in Sacramento.
Teresa had met Will Hayford a few times. He was a lawyer from Boston and he and Scott had grown up together. He had brown curly hair and was as tall as Scott. Like Scott, he had also fought in the War, but Will had been badly injured, losing most of his right arm. He also wore an eye-patch and had scars on the right side of his face. Mr. Hayford was rather frightening looking, until he smiled, which he did often—he and Scott were always joking back and forth when they were together.
Will liked to “tell tales” about Scott and Teresa enjoyed hearing about Scott’s life growing up in Boston. It was hard to imagine Scott as a little boy; his upbringing seemed to have been so very different from her own life on the ranch—though of course that would have been Scott’s life too, had his mother survived.
Scott had said once that Will and his brother John had been like his own brothers; she knew that John, the middle Hayford son, had been killed during the War. Yesterday, on the train, Scott had described the “schoolroom,” a large airy chamber on the third floor of the Hayfords’ home, which had once been used as “the nursery.” For a time, Scott had shared lessons there with the Hayford brothers, but the space also served as a playroom during cold weather.
“I spent so much time with Will and his family, that I was sometimes referred to as ‘the youngest Hayford,’” Scott had said with a smile.
“So Mrs. Hayford must have been like a mother to you?”
Scott’s smile had softened and he’d shaken his head ruefully. “No . . . she was –--she is—a wonderful woman, but I only made that mistake once.”
“What mistake?”
“Calling her ‘mother.’”
The way that Scott had told the story, Mrs. Hayford had come to the schoolroom door to announce that lunch was ready and that it was time for the boys to wash up and come downstairs to eat. George, the eldest son, had dutifully put down his book, saying “Yes, Mother.” When the three younger boys had delayed giving up their playthings, Mrs. Hayford had clapped her hands at them, whereupon John and Will had obediently chorused “Yes, Mother.” Then Scott had echoed their words.
“John and Will didn’t hesitate to set me straight.” Scott shook his head at the memory. “We were all very young.”
Teresa had suddenly recalled once being taunted by other girls about her own motherless state. She imagined that little boys would hardly be less cruel.
“What happened?”
“Well . . . I tried to escape from the room, and ended up running straight into Mrs. Hayford’s arms. She scolded Will and John quite severely---- which didn’t endear me to them in the least.” Scott laughed. “But we’d all forgotten about it by the time we’d finished lunch.”
But Scott hadn’t forgotten, not really. Neither had Teresa.
Fortunately, she’d always had Daddy. And Scott had had his grandfather. She’d been about to ask a question about what it had been like, growing up with Mr. Garrett, when Scott looked out the window.
“We’re coming into Sacramento,” he’d observed. “Will should be waiting.”
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Not only had Mr. Hayford been waiting at the train station, but he’d already made arrangements for their luggage to be transported to the hotel. He’d announced that as soon as he and Scott had exchanged greetings. The two young men had clasped left hands, Teresa had heard Will saying “I’m sorry, Scott.” They’d stood there for a moment, while Scott accepted his friend’s sympathy. Once Will had begun to talk of the plans he’d made for dinner, Scott had placed his hand on Will’s shoulder and quickly turned to draw Teresa in.
“Teresa, you remember Will; Will, Teresa O’Brien.”
“Hello, Mr. Hayford.”
“It’s Will,” he’d reminded her, smiling and extending his hand.
“Hello, Will, it’s nice to see you again.”
She remembered to offer him her left hand, which he’d held for a moment, assuring her that “the pleasure was all his.” Then he’d looked over at Scott and suggested a restaurant for dinner. “It’s quite near your hotel.”
“Is it within walking distance?”
“Not too far, Scott—I guess you need to stretch your legs?” Will had asked with a grin. Scott had nodded grimly, offered his right arm to Teresa and then the three of them had set off down the street. She’d listened as the two men had talked—literally—over her head.
“I have your train tickets, and I’m afraid there wasn’t a suite available. But they’ll be adding cars in Ogden,” Will had hastened to add, “and then you’ll have one. No dining car until Ogden either, so you’ll be taking your meals off of the train until then.”
“So you won’t be traveling with us?”
“No, I’m afraid I have to be in court tomorrow afternoon and the next day as well. It’ll be a few days before I can leave here.”
“Well, thanks for getting the tickets. We’ll settle up---”
“After dinner,” Will had said, waving Scott off. Then he’d turned his attention to Teresa, and proceeded to extol the virtues of the particular restaurant, the Eagle, and the adjoining Grand Union Hotel, as they continued along the busy street.
“It all sounds wonderful.”
“Oh, it is—if we ever get there.”
“Now, Will,” Scott admonished him. “I thought you liked to walk.”
“I do,” he asserted. “But,” Will added, in a confiding tone to Teresa, “Scott was always one for riding, even when we were boys. My brothers and I thought we’d never hear the end of it when Mr. Garrett presented Scott with his first pony.”
“We all had ponies---” Scott started to explain.
“But little did we know, Teresa, that we were looking at a bona fide cavalry officer in training.”
Mr. Hayford, Teresa remembered, had served in the infantry during the War, and he and Scott had joked about that, cavalry versus infantry. Scott was smiling, and from the glint in his eyes, he was no doubt preparing some gibe of his own, but when he started to speak, Will cut him off again. “Miss Teresa, would you care to guess the pony’s name?”
“Will--”
“Oh, I’m sure I couldn’t guess! What was it Scott?”
“Yes, Scott, go ahead, tell her.”
Scott sighed. “He was white, with brown spots. So that’s what I named him.”
“Spot?”
“That’s right. Of course, my good friends--”
“Called him ‘Spotty’!” Will interjected. “To go with ‘Scotty.’ But, that was all John’s idea, of course.”
“Of course,” Scott agreed, dryly.
Teresa couldn’t help giggling. “Did . . . did everyone call you ‘Scotty’?”
Again, Will answered. “Oh, we all had those names, when we were boys: Georgie and Johnny, Willie and Scotty. ‘Scotty’ lasted longer, I think because Mr. Garrett never did make the change.”
On her left side, Teresa was conscious of Scott’s head lowering, at the mention of his grandfather.
“Scott convinced us, finally —and rather forcefully—that he preferred to be addressed as ‘Scott’.”
“Forcefully?”
“Well, Teresa, Scott was not always so mild mannered—in fact, he was known to use his fists upon occasion.”
Will Hayford’s ironic tone was not lost on Teresa, as she had several times witnessed Scott in action. On that very first trip to town, Scott had had to defend himself against Pardee’s men in Senor Baldemerro’s store, and later, he’d been so angry at Johnny for not doing anything to help that he’d knocked his brother down with one punch. In fact, despite his fancy Eastern attire, the formal suit and ruffled shirt, Scott hadn’t been “mild mannered” at all; he had been every bit as ready to fight as Murdoch and Johnny and the other men. He’d helped save the ranch; Scott had shot and killed that murderer, that monster, Day Pardee. Later, it had been Scott who had ridden to rescue her from Angel’s husband, Carl Bolton, Scott who had saved her and Melissa Harper from those horrible Cooper brothers. Reflexively, she tightened her grasp on Scott’s arm; he looked down and smiled, and then rolled his eyes at Will.
“Oh yes, Miss O’Brien,” Will was saying dramatically, “You’re certain to learn many more of Scott’s deep dark secrets on this trip to Boston.”
Scott made some remark about it perhaps being a good thing that Will wouldn’t be able to travel with them, and then asked some questions about the businesses they were passing by on route to the restaurant.
The Eagle Restaurant was indeed an elegant establishment. Once they were seated, Scott had more questions about his friend’s legal work, and Will began to describe his current case while Teresa spread the fine linen napkin across her lap and sipped from a heavy crystal water glass. The waiter carefully used a pair of silver tongs to deposit a warm, crusty dinner roll on each bread plate. The little pats of butter accompanying the bread were in the shape of shields with eagles’ heads embossed upon them.
Unexpectedly, Scott picked up his dinner roll and split it into two halves, proceeding to carefully spread the surface of one half with butter. Mrs. Hargis had long ago impressed upon Teresa that it was “proper” to break off a bite-sized piece of bread and then butter only that small portion. Of course, most people did exactly what Scott was doing now: they would split the roll or biscuit in half and slather butter on each half. Then they would set it on their plate, picking it up from time to time to take bites out of it. Scott was one of the few men she knew who would habitually employ what Mrs. Hargis had explained was the correct method. It was very puzzling to see him behave so out of character, and in such an elegant setting.
It became clear, once he’d finished. Scott placed the butter spreader on the edge of his bread plate, then picked up the entire plate in one large hand. With the other hand, he removed Will’s bread plate and set down his own, with the buttered roll, in its place. Will murmured a thanks, but there was really no break in the conversation as they continued to converse about the upcoming trial.
Teresa tried to listen to the discussion-- she knew she should make an effort to participate, but she’d missed the beginning, when she’d found herself watching Scott’s hands. He now set about to sample his own dinner roll, using the method approved by the Widow Hargis. Scott had long fingers, with oval nails, which were always clean and polished. The silver butter spreader seemed so tiny in his hands. Strong and capable, large enough to span her waist, whenever he lifted her down from a carriage . . .
It was some time after their meals had arrived that the young men’s conversation had shifted to talk about mutual acquaintances in Boston. Will had asked if Scott had heard anything about Julie. Scott’s hands, grasping his utensils, had paused over his plate, then continued their motion and he’d answered in that even tone, announcing that Julie was probably married.
<<Married.>> she thought now, with a smile.
There was a knock on the door and Scott’s voice saying “Teh-ray-sa?” ---his usual pronunciation of her name, and tacking a question onto the end. She flew to the door to open it and there he was, tall and handsome, in his black suit, holding his dark hat and asking if she was ready.
“Almost.” There were just a few small items to pack, and she did so quickly.
“Someone will come up for your luggage,” he said, once her cases were closed. She stood there for a moment, in her high-necked rose-colored blouse and long dark skirt.
Scott smiled. “That color does suit you,” he said.
When she turned to settle her hat upon her head, she could see Scott in the mirror behind her, looking about the room.
“Do you have a . . . wrap?”
Suddenly, Teresa realized that Scott might actually be expecting a black-fringed shawl with rose-colored flowers, and almost laughed. “Yes, Scott, I have a jacket.”
She handed it to him and he helped her with it, first one sleeve then the other. It was a cropped and fitted jacket, in a fine, lightweight, black wool. Adorning the lapels was a swirling design of leaves and flowers she had embroidered herself, in exactly the shade of pink to match her blouse.
“Well, Miss O’Brien, I do believe that we have a train to catch,” Scott said as he offered his arm.
The approval in his eyes was unmistakable.
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Despite his lowered lids, he could feel the woman watching him, feel her admiring smile. The slender fingers slipped lightly, teasingly, through the sweat-slicked mat of dark hair on his chest as Johnny released a long slow breath.
He’d slipped away from the bridge crew, soon after supper. They’d been camping and eating out of the chuck wagon, hoping to speed the work along by eliminating the time spent traveling to and from the main compound. The rest of the men had been gathering around the campfire, preparing to pass the time singing songs and telling stories. Johnny had let them think he was heading back to the hacienda for the night, to consult with Murdoch, report on the progress made that day. He’d actually ridden in that direction until he was well out of sight before he’d cut back and turned Barranca towards Green River.
Although Morro Coyo was the nearest town from the hacienda, Green River was closer to this corner of the ranch. It had been a while since he’d gone into town on a weeknight, even longer since he’d ridden in alone. The main street was dark and largely deserted, but the lights of the saloon beckoned, above and below the distinctive shape of the batwing doors. He’d looped the reins around the hitch rail and made his solitary way down the wooden sidewalk.
None of the usual sounds of music and laughter flowed out onto the boardwalk, and Johnny imagined that the sound of his booted footsteps would announce his arrival. There were actually a few other paying customers scattered about, nursing beers, barely enough to outnumber Hank and the three girls who were supposed to be working the room.
The women all looked up and smiled when Johnny pushed his way through, and he smiled back at each one of them, sending a little extra towards Scott’s ‘friend’ Irene, knowing she was going to be disappointed when Boston didn’t come striding in behind him.
“Slow night?” he’d asked Hank, tossing his hat onto the bar, leaning forward on his elbows and grinning at the sour expression on the barman’s face.
“Beer?”
“Sure, why not?”
Hank filled up one of the tall mugs and set it in front of Johnny, a trail of foam running down the side of the glass onto the polished surface of the bar. At least wiping it up later would give Hank something to do, Johnny thought.
“You alone, Johnny?”
Johnny let his grin slide off of his face and made a show of looking around. “Guess so. Sure looks like it, anyway.”
“Well, then who’s payin’?”
Johnny snorted at that, then looked down, shaking his head. He lifted the mug in a mock salute to Hank, figuring they were even. As he took his first long drink, the bartender snapped the cloth off his shoulder and made a show of wiping up the wet spot on the bar.
“You just let me know when you want me ta top that off fer ya, Johnny,” Hank said as he moved down the bar. “I’ll put it on Scott’s tab.”
Johnny idly rotated the mug with one hand while he waited to see which one would come over. He wasn’t sure himself if he’d rather spend time with Caroline or Kitty, but he knew from past experience that he’d enjoy the company of either lady. He smiled at the sound of approaching footsteps and tried to guess who it was.
“Hello, Johnny.”
He was surprised to see Irene standing next to him, large dark eyes looking at him knowingly beneath that cloud of dark hair. She smelled nice.
“Scott ain’t here.”
“I can see that.” Irene smiled and leaned on the bar beside him. Her dress was tastefully low cut. Since there was a lot to see, Johnny took a moment to appreciate the view.
“Your brother hasn’t come by for a while.”
Johnny sighed, and returned his attention to his beer. “I’ll tell ‘im you’ve missed him.” But he gestured to Hank anyway, and the barkeep poured a shot for Irene, skillfully sliding it the length of the bar. Irene caught it, and smiled her thanks at Johnny.
“Just remember, Scott’s payin’,” Johnny said over his shoulder to Hank, as he turned to lean sideways against the bar, so he could face Irene. No question, she was one attractive woman. Looking past her, he could see that Caroline was trying to get cozy with a bearded cowboy seated at a corner table.
So it would be Kitty then, once he finished drinking with Irene.
“Scott’s headed to Boston. Left yesterday, won’t be back for about a month.”
Irene hadn’t tried to hide her disappointment.
“Month’ll go by before ya know it.”
“No,” she’d said, shaking that mass of hair. “I’ll be leaving here myself in a few weeks. For San Francisco.” She smiled wickedly. “I just would have liked to have said a proper good bye, that’s all.”
When Johnny had said “I’ll give him the message,” that’s all he’d really meant. The brothers’ unspoken agreement was that if either of them had a ‘favorite’ amongst the local females, even the working girls, then the other one stayed real far away. But Irene had been very persuasive and it appeared that Scott wasn’t going to get to spend any more time with her, so . . .
Johnny laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. Beside him, Irene stretched languidly, still smiling that self satisfied, professional smile. He had to admit that the woman was good, very good, and she knew it. Probably would do just fine in the big city too. Still, Johnny was surprised that Irene’s treatment wasn’t quite as “special” as Scott had implied.
Scott and Teresa would be on the train by now, heading East out of Sacramento. Johnny felt as if he hadn’t really gotten to say a proper good bye to his brother, which didn’t make sense, really, they’d talked plenty and it wasn’t as if Scott was going to be gone forever. Earlier today, the Old Man had ridden out to check on the bridge crew and he’d finally hinted that their own trip might not happen; Johnny figured that in a day or two Murdoch would have come around to where he could admit that the two of them taking two weeks to travel to Boston and back just wouldn’t be a good idea at this time of year.
But the other morning they’d still all been pretending that he and Murdoch would be heading East themselves soon. Scott and Teresa had done nothing but get ready to leave for days it seemed, so it should have been easy enough to say good-bye. Instead they’d all been standing around in front of the hacienda, as if they didn’t know what to say. He and Scott had been talking together about nothing much. Murdoch had been squeezing Teresa for all she was worth, forcing some more spending money on her, then hugging her again. Johnny had just been about to offer to ride Brunswick from time to time, when Teresa had come bouncing over to throw her arms about his neck and announce that she was going to miss him very much. He’d swung her around a bit, just catching a glimpse of Scott ducking his head to hide a knowing grin, and then his brother had moved off to shake hands with Murdoch. Johnny set Teresa down, and she’d followed his gaze as he watched Scott walk away.
“I’m sorry, did I interrupt you?”
“Nah, it’s okay, Querida, he just thinks . . . ” Johnny had stopped himself. “You won’t have time to miss me, you’ll be too busy seein’ the other half of the country.”
“We’ll be seeing it together.”
“Maybe. Me and Murdoch might get held up here . . . you know that.” Teresa had looked unhappy, but not entirely surprised by the prospect. “We do, you’re gonna have ta take care of Scott.”
“Oh, I will,” she’d said with a great big smile. Johnny had enfolded her in his arms and whispered in her ear, “You just make sure and bring him back.”
Then he’d pushed her away, spun her around towards the wagon. Scott was waiting there, to help her up onto the seat. Then Scott had offered his hand.
“Take care of yourself, Brother.”
“You too, Boston. See ya when ya get back home.”
Scott paused for a moment, like he was going to say something, then thought better of it and climbed up into the buckboard.
Jelly was driving the two of them into town. Full of self importance, Jelly clucked to the horses and slapped the reins just as soon as Scott was settled, one long black-sleeved arm stretched across the back of the seat. Teresa was sitting up straight in the middle, but it was Scott’s unfamiliar dark hat that Johnny had stood watching, watching until it was out of sight.
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Author’s Note: Will Hayford is an original character created for the story “Betrayal,” written by the ScottLand Queens, Sammi and Sharon. He appears here and in the first story in this series, “Boston, 1870.” The events of “Betrayal” are an alternate reality not part of this story sequence.
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 8.
“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
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“Murdoch didn’t send for me.”
It was a simple statement, uttered in a calm voice, the words flat and strictly factual. Although Scott’s face didn’t reveal any of the emotion that must have accompanied the realization, Teresa was certain that her own keenly felt dismay was openly displayed.
“He would have . . . he wanted to.” Even to her own ears, the words lacked conviction.
“He didn’t.”
Scott looked away then, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the back of the empty seat in front of them. Although he made no other movement, Teresa still kept a restraining hand on his arm, as if she expected Scott to bolt.
But she would have been surprised if he had. Scott had no less of a temper than the other Lancer men, but he had rarely been the one to be carried off by his anger, to stalk out of the room or to jump on a horse and ride away. Instead, Scott would stand his ground, attempt to contain his ire and rationally present his case. So there was probably no need to hold him in place, but still, that light touch kept them connected as she struggled to find the words that might help Scott understand how it had all come about, and, most importantly, somehow make him believe that Murdoch had always cared.
Their conversation had started innocently enough, when she’d asked Scott about his westward journey two years ago— how long it had taken him to travel from Boston. They’d reboarded the train after an early morning stop for breakfast in Elko and were sitting in one of the sleeping cars, now reconfigured for daytime use. In response to her question, Scott had told her that he’d actually started his trip in St. Louis, something he hadn’t ever mentioned before.
Seeming faintly embarrassed when she’d asked the reason, Scott had explained that his grandfather had sent him there on business, something that had come up suddenly, the morning after he’d encountered the Pinkerton agent Murdoch had hired. Scott also told her that he hadn’t even had an opportunity to tell his grandfather about the invitation to California before he’d left Boston, let alone decided whether or not to accept it.
“I almost didn’t come,” he’d admitted.
“Why not?”
Scott had leaned back in his seat and taken some time to consider his answer. “The agent, Lawby, he told me that . . . my father wanted to see me . . . but there was no personal communication. Just an offer of money.”
He’d that last part tightly, and Teresa had seen the disappointment in his eyes. Scott had mentioned his meeting with the Pinkerton man before, during one of their drives into town together soon after he and Johnny had arrived. She’d been more careful then, said very little and asked no questions.
But now the note of regret in Scott’s voice compelled her to reach out to him.
“We were all so afraid you wouldn’t come.”
“All?”
She’d slipped, and he’d picked up on it.
“Well, Murdoch and I . . .” She’d felt her face flushing. “And . . . Sam.”
“Doctor Jenkins?”
“Ye-es. Dr. Jenkins. He and . . . Daddy . . . and Cleve Anderson, too, all of Murdoch’s friends, they’d been trying for years to convince him to write to you.”
Scott had considered that for a moment, before he nodded. “And then Murdoch almost died.”
“Yes.”
Scott had covered her hand with his own then, knowing that she’d be remembering that terrible time, when Daddy had been killed and she’d almost lost Murdoch—he’d been “Mr. Lancer” then---as well. She swallowed hard, and tried not to think about her father and how very much she still missed him. Instead, she attempted to offer some reassurance to Scott.
“Scott, when they brought Murdoch home, he. . . he could barely talk. But he made me promise to send for you right away if . . if he didn’t make it. He told me to have Sam get in touch with the Pinkerton Agency, and where to find the money to hire ---”
“He did make it.”
“But we weren’t sure that he would,” she’d said tremulously, recalling that desperate period. “Murdoch was so very weak, he’d lost so much blood . . . then he developed a terrible fever, he didn’t even know what was happening . . .”
She’d seen her danger then, in the lift of Scott’s brow.
“So Sam decided to take matters into his own hands?” Scott had asked quietly, his serious blue-grey eyes locked onto her face as his hand slipped away from hers. Teresa stared back at him and clutched at the dark fabric of his jacket sleeve.
He must have seen his answer in her eyes, and before she could respond, Scott had come to his own conclusion.
“Murdoch didn’t send for me.”
And then he’d firmly turned aside her feeble protests as to what Murdoch had surely intended to do, someday. She’d willed herself not to tighten her grip as she wondered how she could possibly explain Murdoch Lancer to his son.
“Teresa,” Scott said forcefully as he turned back to face her, “Dr. Jenkins shou—”
“Scott—Scott, please . . . please don’t think badly of Sam. He . . . I . . . I told him that Murdoch wanted us to send for you, right away.”
“You l---?”
Scott stopped, pressing his lips firmly together, and lowered his head for a moment. His eyelids fluttered closed, opening again as he looked up, facing resolutely away from her once more.
“But that wasn’t true,” he said softly, instead.
There was no accusation in the words. Just another simple statement of fact.
“No, no it wasn’t. I did lie--–I lied to Sam. But, Scott—you came. And . . . and, I’m not sorry about that.”
He regarded her then, considering carefully. “Neither am I, Teresa,” Scott said finally, as he gently removed her hand from his arm. There was a silence and she waited anxiously for what he might say next. “Neither am I. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” Murmuring something about stretching his legs, maybe getting some air, Scott rose from his seat, and then he was gone.
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<<Murdoch didn’t send for me.>>
Scott had made his way up to the observation car, and then, walking against the forward motion of the train, past the few bundled occupants, took a seat at the far end.
<<He didn’t.>> The words repeated themselves in an endless refrain, keeping rhythm with the wheels of the train.
It had been Teresa who’d made the decision. Dr. Sam Jenkins who had hired the agent. One or both of them had decided upon the message to send, such as it was. Murdoch Lancer, hovering between life and death, hadn’t known anything about it.
It all made sense. If Murdoch had sent for him, if his father had really wanted him to come, then surely the communication would not have been so cold and impersonal. There’d been no note, nothing at all in writing, simply a Pinkerton man stepping out of the shrubbery beneath Barbara Otis’ balcony to issue a blunt announcement.
<<“Your father wants to see you.”>>
That’s what the agent had said, and it had been that line forming the refrain that had echoed through Scott’s head that evening. He’d been startled to hear the name Murdoch Lancer, then angered to receive what amounted to an imperious summons from a man he’d never met.
There’d also been the offer of money, travel expenses and “one thousand dollars for one hour of your time.” A bribe, no less. As if he would simply overlook twenty-four years of silence, if only the price was right.
<<“Your father wants to see you.”>>
Surely Murdoch would have phrased it differently.
If it had been true.
Scott crossed his arms over his chest, pulling his jacket closer. He had no hat to protect his head, but at least his short hair was little disturbed by the wind. It was quite cool, up in the open rooftop deck, though for now his emotions warmed him. Oblivious to the magnificent mountain views, he remained lost in his own thoughts.
There really shouldn’t have been any need to hire an agent to find him; it wasn’t as if he’d actually been “lost.” For most of his life, Scott had been right there at his grandfather’s house in Boston, right where Murdoch Lancer had left him. His father had waited until Scott was five years old before he’d ever ventured back East. He couldn’t have stayed very long. Then . . . nothing.
Even if Murdoch Lancer had made a considered decision that his son was better off being raised in another place, by another man, surely he could have written. But he’d chosen not to. Scott had never received a single letter from California.
And now Scott understood that Murdoch hadn’t intended for him to receive that summons, either. Not even when the ranch was imperiled. Not even when faced with the possibility of his own death. If Murdoch Lancer had had his way, the only communication Scott would have received would have been the one bearing the news of his father’s passing.
<<Murdoch didn’t send for me.>>
Well, that explained a lot of things, in addition to the impersonal nature of the message relayed by the agent. It explained why it had been Teresa and a couple of ranch hands waiting to meet the stage, rather than Murdoch himself. It explained why his father had seemed so angry, almost hostile, rather than welcoming.
<<“You’ll get no apologies from me!”>>
That had been Murdoch’s angry retort, when Scott had murmured some polite lie about there being no need to apologize.
Murdoch had seemed to be addressing both of his sons, but there had been other points during that initial meeting when Scott had felt excluded from the conversation entirely. He’d realized that he would have been the one they’d expected to be on the stage, that it was Johnny who had been the surprise—to himself most of all. But it made sense that Murdoch would have assumed that Johnny, the gunfighter, would be the greater asset in the battle against Pardee and his “land pirates”, and therefore had focused his attention upon the younger man. It had only been after the fighting was over that Scott had seen the short report Agent Lawby had written, which mentioned his time as a cavalry officer during the War—and very little else.
Scott had wondered about that—had Murdoch known about his military service prior to issuing the invitation? Well, now he knew the answer, he thought bitterly.
Had Johnny’s timely appearance also been due to Teresa and the good doctor as well, he wondered? Based upon the larger number of detailed Pinkerton reports on Johnny, Scott had deduced that the agents had been working on the case for years. If his brother’s “invitation” had been a standing one, perhaps Sam and Teresa had simply decided to make Scott the same offer.
Murdoch had spent considerable time with Johnny, while his younger son was recuperating from his bullet wound. Scott had guessed that the two of them must have talked and somehow reconciled their two different versions of the circumstances surrounding Maria Lancer’s departure from the ranch.
But as to his own history . . . Murdoch had never volunteered any additional information at all. There had never been any excuses, or explanations, for his years of silence--- not during the initial meeting, not afterwards.
<< “I left you in their care. Period.”>>
And that’s where Murdoch had left things.
As he’d come to know the man, Scott had dared to hope there might be more to the story than that final punctuation point. He believed that Murdoch did care about him and that his father harbored some regret about the lost years. Though evidently he remained unwilling to admit it.
To be scrupulously honest, Scott had to admit that he had allowed that “period” to stand. He’d deliberately banked his burning questions, leaving them to smolder, until the time of his grandfather’s ill-fated visit. Actually, it had been his conversation with Julie that had stirred the fire, and still---and still, it had been so very difficult to ask.
And then the man had refused to answer.
Faced with his brother’s example, the knowledge that Johnny’s mother had lied to her son about Murdoch, Scott couldn’t help but wonder about growing up hearing only his grandfather’s view of events---not that Grandfather had ever been especially forthcoming about the past. In each of the first several letters that had arrived at Lancer, Grandfather had carefully inquired as to what Murdoch had told him and urged Scott not to be taken in by “some sordid version of the truth.” Well, he needn’t have worried, Scott thought bitterly.
No doubt Harlan Garrett would have revealed more details of his own, had he known about the summons to California. However, he hadn’t learned of it until Scott was already on his way West.
On the evening of the encounter with the agent, Scott had stopped by the Hayfords’, and shared the news with Will. By the time Scott had returned to his grandfather’s house, the elderly man had already retired for the night. Scott had overslept the next morning, missing Grandfather at breakfast. He had decided to pay a call upon Agent Lawby before going to work that day.
If the agent had been surprised to see him, the man had covered it well. George Lawby had explained how the costs of travel would be handled, if Scott decided to go West. But he was unable to provide any other facts about Murdoch Lancer or the reason for his communication. The Pinkerton man had explained that he could not have shared any details about a client unless authorized, but in this case, he simply had no additional information. He himself had never had contact with Murdoch Lancer, having been wired the assignment by an agent in California.
Agent Lawby had also told Scott that he would be sending word later that day that his task had been completed. And he’d asked if Scott wished him to relay a response.
The previous evening, Scott had been certain that his answer would be a firm “no,” but that morning, he’d hesitated. He knew he would still categorically reject the “one thousand dollars for one hour of your time.” But even if he still refused to travel across the country, he thought he might like to frame his own succinct reply.
“I could say that you’re still . . . considering.”
Scott had gratefully acceded to that diplomatic suggestion. Had the agent pushed him, he most likely would have reverted to a simple “no.”
Upon his arrival at the office, Scott had immediately been summoned to a private audience with his grandfather. He’d assumed he’d have to offer an apology and account for his late appearance, but he’d intended to tell his grandfather about the “invitation” right away, anyway.
He hadn’t had the opportunity. Scott hadn’t had the opportunity to say much at all during the highly embarrassing interview. For, as it had turned out, an angry Harlan Garrett had already had his own very upsetting encounter with an even angrier Harrison Otis.
“In the man’s own home? In the girl’s bed chamber, Scotty?!”
Immediately following the conclusion of the brief, mostly one-sided conversation—what after all, could he say?----Scott had returned home to pack for his departure for St. Louis. He was being sent there to conduct “business” which could have easily been handled with a few telegrams or letters. It would take far longer to travel to Missouri and back than it would to do any of the work, even if it took time to schedule the meetings. Grandfather had made it very clear that Scott should plan to spend a few additional days beyond what was necessary in St. Louis. As humiliating as it was to be so summarily “packed off,” Scott had to admit he had no burning desire to face Mr. Otis’ wrath. Prudently, he’d filled his bags as if he might possibly continue on to California.
So Harlan Garrett had never had a chance to try to dissuade Scott from undertaking the journey to Lancer, since he’d only been informed of it in a lengthy letter-- which he could not have received until Scott was already nearing his destination.
Unquestionably, Grandfather would have strenuously argued against Scott accepting Murdoch Lancer’s “invitation,” no doubt emphasizing the insult inherent in the offer of money. Scott could not have disagreed. His grandfather might also have raised questions about the timing of the summons as well, again, paralleling Scott’s own line of thought.
But had he known that Scott was going west, surely Grandfather would have told him about Murdoch’s journey east. Reading between the lines of those first letters to California, that now appeared to have been the elderly man’s chief concern, that Scott had heard all about that visit from Murdoch Lancer.
However, it had been Senora Maria who sat him down at the kitchen table and hesitatingly informed Scott that his father had once made a trip to Boston. It hadn’t been until Grandfather and Julie were actually at the ranch that Scott had finally asked Murdoch the direct question “Why didn’t you ever come to claim me?” And since Murdoch had kept silent about his brief sojourn, it had, after all, fallen to Grandfather to describe the event, while Scott was driving to meet the stage for the elderly man’s own lonely journey back home to Boston.
Scott had never asked Murdoch “Why did you send for me?” though he’d wondered about that, during the many idle hours in St. Louis. He had been certain then that if he rejected the summons to California, there would be no further messages, let alone repeated invitations. Since the timing of the long awaited communication from his unknown father hadn’t coincided with any significant event in Scott’s own life, he had assumed it was prompted by a change in circumstances for Murdoch Lancer. It had certainly occurred to Scott that the older man might be seriously ill or injured. Which meant that if he passed up the opportunity to confront his estranged father, there might never be another.
So, instead of returning to Boston, Scott had traveled West. Upon his arrival, Teresa had revealed that Murdoch Lancer had in fact been shot, the wound had been serious and her own father, Murdoch’s good friend and the ranch foreman had been killed. In addition to perhaps recognizing his own mortality, Murdoch Lancer had clearly wanted help. He’d needed, not sons, but first and foremost men who could help him defend his land. How had he phrased it? He’d wanted their legs, their arms, “their guts”—if they had any. Murdoch had offered each of his sons a one-third share of Lancer, not on the strength of the blood ties between them, but on the stated condition that they first help him hold onto the ranch. The answer to at least one unasked question, “Why did you send for me?” had appeared to be sadly evident.
It had simply never occurred to Scott to inquire if his father had, in fact, actually sent for him at all.
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 9.
“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
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“He won’t come.”
Murdoch had been so certain. But he’d been wrong, wrong about Scott. He had come.
And Murdoch had been grateful.
Her guardian had never been a particularly demonstrative man, but Teresa could recall standing beside him, his arm about her shoulders, as they watched Scott work with a horse in the corral one bright morning, not long after his two sons had come home. Murdoch had given her a sudden squeeze and whispered “Thank you, Darling.”
They had both known what he meant. If she hadn’t convinced Dr. Jenkins to hire the agent to contact Scott in Boston, Murdoch would never have had both of his boys at the ranch.
He’d been so utterly certain that Scott would reject the unexpected invitation from the father he’d never known, be insulted by the offer of money. Murdoch had, in fact, assured her that the young man probably wouldn’t even bother to respond to the message at all, “not if he has any pride.”
Teresa sighed. It certainly wouldn’t help matters to tell Scott that. Or to let him know that after learning of the contact initiated by the Pinkerton agent, his father had sat down at his big desk with the announced intention of writing a letter to his elder son, “explaining things once and for all.” But nothing had ever been produced—at least nothing that Murdoch had been willing to sign and place inside an envelope.
The truth was that Murdoch might not ever have sent a message of his own.
Murdoch had had agents searching for Johnny for a very long time, Teresa knew that, and, she was certain, so did Scott. Murdoch had always known right where Scott was and the contrast was troubling. But surely Scott had to realize how much it meant to Murdoch that his two sons had come to the ranch, and that they had decided to stay. Both of them.
Anyone could see how very proud Murdoch was of Scott, whenever he introduced him to his friends or other members of the Cattleman’s Association. Significantly, Murdoch had relinquished to Scott a great deal of responsibility over the ranch finances, had quickly allowed him to negotiate contracts entirely on his own. And the two of them had seemed to get along so well, almost from the very start. Of course, Scott seemed able to get along well with almost everyone.
It was quite apparent, however, that Scott and Murdoch had never talked about the circumstances surrounding Scott’s summons to the ranch. Teresa couldn’t help but wonder what else they hadn’t ever discussed.
”Murdoch didn’t send for me.”
She kept hearing Scott’s voice, uttering those words. Each repetition evoked a sick, empty feeling, deep in the pit of her stomach. Despite the flat tone, she knew the realization had hurt him and she hated that, blamed herself for it.
Yesterday, Teresa had simply been enjoying the train trip, and had been especially fascinated by the changing scenery. Now, she sat staring dejectedly out the window, oblivious to the passing countryside, thinking only about what she was going to say to Scott when he returned. No matter how terrible she felt, she did know Scott well enough to be confident that he wouldn’t hold her revelation against her, nor would he resent her for not having told him sooner. No, the question now was how could she possibly convince Scott that his father had truly wanted him to come to Lancer? It didn’t help that she was unable to point to any actions on Murdoch’s part which might serve as evidence.
Teresa had never understood why Scott had been raised by his grandfather, or, more importantly, why her guardian had never communicated with his son, but Murdoch Lancer was a good man and there had to be a reason. Daddy had said that there had been some conflict between Murdoch and his former father-in-law. It certainly hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice that, prior to Mr. Garrett’s visit, Murdoch had been in a horrible mood, angry and irritable.
Then again, it could possibly have escaped Scott’s notice, since he had been the opposite, cheerful and more talkative than usual, his conversation uncharacteristically punctuated with references to his life in Boston. Scott had also willingly shared his plans about all he hoped to show his grandfather during his stay, including a trip to Sacramento and perhaps even to San Francisco as well.
Well, Julie’s unexpected arrival had certainly altered those plans, since instead of entertaining his grandfather, Scott had instead spent most of his time alone with her. Then, a few days after Mr. Garret’s arrival, Scott had bluntly informed them that he would be leaving, going back to Boston. His Julie had disappeared, not that anyone had noticed right away, not in the shock of Scott’s announcement. It had all happened so suddenly, it hadn’t seemed real, standing in front of the hacienda the next morning, watching Scott load his traveling cases into the wagon and willing herself not to cry. Teresa had assumed that Julie was the cause; that Scott was abandoning them to be with her.
“You got along all right without me before, you'll do just fine from now on.”
Scott had said that, as if he didn’t think they’d care if he left. But he couldn’t have believed it. He couldn’t have. It wouldn’t have been true.
But no one had tried to stop him that morning. When Scott had said they could visit him, in Boston, it had been clear that no one expected that might actually happen, you could tell from the way the words had hung in the air, the way none of them would look at each other. Someone had said that Boston was far away. It had seemed that if Scott left, if he returned to his old life, they were all supposed to go on as if he’d never even been at Lancer.
But they couldn’t ever have done that. No, they wouldn’t have been “fine” at all.
Later that day, she’d heard riders, and a buckboard, and had hurried to the door. They’d brought Scott home, lying in the back of the wagon, and she’d felt panic at the sight of the thick bandage wrapped about his head. A bullet wound, just a graze, but a hair’s breadth more and he would have been dead, lost to them forever. Scott had smiled wanly at her, then insisted on struggling to his feet and walking carefully through the front entrance---- though he’d accepted Johnny’s help up the staircase. Mr. Garrett had just stood there, watching them. The man had appeared to be in shock, and Teresa had steered him into the Great Room, helped him to a seat and poured him a drink. It had only been later that she’d understood that it had been due to Mr. Garrett that Scott had been in danger and that his grandfather had somehow tried to force Scott to return to Boston.
Yet, when she’d checked on Scott a while later, his first question had been about Mr. Garrett, wanting to know if he was all right. It shouldn’t have been surprising. If Scott could show compassion to people like the Cassidys then surely he could forgive his own grandfather.
There was no doubt that no matter what he’d done, Scott still loved his grandfather very much, and had been deeply affected by his death. Well, Daddy had been stubborn and wrongheaded sometimes, and Murdoch too. They’d both lied to her about her mother. They’d each done other things over the years that had made her angry, but because she loved them and knew that they loved her, she’d been able to forgive them.
She wasn’t sure if she would ever be able to forgive her mother though. Scott had pointed out that she and Angel lacked a history, and that made things more difficult.
Well, Scott and Murdoch certainly lacked a history as well, but despite that, Scott must have forgiven Murdoch for all those years apart; he would never have agreed to stay otherwise. But then again, Scott had naturally assumed that it had been Murdoch himself who had finally broken that lifetime of silence and decided to send word to his son.
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The train stopped in Ogden, a bit later than usual for the mid-day meal, but Scott still hadn’t returned. The grey-uniformed conductor announced that they would have almost two hours, since the train was picking up additional cars. Teresa knew that when he had secured their tickets, Mr. Hayford had reserved one of the drawing rooms that would be on the Pullman parlor cars being added at Ogden.
Apparently the drawing rooms had sofas and chairs, windows and curtains and every two drawing rooms shared a wash closet in between. The sofas and chairs in each room could be made up as beds. Unfortunately, Mr. Hayford had been unable to secure two such rooms; since it would not be proper for both of them to sleep in the same compartment, Scott would still use one of the narrow berths on an adjoining sleeping car at night. But Scott had explained that all of their luggage would be stored in the drawing room, and that they would share use of the comfortable and private space during the day.
She also understood that from here on, the journey would proceed more quickly, because several dining cars were also being added to the train, and it would no longer be necessary to make prolonged stops to allow the passengers to disembark for their meals. In three days, the train would pass through St. Louis, and early on the third day after that, they would arrive in Boston. The route would take them through many large cities, including Chicago and New York. Understandably, Scott was anxious to arrive in Boston as soon as possible, but he had suggested that they might stop off to see some other places on the return trip.
Most of the other passengers had left the car, and Teresa was about to reluctantly follow them when Scott finally reappeared. He looked cold, his cheeks and the tip of his nose had a rosy hue and his hair was ruffled. He smelled of fresh air.
“Are you ready for lunch?” he asked. “I understand the Ogden Eating House comes highly recommended.”
“And then we’ll have our ‘drawing room’ when we get back on the train?”
“We should.”
As they moved towards the door of the car, Teresa turned back to study Scott once more. As usual, his expression gave nothing away; it was as if their previous conversation had not ever taken place.
“Have you been up in the observation car, Scott?”
“Yes. We could go up there this afternoon, if you’d like.”
She ventured a smile, reaching up and touching the back of her hand to his reddened cheek and shivered.
“We might have to dress a bit more warmly,” Scott admitted. “But the mountain air is very nice.”
Throughout the meal, at Utah’s well-advertised Odgen Eating House, Scott was pleasant and relaxed, conversing easily with the other passengers seated at the same large table. His attire, and particularly the crepe armband, continued to garner polite inquiries. The revelation of their final destination would inevitably lead to conversation about people and places in the city of Boston. Teresa would listen intently to all that was said, storing up information as well as questions of her own.
When they reboarded the train, the conductor personally escorted them to their sitting room in the newly added Pullman parlor car. Having studied some of the advertisements posted in the Sacramento train station, Teresa knew that there were very few such rooms on any one train, and that the cost of having the use of one for the remainder of their trip would be well over fifty dollars. One of the porters had already placed their traveling cases inside and Scott’s book even lay waiting for him on the seat of one of the cushioned chairs. The drawing room was almost as wide as the car itself; there was only a narrow passage-way outside for those walking through to the rest of the car. There were wooden blinds as well as curtains at the windows, several looking glasses hanging on the wall, more books on shelves and even a small writing desk.
The conductor showed Teresa the dressing closet and demonstrated how to bolt the two doors of the adjoining drawing rooms in order to insure privacy. He smiled at her questions about how a bed might be made up from the chairs, and said that the porter would work that magic in the evening, whenever she decided she was ready to retire. Meanwhile, Scott after removing from one of his valises some writing paper, pen and ink, had placed the items on the small desk.
Once the conductor had departed, Scott removed his jacket, loosened his string tie and unfastened the topmost button of his shirt. But, instead of sitting down at the desk, he took up his book and stretched out on the small sofa. Looking up and seeing her still standing in the middle of the drawing room, he mildly suggested that she might wish to unpack a few of her own things and “settle in.”
As she moved quietly about the small space, Teresa couldn’t help sending worried glances towards Scott’s serious profile. Scott appeared to be completely absorbed in his reading; it was something about Napoleon, she’d noticed the title back on the stage. While Scott’s hair was still shorter than she was accustomed to seeing, it had lost its new-cut edge. Still, he seemed more exposed somehow, without the longer, softer length to frame his face.
She’d brought along some needlework to occupy herself on the train. She knew she could just sit down with it and they would probably spend the next few hours in companionable silence.
If anything more was going to be said, she was going to have to say it.
“Scott . . . I’m sorry.”
He looked up, reluctantly, she thought. “For telling me.”
Teresa nodded. “Or for—--for not telling you sooner.”
“I never asked.”
Scott slowly sat up, still holding his open book in his hands. He fixed his soft blue-grey gaze upon her. “Teresa, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”
It was exactly what she’d expected him to say, but that gaze drew her nearer, and she moved to sit in the chair facing his sofa.
“Scott, does it really matter who sent the agent?” The poorly chosen words came out in a rush, and she didn’t need to catch the glimmer of disappointment in those eyes to realize just how foolish the question seemed. Of course it mattered.
Scott looked down, but she could still see the slight lift to one edge of his mouth. He closed the book carefully, using one long finger to hold his place. “I would have preferred it to have been Murdoch.”
“I’m sure he would have been wiser about what message to send.”
Scott glanced up then, eyebrows raised. “If he’d sent one at all.”
Teresa found that she could no longer meet his eyes, and stared instead at the needlework she was holding in her lap. Scott rose to his feet, and after two quick steps, his next words came from behind her.
“Teresa, we don’t have to talk about this.”
She quickly turned in her seat. “But Scott . . . I want you to understand him. Try to, at least. Please.”
It took a moment for him to answer. “All right.” Scott tossed his heavy book onto the seat of the other chair, folded his arms across his chest and stood there a moment, studying her. “Tell me, then, what did Murdoch say, when he learned what Dr. Jenkins had done?”
She hesitated, but he wasn’t going to allow it. “The truth, Teresa.”
The words were hard, but when she looked up, searching his face, those eyes were still soft. Not that she could have lied to him anyway.
“It was what I asked Sam to do, Scott. You mustn’t blame him for believing me. And I didn’t tell Murdoch anything, not right away. He was so very ill . . . And Sam didn’t think . . . he just didn’t think you’d come. So, there wasn’t any reason to say anything to Murdoch.”
“Right. No need to upset him.” Uncharacteristically, Scott flushed a bit, and looked as if he wished the bitter words back almost as soon as he’d uttered them. He moved further away, and took up a leaning position near the window, his arms still folded across his chest.
“There was no need to get his hopes up,” she said firmly. “Not until we knew . . .”
Teresa carefully set her needlework aside and slowly stood, considering just where to begin. “One day, there was a wire, from the Pinkerton Agent, saying that he’d spoken with you. I opened it, but since it didn’t say if you were coming or not, I still didn’t tell Murdoch anything.”
Scott’s profile didn’t change; his lips remained pressed together, his eyes apparently focused on something outside.
“Then, a packet arrived. It must have been over a week later, because it was soon after Dr. Jenkins had given Murdoch permission to get out of bed. Murdoch opened it. It was a report, from the Agent.”
Scott turned his head slightly. “I’ve read it.” His tone was dismissive.
“So did your father. Over and over again.”
Teresa stepped closer. “Scott. I know it didn’t say much, but it . . it meant so very much to him to finally learn something about you. And . . . and Murdoch wasn’t angry when I explained what we’d done.”
Scott turned to face her then, leaning back against the wall beside the window, his expression skeptical.
“He wasn’t. But Murdoch . . . agreed with Sam. He didn’t think the message would be enough, not to make you travel so far. And . . . and he thought that the money . . . that you didn’t need it and that it would seem like---”
“A bribe.”
She nodded.
“He didn’t think you’d come. Or even send a reply. But he sat down and started to write you a letter. He worked on it and he worked on it and then, then there was another wire. The one that told us you were coming.”
Scott lowered his head, waiting.
“He was glad Scott. Murdoch shouted for me as soon as he opened it, and he read it to me. He was happy. He said . . . he said he knew you wouldn’t want the money.”
Scott didn’t look up. “What else did he say?”
There was something about the downward gaze, and the pause before the careful question. Gazing at the bowed blond head, Teresa felt at that moment that she would willingly have revealed any and all of Murdoch Lancer’s secrets to Scott, if she only knew them. She crossed the room and shared without hesitation the only one she had.
“He was afraid, Scott. He said . . . he didn’t know how he could face you.”
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Author’s note: please credit documents on the CPRR website for information on traveling across country and descriptions of the railroad cars. There is truly a wealth of information to be found there. http://cprr.org/Museum/index.html#Read
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