Sorry for the lengthy lead in. ‘Nuff said. I haven’t written or posted fanfic of any kind since 2001, so feedback and comments are welcome (heck, they’re encouraged! <vbg>) at CMOrtenz@aol.com.

The town of Morro Coyo was growing, but it was still a hamlet compared to the sprawling streets of Virginia City. Joe Cartwright shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, coming off three days of riding. Along with Shey Cutter, he had taken a stage deep into southern California, purchasing horses only yesterday for the final leg of their journey. Desert country and arid terrain had left both men looking forward to a stop at the local saloon.

"There—" Shey Cutter pointed to a cantina at the end of the street. "Whatever you gotta say to this eastern popinjay Lancer, it can wait ‘til we wash down the trail dust with some beer."

Joe tugged on the reins of his fidgety gray, guiding it in the direction Shey indicated. Even he had to admit a beer sounded good. "I’m not looking for a fight, Shey," he tried to explain, thinking of Lancer.

His friend snorted. "So we rode all this way just so you could have a quiltin’ social with Scott Lancer? Slap him on the back, tell him what a pal he is and compare notes on the venerated Queen Witch?"

Joe cocked an eyebrow. "Queen Witch?"

Since becoming friends with Shey Cutter, he’d frequently had to overlook the cavalier rancher’s barbed remarks. Never one for patience, Joe’s own explosive personality meant the two were often at odds, bickering as routinely as they joked with one another.

"Sorry, Cartwright." Shey drew rein before the cantina and doffed his hat, lacing grimy fingers through his straight blond hair. "You know how I feel about your uppity goddess." He swung down from his sorrel with a theatrical groan and made a showy performance of stretching. "It’s been a hell of a long trip just to grin politely at Mr. Uppercrust Lancer. Ain’t I even gonna get to rattle the pasty-skinned fop a little?"

Joe suppressed a smile. It wouldn’t do to let Shey know he secretly enjoyed his belittling descriptions of Scott Lancer. Any man who was born and raised in the east like Lancer, had to be out of his element on a cattle ranch. Joe knew Lancer was college educated, accustomed to society galas and hobnobbing with blue-blooded gentry. Lorna David had made that perfectly clear. What she hadn’t told him was anything significant about the man’s character, so he’d built his own mental image. Joe envisioned Lancer at roughly thirty-five to forty years of age with the inbred conceit and lily-white ethics of fearing to dirty his hands through manual labor. If anyone was going to rattle the "pasty-skinned fop" it was going to be him.

"Pa wants me to look at horses," Joe explained, tethering his own to the hitching post. Behind him the streets of Morro Coyo were mostly bare, an occasional passer-by stopping to spare a curious glance. The noontime sun blazed white and hot, bleaching ground and buildings with a chalk-like haze. Rolling hills fused with rockier terrain beyond the rim of town, creating ridges and scaly outcroppings, dotted with explosions of greenery.

"Horses, huh?" Shey sent Joe a pointed glance across his saddle. "Ain’t you just a tad uncomfortable with what you told your Pa?"

Joe scowled. He hadn’t truly deceived Ben, he just hadn’t been completely honest. If he’d told his father the truth—that he’d promised Lorna David he’d locate Scott Lancer and warn him about Amherst Filmore’s hired killers—he didn’t think Ben would have been inclined to let him go. Lancer was Joe’s rival for Lorna’s affections, and even though Lorna had made it clear Scott didn’t love her, Joe still saw the displaced easterner as a stumbling block in his relationship with the older woman. Thus he’d simply told Ben he needed some time to himself to sort out his feelings and was planning a trip to southern California.

It was Ben who’d asked him to tie in Ponderosa business. Months earlier while in Sacramento, Ben had met a prominent rancher with a spread to rival the Ponderosa. Murdoch Lancer had the largest cattle ranch in southern California, complete with the addition of some good breeding stock. It had taken all of Joe’s control not to gape when Ben had mentioned the name "Lancer." Somehow he’d stumbled through an appropriate response when asked to look over Murdoch’s horses. Thus he was now placed in the sticky situation of confronting Scott Lancer while conducting business for Ben. Throw in Shey Cutter who was as unpredictable as summer snow and Joe had his hands full.

He tilted his head toward the cantina. "I don’t wanna think about what I told my Pa, or why I’m here. Let’s just get a drink, huh, Boss?"

"Ain’t no argument from me, Joseph." With a devil-may-care grin, Shey stepped onto the dusty boardwalk and followed his friend into the cantina.

+++++

"Murdoch’s going to have our hides for this." Scott Lancer sent his brother an arch stare from beneath the brim of his dun-colored hat. The normally responsible voice inside his head told him he and Johnny should be back up on the north ridge, clearing brush and repairing the fence line damaged in last night’s storm. But being immersed in clinging dirt, snarled tree limbs and prickly overgrowth since sunup had left him receptive to Johnny’s suggestion of a side trip to town and a quick stop at the cantina.

"As long as we get that brush cleared by sundown, it’s not gonna matter," Johnny told him. "Lighten up, big brother. As ragged as you look, I know you gotta be as thirsty as I am."

Scott glanced down at his clothing. His brown pants were caked with dried mud, and his blue shirt—crisp and clean only that morning—was streaked with grime and stained by perspiration. The raw kiss of the sun did nothing to ease the sweat soaking into the dark blond hair at the back of his neck or the stickiness collecting in his long bangs. Beneath his workgloves, his hands felt sweaty and moist, and he suddenly realized Johnny was right—nothing sounded so good as a cold beer. Maybe once he’d gotten the dust out of his throat, clearing the rest of the mud-bogged brush would be easier.

In the last six months since arriving at Lancer and becoming part owner of the ranch with a brother and father he never knew, Scott had learned to adapt to the long, rigorous hours of western life. Much of it actually felt routine, coming on the heels of the time he’d spent in the Union army as a first Lieutenant, followed by a nightmarish year in a Confederate prison. But conduct and ethics still presented stumbling blocks for him. The code of behavior was different in the west, a drastic change for a man who’d been educated at Harvard and raised by one of the most prominent citizens in Boston. And while he’d always been a crack shot with a rifle, the weight of a gunbelt on his hip still felt awkward. Johnny said he was "passing fair" with a six-shooter, but ranked him as the deadliest shot he’d ever seen with a long gun.

Scott supposed he should take some pleasure in that. Johnny wasn’t a man to compliment lightly. Whereas Scott had lived in luxury all of his life, his brother had eked out a raw existence in string after string of border towns, making a name for himself as a fast-draw and gun-for-hire. In those days he’d been known simply as Johnny Madrid. There were few men brave enough or foolish enough to cross him.

It was an odd combination—eastern-bred college graduate and rough-around-the-edges notorious gunslinger. Scott thought it strange that two men so different in background could bond so quickly and so easily. In the six months since Murdoch had tracked them down and brought them together, Scott had grown exceptionally close to Johnny. At twenty-five he was only three years older, but he often felt protective of his younger brother despite Johnny’s unquestionable skill with a firearm.

Scott dismounted. He dragged a hand across his cheek mopping up sweat, leaving a streak of dirt standing in its place. Tugging his gloves free, he looped them through the back of his belt. "Who’s buying?"

"What’s the matter, Boston? A little light on coin?"

Scott chuckled, good-natured humor dancing in his blue-gray eyes. He’d long grown accustomed to the nickname Johnny had tagged him with shortly after they’d met. His brother’s expression, lightly baiting, slightly amused, brought levity to his voice. "This was your idea. Seems to me it should be your pocket too."

"So that’s what they taught you at that Harvard school—adding up the price of a beer."

Scott held up two fingers. "Two beers," he emphasized. "You aren’t getting off that cheap." He pushed on Johnny’s shoulder, guiding him in the direction of the doors.

Inside the cantina was smoky and dark. Murky light streamed through windows that cried for a good cleaning. A group of wranglers lounged at a table in the rear corner, and a small poker game took place closer to the front. Scott noted two men, both strangers, at the bar. Close in age, they were evenly matched in height and build.

The first was dark-haired with green eyes, finely boned features and a quiet air that exuded confidence. The second was sharper of feature with fair hair, whiskey-brown eyes and a lazy way of standing that suggested inbred cockiness. Scott was immediately reminded of a saying from his college days. When he’d first met his roommate the other man had looked him over, then sighed in relief, proceeding to tell Scott: "I never trust a brown-eyed blond."

Recalling the incident now, Scott suppressed a smile. Both men were young, probably Johnny’s age, and both wore their guns low on their hips in the fashion favored for a fast draw. At his side, he was aware of Johnny quietly measuring the other two. He did it unobtrusively, but Scott had been around him enough to realize there was little he missed. A man who’d survived on wits and reflexes didn’t abandon those habits overnight.

After a moment, Johnny stepped to the bar and ordered two beers. He collected the glasses then joined Scott at the nearest table.

"Not a bad idea for a Wednesday afternoon," Scott said, taking a long drink. He pushed his hat back on his head, slouching a little lower in his chair. The beer wasn’t truly cold, but it was satisfying after a morning of toiling in muck and debris.

His attention shifted to the door as five cowhands crowded inside. From their staggering steps and overly loud voices, Scott guessed all five had already overindulged elsewhere. He knew two of them by name—a bulky red-haired man commonly called Wax Dunner, and his partner, a bearded wrangler who favored sourmash whiskey and the unlikely name of Monk Sunday. Both worked at a neighboring ranch, River Red, and while Scott respected the owner, Orrin Crooker, he’d had less-than-pleasant encounters with both Dunner and Sunday.

Johnny shot him a glance over the top of his beer. "That brush ain’t lookin’ too bad right about now," he muttered.

Frowning, Scott tried to remain neutral. In Boston after the war, he’d routinely frequented gaming houses and bordellos in an effort to silence ghastly memories of his incarceration. His wealth and the respectability of his grandfather’s name had usually made him keep to higher-priced establishments, but he’d encountered enough drunks, swindlers and ruffians to recognize the breed regardless of locale.

He took a slow sip of beer and focused on the two strangers at the bar. As Sunday and his group crowded forward, loudly calling for whiskey, Scott wondered if the other men realized the volatile nature of the wranglers. Newcomers, he’d learned from personal experience, were an ideal target for men who felt like sparring.

With a resigned glance at Johnny, Scott hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

+++++

Joe’s mouth tightened marginally as the group of wranglers gathered around the bar. A red-haired man pounded the surface and bellowed for whiskey. Behind him, his friends guffawed, boisterously urging him on. Joe sent a sideways glance to Shey. He’d been in enough saloons to recognize a potentially dangerous situation at first encounter. All five men were drunk. Not enough to make them clumsy, but enough to turn them mean. Cocky and restless, Shey merely arched a brow and grinned.

Wishing his friend were a trifle less arrogant, Joe gave a slow shake of his head, warning him silent. One insolent remark from Shey and there was sure to be a fight. Collecting his beer glass, Joe moved to the nearest table and sat down.

A big man with a ragged beard followed his movement. With his back to the bar, he propped both elbows behind him and spat a wad of tobacco juice on the floor. "What’s the matter, boy? Don’t like our company?"

"He probably don’t like your stink, Monk," a reedy black-haired man inserted with a toothy grin.

"Shaddup, Hoofer." The man known as Monk spared a withering glare. "I ain’t talkin’ to you." He pushed from the bar and sauntered toward Joe. "I got a real problem with strangers comin’ in here, thumbin’ their noses in the air. And I got an even bigger problem with wet-behind-the-ear schoolboys who should know better’n to stay outta saloons."

Unaffected by the slur, Joe raised one leg and propped his foot against the edge of the nearest chair. He took a slow sip of beer, realizing that ignoring the wrangler probably only infuriated him further. From the corner of his eye he saw Shey still indolently propped by the bar. Despite the slothful air he projected, Joe knew his friend would react with quicksilver precision if it came to a fight. Problem was, Shey Cutter was as unstable as nitroglycerin. With little prompting, the crass rancher could be the cause of an altercation as readily as the solution. If it came to gunplay, five against two was going to leave little room for error.

"Boy, you’re treadin’ a fine line, ignorin’ a man when he’s talkin’ to you." Monk hooked his hands through his belt loops and looked down a fleshy, red-veined nose. "You hear what I’m sayin’?"

With deliberate slowness, Joe set his beer glass on the table. The other wranglers behind Monk were enjoying the show, but there was an underlying tension in their mean-spirited grins. All four, along with their leader, were collectively preparing for a fight. Joe refocused on Monk and raised his head. In the sallow light from the window, his green eyes held a flinty edge. "Kind of hard not to hear a man making a fool of himself."

Monk’s face twisted at the insult, but it wasn’t with the slavering rage Joe expected. Cold grimness settled in the wrangler’s eyes. He took a step forward until only the chair Joe used as a brace separated them. "You got a death-wish, you know that, boy?" Unexpectedly, Monk drew his gun.

He was fast for a big man. Not as fast as Joe, but fast enough that any move to outdraw him would have incited gunplay from his friends. Grinning indulgently, he waved the barrel of his revolver in the direction of the doors. "I think the boys and I’ll jest take you outside and teach you some manners. Maybe use you to decorate a cottonwood."

"I don’t think so, Sunday."

The distinctive click of a revolver drew Joe’s eyes to the left. A tall, lean man rose from his seat at a nearby table. With dark blond hair and sharply chiseled features, he had an authoritative air about him, as though accustomed to the role of command. His clothes were mud-splattered and stained, but the ragged appearance only heightened the dangerous gleam in his silver-blue eyes.

Monk Sunday shot a hostile glance over his shoulder. His eyes shifted from the blond-haired man to another with dark hair, seated at the table. "Madrid you best rein in that fool brother of yours, fore he gets ‘isself kilt."

The man named Madrid rolled his shoulders. He projected the same indifference as Shey, but his nonchalance was deadly rather than cocky. "If I were you, I’d be worrying about whether I plan on joining him."

Deciding it was easier saving his own skin than relying on someone else to do it, Joe took Monk’s distraction in stride. With the big man’s attention diverted elsewhere, he gave a shove to the chair he’d been using as a brace and sent it careening into the other. Springing from his seat, he launched himself at Monk. The big man went down and chaos erupted in the room.

Joe couldn’t really say what happened next. Only that as the four wranglers rushed forward, Shey and the two men at the table joined in the fray. Four against five evened the odds, and with the cowhands from River Red already muddled by alcohol, the fracas was short-lived. Sunday made one attempt to draw down on him, but was dropped by the blond-haired man who struck him unconscious.

"Thanks for your help." Joe grinned at his benefactor. There was nothing like a heated saloon brawl to make you appreciate another man’s skills. In this case, the man looked no older than twenty-five, was just over six feet in height, and had eyes the striking blue-gray of winter skies. Up close Joe noticed threads of ash and gold woven through his straight blond hair. Retrieving two hats from the floor, Joe offered the stranger his.

"It looked like you could use some interference." With a grin, the blond haired man swiped the inside of the sweat-stained brim before settling the hat on his head. He held out his hand. "I’m Scott Lancer."

"You’re Scott Lancer?" Joe stared, stunned. Behind him he heard Shey Cutter cackle uproariously and was tempted to throttle his brash friend.

Uncertain, Scott hedged. "Do I know you?"

Joe knew he probably looked foolish, gaping at a man he’d expected to be near forty, perfumed and pampered. Recovering, he grasped the other’s hand. "No. I—I’m Joe Cartwright."

Shey appeared at his shoulder. Grinning audaciously, he nudged him in the ribs. "Cartwright, I couldn’t enjoy this more if’n you paid me to watch."

"What does that mean?"

Releasing Scott’s hand, Joe looked at the man who’d voiced the question—the one Sunday had called Madrid. An inch or two shorter than Scott with longish dark hair and blue eyes like cracked glass, there was something edgy, even lethal in his demeanor. He looked no older than twenty-two, but his quiet, assertive manner of speaking, coupled with the low ride of his gunbelt, said he was not to be taken lightly.

"This is my brother," Scott explained. "Johnny Lancer."

Joe’s eyes shifted between the two, settling briefly on Johnny. "I thought Sunday called you Madrid."

"Yeah, well—" Johnny gave a soft snort and dragged a thumb beneath his nose. "I don’t go by that name anymore. And you still ain’t answered my question—what’d your friend mean by his comment?"

With a black glance for Shey, Joe thought quickly. "Just that . . . I came here looking for Murdoch Lancer."

Scott’s brows drew together. "Our father? Why?"

"My Pa sent him a telegram. He wants me to look at horses."

The smile flitted around Scott’s lips again. "You’re Joe Cartwright of the Ponderosa." He clapped a hand on Joe’s shoulder. "Murdoch told us about that telegram, but we didn’t think you’d be here for weeks. There didn’t seem to be any urgency."

"No . . . ." It was Joe’s turn to hedge. At his side Shey cleared his throat, providing a diversion. For as often as he wanted to strangle his flippant friend, Shey usually came through in a crunch. "This is Shey Cutter," he spoke quickly, covering his lapse. "He owns the Circle C."

Johnny took quiet measure of the blond rancher before speaking. Even to Joe it was apparent he calculated Shey’s age—twenty-three—against the likelihood of being a sole landholder. "Is that a cattle spread?"

"Second largest in Nevada," Shey said pointedly. "But I ain’t adverse to horesflesh neither."

"That’s quite an accomplishment," Scott inserted evenly. "Considering your age."

Shey’s smile carried the tang of vinegar. "Sort of happens when your folks up and die early on and your brother takes up bounty hunting." He tilted his head and eyed Scott directly. "We heard Murdoch Lancer’s oldest son was some perfumed dandy from back east—"

"Shey," Joe warned.

"—but I’m standing downwind and I can personally vouch there ain’t a tad of anythin’ sweet smellin’ on you."

Scott cast Johnny a sideways glance, appreciating the remark. "We’ve been on the range all day. Where are you two staying?"

"We just got into town." Thankful the conversation reverted to safer ground, Joe breathed easier. Behind him he heard a low moan as one of the wranglers struggled awake.

"We better be leaving Scott," Johnny said quietly to his brother. "Sunday, Dunner and the others are gonna be like hornets when they come outta that sleep."

Scott nodded. He turned toward the door, motioning Joe and Shey to follow. "Since you two haven’t checked into the hotel, you might as well stay at the ranch with us."

It was not what Joe had planned. "I don’t know—"

"Come on, Cartwright." Shey shot him a wretchedly savoring grin. "Why stay in a hotel when our pal Scott’s invitin’ us to his ranch?"

Hanging was definitely too good for Shey Cutter.

Joe scowled, but he agreed nonetheless. "All right." He knew he was making a dreadful mistake. As he started toward the door, falling in at Scott’s side, he felt Johnny’s gaze on his back.

The gunslinger, ever quiet and thoughtful, watched with the disturbingly divining eyes of a man who recognizes trouble.

+++++

Murdoch Lancer reminded Joe of his own father—strong, ethical, respectable. Like Ben, he had built the Lancer ranch through sweat and perseverance, overcoming hardship and staggering odds to craft a cattle empire from untamed land. And like Ben, he was devoted to his sons.

At first Joe thought it odd that both Scott and Johnny called Murdoch by his given name, but as the evening wore on and he learned of the odd circumstances surrounding their family, he began to understand. There was even a girl, Teresa, the daughter of Murdoch’s foreman. When the man died helping Murdoch defend Lancer against land pirates, Murdoch had taken her in as his own, and she had bonded as a sister with Scott and Johnny. Currently visiting a friend in San Francisco, Joe nevertheless heard all about her. It was obvious all three men cherished her dearly, and would throttle any man who so much as looked at her wrong. It made Joe realize how close the Lancers were—a family as loyal to each other as the Cartwrights, even though they’d spent most of their lives apart.

As a result, he couldn’t help feeling a little guilty for prejudging Scott. He was nothing like Joe had originally thought. Respectful and inherently good-natured, Scott was a hard man to dislike. Especially when it became clear he could hold his own in almost every nuance of ranch life.

"Except when it comes to a six-shooter," Johnny inserted. All five men had been talking companionably over dinner, discussing everything from cattle to horses, to the grueling demands of ranching. Ever the sly instigator, Shey had eventually led them into a discussion revolving around Scott’s eastern background and how he was adapting to the rigors of western life.

"He’s about as quick-witted as a catus when it comes to a revolver," Johnny said. He grinned, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he shot Scott an amused glance. "He can rope, ride, and drive cattle, but I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for him to hit anything with a pistol."

Shey sniggered. "Don’t that figure?"

"I’m not that bad," Scott protested with a laugh.

Joe shifted, uncomfortable. If Filmore’s men did come after Scott, what chance would he have going against hired guns? Was it any wonder Lorna had tried to coerce Joe into protecting him?

A hard knot settled in his stomach. As pleasant as Lancer was, Joe still didn’t like the idea of sticking his neck out for him. There was the small matter of Lorna and her attraction for both of them. Yes, Lancer was good-looking, he admitted grudgingly, and damn, if he didn’t have that polished edge about him, even in ranch clothes. And he had come to Joe’s aid in the cantina. But he was too proper, too controlled, not an ounce of recklessness in him from what Joe could see. Besides, what kind of man took up residence in a cow town, without knowing how to use a side iron?

"Aren’t you living a little dangerously?" he asked.

Scott shrugged. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, setting it carefully on the table. "I get by."

Johnny snorted. "Don’t let him fool you. He might be mediocre with a pistol, but he’s a crack shot with a long gun. Put a rifle in his hand, there’s not a man around that can touch him."

Scott quirked an eyebrow. "Are you bragging on me, Brother?"

"Why not? You’re too confounded modest to do it yourself. Unless—" He winked playfully. "You’re trying to impress some girl. Then I wouldn’t be able to shut you up." Johnny braced his arms on the table, leaning forward as if sharing a secret. "Scott’s a lady-killer, gents. He left a string of broken hearts behind him when he came west."

"Johnny," Scott warned tightly.

Joe tensed, soured by the shift in conversation. The last thing he wanted to hear about was Lancer’s conquests. Had the woman Joe loved been nothing more than a passing dalliance for Scott? He clenched his hands beneath the table, the mercurial edge of his temper beginning to stir.

"What do you expect?" Johnny continued, pointedly ignoring Scott’s surly frown. "Scott was a First Lieutenant in the Union Army. Get him all gussied up in a blue uniform and he’s as pretty as a peacock." He laughed, enjoying the teasing at his brother’s expense. "Yes, sirree, our horse solider knows a thing or two about women."

Shey scoffed. "Forget about women. Cartwright’s the same way—bats his eyes and he’s got a string of ‘em clinging to his heels . . . even older ones, and them fancies from back east." He grinned recklessly, clearly up to no good. The references to "older" and "back east" had alarms going off in Joe’s head.

"What we need is a friendly competition," Shey continued. "I say we try our hands tomorrow at target shooting. Long gun, short gun, see who can out shoot who. Cartwright and Scott would be a plum match."

Joe frowned, disturbed to see Shey moving into rattlesnake mode. He decided to rein him in before he did any real damage. "Shey, no one’s in competition."

"Come on, Cartwright, it’ll be fun."

All three Lancers grew unusually quiet. To Joe the silence felt odd, strained and oppressive. His gaze shifted between the three men as he tried to figure out what Shey had said to make them grow uncomfortable.

At last, Scott cleared his throat. "Target shooting is probably not a good idea."

"Ah, come on, Lancer." Shey grinned, thriving in the role of agitator. "Afraid of some friendly competition?"

"I wasn’t thinking of myself." Scott cast a brief, questioning glance at Johnny.

It suddenly struck Joe that Murdoch too was looking at his younger son. For the second time that day Joe concentrated on the deadly stillness that surrounded Johnny Lancer. A stillness that sent cold air creeping up his spine, that told him this man who laughed and joked with his brother, could turn lethal in the blink of an eye. In that quick-silver snap of recognition, Joe abruptly understood the cause for the tension in the room. "That man in the cantina called you Madrid," he said to Johnny. "You have a reputation as a gunfighter." It wasn’t a question, for there was no longer any doubt.

"Maybe." Johnny stared across the table, his gaze steady and direct. He looked nothing like the man who had only recently fondly compared his brother to a cactus. His eyes were flat and bleak, reflecting a hardened edge. "It’s in the past. All of it, including that name. I don’t normally make a show of firing my gun." His eyes shifted to Shey. "Even in a friendly shooting match."

Joe nodded. Gunslingers weren’t prone to advertise their skill. Even though Johnny had taken on the role of respected rancher, he would never lose the instincts that came with his previous life. He was more than just another fast-draw. He’d carved out a name for himself among men who lived by the pistol. Joe almost laughed out loud. If Lorna David had known about Johnny Madrid, she wouldn’t have had to worry about Amherst Filmore. Joe pitied the man who tried to harm Scott Lancer as long as his brother remained alive.

"Well . . . ." He tried to lighten the mood. Later he would rattle Shey for trying to pit him against Scott. "You don’t want to encourage Shey anyway. If you’re not ready to lynch him by the time we leave, it’ll be a miracle. I wanna hang him at least three times a day, myself."

"Cartwright, you’re an ass."

Joe grinned at Johnny, but he tilted his head to indicate Shey. "And this is my closest friend. Up until about a year ago we couldn’t stand the sight of each other. Small wonder, huh?"

All three Lancers laughed. It broke the tension and Joe relaxed. He didn’t want to think about the kind of man Johnny Madrid had been, about what a man like that might do to anyone fool enough to harm his brother. And he didn’t want to think about Scott Lancer. About how he’d probably led Lorna on a string, fully aware she was falling in love with him.

He frowned, watching Scott. Did Lorna have a weakness for younger men? Scott was a good eight years younger than her, but he was also college educated like Adam, another man Lorna had been in a relationship with. She’d been attracted to Joe’s youth, but she’d also been attracted by Adam’s intelligence and culture. Scott Lancer combined the best of both—youth, intelligence and that damn inbred refinement.

He was going to have to be honest. He was going to have to confront Lancer and tell him why he’d come. Horses be damned, they had a woman between them and egos to settle.

Joe shifted his plate aside. Hoss would tell him he was being pig-headed, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t suffered through a bone-wearying journey just to pat Scott on the back and tell him what a pal he was. Lorna could do that, or even Johnny, but he wasn’t about to let any college-educated blueblood upstage him. After they’d gotten things squared away, he’d tell Scott about Filmore.

There was still plenty of time to worry about hired guns.

+++++

Johnny rolled onto his stomach and blew out an exasperated breath. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even come close. Every time he tried, his mind ran off, picking at the details of Joe Cartwright’s visit. Something didn’t add up, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was a feeling he had, gut instinct that he’d learned never to ignore. It had served him well and kept him alive through most of his life.

Frustrated, he tossed the bed covers aside and pulled on his pants. He slipped into a shirt, and wandered barefoot down the hall. It was somewhere after two in the morning, but the thin crack of light streaming beneath his brother’s door, told him Scott was still awake. He rapped his knuckles softly against the wood, then pushed the door inward. "Scott?"

"Johnny." Scott turned from the desk where he’d been sitting, leafing through a stack of newspapers. His shirt was unbuttoned, hanging loose over his trousers, and he’d discarded his boots in favor of stocking feet. "Come in. Grandfather sent me some papers from back east, and I was just catching up with the news."

"At two in the morning?"

"Why not?" Scott grinned. "What are you doing up?"

"Couldn’t sleep." Johnny bounced on the end of the bed, then flounced backward against the mattress. Sprawled, he stared at the ceiling. "What’dya think of our guests?"

"Cartwright and Cutter?" Scott rifled a hand through his hair. Harlan Garrett would cringe to see how long he’d let it grow. In the east he’d kept it neatly trimmed, cropped close to his head. Now the thick ash strands fell over his ears and butted his collar in the rear. It was amazing how long a man could go in the west without a haircut.

"Cartwright’s pleasant enough." Scott turned sideways in his chair, hooking an arm over the back to stare at Johnny. "But I think Cutter’s too cocky for his own good. I don’t understand how men like that can be such good friends. They’re as different as night and day."

"I’m not so sure. Besides—" Johnny sat forward with a grin. "It’s no different then some cynical gunslinger growing fond of an overly correct easterner."

"Overly correct?"

Johnny grinned. "Don’t worry about it, horse soldier. You’re worth every stiff-necked, proper-to-a-fault headache you give me."

"So what’s giving you one now?" Scott stood and crossed to the bed where he sat beside his brother. It was quiet in the house, pleasantly so. It made him think how late it was, how early he had to rise in the morning. He’d done a lot of that in his army days, poring over maps and dispatches detailing troop movements until the wee hours before dawn. He’d existed on a handful of hours sleep each night for weeks at a time and thought nothing of it. Then one day a Confederate brigade had ended his commission by sending him to a hell hole prison that still gave him nightmares.

He shifted and his knee bumped against Johnny’s anchoring him in the present. He wasn’t chained in a cell, tortured by malicious guards. He was safe at Lancer, with a brother he adored. A brother who’d come to mean more to him than his own life. "Something’s eating at you, Johnny. What is it?"

"Don’t know." A man of few words, Johnny chewed on his lower lip. Given the chance he’d probably sit in silence, mulling over the problem, content to simply have Scott near. It amazed Scott to think they’d grown so close. He remembered their initial distrust of each other, and how they’d gone out of their way to upstage one another in the beginning. Now it warmed his stomach just to be sitting beside the man who was his brother . . . a man he hadn’t known existed for the first twenty-four years of his life.

Scott laid a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. "Shey Cutter bothers you?" he guessed.

"Joe Cartwright bothers me."

"Joe?" Scott blinked, startled. He was a fairly good judge of character and he’d marked Joe as an ethical man. Young, yes, maybe even a little reckless, but honest as the day was long. "Johnny, you’re not serious?"

"Do I look serious?" Johnny sent him a pointed glance. "I’m telling you, Scott, something just ain’t right with those two. Cartwright might be friendly and polite, but he’s holding something back. I can feel it." Frustrated, he pushed from the bed and began to pace. "I keep thinking how he reacted in the cantina when he heard your name."

Scott shrugged. "He was looking for Murdoch. Why wouldn’t he react to my name?"

"Because I don’t think he was looking for Murdoch." Johnny stopped pacing directly in front of him. "I think he was looking for you, and I think there’s something he’s not telling us. Something to do with you."

Scott shook his head, smiling tiredly. "You’re chasing ghosts, Johnny."

"I’m not. And I’ll tell you what else—" He took a step forward, his eyes flashing, his expression hard. "Either one of them tries to pull something over on you, they’re gonna have me," he jabbed a finger against his chest, "To answer to. You just remember that when the time comes."

Scott paused, the warmth in him spreading deeper into his belly. Johnny simply wasn’t blowing smoke. He was incensed, meaning every word of his short impassioned speech. Scott lowered his eyes almost shyly, studying his hands before collecting himself and glancing at his brother. "I can take care of myself you know. Why would you want to go to all that trouble for an overly correct easterner anyway?"

Johnny rolled his eyes and took a playful swipe at his head. "Boston, you’re an idiot."

Scott ducked, laughing. "I’m a tired idiot. What do you say we call it a night and hold off on any further speculating until the morning?"

Johnny nodded, serious again. "But you’ll remember what I said? You’ll keep your wits about you and your eyes open?"

Scott frowned. "You don’t seriously think Joe or Shey mean me any harm?"

"I don’t know what I think." Johnny exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair. Somewhere in the distance a coyote yipped and another joined in. The sound carried through an open window above Scott’s desk, a reminder that the moon was full and the night was almost over. "Get some sleep, horse soldier. It’ll be reveille soon."

Scott smiled. It was the grin Johnny loved best on his brother, the one that ignited light in the depths of his blue-gray eyes, that made him look impish, bent on mischief. "So you won’t mind if I wake you at dawn with a trumpet blast?"

"Only if you don’t mind scraping your worthless hide off the floor." Grinning, Johnny slapped him on the back, then headed for the door. "‘Night, Scott. Give the papers a rest, huh?"

Scott nodded, his smile fading to an amused flicker. He waited until he heard the closing click of the door, then stood and extinguished the lantern on his desk. The room plunged into shadow, so soft and licorice-sweet, it was all he could do to pull off his clothes before collapsing on the bed. He rolled onto his side, slipping a hand beneath the pillow, his tired mind filtering back over the evening.

Tomorrow he and Johnny would take Joe and Shey to look at Murdoch’s breeding stock. With any luck his brother would realize how foolish he was being. The only thing remotely suspicious about Joe Cartwright was that he had a conceited lout like Shey Cutter for a friend.

+++++

Monk Sunday rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, nursing an ache. Every time he got to thinking about the brawl in the cantina, his mood turned viperous. He’d heard some talk around town and learned the name of the kid he’d tangled with that afternoon—Joe Cartwright. Some too-big-for-his-britches, rich boy from Nevada. No wonder Scott Lancer had come to his aid. Money always knew money. If Sunday did nothing else, he was going to make sure Cartwright paid. That city-bred easterner too.

He’d always hated Lancer. Monk’s brother had fought for the Confederacy during the war, but he never made it past Gettysburg. Some blue-bellied Yank had put a musketball in his gut and he’d coughed his lungs out on Little Round Top. It didn’t matter if Lancer wasn’t there. He was still a Yank, and he’d been in command of troops that fired on and killed Confederate soldiers.

Old scores needed to be settled. New ones too.

"Hey, Monk." Wax Dunner appeared at his side, leaning onto the bar. It was after three in the morning, but the cantina never closed. A few drunks and a group of diehards playing five-card stud kept the proprietor busy, tossing down ale and shots of rye.

"What’dya want, Dunner?"

"Ain’t me. Man wants to talk to you." Dunner jabbed a thumb over his shoulder indicating a tall, bald man with close-set eyes. His skin was scaly, veined with fine cracks like mud that had been baked by the sun. "Him and some boys are new in town and were asking ‘round about Scott Lancer. Told him he needed to talk to you. That you’d educate him real good about that prim peacock." Dunner barked a short laugh, clapping Sunday on the shoulder. "Ain’t that right, Monk? You’re a downright expert on Lancer after today."

"You stink like a pig, Dunner. Get outta my face."

Dunner shrugged, unoffended. "Talk to the man, Monk. Ya might like the entertainment."

Sunday grunted and tossed off the rest of his whiskey. He stared down into his shot glass as Dunner staggered over to the card game. All the rye in the world wasn’t going to drown Monk’s hate for Cartwright and Lancer. They’d made a fool of him and he wasn’t going to forget it easily.

"What’dya want?" he growled at the man who’d been standing with Dunner. "I ain’t real fond of strangers these days."

"I hear you’re not real fond of Scott Lancer either."

Monk slopped whiskey into his glass. "That ain’t no secret. What’s it to you?"

"Maybe nothing, maybe a lot." The man leaned closer. From his tailored jacket to his polished leather boots, he had a well-to-do look that proclaimed means and money. When he spoke, his voice resonated with a crisp inflection. "It could mean a windfall for you . . . a thousand dollars worth if you’re interested in listening."

"Listening?" Monk immediately grew alert. His eyes lit up and his lips turned in a lethal smile. "Mister if you’re talking money, you come to the right man. What exactly is it you need?"

The stranger jerked his head in the direction of the door. "Let’s talk outside. Less eyes, less ears." He slid a hand onto Monk’s back, guiding him toward the street. "I’ve got a job that requires special attention. From what I hear, you might actually enjoy it."

+++++

Scott watched the roan stallion prance around the corral. It was a proud beast, one that often fought the bit. He knew from personal experience, it tolerated riders rather than being mastered by them. Headstrong, it had sent more than one inexperienced cowboy to the ground. But the roan was superior breeding stock. He knew it and Joe Cartwright knew it.

At his side, Joe gave a low whistle. "That’s a mighty fine horse," he said appreciatively, folding his arms on the top rail of the fenced enclosure. They’d ridden a good distance from the main house to the south paddock where the roan was currently penned. Their own horses grazed a short distance away, tied to one of many shade trees dotting the open landscape.

It was still early morning, the heat of the day sluggishly stirring. Scott could feel it on the back of his neck, browning skin already tanned by long hours in the sun. He flashed a congenial smile, absently dragging a hand through the thick hair butted against his collar. "I’m sure you’ve got something to equal him on the Ponderosa."

"There’s always room for more," Joe said conversationally. "A man can never have enough horses." Turning sideways, he leaned into the fence, bracing one foot on the lower rail. "Then again, that’s a western philosophy you might not hold with, being from Boston."

Scott gave a short laugh. "The value of a horse is pretty much the same the country over, even in Boston. And you’re forgetting I did a stint in the Cavalry."

Joe nodded, but he seemed disappointed with the answer as though hoping for something different. Maybe Johnny was right. Maybe there was some ulterior motive in his visit. Joe was certainly pleasant enough, open and amiable, but Scott had the impression he was as headstrong as the horse in the corral. It was nothing he said or did, but his manner which reminded Scott a little of Johnny. It was the way he stood, his gunbelt low on his hip, loudly broadcasting he was not a man to cross lightly.

"It’s different here," Scott said at last. "Have you ever been east?"

Joe shook his head. "Did you leave anyone behind?" he asked quietly.

The question caught Scott off guard. He balked for a moment, surprised by the personal nature of the query. He thought of Johnny on the range with Shey Cutter, giving the blond rancher a tour of Lancer. Johnny hadn’t been keen on the idea, but Shey had insisted, a little too persistently now that Scott thought about it. One could almost believe Shey had wanted Joe to have time alone with Scott. But why? So he could prod around about the east and Scott’s family?

He cleared his throat. "My grandfather."

Once again Joe nodded, his expression thoughtful. "That must have been hard leaving family behind." He hesitated briefly. The morning sun angling over his shoulder, kept half of his face concealed in shadow. By contrast, his eyes were vibrant green. "My brother Adam was born in the east. My Pa’s first wife was the daughter of a Yankee sea captain. She died giving birth to Adam." Joe looked directly at Scott. "What about you? No special woman you had to part with?"

Scott shifted. He could no longer ignore the personal nature of the questioning. It could have been that Joe was just making friendly conversation, relaying the only tie he had to the east and Scott’s way of life—his brother’s mother. But it didn’t feel that way. It felt like a carefully planned lead-in, designed to make Scott reveal something private about himself.

Too polite to call Joe on it, he merely shook his head. "What about you? Married?"

"No." The word was flat, clipped at the edges. As if realizing the abrasive quality of his tone, Joe flashed a quick grin. "Sorry. I almost was—once. Guess it’s still a bit of a sore spot."

Scott was sure Joe’s expression, a flawless mixture of humor and charm, worked like a gem with most people. He felt himself relaxing, dismissing his earlier thoughts about Joe’s motives. Pushing his hat back on his head, he braced his hip against the fence, adopting a more comfortable posture. "I understand that. There was one woman in Boston, who I thought I loved. We became serious, and were even engaged for a time."

At his side, Joe stiffened. His smile remained breezy and light, but his posture radiated abrupt tension. "What was her name?"

Scott’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Julie. Julie Dennison." He didn’t see that it should matter.

Joe relaxed. He turned back to the fence, folding his arms over the top rail. His eyes followed the sprightly clip of the high-spirited stallion, but Scott had the impression his thoughts were elsewhere. He chewed on his bottom lip, then tilted his head to look at Scott. "So what was Lorna David to you? Just a passing fancy?"

Scott balked. Lorna David was a name he hadn’t heard in a long time. He had a fleeting impression of dark hair, full lips, skin washed with honey and cream . . .of lying twined together on perfumed sheets, their flesh warmed by the heat of lovemaking. He’d cared for her as much as he’d been able to care in those days. She’d been just one of many women he’d used to ease the painful memories of his incarceration during the Civil War. They’d had a brief, enchanting affair during a short two week trip he’d made to Baltimore. Afterward, he returned to haunting bordellos where the women hungered for his company and wallet, and didn’t care when he departed in the morning, so long as he left something behind. Gambling and bed-hopping had been a staple not even his grandfather could discourage him from. When he’d come west he’d made a valiant effort to leave philandering behind him. He certainly hadn’t expected to hear a name from Boston revived by a stranger from Nevada.

"How do you know Lorna?"

Joe’s face was closed, his expression hard. The warmth left his green eyes, replaced by something impassive and aloof.

Scott shook his head, cursing himself for a fool. "She’s the woman you almost married, isn’t she?"

Before Joe could answer, a bullet whistled past Scott’s ear. He barely registered the high pitched shriek before Joe grappled him about the waist and bore him to the ground. Scott grunted at the impact, but in the next instant rolled clear, instinctively drawing his gun. A second bullet whizzed past his shoulder. Together he and Joe raced for cover, ducking behind the stout trunk of a shade tree.

Joe fired over his shoulder in the direction of the attack. "Damn, Filmore. I can’t believe he’d set you up in broad daylight."

"What?" Scott fired toward the horizon, but the bullet only kicked up dust. Their target was well concealed behind a clump of trees. To make matters worse, he lacked the precise accuracy he’d have with a carbine. "Who’s Filmore?"

"Amherst Filmore." Joe spat the name, sending another bullet rocketing into the distance. The echoing report of his gun bounced loudly through the valley. "Ring any bells?"

Scott frowned. The name awakened an unwanted memory at the back of his mind. Another time, another place. A woman with dark hair and a bald man with greedy, lecherous eyes. A man who’d warned him to stay away from Lorna, who’d once sent two thugs to convince him of his folly. Scott had left both lying unconscious in an alley, then boldly confronted Filmore at a crowded restaurant. With the dinner patrons hushed and hanging on his every word, he’d dropped a short club onto Filmore’s plate, brazenly suggesting he send someone capable of using it next time.

A ricochet bounced from the tree, shattering the memory. Scott scowled, determined not to waste ammunition on a target he couldn’t see. He was a methodical man given to planned and organized action. Shooting recklessly into a clump of fir did little to better his position. He would rather outwit than outgun, but his companion had no such qualms.

Joe cursed and pumped off three shots. "You must be one irritating cuss for a man to track you across country, you know that Lancer?"

The pounding of hoofs sounded behind them, joined by the crackling roar of gunfire. Scott glanced over his shoulder in time to see Johnny and Shey barrel up behind them. Both men had their guns drawn, sending volley after volley into the distant thicket of trees. Flushed by the fire, a horse and rider broke from the copse and bolted in the opposite direction.

"You okay, Scott?" Johnny called, drawing abreast.

When Scott nodded, he barely paused, riding hard in pursuit. A few paces behind, Shey Cutter slowed, lazily holstering his gun. " ‘Suppose I should ask you the same thing, Cartwright. That mud ruck get a bead on you?"

Joe lifted a hand and felt along the side of his neck. His fingers came away stained bright red. "Just a crease," he mumbled. There was nothing congenial in his expression now. His green eyes had sharpened with an edge like glass, making him look suddenly older.

Scott had seen that look on the faces of soldiers during the war. A grim determination that propelled them into action despite the cost. It was equal parts anger and frustration. Relieved that Joe wasn’t seriously injured, he went straight to the matter at hand. "Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

Shey clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "You mean to say you wasted all blessed morning, Cartwright? I kept Dark-and-Deadly busy jest so you could spill your guts about that prime eastern bluebell. Madrid ain’t much for chit-chat and he’s even less for givin’ a body the benefit of the doubt." He shook his head as if dealing with a slow-witted child. "I sure would hate to think I spent the last hour stallin’, while you’re out here twiddlin’ your thumbs." His gaze shifted to Scott. "Tell this man why you’re here, Joseph."

"I’d like to hear that too," a quiet voice announced behind them.

Scott glanced over his shoulder to see Johnny approaching at a quick clip. When he raised a brow to inquire after the man in the thicket, Johnny merely shook his head. "He hightailed it to Christmas, but I’m guessing our friend—" His eyes slid to the side, settling icily on Joe "—has a dang good idea what all this shooting was about."

Joe sighed. "All right." He held up both hands, his expression a mixture of disgust and resignation. "I didn’t really come here to buy horses."

"Ain’t that a revelation," Johnny said softly.

Scott shot his brother a dark look. "You’re not helping, Johnny."

Cool blue eyes flashed beneath the brim of Johnny’s hat. Still mounted, he laced his reins over his lap, shifting slightly in the saddle. The leather creaked with his movement. "Guess I ain’t as all polished-proper as you are, Boston. You want the truth or not?"

Scott’s storm-colored eyes shifted to Joe. "I want the truth."

Reluctantly, Joe told them. He talked about Lorna David and her relationship with Amherst Filmore, even her on-again, off-again relationship with him. He talked about her recent trip to Nevada and the promise he’d made her to warn Scott about Filmore’s hired guns.

"You’re saying this man is sending assassins all the way from the east to kill my brother?" Johnny swung down from the saddle and took two bristling steps toward Joe. Before he could take a third, Scott placed a hand on his shoulder, physically restraining him.

"Forget it, Johnny. I’ve dealt with Filmore before."

The gunfighter’s glance was reproachful. "You know this lunkhead? You know this woman he’s talking about?"

Scott nodded.

Johnny exhaled loudly. "Why don’t that surprise me, Scott?" Disgusted, he shook his head. "You got a bad way with women. Or maybe it’s just a way with bad women."

Scott bit silent a retort. He couldn’t really argue with Johnny. He did seem to have a weakness for women with off-color reputations, or those that brought trouble into his life. In the east, there had been courtesans and social climbers. Since coming west he’d fallen for a con-artist, a robber and a thief. Glory, Zee and Moira McGloins had all turned his head with little effort. Perhaps being raised in such a stringent, proper environment—the grandson of a man who valued correctness and image above all else—had made him susceptible to the downtrodden and less-than-reputable.

But what of Lorna David?

His eyes settled on Joe. He was younger even than Scott, yet he professed to be in love with her

. . . or had been at one time. Lorna had been someone Scott cared about briefly, but he’d never intended to spend his life with her. He’d made that clear from the start. Yes, he’d been less than honorable in the past when it came to women, but he’d never deceived any of them, Lorna included. Each and every one had understood what happened in the bedroom was a frivolous encounter—the joining of flesh without the participation of the heart.

His gaze shifted between Johnny and Joe. "This isn’t about my experience with women, or even my relationship with Lorna. It’s about Filmore and his obsessive need to possess what others have. We crossed paths in Baltimore. I humiliated him once before a large group of people. I don’t think he’s ever forgotten it."

Seated languidly on his horse, one leg draped across the saddlehorn, Shey Cutter snorted. "Ain’t you the bright one, Lancer? The man paid a bunch of gun-totin’ lapdogs to track you down, and you don’t even wanna acknowledge your tryst with Cartwright’s gilded lily. The woman obviously ain’t gotten over you. That can’t be restin’ too well with Mister Moneybags."

Joe glared at his friend. "Watch your tongue about Lorna, Shey."

Raising both hands in mock surrender, Shey retreated. "Sorry, Joseph. I keep fergettin’ she’s got you wrapped tighter’n a virgin in a brothel."

Sighing, Johnny pinched the bridge of his nose. "How do you tolerate him?"

"Enough." Scott had reached the end of his patience. "I appreciate you coming all the way to Morro Coyo to warn me," he told Joe, "but it was unnecessary. I’ve dealt with Filmore and his hired guns before, and I’ve survived far worse during the war. I might not be the best shot with a pistol, but I can take care of myself. I’m sorry your relationship with Lorna didn’t work out, but it’s got nothing to do with me. If you’re still interested in looking at horses, fine. If not, I suggest you go back to Nevada."

He turned and stalked to his horse, ripping the reins free of a nearby branch. He heard Shey mutter something behind him, but didn’t catch the snide remark. Right now all he wanted to do was ride clear and dismiss the whole sordid affair. So someone had taken a few pot shots at him. Odds were they were halfway to the border by now. If he crumpled every time someone threatened his life, he would have been dead long ago.

"Where do you think you’re going?" Johnny called hotly. "There’s still a gunman on the loose, and he’s dead set on putting you in a pine box if what these two say is true."

Scott didn’t bother turning. "I can take care of myself, Johnny. I’ve got work to do."

He swung into the saddle, deliberately shutting out his brother’s sharp curse. Behind him, Johnny’s heated words degenerated into fluent Spanish.

No mistaking that particular slur. Grim-faced, Scott urged his horse away from the corral.

It galled him to think his brother had been right about Joe. Johnny had a natural instinct about people that was purely staggering for accuracy. It had kept him alive over the years when circumstance would have put him six feet under. From the start, Johnny had been suspicious of Joe.

Scott frowned. He appreciated what Cartwright had done, but he wasn’t convinced the mission had been undertaken selflessly. In all likelihood, Joe probably wanted to confront him and force the issue about Lorna. He obviously still had deep feelings for the woman, and while Scott wished them well he wanted out of the triangle.

He would always be fond of Lorna, but his memories of her were tied to the darker days of his self-destructive behavior after the war. As he rode from the corral where the roan was penned, bitter memories flooded his mind: the stench of blood, vomit and urine, everyday odors in the prison camp that had been his home for one nightmarish year. The sharp crack of a whip slicing open his back; the coarse laughter of his jailers; the ceaseless, hateful taunting of Confederate soldiers for a Union Lieutenant. Sickness, death, disease. There had been times when he’d thought he’d never survive. Times when he’d wanted to die, when Boston and the elegant furnishings of his grandfather’s stately home had seemed an eternity away.

Afterwards there’d been Lorna and the sweet, mind-numbing escape he’d found in her arms. She’d washed away the memories, helping him forget, at least momentarily. She deserved happiness. Someone to love and love her in return.

Scott crested a rise and struck away from the ranch.

She deserved Joe Cartwright.

+++++

Joe sank to the ground, propping his back against a shade tree. He watched sourly as Johnny and Scott rode off in opposite directions. He didn’t know which was worse—Scott’s unwillingness to bend, or Johnny’s sudden temper. In the blink of an eye the gunfighter had gone from cool and composed to spitting mad.

At his brother. At the man who was trying to kill his brother. At the world in general.

Expelling a defeated sigh, Joe scrubbed a hand across his mouth. A short distance away the roan pranced restlessly in the corral, stirred to aggression and skittishness from the recent gunplay. He felt like the horse, angry and trapped at the same time.

He hadn’t been ready to tell Scott the truth, but Shey had forced his hand. Talking about Lorna had brought back a host of unwanted memories. His emotions see-sawed on a precipice as he tried to determine whether or not he really loved her.

Shey booted him in the leg. "Quite lookin’ so damn moon-faced. She ain’t worth all that, Joe."

He scowled at his friend. "How would you know?"

" ‘Cuz ain’t no woman worth gettin’ your guts in a knot. You done your part. You told Lancer. If’n you got any sense, you’ll forget about that flighty trollop from back east and put your head on straight. Scott Lancer’s a squeaky popinjay, so damn correct I get indigestion jest lookin’ at him."

"He isn’t even close. And Lorna’s not a trollop. If you say that again, I’ll have to knock you on your back."

Shey raised both brows, a picture of innocence. "What—defending Lancer?"

Joe cracked a smile. "You are such a pain in the rear end, Cutter. I think I liked it better when we were enemies. At least then I could knock you around and not feel guilty about it afterwards."

Shey snorted. "As if you could land a punch on me."

Joe shook his head, coaxed into Shey’s game despite his better judgement. "I remember landing a lot of punches. You always did that thing with your elbow that left you on open on the right side. And you were always too busy shooting off your mouth, strutting around like a puffed-up rooster to really protect yourself."

"That so?" Shey gave him another kick, harder this time. His lips curled in a lopsided grin. "I remember you being all hot-headed, righteous indignant. All I had to do was rile you ‘til you was seeing red, and I was guaranteed to land a gut-punch or two." His grin grew sharp and pointed. "You had one nasty hard stomach, Cartwright. Like bruised my knuckles jest pummeling you."

Joe laughed out loud. Shey was positively priceless when it came to turning his mood. "So you think we should pummel Lancer instead?"

Shey plopped down beside him. "Which one? I vote for Cocky-and-not-so-Quiet. Ain’t never met a man who rubs me the wrong way as much as you and Johnny Madrid. Since I ain’t planning on becoming his best pal, guess I can stew ‘bout taking him down a peg. Ain’t he jest the knight-protector to his brother?"

"I can’t fault him there." Dropping his hat on the ground, Joe propped his head against the tree. It was getting warmer. He could feel heat rising from the grass, fanning his face. In a few hours, the sun would be at its highest point, scorching the earth. "If someone threatened Hoss or Adam, I’d do the same. Hell, Shey, I’d even do it for you." He grinned sloppily. "That’s part of friendship and brotherhood."

"Don’t get sappy on me. We’re talking about Scott-elegant-and-educated-Lancer and his gunslinging brother. I know you ain’t feeling any special fondness for Scott, after he labeled your uppity princess a passing fancy. Why don’t you jest spit it out and get it said, Joe? You don’t owe these people nuthin’."

Joe’s expression turned serious. "Someone was shooting at Scott."

"It could have been anyone," Shey countered. "Jest ‘cuz Filmore hints around about packin’ guns this way, don’t mean Lancer don’t have other enemies. The man’s one of them uppercrust city-bred dandies. Any cowhand with an ounce of sand is probably ready to school ‘im about greenhorns."

"I don’t think Scott’s a dandy, Shey. He’s not what I expected."

Disgusted, Shey huffed out a breath. "Yeah," he muttered. "I hear you. He ain’t exactly what I was expectin’ neither." He flounced back against the tree, butting his shoulder up against Joe’s. Seconds passed. Shey smiled slyly and waggled his eyebrows. "How ‘bout we rattle him anyway? Jest for fun. I wanna rile his brother, now that I know I can get that ice-cool exterior to crack. You ever seen a man so frustratin’ calm?" He laughed, spurred by Johnny’s recent contradiction. "Well . . . ‘cept for when he’s miffed at his brother. I hear tell Madrid’s half Mexican, but I ain’t never heard no one rattle Spanish like that. I half expected him to light out after Scott and wallop him."

"I think you should stay away from Johnny," Joe said.

"You’re no fun, Cartwright. I think Adam’s starting to wear on you, turning you into one of them respectable ranchers."

"There ain’t no possibility of that." Joe’s eyes slid to the side. "Not as long as I’ve got you for a friend."

"Smart ass."

Joe grinned. "Come on, Boss. Let’s go back to the ranch and see if we can straighten out the mess I’ve made." He climbed to his feet, pulling a grumbling Shey up with him.

Joe knew he should leave Morro Coyo. He’d delivered his message and told Scott about Filmore. There was no reason for him to hang around any longer, especially when Scott had an ex-gunfighter protecting him. He’d also seen enough of the Lancer spread to know any stock Ben wanted to purchase from Murdoch would be worth every penny. He’d fulfilled his obligations to both Lorna and Ben, yet something kept gnawing at the back of his mind, insisting he’d settled nothing with Scott.

He’d left Lorna thinking his attraction to her had waned, but the longer he was away from her, the stronger it grew. Was that feeling based on the fact she favored another man, or was it truly what he felt in his heart? Their relationship had experienced so many ups and downs he was no longer certain what he felt. Shey would tell him his head was muddled, Ben would tell him to be careful, and Hoss would simply offer his contagious gap-toothed grin along with a healthy dose of brotherly encouragement. Adam . . . well, Adam he just couldn’t trust. Not with this.

Two people he didn’t think he’d ever be able to talk to his oldest brother about were Lorna David and Shey Cutter. Sadly, both had quickly become the two most important people outside of family, in his life. Adam was too emotionally involved with Lorna, and far too critical of Shey.

As he swung onto the back of his horse, Joe stole a sideways glance at his friend. How many people would have followed him all the way to Morro Coyo like Shey had? Shey had left the Circle C in the hands of his foreman, and while Rob Falcon was competent, it wasn’t just anybody who would set aside responsibility to traipse along with a friend.

A friend who’d once been an enemy.

Joe grimaced. He and Shey often deviled one another with their unique and troubled past, but it bothered him to think of some of the cruel things he’d done to Shey as a teenager. He wondered if Shey felt the same about him. Then again, Shey had been a meddlesome bully for most of his life, always one step shy of a jail cell. Toss in his own volatile personality and they were bound to clash, time and again. Their rivalry had been legendary in Virginia City—Cartwright and Cutter—two hotheads who couldn’t stand the sight of one another. Adam and Ben used to warn him every time he headed to town "Stay away from Shey Cutter."

Now look at us, Joe thought.

It was inheriting the ranch that had changed Shey—that, and realizing how corrupt his uncle Amos had been.

Joe flicked the reins, urging his horse to a smooth lope. Just over a year ago he and Shey had been at odds, butting heads, ready to let any encounter degenerate into fisticuffs.

And then Shey had saved his life.

Odd how friendships began.

"I say we skip the ranch and head into Morro Coyo," Shey announced at his side. "By the time we get there, it’ll be near noon. A man can pick up a lot of information in a cantina, not to mention a beer or two."

Joe hesitated. "You go see what you can find out. It’s probably not a bad idea. If Filmore’s sent anyone this way, you might get wind of it. Maybe even pick up something about those shots this morning."

"What about you?"

"I think I’m going to go for a ride."

Shey scowled. "See if you can catch up with Scott, you mean?"

"Maybe."

"You’re downright pathetic Joe, you know that? Don’t go gettin’ into any confounded argument over that fool woman."

Joe chuckled. "Scott Lancer doesn’t strike me as a man who spends a lot of time arguing. Don’t worry about me, Boss. Get yourself a drink and bring back something useful." With a backward flip of his hand, Joe spurred his horse in the direction he’d seen Scott take. Behind him, Shey yelled something but he couldn’t make out the words.

Joe grinned broadly.

Judging by Shey’s tone, he probably wouldn’t have wanted to.

+++++

Johnny’s mood nosedived the moment he saw Shey Cutter saunter into the cantina. If he hadn’t been aggravated before, the sight of the cocky blond rancher ordering a beer was enough to push him over the edge. He’d come to town to get away from Cutter and Cartwright—his mule-headed brother too. Scott might be pleasant and respectful, but he had an obstinate streak a mile long.

Johnny cringed when he saw Shey glance in his direction. Years of living by the gun had made him choose a table in the corner, his back to the wall. The position allowed him to see everyone who entered and exited, giving him a clear view of the room. Old habits were hard to break, including the reflexive drop of his hand to his sidearm when Shey approached his table.

"Fancy meeting you here." Not bothering to ask if he wanted company, Shey pulled out a chair and sat down. He took a long swallow of beer, lazily planting both feet on the nearest chair and crossing his ankles. "Thought maybe you’d be out lookin’ for that pretty brother of yours. You seemed awful concerned about him back at the corral."

Johnny’s temper had cooled on the ride to town, even as his worry over Scott increased. Composed, he gave no outward indication that Shey’s presence grated on his nerves or that he fretted over Scott’s safety. When he spoke, he used the same soft drawl he’d favored before his outburst at the corral. "Scott can take care of himself."

The words sounded convincing, but inside Johnny wasn’t so sure. Maybe Murdoch would be able to talk some sense into Scott, make him realize the potential danger. Scott usually deferred to the older man. Even when he didn’t, his correct upbringing routinely ensured he’d listen respectfully before tossing aside any advice.

Shey pushed his hat back on his head. "I can’t figure you two—him all ramrod proper, and you as unpredictable as smoke. You musta wanted to send him packing when you met him."

"Lucky for me I didn’t." Johnny took a slow sip of his whiskey, then eased the shot glass onto the table. Two men at the bar started arguing, but he quickly dismissed the squabble, rightly judging it would die without incident. Shey was still watching him, clearly amused. It was that look that made him part with the truth when he normally would have remained tightlipped. If Shey wanted to hear what a popinjay Scott was, he was going to leave sorely disappointed.

"When Scott and I got here, Murdoch was involved in a range war with a group of land pirates," Johnny explained. "It wasn’t that long ago, I rode with their leader, Day Pardee. That ‘pretty brother’ of mine saved my life. When Pardee attacked the ranch, I took a bullet in the back. Scott risked his own life to drag me to cover. Then he stood over me, pumping off shot after shot with that fancy rifle of his. He was the one who took out Pardee. If it wasn’t for Scott, I’d probably be dead right now. Maybe he wasn’t born and raised here, but I’ll take him over any swaggerin’ cowhand who was."

Shey grinned over the top of his glass. "Ain’t you the intense one?"

Johnny exhaled. Disgusted, he stood. "I’m going back to the ranch."

"So soon?" Shey gulped down a mouthful of beer. He dragged his sleeve across his mouth. "I’ll come with you."

"Who said I wanted company?"

"Who said I asked?"

Johnny’s eyes narrowed. His hand twitched near the handle of his pistol. He had to remind himself he’d faced down cold-blooded killers who hadn’t gotten under his skin the way Shey did. With effort, he reined himself in. "You got a dangerous way with words, boy."

"Ain’t nuthin’ I ain’t heard before." Shey stood and started for the door. He motioned over his back, hastening Johnny along. "Come on, Lancer. If’n you hurry, maybe we can go find Cartwright and your brother. There’s still time for you to dazzle us in that friendly shootin’ match I got planned. Ooops—forgot!" He stopped suddenly, and cast a perfectly staged glance over his shoulder. "You don’t like shootin’ matches." Shey sent him a wicked grin. "Can’t for the life of me imagine why."

Johnny counted to ten.

If Shey Cutter lived to eleven, he’d never again question divine intervention.

+++++

It was after two o’clock when Scott paused to sip from his canteen. He knew he’d been rude by leaving Johnny with their guests from Nevada, but he needed some solitary time to put his thoughts in order. His grandfather would have chided him for his unseemly behavior. A gentleman didn’t leave his guests unattended. A gentleman didn’t behave uncouthly.

Scott grimaced.

It wasn’t his fault Joe Cartwright had resurrected Lorna. He’d never meant for her to fall in love with him. Hadn’t he been clear from the beginning, hadn’t he made it obvious at their parting?

Slapping the cork back into his canteen, Scott scanned the horizon. Yesterday, he and Johnny had worked on clearing brush not far from here. He still had time to follow the line and check fencing. If he was going to sulk, he might as well be productive while he was at it.

Tilting his head, he squinted up at the sun. Heat stung his face, the air heavy and dry. His white shirt stuck to his back, already weighted with a thin strip of perspiration. He could feel sweat seeping from his hair into the brim of his hat. In Boston he’d likely be enjoying a cool harbor breeze, the weather balmy enough to allow for an outer jacket. There were times he missed the ocean, the tang of the sea, the majestic unfurled sails of clippers arriving for berth.

But there was something just as noble about this land with its fusion of green earth, rocky arroyos and towering ridges of stone. It felt vast and empty, a land so raw he felt insignificant by comparison. He’d come to think of it as home. A place that continually challenged and inspired him. It was purely exhausting and simply breathtaking.

Scott moved his horse forward at a leisurely walk. He’d check the fence line, then find Johnny. With any luck his brother should be in a more agreeable mood, and they could decide what to do about Murdoch. Their father would want an update on Joe’s visit and the stock he’d looked over. Scott didn’t want to discuss Lorna David or the true reason for Joe’s visit with Murdoch, but he was fairly certain Johnny would insist. If he could just get Johnny alone and in the right frame of mind, Scott was sure he could convince him otherwise. His level-headedness and persuasion usually won out over Johnny’s temperamental, off-the-cuff reactions. If that didn’t work, he’d just have to butt heads with Johnny.

Scott grinned wolfishly.

His brother might be quick on the draw, but he was three years younger, and Scott had commanded troops of men during his stint in the army. He wasn’t about to let one willful gunslinger get the best of him.

A slight scuttling noise rose behind him. Scott paused and glanced over his shoulder. Green grass rolled in dips and swells, unobstructed but for sporadic patches of trees and shrub. Dry air blew across the grass, not strong enough to be considered a breeze, but enough to prickle the hair on the back of his neck. He tensed, instinctively realizing something was wrong. Impulse made him reach for his rifle and yank it from the scabbard. The clump of trees on his right erupted with sudden activity.

Scott swung the rifle around, jerking back on the trigger even as he heard the loud crack of a gun. Startled, his horse bolted forward. A searing explosion of pain ripped through his right shoulder. He grappled for the reins but was carried backward by the impact of the bullet. His back struck the ground, jarring air from his lungs. Scott grunted and tried to raise his head.

His ears rang and his vision went cloudy and gray. Even through the distortion he could hear the pounding of hooves as his horse bolted for the distance.

With concentrated effort, he rolled onto his side. The movement made his head swim. Someone was nearby, walking closer. He heard the thud of boots against grassy earth. Had Johnny come back to find him? He tried to think, but it felt like someone had rammed a hot poker through his shoulder. The pain muddied his thoughts and made his head spin.

Someone pushed him onto his back. A man straddled his body and grabbed the front of his shirt. A man who smelled of day-old booze, stale sweat and chewing tobacco. Scott felt himself wrenched roughly forward. A groan slipped from his lips and his head rolled to the side. The earth spun at a dizzying angle. Through the haze he was vaguely aware of Monk Sunday’s face pressed obnoxiously close to his own.

"Ain’t so tough now, are you Lancer?"

The snidely spoken words bounced inside Scott’s head. He wasn’t sure what was worse—the staggering pain in his shoulder, or Monk’s atrocious breath. He thought about telling the wrangler he’d be a hell of a lot tougher if he didn’t have a pig in rut straddling his hips, but he couldn’t get his tongue to move.

"Pig in rut, huh?" A fist laid open his cheek. "You ain’t gonna be so glib when I’m done with you, boy."

Scott blinked. He’d spoken aloud after all, but still couldn’t see. The darkness was getting thicker, the heavy press of Monk’s body and the stench of his breath a revolting combination. He made a feeble attempt to reach the pistol strapped at his hip, but his right arm wouldn’t move. Sensing his intention, Monk grabbed the gun and tossed it aside.

"You killed Dunner, you prim eastern pansy. Guess I shouldna let ‘im tag along. You took ‘im out with that damn carbine."

Monk struck him again. His head rocked to the side and fresh pain blistered through his damaged shoulder. It spiked to his head, chased by nausea. Unable to stop himself, Scott moaned.

"Thas it," Monk taunted, leaning closer. "Get used to it, boy, ‘cuz there’s a lot more where that come from. You and I are gonna disappear into them hills—" He jerked his head over his shoulder indicating a line of jagged rock. "Where I’m gonna deliver you to some buzzard payin’ a handful fer yer hide. Man hired me ‘n Wax t’bring you. From what I hear, he’s got some boys gonna rough you up real good, fer they put a bullet in yer head." He yanked on Scott’s shirt. "How’s that sound, you perfumed twit?"

Scott rolled his left hand into a fist. "Like this." Before he could think it through, he drove his fist into the wrangler’s face. Caught off guard, Monk reeled clear. Scott’s own momentum pushed him onto his side, driving his wounded shoulder into the earth. He gasped, unprepared as pain knifed through his chest and back.

Barely conscious, he felt his eyes roll into his head. As blackness closed around him, his last conscious thought was that he’d probably succeeded in making the wrangler spitting mad.

There was going to be hell to pay when Scott woke up.

+++++

Joe had no idea where Scott was headed. The easterner had enough of a head start on him, that all Joe could do was follow the tracks laid down by Scott’s horse. Once he actually found Lancer he wasn’t sure what he was going to say: "I came out here hoping you’d be some weak-kneed coward, but that ain’t the case. I really wish I could dislike you. Hell, I want to dislike you, but no matter how hard I try, you’re just too damn . . . damn . . . ."

Joe frowned. What?

Did Scott remind him of Adam? Maybe—just a little. They were both thoughtful, educated men, but Adam had only spent a few years in the east. Scott had spent his whole life there. And he’d fought a war that ripped a nation apart. Last night, Joe had even overheard Johnny and Murdoch talking about Scott’s confinement in a Confederate prison. He’d spent a year there.

A whole year.

How does a man spend that much time living in abhorrent conditions and emerge sane? Had Scott suffered abuse at the hands of the guards? Had he seen others of his unit suffer and perish? Had he come close to dying himself?

Joe stopped suddenly, his attention drawn by a flash of metal on the horizon.

"Now what?" He spurred his horse forward, an unsettling sensation spreading through his stomach. The tracks of Scott’s horse were still clear, but there were other marks too, indication of a scuffle.

Joe’s eyes moved to the side. The flash that had drawn him was caused by sunlight bouncing off the reflective plate of a rifle.

Swinging down from his horse, Joe stooped and picked up the gun. The quality and make led him to believe it was Scott’s. It was a rich man’s weapon. More than that, it was the rifle of a marksman. No simple cow puncher would invest in a such an expensive piece. Not even the gun he’d given Shey for his birthday came close to this one.

Frowning, Joe studied the tracks. One horse had bolted. Two others had come from the clump of trees on his right, led by the reins. Afterward, two riders had forked toward the hills, one slightly ahead of the other, both moving slow.

Still carrying Scott’s rifle, Joe led his own horse toward the trees. He drew up short on the fringe, spying Wax Dunner’s body sprawled beneath a fir. Someone had drilled a bullet through the wrangler’s chest. Judging by the size of the hole, Joe guessed the weapon he held was responsible.

Agitated, he dragged a hand over his face. If Wax Dunner had been here, did that mean Monk Sunday had been too? Had the two wranglers come looking for revenge and caught Scott unaware? Was it possible Monk was headed off with Scott now, hoping to finish the job away from Lancer?

He knew he should ride back and warn someone . . . tell Johnny and the others about Dunner’s body and the gun he’d found. But that would take time, and time was something Scott Lancer might not have. He hadn’t ridden all this way to warn Scott about hired killers, only to have some two-bit, loudmouthed cowhand take him out over a saloon brawl. A brawl Joe was partially responsible for starting.

Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he sprinted for his horse, intent on making time.

+++++

Johnny tugged on the brim of his hat, settling it more comfortably on his head. Barranca, the golden palomino he’d claimed as his own when first arriving at Lancer, moved fluidly beneath him. Attuned to every movement of the horse, he never failed to appreciate its flawless gait or seemingly infinite energy. Shey Cutter kept pace at his side, but Johnny knew the other man’s horse was pressed to maintain the speed.

Reluctantly, he slowed the gelding. He had no doubt Barranca could leave Shey’s heavier horse in the dust, and for a time he entertained the notion of riding break-neck for Lancer. He didn’t want company, least of all from Shey, but there really was no getting around the fact short of being rude.

Not that long ago, Johnny wouldn’t have thought twice about doing exactly as he pleased. He would have bluntly told Shey to disappear, then followed up the suggestion with the barrel of his gun. But that was Johnny Madrid, not Johnny Lancer. Finding family in Morro Coyo had changed him. Murdoch, Teresa and Scott were at fault for his reawakened sense of propriety. Scott in particular, had turned him from a loner into a man who craved social interaction. He liked having a family. He liked having a brother. Somehow that damn, cultured Yank had gotten under his skin. Scott, who was all about integrity and doing the right thing, had started to rub off on him. He’d even fallen into the astonishing pattern of listening to and accepting brotherly advice.

Which was why he was putting up with Shey Cutter when what he really wanted was to tell the irritating rancher to skedaddle.

"Joe’s the charmin’ one," Shey was saying, riding contentedly at his side. " ‘Course Cartwright was raised better—two older brothers and a Pa, all looking out for him. Kinda strange how different they are, though."

"Ain’t nothing wrong with being different," Johnny observed quietly. The soft touch of a westerly breeze scraped across his cheek, bringing momentary relief from the high heat of mid day. Around him, green earth rolled away in small hills and valleys, creating a pleasant backdrop. Without Shey at his side, he might have found the ride relaxing, refreshing.

"You mean like you and your brother?" Shey shot him a sideways glance. "The difference there is you grew up apart. Joe, Adam and Hoss were all raised together. Adam’s as stick-perfect as that blue-blooded brother of yours. Went to college too, somewhere in the east, but I never took a hankerin’ to find out where. Adam and I don’t rightly connect."

"Imagine that."

"Can’t rightly figure it, huh?" Shey’s lips curled in a pointed grin. He gave a short laugh. "Yes siree, if it were up to Adam, Joe and I would still be on opposite sides of the fence. Hoss, now—that’s the middle one—he’s jest so damn agreeable, you gotta turn him inside out to rile him even a smidgen. Which ain’t so bad, considerin’ he’s larger than most bull steers I come across." He paused, thoughtful, then went on. "Joe’s Pa, Ben, is sort of like your Murdoch on first acquaintance. Strong, ethical—all that respectable stuff people like me trip over." He grinned broadly. "And then you got Joe."

Johnny spared a glance, interested despite his mood. The two friends did seem opposites, maybe not so much as him and Scott, but in a manner that seemed harder to breech. Their odd background, enemies and rivals, made their unique friendship all the more puzzling.

"Couldn’t stand Cartwright when we was kids," Shey said, seeing his interest. "Truth be told, I woulda probably punched him jest as soon look at him up til a year ago. He’s one hotheaded critter when he’s got a burr under his saddle, and with Joe, that’s like to happen real quick. He’s a friendly cuss most of the time, but cross the line and he’s a handful. All that charm goes right out the window." Shey rubbed his jaw as if remembering a particular sore spot. "We still come to blows, but it ain’t like before. He’s saved my life and I’ve saved his. Guess that kinda buries all the other stuff. That what’s Adam can’t get past—that we could go from pummeling each other to palling around together. "

"It is kind of strange." Johnny turned his head to look at Shey, remembering that he’d had neither brother or friends for most of his life. There were occasional saddle pals and barroom acquaintances to share a drink or game of cards, but never anyone he trusted. Never anyone to confide in, like Scott or Murdoch. His stomach grew cold as he realized what he’d almost never had. "So what changed things for you and Joe?"

"My uncle." The flippant light left Shey’s eyes. He shrugged. "Stupid really. When my Pa died, my uncle took over running the Circle C. He got greedy and tried to squeeze Ben Cartwright out of some land. He ended up playing me against Joe, then had Joe kidnapped as leverage. I found out my uncle was gonna kill him, so I butted into it." He shot Johnny a toothy grin. "Cartwright says I do that a lot—buttin’ in."

Johnny raised a brow but didn’t say anything. He was starting to appreciate Joe Cartwright. If nothing else, the man had somehow developed and maintained a friendship with one of the most annoying people Johnny had ever met. Then again, maybe Shey just rubbed him the wrong way. He’d spent most of his life going up against cocky, strutting gunslingers, and Shey qualified as a cocky, strutting rancher.

"Don’t know what got into me," Shey admitted. "But I sort of saved Cartwright’s life. Turned on my uncle and got Joe outta there before Amos could kill him. The whole thing ended up costing Amos his life, and the ranch passed to me. After that . . . ." He shrugged, his voice trailing off. "Cartwright and I jest kinda went from there. It was awkward as hell in the beginning, but it’s been over a year now and we ain’t killed each other yet. This whole mess with Lorna David is my fault, jest cause I was trying to do him a favor. It was a birthday gift—me arranging to bring her back from the east. Only problem was, between the time she and Joe parted company and I got her to come back, she fell in love with your brother. Shook Joe up real good."

"So he’s still in love with her?"

Shey frowned. "I don’t know. Hell, I don’t think he knows. Either way, I don’t got a whole lot of respect for the she-witch. She was fawning all over Adam ‘fore she hooked up with Joe. And now your brother? They got names for women like that. Especially when two of the three gents are considerably younger than that shrew, and all three are rich."

Johnny gave a low whistle. "I thought I’d heard cold, cynical talk before, but that takes the cake. Ain’t no one gonna accuse you of chivalry, my friend. If you’re that dead set against her, why’d you bring her back?"

" ‘Cuz I’m an idiot. I thought I was doing that lunkhead a favor. You ain’t known Joe for the last year. He ain’t never gotten over that conniving filly. He’s done some pretty selfless stuff for me, including one thing I still ain’t figured out. There was a time not too long ago I think maybe I was dead—you know really dead—and he bargained back my life. But that ain’t neither here nor there, and I ain’t gonna have you thinkin’ I’m looney. All you gotta understand Mister, is that even with my Pa and brother, it was about being tough. About surviving. I ain’t used to people stickin’ their neck out for me. I ain’t used to people caring. Joe’s done more than that. So I gave him back that Jezebel, even though I woulda been happier leaving her where she was and having Joe forget about her—permanently."

Thoughtful, Johnny stared straight ahead. Even on short acquaintance he’d known Shey could rattle at the mouth, but he’d never heard him say so much before. At least not that mattered.

He didn’t understand the reference to dying, and guessed that Shey didn’t understand it either, from his cryptic observation. But what he’d said about surviving, about not being used to having people care. That all hit home with Johnny. It was surprising and a little irritating to realize he had something in common with the brash rancher. Scott would find the whole thing amusing.

"Scott ain’t never talked about Lorna David," Johnny told Shey. "But he ain’t never talked about most of women he was involved with." His eyes shifted to the side and he studied Shey from under the brim of his hat. "My brother’s ethical and proper, but he’s got a weakness when it comes to women. Least ways he did. He told me he wasn’t no saint, and I got no right to judge. I’ve done far worse with this." He tapped the pistol strapped to his hip. "Scott had his reasons for bed hopping like he did. The war and prison don’t sit easy with a man. I know one thing though—my brother never led any woman to believe he would marry her, or even that he loved her. If this Lorna David latched onto him, it was her own doing."

Shey blew air through his nose. "Probably so. He’s young and he’s rich. Just her type. Hey, look there—" Abruptly distracted, he pointed off to the side.

Squinting against the sunlight, Johnny followed his direction. A fully outfitted horse broached the horizon, walking slowly, reins loose and trailing on the ground as it dipped its head to crop grass. His stomach clenched at the sight of it. "That’s Scott’s horse."

"Riderless? Out here?" Shey frowned. "Before I headed to town, Joe said he was gonna try to catch up with him."

The tightness in Johnny’s stomach spread to his throat. Scott was an excellent horseman, probably better than him. His cavalry training was too deeply instilled for him to willingly let his horse wander off. The odds of Scott being thrown were slim unless he was taken by surprise. And yet Johnny knew that accidents happened to even the most highly skilled riders.

"Come on," he said, urging Barranca to greater speed. "Scott ain’t that careless. Something’s wrong."

The wind caught his hat and kicked it back from his head. He felt the chin strap catch and snag about his throat, but his mind was elsewhere, racing. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the horse had broken its tether and Scott was simply too preoccupied to notice. He was probably working on the brush pile again, or sealing a gap in the fence line.

That’s it. Johnny tried to calm himself with rational thinking. It ain’t nuthin. When I finally catch up to that Boston Yank, I’m gonna make damn sure he knows how sloppy he’s getting.

Biting down on his lip, he tightened his hands on the reins. Time wouldn’t move fast enough until he assured himself Scott was unharmed.

+++++

Scott awoke to an agonizing pain in his shoulder. His right arm felt useless, consumed with numbing fire. He shifted, trying to ease the torment, but his movement sent waves of agony waffling down his back. Slipping toward unconsciousness, he moaned aloud.

"Eh? What’s this?" There was a crunch of boots over grass, followed almost immediately by calloused fingers gripping his chin. His head was twisted brutally to the side. "Wake up!"

A stinging slap brought him back to consciousness. He blinked, slowly focusing on Monk Sunday’s grim face.

"They’ll be here soon. I want you awake." Monk prodded him in the ribs.

Only then did Scott realize he was seated on the ground, his back to a tree, his legs stretched before him. He tried to move his arms, but found his hands bound at the wrists, on the opposite side of the tree. The pull on his injured shoulder made his head swim. Monk was saying something, but he could barely concentrate on the words.

" . . . rich, soon as I turn you over. Don’t know what you did boy, but that man Filmore wants you to suffer long and hard, fore he kills you."

"Filmore?" Scott blinked, trying to focus. "Amherst Filmore is here?"

"Know him do you?" Monk squatted on his haunches. "Why don’t that surprise me none? He got that fancy way of talkin’ like you do. Never said where he was from, but I’m guessin’ it’s someplace east." He snorted, dragging a grubby sleeve beneath his nose. "Said he’s got some men who are gonna take care of you—southerners. Used to be prison guards during the war."

Scott blanched. Spurred by memories of his incarceration, he struggled against the restraints. Pain flared in his shoulder, so intense and sudden, he cried aloud.

Monk snickered. "Hurts, don’t it?" With a lick of his lips, he drew his pistol and wedged the tip of the barrel against Scott’s wound. "You ain’t gonna fault me if I wanna make you squirm a little, huh? We got a few minutes, jest you and I, and we still got a score to settle." Grinning, he increased the pressure on the gun. "Too bad your pal Cartwright ain’t here to share in the fun."

Scott’s heart raced. He knew he was breathing too fast, but it took all of his concentration not to cry out. His head reeled. If he hadn’t been restrained by the rope, he would have toppled to the side, weighted under by the horrible crush of fatigue and gut-twisting pain. He bit down on his lip as Monk jammed the barrel into his shoulder. In the distance, he could hear the thunder of approaching hooves, multiple riders by the sound.

Monk grinned. "Thas them. I might hang around and watch what they do to you, jest fer fun. Never did like you Lancer, all proper and haughty." His eyes grew flat and his lips thinned in a dangerous line. "Never could stomach Yanks." He ground the barrel harder.

Unable to stop himself, Scott moaned aloud. The tip of Monk’s gun was covered in blood, but it didn’t stop him from gouging deeper. Scott no longer heard what he said—something about filthy Yanks and his brother at Gettysburg. Scott’s body thrummed with the agony ripping apart his shoulder. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think, couldn’t hear. There was only pain, so ruthless, it sent tremors racing through his arms, hot bile rushing to his throat. He wanted it to stop, but couldn’t form the words to ask.

And then mercifully, the gun fell away—sharply, abruptly. Freed, Scott hung his head, sucking down unsteady gulps of air. He heard a thud, followed by a low moan. Something tugged at the rope securing his wrists. His vision flared white, then black. His head rolled to the side and he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness.

" . . . stay awake!" Someone was talking to him sharply. There were fingers on his chin, but they weren’t as rough as before. The grip that held him was firm, gentle. He could hear the roar of hooves, louder now. Any moment, Filmore and his men would arrive.

"Can you walk? Just to the horses." He tried to concentrate on the voice. Not Johnny, not Murdoch, but someone vaguely familiar. "I’ve got mine and one of Monk’s."

Scott blinked. Monk was sprawled on the ground. There was no sign of a bullet wound, and he didn’t remember hearing a shot. Odds were the wrangler was simply unconscious.

"Come on. You’ve got to stand up."

Someone had him under the left arm and was forcefully trying to raise him to his feet. He allowed himself to be pulled upright, then stood with his hand braced against the tree. "Give me a minute." His right arm twitched. He looked down at the sleeve, soaked in blood, the back of his hand just as dark. Slowly he raised his head and met the eyes of his benefactor.

"Joe."

"There’s no time, Scott. Filmore’s almost here."

He nodded grimly. Crossing his left arm over his chest, Scott held his injured shoulder. "Where are the horses?"

"This way." Joe hooked a hand under his elbow and held him steady as they walked toward two geldings a short distance away.

One-handed, coupled with Joe’s aid, Scott managed to get mounted. The moment he swung into the saddle, the sky pinwheeled overhead. He felt himself sliding forward, green earth rushing up to meet him. Joe caught him before he could topple.

"I’m all right." With effort, Scott forced himself to sit straight. If Filmore caught them, he’d kill them both. There was no time to fret over the punishing agony in his shoulder, the nausea that squeezed his stomach and made him choke back bile. "Let’s go," he said through tightly clenched teeth. His hands trembled, but he nudged the horse forward.

Beside him, Joe swung lithely into the saddle. Scott was thankful when he took the lead. He didn’t care where they were headed as long as it was away from Filmore, away from Monk. He didn’t know how long they rode. Each jarring strike of hooves sent a shattering spike of pain into his shoulder. After a time he could feel fresh blood trickling down his arm. The mere strain of holding himself upright was exhausting.

When they stopped, Scott made a valiant effort to focus. The afternoon had lengthened with long shadows, and the sun grown cooler as it slipped nearer the horizon. Nothing looked familiar. "How far is the ranch?"

"Too far behind us. Filmore’s that way."

"So you led us away from Lancer?"

Joe drew his pistol and flipped open the housing, checking the shells. "If we’d gone that way, you’d be dead by now, Scott." He spun the chamber then flicked it closed, seating the weapon comfortably in his holster. "Filmore will backtrack."

"You’re wrong. He knows Monk told me about him. He’s got to kill us, kill me. He has no choice now." Scott ground his teeth together, fighting off a violent surge of pain. "He has to come after us." He held out his left hand, eyeing the gun tied to Joe’s saddle. "Give me my rifle."

Joe scowled. "You might be a marksman, but you’re not gonna hit squat with that shoulder the way it is." Irritated, he pulled the tether free. He passed the weapon to Scott. "I say we find a place to lie low, wait Filmore out, then head back once it’s dark."

Scott slid the carbine into the empty scabbard on the horse he was riding. He tried not to wince with the movement, but it sent hot steel knifing into his back. He shuddered, turning his head away from Joe. Desperate, he locked both hands on the saddle horn, fighting to stay upright.

"If we can just reach those rocks," he heard Joe say, "We can wait until dark."

Scott nodded. His heartbeat accelerated, spurred into overdrive by a brutal surge of pain. The blood drained rapidly from his face. There was a roar in his ears like the crash of an angry surf. It took a moment for him to realize it wasn’t his senses going haywire, but the frenzied stampede of horses, fast approaching. He chanced a glance over his shoulder just as Filmore and his men crested the rise. Sunlight flashed off the barrel of a long gun.

"Down!" Scott yelled.

He flung himself from his horse, knocking Joe to the ground just as the weapon exploded behind them. His shoulder struck the earth with an audible crack.

Scott screamed, certain his arm had been split in two.

He only had a moment to dwell on the terror, before darkness swallowed him whole.

+++++

Johnny heard gunfire at the same moment he spied a group of horsemen on the horizon. Three only, but hellbent on taking someone out of the picture. Most likely his brother.

He and Shey had found Dunner’s body, left Monk unconscious, then followed the tracks as quickly as they could. He had no idea who the three men ahead were, but he guessed they’d been hired by Filmore. And he guessed Scott was on the other side of the ridge, possibly Joe too.

Grim-faced, Johnny drew his gun. At his side Shey did the same, but the rancher’s expression was far from bleak.

"Looks like these gents need some educating about crossing family and friends." He flashed Johnny a grin. "Ain’t that right, Lancer?"

Johnny’s smile was slower and of a far deadlier variety. "For the first time since we met, Cutter, I gotta agree with you." He sighted down his pistol and fired. "Let’s get it done."

+++++

Scott came awake with a jerk, thrust back into a world crippled by pain. His shoulder felt encased in fire, bored through by hot steel. Pain licked down his fingertips and snaked around his back, gouging a hole beneath his shoulder blade. The sky spun overhead, a dizzying kaleidoscope of white, blue and gray, so vast and unsettled, the bottom dropped out of his stomach. Nauseated, he tried to rise.

"Easy. Just take it easy."

A hand pressed against his good shoulder, pinning him in place. He blinked, trying to sort through the witch-wind sky, the knot in his gut, the tortuous agony of his shoulder. Disoriented, he felt his heartbeat quicken. For one terrifying moment he had no sense of time or place. There was only pain—brutal, forge-hot, so wretchedly merciless he couldn’t catch his breath.

"It’s all right, Scott," a familiar voice said quickly.

The words were low, spoken close to his ear. Something was holding him upright. Not something, but someone.

He tried to make his tongue move, but the words stuck like stubborn paste. Experimentally, he flexed the blood-encrusted fingers of his right hand. Pain flared the length of his arm, snaking razor-sharp tendrils across his chest and back. Shaken, he turned his head to stifle a cry. Sun-heated cotton cushioned his cheek, bringing a small measure of comfort. He realized he was sitting partially upright, supported against Johnny’s chest.

"Johnny . . . ."

Was he dreaming? Did he feel the touch on his forehead, the near-insubstantial brush of fingertips lightly stroking his brow? His last conscious thought was of knocking Joe from his horse. There had been riders and gunfire, a hideous burst of pain in his shoulder. Filmore had been there. He’d caught a glimpse of the bald-headed man before he’d plummeted into a world without sound or substance. A place where he’d floated in silence until pain beckoned him back, gasping and confused.

Once again he tried to sit upright.

"Scott, stay still. Joe and Shey went for help." Johnny’s touch was firmer now, a blissful anchoring presence that brushed through his hair. "I know you’re hurting, but you’ve gotta trust me on this, horse soldier. Ain’t gonna do you no good to move around."

Maybe not, the sane part of his mind agreed. But he wanted to sit up. He needed to know what had happened, where Johnny had come from and if he’d really seen Filmore before he’d passed out.

He smelled of blood, positively reeked of it. The right side of his once-white shirt was saturated, sticky and crusted dark red. The mere scent of it made him sick. He tightened his hand over Johnny’s arm.

"Filmore."

"We’ll talk about it later." Johnny slid an arm below his ribs, holding him in place. "Scott, I want you to stay still. You keep squirming around, you’re gonna bust open that wound. I got most of the bleeding stopped. Let’s keep it that way. Just sit quiet with me, huh?" Johnny’s face dipped closer to his and he felt the soft fan of his brother’s breath against his cheek. "You can handle that, can’t you, Boston?"

Scott closed his eyes. Sighing, he turned his face into his brother’s chest. He felt the gentle thrum of Johnny’s heart beneath his cheek. The soft murmur, like a drug, slowly coaxed him to sleep. Exhausted, he surrendered to the darkness, allowing it to pull him under once again.

+++++

He called again the next day and they took a carriage ride along the water front. That evening, he’d taken her to dinner, and their brief, tangled affair began in earnest. Amherst Filmore confronted him for the first time shortly thereafter, but Scott shrugged off the man’s threats as inconsequential. He’d encountered enough overly protective fathers and jealous boyfriends in the past year to last a lifetime.

" . . . sorry . . . ."

Johnny stirred, awakened by the barely audible word. He’d drifted, sleeping a little as he held Scott in his arms, his back supported by a small boulder. Joe and Shey would probably be another hour at least before returning with a buckboard to transfer Scott. Overhead, the sky darkened with the quick descent of twilight, turning the surrounding hills into craggy silhouettes smoked by silver and plum. A mound of rock hid the lifeless bodies of Filmore’s two hired guns. Shey had dragged them there before departing with Joe.

In Johnny’s mind, the whole incident was a blur. When he’d crested the ridge with Shey, and saw Scott and Joe under attack, he’d reacted instinctively. Reflex and precision had gone a long way to earning him a reputation as a gun-for-hire, and he’d used both traits to deadly advantage. Before Shey had managed a single shot, Johnny had taken out both of Filmore’s men. In the scuffle that followed, Filmore had managed to escape.

Only later did Johnny realize Monk Sunday was also missing. He cursed himself for not securing the vindictive wrangler when he and Shey had first stumbled upon the man, but there was nothing to do about it now. Sunday, like Filmore, would have to be dealt with after Scott was properly cared for.

Fearful of transporting his brother on horseback, Johnny had sent Joe and Shey to retrieve a buckboard and notify the town doctor. The absence of an exit wound on Scott’s back indicated the bullet was still lodged in his shoulder, a condition that alarmed Johnny. He worried over infection and fever, and the troubling possibility of blood poisoning. Hovering on the brink of consciousness, Scott rolled his head and groaned.

Johnny stilled, concerned. "Scott?" His right arm was asleep, pinned beneath Scott’s upper body. Needles tingled in his fingertips and his shirt was sticky with dried blood where Scott pressed against him. "Hey, horse soldier, how ya doin’?" He dipped his head, resting his cheek on the crown of Scott’s hair. For a moment there was no response, then Scott shifted, enabling him to pull his arm free. Johnny winced at the sting of returning circulation. "Boston, you awake?"

"I’m awake." Scott’s voice cracked, ragged and hoarse. He cleared his throat before trying again. "What happened?"

"You don’t remember?"

"I . . . ." Scott swallowed. He tried to raise his head but toppled backwards. His fingers clutched Johnny’s shirt. " . . . don’t feel so good," he muttered.

Johnny ground his teeth together. If he ever got his hands on Filmore, he was going to take the man apart bit by slow bit . . . blow a hole in his shoulder to match the one Monk had given Scott. Hell, he’d take Monk Sunday apart too. He could stomach just about anything, but the sound of his brother in pain put him over the edge.

"How about some water?" Johnny eyed the canteen Joe had left before departing with Shey. He’d left the blanket from his saddle roll too, but Scott seemed more hot than cold. His forehead was damp with sweat and his damaged arm radiated sickly heat. If he was starting on a fever, the water would help.

When Scott didn’t answer one way or the other, Johnny uncorked the canteen and held it to his brother’s mouth. "Easy," he warned. "Not too much."

Scott took three short swallows before turning his face away. "Tell . . . me what happened," he said quietly. "I . . . remember getting shot. And then Joe." He paused and Johnny felt him tense as he struggled to string the thoughts together. "I think I knocked him from his horse."

"And mangled your shoulder some more in the process." Johnny brushed a smattering of hair from Scott’s brow. Surprisingly, the touch helped calm his own raw nerves. He was startled to realize how much he craved the physical connection between them. He’d never cared much for anyone, but his gut writhed in turmoil over his fair-haired brother. What if Sunday’s bullet had been lower and to the left? He never should have let Scott ride off on his own. Stubborn older brother or not, he should have insisted Scott see the sheriff or at the very least return to the ranch. Johnny’s mouth went dry, but he managed to tell Scott what had transpired.

"Soon as Joe and Shey get back with the wagon, we’ll get you home to Lancer. You’ll be in your own bed before you know it."

Scott moved his arm cautiously. "Filmore got away?"

" ‘Fraid so." Johnny clenched his jaw.

"What about Monk?"

"Missing. But don’t worry, we’ll find the snake. He’ll be in jail before the night’s out."

"Johnny." Scott’s voice crackled with sudden urgency as memory sharpened his mind. He snagged the front of Johnny’s shirt and physically tried to pull himself upright. "Behind us . . . over the ridge . . . ." He grimaced, digging his boot heel into the rocky soil for extra leverage. Huffing, he sat up straight.

"Scott—" Johnny reached out a hand to steady him, but he batted it away.

"I killed Wax Dunner. Monk said I killed Wax Dunner." His stomach turned and his head spun, violently protesting the sudden movement. The blood drained from his face as everything caught up with him at once. He’d fired into the thicket at the same moment Dunner had fired on him. He remembered it now . . . saw the scene unfold as if in slow motion. He’d had only a glimpse of the wrangler before jerking back on the trigger. In all likelihood it was Dunner’s bullet lodged against his bone, not Sunday’s. The irony was almost humorous but for the hot pain in his shoulder. Nausea flared in his stomach. Unable to fight it any longer, Scott pitched forward and vomited.

Johnny caught his good shoulder, relieving the pressure on his wounded arm. "We found Dunner’s body. Take it easy, Scott."

Scott barely heard, sweaty and trembling. He pushed away from Johnny, shamed by the sickness. Small stones and dry grass pressed against his palms, a distraction he barely registered. When his stomach was empty, he crumpled against the rock face, light-headed and winded. Fresh blood leaked from his shoulder and trickled down his arm. Shaken, disgraced, he turned his head away. Did his brother think him a coward, a weakling?

He felt Johnny’s hand on his arm, then his cheek. "Scott?"

He closed his eyes. "I want to go back to the ranch. Now."

He’d been shot before. He’d suffered far worse than a bullet wound in that rathole of a prison. He didn’t need his younger brother to hold his hand. Far be it from him to act like some weak-kneed greenhorn who really was better suited to the sheltered streets of Boston. If it meant riding back to Lancer on his own, he’d make sure his brother knew he was capable of surviving in the west. He’d been stupid enough to get shot. Hadn’t Johnny warned him not to ride off alone? He wasn’t going to let Johnny think he was some spineless sap on top of it.

"Joe will be here soon," his brother said quietly.

Scott opened his eyes, his gaze flinty and direct. "I can sit a horse. I’m not an invalid."

"Then how about an idiot?" Johnny shot back. His mouth thinned in a white line. "You just spewed your guts all over the ground, your shoulder’s bleeding again and I’d lay money you’ve started on a fever. Quit acting like an officer with a stick up your butt. I’m not one of your men, Scott, and you’re not my Lieutenant." The edge slipped from his voice as his tone softened. "It’s okay to admit you need help, big brother. I’m not going to think any less of you."

Scott blinked. Was he so obvious Johnny could read his mind with such little effort? He sighed, too tired to sort it out. His shoulder was throbbing, turning every slight intake of breath into needle-sharp pain. He did need help, he just didn’t want to lose his brother’s respect in the process. "It’s different for me," he said in a strained whisper. "If . . . I fail at something out here, there’s always the question of . . . my inexperience. Someone ready to say I can’t cut it." He rested his head against the rock, looking questioningly at his brother. It was obvious the "someone" he referred to was Johnny. "You warned me not to ride off on my own and I didn’t listen."

Johnny grinned. "That’s because you’re pigheaded as hell, not because you’re inexperienced." He slipped his hand behind Scott’s neck, alarmed by the heat he felt pouring from his brother’s body. Scott’s fever had spiked quickly, glittering diamond-bright on the surface of his silver-blue eyes. Johnny tried to keep growing anxiety from his voice when he spoke. Cripes! How long does it take to retrieve one lousy buckboard anyway?

"You need to ease up on yourself and quit being so critical," he told Scott. "Murdoch and I ain’t Harlan Garrett, Scott. If you mess up on something, no one’s gonna give you a lecture or boot you back to Boston. You own a third of this ranch. Did you forget about those papers we signed, making everything legal?" He forced levity into his voice. "I couldn’t get rid of you if I wanted to."

"And that’s supposed to make me feel better?"

Johnny scowled. A dozen rapid-fire remarks danced on the edge of his tongue but he bit them silent. He shook his head, worried by the sober intensity of Scott’s feverish gaze. He shifted closer, sliding an arm behind Scott’s back. Beneath his hand he felt the strain of tightly bunched muscle. "Are you forgetting I took a bullet in the back from Day Pardee? That you saved my life?" Careful not to jar him, Johnny worked at massaging the tension from his brother’s painfully corded muscles. If Scott would simply relax. If he’d just stop fighting and concede. If he’d quit acting like some tin-plated hero, and stop being such a damn muleheaded sonuvabitch.

"That’s different."

"Why?"

Scott’s eyes closed briefly. A high sheen of perspiration clung to his cheeks and brow. The hair at the nape of his neck was damp with sweat, his features alarmingly pale. "It . . . just is."

The exhaustion in his voice was unmistakable. Too drained to maintain the illusion of stamina any longer, he slumped against Johnny.

"That’s more like it." With a tight smile, Johnny gently eased him onto his side, cradling Scott’s head on his lap. He’d have to recheck the wound, but for the moment he was content to let Scott rest peacefully. The bleeding, though fresh, seemed minimal.

He brushed his fingers through his brother’s dark blond hair, absently noting how long it had grown. The fashionably-dressed easterner he’d shared a stage with the day they’d met would have cringed over the length. He remembered telling Scott how he didn’t want to muss his fancy suit, or something along that vein, all the while inwardly snickering over the ruffled attire. He never would have guessed six months later he’d be sitting with that same man’s head cradled on his lap, worried sick over what became of him.

Johnny sighed softly. "Go to sleep, Boston. I ain’t going nowhere."

Scott mumbled something, but his words were slurred by heavy fatigue making them indecipherable. It was just as well. Johnny wanted him sleeping, not talking. He rested his head against the rock at his back, content to lightly stroke his fingers through Scott’s sweat-dampened bangs. A groove of pain lingered on his brother’s forehead but Scott’s eyes were closed and his breathing wasn’t so ragged. All good signs, Johnny assured himself. If only the fever would abate.

Twenty minutes later when Joe and Shey arrived with the buckboard, it spiked again.

+++++

Joe was tired of sitting. Upstairs the doctor, Murdoch and Johnny worked on Scott, removing the bullet from his shoulder and setting his damaged arm. Shey, along with two of Murdoch’s wranglers, had left an hour ago to find the sheriff. They hoped to convince the lawman to form a posse to track Filmore and Sunday. Another group of ranch hands had been sent to retrieve the bodies of Wax Dunner and Filmore’s hired guns, and take them to town.

Alone, Joe waffled back and forth between feeling useless and growing angry. Every now and then, he caught an anguished moan from upstairs as Scott cried out in pain. There was nothing pleasant about having a bullet carved from your flesh. Joe had experienced the agonizing surgery enough times to know firsthand. Even doused with laudanum, the pain could be excruciating.

A part of him felt responsible for what had happened to Scott. He hadn’t put the bullet in Scott’s shoulder, but Filmore’s presence was tied to Lorna and Lorna was tied to him.

If he’d stayed away would anything have been different? Lorna had told him she’d written to Scott about Filmore’s threats but he hadn’t taken her letters seriously. If he’d never intervened, if he’d never distracted Scott with his own feelings for Lorna, would the easterner have been more alert to danger?

Disgusted, he sighed and dropped his head into his hands. Seated on the couch in the Great Room, he stared morosely at the floor. His mind funneled back over the afternoon. He remembered striking Monk Sunday unconscious and freeing Scott, but he also remembered Scott knocking him to the ground, saving him from a bullet in the back. Maybe he couldn’t do anything further for Scott right now, but he could still do something for Lorna. He could track the man who’d tried to kill her lover. He could do what he’d come to do—protect Scott Lancer and fulfill a vow to the woman he cared about.

Loved, a quiet voice insisted.

Frustrated, he stood. His own feelings were inconsequential. Love, like or lust didn’t matter. He’d made a promise and he intended to keep it. With a parting glance for the doorway through which Johnny and Murdoch had carried Scott, Joe headed from the room.

+++++

Johnny sat by Scott’s bedside, tiredly rubbing his eyes. He felt exhausted, used up, his nerves rubbed raw, one step shy of cracking. The strain of the day had been bad enough, but having to hold his brother down while the doctor cut into his flesh had sapped the last of his reserves. It felt as if he had been the one hurting Scott, making him twist and moan in torment.

It simply wasn’t fair. His brother was by far the most inherently pleasant person he had ever met. Even-tempered, polite, generous to a fault. The damn Yank was all about honor.

Well, except for that annoying reckless way he’s got with women, Johnny admitted grudgingly. It was that trait—which Scott had thankfully abandoned when he came west—that was responsible for his present predicament.

Johnny bowed his head, studying the floor. The soft sound of Scott’s breathing was surprisingly soothing like a narcotic. Just knowing Scott slept peacefully took the edge from his nerves—at least until he remembered Amherst Filmore. In Johnny’s opinion, the yellow-bellied, pasty-skinned buzzard deserved to be strung up and shot.

"It’s late, Johnny."

Startled by the voice, Johnny jerked his head up, surprised to find Murdoch in the doorway. His father looked haggard, his face creased by lines that hadn’t been present before. The evening had been no easier on him than on Johnny. He too had been forced to hold Scott while the doctor dug for the bullet.

"Why don’t you get some sleep?" Murdoch suggested. "I’ll sit with Scott."

Johnny doubted he could sleep, but he was so wretchedly tired, the thought wasn’t without appeal. Shey and the ranch hands had returned sometime ago, bringing news of a posse forming in the morning. Joe had disappeared, yet to return, but Johnny wasn’t worried. Cartwright was likely blowing off steam, something he’d do himself if he had the luxury of time and wasn’t so worried about Scott. He knew if he wanted to ride with the posse, he needed to sleep. His gaze shifted to the bed where Scott lay on his back, his face turned slightly in profile. The fever had receded but not completely abated. Johnny could still see a lingering flush of color on his brother’s cheeks.

"You gonna be all right, Murdoch? You should rest too."

"Don’t worry about me." Murdoch slid into the chair on the opposite side of the bed. Johnny watched as he leaned forward, adjusting the bedcovers over his sleeping son, pausing to rest his broad hand on Scott’s brow. "You go on now, Johnny. If you plan on riding with that posse, you’ll need your rest."

He couldn’t argue with that logic as much as he wanted to. With a last glance for Scott, Johnny stood, gave his father a parting pat on the shoulder, and headed out the door.

+++++

Joe spent a good three hours going back over Filmore’s tracks until darkness eventually made the task impossible. By the time he returned to Lancer, it was well after midnight and the house was wrapped in shadow. A single lantern burned on the lower level, spilling a cone of warm yellow light onto the veranda. Someone moved in the Great Room, but from the distance, Joe couldn’t tell who. Likely Murdoch, unable to sleep with his son so recently wounded.

Yawning, Joe led his horse to the barn. He was immediately struck by a strong mix of hay, leather and manure, familiar, comforting odors to someone born and raised on a ranch. He wondered briefly if Scott found it hard adjusting to the pungent combination, then remembered the older man had spent considerable time in the cavalry.

Joe led his horse to the nearest stall, mechanically going through the process of unsaddling the animal and bedding it down for the night. He was suddenly tired, craving the luxury of falling face down on a soft bed. He’d sort through Lorna, Scott and Filmore tomorrow, when he could think more clearly. Right now all he wanted was sleep and lots of it.

Surrendering to another yawn, Joe walked toward the house. He was halfway across the courtyard when he spied someone moving stealthily around the corner. Moonlight glinted off a drawn revolver and briefly illuminated the features of the man slinking closer to the veranda. In that quicksilver instant when the intruder stepped from shadow to light and back again, Joe saw his face clearly.

He swore softly, drawing his gun by sheer reflex. Ducking into a crouch, he darted for the nearest cover. Pistol poised and ready, Joe tugged his bottom lip between his teeth. He waited, listening to the crunch of Filmore’s boots drawing nearer. Joe had no qualms about taking out the easterner if he had too. No doubt which of them was the faster gun. More than likely Filmore was a terrible shot, which was why he’d hired Monk to flush out Scott. While Joe might not be up to Johnny’s speed, he’d earned a formidable reputation as the fastest draw in Virginia City. Not even Chance Cutter, Shey’s bounty hunter brother, had been able to match him.

He crouched, ready to spring, then immediately stilled when he heard the veranda door crack open. Someone stepped onto the porch. Someone who shouldn’t have been there, who was simply looking for a breath of fresh air to pass the long night. Someone who was going to make a mess of things and likely get himself killed in a crossfire.

"Stay where you are, Lancer," Joe heard Filmore growl from the distance. "I’ve waited a long time to kill you. No one’s going to rob me of the chance now."

+++++

Thirst tugged Scott awake. His mouth wasn’t just dry, it felt stuffed with cotton thistles. He swallowed with difficulty and turned his head on the pillow, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Pieces of furniture took gradual shape among clumps of moon-streaked darkness. Scott blinked, realizing he was lying in his own bed. His right shoulder and arm were immobilized by a sling. He shifted experimentally and was rewarded with an immediate twinge of pain. Vaguely he recalled a dark-haired man bending over him, cutting into his flesh, Johnny and Murdoch fighting to hold him still.

Shaken, Scott dragged his left hand over his face. He really hadn’t wanted to remember that. His stomach twisted, and for one horrific moment he thought he was going to be sick. He swallowed quickly, convulsively, until the troubling sensation passed and he was able to breathe easier. Only then did he realize he wasn’t alone.

Murdoch sat in the bedside chair, his chin slumped on his chest, softly snoring. Loathe to disturb him, Scott pushed the blankets aside and carefully swung his legs over the bed. His clothes were draped over a chair, a mere few feet away, but it might as well have been a mile. His head spun and there was an annoying ringing in his ears. The room tilted at an alarming angle. He felt himself topple precariously to the side, and struck out his left arm to stop the fall. Sweat broke out on his forehead and neck.

Scott shot an anxious glance over his shoulder, but Murdoch slept on, undisturbed.

He needed fresh air. He needed the confidence that came with being on his feet again, of being in control, rather than controlled. Johnny would tell him it was far too soon, and his father would gruffly insist he stay in bed. Fortunately neither of them were in the position to do anything about it.

Rising unsteadily, Scott waited for his heart to stop its rapid, thunderous echo. He walked the few feet to the chair, then sank gratefully into the seat. It took much longer to dress, light-headed and one-armed. He fumbled with his shirt, temporarily straightening his wounded arm to slid it into the sleeve before resettling it in the sling. The brief ordeal left him winded and panting for breath. He didn’t bother with his boots or socks and left his shirt untucked, hanging loose over his belt. When he spied a pitcher of water on the bedside table, he paused to pour a glassful. Two sips later, prompted by a quiver of nausea, he thought better of it and set the glass aside.

Already he felt fatigued and faint. His shoulder throbbed with pain, a needling sensation that had him gritting his teeth to force it silent. His shirt clung to his back, sticky and damp with sweat. The enticing thought of cooler air outside, drew him from the room and down the stairs to the main level.

Someone had left a lantern burning low in the Great Room. A small halo of light hugged the corner, spilling over onto the veranda. The rest of the room remained in shadow, dark as the night outside. As he crossed toward the door, Scott saw his rifle propped against the bookcase flanking the dining table. He fingered it briefly, thankful Johnny or one of the others had retrieved it.

Leaving it where it was, Scott opened the door and stepped onto the veranda. He heard a sound to his right, followed immediately by the distinctive click of a gun. He turned his head and came face to face with Amherst Filmore.

The bald man smiled snidely.

"Stay where you are, Lancer. I’ve waited a long time to kill you. No one’s going to rob me of the chance now."

+++++

Joe squinted through the darkness, discouraged to find his shot blocked by Scott. If Lancer would just move a few inches to the left he could drop Filmore without trouble. Of all the people to find still awake, he hadn’t thought to discover Scott, so recently injured. It was a wonder the easterner was on his feet at all. Clearly, he was made of stronger stuff than most city-bred gentlemen.

Tensing, Joe prepared to roll to the side and risk the shot. Tuck, roll, fan the hammer of his pistol. He’d done it so many times he could do it without thought. Scott would move. Surely Scott would—

The hair on the nape of his neck stood on end.

Joe whirled instinctively, alerted by some inner sense. The reflex came a fraction of a second too late. He caught a blur from the corner of his eye, the leering mask of a disembodied face. Pain exploded at the base of his neck, shockingly fierce, brutally sadistic. The world upended and the earth spilled into the sky.

Joe pitched forward, unconscious.

+++++

Unaware that Joe lay a few feet away, Scott studied Filmore, his expression stony. He hadn’t seen the man in an inordinate amount of time, but there was little about him that had changed. His face was hard and lined, unlike many of his pampered contemporaries. He had a gritty look befitting a man who had clawed his way to the top. Even the expensive cut of his tailored clothing couldn’t hide his baser nature—a ruthless drive to own and control. Those traits, so prominent in Baltimore had become more obsessive with the passage of time.

"Inside." Filmore waved his pistol, pointing the way.

Scott backed into the Great Room. He moved slowly, disoriented, still weak with pain. He’d been a fool to get out of bed, an even bigger fool to think he could remain on his feet for any length of time. The persistent pain in his shoulder had splintered down his arm, sending tremors into his fingertips. It felt as if he was floating, buoyed by fever and exhaustion.

He inhaled sharply, resolutely willing himself to stay standing, locking his knees against the very real possibility of passing out. He knew he’d never take Filmore in a scuffle. Not now. Not with his shoulder on fire and his head throbbing to the frenzied beat to his heart. His eyes tracked to the Winchester, propped against the bookcase. Hidden by the dense shadows of the room it was barely visible.

"That’s far enough."

Scott turned, placing himself between Filmore and the rifle, blocking it from view. If only Johnny or Murdoch would wake up and wander downstairs to see where he’d gone. He doubted he could snag the carbine and get off a shot left-handed before Filmore dropped him. Right now, his best chance of survival was keeping the man talking.

"What do you want Filmore?"

"What do you think I want? You think I traveled over three thousand miles to pass the time of day with you? You don’t get it, do you Lancer?" Filmore punctuated the statement with a vicious wave of the pistol. The corner of his mouth curled in thin-lipped sneer. "I told you to stay away from Lorna."

Scott spoke quietly, rationally. "I left Lorna."

"A lot of good that did." Easing into the room, Filmore made a wide berth around the table. Scott turned with him, following the movement so his back was never to the man. Seconds later, when he reached the head of the table, Filmore halted. He ran his hand over the back of an ornate dining chair, his eyes swiveling to take in the expansive bookcase with its array of leather-bound volumes, the massive oak desk across the room, the comfortable and carefully placed sofa grouping.

"As crude as this home is, it’s not without the trappings of wealth. Is that what makes you think Lorna would be satisfied here—here in some provincial hamlet barely large enough to qualify as an outpost?"

"You’re not listening, Filmore." Scott’s patience wore thin as the stamina needed to remain on his feet exacted a toll. Pain knifed behind his eyes. His body screamed for him to sit down, to ease the blistering sting in his shoulder, the throbbing ache in his head. He ground his teeth together, bluntly spitting out words. "Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen Lorna? Since I’ve spoken with her? You’re a fool if you think there’s still something between us."

Filmore chuckled, emitting a low, sinuous sound like serpentine hiss. "You’re a bigger fool if you think I care. The woman is still in love with you, Lancer, and for that you’ve got to pay." He pulled back the hammer on his gun. "I should have killed you in Baltimore. I should have killed you the day you strutted into The Clipper Inn and dumped that club onto my plate. Harlan Garrett’s grandson—that may carry weight in Boston, but in Baltimore, I’m the one with power. Right now, I’ve got more than enough to crush you. I can’t think of a better ending than to splatter your brains all over the floor."

"I can."

Filmore swung his gun toward the door, startled by the grating voice. Acting on instinct, Scott dove for the rifle. He heard a shot ping over his head, felt the shocking jolt to his shoulder as it connected solidly with the bookcase. Flesh buckled.

For an instant there was only blackness—a pall so dense and suffocating, he couldn’t breathe. Just as quickly it cleared, replaced by the familiar weight of the carbine in his hands.

"Idiot," someone snarled. "Why did you shoot, you fool? You’re going to bring the whole house down on us."

Scott jerked the rifle to his shoulder, sited down the barrel and fired—all in the span of a single heartbeat. Gut-twisting pain ricocheted the length of his arm, plastering him to the floor. He gasped, breathless from the agony. Across the room, Filmore grunted and pitched forward. Scott barely registered the sound of his lifeless body striking the floor; the loud clatter of the pistol against the tabletop.

The weight of the rifle tore at his shoulder. He’d wrenched his arm free of the sling when firing, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the pain. It battered him now, no longer inconsequential, but lethal. The room tilted erratically, suspended on an imaginary axis.

"Killed him, did you?"

There was a horrid stink in his face. A sickening odor, vaguely familiar. Scott groaned, twisting his head to the side, trying to escape the rancid combination of sweat, tobacco and stale alcohol. His stomach roiled dangerously. Somewhere in the distance he heard the heavy tread of rapid footsteps, voices raised in alarm. Johnny? Murdoch?

"Guess I ain’t gonna get to kill you after all, Yank." Monk Sunday gripped his chin. "I wanted that money from Filmore, then I was gonna splatter your brains on the floor." He tapped Scott lightly on the cheek. "Fouled that up, but it ain’t over, Fancy Dan. I’ll be back for you."

"You’ll be dead."

Monk whirled. Scott heard a gun explode. The wrangler slammed backward, pinned against the wall by the brutal force of a Colt revolver. His body hung suspended a moment, then slid to the floor, pitching drunkenly to the side.

Scott blinked, groggily trying to stabilize the room.

"You okay?" Joe Cartwright squatted in front of him.

With effort, Scott put the disjointed bits and pieces of the last few minutes together. Joe had been the one to kill Monk. "Where?" he wet his lips. "Where did you come from?"

Joe smiled. "Outside." He scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck, wincing slightly. "Sunday knocked me out or I would have been here sooner." He nodded to Filmore’s body a short distance away. "Looks like you didn’t need much help after all. Didn’t anyone ever tell you shooting a rifle with a banged up shoulder is a bad idea?"

"He wouldn’t listen anyway," a new, incensed voice cut in. "He’s as pigheaded as they come, and then some. Damn it, Scott, have you lost your mind?"

Recognizing the hostile tone of his brother’s voice, Scott grimaced. In another moment Johnny was likely to lapse into a blistering string of Spanish. Cautiously, he glanced around Joe to find Johnny, Murdoch and Shey crowded near the table, guns drawn. The look in his brother’s eyes was mirrored by his father, minus the murderous edge. Murdoch was concerned, Johnny was spitfire-hellbent-on-strangling-him enraged.

Scott took the safest path and glanced at Shey. "I was practicing for your shooting match."

"That so?" Shey’s lips curled in an answering grin. "Looks to me like you done took the prize."

+++++

Two days later, Joe packed the last of his gear for the long trip back to Virginia City. He was almost through when a knock on the bedroom door interrupted him. Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, he called an invitation to enter. He half expected to find Shey on the threshold, but it was Scott who stepped inside.

"I hope I’m not interrupting."

"No." Caught off guard, Joe flashed an uneasy smile. He closed his travel bag, tying down the ends before dropping it on the floor. "I thought you were Shey. I told him I wanted to get an early start."

"He’s with Johnny at the barn." Scott sat on the edge of the bed.

Morning sunlight streamed through an open window, brightening the room with a haze like churned butter. The breeze was pleasant, not yet seared by the high heat of midday. Joe paused by the window, bracing a shoulder against the wall. He’d rather be outside with Johnny and Shey, anywhere but with Scott Lancer. The air remained unsettled and strained between them.

"I owe you my life," Scott said.

Surprised, Joe glanced in his direction. "Because of Sunday?" His lips curled, but the grin was tight. "I was just returning the favor. By my reckoning I still owe you one."

Scott sighed. His right arm was still in a sling, but he looked better than he had in days. The color was back in his face, complementing a healthy tan and heightening the silver sheen of his blue-gray eyes. He wore ranch clothes, black pants and a gray shirt. But even dressed so casually, Joe thought there was still something that set him apart, that flagged him as different. Perhaps it was nothing more than his posture and manner, both slightly exaggerated when stacked against the casual demeanor of most ranch hands. If Lorna were here now, who would she choose?

"Let’s call it even," Scott said. And then as if reading his thoughts: "I want you to know I intend to write Lorna. I’ll let her know what’s happened. I’ll always carry a fondness for her, but nothing more. It’s important she understand that—that you both understand it. I know you care about her, Joe. I don’t want to appear callous, but what she and I had was never as intense as she made it out to be. Maybe it seemed that way because of Filmore, but it was just—"

"What?" Joe snapped. He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. "A passing fancy? A fling? You think it’s gonna make me feel better to know you weren’t serious? Don’t you get it, Scott? That makes it even worse. You were bed-hopping and she was falling in love."

"Damn it." Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. "All right—that was insensitive of me. But you’re missing the point, Joe." Determined, he stood and paced to the window. "I can’t change what happened. I can’t feel something that isn’t there. If you love her, go after her. I shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t even be a part of the equation."

"Lorna made you one."

"Then change it," Scott snapped.

Joe tensed, abruptly belligerent. He could feel his temper slipping, the turmoil of the last few days choking off his ability to reason. He was losing his head over a woman he wasn’t even certain he loved. "What do you want me to do? Go to Baltimore and drag her back here?" Rationally had never been his strong point when emotions were involved. He tended to react blindly and deal with the damage later.

Undecided, he gnawed on his bottom lip. Scott had done nothing wrong, outside of engaging in immoral behavior. And hadn’t he played the role of seducer a time or two himself? Who was he to judge when he’d been just as guilty of toying with a woman’s affections?

"If going to Baltimore is what it takes," Scott said quietly. "then that’s what you need to do. If you really loved Lorna the way you think you love her, the way you want to love her, you’d be on the next stage east, consequences be damned."

"You don’t think I would?"

Scott crossed his left arm over his sling. "I think you’re in love with the idea of being in love, Joe. I think you’re torn up inside because you can’t figure out what you feel, and I’m a convenient target for that frustration."

Joe shook his head. "Now you sound like my brother Adam."

"Maybe you should listen to him. Or even your friend, Shey Cutter. He might be glib, but he’s got your best interest at heart. I can’t say the same for Lorna."

"And why is that?" Even as Joe asked the question, he knew the answer. Knew it as surely as his stomach soured with the prospect.

"Because she sent you after me."

That was the crux of it. She’d put Joe’s life in jeopardy—again. He scowled, fighting down the bitter rise of resentment. He’d been through this before, with both Lorna and Shey, and thought he’d dispensed with that particular the hurdle. So why did it still have the power to cut him? Why did it turn her request into something selfish and ugly?

"She didn’t think you could take care of yourself—not against hired killers."

"And what’s your impression?"

Joe paused. In the end it came back to the same troubling question that had plagued him from the beginning. What did he really think of Scott Lancer? If he took Lorna out of the picture, if he shelved his own complicated emotions, what was left? He’d accepted Lorna’s plea for help, not because he cared what happened to Scott, or even because he felt indebted to Lorna. Joe had come to Morro Coyo for the sole purpose of satisfying himself. Of gloating. He had expected to find a mild-mannered, easily intimidated man who would be so thankful for his intervention, he would sing Joe’s praises to Lorna. He had wanted Scott to be a coward.

With a disgusted sigh, Joe scraped a hand through the ragged curls butting his collar. "I think I’ve learned to respect you," he admitted reluctantly. His eyes flashed to Scott’s face. "You can obviously take care of yourself. Well . . . ." His lips curled slightly as he allowed a trace of humor to slip into his voice. " . . . . except maybe when it comes to butting heads with that gunslinger brother of yours. I think Johnny’s gonna give you a run for the money, Scott."

Scott’s mouth relaxed with a smile. "He already has." He hesitated, then held out his hand. "I don’t know why you did what Lorna asked, but I’m grateful all the same. I’m glad I met you, Joe."

Joe’s eyes traveled from Scott’s hand to his face. He nodded, feeling the last of his anger and frustration drain away. It would always remain a sore spot that Lorna had placed his life in jeopardy, but he’d known full well what she was doing and why. "Same here, Scott." Joe clasped his hand.

He intended to write Lorna too. He just wasn’t sure if he was going to tell her he loved her, or that he hoped never to see her again.

Whenever he figured it out for himself, she’d be the first to know.

+++++

Johnny led Joe’s horse from the barn, while Shey trailed a step behind with his sorrel. Both men moved at a leisurely pace, crossing the grassy distance to the Lancer house. The sun barely peeked above the horizon, but its glow was warm and yellow, stretching over earth still saturated with morning dew.

Shey tied his horse to the hitching rail, indulging in an elaborate yawn. "Leave it to Cartwright to want to be mounted so early. I could’ve done with at least another hour’s sleep. I think he’s been around your brother too much. I ain’t never done reveille and I don’t plan on startin’ now."

Johnny gave a short laugh. "Reveille was hours ago, Cutter. I think you’re growing fat and lazy on that big ranch of yours."

"That big ranch of mine takes more work than you’re capable of, Mister-cool-and-cocky-Lancer-Madrid."

"Think so?"

Shey folded his arms on the top of his saddle. He leaned against his horse, grinning broadly. "Know so. Why don’t you jest admit you’re one cantankerous cuss that ain’t got a hope of sticking it out with anybody ‘cept that overly polite brother of yours. If’n you were my brother, I would have lynched you long ago."

"If I was your brother I would have lynched myself."

Shey laughed. "Guess that means we ain’t never gonna be pals."

"Guess you’re right."

Shey nodded, appreciating the standoff. Johnny would never admit it, but Cutter had somehow managed to worm beneath his skin in a positive manner. He still thought the rancher was cocky and arrogant, far too brash for his own good. One of these days those traits would probably get him killed. Fortunately for Shey, he was as quick-witted and skilled with his gun, as he was loudmouthed and short-tempered. And he had Joe Cartwright as both buffer and positive influence. Without Joe’s friendship, Johnny could easily see Shey heading straight for trouble. Straight for disaster. Maybe he still would, but at least Joe would be there to wrench him back when recklessness threatened to topple him over the edge.

Once again Johnny saw marked similarities between himself and Shey. Without Scott’s levelheaded guidance for a buffer, he would probably be just as prone to catastrophe as Cutter. When he thought about it, he realized it was amazing how much leeway he’d given Scott over his life in a relatively short time. Then again, it was hard to dismiss a man so accustomed to command. Some people were naturally born leaders, and Scott was one of them. By contrast, Johnny had been born to defy authority, to step outside the boundaries, to cut his own path.

Until recently. Until he found family, home and purpose.

He tilted his head a fraction, openly studying Shey. "You know, Cutter . . . in another lifetime you and I would’ve probably met in some dusty border town and drawn down on each other. We’re too much alike."

"Nah." Shey gave a short snort, his whiskey-colored eyes bright with devilish light. "My Pa was filthy rich, Johnny. I would’ve jest hired someone to kill you."

+++++

As Lancer fell away behind them, Joe cast a sideways glance at Shey. He’d yet to really thank his cavalier friend for undertaking the long trip with him. Surprisingly, Shey had kept his opinions mostly to himself at Lancer, a rarity for a man who often spoke his mind with no reservations or regrets. Joe knew he wanted to snap a few barbed remarks about Lorna, and likely entertained some less-than-favorable observations about Johnny and Scott, but thus far he’d kept the acid comments to himself.

Maybe it was the trip and what lay ahead of them. Joe had already mentally prepared himself for the return journey, the grueling hours of sitting a saddle and riding a stage. He knew once he was home, there would be little time for a breather. Hoss and Adam were doubling up on chores, allowing him the luxury of a long trip, even if it was a taxing one. Both brothers were sure to put him to work the moment he set foot on the Ponderosa. Still, the thought of being home with his father and brothers, of seeing the familiar peaks and valleys of his beloved ranch, far outweighed the unpleasantness of extra work. Seeing Scott with Johnny made him miss Hoss and Adam. And seeing both Lancer sons interact with their father, made him anxious to see his own.

"So, Boss . . . ." Joe shot Shey a needling grin. " . . . glad we’re heading home, or are you missing your pal Johnny Lancer already?"

"Cartwright, this horse gives me enough pain in the rear end, without you adding to it." The corner of Shey’s mouth curled crookedly. " ‘Sides—how’d you know me and the notorious gunslinger reached an understanding?"

Joe blinked, surprised. He knew Shey had been out front talking to Johnny, while he said his goodbyes to Scott and Murdoch. The two older Lancers had eventually followed him outside, where he’d taken leave of Johnny. Shey had pulled grace and respectability out of his hind end, shocking Joe with a sincere—or as close to sincere as Cutter would ever come—leave taking. Both Joe and Shey had invited the Lancers to the Ponderosa and the Circle C should they ever venture toward Nevada. Afterward, riding away, he’d actually felt good. That he’d accomplished something, that he’d made friends and gained the trust and respect of a man he’d once considered a rival.

"You reached an understanding with Johnny?" Joe scowled, skeptical. "Just what kind of understanding?"

Shey shrugged. "Just that he’d keep listening to that respectable brother of his, and maybe I’d keep listening to you. Madrid seems to think you’re some kind of good influence on me, as if I need one." Shey snorted. "Too bad he didn’t get to see that hair trigger temper of yours in action. He’d probably be telling you to listen to me."

Joe shook his head, appreciating the irony. "You ain’t exactly known for patience yourself, Shey." Absently, he cuffed the sleeves on his green jacket. It was growing warmer already. In another hour, he’d probably strip to his shirt. At least the evening would be cool when the sun rolled into the gray stone on the horizon.

"The man ain’t right in the head," Shey continued, ignoring him. "But you ain’t either, Cartwright." He shot Joe a pointed glance. "So I done held my tongue and made nice with our friends the Lancers. Huh-uh—" He held up a hand to stall Joe’s protest. " ‘Fore you spout off at the mouth, I ain’t got nuthin’ against any one of them. They’re good people, right down to that hotheaded gunslinger and his city bred brother. The problem I got is with a black-hearted filly back east—"

"—Shey—"

"—if she shows up and so much as bats her eyelashes at you again, I’ll lynch you both. I want your word you ain’t never gonna do anything this stupid again, Joseph."

Joe chuckled. Shey was fired up and angry, but he couldn’t help being amused. "If you think it was so stupid, why did you come with me?"

"Why do you think—to keep your ornery hide out of trouble. For all I know, you could’ve come down here and ended up in a draw down with Scott Lancer. Miss Prim is sittin’ all comfy back east and you two are dodging bullets from hired killers. Ain’t somethin’ jest a tad wrong with that picture, Cartwright?"

Joe rolled his shoulders. "I don’t think you have to worry about me and Lorna."

"Oh yeah?" Shey pounced on the casually spoken remark like a mountain lion on a fat steer. "So you’re done with the witch?"

"She’s not a witch, and I’m not saying I’m done with her." Joe glanced to the side, considering his friend. "I’m just saying I’m going to keep my distance for awhile. If she’s really in love with Scott, I’ll never see her again. If she’s in love with me, she’s going have to be the one to take the next step."

Shey frowned. "That ain’t exactly what I was looking for, but I guess it’ll have to do." His eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat. "I’m holding you to your word, Cartwright. You keep your distance from that she-demon."

"How am I gonna do that if you keep arranging for her to come visit?"

"Don’t worry. That’s one mistake I ain’t never gonna make again." Shey tugged on his reins, succumbing to a broad grin. "I ain’t never been very fond of anything southwest of Nevada. Race your nag to the Ponderosa?"

Joe grinned. "You got yourself a deal, Boss." With a loud whoop, he kicked his spurs to his horse’s sides, sending it bolting into flight. Dry air struck him in the face, invigorating despite its parched edges. He felt it rake through the tousled curls beneath his hat and playfully snake around his collar. Shey was right behind him, then right beside him, grinning as wildly as he was. Neck and neck they kept pace, neither gaining on the other, both racing at a glorious, breakneck speed for home.

Joe laughed out loud.

It wasn’t about winning. It was about friendship and the unbreakable bond that kept them together despite their turbulent past. "Thanks," he yelled into the wind, knowing full well Shey understood his gratitude extended far beyond their trip to Morro Coyo.

+++++

"How’s it goin’, horse soldier?" Johnny propped his shoulder against the doorframe, looking in on Scott as he sat at his desk. It was late afternoon, and Scott, still tiring easily, had retreated to his room with the promise of resting for a while.

Johnny frowned. "I thought you were going to rest. It don’t look like you’re resting to me."

Scott half turned in the chair. Johnny had to admit his color improved daily. If it weren’t for the sling and the dark circles under his eyes, one would be hard pressed to know he’d taken a bullet in the shoulder. The gauntness was receding from his face, and a spark of animation hovered in his gaze.

"I thought I’d write Lorna while my impressions are still fresh."

"What impressions?" Johnny strolled closer to the desk, feeling his brother’s eyes track his movement. Sometimes it was hard reading Scott. He kept his thoughts close, reserved, carefully tucked away from public scrutiny. At the moment Johnny wasn’t sure if Scott favored privacy or conversation.

Scott tossed his ink pen onto the desk. "Mostly about Joe," he admitted. "I think it’s important Lorna understand what an exceptional thing he did for her. For me." He lowered his eyes briefly. "I don’t know, Johnny. Maybe I’m just trying to ease my own conscience. I’d feel a lot better if I thought there was a chance for those two."

"Maybe there is." Johnny sat on the corner of the desk, positioned to face his brother. His leg brushed against Scott’s. With a grin, he extended his knee and gave Scott a light kick. "You might have a romantic flair with women, Boston, but you ain’t cupid. If Joe and Lorna are meant to be together, it ain’t gonna happen cause you butted in. Write the woman and say what you’ve gotta say, but leave the heartstrings out of it."

The shadow of a smile flitted over Scott’s lips. "Sounds like sage advice from someone who knows."

"Nope." Johnny folded his arms over his chest. "Just a lowly reformed gunslinger lookin’ out for his meddlesome older brother. You don’t gotta solve everyone’s problems, Scott, just your own."

Scott grinned, the brilliant flash of his smile sending a stab of warmth directly to Johnny’s heart. "What about yours?"

"What about mine?"

"Should I solve your problems too?"

Johnny snorted. "Hell, Boston, you are my problem." He took a playful cuff at Scott’s head. "Now get some rest, horse soldier. Soon as that sling comes off, you’re gonna wish you were back in the cavalry, Murdoch and I are gonna run you so ragged."

Scott laughed out loud. "Believe it or not, Johnny, that actually sounds pretty good."

+++++

Hope you enjoyed this!

If you’re a Bonanza fan and want to read more about Scott and Johnny Lancer (and even Murdoch!) I have other Lancer stories available at:

http://www.womenwritersblock.com/katel.htm

or http://www.peterbrown.tv/lancerfanfic.html

If you’re a Lancer fan and want to read the whole Lorna David/Joe saga, or even the Joe/Shey enemy-to-friend saga, those stories can be found at:

http://www.womenwritersblock.com/katebon.htm

(Joe and Lorna stories: Defending Miss David; Betrayal; Miss David Returns)

(Joe and Shey stories: Betrayal; Chaos; Encounter at Oxbow; Kinship; Threshold; Miss David Returns)