Southwest of Nevada

A Bonanza/Lancer Crossover

by Kate

This story is a Bonanza/Lancer crossover.  It is also a sequel to my fanfic story “Miss David Returns.”  You don’t have to be familiar with that story to enjoy this.  All you need to know is a brief background of that story:

Joe Cartwright had a serious relationship with a woman named Lorna David.  Lorna moved east, and while there became involved with a man named “Garrett.”  He eventually moved to California, and was tracked by hired killers.  Fearing for his life, Lorna asked Joe to warn him.  Joe learns “Garrett” is really a man named Scott Lancer.  Together with his friend, Shey Cutter, he leaves for Morro Coyo, having never met Scott and knowing little about him, other than what he perceives to be a genteel upbringing in the east.

If you’re a Bonanza fan and don’t know anything about Lancer, the character relationships and backgrounds are clearly defined in the story.  If you’re a Lancer fan and have never read any of my Bonanza fanfic, the relationship between Joe and Shey is clearly defined in the story.

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 cmortenz12@verizon.net

Fine Print/Standard Stuff:  Not my characters (well . . . except for Shey Cutter).  No profit is being made from this story, and no infringement is intended on any holder of Lancer copyrights, or Bonanza copyrights including Bonanza Ventures, David Dortort, etc.

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.  AI 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 horseflesh 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 cactus 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 hellhole 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. AI 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.  AI 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.  AI 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.  AI 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.  AI 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, Abut 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 judgment.  “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.  AI 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.

Damn, stubborn Yankee.  I should wring his neck for making me worry like this. 

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?