CHAPTER TWELVE

Johnny used his cane and the direction of the heat to guide him. He skirted around the front of the house and found the short picket fence that ran the perimeter. Ignoring the screams of the bystanders to stop, Johnny dragged the cane tip over the rails, the blistering heat to his left telling him he was on the side of the house. Breathing was becoming difficult. The fence stopped at the back of the neighbor's house, and Johnny hopped over into the Llewellyn's back yard.

Forcing himself to take a second to orient himself, Johnny ran to the back of the house, feeling less of the heat on his face. He used his cane to break the rear window then dropped it to the ground. He yelled for Colin and Sarah and got no response. Coughing from the thick smoke that rolled out from the broken window, Johnny's eyes burned and watered uncontrollably, so he squeezed them shut - a difficult thing to do against his natural instincts, despite his blindness.

"Colin!" he yelled again as he scrambled over the window sill, ignoring the sharp pain of broken glass in his palms. Once inside, Johnny paused to recall the arrangement of the room and his current position in it. For a fleeting second, he missed his cane, but he positioned his arms in front of his body the way he'd learned from Colin and turned to his left. The dresser he remembered was still there. He jerked the table cloth off, sending something crashing to the floor. He dunked the cloth in the pitcher of water he knew was on a small table by the bed, and used the dripping cloth as a bandana around his nose and mouth.

Johnny pulled open the bedroom door and felt acrid smoke hit him in a thick wave. The heat was almost unbearable, but he felt his way down to the next doorway and kicked it in. He could hear hissing and the popping of consuming flame, but his senses told him the fire wasn't here yet; he had a precious few moments. He called out again, and felt for the bed. His searching hands found an unresponsive body.

Without taking the time to check for life, Johnny grabbed the form - Sarah, he realized - and threw her over his shoulder. He could feel burning flame all around, and realized the safest way out was the way he came in.

Johnny wobbled back into the hall and used one hand on the wall to feel his way. The incredible heat there raised instant blisters on his already bloody palm, but he forced his feet to move and his burning lungs to breathe. He found the doorway he wanted and staggered toward the back wall. Once at the broken window, he unceremoniously shoved her out the window.

"I got her, mister!" a man's voice called. "Come on out! The roof's about to cave in and the firemen are almost here!"

Ignoring him, Johnny turned back to the oppressive room and felt his way back into the hall to find Colin. Coughing deeply and ignoring the myriad of pains erupting on his body, he entered the bedroom again. This time, he could feel the heat near the ceiling and the burning embers raining down. When he touched the bed, the blankets were smoldering; a quick search revealed the bed was empty.

Johnny tried to call Colin's name, but, instead, erupted into a fit of coughing. As he turned go, he tripped over something and fell to his hands and knees. Ignoring the fiery pain in his hands, he felt around the floor and found a leg. Quickly, he found Colin's arm and drug him from the room and into the hall. As soon as he figured Colin's legs were clear, he heard a great and deafening crash.

A spray of hot ashes peppered in his face. With a surge of energy that came from a deeply engrained sense of survival, Johnny yanked Colin into his arms and stumbled down the hall. Brushing his shoulder against the wall as a reference, hot embers struck him as they fell from the engulfed ceiling. He could feel the fire licking the top of his head and smelled the acridness of burning hair as he made his way to the makeshift exit.

"JOHNNY!" Scott's voice sounded like angels from above and gave Johnny the spurt of hope he needed to make it to the window. Colin was yanked from his arms and he felt his hands on the window's sill just before things exploded in a brilliant flash of light.

Johnny's body hit Scott full in the chest, sending him reeling backwards among the flying debris and choking smoke. Instinctively, Scott wrapped his arms around his brother and they hit the ground rolling. Scrambling to place his body atop his limp brother when they came to a rest, Scott protected him from falling embers. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, and finally a hand on his shoulder set him in motion. He rolled aside onto to his back, coughing mightily.

"Mister? Are you all right?" The man speaking to him was covered in soot, his eyes and teeth white against the ashes on his face.

Scott stared at him for a shocked moment, then pulled his eyes away and turned them on his brother. Cough induced tears made it difficult at first to make out the details of the form crumpled on the dead grass, and he swiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve. He felt the grit and grime of the fire scratch his face.

Grabbing Johnny's shoulder, Scott rolled his brother onto his back and patted his cheek. "Johnny?" he called between coughs. "Johnny! You hear me?"

"He's got a lot of blood there on his neck." The stranger kneeled down and gently pulled Johnny toward him. "Check the back of his head."

Still coughing, Scott ran his fingers through the sticky mass of hair and felt a large bump. His fingers came away covered in blood. "Something must have hit him when the house collapsed," Scott said in a husky voice. They settled the injured man back onto the grass and Scott pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket. Gently, he folded it and pressed it against the wound. "Sorry, brother, it looks like those headaches will be back." Scott tore his eyes from Johnny's lax face and met the stranger's eyes. "What about the other two? Colin and Sarah?"

"Looks like the woman's still unconscious - too much smoke, someone said - but the man seems to be coming around."

"Someone send for a doctor?"

"I don't know."

"Can you get a wagon? There's a doctor at the Institute and it's closer than the hospital."

The man stood up. "I'll see what I can do."

When the man moved off, Scott finally noticed the surroundings. The fog was tinted dark grey from the ashes, and the scene of destruction around him looked like some eerie battleground. He kept the pressure on Johnny's wound as he craned his neck, his throat feeling raw as he coughed, and saw two small groups huddled around some things on the ground. He assumed it was Colin and Sarah, and he was glad to see they had help. He felt something tapping one of his hands and turned to find a woman offering him some water.

The firemen called back and forth to each other as they fought down the remains of the blaze. When the house collapsed, they were able to contain the inferno. Scott could see people, blending in with the black fog, standing around and watching.

"Thanks," he croaked, taking the glass and enjoying a big swallow. The woman, meanwhile, had dropped to her knees and started wiping Johnny's face with a damp towel. His face was peppered with blisters and nicks, his hair stiff in the places where the ends had burned. "Thank you," Scott managed to rasp, draining the glass.

"He's such a nice young man," the woman said softly as she worked. "He greeted me whenever he stayed with the Llewellyns. He always knew who I was. He's a wonder, this boy."

Scott nodded dumbly, his thoughts finally finding some order. The woman's gentle prattle calmed his nerves and he was able to focus on his brother, the encounter with his grandfather hovering in the background like a vivid nightmare. He had no idea how long they had been there when a voice broke into his thoughts.

"Scott! Let me look at him."

Scott jerked into awareness to see Dr. Boyer's kind eyes studying him. The doctor's hands were gently trying to pry his from Johnny's wound. "Oh," Scott said, pulling his hands away. "Sorry." The woman who had cleaned Johnny's face smiled at him sympathetically and offered a small flask. With trembling hands, Scott took a swig of something that burned his raw throat but felt wonderful once it hit bottom.

"It's all right. You look like you’ve suffered a bit of shock yourself." Boyer turned his attention to the limp figure of Johnny and frowned. "He's got quite a bump, but the bleeding has stopped," he clucked. "The burns don't look too bad. They'll be uncomfortable, but will heal. He may have a pretty good concussion."

"Did you check the Llewellyns?" Scott whispered, his throat still burning.

"Briefly. I think Sarah just had too much smoke, as did Colin, but he's got a good sized bump on his head, too. Must have been from something falling. They're both coming around." The doctor quickly wrapped Johnny's head. "There's a wagon over there," Boyer nodded to his left. "Let's get them to the Institute. You men! Give us a hand!"

Three young men materialized from the crowd and helped lift Johnny. The woman with the flask had a firm grip on Scott's elbow and steered the dazed Lancer to follow. Scott was first in the bed of the wagon and assisted in loading the other three. Colin began to protest dazedly, and by the time the wagon moved he seemed to be somewhat alert. Scott cradled his brother's head in his lap and spoke soft words of assurance to deaf ears.

"Scott?" Colin asked when he finally located the voice.

"Yes, Colin, I’m here."

Instead of calming, Colin became more agitated and, against Scott's suggestion that he lie still, managed to sidle up to the lean Lancer. "Scott, is there anyone else around? Who's driving the wagon?"

"It's that big attendant from the Institute. Dr. Boyer was here . . ." Scott still felt a little dazed.

Colin grabbed Scott's arm with painful force. His voice was urgent and raspy from smoke. "It wasn't an accident, Scott. The fire. Someone did it on purpose."

"What?" Shock made the word loud, and Colin shushed him nervously.

"Someone hit me. Sarah was asleep, and someone hit me when I was in the kitchen." He briefly touched the lump on the back of his head. "I heard a noise and was checking the house. It didn't knock me out, though, and I managed to get a swipe at him with my cane."

Remembering the intricate, heavy dragon's head atop Colin's cane, Scott had to ask. "Did you get him with the metal part?"

"Yes, I think I did, but I was on the floor. He hit me again before I could get up. I think; it's kind of blurry, actually, but I do know I hit him." Colin paused as Scott assessed this information. "And I think I know who did it."

"Who?" Scott said flatly, oddly afraid of what he was going to hear.

"Well, I'm sure he didn't do it himself, but he had someone do it for him."

"WHO?"

"Your grandfather. Harlan Garrett."

Scott's stomach flipped sickeningly and he unconsciously gripped his brother tighter. He was glad that Johnny was unable to hear this. Then he felt an odd sort of mask fall over his features as he said without emotion, "Go on."

Colin took a fortifying breath, topped with a cough, and began. "When Garrett interviewed me to teach your brother, I was in a different state of mind. I was angry and bitter at not being able to support my wife the way I felt she deserved. Being blind in this society is brutal, and I felt very put on and sorry for myself. Sarah, though, was happy and kept trying to convince me everything was all right.

"The money to teach your brother was good, but Garrett offered me something else. I think he knew all about me and picked me because I was angry and wanted more. And he offered it."

"Grandfather's good at that," Scott growled. "What did he want?"

Colin ducked his head. "It seemed so innocuous. All he wanted was for me to make sure Johnny came to Boston, which didn't seem so odd, but once we got here, he expected regular reports of your brother's daily activities. I started feeling like a spy. I knew it was more than well-meaning interest in his welfare."

"He was looking for an opportunity."

"Yes. He was the one that got Johnny's job arranged. I had to research Diamante and Garrett used that to blackmail him into taking Johnny on. It's turned out to be a good thing, however. Your brother has turned that place around and has a gift with horses and tack. He’s quite welcome there now.”

"You knew about the blackmail?"

Colin blushed. "Yes. I suggested it."

"I see."

"I knew I was going the wrong direction, but the money was . . . enticing. I couldn't stop myself. After all, it was only words I was selling, and look how well the stable set up worked out; that's how I reasoned it."

"Like I said, my grandfather is good at what he does," the bitter edge was clear. "There's more, I take it."

"Yes. Your brother began to make me see that money isn't everything. He has pride and self confidence, but more than that, knows the value of family. I know what he put on the line to come here.” Colin shifted slightly and momentarily touched the unconscious man’s shoulder. His voice was full of wonder. “The more I found out about your brother from Teresa and Sarah, the worse I felt about myself. Can you imagine having to change who you are to keep your family safe? Walking away from Lancer like he did? At first I thought he was crazy; he was turning his back on everything I ever wanted. But after awhile, I began to realize why he did it and what was truly important in this life."

Scott felt a knot begin to grow in his throat and he nodded, letting his eyes fall to his motionless brother. Suddenly, everything made sense – all the things Johnny said, the way he said them, and his reason for doing things in the order he wanted; Scott realized that when Johnny came east, he had no intention of returning to Lancer.

His brother was turning his back on his home and what made him who he was, forging not only a new life, but a new identity as well. No wonder the Johnny he knew wasn’t to be found here - that Johnny was left behind in California. All this sacrifice was done to protect his family.

Burning eyes signaled Scott’s sorrow at the loss of the brother he knew. Quickly, he wiped his eyes and felt a newborn determination to get him back, and as a result, heal his own heart. Realizing Colin was waiting for a response, he managed to whisper, "He is remarkable."

Colin cleared his throat. "Anyway, late this afternoon, right after you left, Garrett called me in and in essence, ordered me to kill your brother."

"What?" Scott's head jerked up and found Colin's face, looking for any kind of sign that he didn't really hear those words. Deep inside, however, he knew it was true.

Colin brought his hands together into a nervous ball. "I could tell by the questions what the intent was. I finally asked him directly if he wanted Johnny dead. He said yes. Then he offered more money than I could ever dream of having."

Ashamed, Scott felt his face flush.

“I turned him down and left. I think he sent someone to my house to shut me up permanently. I’d become a liability." Colin's voice broke. "My selfishness almost killed my wife and your brother."

"No," Scott corrected, feeling the anger rise. "My grandfather almost killed them and it's time he was held accountable."

"He's a strong and powerful man in this city, Scott. You can't go against him alone."

“I’m not alone. I have you.”

Fear clearly flashed across Colin’s face. His mouth opened for a moment, obviously ready to protest, but then it snapped shut. A shamed flush crossed his face, but then he set his jaw determinedly and spoke. “Yes. You have me. I will testify when you need me.”

The wagon came to a jerky stop in front of the Institute and Scott's heart was lightened to see Teresa race from the front doors. Family; it was everything, he realized. And I'm making sure mine stays together.

Scott felt strangely energized, working automatically to get his brother and Sarah in the house. Teresa hovered at first then took lead on taking care of Johnny. Colin stayed by Sarah's side while they waited for Dr. Boyer to return.

Teresa settled in Johnny's room next to his bed and began to peel his clothes from him with Scott's help. The children that Johnny had befriended were sent to heat water and find bandages.

"His sleeves are burned," Teresa whispered. "So are his arms."

Scott grimly peeled away the sections of cloth that adhered to his brother's skin, glad Johnny wasn't awake. While Teresa began washing Johnny's face, Scott removed the pants, parts of which crumbled in his hands. He covered his brother’s legs with a clean sheet. Johnny was unnaturally still. Teresa began to cry.

"He'll be all right, Teresa, I'm sure." Scott leaned over and gave her shoulder a reassuring rub.

"It's not just that, Scott. Johnny told me he wasn't going back to Lancer. Ever." She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and concentrated on washing each sooty finger clean.

"He did?" Scott felt his anger rise with the confirmation of his guess. Part of him still hoped all of this was a bad dream; the other part was ready to defend his family.

"He said it was too dangerous. That more gunmen would come looking for him, and he couldn't defend himself. He said we'd get hurt and he couldn't stand it." Her breath hitched. "Scott, he actually said he'd slowly die there." Tears fell freely at that point, dropping onto the ash on Johnny’s skin and making salty spots.

Scott sank back, dazed and feeling suddenly trapped. The Johnny he knew was dead if he stayed or dead if he left. This had to stop. Now. He also knew that this conflict had risen to another level, a level that included men that didn't think twice about burning down a house occupied by a blind couple. He needed protection. Wordlessly, Scott twisted around and studied the room.

"What's wrong? What are you looking for?" Teresa sniffed again and managed to control her tears as she glanced at Scott.

"I know it's here. He didn't leave it at Lancer."

"What, Scott?"

"Johnny's gun. Where is it?"

"His gun!" She paused in her rinsing of the cloth. "Why? Scott, what's wrong?" Panic had crept into her voice.

Scott's eyes fell on the trunk. He reached to it, threw back the lid and began to dig. It only took a moment to find the worn rig on the bottom. He stood, and began to strap it on.

"Scott! What are you doing? You're scaring me!" The cloth forgotten, she rested her hands on Johnny's blistered arm, trembling.

"Teresa, I . . ." he couldn't keep the look of bottomless agony from his face, and his hands fumbled.

"What?" Teresa's voice was stronger.

"I think Grandfather did this. And more. I can't prove any of it, but I have to try."

"Did what? Hurt Johnny?" She stood, shocked.

"I think he arranged for the fire." Ever so briefly, he relayed what Colin had told him, and Teresa's eyes grew wider with each word. When he finished, Dr. Boyer walked into the room.

"Let me see him in better light . . ." the doctor paused, eyeing Scott and Teresa. "Is there a problem here?" he asked slowly.

"No problem here," Scott said sternly, moving to the doorway. "But there is somewhere else."

"No, don't," Teresa begged, stepping in his way.

"Someone has to stop this madness," Scott said firmly, moving her aside and brushing by.

Protesting, Teresa began to follow him, but a groan from Johnny stopped her. Scott slipped out of the Institute as she turned back to their injured brother.

Johnny was sure someone was beating on his head with a stick but when he reached out to stop the action, all he found was open air. Instead, he pressed his palm against his forehead and groaned.

“Johnny?” Teresa’s voice increased the throbbing, and he winced. The next time she spoke it was much quieter, and a cool hand was laid on his cheek. “You're awake.”

She sounds so sad, he thought. How long have I been . . . here? It took a few more seconds for the pounding to recede enough for him to evaluate where he was. The roaring in his ears came and went with his movements, so he kept still, trying to recall what had happened.

The smell of smoke brought it all crashing down. Johnny struggled to sit up with his reward for the effort being a wave of nausea.

"I'd advise you to lie still, Johnny. Your head must hurt quite a bit," a man's voice said. Johnny's fuzzy mind tried to place it.

"Colin?" Johnny gasped, coughing. Each motion brought a new explosion in his head.

"He and Sarah are here at the Institute. You saved them, Johnny. They are going to be all right." The man's voice again - not Colin.

Something else niggled at him, and it took a few moments to find the thought amongst the pain. "Scott?"

"He went to Harlan's." Teresa's voice sounded tight with the statement. The man spoke again as Johnny coughed.

"You'll be doing that for awhile, John. You took in a lungful." Dr. Boyer listened carefully to his patient's chest. "You're singed internally, which means we have to watch for pneumonia. I need to put a couple of stitches in that rock of yours you call a head. What were you thinking? Other than that, you're going to survive. Painfully for awhile, but survive. The burns are superficial." Johnny felt the doctor ruffle his hair, which made him wince in pain. "You needed a haircut, but that was a pretty drastic way to do it!"

Johnny tried to laugh, but it made him cough and his head exploded again. He noticed a flash of color against the constant ash grey with each stab of pain, but didn't pay it much heed.

"You sound awful." Another voice, low and raspy. "I want to thank you, Johnny."

"Colin?"

"Yeah. Sarah will be fine, too. Thank you."

"No need," Johnny replied, wondering if he was going to vomit now or later. Slowly, he tried to sit.

"Not too quickly, Johnny," Dr. Boyer said, helping him up. "Can you sit while I stitch your head?"

"Yeah," Johnny rasped, followed by a tight grouping of small coughs.

"Johnny, I . . ." Colin started, but the quick 'no' from Teresa caught Johnny's ear.

"What?" Johnny asked, fighting for focus and working to control the coughs.

"It's nothing, Johnny, really."

Johnny could always tell when Teresa was lying; the quaver in her voice always gave her away. This time, it was loud and clear even through the stampeding buffalo herd confined in his head.

An odd tugging on his head over the tender wound sidetracked any coherent thought, and his muzzy head finally figured out that the doctor was trimming the hair over where he was going to stitch. Completely distracted by the pain, Johnny worked to keep his stomach from revolting while Dr. Boyer stitched his head. Boyer didn't complain once about Johnny's coughing fits which made the task more difficult.

Johnny squeezed his eyes shut as the doctor worked. They felt gritty. In an effort to get a grip on one of the uncomfortable areas of his body, he blinked to start his eyes tearing to wash out the sand. It took a few blinks until he realized the ash gray had changed color.

It was dark when he shut his eyes and light when they were open. His confused brain took a few heartbeats to realize the implication. Slowly, he brought his hand near his face and was shocked to see movement - nothing clear, but definitely movement, like a shadow on a cloud. A fit of coughing and the related stabs of pain they caused distracted Johnny again, but his senses were tuned enough for Colin's voice to stop him cold.

"But Scott could be in danger!" The way Colin spoke quickly overrode any thought of his vision. Johnny slipped his arm from Teresa’s hand and pushed himself to a sitting position using his elbow. He felt what must have been Colin's hand helping him up.

"You don’t hold still for a minute, do you?" Boyer quipped as he quickly snipped the last stitch. As the doctor turned his attention to his patient’s cut and burned hands, Johnny struggled to throw his legs over the edge of the bed. The doctor clucked with disapproval then quickly asked for fresh bandages. "I don't recommend walking around right now, Johnny.”

"What kind of danger?" Johnny demanded, ignoring Dr. Boyer as his hands were wrapped. Johnny’s senses fought to become alert around his various hurts and the persistent spasms of coughs were not only annoying, but painful. When Colin didn't respond right away, Johnny found his elbow with a newly bandaged hand. He gave the man a firm shake. "Tell me," he said in the flat, emotionless voice that signaled the rebirth of Johnny Madrid.

Colin didn't hesitate to tell him everything. The quiet distraction of Boyer’s bandaging was easily ignored, but the steady pounding in Johnny's head hadn't lessened at all by the time the story was told. It had been difficult to concentrate on Colin's words when each painful throb washed out a bit more of the metallic grey that Johnny had expected to see for the rest of his life.

But Johnny couldn't dwell on hope right now. Harlan Garrett had managed to play him like a fool and his family was paying the price. He jerked his hand from the doctor and threw back the sheet covering his legs. The cold air on his hot legs made him hiss shortly.

"Johnny," Teresa started.

"Where's my pants?" Johnny demanded through clenched teeth, pulling the sheet back up and coughing again.

“Johnny, you can’t go out like this,” Dr. Boyer stated firmly. “That head wound alone . . .”

Something landed in his lap, and Johnny’s fingers, sticking out from thickly wrapped palms, recognized a pair of his pants. He shook them out, the play of light momentarily distracting, but the realization that he was practically naked focused his attention on dressing.

“You aren’t listening to a word I say, are you?” Boyer asked in exasperation.

“Sure I am, doc,” Johnny rasped. “But listenin’ and doin’ what you say are two different things.” Some kind of look must have passed between Boyer and Teresa, because the doctor sighed in resignation then Johnny felt fingers picking the remains of his shirt from his singed back. The warm burn of his skin became very sharp in the process, and when the doctor was done, a clean shirt landed in Johnny’s quaking hands. The whole ordeal of dressing was both painful and exhausting and left him feeling slightly queasy.

Fighting to clear his head, Johnny again took Teresa’s elbow. “My trunk,” he coughed. “My gun is in the trunk.”

“No, it’s not,” Teresa said quickly. “Scott took it.”

“What?” Johnny pressed the palm of a hand on his temple in a physical attempt to clear his thoughts. “Then at least he’s armed. Where’s my cane?”

“I don’t know,” Teresa said.

“Take mine. Dr. Boyer found it in the front yard of my house,” Colin replied quickly, pressing the carved wood and dragon piece in Johnny’s hand. “The man that attacked me was probably going to keep it as a souvenir,” Colin growled. Then, in a softer voice, said, “I’d go with you but I just can’t leave Sarah.”

Johnny accepted the item and oriented himself by familiar sounds and the feel of a light breeze on his cheek. His vision was still patchy fog, but as he moved to the exit he noticed darker patches floating by – they were the things he was walking past. The images, although completely indistinct, were distracting and gave him a feeling of vertigo as he moved. His brain wasn’t used to having visual input anymore. Along with all the pain input, his mind had a lot to juggle. Johnny set his jaw and kept going; his senses would have to re-adapt on the move.

He was almost to the door when he heard hurried footsteps behind him and then felt the firm grip of Teresa’s hand on his arm.

“I’m going with you. If you say no, I’ll just follow, so don’t bother.”

Clearing his raw throat, Johnny realized he was actually glad for her support. He felt a little nauseous from trying to find his balance, and her being there helped. “Fine,” he croaked dryly. “But you gotta do what I say when the time comes.”

“And you’ll tell me when that is, I suppose?”

He pulled his arm tightly to his body, trapping her hand, and ignored the stars that resulted from another coughing fit. Finally able to speak again, he said hoarsely, “Hopefully just before bullets start flyin'.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When Scott stormed from the Institute he had the presence of mind to button the heavy coat he wore to cover Johnny’s gun. He went straight to the livery where Johnny worked and rented a carriage just big enough to carry his things from Garrett’s house to the Institute. With an ironic snort, the thought struck him that at least his family wouldn’t be staying in three different places anymore.

As he drove the familiar streets toward his boyhood home there were none of the warm memories that were there just the day before. Scott gripped the reins more tightly, the burning in his chest with each breath a reminder of how badly he’d been betrayed by his grandfather. Knowing he eventually had to go to the authorities, Scott was glad to have the chore of picking up his things first; it gave him a bit of time to try and control his anger enough to go over what he knew and what he could actually prove. He needed the time to present a logical case to the police. Knowing his grandfather and the resources available to him, Scott knew he had to have an ironclad case before taking action. The police would already be hesitant to take on a figure as important in this town as Harlan Garrett.

Suddenly, Boston seemed like a dirty place. Scott felt he wouldn’t feel clean again until they all set foot back on Lancer land.

Snow-fattened clouds hovered high over the houses, seeming reluctant to embrace the city with its cleansing gift. The gas lamps lining the streets glowed warmly, casting orange light that reflected from the low ceiling of grey and illuminating the front of Harlan’s house in an unflattering palette. Scott pulled the horse to a stop, stepped from the carriage and secured the rein to the hitch ring.

Steeled resolve drove Scott up the stairs and into the house. He didn’t notice the figure step back into the shadows across the street watching him with eyes which glowed orange with angered fire.

Ephram Carver's arrangements were falling apart before his eyes.

He pressed his hand against the fresh wound that crossed his cheek. For a blind man, Llewellyn was accurate in his strike; the metal head of the cane had bitten deep. But Carver had proved his power over the invalid with his second blow. The joy in the whole thing was imagining Colin's slow, painful death in the flames and being able to relive the feeling every time he looked at the heavy cane he’d snatched from the unconscious man.

Then another invalid had come along and saved him! Ephram, in disgust, had hurled the cane in the front yard as he stormed from the scene. It was a worthless souvenir at that point.

Feeling deeply cheated, Ephram had watched from the crowd as the dark haired blind man saved the man and woman, rendering the whole event meaningless. And although the ecstasy of the event was gone, Ephram kept his head enough to know that this was nothing but trouble for him.

The throbbing cheek was a relentless reminder of his failure and the danger he was now in - his one possible witness was still alive. Although he was blind, Ephram knew well that loose ends were always a problem. A loose end is what put him in prison last time, and it wasn't going to happen again.

Patiently, Ephram lost himself in the crowd and watched the light haired man fawn over the dark haired meddler behind what should have been a bonfire of success. Instead, it was a flaming reminder of failure. Ephram knew the agent that hired him for this deed would be after him as well as the city authorities. Ephram realized he, too, was a loose end.

He had to get out of the city and fast, but he needed money to do so.

Ephram knew that his ultimate boss had wanted the occupants of that house dead. He didn't know why, and he didn’t care. What he did know was that anyone saving the occupants could lead him to the money. All he had to do was wait. And now he was about to reap his reward.

When the blond man stalked from the Institute, he was armed with a handgun. Knowing the posture of revenge when he saw it, Ephram fell in behind the young man and followed him, hailing a cab when the young man disappeared in the stable. When he saw the man stop in front of a stately manor on Beacon Street, Ephram knew he'd hit pay dirt; the source of his money. He had his driver drop him several houses beyond, and then casually made his way to the front of the house after the blond stormed inside.

Now all he had to do was sit back and figure his next move. Ephram wasn't about to play the role of a sacrificial lamb. He settled into the bushes under the front window so he could hear what happened inside.

Ephram was the picture of patience, his surveillance telling him that the blond man and one other – a servant of some kind – were the only ones inside at the moment. After a while the sound of an approaching coach caught his attention, and between the branches of thick bushes he saw a nicely appointed coach pull up in front of the Beacon Street house.

Ephram’s line of sight was perfect. First to exit the coach was a big man, familiar only in his bearing. He’d seen a lot of that kind before; big and physically intimidating, just like the man that had hired him for the fire job. Ephram found that type usually didn't hold the same mental level of challenge he was used to dealing with.

The second man out made him grin broadly - it was the man that had hired him for the job! With him gone, there was no direct tie to who supplied the money; an important fact to file away. The two men could have been related by the way they looked. Obviously bodyguards.

Last from the coach was an old man. The street light, hissing in the growing darkness, threw enough light to make Ephram smile again as it illuminated the man’s face. Harlan Garrett! One of the richer men of the city! What luck! Ephram knew immediately that money would not be an issue here - there was plenty to be had. The coach rattled away as the trio ascended the stairs to the house.

Knowing patience to be a virtue, Ephram settled back into the growing shadows. There were at least five people in that house right now, and conflict was inevitable. Ephram knew that when the conflict was at its hottest, he would be able to make his entry unchallenged.

When he heard loud, angry voices inside, he rose to make his way to the back door. Then he heard the low murmur of voices near the street, and sank back into the umbra of the brush. In the deepening darkness, he watched as the couple paused in front of Garrett’s house. Low voices indicated they didn’t want to be heard over the arguing inside, which piqued Ephram’s curiosity. Then the pair moved next to the blond man's carriage secured in front of the house, and one helped the other to get in. Now that they were closer to the gas lamp, Ephram parted the brush to clear his line of sight and immediately recognized another opportunity: A woman was being left behind in the coach!

They'd managed to snare a cab just outside the Institute. It wasn't one that Johnny knew, but he didn't care. He fished out what money he had and threw it at the cab driver before dropping heavily from the coach. He turned to help Teresa down as he hung heavily on the door. The cold air actually felt good on his hot skin.

"Johnny, are you all right?" she asked for the millionth time. He had to admit that he felt like hell, but nothing was going to keep him from Scott's side at this point. His brother needed backup, whether he realized it or not, and Johnny was going to do what he could.

During the ride to Garrett's house, Johnny's vision had gradually improved to the point where the cloudy figures were fairly defined. Clothing color could be determined, as well as general body movements, but any detail of eye or hand was still lost in thick cloudiness. He'd decided to keep it all to himself for now - his returning eyesight could still be a fluke and disappear at any moment. Johnny missed his dark glasses badly; they were a shroud to his physical state and the advantage would help. Instead, he allowed the urgency of the moment to guide his motions and tried to ignore the dizzying movements he now saw and the constant burn of the skin on his arms and back. Helping Teresa from the coach, Johnny knew she shouldn’t be here.

With Garrett involved, this was going to get ugly. Johnny just hoped the pounding in his head would recede enough to enable him to do what he had to do when the time came.

They left the cab well before Garrett's front doors. Johnny kept Teresa's mind occupied by having her describe the inside of the house in as much detail as she could recall, and she seemed to recall a lot.

"We're here," Teresa breathed, a little winded from supporting Johnny and talking. Loud voices could be heard inside. “Sounds like Scott’s here. There’s a carriage from the stable out front.” She paused. "The stairs look a lot steeper than I remember," she said tentatively.

Johnny pulled her to a stop and forced himself to stand straight. The shirt material was rough against what he knew were growing blisters on his body. A flurry of tiny coughs made shooting stars of his tenuous vision; his hands throbbed. Pushing all the discomfort aside, Johnny squared his shoulders and brushed her hand from his arm.

"Do you know what you're going to do?" she asked as they moved to the stairs.

"Not yet, but somethin'll come to me," he rasped. “You need to wait in the carriage.”

“No! I want to go in with you!”

Johnny shushed her, gently held her shoulder with one hand, and placed two fingers lightly on her lips. “We may need to get out of here in a hurry. Get the horse ready and wait for us.”

After a moment, she agreed, and he helped her climb in. Johnny felt his way to the horse’s head and untied him. The horse gave him a friendly nudge. Johnny’s hand paused when he recognized the action – it was Dusty, Dr. Boyer’s horse. Don’t think doc’ll mind the loan, he thought with amusement. Scott must rank on the horse’s acceptable list, too.

“You’d better be quick, Johnny. I want to get out of here,” Teresa whispered.

“So do I, querida, so do I.” Johnny gave the horse a farewell pat and relied on the heavy cane to find the door in the meager gas light. For once, the darkness wasn’t as frightening.

Squinting through the throbbing pain in his head, Johnny relied on the cane to find the stairs rather than try to sort out the swirling tones of black and grey his eyes showed him. The yellow light from the gas lamp edged everything in pale gold just enough for him to avoid the bigger obstacles, but the cane was the best way to define the stairs.

When he stepped onto the porch, Johnny paused for a moment to center his balance and focus on the door. He reached for the doorknob – a dark spot about hip high - but the door opened on its own accord and the biggest shadow of a man Johnny had ever seen darkened the doorway. It was difficult not to respond to the sight, but Johnny kept his head bowed as he drawled, “Expectin’ me, were ya?”

A powerful hand dragged him inside and his head swam sharply.

Johnny was roughly shoved into what he figured was the very chair he'd graced the day before. Lamplight illuminated the ghostly shadows that he could now see were furniture. Scott was easy to find – he was the blur that wouldn't stand still across the room.

“Johnny!” The words were clear through the buzzing in Johnny’s aching head. “Are you all right? You shouldn’t be here!”

“You know me,” Johnny said with a smile. “I’m never where I’m supposed ta be.” Now that he was sitting quietly, the headache was more tolerable and he was able to concentrate on what he could see. The sting of his burns, however, was relentless, but, slowly, he was able to push the distractions aside.

Colors, stained yellow by the lamp light, slowly crept into the shadows. He could see that there where two enormous man-shadows – 'bookends', he thought – one next to him, and the other keeping Scott on the other side of the room. He missed the tactical advantage of the dark glasses hiding his eyes as he unobtrusively surveyed the room, ‘But I’m still invisible to them’, he thought with satisfaction.

Automatically, Johnny had picked his first target - the bulky shape standing to his left that looked, even as a frothy blob, like hired muscle. The bookend blob by Scott was in the same category, but Johnny had to get around the one at his elbow first.

Another moving shadow on one of the chairs across from him was Harlan. The old goat's voice made that identification easy.

“Calm down, Scotty. I don’t like to see you like this.”

“Well, you won’t be seeing me for long, grandfather, so that should solve your problem!”

With his first target in mind, Johnny just had to wait for an opportunity. A particularly sharp stab of pain fingered out, spider like, from the stitched area of his head. He inadvertently ducked his head and touched the sensitive area with the fingertips of one hand. After a moment, the pain faded, and Johnny looked up just in time to see the second bookend use one ham-sized hand to push his brother down into a facing chair. Johnny noticed at that moment that he could see Scott's eyes as well as the fury there when Scott shoved the offending hand from his shoulder. Then his agitated brother turned his head and looked at Johnny.

As soon as Scott saw Johnny's face, he knew - Johnny could tell - and the slow smile that pulled on one side of Johnny's lips made Scott's mouth drop open in shock as they locked eyes. Moving his hand to again touch the sore spot on the back of his head, Johnny took a fleeting second to press his finger to his lips; 'Our little secret, brother,' he thought. Scott's mouth clamped shut and he pulled his eyes away from the miracle to face his grandfather again. Johnny could only imagine the thoughts now running through his brother’s head, but it was clear that Scott knew to keep Harlan’s attention away from Johnny, as he launched into another verbal engagement with his grandfather.

The noise was an irritating distraction because it brought flashes of pain and light to his view for a few moments, but when it finally faded away to the previous dull throbbing, Johnny’s vision had cleared even more. He could now see that each bookend had a sidearm tucked away in their respective waistbands, and that Scott wore his familiar rig. 'It sits well on him', Johnny thought crazily. He smiled tightly at that thought.

Harlan had dismissed Johnny as any kind of threat; the ex-gunfighter knew that from the way the old man and the bookend musclemen ignored him. Tactically, that was a good thing, and he knew Scott realized that, too. Now Johnny had to figure out how to use their element of surprise to get out of here since it was clear that Harlan knew his gig was blown with Colin’s testimony. The more accusations Scott threw at Harlan, the more Johnny realized the extent of Harlan’s treachery.

He and Scott had to get out of here for Scott’s sake - this betrayal would cut deep, and his brother’s heart couldn’t take much more. Johnny tensed, preparing to move.

Everything changed in an instant when a thin spectre of a man stepped into the room with Teresa in his bony grip.

"I wouldn't." The wiry man stepped through the dining room arch, one sinewy arm wrapped around Teresa's neck with a long fingered hand covering her mouth while the other hand held a large knife to her throat. Teresa's eyes were huge with terror and her fingernails were buried in his forearm. He didn't seem to notice. "Mr. Garrett isn't going anywhere until he pays me what I'm owed."

There was a moment of shocked silence, broken by the indignant roar of Garrett. "Who do you think you are? I don't owe you anything! Get out of my home!" He pushed himself to his feet, and the two bodyguards tensed to move. Scott grabbed Harlan's arm and pulled him back down.

"Don't antagonize him! He'll hurt her!" Scott barked, his eyes burning into the stranger.

The wiry man gave a skeletal grin and continued to stare at Garrett. "He's right, you know. Nobody makes me the fall guy, Garrett." He tightened his grip on the girl and she let out a terrified squeak and squeezed her eyes shut.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Harlan sputtered, straightening in indignation. "I've never seen you before in my life!"

"Maybe not," the man said calmly. "But he has." His eyes roamed to the behemoth man standing next to Johnny. "And that ties me to you, Garrett. I know when I'm expendable. I'm just making sure I get my due before I disappear. And I plan to disappear on my own terms." The dark, predator eyes refocused on Harlan.

Scott rose slowly, trying to force the man to look at him. "I won't let you hurt her," he said firmly.

The man's eerie smile never faltered. "That's up to Mr. Garrett," he said darkly, his nearly black eyes never leaving the old man.

"Don't go near him, Scotty. You could get hurt." Finally, a tinge of worry edged in Garrett's voice, the implication clear - he didn't care what happened to Teresa; only his precious grandson held any value.

Scott instantly flushed, his hands curling into fists. Trying to keep his fear at bay, Scott hoped the stranger didn't realize the implication Garrett's tone held. The man's eyes flicked to Garrett, and then slid slowly back to stop squarely on Scott. The hope died; this man knew exactly what Garrett valued.

Apparently, the bodyguard closest to Scott figured it out, too. He reached for the intruder, but the thin man moved with incredible speed. In less than a heartbeat, the knife thumped deeply into the guard's chest as Teresa was shoved roughly into Scott's arms, bowling him over. A rough tug at his side as he fell told Scott that the Colt had been stolen from the holster as he broke Teresa's fall. Scott froze on his hands and knees, Teresa below him trying to breathe with choked, raspy breaths, as the press of cold iron behind his ear told him who had the weapon. The stuck bodyguard wheezed once, then died.

"Don't!" Harlan ordered the second guard who apparently had made a threatening move. "He'll hurt Scotty!"

Doing what he was ordered to do, the second guard growled, “You’re a dead man, Carver.”

A hand twisted in the back of Scott's collar and he was hauled to his feet. Gasping for breath, his eyes found Johnny's as his younger brother stepped aside enough to be seen from behind the second guard. Johnny’s fingers stuck out from the stark white bandages on his hands, and were the only indications of his anger as he gripped the cane tightly. The big guard still blocked Johnny from being able to get to Scott. He was heartened to see that his brother regarded him clearly, meeting his eyes squarely. He wondered just how hard it was for his brother to stay there and pretend blindness.

Scott's eyes dropped to Teresa as she scooted across the floor to Johnny and settled shakily at his feet. Johnny’s fingers relaxed and he dropped a hand to the top of the young woman’s head. "You all right, querida?" he asked softly.

Scott watched as Teresa twisted her head up and nodded, rubbing her throat. Johnny dropped his eyes to meet hers, and Scott saw that she instantly knew Johnny was better. Her eyes widened again, and she gave a little gasp, but she snapped her mouth closed and turned back to Scott in surprise.

Scott met her look and couldn't help but smile a tiny bit. The gun dug deeper in his neck and the moment was gone.

"I have some money in the safe," Harlan sputtered indicating the hall with the wave of an arm.

“Then get it,” Carver replied smoothly.

Harlan got shakily to his feet and took a pair of steps, then stopped to glare at the stranger. “You have no idea who you are dealing with.”

“The grandfather of a dead man if you don’t do what I say,” Carver replied as he lifted up Scott’s collar, making him choke.

Harlan moved off without a word and disappeared down a hall.

“The butler isn’t going anywhere, either, in case you’re wondering,” Carver said casually. “I left him in the kitchen after he let me in.”

“Well, he was kinda rude,” Johnny said with his soft drawl, drawing the intruder’s attention as Harlan scurried off. Both hands rested on the dragon’s head in a relaxed pose. He looked the picture of calm to Scott, and Scott wondered what his brother was up to. Teresa also glanced up at him then back to Scott, questions clear in her eyes.

Carver eyed Johnny and his cane then dismissed him with a smirk.

The remaining bodyguard was not at all happy. He glared at Carver, his fists clenching and unclenching in barely reined in fury. Scott realized that the anger made that man the wild card in all this, and he frantically hoped that Johnny could see enough to realize that.

Hurried footfall brought Garrett back into the room, “This is what I have! Take it!” He held up several packets of banded money.

When the thin man turned to look at it, the remaining bodyguard’s arm moved. Two shots rang out and filled the room with the acrid sting of gunpowder. Carver had been faster, and the only connection between Harlan and the arson was dead on the floor. The big body blocked Johnny’s path to his brother.

“Scott!” Teresa cried, getting to her feet. Johnny grabbed her arm and held her back. “He's been shot!”

“Scotty!” Harlan gasped from the couch, where he’d cowered from the confrontation.

“Hold still,” Johnny hissed lowly.

“But he shot Scott!” she sobbed. “Let me look!”

Teresa struggled against Johnny’s arm, then, realizing Carver still held the Colt to Scott’s chin she stopped, trembling uncontrollably.

Harlan started to approach his grandson. Scott’s shirt was flowering crimson from high on his side, the red fingers moving outward on the white linen from where the bodyguard's bullet struck. He sagged briefly in the stranger’s grip, but managed to keep his feet.

“Better listen to the blind man,” Carver said, hauling Scott a few steps backward. Garrett came to a frightened stop, his face ashen. “Your boy here’s still breathing. That can change.”

“I’m all right,” Scott managed to gasp. “I think it just grazed me.”

Carver turned coolly to Garrett. “Suddenly, there isn’t enough money there for me, Mr. Garrett. Give it to your boy, here.” Garrett held out the pile of cash and Scott accepted it with bloody hands. “Stuff it in your shirt, Scotty,” Carver ordered. Scott did so, slowly and painfully unbuttoning his shirt and tucking the money inside. His captor waited patiently, knowing he held all the cards in this hand.

Carver dragged Scott backward around the edge of the room toward the front door. "Garrett, I'll keep your boy until tomorrow, ten o'clock. I want fifteen thousand dollars delivered to me at the fountain by the pier. The blind man brings it. You hear me? Any sign of anyone else, and your precious grandson is dead." He pushed the muzzle hard into his captive’s neck, making Scott wince. "Clear?"

"You can't do this!” Garrett begged, supporting himself on the back of a chair. “He needs medical attention! I’ll pay you what you want!”

“Yes, you will,” Carver smiled. “Tomorrow.”

Johnny could follow Carver’s movements as he circled the room to leave. Not wanting to tip his hand, Johnny kept his head bowed as, Madrid-like, all his senses began to work together and a plan of action naturally fell together. Outwardly, he appeared calm as he carefully tracked the man's path with his peripheral vision and extremely acute hearing. Johnny knew Carver didn't see him as a true threat which gave him a slight edge. As a result, he had to take a chance that Carver wouldn't adversely react to any of his movements.

So Johnny turned toward the pair, shuffling forward until his toes brushed the downed bodyguard. He got as good of a grip as he could with bandaged hands on the cane, and shifted his weight.

“Don’t move, blind man,” Carver growled.

Johnny jerked at the noise as if surprised then sprang into motion when the pair was at their closest. His eyes flicked to his target and the metal dragon lashed out with accurate speed.

The cane bit hard and Johnny’s aim was impeccable. The dragon caught the man just under the chin as an upward jab, making the surprised gunman jerk back. Scott, reacting to his brother's motion, twisted slightly and yanked the gun down with a two handed grip on Carver’s arm. The Colt fired a wild round, and Scott fell away.

Johnny took a step closer to follow up with another jab, but Carver kicked Scott away and freed his arm, swinging it up in an arc that caught Johnny in the jaw with the butt of the Colt. Johnny staggered backward; his head exploding in sparks of agony, and fell aside to his knees.

All he heard was a dull roar mixed with a shrieking his fuzzy brain finally identified as Teresa's screams. Johnny’s newfound vision whirled sickeningly as he swayed and tried to keep his balance. He felt more than saw a whirl of motion next to him, heard some unintelligible shouted words that made him wince in pain, and then everything was drowned out with endless buzzing.

He flung his arms around to maintain his balance, and then he felt steadying hands grip on his arm. Johnny was dragged to his feet, and he swallowed the nauseous bile that rose in his throat from the motion. His head felt like a lump of molten iron and was nearly impossible to keep upright.

“He’s got Teresa!” he finally heard, realizing it had been shouted at him several times before becoming comprehensible. Finally finding his balance on his feet, Johnny fought to control the sheer pain and clarify what he was seeing.

Scott pulled on his arm, dragging him toward the door. Johnny blinked hard, forcing clear vision as they crossed the threshold to the porch. The circle of gaslamp light spotlighted a vague black form as it climbed into Scott’s carriage and made motions to gather the reins.

Scott yelled and raised his arm as if he held a gun then bolted down the stairs. Johnny tried to follow, but lost his balance on the first step and lurched into the side rail. As he hauled himself to his feet, he remembered something.

Johnny swallowed hard and pressed his lips together. The carriage began to move away with a jerk, the horse dancing nervously in the traces as Scott ran toward him. It took a second, but Johnny finally managed an earsplitting whistle that brought tears to his eyes.

Through his swimming vision, Johnny saw the carriage jump forward, and then bounce to a stop. The driver slapped the reins wildly, but then Johnny whistled again and Dusty shook his head, violently fighting the bit. One more slap of the reins and Dusty reared.

Scott’s shadow reached the side of the carriage and Johnny saw him drag Carver from the seat. Quickly, Johnny recovered his footing and half-stepped, half-fell down the remaining stairs. He clutched the rail to slow his uncontrolled descent and stumbled when he hit the bottom.

Johnny couldn’t hear much through the roaring in his head, but the circle of lamplight clearly framed the forms of Scott and Carver as they fought. Noticing with an odd floating detachment that it was hard to walk a straight line, Johnny had almost reached them when his feet tangled in something and he fell to his knees just short of the struggling pair. A gunshot sounded, and bright orange muzzle flash pinpointed the location of the gun. There was a loud grunt, and Johnny heard something hit the ground with a thud as the fight escalated.

Crawling a few inches, Johnny felt the hot barrel of his Colt and fumbled to fit it into his thickly bandaged hand. He reared back on his haunches in time to see one of the forms go down hard. The standing form was wraith-like thin, and Johnny knew it was Carver.

Carver bent and pulled something from his boot and made a smooth, sweeping motion toward Scott.

Johnny raised the Colt and fired, aiming with instinct alone. The sound blinded him with pain for a second as Carver lurched back a step, his attack aborted. Johnny shot again, his head feeling like it too was going to explode. Carver crumpled in the street.

Johnny’s hands dropped, and he wondered if he was going to vomit. He heard a rush of motion, and pried his eyes open enough to see Scott on his hands and knees and Teresa quickly checking him.

Then she came to him, and Johnny sighed in relief, closing his eyes to try and ease his throbbing head.

“Grandfather,” Scott croaked, struggling to his feet and wobbling to the stairs. With the danger gone, neighbors cautiously began appearing in the yellow ring of light, afraid to come close.

“This one’s dead!” a man announced as he bent over Carver’s body.

“Help me up,” Johnny slurred, grabbing Teresa’s arm. Unable to speak through choking sobs, Teresa did as he asked and wrapped her arm around his waist. He held her shoulders tightly with one arm, and the other dangled loosely at his side, the Colt in his bloody grip. His closeness must have helped Teresa gather herself, as her crying dwindled to breathy gasps. They followed Scott up the stairs. “I’m gettin’ ta hate stairs,” Johnny mumbled. Teresa let out a short, sniffling laugh, edged in hysteria.

When they entered the house, the bright lamps made Johnny’s eyes water and he stopped Teresa until he could see again. He heard the young girl start to cry softly again, and he blinked to clear his vision.

Scott was on his knees next to his grandfather, who was lying on his back. There was a dark stain trailing from under his form. His head bowed, Scott gently crossed Harlan’s hands across his chest to cover the bright red stain in the middle of his chest then sat back on his heels, motionless, bloodied hands resting on his thighs.

Then Johnny remembered the wild shot fired during the struggle between Carver and Scott. The bullet had found a mark after all.

Try as he might, Johnny found that he couldn't keep focus. With the threat of conflict now past, his physical injuries made themselves known one by one. Teresa had left him leaning against the wall and moved to Scott's side. Johnny slowly slid to the floor, trying to blink away the horrid throbbing in his head. His eyes settled on the prone form of the bodyguard across from him and he noticed with detached fascination as his sight undulated and slowly sharpened into focus.

There's so much color, he thought weirdly, knowing it was an odd thought for the moment. His skin felt like fire and his hands began to throb in unison with his head. It took quite an effort to roll the pulsing, leaden mass on his shoulders to find his brother, but he was driven to do so.

The only thing he could hear over the constant buzzing was his own breathing, and Johnny found the sound interesting. He watched Teresa and Scott for a moment and smiled to himself; it was the sweetest sight he'd ever seen. Johnny fought desperately to keep his lids open knowing his brother needed help with his grandfather, but lost the battle.

EPILOGUE

Side by side, Scott and Teresa sat outside Johnny's hospital room and waited. They held hands tightly, each taking comfort in the presence of the other. Scott's neck held a fresh bandage where the wild shot in the house had grazed his throat just before killing his grandfather. His side held a trio of new stitches and a square of gauze. Teresa had a much smaller bandage where Carver's knife had left a mark. They both knew they had all been lucky.

The police had finally left after getting their statements and shaking their heads in disbelief. Harlan Garrett had surprised them all. Scott, however, was more than surprised; he was disgusted with himself for not seeing it all ahead of time. As Garrett's heir, Scott knew he would have to go through his grandfather's things and now he was afraid of what he would find when he did. What else hadn’t he noticed about Harlan Garrett?

Scott was unable to shed tears for the man that raised him. He was able to look back on his life in Boston and realize what kind of role the man really played. Technically his grandfather, there were none of the emotional ties that should be expected with the blood relation. In reflection, Garrett ran Scott’s life just as he ran Garrett Enterprises, with the anticipated payback being the carrying on of the Garrett name. It was a childhood as cold as a Boston winter, and Scott’s feelings toward his grandfather were as dead as winter grass.

Living at Lancer had taught him the true meaning of family, and it wasn’t the selfish focus Garrett had possessed. Lancer strength came from standing together with trust, love and respect. That strength is what Scott now knew he had to fall back on to resolve the loss of Alexandra within himself and find peace. Until now, he’d not only avoided that connection, he’d pushed it away. It was like he too had been blind in another way and been blessed with new vision.

'Never again,' Scott swore. 'Grandfather’s legacy is what I make of it and it will be to stand by my true family. Always.'

And that made their first priority very clear: Getting home.

Johnny's door cracked open and the two of them rose to their feet as one. A nurse stepped out and gave them an encouraging smile. Dr. Boyer appeared right behind her.

Dr. Boyer waved the nurse on as he spoke to the pair. "Well, he needs to keep still for awhile, but your brother's awake and going to be fine," he said. "I get the impression that keeping still may be a problem."

Teresa laughed shortly, and Scott felt a weak grin touch his face.

"You have no idea, doctor," Scott said, offering his hand. Boyer shook it firmly.

"Visiting hours were over a long time ago but I told the nurse to let you stay a few minutes. I'll be back in the morning myself." He nodded a farewell and followed the nurse down the hall.

Scott and Teresa slipped into the room and immediately stood by their brother's bed. White bandages swathed Johnny's hands and the left side of his face was noticeably swollen. The purple outline of the gun butt stood out on the pale skin of his jaw line. It was his eyes, however, that caught their attention. The bright blues sparkled and followed the pair with ease.

"Hey," Johnny croaked.

Teresa took his hand and sat on the edge of the bed. "Oh, Johnny, it's such a miracle."

"A painful miracle," he mumbled as he squeezed her hand. Then he turned his eyes to Scott. "I'm sorry about Harlan."

"So am I," Scott replied lowly, void of feeling toward the man that raised him. He found himself unable to hold his brother’s gaze. "I'm sorry I didn't see all this earlier.”

"He was good," Johnny said. "Real good." After a second, he dropped his chin and gripped Teresa's hand a little tighter. "I did it again, though. If I hadn't fought back maybe Harlan. . ."

Scott quickly put his hand on his brother's shoulder, gripping it firmly, forcing him to meet his eyes once again. "Don't. You did what you always do, Johnny. You did your best to protect your family. It's not a fault, it's a strength and I wouldn't have it any other way. It's who you are. I won't have you punishing yourself again for being who you are." He paused and ran his hand through his hair with a tired sigh. "My grandfather designed his own fate and is solely responsible for the way things ended. Understand?"

A silent agreement passed between them with their gaze. Johnny tried to nod, but, instead, hissed in pain. He closed his eyes and let his head sink back into the pillows.

"Johnny? You all right?" Teresa asked anxiously.

"I will be as soon as the hammer stops pounding in my head," Johnny replied quietly. "Think I'll just keep still for a bit, if ya don't mind . . ." His voice trailed off tiredly.

Teresa released Johnny's hand and stood, taking Scott's elbow. "We'll be back in the morning, then," she said. "We all need some rest before we go home."

"Home." Johnny whispered the word and smiled, his eyes still closed. After a moment it was clear by his rhythmic breathing that he'd fallen asleep.

Finding it hard to leave, both Teresa and Scott watched him in silence for a few minutes. It was Scott that finally broke the spell and turned Teresa toward the door.

Home - he couldn't get there soon enough. Tomorrow, he'd arrange for his grandfather's burial and sign whatever needed to be signed for Garrett Enterprises to be run by the Board until spring. Nothing here was going to keep him from celebrating the holidays at Lancer.

His family was safe. The next thing to do was to unload a house, and he happened to know someone that needed one right now.

They were only one day late getting on the train.

It had taken a little more time than Scott had expected to convince the Llewellyns to move into Harlan's Beacon Street house. Willing to part with anything connected to his grandfather, Scott was ready to sign the property over to them on the spot. Colin wouldn't accept it. Instead, he agreed to stay in the place and take care of liquidating the contents and encouraged Scott not to make any rash decisions concerning the house until next year.

The extra rooms in the house would be used for anyone in the Institute needing a place to stay. Colin, still ashamed at his part in this whole affair, found that being surrounded by the trappings of luxury he'd always wanted was a constant reminder of where he'd gone wrong. He appreciated the substantial roof over his head but found himself anxious to move back into the small house by the Institute once it was rebuilt in the following summer.

Scott requested very little be saved for him; most were items of his mother's that Harlan had carefully stored away as well as a few small pieces of furniture that would be shipped west. It only took a day to sort through things; most of the items were definitely Harlan Garrett’s and Scott had no use for them.

It took another two days to lay Harlan Garrett to rest and relinquish Garrett Enterprises to the Board of Directors for the time being. Using a suggestion from Dr. Boyer, Scott requested a full audit of every detail of the business. That would easily keep the Board busy until spring.

The funeral was quick and quiet. The company paperwork was mind numbing. Scott couldn’t wash his hands of both necessities fast enough, then finally, they could leave Boston.

Sarah, Colin and the rest of the Institute members that had embraced Johnny and Teresa as one of them were all in the foyer to bid them farewell. They presented Johnny with a new cane since Murdoch's had burned along with the Llewellyn's house. It had a metal head like Colin's, but the figure was of a horse, ears pinned back into a flowing mane. The eyes were inlaid topaz. Johnny ran his fingers over the piece, appreciating the beauty, then leaned heavily on it as they stood to go. His thigh gave barely a twinge, but he still had a small problem with balance from the head injuries. Dr. Boyer had said it would go away eventually, and Johnny figured it was a small price to pay for getting his sight back.

As the hail and farewells came to a close, Johnny tilted his head, listening. "Cab's here," he said, still hoarse from the fire's smoke.

Scott glanced out the small front window. A light snow was beginning to fall, but the coach was visible. He laughed shortly. "Well, that's appropriate."

"What's appropriate?" Teresa asked curiously. She peeked out the window and smiled.

Johnny slowly approached the door and Scott opened it for him. Just as he stepped outside, he saw the driver approach the horse's head to tie him, and saw - for the first time - the familiar bump the horse gave the man.

Surprised, Johnny said, “Dusty’s a palomino?"

Colin couldn’t resist. “What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen a palomino before?” he teased.

Johnny grinned, recalling the moment everything had changed for him when he decided to take a chance on the slight man. “I just haven’t seen that palomino,” he answered smartly. “And you’d think a horse named Dusty would be brown.”

"Dusty's short for Gold Dust," the doctor informed him from the small gathering in the foyer.

"He acts so much like Barranca they must be related," Johnny mused, watching the driver secure the horse.

Scott frowned. "Two surly palominos are too much. It's a good thing there's a country separating them."

"Barranca ain't surly. He's just picky.” Johnny corrected as Scott rolled his eyes. Johnny slowly started down the front steps. “Harry," he greeted with a grin, offering his hand as the driver approached. "I thought stable managers got to stay in the nice, dry barn on days like this."

"I consider it a special booking," Harry said as they shook hands. "Everyone ready?"

All their things fit in Johnny’s trunk. Scott hadn’t come with much, Teresa’s things had burned in the fire, and Johnny opted to leave his Boston clothes behind and wear his gun belt home. Scott didn’t care that wearing the weapon went against Boston style; he was very happy to see the Colt on his brother’s thigh once again.

The ride to the station was in comforting quiet. None of them took for granted what was ahead. Each of them had their own wounds that needed healing, both physical and emotional, and each knew that time was the only thing they needed now that they were together again.

As the west bound train headed to the station, the trio settled into their seats for the long ride home

THE END

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