First Lancer Family Thanksgiving

Written by Desert Sun - First Published November, 2002

Send Feedback to Desert Sun          Printable Pages: 14          Rating: G

(Please note: the characters of the Lancer television series do not belong to me and were used without permission. This was written for fun, not profit. Feedback is greatly appreciated.)

Date: November 24, 1870.
Time: Late afternoon.
Place: Lancer living room.

Murdoch Lancer stopped to watch his sons who were sitting at one end of the dining table--checkerboard set up between them. He smiled. Until earlier that year, he had all but given up on seeing his boys together. Having been taken from him when they were babies, they had grown up on opposite sides of the country and had known nothing of each other's existence until the day they had arrived in Morro Coyo on the same stage. Yet, after the initial shock had worn off and they had a chance to get acquainted, they had become friends as well as brothers.

He felt a burst of pride. His sons were both fine young men, a fact that he had slowly realized over the past six months since their homecoming. His older son, Scott, had readily put the past behind them despite the years of separation and for the most part, they had gotten along well from the beginning. Johnny, his younger, had been a different story.

My fault as much as his, Murdoch admitted to himself. Sometimes I pushed him too hard. I suppose because he reminded me of his mother, I was afraid he'd ride away one day without a backward glance. Maybe, I wanted to get it over with, keep it from hurting so much. That was a mistake, he thought as he remembered the day Johnny had ridden away with Wes. The only way to avoid the pain of his leaving is to give him a reason to stay. I hope I've done that these last couple of months. At least, he does seem more content here, now.

After indulging his thoughts for a few more minutes, Murdoch started to join his sons in the living room but stopped when he heard Johnny speak his name. Quietly he stepped back into the shadows of the hallway where he could observe the two without being detected.

~~~~~

"Any idea what's up with Murdoch?" Johnny casually asked, looking up from studying the checkerboard in front of him.

"Why do you ask?" Scott frowned slightly as he met his brother's eyes.

Johnny bit at his lip then shrugged. "Oh . . . I don't know. I just thought he seemed . . . well, you know . . . too quiet, like he had somethin' on his mind."

"Now that you mention it, I too noticed that he didn't have much to say." The furrow in Scott's brow deepened. "Maybe, it's because Teresa's father died a year ago, today. She wasn't her normal self, either."

"Yeah. Guess it would make it kind of hard to feel like celebratin', huh?" Johnny took a deep breath and let it out nosily.

"Yes, it would," Scott sighed. For a brief moment he took his eyes off the checkerboard while he turned slightly and picked up his coffee cup that was sitting off to one side. After taking a couple sips, he set it down in its place and said, "Are you going to make your move or are you waiting for Christmas?"

Johnny sat with his left elbow resting on the edge of the table. His chin was cupped in his hand and his fingers drummed against his cheek. He raised and lowered his eyebrows, smiled lightly, and then picked up his checker and tapped it in a zigzagging path across the board before dropping it onto a red square at the far edge. "Crown me!" he crowed to his open-mouthed brother then picked up the red checkers he had jumped over.

"Just how did you manage that?" demanded Scott.

Johnny, acting like a child winning his first game, bounced on the edge of his chair and laughed. Smugly, he said, "I think it's called . . . skill, Boston."

"Well, I think it's called, cheating," retorted Scott.

"Now would I do that?" Johnny gave his brother a wounded look. "Would I?"

"Only if you thought you could get away with it." Scott pointed at an empty black square on Johnny's side of the board. "I had a man there. What happened to it?"

Johnny's deep-blue eyes glared across the table. "You accusing' me of stealin' it?" he softly challenged.

"Well, it couldn't just disappear, could it? So . . . somebody had to take." Scott took a quick survey of the room. "Since, you and I are the only ones in here . . . and I didn't take it . . . that just leaves you, Little Brother."

Johnny gave his brother a sorrowful glance then hung his head and scuffed the toe of his boot on the rug under his feet. "Do you really think that little of me?" he asked sadly and then gloated on the inside at the look of regret on his brother's face.

"Johnny, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . . of course, I don't think that little of you." Scott seemed to stumble over his words. "What can I do to make it up to you?"

"Well," Johnny, enjoying his brother's discomfort, paused to draw in a deep breath. "You could . . . crown me," he finished with a grin.

The next thing Johnny knew, checkers were raining down on him. While the game pieces scattered and rolled in every direction, the checkerboard thumped him lightly on the top the head before sliding off and clattering on the table.

"Scott! Whatcha do that for?" hollered Johnny.

"I was crowning you." Scott, the picture of innocence, cast wide eyes at his brother. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"What I want to know is, who's going to pick up all those checkers?" demanded a feminine voice.

Johnny turned his head to look at the dark-haired girl glowering at them from halfway across the room. Raising his hands in surrender, he replied, "Don't look at me. Scott's the one that dumped 'em all over the place."

"Johnny told me to do it," Scott stated defensively.

"I did no such thing. You just got huffy and smacked me with the checkerboard. I bet I have a lump on my head by morning." Johnny ran his fingers through his hair and hunched his shoulders. "Ooh."

"Stop being so melodramatic, Johnny. I didn't hurt you in the least," Scott said with a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

"Boston, when're ya gunna stop tryin' to impress me with them high-flutin' words. 'Sides, I ain't bein' one bit melodratic. You just don't know your own strength, that's all."

"Enough! You're acting like children, both of you. I don't care who did what, but those checkers had best be picked up or neither one of you will be getting any dessert," Teresa snapped with a shake of her finger and a stamp of her foot. She dropped her hands to her waist and pressed her lips together in a firm line while scowling at her guardian's sons.

Johnny turned his attention to the girl and the corners of his mouth twitched. Shifting his eyes quickly to his brother, he said, "Sure is cute when she's riled, ain't she?"

Scott put a hand to his mouth; however, it didn't cover his smile or stop him from chuckling. "Little Brother, you are absolutely right."

"Keep it up, you two," admonished a small gray-bearded man standing behind Teresa. "I'd just as soon not hafta share that punkin pie with either one of yuh. It looks good 'nough I could eat the whole thing myself."

"What? And have a bellyache? Murdoch'd like that, now wouldn't he? You too sick to do your share of the work tomorrow. Bet this'd be the last time he'd invite you to Thanksgivin' dinner," smirked Johnny.

"He's right, Jelly. Too much pie can be very detrimental to a person's digestive system."

"And since when did you become a doctor?" retorted Jelly, glowering at Scott.

"Ever since he learned all them fancy words he likes throwin' at us," Johnny quickly pointed out then grinned impishly at his brother.

"Well, nobody's having pie until those checkers are put away," Teresa reminded them.

"Come on, Scott; I'll give yuh a hand. The law has spoken. If we don't hop-to in a hurry, she's li'ble to let Jelly have more'n he can handle. You don't wanna have to do his chores while he lays around all day tomorrow lookin' puny, do ya?"

When his words earned him an indignant frown from Teresa, Johnny tried to keep a straight face and appear serious. However, the effort was wasted; he couldn't keep his lips from trembling or his blue eyes from sparkling. Quickly, in an attempt to cover up his amusement, he leaned over and began picking up some of the fallen checkers.

With Scott's help and a little from Jelly and Teresa, the elusive checkers were retrieved from off the floor and under various pieces of furniture where they had rolled. They were dropped into a small tin box and, along with the checkerboard, placed on a bottom shelf of the long bookcase behind the dining table.

"Well, that's done," announced Johnny, glancing at Scott and Jelly before flashing Teresa a cheerful grin. When she smiled back but didn't move, he asked, "So . . . aren't yuh gunna go get the pie?"

"Not before Murdoch gets here. There wouldn't be any left."

"Come on, Teresa. Yuh said we could have it when the checkers were picked up. Besides, who knows how long Murdoch'll be. We might all starve by then." Johnny puckered his eyebrows and poked his lower lip out.

"Oh, grow up, Johnny," Teresa returned in exasperation. "You're acting like a two-year old."

Scott's face broke into a smile. When he chuckled, Johnny sent him a warning glare that only made the older of the brothers laugh harder. Soon, Jelly and Teresa also joined in the mirth at Johnny's expense.

"All right! You've had your fun," Johnny said in disgust. He stalked over to a big, soft chair by the fireplace and slumped into it. "So, what do yuh suggest we do until the old man shows up; twiddle our thumbs?"

Teresa sat down at one end of the sofa that was opposite Johnny and cheerfully said, "I know what we can do."

"What?" Johnny eyed her suspiciously.

"We can each tell about our favorite Thanksgiving." Looking Johnny in the eye, she added, "And today doesn't count."

"Who goes first?" Johnny squirmed uneasily. Although he had come to feel that he was a part of his new found family, he still wasn't comfortable talking about his past life.

"Jelly will," she announced then looked pleadingly at the bearded man who was standing next to Scott. "Won't you, Jelly?"

"Why does it hafta be me? Why not let Scott? He's the oldest Lancer here. I'm just a guest," Jelly grumbled.

"That's just it, Jelly. As a guest, you should go first."

"See? Scott agrees." Teresa patted the cushion beside her. "Come on, Jelly. Sit down and tell us a story."

Johnny snickered as Jelly grumpily settled himself next to the girl on the sofa. At least, I'm not first, he thought.

Jelly hummed and hawed then started in with a tale about the time that he'd spent with his sister in Arizona three years back. He rambled on about stuffed turkey with all the trimmings, children squabbling over the drumstick, and eating until he couldn't swallow another bite.

Johnny looked on with fondness as his mind drifted back over the past few weeks. He recalled being taken in by a group of boys after a bullet had grazed him. He couldn't help smiling at the memory of the kids of various nationalities claiming they all shared the same pa. When Jelly had arrived later that night, the boys had flocked around the old man like they belonged to him.

It hadn't taken Johnny long to figure out that the boys were orphans and that Jelly had taken them in because they had no one else to take care of them. Immediately he'd taken a liking to the softhearted old man. Even though Jelly had shown up with Teresa's pearls, Johnny had found it hard to be angry with him. The man's heart had been in the right place even if his method of caring for the homeless children had been wrong.

I'm just glad it all worked out and my old man kept Jelly out of jail. I like him even if he is a bit cantankerous at times. I hope he stays on here; Murdoch could use a friend. They like each other a lot more than they let on.

Johnny's thoughts were pulled back to the present as Jelly announced, "And that was the best Thanksgiving I ever had."

"That was a wonderful story," crooned Teresa, laying her hand on Jelly's arm and giving it a squeeze.

Jelly turned a bit red and huffed, "'Twarn't nothin'." He cleared his throat noisily and looked at Scott, who had taken a seat in the chair on the other side of the fireplace from Johnny. "Guess, you're next," he said.

Scott looked around as if to see if anyone else would volunteer. When no one did, he started in with his recitation. "I think my favorite Thanksgiving was five years ago. It was my first after the war ended. Maybe that is why it was so special to me."

Johnny noticed the far-off look in his brother's eyes as Scott described the holiday in Boston. He could almost envision the elegantly set table that was laden with a feast fit for a king and Scott's grandfather carving the turkey. He could also taste the wine being toasted to and by the dinner guests, and feel how happy his brother had been that the war had ended and he had been home again.

A stab of fear ran through Johnny. Could Scott be homesick for Boston? Would he want to go back to the gentle life he'd known before coming to California? The thought of his brother leaving cut Johnny to the heart. In the short time that he'd known Scott, the two had become quite close; he didn't even want to consider what life would be like without the other man.

A part of Johnny cried, Don't go, Scott, I can't lose you now. I've just begun to know you. I need you, I--. He stopped himself from further thoughts. It was too soon to even silently voice the word love, although down deep he knew that was exactly how he felt about his brother.

Johnny became more restless as Scott finished his narrative. He wasn't ready for his turn, yet. "No, you go first," he insisted when Teresa asked him to be next. To his relief, she agreed without an argument.

"It's hard to say which Thanksgiving was the best. They've all been wonderful as far back as I can remember." She tipped her head back and gazed at the ceiling in a far corner of the room. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet with a hint of sadness. "I . . . I guess it would have to be last year."

Johnny noticed Teresa's brimming eyes as she talked about the celebration with Murdoch and her father the previous year. When the tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks, he wished he could wipe them away along with all the hurt that he knew lay just below the surface.

Suddenly, Teresa stopped in mid-sentence and started to cry. Before Johnny could make a move in her direction, Jelly reached out and enfolded the distraught girl in his arms. "There, there," he crooned as he gently patted her back.

When the sobs finally let up, Teresa choked out between sniffles, "I'm . . . so sorry. I didn't mean to . . . ruin everything . . . for everybody."

"You didn't ruin anything for us," Scott assured her.

"But I'm . . . acting like a baby."

Johnny's heart broke for the girl that he had come to think of as a sister--her pain, his pain. Having lost his mother at a young age, he knew how much time it took for the hurt to go away. A year wasn't nearly long enough.

"Johnny, why don't you tell us your most memorable Thanksgiving," suggested Scott.

Now? I'm not ready, Johnny protested in his mind. However, seeing Teresa's pleading eyes, he couldn't refuse. After taking a deep breath, he said apologetically, "Not much to tell."

"It's not how much you have to say that matters," Scott assured him. "What's important is that you share something."

Grateful for his brother's words of encouragement, Johnny began to tell his family about the only Thanksgiving that he could remember. "A few years ago--four, I believe--I was between jobs." He hesitated, wondering what kind of work they would assume he'd been doing.

After taking a deep breath, he continued. "I ran out of food on the trail. It was in desert country and I couldn't even find a jackrabbit to shoot. Well, I come across this old man and rode into his camp; hoped he'd share a meal with me." A smile played across Johnny's face and he chuckled softly. "Only, it turned out he didn't have much, either: beans for one person and a little hardtack."

Johnny licked his lips. He felt uncomfortable having all eyes on him and hoped nobody would catch that he was leaving out parts of his story. No need to have them all feeling sorry for me. That wasn't the only time, I'd been without food for three days, he thought before going on. "He was a nice old man. Insisted I eat half his grub. After we'd finished up, he dug a can of peaches out of his saddlebag. Said, he was savin' 'em for a special day. I remember askin' him why that day was different from any other."

Again Johnny softly chuckled. "He sort of snorted and told me it was Thanksgiving Day. I asked him what he had to be thankful for. Real serious like, he said, 'Because I'm alive.' At the time, I thought he was a bit crazy. I mean, it didn't look to me like he was doin' much livin'."

Johnny grew quiet for a minute as his mind relived a moment in time earlier that year when he had been seconds away from dying. He glanced around at his family and said, "Guess, now I know how that old man felt."

The lump that suddenly appeared in Johnny's throat refused to budge when he tried swallowing, and he looked down at the floor while blinking to clear the moisture that had mysteriously formed in the corners of his eyes. I keep this up, I'll be crying like a baby right along with Teresa, he thought.

Johnny cleared his throat, fingered the silver buttons on the outside seam of his left pant leg then muttered, "That's all I got ta say."

~~~~~

From his place in the shadows, Murdoch felt a lump in his throat and a stinging in his own eyes. Watching the interaction between his sons and listening to each member of his family tell about a memorable Thanksgiving had been bittersweet. They had missed so much in the past; yet, he was overjoyed that they were together. So much could have gone wrong. But for the grace of God, I might have lost Scott during the war, or the Pinkerton agent could have been too late to save Johnny. I could have died alongside Teresa's father and never known my boys. Instead, my sons are home, and I've gained a daughter and maybe a new friend, as well. Looking heavenward, Murdoch mouthed a quick prayer of gratitude for the blessing of having his family with him.

For a brief moment, Murdoch hesitated about joining the others. He was certain that he would be called upon to relate his own favorite Thanksgiving, and he wasn't sure what he should say. With a little thought, however, it wasn't hard to rule out talking about either son's mother; it wouldn't be fair to the other. Speaking of times shared with Teresa and her father were also out of the question as far as he was concerned; it would only make her cry again. That leaves only one other choice, he thought.

His mind made up, Murdoch quietly moved back to the door he had entered earlier. He eased it open, then made sure he closed it loudly enough to be heard from the main room of the house. Treading heavier than normal, he strode into the living room.

~~~~~

At the sound of the closing door, Johnny leaned forward and looked toward his left. "Murdoch." His shoulders relaxed as he watched his father join the rest of the family gathered by the fireplace. "You're just in time. Now Teresa can bring out the pie."

Scott stood and motioned for Murdoch to take his chair then addressed his brother before squeezing in next to Teresa, who had moved to the middle of the sofa while Jelly had been comforting her earlier. "Wait a minute, Johnny. Aren't you forgetting something?"

Johnny gave Scott a quizzical look, "What? We're all here, ain't we?"

"Don't you think Murdoch should share his favorite Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Johnny said with a lack of enthusiasm. He didn't particularly care to hear how his father had celebrated the holiday in the past. Not that he resented Murdoch's memories; he just didn't feel like being reminded again of all that he, himself, had missed in the past.

Johnny leaned back in his chair, glanced to the side, and caught Murdoch eyeing him. He smiled tentatively then quickly avoided his father's gaze. Wonder why he's looking at me that way: kind of sad like. Uncomfortable with the moment of silence, he said with a hint of sarcasm, "So . . . tell us about your best turkey day."

Murdoch cleared his throat before beginning. "I'm not sure that I have a favorite Thanksgiving; they've all been special in one way or another . . . however . . . there is one that sticks out in my mind at the moment. It was a few days after I arrived in Boston from Inverness. I had found lodging with an elderly couple who ran a little shop down by the docks. The room was small and two meals a day were included in the rent. The food was simple--porridge for breakfast, and fish with beans or potatoes and a slice of bread for dinner. I remember that day in particular because after supper Mrs. Barlow brought out a pie made from dried apples. It was quite tart. Sugar was a luxury they had little of."

While Murdoch talked about the meager meal shared with the poverty-stricken family, Johnny found himself viewing his father in a different light--admiring him. It had never occurred to him that the man could have been poor at one time. Although Johnny knew that Scott's family hadn't liked Murdoch, he had thought it was just because his father was Scottish.

Johnny's eyes roved around the large, well-furnished room while, in his mind, he traveled over the hundred thousand acres that made up the Lancer ranch. My old man did all right--starting out with nothing and ending up with all this; no wonder he wants to call the tune. If it was left up to me, I'd probably have the place bankrupt in no time. I don't know the first thing about running a spread this size. Sure I can ride and shoot with the best, and I do my share of the work; but it takes more than that. Like he said that day I took off after those wild horses; it takes years of living with this land to know what to expect. Maybe it's time I started paying closer attention to why he does things the way he does.

A short while later, Scott's voice broke into Johnny's thoughts. "That must have been a very difficult time for you--coming to a strange country, and having to meeting new people and learn their customs."

"Yes, it was," Murdoch said quietly, "but I have no regrets about leaving Scotland; there was no future for me there."

"I guess . . . that's because it was here, Sir," Scott suggested thoughtfully.

For a moment, no one spoke and the steady ticking of the grandfather clock on the far side of the room was the only sound. Scott's words had been a stark reminder to all present that none of them would have a future at Lancer if it hadn't been for Murdoch's decision to venture to a new land.

When the chiming of the clock brought an end to the silence, Teresa stood and announced, "I think I'll go get the pie."

"I'll help you," Scott offered. "If you'll excuse us," he said to other three men, "we'll be right back."

"Looks like the fire could use another chunk a wood. Guess I'll go fetch one," Jelly said as Scott and Teresa left for the kitchen.

Coward, thought Johnny, wishing that he'd been the first to think of stoking the fire.

Unable to think of something to say, Johnny remained quiet for a while. Glancing over at his father, he again noticed a touch of sadness about the man. He couldn't help but wonder if Murdoch was missing his homeland. "You ever wish you'd gone back?" he hesitantly asked.

"Back where, Son?"

"Scotland."

"No . . . no I haven't."

"Why not? Don't you ever miss it? I mean . . . it was your home. You grew up there." At the same time, Johnny was asking himself if he'd want to go back to the places of his own childhood. Or back to being Johnny Madrid? a small voice in his mind asked and somewhere, deep inside, another voice whispered, No, never.

"Oh . . . I suppose I miss it at times," Johnny heard his father say. "But . . . I have no desire to go back. Everything I want is here."

"The ranch," Johnny stated softly as he remembered his father saying he loved the place more than any thing God had created.

"Much more than the ranch, Johnny," Murdoch said with an intensity that surprised as well as pleased his son. "My life, my home . . . my family are all here."

Johnny felt a lump in his throat. Not wanting his father to see the tears that were forming in his eyes, he looked away. Desperately he wished he could find some excuse to leave the room.

"Here comes the pie," announced Scott at the same time that Jelly appeared with wood for the fire.

Glad for the diversion, Johnny nearly leapt out of his chair. "You sure took your time, Boston," he chided.

"Just teaching you a little patience, Brother," Scott said, setting down the plates and utensils that were in his hands.

Johnny gave his brother a withering look and then fell in beside Teresa as she carried the pie to the table while Murdoch and Jelly followed a short distance behind them.

After cutting the pie into six pieces, Teresa dished up the plates and slid one to each of the men. Once she was seated with her pie in front of her, they all began to eat.

A while later, Johnny licked the crumbs from his lips and mumbled, "Good pie."

"Absolutely delicious," agreed Scott, scooping up the last bite on his plate.

"Never had none better," Jelly chimed in, followed by Murdoch's, "Neither have I."

Teresa's cheeks flushed a rosy pink and she fairly beamed at the words of praise. "There's still one piece left," she stated. "Somebody might as well clean it up."

"I will." Scott's words echoed Johnny's as they simultaneously held out their plates.

Johnny frowned at his brother. "It's mine, Boston," he insisted. "I spoke for it first."

"Not so, Brother; I did."

"Why can't you just share it?" asked Teresa, picking up the knife. "Here, I'll cut it for you." When she was finished, she started to put one of the pieces onto Johnny's plate.

"I'll take the other one," instructed Johnny.

"What's wrong with that one?" Scott asked, scowling at his brother.

"This one's smaller," Johnny stated flatly.

"So why should I take the smaller one? I'm the older brother here . . . and besides, Teresa offered that one to you first."

"Must you two argue about everything. You're worse than children," Teresa said disgustedly.

"Johnny's the one who's being childish."

"Oh, yeah?" Johnny turned to glare at Scott. "Then why don't you take the smaller piece?"

"How about we flip for it?" suggested Scott.

"Okay, you're on," Johnny said, reaching into his pocket. "Heads I win."

"Mind if I have a look at that coin, first?"

"Why? It's just a two-bit piece. Whatcha need to see it for? Don't you trust me?"

"If the coin is what you say it is, why would you care if I look at it," Scott said determinedly.

"Scott, I can't believe--."

"Boys, that's enough," Murdoch's deep voice cut in. "I know a better way to settle this."

"You do?" Johnny looked inquiringly at his father.

"Yes, I do," Murdoch said confidently then looked questioningly at his sons. "May I show you?"

"By all means do," agreed Scott. Turning to his brother, he said, "That is all right with you, isn't it?"

"Fine by me," Johnny replied, sitting back to see what would happen next. Anxiously he watched Murdoch take the pie dish from Teresa and lift out the larger piece. A split second later, his mouth sagged open when his father put the wedge of pie on Jelly's plate and then took the other slice for himself.

"There . . . now there's nothing for the two of you to argue over," Murdoch stated matter-of-factly.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied," grumbled Johnny to Scott. "If you hadn't made such a fuss, we'd a had that last piece."

"Me? You're the one that refused to take the half that was offered to you."

"Boss. Looks like yuh was wrong about those two havin' nothin' to argue about," interjected Jelly.

"Yes, it does," Murdoch chuckled. "But . . . I accomplished one good thing."

"What?" Jelly's brow puckered as he looked quizzically at his boss.

Murdoch, fork poised in front of his mouth, glanced at his sons then turned back to Jelly. "Got the last piece of pie for us without our having to fight for it."

Catching a glimpse of the smile of satisfaction on his father's face, Johnny quipped to his brother, "Scott, yuh get the feelin' our old man was dealin' off the bottom of the deck?"

"Yes, I do." Glancing in their father's direction, Scott continued, "I had no idea he could be so devious."

"Ain't nothin' devious about yer pa," Jelly pointed out indignantly. "He was just tryin' to keep you boys from squabblin' . . . which I might add is nigh impossible. 'Stead a bad-mouthin' him, you should be grateful he didn't turn yuh over his knee and tan yer britches.

A vision of Murdoch taking a strap to Scott's backside flashed through Johnny's mind, and he barely stifled a snort as he ducked his head. Hearing a strangled cough coming from Scott, he knew his brother was seeing a similar picture.

"And he could do it, too," Teresa informed them with a flash of her brown eyes before turning her head towards her guardian. "Couldn't you, Murdoch?"

"I'm sure I could, but I know a better way to handle these boys without having to exert myself," Murdoch replied, smiling fondly at the girl.

"And what might that be?" Jelly asked the same question that came to Johnny's mind.

"Work . . . and lots of it."

"Work? Lots of it?" Johnny dubiously echoed his father's words. "What? When?"

"Well . . . to begin with, the line shack over by Black Mesa needs the roof repaired. Walt told me about it yesterday when he came in from checking on the heifers. He also said that Calf Gulch had some brush wash into it a couple of days ago during that storm we had. It'll have to be cleared right away and . . . the fences all need to be checked once more before winter. I figure it'll take you boys about . . .."

"A week to get all that done, if we're lucky," Johnny finished for him.

"At least. Of course, if you went out and loaded the wagon with the supplies you'll need, you wouldn't have to get up quite so early in the morning. You need to be out of here by daylight," Murdoch advised them with his mouth quirking slightly.

"How come you never mentioned all this work earlier?" Johnny inquired, his eyebrows puckering.

"I hated to spoil your day," Murdoch shrugged.

"So why tell us now?" Johnny grumbled.

"I thought you two might like an excuse to leave the table so you won't have to watch Jelly and me eat the last of this pie."

"Thank you, that's very kind of you, Sir." Scott spoke with a hint of sarcasm.

"I thought that would please you," returned Murcoch in a similar tone.

Johnny lightly backhanded his brother's arm. "Come on, Scott. He just wants us out of here so he won't feel guilty about eatin' in front of us." He scooted his chair back and stood up. With his eyes twinkling, he dryly added, "We might as well oblige him. Wouldn't wanna make our old man feel bad, now would we?"

"No, we wouldn't." Scott smiled at their father and rose to his feet. "If you'll excuse us, we have a ranch to take care of."

As Johnny led the way toward the foyer, he heard Murdoch laugh and say; "I think, those boys might make ranchers, after all."

~~~~~

Soft light danced from the flickering flames of the fire as Murdoch Lancer sat leaning back in his chair and gazing into the fireplace while reflecting on the happenings of the day. A quiet footstep behind him caught his attention, and he looked to see who was there. "Teresa, you should be in bed," he gently chided.

"So should you," she said, settling onto the stool beside him. She laid her head against her folded arms, which she rested on the arm of his chair.

Tenderly Murdoch stroked the hair of the girl that he had come to think of as a daughter. "You missed your daddy today, didn't you?"

"Yes," she replied. After a brief silence, she added, "But so did you."

"Yes, I did. Somehow, it didn't seem like Thanksgiving without him," he sighed.

"I know. It's so hard to believe that he's been gone for a whole year."

She raised her head and looked at her guardian. "But it was good day, wasn't it? We had Scott and Johnny with us . . . and Jelly, too."

Murdoch's mind flashed back over the day; the first Thanksgiving he'd spent with either of his sons. To have them both made it all the more special.

"Yes, Teresa, it was a good day." Murdoch smiled lovingly at his ward. "We certainly do have much to be grateful for."

The End

Note:

When I first thought of writing a Thanksgiving story, I wanted the Lancer family's first Thanksgiving Day, which I figure would have been in 1870, to fall on the same day that Teresa's father would have died on the year before. However, I didn't want his death to be before Thanksgiving or less than four or five days after it.

On the Internet, I found that Thanksgiving Day was officially observed on November 18 in 1869 and on November 24 in 1870. This was a stroke of luck for me, which made it possible to set November 24, 1869 (six days after Thanksgiving) as the date of Paul O'Brien's death.