One August Night

Part 1: Too Close for Comfort

Far off rumblings, like the sound of a swollen stream rushing through a bolder-strewn cut in the mountains, announced the approaching storm. Burrowing deeper into his bed roll, Johnny Lancer was grateful for the protecting walls and roof of the adobe line shack at the base of Black Mesa. He had nothing to fear from wind or rain. Barranca, his palomino horse, was snugly stabled in the attached lean-to, and Nature was welcome to throw a tantrum. Neither man nor beast would feel the fury, or so Johnny thought.

Lightning flickered through the open window on the far side of the room. Each flash was eventually followed by thunder. Like the sound of a boulder rolling off a high bluff and bounding from one rocky outcropping to another while hurtling to the canyon floor below, the tones varied in rhythm, pitch, and intensity--changing from a steady rumble to being broken with spells of silence or sharp cracks.

A brighter streak of jagged light danced across the dark canvas of the night sky, and the next clap of thunder was much louder. Wooden shutters on each side of the window rattled and clattered against the shack's outer wall as a gust of wind whooshed through the small opening. Johnny shivered when the blast of cool air ruffled his hair. The storm was getting closer.

There was a brief pause, the silence all the more pronounced after a lengthy grumble of the atmosphere. Johnny knew it wouldn't last. It was a trick to lull him into a false sense of security. He wasn't buying it. The worst was yet to come.

Another dazzling white shaft of light cut through the darkness. Johnny counted softly, "One-one hundred, two-one hundred, three--" His words were cut off by a loud clap, and he figured that the last flash of lightning had been less than three miles away.

The rumblings and flickers of light intensified. Two miles . . . a mile and a half . . . one mile. Soon the full force of the storm would be overhead.

Johnny crooked his elbow under his folded jacket, which he was using for a pillow. He squeezed his eyes shut but couldn't keep them closed. The temptation to watch the sky hurl its rage on the earth was much too great.

The room was suddenly lit up like day. For an instant, nothing was hidden. Brilliant rays of white light illuminated the cot where Johnny lay as well as the small table between him and the corner that served as a kitchen. Even the black iron pot, sitting on the equally dark cook-stove, was plainly visible.

Earth and sky split apart with the crack of a thousand rifles fired in unison, or so it seemed. Then the boom of a monstrous cannon shook the adobe shack. Johnny's breath caught in his throat. His heart lurched. Every nerve in his body felt like it was on edge as he awaited his dreaded fate.

His fears were unfounded, and Johnny let the air out of his tortured lungs. Nothing had happened. The world had not come to an end, and he was not crushed by the roof overhead crumbling in on top of him. He was still alive and his abode was intact.

Forcing himself to breathe at a somewhat normal pace, Johnny lay listening to the loud pattering of rain on the roof while his body tensely awaited another angry outburst from the storm. Cattle bawled somewhere--calves and mammas calling for each other. The sky outside the window lit up a few more times, but the thunder's volume was quickly fading. Soon even the sound of water droplets spattering terra cotta came to an end.

That was too close for comfort. Way too close, Johnny thought as the raging storm passed on over the top of Black Mesa and continued on to the northeast. He wondered just how close the bolt of lightning had struck and got up to check on Barranca. Just in case, he told himself unable to bear the thought of his golden horse suffering.

A sliver of silver was peeking around the ragged edge of the clouds overhead by the time Johnny had his boots on and had opened the door of the cabin. He stepped outside. Then, as the nearly full moon slid farther into view--darkness scurrying away from the pale light--Johnny easily made his way to the lean-to.

Barranca snorted softly and stomped a shod hoof when his master stopped to peer inside. "Easy," Johnny cooed, running his hand over the golden rump.

The horse blew out a long breath then went back to munching hay. Seeing that the stable was intact, Johnny took a quick tour of the area around the line shack. All seemed well. There were no broken or up-rooted trees. Puddles of water and damp earth were the only visible evidence of nature's angry outburst.

Back in the shack, Johnny sat on the bed and removed his boots. Mud, clinging to the soles, squished between his fingers; however, he wasn't about to complain. It had been hot and dry since the first of May, three months ago. The range grass needed a good shot of rain.

Once again, Johnny crawled into his bedroll on the cot, which was against the wall opposite the door. He yawned, his eyelids sliding down to cover his eyes. The lightning had been a little close for comfort. But not too close. Close only counts in horseshoes . . . like Murdoch always says, he thought, feeling his lips stretch into a smile.

With a fleeting thought of how the rest of his family had faired the violence of the storm, Johnny drifted off to sleep. He was the only one, as far as he knew, who had not been expected home that night. Everyone else would be safely inside the protective walls of the hacienda.

Part II - Night Vigil

With a vengeance, zigzagging shafts of light attacked the distant skyline to the south. Murdoch Lancer stood looking out the open French doors of his thick-walled hacienda. He had no fear that the storm would be a threat to the house or the surrounding buildings. The soft drum-rolls of thunder could barely be heard, and the dark clouds were moving toward the northeast--away from the ranch headquarters.

Black Mesa, however, was another matter. The tableland, rimmed with rock, rose up out of a plateau on the far side of that distant ridge, where the lightning was now flashing. Johnny had been looking for strays over that way and could be camped in the direct path of the tempest.

Surely, he'd hole up at the line shack, reasoned Murdoch, thinking of the small adobe house at the foot of Black Mesa. The shack was solidly built, and the attached lean-to had ample space for two or three horses. Johnny was well aware of the building's location and was sure to seek shelter, if for no other reason than the protection of his favorite horse, Barranca.

The big man drew in a lungful of sultry air. He was worrying for nothing. His son would be fine.

"Did Scott get back, yet?"

Murdoch arched his back then looked down on the young woman, whose hand was now gently resting on his arm. His ward, Teresa O'Brien, was gazing up at him, her brown eyes hooded by pinched brows. He shook his head. "No, Honey, but I really didn't expect him to. It would have been well past four when he reached Green River. That storm would have been brewing by the time he had the supplies loaded. He knows how treacherous some stretches of the road can be when wet." He patted her small hand with his much larger one. "Stop worrying. Scott probably checked in at the hotel, had dinner in the dining room, and then went to the saloon for a couple of beers. I'd be willing to bet that he's already sound asleep in his room. Knowing him, he'd want to beat the heat by getting an early start in the morning."

"I suppose." A frown still lined the young woman's face. "But what if--"

"He's a big boy. He can take care of himself." Doubt had his stomach in a knot, but Murdoch forced a smile as he guided Teresa around to face the arched doorway near the dining table. "Go on to bed. The boys will be fine," he softly chided.

Teresa opened her mouth then, with her shoulders sagging, brought her lips together in a thoughtful pout and left the room. Murdoch, also, let out a long sigh. He should take his own advice and retire, too; which was what he assumed his ward had wanted to say.

In a while . . . when the lightning stops. Then I'll go to bed and sleep, Murdoch thought, knowing he was putting off the inevitable. Even after the storm passed on, he would lie awake, wondering if his sons were all right. It came with being a parent, he supposed. Scott and Johnny might be grown men, but they would always be his children. No matter where they were and even though he denied it, he would never stop being concerned about their safety. Any confidence on his part would be purely an act for the benefit of others around him.

Murdoch returned to his vigil of looking through the open doorway. A movement near one of the columns that supported the porch roof caught his eye. He craned his neck to get a better look then quietly chuckled. It appeared he wasn't the only one who wouldn't be sleeping through the storm.

If confronted, Jelly Hoskins would make some excuse for not being in bed; Murdoch was certain of that. The ranch handyman, whom the Lancers valued as a friend and treated more like family, would never admit to being worried about Scott or Johnny. Jelly was proud. On more than one occasion he had made it clear that he was his own man and didn't need anyone.

He's all bluff. He loves those boys almost as much as I do. If he thought they were in any real danger, he'd be demanding we ride out and find them. Another chuckle slipped quietly up Murdoch's throat. Not more than a month ago, Jelly had done just that. The grizzle-faced man's hunch had turned out wrong. When they had been rewarded with an unmerciful razzing from the younger Lancer son, Jelly had been quite adamant that he and the boss had ridden out to check on the grass. Running across Johnny had been purely accidental.

Johnny never believed that story for a minute. He only pretended to buy it so Jelly could save face, thought Murdoch, yawning. According to the latest chiming of the grandfather clock, a few feet from him, it was midnight. He'd been up since daylight and the long hours were finally catching up to him.

An occasional brightening of the skyline was all that was left of the storm. The only sounds now, came from a few nocturnal birds and the horned owl that often used the peak of the barn roof to spy on mice that invaded the building during the night to raid the grain bin.

Jelly's shadowy form passed between two of the arched roof supports along the outer edge of the porch. He didn't acknowledge seeing Murdoch, so Murdoch let him go without calling out to him. Now that the visible danger was past, any further concern for Scott and Johnny would be hidden within the confines of the man's room off the courtyard.

The glass doors were eased closed and latched. Then Murdoch headed for his own room, which was across entry hall from the combination living room, dining room, and office where he had stood watch for the past hour. He, too, intended to continue his vigil in privacy.

A comfortable bed has a way of soothing the mind and causing the body to relax despite the clamoring of fear inside one's breast. So it was for Murdoch that night. One minute, he was wondering if his sons had weathered the storm in safety; the next he was snoring. He would not awaken until the horizon was etched in pink. By then, the terrors of the night would be in the past.

Part III - No Place to Hide

Why he hadn't spent the night in town was a question Scott Lancer could not answer. While he was filling the wagon with supplies from the Farm Implement store in Green River, he had seen the billowing clouds grow larger and change from white to murky grey. He should never have thought he could get home before the impending storm released its fury.

It's too late to cry over spilt milk, Scott scolded himself in the words he had heard Jelly Hoskins use more than once. The important thing now was to get off the top of the open ridge. Without trees or something higher than himself to draw the flaming darts that the dark and angry sky was hurling in all directions, he was a prime target for the bolts of lightning.

Thunder rumbled and snapped. The husky horses fidgeted, tugging at the bits in their mouths. Scott tightened his grip on the reins and held the prancing animals to a walk. If the team ever broke into a run, he would never get them slowed down enough to negotiate the winding road down into the valley.

The wheels of the wagon rattled over an outcropping of rock in the road then began the long descent. Scott pulled back on the brake to keep the heavily laden vehicle from pushing the horses to go faster. All seemed to be going well until a jagged strand of bright light streaked toward a craggy bluff less than a mile to the southwest. An accompanying clap of thunder wasn't long in coming, and the team surged ahead.

One front wheel rolled over a fair-sized rock at the edge of the road, and Scott pitched sideways. In a desperate bid to keep from falling, he threw out one hand to catch himself--a painful tingling racing toward his wrist when his elbow hit something solid as the rear of the wagon lurched.

Still leaning off-center, Scott threw his weight against the back brace of the bench-like seat of the wagon while hauling on the long lines in his hands. His heart raced as the wagon rounded a tight corner to the right. The team was crowding the inside of the turn. If one wheel dropped over the edge, they would all go tumbling down the steep hillside.

The backend of the wagon fishtailed but stayed on solid ground. Scott had no time to rejoice. Not far ahead was another bend in the road. Somehow, he had to slow the horses to a walk.

Quick, sharp tugs on the reins proved useless; the wagon continued moving too fast. Scott pulled harder. The team, still, failed to respond. Finally, driven by desperation, the young man put his all into one last jerk of the reins.

As his arms screamed against the strain, Scott felt first one horse then the other break stride. He shifted the lines to his right hand, grabbed the brake handle with the other, and pulled with all his might. The wagon skidded--wind snatching up the dust beneath wheels that scritched across hard-packed dirt.

None too soon, Scott had the horses under control. They rounded the corner without incident and continued on at a more reasonable pace. The crisis appeared to be over.

Scott knew better than to count on the rest of the ride going smoothly. He could tell that the horses were still fractious even though they were moving more slowly. Their necks were arched and their champing mouths continually resisted the restraint of the reins.

Wind gusted, lifting a cloud of dust into the faces of the team. One of the horses snorted and sidestepped. Scott thought for a moment that they would bolt again. "Easy, Boys," he called, hoping to soothe their fears.

Night approached rapidly, arriving earlier than normal because of the dark veil that covered the sky. Flashes of lightning, however, kept the path ahead illuminated while the rumble of thunder drew neared. Scott feared the storm would be directly overhead before he could find some sort of shelter.

Surprisingly, the wagon reached the floor of the valley without further trouble. Scott breathed a sigh of relief. His arms ached from the constant pull on the reins. He wasn't sure he could have held the team back much longer.

Now for a safe place to hide out, thought Scott, searching for anything that would provide protection for him and the horses.

Close to a quarter of a mile away, a grove of Willows hid what Scott knew was the mouth of a steep ravine, which ran from the valley floor to the top of the ridge he had just driven off of. He had holed up there, once before, to escape a hailstorm. There was a spring with a small level area inside the alcove formed by the patch of trees. If he could get the wagon in there, he would be safe.

The battle raging in the heavens grew louder, each flash of lightning appearing closer than before. Scott reined the team off the road and urged them toward the shelter.

Suddenly the air seemed charged with energy, and Scott felt the hair on his neck rise. "Get up!" he shouted, slapping the reins against the horses' rumps then grabbing the edge of the seat as the wagon surged ahead with a jerk.

Scott caught his balance then noticed that the team's manes and tails looked like the hair on a cat that had been rubbed against a wool blanket. He wondered at the cause then snatched the whip and frantically lashed the horses when a pinpoint of brilliant white rapidly increased in size as it hurtled toward him from out of the sky.

Blinding light bathed the whole hillside in front of Scott just as he spied the opening into the inner sanctuary that the grove of trees would provide. He screamed at the horses but never heard the words. They were lost in the deafening explosion as he was knocked from the wagon seat.

Sprawled on his back, Scott lay with one arm at his side and the other stretched above his head as though reaching for something in the clump of ryegrass near his fingertips. Huge droplets of rain fell on him, drenching him from head to toe. His clothes clung to his body and water from his hair dribbled into his closed eyes. He was aware of none of it. Consciousness had fled before he ever hit the ground.

Part IV - Fearful Discoveries

Grim faced, Murdoch Lancer led the search party away from the hacienda. Dawn had just begun to push away the darkness of night when Jelly, yelling at the top of his lungs, had pounded on the door of the hacienda. He had just come from the barnyard where he had found the wagon Scott had taken to Green River. Still in harness and hitched to the wagon, the team had been standing with heads drooping--too exhausted to lift their noses more than a few inches off the ground. Nothing seemed amiss except for the streak of black charcoal that marred the canvas covering over the supplies. There had been no sign of the driver in the barn or anywhere else in that vicinity.

Knowing that his son would have to be seriously injured to neglect caring for the weary horses, Murdoch had gone to the young man's room. He had found no evidence that Scott had been there, so he had ordered a search of the rest of the house, all of the outbuildings, and the surrounding grounds. The hunt had proven futile. Scott was not there.

"We'll find him," stated Jelly, bouncing in the saddle as his horse kept up with the fast trot of Murdoch's mount. "He prob'ly stopped to check on the harness an' the team got spooked by the storm an' run off without him. Bet, when we get around that next bend, we'll see him hoofin' it for home."

Murdoch hoped Jelly was right, but he kept seeing the burned spot on the canvas covering the supplies in the wagon. He didn't even want to think about what that meant. Men had died from lightning striking too close to them.

The road followed the river for a ways as it snaked through the southern side of the long valley, which ran through the center of the Lancer ranch. Murdoch left nothing to chance. He had Cipriano and Walt Senior ride along the banks of the water to look for any evidence that someone might have fallen in. Keeping Jelly with him, he stayed near the road while the rest of the men spread out across the fields.

Ten minutes went by, then twenty and thirty. Murdoch felt like every muscle in his body was strung tighter than a fiddler's bow string. His back ached and his stomach churned. Where was his son? Why hadn't any sign of him been seen, yet? Had the wagon team merely run off, like Jelly had suggested, or had Scott been thrown out somewhere? If so, then where? When he was found, would he be uninjured, or--.

Murdoch refused to allow his mind to pursue the negative prospects. Scott will be fine, he firmly told himself.

Another mile passed. The road parted from the river, which cut through a narrow gorge where the valley temporarily bottlenecked before opening up again. Still no one had seen Scott.

"He's gotta be close by," insisted Jelly, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Them horses wouldn't've run much farther on their own. You know that."

Horses were unpredictable creatures as Murdoch well knew from first hand experience. Combine that with the terror of a thunderstorm, and the team might have run for miles before finally giving into exhaustion and stopping. A safe stall in the barn would have been a mighty strong incentive for the two horses to travel a long distance without a driver.

I hope you're right, the rancher thought while running a thumb down one cheek and nodding in agreement with the hired man's words. Arguing with Jelly would be a useless waste of breath. The man was as stubborn as--. As a Lancer, Teresa's voice concluded in Murdoch's mind.

A quarter of a mile later, the road was back on the floor of the valley. Murdoch could see the dark shape of Black Mesa off to his left. In the past, its rocky edges had been marred by numerous lightning strikes. Something about that particular formation of rock attracted the brunt of most thunderstorms in the area. He had no idea why.

Jelly's voice again interrupted the big man's thoughts. "You don't suppose Scott would've gone to the line shack to get out o' the rain. If he got parted from the wagon anywhere 'round here, it'd be a lot closer'n the ranch."

Murdoch had to agree that Hoskin's had a point. There was a good possibility that his elder son had sought shelter at the cabin by Black Mesa. Scott had known that his brother was rounding up stray cattle in that area. He might have decided to save himself a long walk by riding home with Johnny on Barranca.

For a moment, Murdoch was torn between two choices. Should he continue hunting along the road, or head toward Black Mesa. The later pulled him. He could kill two birds with one stone by making sure his younger son was all right and look for Scott at the same time. If Johnny got an early start, he may have already found his brother. We could waste hours in useless searching, Murdoch reasoned.

"Jelly, you go on and follow the road to the top of the ridge. I think I will ride over to the line camp. I need to talk to Johnny, anyway, if he's around. I'll fire three shots if Scott's there. You do the same if you find him."

The whiskered man grumbled but finally gave in and continued on the way they had been headed. Murdoch turned to the left and rode toward the opposite side of the valley.

When Murdoch arrived at the adobe cabin, Barranca was tied to the hitching rail out front. The palomino was stamping and shifting his rump from side to side--a sure indication the animal hadn't been ridden far since the day before.

The door was wide open, giving full view of the small room's interior. Johnny, facing the cot on the far side of the room, appeared to be spreading a blanket over something.

No! Murdoch silently cried upon stepping through the open doorway and seeing a bare leg hanging over the edge of the bed.

As Johnny turned his head, the blanket slipped from his fingers. Murdoch's heart lurched. The face of the man on the bed was hidden, but the tawny locks of hair at the edge of the cover were undoubtedly Scott's. His brown trousers lay in a heap on the floor--toes of a boot poking out from under one leg.

"Scott," Murdoch whispered with a groan, closing his eyes and slumping back against the wall. He felt his knees buckle, but was powerless to stop the slow sinking of his body toward the floor.

Part V: Assuming the Worst

Johnny Lancer bounded to his feet then rushed to his father's side. "Murdoch? Murdoch?" he softly called, grasping the big man by the arms and holding him against the wall to keep him from sliding all the way to the floor.

In a half crouch and supported by his son, Murdoch blinked as he gazed at Johnny.

"Are you all right?"; Johnny asked with a frown, his heart beating wildly as he studied his father's pale face.

The pull on Johnny's arms lightened as his father's legs straightened. "Yeah. Yeah . . . I, uh . . .." Murdoch's voice trailed off as he hoisted himself upright, still leaning against the wall.

Noticing that Murdoch's eyes had shifted to the form on the cot, Johnny took a deep breath. "It's Scott. He . . .."

"I know," whispered Murdoch when his son hesitated.

Eyebrows drawing together, Johnny looked up at his father. "You do?"

"The team brought the wagon in without him." Murdoch's voice cracked, and he stopped to moisten his lips.

"I found him about an hour ago. He was soaked." Johnny paused to glance up at his father. Seeing the distress in the man's eyes, he decided a diversion was needed and waved a hand toward the pile of clothing that was forming a puddle on the floor by the bed. "I just got him undressed. Think you could start a fire and hang those up to dry?" When his inquiry was met with silence, his tone turned more demanding. "Murdoch?"

"Uh, huh." Murdoch nodded, sounding far away. He still acted distracted as he went to the wood-box next to the fireplace.

Johnny followed his father with his eyes then hunkered down beside the cot where Scott lay and adjusted the blanket to fit under his brother's chin. The pale face looked so peaceful--too peaceful.

Clunking wood and other noises indicated Murdoch was working on the fire. Johnny reached over and lifted Scott's dangling leg onto the bed then tucked the cover in place. "We'll have your clothes dry in no time," he softly stated, capturing a limp hand and massaging the cool fingers. You sure got yourself in a pickle this time, Brother. Thought you told me Boston gets bad thunderstorms every year. What was yuh doin' out last night?

Footsteps passed behind Johnny then paused before returning to his side. He turned his head and looked upward, meeting his father's anguished eyes. "It could have been worse," Johnny said, his voice not as steady as he would have liked.

"No, it couldn't," Murdoch hoarsely replied, his gaze faltering and landing on the floor with the water that dripped from the pants and blue shirt, which were now slung over his left arm.

Johnny let out a tired sigh. "Sure it could," he insisted. "He don't have any broken bones . . . no cuts . . . not one scratch on him. He ain't even gunna have any bruises . . . except for that spot on the back of his head." A chuckle slid up his throat and a smile tugged at his lips. Both abruptly died when Murdoch's eyes lifted, a mix of emotions warring in them.

His father was not convinced; there was no doubt in Johnny's mind of that, so he continued on in hopes of easing Murdoch's concerns that Scott had suffered. "He was lying on his back in a puddle of water when I first saw him. Looked like he'd been there a while, and I thought . . .." Johnny paused then changed directions. "If he hadn't come to, I'm not sure how I would've got him on Barranca."

"He . . . he was awake? Did he say what happened?"

The intensity of his father's imploring eyes was unsettling, and Johnny focused on the unmoving form on the bed. "He didn't say much," he softly replied then moistened his lip with the tip of his tongue and shrugged. "I couldn't make much sense out of anything he said. He seemed pretty confused about where he was and how he got there. I hardly had a chance to get mounted before he passed out."

"I guess we'll never know then . . .." Murdoch spoke in just above a whisper.

"No. I guess not," quietly agreed Johnny, unaware that he had stopped rubbing his brother's fingers.

Defeat was written in the sag of Murdoch's shoulders and the twitch of his jaw muscles as he turned to walk away. Johnny drew in a ragged breath then watched as his father draped Scott's pants and shirt over the bench by the kitchen table and dragged the long wooden seat closer to the fire.

Flickering flames crackled in the fireplace, the shimmering light reminding Johnny of the way the storm had lit up the room the night before. He let out a long sigh then frowned. His father, also, seemed lost in thought--gaze locked on the red and yellow dancers in the fire.

"We'll need a wagon to get Scott home. Want me to go after it?" Johnny offered, starting to rise to his feet.

Murdoch, head twisting to face Johnny, hastily stammered that there was no need since Jelly was close by. Then, in a few long strides, he was out the door.

With a shake of his head, Johnny stared at the empty doorway. He had never seen his father so jittery before. Acts like . . . like he's afraid to be alone with Scott.

Another thought crept into the corner of Johnny's mind but was banished by three sharp, equally spaced rifle shots followed shortly by three more. A shadow fell across the patch of sunlight that reached across the floor toward the cot then disappeared when Murdoch stepped into the room and moved to one side of the doorway.

The big man stopped. Mouth gapping, he sharply drew in his breath. Slowly, as Johnny looked on in wonder, the thunderstruck expression faded from Murdoch's face and a smile lifted the corners of his lips.

A soft moan from the cot turned Johnny's attention away from Murdoch. Suddenly, full realization hit him. He would have laughed, if his father hadn't so obviously been thrown for a loop by the assumption that Scott was dead.

There was no time for amusement, however. Murdoch was crowding in. Johnny got out of the way then stood looking on as his father took charge of the injured man. Scott was trying to sit up while being restrained by Murdoch's big hands.

When neither of the other men seemed to be aware of Johnny's presence in the room, he softly said, "Think I'll go . . . watch for Jelly." Scott still seemed dazed and unable to focus on more than one thing or person at a time, and Murdoch's slight nod was the only indication that he had heard his younger son.

Johnny quietly retreated to the doorway and went outside. He sucked in a deep breath and savored the freshly washed smell of the air then smiled as the sun warmed his face. In a day or two, his brother would be fine and the previous night's storm would be nothing more than a memory. That was provided, of course, that Jelly didn't go on and on about it.

Hoof-beats clattered on the rocky trail then a rider came into view. There was no mistaking the man, whose cap hugged his head and horse dwarfed his small frame. Johnny stretched one arm upward and waved then, with a light-hearted spring to his step, sauntered out to meet Jelly.

Epilogue:

The next morning, Scott lay with his head and shoulders propped up on two thick pillows. Jelly Hoskins stood at one side of the bed and fussed with the edge of the quilt.

"That was quite a show we had the other night," stated the whiskered man. When Scott responded with a vacant stare, Jelly's chest puffed and his chin lifted. "The storm . . . it was really something to see."

Scott chuckled softly, his lips stretching into a faint smile at the older man's indignant tone. "Yes, Jelly, it was quite spectacular," he replied with a sigh. He closed his eyes then drew in a long breath before opening them again. "Of course, I would have received considerably more enjoyment out of Nature's awesome display of power had I been watching it from my bedroom window."

For a moment, silence filled the room. Jelly squirmed then cleared his throat. "Yeah . . . bein' out in it would sort o' spoil things a bit, wouldn't it?"

"Just a bit," Scott dryly replied as his bedroom door swung open and his brother sauntered in.

"What spoiled what?" asked Johnny, stopping next to Jelly.

"Nothing important . . . I thought you were bringing me some breakfast? I'm starving." Scott spoke in a commanding tone and earned an answering scowl from his brother.

Johnny laid a hand on Jelly's shoulder. "Jelly, have yuh noticed how bossy Scott is? Maybe gettin' hit by lightning changed his personality like yuh was tellin' me it did to that man back in Kansas."

"I was not struck by lightning, so there's nothing wrong with my personality that a little food wouldn't remedy. Now . . . are you going to bring me breakfast or not?" demanded Scott, brows drawing together and jaw tight.

"Okay. Okay. No need to get yourself in a pucker. I'll go see if Teresa has it ready."

"You do that." The sharpness was still there despite Scott's urge to laugh at the way Johnny had raised both hands to chest level, palms outward, and backed out the door.

Jelly looked like he would bust a gut, but somehow he refrained from laughing until after Johnny had time to reach the stairs. "You pulled that off well," the whiskered man said a moment later, with a wag of his head.

"Don't you think you were a little harsh with your brother?"

This new voice was accompanied by a tall form striding through the doorway. Scott smiled--shoulders and eyebrows arching then relaxing when he spoke. "Murdoch, Johnny's been hovering over me like a mother hen. He's worse than Jelly and Teresa combined."

Jelly let out a snort. "Well, if that's the way yuh feel . . . I got better things to do than keep you company."

"Jelly. Scott didn't--"

Murdoch's words were cut off by the slamming of the door. Scott lifted one hand to still the lecture that was about to spill from his father's mouth. "Don't say it. I haven't had a moment's peace all morning. If you hadn't sent those three to bed last night, they would have kept me awake with their hovering."

"They can't help it. You gave us quite a scare, yesterday. Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine, Murdoch . . . just have a twinge of a headache, is all. You heard Doctor Jenkins. I have a slight concussion from the blow to the back of my head. There is no evidence that the lightning touched me. All I need is a couple days of bed rest, a few more of light duty, and then I'll be good as new," insisted Scott upon having seen the concern etched in the corners of his father's eyes and heard the uncertainty in the man's voice.

"I'm sure Sam is right," Murdoch replied with a pat on Scott's blanket-covered leg. He then turned to leave, stopped, and looked back over his shoulder. "I'll see that you have some time to yourself. I'm sure I can find enough chores to keep everyone too busy to bother you."

"Thanks," breathed Scott, relaxing in relief. All he wanted was to have his breakfast then lay back and rest his eyes.

Scott, however, found that being alone was worse than having his family fussing over him. The trauma of the storm had taken a greater toll than he had cared to admit. Although his body would recover quickly enough, he feared his mind would not soon let go of the terror he had endured. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw a ball of fire hurtling toward him and felt the tingle of his skin as his hair rose to meet the oncoming missile. When Teresa came in at lunch time, he was more than ready for the company. He even asked her to stay and read to him for a while.

By suppertime, Scott was glad to see both Jelly and Johnny. He invited them to bring the checker board up and play a few games so he could watch them. Although, his head still hurt too much to concentrate on playing a game himself, he greatly appreciated the distraction the other two men provided. Anything was better than being left alone with his thoughts.

"Hey, Jelly . . . have yuh noticed we've been in here almost an hour, and Scott ain't grouched at us once? Guess he ain't changed after all," said Johnny, giving Jelly a sly wink near the end of the fourth game.

"Yeah . . . I did notice his manners are a lot better'n they was this mornin'." Jelly's tone was low and conspiratorial.

"Must be all that solitude went to his head, and--"

"Keep it up, Little Brother, and I'm going to have to teach you some manners," interrupted Scott with a resounding slap to Johnny's shoulder.

"Yep. Just like I said, Brother . . . you ain't changed a bit."

Even though laughing tensed his shoulder muscles and jiggled his head, Scott couldn't keep from joining the other two men. Life was too uncertain and precious not to take advantage of every opportunity to enjoy it. Never again would he look at things in quite the same way. Thanks to a thunderstorm, one August night, his perspective of life and family was no longer the same.

Guess I have changed, after all. Just not in ways you or anyone else would notice, thought Scott, smiling at his brother. He then proceeded to inform Johnny that there was a game in progress.