Sam Jenkins poured water from the ceramic pitcher into the matching basin on the bedside table. It was a beautiful set, with a raised design around the edges and a sunny yellow glaze that reflected back the late afternoon light. Sam carefully set the pitcher aside and grimaced at the red stains his fingers left on the handle. As he dipped his hands into the tepid water, he could hear Murdoch Lancer, pacing impatiently, back and forth behind him.

"So," Murdoch demanded, coming to a stop behind the doctor and looming over his shoulder, "they're going to be all right, aren't they?"

This was the third time Murdoch had asked that question. Sam knew his old friend worried so he patiently answered, again.

"They'll be fine, Murdoch," Sam said, glancing back.  "Believe me, this was minor. Well, at least it was minor where those two are concerned. The worst part was probably that nine-mile hike in this miserable heat. Wore 'em out," he said, working up a lather with Teresa's homemade soap. "Just have them take it easy tomorrow. They should be good as new in a few days."

Murdoch grunted and went back to his pacing. Sam sighed; it was getting on his nerves but then, he could sympathize with the rancher's worries. This whole thing could have been much worse.

As he rinsed his hands, Sam considered his old friend. Poor Murdoch, sometimes Sam thought his situation was hopeless. Here he was, pushing 50 and trying to figure out how to be a father. And to make it worse, the objects of his paternal affections weren't a couple of impressionable boys. Oh no, thought Sam with a grin, Murdoch was trying to play Papa to two of the most stubborn, independent, supremely competent young men that the doctor had ever treated. Sam often got the feeling that Murdoch was in way over his head.

Sam unfolded the linen towel that sat beside the basin and smiled to himself. Never mind Murdoch, he thought, drying his hands, sometimes the Lancer sons made Sam feel that he was in over his head. Like today. He'd been puttering in his garden when a rider from Lancer had thundered in saying he was needed. The cowboy didn't have any details so Sam had worried all the way to the ranch. When he arrived, one knock on the door had brought Maria, the housekeeper, down on him like an agitated Guinea Fowl, fluttering and clucking in rapid Spanish and shooing him toward the stairs.

Sam had wasted no time being shooed. Once upstairs, he'd paused outside of Scott's room. The door had been open and Sam had stood for a moment assessing the situation. Both of the Lancer sons were battered and bleeding; both looked exhausted. Johnny was sitting astride a straightback chair, drooping like a cut flower out of water. Scott was sprawled on the bed with an ugly bruise on his cheekbone and what looked like a piece of Johnny's shirt wrapped around his calf. Murdoch hovered over both of them - absolutely determined to take control.

Sam had sighed, half in relief, half in exasperation, then he'd rapped lightly on the doorframe and walked in. Murdoch's worried expression lightened at his entrance. The doctor had removed his coat and begun to roll up his sleeves. "So," he'd said, glancing at his patients, "what happened this time?"

The story had unfolded as Sam poked, prodded and stitched. A broken axle, a rolled buckboard and two lame draft horses had added up to cuts, bruises and a long hot walk for the Lancer sons. Johnny had a nasty looking gash across his ribs. Scott had a cut on his leg and a big bump on his head. Sam had stitched up Johnny first then ordered him to bed. But Johnny had flatly refused to leave until Scott was taken care of and Sam had known better than to try and make him go. He wasn't however, above threatening the former gunfighter with drugs and dull needles if he didn't sit quietly and shut up. By the time the last bandage was tied off, both young men had been sound asleep, and Murdoch Lancer had made a good start on wearing a path into the rugs on the floor.

Finishing with the towel, Sam shrugged off his mental wanderings and leaned over the nightstand to repack his bag. Murdoch finally stopped his pacing, apparently accepting Sam's assurances that his sons would survive. Sam smiled.

When he turned around he found his friend working to shift Johnny's sleeping body onto the bed. Johnny stirred and mumbled something then settled in, back to back with his brother. Murdoch flipped the comforter from the foot of the bed over both still forms. Sam watched him reach across and tuck the blanket around Scott's shoulders then rest his hand for a moment on Johnny's head. Sam cleared his throat and Murdoch jerked back, startled, his cheeks flushing. Grabbing his bag and his friend's arm, Sam pushed him out into the hall. "They'll be fine," he whispered with a smile. He pulled the door closed, dropped his bag on the hall table and, using both hands, he guided his old friend down the stairs.

Two places had been set at the long dining table and the enticing smell of dinner was in the air. But Sam wasn't allowed to begin until he'd convinced Maria that "Los Hermanos" were cared for and were going to be fine. Assurances given, Sam and Murdoch sat down to rare roast beef, with all the trimmings.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Murdoch said, shaking his napkin out onto his lap. "She worries."

"I know," said Sam. "Pass the potatoes please." He dished up a serving then studied his friend for a moment. "She worries, and so do you."

Murdoch set down his fork and scrubbed his face with his hand before looking over at Sam and shaking his head. "I swear, Sam, sometimes I just don't know what I'm going to do with the two of them. I can talk till I'm blue in the face. I tell them what to do, I tell them how to act, but I just can't get them to behave the way I want them to." His frustration rolled off him in waves.

Sam smiled ruefully. "Murdoch, will you listen to yourself? These aren't a couple of seven year-olds you're talking about. These men have been on their own, making their own decisions for a long time. You can't erase all that and roll back time. You can't rule their every action."

"They're my sons, my responsibility, and I call the tune." Murdoch glowered, a stubborn set to his jaw.

"They're their own men," Sam rejoined. "And until you can bring yourself to trust them and their judgment a bit more you're going to be frustrated and unhappy. And so will they."

Murdoch stopped eating and looked at Sam. "I'll tell you what," he said, pointing his fork at the doctor. "I'd trust their judgment one hell of a lot more if their judgment didn't result in seeing YOU quite so often."

Sam snorted in surprise. "Well," he said, pulling on his lower lip and trying not to smile, "there is that."

Murdoch nodded. "Save room for dessert. Maria baked a pie."

By the time they were finished eating, Sam was wondering if he could arrange for all the Lancer disasters to happen just before dinner.

They moved to the great room and Sam sank down into a comfortable chair facing the fire. Murdoch went over to the sideboard to pour them both a drink. When Murdoch returned, Scotch in hand, they settled in, like two old crows on a rail, thought Sam, for an evening of quiet talk and serious drinking.

The house grew still around them. The Scotch had been properly appreciated, the fire had burned down to embers and Murdoch was gently snoring. Sam breathed a deep, satisfied sigh and re-crossed his ankles. It wasn't often that he found time to enjoy a companionable evening like this, especially in this house. He was loath to move and break the spell.

He was just nodding off, deeply contented, when a sudden shout and a huge thud from upstairs shattered the silence. Murdoch jerked awake from a sound sleep, what was left of his drink crashing to the floor. He was up, out of his chair, and moving faster than the doctor thought possible for a man with his bad back. The rancher hit the stairs at a run, Sam right on his heels.

Murdoch threw open the door to Scott's room. The two men found Johnny sitting on the floor next to the bed, holding his head and cursing in Spanish, softly, but at great length. On the other side of the bed, Scott was just hauling himself off the floor, cradling his elbow and looking murderous. Telltale spots of red seeping through the bandage on Johnny's ribs showed that he'd torn a stitch or two.

Sam did a quick visual check on his patients while Murdoch started in on his "boys".

"What happened?" Murdoch demanded.

Johnny looked at Scott. Scott looked back and shook his head, then studied the ceiling. Neither one of them answered.

Sam turned away to find his doctor's bag, one eyebrow raised in speculation.

"Johnny? What are you two up to?" the frustrated rancher tried again.

"Ain't up to nothin'," Johnny said, still holding his head. "Down on the floor maybe," he muttered softly, "but not up to…"

What did you say?" demanded Murdoch.

"Nothin'!" 

"Scott?" There was no answer. "Scott, how did you end up on the floor?"

"I slipped, Murdoch. Don't make a fuss about it." Scott gave his father a brief glare then switched his attention to his sore elbow.

"You slipped? You both slipped. Both of you ended up on the floor and you're telling me that nothing happened? Well, SOMETHING happened and I want to know what!"

Sam fished his scissors out of his battered bag and listened while Murdoch waited for a response. He didn't get one. Sam wisely smothered a chuckle then turned in time to see the big man throw his hands in the air, stalk over to the door and lean against it with his arms crossed over his chest. He glared at Sam. "See if you can do something with them," he growled.

Sam dropped his head and carefully composed his face, then gruffly ordered the brothers back onto the edge of the bed. He set to work repairing the latest damage. "Dios, Sam," Johnny protested when the needle pierced his already abused side, but aside from that, neither young man said a word.

While he worked, Sam kept an eye on Murdoch. The look on the rancher's face could have curdled milk.

"There," Sam said, pushing his glasses up on his head. He stood up and reached behind himself to rub his back. "Now," he asked, "do you two think you could manage to get through the rest of the night without needing my further services?"

Murdoch pushed off the wall and took two deliberate steps toward his sons.

Making a tactical decision, the doctor moved over to the door and out of the line of fire. He settled in to watch with anticipation. Murdoch in full cry was a force of nature.

"All right," the rancher said. "Let's try this again. What the hell happened up here?"

Johnny and Scott exchanged a meaningful look. Scott rolled his eyes and developed a sudden intense interest in his feet. Sam watched as Johnny dropped his head and wrapped his arms across his chest.

Murdoch scowled, then turned and paced a couple of steps, his hand on his chin. He stood for a second, then he turned back and faced his sons. 

"You two listen to me," Murdoch said. "Sam came all the way out here and spent his time and energy to treat you. Now you've gone and interrupted his evening, undone all his hard work, and forced him to come up here and redo it. Sam here deserves an explanation, and one of you or both of you are is going to give it to me."

Sam jerked his head up in surprise, not sure how he got to be the villain here.

Murdoch waited a beat then leaning over Scott Murdoch bellowed, "Do you hear me, young man?"

Sam winced.

Scott flicked an annoyed glance at his father, nodded his head, then put his hand to his ear and rubbed it - hard.

Five minutes later Sam looked at his watch. Murdoch was still at it. He'd ordered and shouted and raved, all to no avail. Now he stood with his fists on his hips, glaring at his sons. Neither one had said a word but Sam had seen Scott glance at Johnny several times, a strange look on his face, and it seemed to him that Johnny coiled tighter in on himself the longer that Murdoch went on.

Sam had stopped being amused about half way through. There was something going on here besides Murdoch's rant. Sam couldn't figure it out and it was making him increasingly uneasy. In his opinion, the whole thing had degenerated into an ugly battle of wills. The doctor was considering ways to defuse the situation when something about Johnny caught his eye.

Johnny sat hunched over on the bed with one hand covering his eyes and his other arm clutched tight across his chest. As Sam watched, Johnny's shoulders began to shake convulsively. My God, he thought, was it possible that Murdoch's tough-as-leather gunfighter son was crying? Sam was appalled. He looked over at Murdoch and found him also staring at his dark-haired son. The look on the rancher's face was a strange mix of guilt and fear. A sound like a strangled sob escaped from Johnny's lips. Shocked, Sam saw Murdoch reach out toward his son.

"John?" he whispered. "Son? What is it?" He laid his hand gently on Johnny's shoulder.

Sam held his breath.

Then a rippling, gurgling snort exploded from Scott, and Johnny Lancer lost it. He howled! Collapsing back on the bed, he gave himself over to paroxysms of laughter. Sam saw Scott slide straight off the side of the bed to land on the floor with a thud, the sound of his glee adding to the noise.

Murdoch looked toward Sam, but the old doctor could only shrug and lift his hands in delighted bewilderment.

"Scott! Johnny!" Murdoch bellowed, "Behave yourselves."

This only seemed to raise the level of hilarity. Johnny groaned in pain and Sam winced in sympathy, thinking of the bruised stomach muscles that he'd seen earlier.

"Boys," Murdoch growled again.

By this time Scott had practically rolled under the bed. Murdoch decided that his youngest, being closer to eye level was an easier target. He leaned in closer. "Johnny, stop it. Right now!"

"Dios, Murdoch," Johnny gasped. "I'm trying." Sam watched his slow struggle for control. Fewer giggles and snorts broke each ragged breath. Finally he dropped his head back and gave a huge sigh. A crooked smile still decorated his face. "Oh yeah," he groaned, "that's better."

Just then a voice rose up from the floor where Scott's intermittent laughter still sounded. "Oh God, it hurts," Scott moaned. And both of them were off again.

It was contagious and Sam found he couldn't help himself. He sagged against the door, his body shaking and tears running down his cheeks. It was all he could do to keep from sliding down the doorframe to the floor. When Murdoch threw his hands up in disgust and turned toward Sam the old doctor could only shake his head and wave his hand weakly at the furious rancher.

"My sons are insane," Murdoch said. "And you," he glared at the medic, "you're not much better. Come on," he said. Sam gasped as Murdoch grabbed his arm. He straightened, trying for dignity then gave up entirely and just laughed harder.

"Oh for Pete's sake," Murdoch hissed. "I need a drink. You and these two, he glared at his sons, these two hyenas deserve each other's company." Sam reached back and opened the door. Murdoch marched out and slammed it shut behind him.

He left a profound silence that lasted all of three seconds till the three remaining men erupted in a new round of laughter. Murdoch's heavy footsteps faded away down the stairs.

Slowly the room grew quiet except for the unsteady breathing and the occasional escaping chuckle. Eventually, Johnny sat up and wiped the tears off his cheeks. Scott dragged himself back up onto the bed and leaned against the headboard. Sam stumbled over to a chair.

"Oh boy," Scott said finally, "I can't remember the last time I did that."

"Well," sighed Johnny, "I got a real good memory, and I know for a fact that I ain't never done that before."

Scott stared at him in surprise then hiccoughed. Johnny bit back another laugh. He looked at Scott and grinned. "That was fun, wasn't it?'

Scott smiled back at him. "Yes, Brother, it most certainly was. Lord, I thought Murdoch was going to have a fit."

Johnny snorted. "He was turning a funny shade of purple, wasn't he?"

Sam took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. "Would one of you," he said, peering at the two blurry figures, "mind telling me what just happened here?"

Scott looked embarrassed. Johnny just smiled. He looked up at Scott then over to Sam. "You mean with Murdoch?" he asked. "Aw, Sam, You saw him. Sometimes he's just so, so…" Johnny shook his head and rubbed his eyes, a smile still lingering around his mouth. "I tell ya, Sam, I had to either laugh or shoot him. No other choice."

Scott snorted and Johnny glared at him. "Oh, and you were a big help."

"Me?" Scott said, doing his best to look innocent.

"Yeah you, 'Mr. Dignified Harvard Man'. I almost had it under control till you lost it."

"You call that control?" Scott crowed, taking a swipe at his brother. "My steely eyed, icewater-in-his-veins, gunfighter brother? I could see you starting to crack from halfway across the valley." Scott grinned. 

Johnny cocked his head. "Oh, Boston," he said, "you're gonna have to pay for that one." He feinted at his brother then made a grab for his pillow. Scott grabbed back. Watching them, it occurred to Sam that he had never seen Johnny so unguarded and easy nor Scott so relaxed. If this was what they brought to each other, it was no wonder that they had grown so close.

Finally he interrupted their tussle by clearing his throat.

"Oops," said Scott, letting go of his brother's shoulder.

Sam couldn't help laughing again. Johnny flashed him a sheepish grin. "We'll be good, Sam. And we'll apologize to Murdoch later. I promise."

"As well you should," said Sam, trying to find his lost dignity. "But first tell me, what started this whole thing in the first place?"

Both boys went suddenly still. Then Johnny looked up with a wicked grin.

"Johnny," Scott growled.

"Aw, come on, Boston," Johnny said with a wide-eyed innocence. "Weren't you tellin' me the other day about that Hipicritic Oath thing. You said you can talk to your doctor just like a priest."

"Hippocratic," Scott corrected automatically, "and I'd rather you didn't talk to the priest either."

"No?" said Johnny, with a grin. "Well anyway," he said, turning to Sam.

"Johnny, you wouldn't," Scott pleaded.

Sam watched as Johnny stopped for a moment to think. "Well, Scott," he said, shaking his head,  "ya just never know what us steely-eyed gunfighters might do." He looked at his brother quite seriously but Sam thought that the twinkle in his eyes could probably light the room for half the night.

Scott just groaned and blushed bright red.

Johnny considered his brother, then turned to Sam. "Sam, as a doctor, do you think it's healthy for a feller to turn that kind of a color?"

"Well," Sam said, "I suppose it might depend on the company he's keeping at the time."

Johnny grinned at him, delighted that he'd joined in the game. "You might be right about that, Doc. You just might be right."

"I generally am," grumped Sam. "But you were telling me about…?"

"Oh yeah, well, as I started to say, we were layin' there sleeping," Johnny said. Scott swung a pillow at him. Johnny ducked away without even looking in Scott's direction. "All warm and cozy."

"By the way, did Murdoch tuck us in together like that?"

Sam nodded, wondering where this was going.

Johnny smiled brightly at his brother. "See, Scott? You'll have to remember to tell him it was all his fault."

Scott just sighed and dropped his head to his hands.

"Anyway," Johnny resumed, "there we were sleepin' away. I was dreamin' about this sweet little senorita that I knew once and I guess 'ol Scott was dreamin', too, because…"

Sam grinned as Scott tried again with the pillow. Johnny neatly snagged it and tucked it under Scott's injured leg without ever interrupting his narrative.

"…Because the next thing I knew, I felt somebody throw an arm around my waist and pull me in real close and I'm wakin' up nose to eyeball with big brother here."

Scott groaned and pulled an edge of the comforter over his head. "I was asleep," he protested from under the covers.

Oh dear, thought Sam, poor Scott.

Johnny looked at Sam with a straight face. "I'll tell ya, Doc, it was…" his brow furrowed in concentration. "Hey, Scott, what was that word of yours again? Oh yeah," Johnny winked at Sam. "It was traw-matic," he intoned solemnly.

Sam jumped as Scott threw back the covers and sat up.

"That's it," Scott exclaimed. "It wouldn't have been nearly as traumatic," Scott said emphasizing the pronunciation, "if you hadn't yelled and brought Murdoch down on us."

"Well," said Johnny, pulling out his best innocent face, "What did you expect me to do? Whisper, 'Hi honey,' and kiss you on the nose?"

Scott growled and launched himself at his brother. He grabbed Johnny by the back of the neck, trying for a headlock. Both of them were laughing until suddenly Johnny yelped.

"Hey," Sam protested.

Scott pulled back. "I'm sorry," he said, trying to get a look at the bandage around his brother's ribs. "Are you all right? Did you tear your stitches?"

"Nah," said Johnny, looking down at his ribs, "just pulled 'em a mite." Grinning, he made another swipe at his brother.

"Hold it," ordered Sam. "That's enough of this. Johnny, stop teasing your brother, it's not nice."

Johnny laughed.

"Now, as your doctor, I think it's time you two remembered that you're supposed to be invalids. I want you both back in bed. Now."

"And, gentlemen, please," Sam said, standing and straightening his coat, "each in his own bed this time, if you don't mind."

He picked up his bag and headed out the door. As he pulled it shut behind him he heard Scott from inside.

"I am never," Scott moaned, "going to hear the end of this."

Sam chuckled as he started down the hall. Well, he certainly couldn't complain that a visit to Lancer was boring. And if he were honest with himself, he'd have to admit that Johnny was right. Tonight had been fun. Fun wasn't a concept that Sam had applied to himself in a while and he suddenly realized that it was something he missed. It was too bad, he mused, that more of his patients weren't like the Lancers.

Two steps later he stopped dead in the hallway. "Good Lord!" he muttered. "What am I saying?"

The End

Epilogue

The brothers sat for a minute in companionable silence.

Finally Johnny stood, wincing as all his aches and bruises made themselves known. "I think Sam's got it right. All of a sudden, I'm beat."

Scott made a vague noise of agreement as he slid down on the bed and settled his head on the pillow.

Johnny walked to the door, but stopped with his hand on the knob and just stood for a second, his head down. "Hey, Scott," he said softly.

Scott raised up on his elbow. "Yes?"

"Just wanted you to know, there's been a lot more fun…" He hesitated and tried again, "my life's been - well, it's better, since I found me a brother." Johnny glanced back at Scott.

Scott's jaw dropped, then slowly a smile grew on his face. "Same here, brother. Believe me, it's the same for me."

Johnny nodded and turned to go but looked back again with a grin. "Just don't let it go to your head."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Scott said softly.

Their eyes met for a moment and held, rock solid. Johnny nodded. "Yeah," he said. Then he slipped out the door.