Friday, May 13, 1870

3:00 AM

It has not yet been three days. I know this for a fact. I arrived in what passes here for a town on Tuesday. When the sun rises after this interminable night, it will be Friday. There is no question, it will still be short of three days. But my mind (and my body) refuses to accept that all that has happened could fit into such a brief span of time.

I have met my father, the ogre, the lout, the uneducated boor living in a shack in the wilderness. That is what I’ve been told my entire life, but it seems that none of those descriptions are quite true. Mind you, I am as uncertain as ever as to what is in fact true, but I have learned that at least some of my grandfather’s opinions are mistaken. Which begs the question, are those mistakes simple errors, or deliberate lies?

Of all the questions that I carried with me from Boston, that is not one that I expected to have to answer. To be honest, it’s not a question that I am prepared to answer. Not yet. Not until I have learned a great deal more. However, I find that a deep unease has taken up residence in a place that I had thought housed only certainty. It unsettles me. My grandfather and I need to talk, and we will when I return to Boston. But for now, I have enough to concentrate on, enough questions that can only be answered here, in California, in my father’s house.

And what of this enigma, my father? What have I learned of him? Not much except that he is not what I have been led to expect. My first impression of him? Big. The man is massive. I have always considered myself tall but he looms over me by several inches. His shoulders and his face look to have been carved from the native granite that forms the backbone of this wild land. And his spine and opinions seem to have all the flexibility of that selfsame granite. His hands are huge and hard, fitted to the job of shaping an empire out of wilderness. And finally, he can, at times, be one of the most unpleasant people that I have ever met.

When I think back on my trip out here from Boston, I have to laugh at myself. I spent long hours imagining what our first meeting would be like, playing out one scenario after another in my head. My imaginings ranged from my scornful rejection of a pathetic and grasping Murdoch Lancer to my magnanimous  (nearly regal, if I do say so myself) acceptance of my father’s tearful apology. I even imagined a heart-wrenching scene where I arrived at Lancer to find Murdoch on his deathbed. I kindly absolved him of his guilt for abandoning me to my grandfather’s care. Then he smiled and slipped away. It was all quite noble.

Oh yes, I was prepared for anything, anything except for what actually happened. After all my years of wondering, it never occurred to me that the man would not only decline to answer my questions, but actually refuse to discuss the events at all. The strangest thing is that after sending for me and offering a great deal of money for an hour of my time, he seemed almost angry that I had actually come. He has offered no explanations for any of this, past or present. Apart from a few brief and very unsatisfactory sentences, he has been silent. I am determined that will, at some point, change.

Oh yes, I am staying, at least for now. In fact, I have been offered a partnership in this place called Lancer. I find this completely amazing. After ignoring my existence for twenty five years, I no more than walk through the door and my father offers me a share of his empire. How strange and unexpected that was. 

Strange it may have been, but not altogether altruistic.  It seems a warm family reunion was not my father’s motivation for sending for me. He had been having trouble with land pirates. (And is that not a quaint and wildly rustic appellation?) So he sent for help, and we came, walking right into the middle of a war zone.

Yes, I said ‘we’.  You see, becoming a California landowner was by no means the most unexpected event to befall me in the last three days.

No, that honor goes to something that happened before I even set foot on the ranch. A rude meeting on a dusty back road has produced the most astounding revelation. It seems I have a brother. Well, a half-brother to be precise, but a brother nonetheless. And such a specimen he is. Grandfather would be appalled and for some reason that makes me smile.  

Wild, brash, and arrogant, this is my brother. Nothing like myself at all, and yet, in one sense, there exists no one more like myself on the entire planet. He shares my blood. To look at him is like looking into a mirror and seeing a completely unexpected person staring back at me.

He is younger than I, and not so tall. His hair is black where mine is blond, he is swarthy where I am fair and, as for his manner of dress, exotic might be the kindest word to apply.

He can be quite obnoxious in his own right. Which leads me to wonder how I alone managed to avoid what is so obviously a family trait. I wonder what my brother will have to say about that observation. I wonder if my brother will live long enough for me to ask him.

He lies right now, in a room down the hall, shot down in front of our eyes, a victim of my father’s war. He is wracked with fever, weakened by blood loss and the local doctor cannot say whether he will live or die. And I am angry. I am tired, I am frustrated and I am angry.

Why I should be so angry, I cannot say. Or for that matter, why I should feel anything other than the vague regret that one feels on hearing that a stranger is ill or injured. But I do, and I have, almost from the start. Well, perhaps not from the very start. I believe the best word to describe my initial reaction would be appalled. To find out without preamble and in the middle of a public square that this pushy, aggressive, and unbathed stranger is my brother was, shall we say, unsettling. It had taken me the breadth of an entire continent to prepare myself to meet my father, but this new relative was sprung on me unawares.

I’ve known him for less than three days and we have already come to blows, my brother and I. Strangely enough, that thought brings a smile to my lips. I think, given enough time, that event might turn into one of those family stories that are retold over and over at gatherings and Thanksgiving feasts. For some illogical reason that pleases me.

I’m not sure how our father feels about Johnny, or about me if it comes to that. He has not been overly welcoming to either one of us, but beyond that, there seems to be something more between him and Johnny than there is between my father and I. It hangs in the air separating the two of them, unspoken but significant.

I can understand my brother’s anger, particularly knowing what he grew up believing. What I cannot comprehend is my father’s ire and mistrust. There is something here that I do not yet understand and I am determined to rectify that.

Meanwhile, I feel a strong need to protect this brother of mine. It’s ridiculous really; he appears more than capable of taking care of himself and I doubt very much if he would thank me if I were to try to shelter him. Nonetheless, the feeling is there, and if that impulse means that I have to protect him from our father, well, so be it.

And while Murdoch has been more than solicitous toward Johnny since he was shot, still, twice in my presence, he has given up on the boy. Once when I returned from my sortie with Cipriano, and again when Johnny was shot from his horse during the battle with Pardee.  Both times I listened to him, and ignored my own impulse. Never again.

I do want to get to know and understand my father, but I will admit that a relationship with him carries a lot more old baggage than one with Johnny. As things stand right now, given a choice, I know which way I’d lean.

I intend to continue this journal, recording, from time to time, the large and small events that will define this experiment in family. But for now, I am feeling uneasy. I think, despite my lack of sleep, I will go back down the hall and check on Johnny, and on my father.

May, 2010