A Friend in Need

Sacramento, California

The Ebner’s Hotel

According to a bronze plaque above the front entrance door, the Ebner brothers, Charles and Francis, built this 36-room establishment in 1856. At the time, the hotel's cupola rising high enough to mark the skyline served as a landmark to river travelers that they had nearly reached Sacramento. However, with the shift in efficient transportation courtesy of Leland Stanford’s railroad, I foresee businesses preferring the Central Pacific over the Sacramento River. Progress. It may eventually diminish Ebner’s popularity as trades and travelers migrate from this section of the city to center around the train station for profit and convenience. But until then, I’ll enjoy sitting on the hotel’s balcony during my Sacramento stays while appreciating two brothers’ architectural accomplishment - an admirable triumph when compared to the Lancer brothers’ construction of a small town jail. 

Recrossing ankle to knee, Scott adjusted the journal on his lap to catch the last of the sky’s salmon glow now mingling with hotel balcony gaslights. Fingers pinched the bridge of his nose; a well-known signal of diminishing patience. However, the current cause of the gesture grew from mental fatigue that rejected the better lighting his room offered for the evening’s cooler air to clear a foggy brain.

Destined for Stockton and the vineyards, it’s Stanford’s contribution to progress that Grandfather and Seth’s mother will board in the morning. In a short period of time, I’ve discovered Phillip Westcott’s nickname for his daughter-in-law, the Smiling Cobra, has been quite accurate in pinpointing the woman’s charm, unlike Harlan Garrett and the handle his son-in-law blessed him with - Rattlesnake or the shortened version, Rattler, when Murdoch’s communication skills are guided by his theory of ‘less is more’. 

I was never certain what part of my grandfather’s challenging personality earned him the title. His fine delivery of the letter s? Calculated thoughts veiled by the man’s unreadable expression? Or perhaps how his words slither through the weeds of double meanings? Much to consider and choose from until tonight when Grandfather chose for me by announcing his plans to financially secure and take control of Roberta Westcott’s shares in her family business. The answer is now quite apparent. A rattlesnake can silently hide undetected in the bushes and then painfully strike without warning. A lesson my father had learned and then accepted before I’d reached the age of six. 

The latest snake bite: a surprise wedding gift for an unsuspecting couple. It's the verbal disguise my grandfather wears regarding his plans of gaining substantial influence in Westcott Vineyards. Having knowledge of Grandfather’s recent chess move, I’m now unable to shake off the frustration -

A pencil hovered then halted, stuck in finalizing the thought.

Ho-HO Lancer! 

“Not now, George.”

Not now? Hell, now’s the perfect time. Your chicken scratch scribbled the wrong word.

“Where?”

Right there. See it? ‘Frustration’. The word should be ‘guilt.’

With a seesawed brow, Scott observed the pencil in his hand as it crossed off the last written word and penned the newly suggested, allowing the sentence to complete, rise from the page and be spoken. “I’m now unable to shake off the guilt of holding my tongue.”

You must agree, old boy, that’s a better read.

Scott’s slow assenting nod kept in time with the tap of his pencil on the journal. “Guilt.” The author’s eyes lifted from written words to the vacant balcony where his friend from the past stood. “You’re still in uniform, George.”

What? Give this up? MacCallister tugged at the hem of his Union shell jacket and brushed off its sleeves. Why? We cut a fine stance in the blue. Photographed nicely, in my opinion.

“We did.”

And oh, how those debutantes swooned. Remember?

“I do.” The fond memory tugged out a grin. “Sarah Sophronia Shaw’s swoon surpassed all others.”

Yes… well… In the street below, a discarded newspaper rustled by the breeze provided sound for MacCallister’s hand-covered cough of embarrassment. Bad play on my part… stealing her heart from you. My apologies, sir. 

Scott waved off his friend’s regret. “Hard to rob a man of something he never possessed.”

Damn, Lancer! A slammed door inside the hotel provided tangibility to MacCallister’s knee slap. Your words of wisdom never disappoint. Speaking of, I best let you get back to it.

Squinting at the journal page didn't improve the clarity of what he’d written. A darkening sky had rung out the last shreds of glimmer that supported the balcony gaslights’ ability to provide adequate illumination. “Good evening, George, and thank you.”

It's been a pleasure, Lieutenant. You know what they say - a friend in need is a friend indeed.

True. Scott closed his journal and rose to retire. So, where was I, MacCallister, when you needed me most? 

 **********

“All aboard!” The conductor’s directive echoed down the wooden station platform, nudging passengers to move toward awaiting train cars.

“And what shall I tell my son regarding his best man not returning with us?”

“No explanation required, Mrs. Westcott. It was Seth’s idea that his best man spend a few relaxing days in Sacramento.” Actually, it had been Kinsey’s matchmaking suggestion which Seth then whole-heartedly agreed to. Scott smiled through the fib. He owed this woman nothing, including an honest answer. 

“I see.” Roberta tugged on her leather traveling gloves. “Well, nevertheless, I will finally meet your little cousin.”

“Most women in your position would have said future-daughter-in-law.” Add couth to the list of behaviors not owed.

The cobra’s Stygian countenance settled on her son’s friend before pointing out the next prey. “Porter! Take care! The valise you’re mishandling is quite expensive. Harlan, I’ll meet you in our car.”

Placing his hands on hips, Scott addressed the travel companion left behind in the dust of a woman’s vexation with a smile. “Have a good trip, sir.”

“Scotty, please. A bit more effort to hide your sarcasm of sincerity.” Harlan’s palm landed on his grandson’s shoulder with an affirming grasp. “And you, my boy, enjoy a few days of Sacramento culture.”

“I will.” A request came to mind as his grandfather turned to board. “Sir, a favor to ask.”

“Yes, of course. What is it?”

“Well, If you see Kinsey’s fists forming small cannonballs at her side when speaking to Roberta Westcott -”

“Intervene?”

“No.” Scott adjusted his hat low on the brow. “Stand back.”