ikissdhimbck | OOM: Barlow estate: 1881

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OOM: Barlow estate: 1881

It was mid-morning when Doc rode out from Green Lake on his new paint, with saddlebags a little fuller since staying the night previous with the Hawthorn's. Millicent had packed him a lunch, though it was really just bits and pieces he could eat in the saddle: pulled pork wrapped in brown paper; fresh bread; and rhubarb jam.

It takes a little over an hour and a half, once heading out north from the road behind the old church, to get to the little barbwire fence the doctor had said would lead him into the Barlow's estate.

The barley harvest is already past, and there can be seen a few men out among the golden fields, threshing the barley hay and getting it divided and tied off for feed, which they will later carry up the gently sloping hill to the barn for the winter. They pause and watch Doc as he rides up the path, exchanging nods as he passes.

Closer to the farmhouse, on the opposing side of the road, grows rows of corn, some new and green, but most nearly ripe. There's a silo, back behind a large red barn, and several corrals straight ahead.

As Doc draws near, two hounds come barreling out from the vicinity of the barn, baying loudly as they trip over each other to get to Doc. They pass a gentleman who is crouched near a fence, fixing a bit of barbing. He tips his head back to peer from beneath the wide brim of his hat, squinting down the path at the young man on the paint horse. He straightens, calmly wiping sweat from his brow, and walks to join the small convoy.

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The ride north out of Green Lake was pleasant, and he'd indeed been grateful for the lunch packed for him. He found the ranch without trouble - not like it was difficult, when the road led right to it.

The hound dogs were a bit of a surprise, when they came running at him and the horse, and the animal flicks his ears back and forth and snorts a bit in agitation before Doc calms him with a bit of a murmur and a few strokes to his neck.

Once he's closer, he dismounts from the horse and takes the reins and lead in hand as the dogs reach him, sniffing excitedly and trying to figure out just who he is and what is he doing here and where is that pulled pork we know you have it we know you do before he laughs a little.

"Easy, fellas," he says. "Easy, now. Hey there," he pats one dog on the head when paws get placed on his leg and a head lifted within reach of his hand. His eyes are on the man approaching, while he does so. He tips his head politely.

"Howdy."

As he draws closer, Doc might be able to make out the familiar contours of his face from amid the shadow of that wide-brimmed hat, pert grin steady on his tired features.

He tugs his hands out of a pair of thick, brown work gloves as he moves towards Doc, shaking his head at the two dogs. He throws his hands up resignedly, though that grin never leaves his features.

"Worthless mutts!" he calls, and the dogs whimper and murmur briefly, before returning their attentions to Doc.

(They know he doesn't really mean it.)

When he's a few feet from Doc he finally returns the polite nod, tucking the gloves into his back pocket.

"What can I do you for?"

He shushes the dogs (they listen and settle, at the ground between the two men, wide eyes peering up at them) before he tips his hat back slightly so that the shadow will shift on his face, allowing the older man to see his eyes.

"Well, sir," he pulls his gloves off as he speaks, the breath from the horse warm against the back of his neck. "I was just ridin' up from Green Lake, I got into town last night and...well, I stayed with Dr. Hawthorn and his wife. And well, I...I know it's late in the year, but when I mentioned I was lookin' for work, his wife suggested that perhaps you might have need for an extra hand."

He rubs the back of his neck a little, knowing just how random this sounds (but in reality, it's not all that strange for a man to come looking for work) and part of his heart is pounding because what if he says no?

This is her father. Her father.

First impressions are everything.

Mr. Barlow listens intently to every word.

What few of them they are, in whatever order Doc can manage them.

When he perceives that the boy is quite finished, he chuckles softly, scratching absently at his eyebrow with his thumb.

"Millicent said that, did she?" he mutters, with a secret sort of amusement lurking behind his deep blue eyes. His voice is soft and rough, but somewhere beyond the Texas land man there's something else: a hint of an accent. English, perhaps.

"What's your name, son?" he asks, extending a hand for a shake. His hands are rough and warm, and his handshake is solid. Firm.

Sometime during that ramble of words, he had tucked his gloves into his own back pocket, and he accepts the handshake, returning it with a somewhat familiar feeling grip, and a nod of his head. His hand is rough from leather and iron, calloused - but he's still a poet - and the shake is firm, and a bit eager.

Honored.

"Jay Gordon, sir," he replies, voice coming to him easy and confident, now that he's gotten over the initial bunch of nerves that sprung coiled in his chest.

(Even though he's damn well sure there will be more.)

"Jay," Mr. Barlow nods, trying to hide the smile threatening at his lips.

Well, shoot. He's just a pup!

"Samuel Barlow," he offers kindly, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops when they break the handshake. "You come lookin' for work you said, Jay?"

Another nod. "Yessir," he replies. "I just came down from Galveston, spent a spell workin' up in the stockyards they got in the port. Both cattle and horses," he explains, not trying to sound too eager (or tailor himself Absolutely Perfectly to what Barlow works on this ranch) but still wanting to seem useful. "But I know a handful of other stock, and ain't a stranger to field work either."

It's obvious from his demeanor that he's a fast learner, even if he is young, and would probably try just damn near anything once if the boss asked him to.

The horse nudges his rider in the back of the head, tipping his hat forward. Doc fixes it and he glances over at his shoulder as if to say cut it out before he returns his attention to her father.

"I know it's late in the year'n all, for hires..." he trails off momentarily, not sure what to say. So he wisely stops talking. He doesn't want to seem desperate, after all.

Samuel nods along as Jay speaks, taking in this new information and letting his eyes discretely scan the young boy's body. He isn't overly built or brown, there are no true telltale signs of a hard laborer in his physique. But his hands are strong and rough, and there's a curl to his lips and a sharpness to his eyes that only comes when you're a fighter.

The kid is eager, sure, but he's got spunk. Samuel doesn't doubt he could do a job well, if given the chance.

He smirks at the exchange between horse and rider. "That's a fine lookin' boy you have there," he comments, jerking his chin over Jay's shoulder to the paint. "What's he, about three years? Gotta nice coat."

It's easy and conversational (something to fill the dead space while he considers his circumstances carefully).

When the conversation drifts to the horse, Doc realizes that he needs to name the animal before someone asks and he stammers and stutters his way into something he doesn't want.

What do you want, more than anything?

To see her. But you can't name the horse after her, that'll just get eyebrows.

What do you want, after that?

Paradise. El Dorado.

(The first name that comes to his mind is 'Cortés', but he changes it around to the easier to pronounce version of 'Cortez' before he actually speaks.)

"Thank you." He glances over his shoulder and looks at the horse. Even for only having him a few days, well, he has to admit that he's become quite attached to the gelding. He smiles a bit and nods. "And yessir, just 'bout three years. Name's Cortez, after the explorer. Figured if I was gonna be travelin' 'round a bit on him, might as well give him a name to fit the bill."

Doc strokes the horse's proud nose gently, before he turns back to Samuel.

"That right?" Samuel Barlow comments, once more eying the boy carefully before he turns his full attention to the colt. He strokes the opposing side of the horse's jaw a time or two, then takes him by the muzzle. He lifts his upper lip with his thumb to check his teeth, with only mild protest from Cortez.

"Cortez."

The horse snorts softly in response, and Samuel nods his head, once.

"Well," he begins, taking a step back to stand akimbo, eyes on the dirt before he squints up at Jay. "Tell you the truth, I wasn't lookin' to hire any more folk this year."

Beat.

"But, I can see you could use the work. Could probably stand a night or two in a clean bed, too."

He tips his hat back, off his head, and peers out into the fields over Jay's shoulder, rubbing his dirty brown hand through his sunlight-colored hair. After a moment, he makes a loose gesture towards the corn crops.

"Got the corn comin' in. There's a few fences that need mending, too.

"Said you knew your way around livestock?"

"Yes, sir." He nods, once. "Livestock's what I'm best at, but I'm a quick study in anything I put my head and hands to." A half-beat. "'Cept maybe cookin'," he adds, with a small, somewhat sheepish smile.

He's never worked corn, before, but he saw it done a time or two. Plus, he can figure it out quick enough. Especially if it means staying on for a spell.

Doc shifts his feet a little, fingers idly adjusting the grip he has on the horse's reins.

"I promise you, Mr. Barlow, that I'll do what y'ask, and how y'want it done."

He'll work himself to death if he has to - he knows he won't have to, but still. It's obvious in the lines on his face he's no stranger to long, long days.

"Now, I don't doubt that," Samuel says gently, placing a hand on Jay's shoulder to calm him some. The look in his eyes is clear enough: he doesn't demand overmuch from his men, and Jay'll be treated fair.

"And I won't make you do any of the cooking," he laughs, pulling the boy forward gently as he turns his body towards the barn. "We've got us a few cooks, already. Though, I hope you do bring an appetite to the table.

"C'mon. Let's get your boy taken care of, then I can show you around the farm a bit."

Doc smiles and nods once the offer is made. "Thank you, sir," he says honestly. Cortez follows him easily enough, even with the two hounds finally rising from the dirt to trot along in front of them, wrestling and chasing the entire way.

Somehow he manages to hide the grin that is tugging at his chest, his heart beating just a bit faster.

He said yes. That means he don't think you're all that bad.

When they round the corner to the stables, the hounds bound on ahead of them, to where a man is standing, fiddling with a lead, trying to work a knot out. He glances up at the dogs, then flicks his gaze to the two gentleman and the paint briefly.

"Bring home 'nother stray, boss?"

If there's a moment's confusion over whether he means the horse or the young man, the tone of his voice should quickly clear that up.

(He didn't mean the horse.)

Samuel doesn't answer him. Instead, he turns his attention to Jay, jerking his head toward the ranch hand.

"This is Jim. He's the stable master, and a bit of a bastard."

That earns an amused snort from the other man, who's still working at that knot.

A wry smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, as he raises one hand to tip his hat back, letting it fall and hang from his neck, that hand then raking through his hair.

"Pleasure."

He nods his greeting.

(He's the new guy. That means you catch flack until you've earned respect. Until then, you bust your ass and don't get in the way.)

Jim glances up again, lingering on the new guy a little longer this time around. Eventually, he wipes his right hand on his pants leg, and offers it to the kid.

"Yeah."

Once the introductions have been exchanged (both for the men and the horse), Jim gets a clean stall ready for Cortez while Samuel shows Jay where the tack and feed is.

Once Cortez is watered and clean, Samuel Barlow can continue Jay's tour of the ranch.

It doesn't take all that long - he knows horses well enough and Cortez cooperates, especially with the prospect of a drink and getting out of the tack as the reward - before things in the stables are taken care of.

And then it's back to the tour.

His eyes are making mental notes of everything, trying to commit the entire scene to memory.

"I saw barley on the way in," he comments. "And y'got a good sized corn crop. You work anything else, field wise?"

"Barley's nearly finished," he nods, replacing his hat atop his head as he leads the two of them back out into the hot July sun. "Just got the work of shucking the grain, and gettin' the hay tied off."

He gestures out ahead, to where a dirt lane winds off past the corn fields.

"Raise some wheat, too, but I mostly breed. You'll see our neighbors got most of the richer crops, down the way. Cotton and the like."

There's an aggravated nicker, and the sound of hooves, and that's the only warning the men get before they have to pull up short, a horse and rider blocking their path and, momentarily, the sun overhead.

"Who's this?"

The voice is, unmistakeably, female.

Compared to the frigid and cold January that has taken over the bar, he's needed a few days to get used to the Texas heat. But the sun is welcome, heat soaking into his bones as they walk, and he listens.

Until they are interrupted.

The voice is indeed, unmistakeably female, and familiar, as he stops walking and glances up at the silhouetted horse and rider, the face looking down at them.

(There's that coil of nerves in his stomach again.)

"Howdy, Miss."

Manners and all. He tips his hat back slightly.

She shifts her mount slightly, stepping out of the sun's glare. Her face is serious and intent, and those piercing blue eyes are focused on him.

"Katie."

At length, she glances to her father.

"This here is Jay Gordon. Mr. Gordon's going to be helping out around the farm for a spell," he tells her, something tight in his voice. Given the intent look on his face, it's likely something along the lines of 'Now please don't go starting trouble.'

Her eyes flick back to 'Jay,' and given that she can't currently curtsy, she lowers her head in greeting instead. "Mr. Gordon."

There's a pause while Samuel chews on his bottom lip.

"You about ready to head in?"

She looks nearly affronted by the suggestion.

There's another please hanging in his eyes, and she sighs softly and nods.

"Suppose Margaret could use some help in the kitchen," she murmurs, her horse stepping impatiently as she keeps her reined in. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Gordon."

The bite in her eyes has not dissipated, but she is, at least, polite.

Doc notices the way the horse sidesteps - she wants to run.

(And so does the horse.)

The exchange between father and daughter is observed, and so is the way she keeps that bite in her eyes as she studies him. She is indeed polite, even if she'd rather be riding like hell across the desert or through those fields her daddy owns.

He lifts a hand to the brim of his hat. "Of course, Miss Barlow," he tips his head politely, to return the show of manners.

(Even if he knows she could probably give a damn less.)

She's definitely interested in him, and every move he makes. When his hand returns to his side, though, she finally clicks to her horse, and the two take off towards the stables behind the two men.

Samuel scratches at his brow absently with his thumb again. There's an almost embarrassed little smirk tugging at his lips, as he tries to find something to fill the silence.

"My daughter," he offers, likely needlessly. "Now, I know what you must be thinking."

A girl Katherine's age in slacks and cowboy boots, hair loose around her shoulders, just strutting on up to the men as she did, isn't exactly commonplace in 1881. For a variety of reasons.

"But she's a good girl," he sighs.

He keeps his eyes on her own as long as she keeps her eyes on him, which is just until she breaks from the gaze to take her horse back to the stables.

"She reminds me of my kid sister," he admits. "That same bit of spunk and fire in her eyes. Can't tame 'em, as much as you might try."

Granted, growing up with a pack of brothers teaching you everything from how to fish to how to fight, despite their mother's protests, probably doesn't help much in that regard.

Doc offers the older man a small, knowing smile. "She's settled down, now, a bit."

He rubs at the back of his neck, motioning Jay towards the fence-line ahead.

The two men walk, slowly.

"She doesn't have a mother around," he admits, softly. "Not for a long time, now."

"M'sorry to hear that, sir," he replies, after a brief period of silence as he lets the gravity of the admission sink in. "I don't imagine it's easy."

But you do just fine.

He focuses his eyes on the fence-line.

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