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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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.

"Likely harder on her," he says.

But it's not true.

"She indulges me, though," he shrugs, smiling tautly.

He switches gears then, leading Jay through the basics of the farm. As they follow that fence-line, they eventually come to the corrals he might have seen on his ride up. There's a good-sized field, where horses are grazing, and nearer the barn is the pig pen. The goats are also penned up, but the chickens are loose and wandering the entire estate.

It also gives Samuel the opportunity to introduce Jay to the various other hands working today, and explain wages and accommodations to the boy.

Nearer the house, adjacent to the barn, are the bunks where most of the boys sleep.

(Because it just wouldn't do to have them in the house, you see.)

He trails along beside Samuel as he gets the tour of the place, still making mental notes and making certain that if he has any questions, he asks them now - rather than get asked later why he's not sure where something is.

Each introduction goes pretty well, and so does the explanation on the wages he'll get for his work.

(He'd work for free, if Barlow wanted him to prove himself.)

He's well aware of the the fact that he won't be staying in the house. He doesn't mind it. Tunstall had the same set-up on his ranch, and even after so much time in Milliways with his own room, the prospect of something familiar is actually welcome.

Plus? It's an actual bed. Not the ground or a patch of grass alongside the road.

This automatically makes it better than a good majority of the last few years, which is something Samuel will probably notice, if he's paying close attention.

(Which Doc does not doubt the older man is.)

And it's a good, clean, straw bed, with fresh linens. Mr. Barlow doesn't believe in holding out on his workers.

Dinner, too, will be in the main house, not from some day-old pot heated outside.

Mr. Barlow is, indeed, paying attention to Jay as they move along, and the look on his young face does make him smile a bit. He likes the kid already, so help him god.

"In the mornin' you can saddle up your mount and come work on the fences with John and I. It'll give you the opportunity to see more of the property."

And it'll give Samuel the opportunity to keep Jay close, see how he works. But he'd never tell him that.

"Dinner's in about an hour. Why don't you get yourself settled and cleaned up. You can have Jim show you in to the house when it's time."

"All right," he confirms, grateful for the chance to see more of the property come morning, and for the fact that he'll get to work with him.

This is her home. This is her father. She grew up here. I want to remember as much of it as I can, and write it all down, big things and the little things 'bout the place. I want t'get to know it like she does.

A pause, and he offers the older man a hand to shake, with a slight nod of his head. "I'll do that. Thank you, sir."

Once they part ways, he'll head back to the stables to fetch his satchel and the things out of his saddlebags, find himself an open spot in the bunkhouse to put his stuff down, get himself settled. He'll dust off and wash up, and comb his hair back a bit before finding Jim prior to heading in for dinner.

Unless, of course, Jim finds him first.

He stands in the doorway, watching as Jay leans over the bowl and basin to see in the oval mirror behind, while he combs through his hair.

"So. Jay."

He smiles tightly, thumbs in his pockets.

"How do you like the place, so far?"

The sudden appearance of the man behind him nearly makes him jump - thankfully, he heard quiet boot-steps before Jim spoke up, otherwise he might have

"Helluva lot nicer than the stockyard up in Galveston," he tells him, glancing over his shoulder after another stroke through his hair. He doesn't overdo it because he doesn't want to come off as a tenderfoot, but he does clean himself up pretty good.

Doc crosses the floor to his bunk, to put the comb back in his back, still speaking. "I like it."

A beat.

"How long you been workin' for Mr. Barlow," he asks, conversationally.

He doesn't move but to follow Jay with his eyes while he speaks, until someone shoves him out of the way.

"Whut? You gettin' paid t'be our new door now?"

"Yeah, Tom. You're real sharp."

There's laughter, but Jim's eyes stay on Jay.

"Who's this?" asks the man recently identified as Tom, when his eyes fall on Jay.

"New hire."

"This late in the season?"

Jim shrugs.

"You know the boss is tender when it comes t' strays."

It's interesting, the difference between knowing that you're the new guy, and being called a stray when you're standing in the same room as the men doing the talking.

(Especially when it's been a handful of years since you thought of yourself as a stray. There was a time, though...)

"Jay," he introduces himself, with a slight nod of his head. "Jay Gordon."

"Tom McCleary," offers the new guy, with a similar nod of his head. His eyes are warily sizing Jay up.

The small group is joined by yet another hand -- by the name of John -- who was introduced to Jay earlier in the day.

"Mr. Gordon comes to us all the way from Galveston," Jim offers the room. Tom lets out a low, impressed swear in response.

"You don't sound like a Galveston boy," John says, eying Jay from his bed across the way.

"Been working stock outta port to New Orleans, ain't that right?" Jim soldiers on, eyes never having left Jay's face. "Come to work with us for a spell."

"Well gol-ly," hoots Tom, snorting a soft laugh.

"John an' I have been here, what? Seven years now?" asks Jim. "Tom is goin' on five. We're real loyal hands, guess you could say."

That's both a statement and a warning.

"To New Orleans," he confirms. "An' I was raised there, but I've been a few places since." He nods, slightly.

Thanks to the hairs on the back of his neck, he's well aware that Tom's sizing him up, but he ignores the prickle at his spine that it causes.

(He can't help it. As much as he hates the instincts, they've saved his life too many times before not to listen. But not here. He doesn't need them here. He just wants to turn them off but he can't.)

But Doc's not stupid. He senses the statement - these are loyal hands, longtime workers and they have rank - and the warning.

It's not hard to miss. He suspects that's on purpose.

Well, he does have good instincts.

They banter for a bit longer, but Jim never moves from his spot in the doorway, or takes his eyes off Jay for more than a moment.

Eventually, he turns his head over his shoulder and spits into the dirt outside the bunkhouse. "Well, c'mon then, boys."

He doesn't wait for them to follow before he makes his way to the farmhouse.

If they're dumb enough to get lost on their way, well then they don't deserve to eat.

Once they head out of the bunkhouse, he follows along with the rest of the boys as they make their way into the farmhouse, not unlike the way the hounds followed along while he and Samuel walked a bit earlier in the afternoon - though there is definitely more obedience on his part than those dogs.

He's quiet, because he's not sure exactly where they're going, and he doesn't want to get in the way.

Which is just as well, seeing as how Tom doesn't need any more fuel for his fire. Not that he has it in for Jay, but he's the new guy. That means a jab here and harmless shove there.

Boys will be boys.

Inside the farmhouse, however, is an entirely different story. All the boys are quiet then, and respectful, and well-mannered. They meet Henry at the door, who kindly shakes hands with Jay, and invites them into the dining room where more hires have already gathered, Samuel at the head of the table laughing and talking.

And as Jay finds a seat, he might be able to see into the open doorway leading to the kitchen, where Katherine is standing with another young woman preparing food. She's smiling, and laughing, and occasionally wiping flour from her face (when she isn't flicking it at the other woman, of course).

This brings back memories.

The first night they had dinner when Billy joined the gang. Steve and Charlie were hackin' on Billy, just messin' with him, and John made them wash the crockery...

The afternoon they were all settled 'round that table up at Blazer's Mill, no lamps lit, just the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Richard is tryin' to lead the prayer, but Billy won't have none of it, guns drawn over the table.

"Richard, would you be so kind as to pass the gravy please."

The day they're sitting at Beaver's, cold beans and bread, tequila between them, and none of them are sayin' much because nobody wants to talk. They know they're screwed. He knows he can't leave and head back to New York City, now.

(Out of all the memories, the first sticks in his head the clearest - he's grateful for that small mercy, tonight.)

He settles into a chair after letting most of the boys make moves for empty seats first, still keeping quiet. He catches a glimpse of her through the doorway, mid-flick of a small puff of flour, and it makes him smile a little before he settles down and turns his attentions to the table, and the other men at it.

There's something singular about Samuel Barlow's dinner table.

Something frightfully unusual.

In addition to the fact that employer and employees are breaking bread together, among the employees there are men of various color. Both Indian and Mexican, White and Black. There doesn't seem to be assigned seating, and no one is yet serving the other. They're all simply sitting, talking, and laughing.

And soon they will be joined by two women.

It's a sight that would appall nearly any other gentleman landowner of the time, but then Samuel Barlow has never been big on dinner guests.

"Mr. Gordon?" he calls across the chatter, to where Jay is sitting. The table grows quieter so he can speak easier. "It's nice of you to join us. Are you acquainted with everyone here?"

He does, indeed, notice the fact that this is not your typical 1880's dinner table in a southern farmhouse.

(He wonders if this is why Mayor Walker seemed...clipped, when speaking about Samuel Barlow. He has a feeling he's not far off the mark, in some respects.)

When addressed, he nods politely and then glances around the table, making mental note of the names of the other men seated around. Over the course of the day he's met them all, either on their earlier walk-around or just a few minutes prior, in the bunkhouse.

Then he looks back at Samuel and nods. "Yessir, I believe I am," he replies. "And thank you for havin' me."

And hirin' me on.

But he doesn't need to say that, not when the older man can likely read it straight out of his eyes.

Oh, he can.

"The pleasure is mine," he nods, before turning his gaze to the womenfolk as they enter the room.

There are already dishes set out on the table -- bread and potatoes and fresh corn (doesn't get much fresher than pulled straight from the backyard this afternoon), meats and butter and gravy -- and the two women add to it, more summer vegetables and fried chicken.

Katherine glances at Jay as she sets the dishes down. She has on proper skirts now, and her hair is done up off her neck. Her gaze is perhaps quieter now, less accusatory, and it doesn't linger long before she moves to sit next to her father.

"There," he smiles, when all are settled and the food has been set out. His hand reaches for Katherine's, and he clasps it lightly as his eyes move down the table, again to where Jay sits.

"Mr. Gordon," he says, a spark in his eyes. "It's customary for us to ask new hires to lead us in our evening's grace. Would you be so kind?"

Every eye turns to him.

Well.

He should have expected that.

"Ah...of course."

Doc swallows lightly and folds his hands in front of him, and nods once before he bows his head, taking just a few seconds to gather his thoughts in the silence.

"Almighty God," he starts, voice a little quiet before he picks it up a little. "We gather tonight an' ask that you would bless the food which we're about t'eat, and the hands that worked t'gather and prepare it. Let it give us strength and...and we ask that y'keep watch over us, and all those who ain't...who aren't here with us, keep them in your heart as well. Thank you for the day an' all the good that came from it. Amen."

It's not that long, and it's a bit simple, but he hasn't done this in such a long damn time he's not quite sure what to say, and he hopes it's acceptable.

To be fair, Samuel Barlow is having a bit of fun with him.

But his group is a respectable enough crowd, and they refrain from laughing, even under their breath.

When Jay is done, everyone murmurs a solemn "Amen," and begin passing the food around. Jay even gets first dibs at the chicken and corn, for his trouble.

"Very nice," Samuel nods, smiling. "Thank you."

He nods his 'you're welcome' to his employer, catching a glimpse of the small smirk on his daughter's face.

Well.

He should have expected that, too.

Jay helps pass the dishes along, at least this is familiar.

The banter over the course of dinner should feel familiar, too.

Of course, a good deal of it centers on the new occupant of the dinner table, both questions and gentle razzing (and not-so-gentle razzing, but there's only so much of that Samuel will permit, with his daughter at the table).

"So, uh, Jay. You said you came down south lookin' for cattle work, but you never did say what brought you to Texas in the first place."

"Armpit of the New America, s'what it is."

"Hey, I happen to like this armpit!"

Laughter.

"Sure a turn different than New Orleans, I'd reckon."

"Aw heck, I ain't never been up that way 'fore. What'd ya'll do there?"

"Well, Texas is a lot better than Kansas," he offers. "Least ya'll got scenery, isn't just flat as far as y'can see. They got stockyards up in Kansas City, big ones, but that...I didn't ever work in 'em."

A pause, as he has a drink.

"My daddy had a farm jus'outside of New Orleans, between Avondale an' Westwego."

Keyword: had

(It's close enough to the truth that he can lie about it without batting an eyelash. The details are the same - minus adapted crops to fit the local agriculture. The location is different, after all.)

"Sugarcane. Wasn't nearly as big an operation as ya'll got out here, though."

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