Katherine "Kissin' Kate" Barlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ikissdhimbck) wrote2009-01-10 09:46 pm
ikissdhimbck) wrote2009-01-10 09:46 pm
Entry tags:
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.
.
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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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?"
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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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"An' what happened to your daddy's farm?" asks Samuel, eyes focused on Jay.
Katherine glances from her father to the young man, then down at her plate once more.
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"Water rights kept goin' up and between a few bad years of crop and losin' money, had to sell it."
Jay reaches to the back of his neck and rubs slightly with his free hand.
"He works in minin', now. I gotta brother who works in New Orleans proper. I took a job with a shippin' company and then ended up workin' cattle."
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To Jay.
To the boss.
To Jay.
Slowly, Samuel nods. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says quietly, stabbing up a mouthful of potatoes.
"How come you didn't start minin'?"
Samuel turns his head at the sound of the soft soprano speaking next to him -- as does half of the table.
"Katie."
It's a gentle warning.
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"It's all right," he murmurs quietly, nodding his head once before he addresses the young woman. "I didn't go into minin' because I couldn't stand the thought of bein' stuck underground, workin' down in the dark all day. You go down there and it's the same thing, day in, day out."
He pauses a moment.
"I like the way each day outside's different, be it the weather or the folk workin' next to you, or the cattle you're loadin' into the pens, it's different every day. Fresh. It ain't stale and dark, because it's always changin'. I like that too much to ever consider goin' underground like my daddy did."
Jay nods, once, respectfully, after finishing the answer to her question.
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And when he is finished speaking, his answer satisfies her. In fact, you can almost see a wild spark in her eyes, to accompany the soft smile spreading slow on her face.
She drops her gaze back to her food.
"Minin' s'tough work," Samuel adds, around a mouthful of food. "Dangerous, also. You did good to keep your head above ground."
He points his fork at Jay as he says so, before turning his attentions back to his meal.
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Once she drops her gaze - he's already dropped his - he looks at her father as he speaks. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Thank you, sir," he replies.
Then he returns to eating as well, and conversation resumes around the table.
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Well, without much, in the very least.
Some hands stick around to help the women clear the table, some hands head for late night chores or watches, or just to get cleaned up and to bed after a long day's work. But a few stick around.
Mr. Barlow catches Jay by the elbow, carefully. "You're welcome to join us in the parlor for a drink."
Beat.
"If you're old enough."
Smirk.
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Then Jay pauses for a moment, before he smirks a little himself.
"Born in '57," he murmurs quietly. "I'm twenty-four."
(He knows Barlow is kidding, but, he can play along.)
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"Got the whole world laid out in front of you."
Before long, they move to the parlor across the way. Henry, Jim, Samuel and Jay -- just the four.
There's whiskey, brandy, bourbon and scotch, and cigarettes for those who take them.
Samuel starts conversation by asking the other two men about the day's activities. It's common for him to do so, as he can't be everywhere, and having his 'master of the house' and stable master keeping ears and eyes out for him is invaluable.
"Tom says them boys been on the northeast field 'gain," Jim mutters, scratching his cheek absently before taking a drag off his cigarette.
Samuel Barlow does not look pleased. "They sack anything?"
"Coupla geese. Did a number on one of our fences, though."
"Damn it."
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All I want in the world is right here, sir.
Jay settles himself in a chair with a whiskey and a cigarette, and listens to the conversation as it starts. He can't help the way his eyes narrow slightly at the mention of the theft and property damage.
"You got trouble with locals?"
He asks before he can stop himself.
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Samuel Barlow rubs at his eyebrow absently with his thumb. "Neighbors," he offers, by way of explanation. "You'll ride out with me come mornin' to check on that fence."
He doesn't offer any further elaboration than that.
"Where the hell'd you get that colt?" asks Jim.
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"Galveston. He was already on the lot when I got into town, couple boys had broke him but he was squirrely 'nough that none of the buyers that came through lookin' for stock wanted to deal with him after that. The boy just needed a bit more space than a holdin' pen, that's all," he comments. "He's still a bit edgy, but he listens real well."
Except for his fascination with my hat.
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"He's an ornery little bastard."
(Off in the corner, Samuel is smirking.)
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"He been givin' you trouble?"
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He doesn't offer details, but plenty is being said with just the sour silence.
"Nothing old Jim can't handle, isn't that right?" Samuel asks his stable master, taking a healthy pull from his glass of bourbon.
"Jim just likes to complain," Henry suggests.
He screws up his face in annoyance.
"Ruined a perfectly good hat! Don't play nice with others, neither."
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"I should'a warned 'bout his thing for hats," he apologizes. "Don't know where he picked that up from, but...he gets 'hold of one, well, he gets 'hold of it real good."
At least Cortez only knocks his off his head, now.
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Somewhere, lurking behind the gruffness, you can make out the smallest hint of laughter in his own eyes.
"Well I s'pose I'll keep that in mind, come breakfast time, then," he mutters, draining off the rest of his drink and stubbing out his cigarette on the ashtray in front of him. "Better make sure the stock is settled in and get on to bed, then."
As he stands, the remaining gentlemen say their good-nights, and Samuel shakes his head, tipping his drink to Jay. "He's a touch less sour in the mornings, I assure you. Just doesn't do too well with new people. Kinda like a stubborn stud himself, in that regard."
He glances to the parlor doors, and there's a subtle change to his features. "You get on now to bed, too, y'hear?"
It looks like he's talking to empty air, but there's a soft rustling and a flash of blonde hair, and cold blue eyes, before they're gone.
Samuel sighs, rubbing his hand through his hair, as he slowly moves across the room, taking up the seat Jim has only just evacuated, across from Jay. He sits quiet a moment, eying the boy from over the rim of his glass.
"So, Jay. You know how to handle a six, son?"
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The question makes him think, for a split second or two, but he nods slightly.
"Yes, sir," he replies, quietly. "I do."
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"You learn that in your previous employ?"
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"I've known how to shoot since I was old enough to not get knocked on my ass by a rifle's kick when I pulled the trigger."
He swallows slightly, and the front of his shoulder feels like it's burning hot under his shirt.
"As for the six, well...yes an' no."
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Samuel does nothing but watch Jay intently as he speaks.
"Yes and no?"
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"You see a lotta use for a six when you're movin' cattle," he offers. "Sometimes all y'got between keepin' and losin' a herd when they start runnin', is a good horse and a gun. Plus y'get...unsavory folk, from time to time, tryin' to make off with somethin' they shouldn't be."
Jay looks up at the man and meets his eyes.
"So yes," he nods slightly.
(That 'no' is still hanging there. He won't be able to lie if Samuel asks.)
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He stands up, straightening his vest as he does so. He offers a smirk to Jay, but there's something in his eyes. Something along the lines of 'Tread carefully, son.'
After Henry has left them, Samuel sits quiet for a spell, sipping thoughtfully at his bourbon.
"Movin' cattle is hard work," he agrees softly, turning his glass absently in his hand. "But I'm beginning to wonder.
"You gonna tell me what it is you really do for a living, Jay?"
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