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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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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Jay focuses his attentions at the near-empty glass of whiskey sitting on the table, as he thinks of just what to say. After a moment of quiet silence, he nods slightly.
"I...I used to work for a gentleman who had a cattle ranch. He was havin' trouble with another landowner...real bastard," he admits, with a shake of his head. "Hired me and some other boys to keep an eye on things. We did your normal ranchwork, movin' cattle and mendin' fences, that sort of thing. But if he went into town, one of us went with him, always. Keep watch, so to speak."
He pulls in a quiet breath. "Couple of years ago, he got murdered. Since then...well, honestly?" He looks up at her father and meets his eyes. "I done some things I ain't proud of, sir, but that ain't what I do no more."
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At last, he speaks.
"All right," he nods, once, placing his glass on the table in front of him and leaning his elbows on his knees. "I believe you."
The 'this time' is implied.
"You understand my caution, don't you?" He gesticulates as he speaks. "Young man pulls in with a gun on his hip, and that scar under his eye. What I'd wager is a bullet hole clean through his hand. Talking about drivin' cattle out to New Orleans?"
He shakes his head, short and quick.
"Now, I know how it gets out there, sometimes. Life after the war was tough, and I've done things I'm not so proud of my own self. But I got a family here, needs protecting. That includes my men, and my livestock. If I got any reason not to toss you back off my property right now, in the name of my own self interests, well. I'd sure like you to speak up."
His voice never raises above a low, raspy murmur, the entire time he speaks. His voice is soft, tinged with that Southern politeness and European charm that ever-so-gently laces each word.
And the expression on his face is softly imploring Jay to speak truthfully with him, this time.
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I would never hurt her and I would never hurt you, swear to God.
Jay looks down at his hands and that through-and-through scar that mars the surface of his left palm, then turns that hand over and looks at the back, before he glances up at Samuel and lifts the hand, slightly. "You're right 'bout that, too," he adds.
Hurt like hell.
He pulls in a deep breath and rubs at the back of his neck, then scratches lightly at his jaw before he looks up at the man. "I know you don't got no reason to trust me right now, but I swear, sir. I don't...I'm tired of livin' like I've been livin' and all I want is t'clean my act up, work honest, again. I ain't the person I used to be, after I saw John killed. Took a long time t'stop bein' angry and realize that I wasn't gonna survive to thirty if I kept goin' like I was, but I get that, now."
It isn't desperation, in his voice. Just raw honesty, the only kind you can get from a boy who's just a bit scared and tryin' not to show it, while hanging onto his pride as best he can.
"I would never, ever, dare cross you or your family. I swear that on my life and what honor I got left, sir."
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"I appreciate your candor," he finally says, sincerely. He can see that struggle on Jay's face, as the young man fights to keep his emotions reined in.
To be twenty-four again...
"An' I won't dare bring your honor into question, son. I believe in second chances, perhaps a spot more than most 'round these parts. You want honest work, you have it, long as you stay on with us."
It's not presented as a question.
"But I'd consider it a favor if you're more honest with me in the future. You have your secrets, and you're entitled them. I won't ask if you're not offering. But when it comes to me and mine, and this here land? I'm watching you, son. And I've gotten rather good at seein' through a lie."
He holds his palms up jokingly.
"Fair warning."
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"Fair's fair," he agrees.
That's all there is to say...well, not quite.
A little serious. "Thank you, sir," he adds. "I mean that."
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He smiles briefly.
"You got a long day in front of you. We wake up before the sun -- it's the only way to beat the heat of the day. You best get yourself some good rest, because I'll expect your horse to be packed and ready by dawn."
He stands up, taking his glass with him, and drains what's left of the liquor in one solid swallow.
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