scurlock | oom: barlow estate (4)

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oom: barlow estate (4)

It's been a handful of days since Sunday, and the week indeed has been busy. Jay's been keeping himself busy, with the work Samuel has been giving all of them to get things ready for the harvest. He's falling into an easy enough routine, odds and ends here and there, checking on things, repairs or working with the stock.

He's out in a far field, surveying the crop, taking notes and doing a bit of figuring with numbers. He's got that notebook open to a fresh page and a stub of a pencil in his fingertips, the reins resting slack in his lap as he and Cortez sit still.

"Fifteen...carry the two..."

Jay glances up at the crop again and then quietly chirrups to the horse to get him moving, eyes falling back down to the paper once more.

"Carry the two and then multiply by eighty-five..."

The rabbit bolts out of a burrow and streaks across the thin, worn grass in front of the horse, and barrels straight into a patch of resting birds. Little things, picking down at a fallen corncob, but when the rabbit charges through there's a flutter of wings and angry chirping as they take flight.

"Seven...what the hell--"

Cortez startles and rears back on his hind legs, leaving his rider scrambling for a hold (and missing the horn with the sudden shift of weight) briefly before he hits the dirt, landing hard on his left side and smacking his head into the ground.

"Jesus Goddamn Christ..."

Everything is starred behind his eyes and his shoulder hurts, his lungs scrambling to breathe in oxygen after slamming so hard into the ground. He knows he knocked the wind out of himself, and he flops onto his back and stares at the brilliant Texas sky overhead, an endless blue, as he gasps for breath.

You're okay, Doc. You're okay. Just breathe. Easy. Breathe.

Eventually, after a few minutes of lying still, he sits himself upright - cradling his left side with his right hand as he does so - and then looks at Cortez. Or, looks for Cortez.

The horse is nowhere to be seen.

"...dammit!"

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"Yeah," Henry agrees, his hand gently on Jay's newly reset shoulder. His expression is still sympathetic. "You'll be all right. Let me go get some clean wraps for them cuts of yours, though. Miss Katherine will lend you a hand in cleanin' them up."

He pats his shoulder very carefully, then straightens and leaves the two of them.

Katherine moves to the stove and checks the water, pulling the pot from the cast iron heat, and setting it nearer Jay's feet.

He lifts his eyes once she steps away.

"Y'gotta rag I can use t'wipe these clean, Miss Barlow?" He inquires quietly, fully intending (though he knows she's going to shoot him down) to clean the wounds himself the best he can.

"I surely do," she says quietly, dipping her hand (and said rag) into the warm water.

She looks up sternly.

"But you just sit yourself still and let me worry about cleaning them up, you hear?"

A somewhat sheepish smile crosses his face.

"If you insist, I would appreciate that, then," he nods slightly. "And I promise to sit myself still and behave."

She stands slightly behind him, to help hide the blush on her face as she sets the warm cloth to his shoulder.

"I insist."

She washes the bloodied flesh in silence for a good spell, nerves tying her tongue. But once the adrenaline of the experience has worn off, and she allows her eyes to wander just a little, she eventually notices them scars on his arm.

"You a trouble-maker, Mr. Gordon?"

He tips his head slightly to his left side, to listen when she asks the question of him, but he doesn't look up at her.

"Reckon trouble has a habit of findin' me, don't mean I go lookin' for it," he offers.

"That so?"

That's masterfully contained amusement hiding behind her prim voice.

Somehow, somehow, he manages not to smirk.

"I certainly don't go makin' it," he adds.

A half-beat.

"No more."

She glances up at his profile, eyes absently following the curve of his nose, those soft eyelashes, and strong chin. Her eyes fall back to her hands.

"'No more' seems to suggest that you have been something of a trouble-maker, Mr. Gordon," she points out, voice serious.

Honestly.

He's quiet for a moment, but he's not put off by her statement.

His eyes are focused on a spot across the kitchen, and only a slight twitch in his face indicates when she hits a part that stings a bit more, some sand ground into his skin.

Eventually, he nods.

"It would suggest that, wouldn't it."

It's not a question.

The pregnant silence makes her somewhat nervous, and she catches the wince from the corner of her eye and mistakes it for something else.

"Forgive me."

She moves from him, bending to rinse the rag in the warm water.

"I shouldn't pry."

"You weren't pryin'," he says, glancing over his shoulder at her. "I was just thinkin', s'all. You're alright."

He settles his gaze forward again, and then flexes his shoulder.

Something dawns on him.

"Cortez git back to the stables alright?"

She nods slowly, though she knows he isn't looking.

"Yes. Made it back, an' went straight for the feed room. Brushed him down for you and set him in his stall."

Her voice is quiet and soft, eyes following the play of water as it drips from the rag in her hands to the bucket.

"I appreciate that. He didn't give you no trouble, I hope?"

He closes his eyes, tired all of a sudden. Endorphins and adrenaline wearing off, the soreness and aching muscles setting in.

The ribs along his left side are going to feel great for the next few days, in addition to that shoulder he's going to have to baby for awhile.

(Plus his head still hurts like hell.)

"No."

She straightens slowly, bringing fresh, warm water to his skin.

She doesn't say another word for a long time, or take her eyes from her work. But eventually she glances up, a little unsettled by how still he's gotten.

He leans forward a little and places his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, but he still doesn't speak for another few minutes.

Finally:

"S'good. That he didn't give you no trouble."

She debates for a quiet second, then carefully makes her way around his chair so that she's standing in front of him.

She squats down, dipping into his line of vision.

"Are you all right?"

Jay nearly nods, but he stops himself when the mere thought of moving his head makes what he's feeling seem even worse.

He swallows lightly, still not looking at her.

(His eyes are closed.)

"M'just...jus'dizzy, a little bit."

Her eyes dart over his closed lids for only a moment.

"Move your hands."

She cards her fingers gingerly through his hair, fingertips carefully seeking out bumps or nicks.

She finds a good-sized egg behind his left ear, near the base of his skull.

He lets out a noise of protest when she hits the raised bump on his skull, tipping his head away from her hand.

"Didn't hit that hard. Didn't hit it that hard," he corrects, eyes screwed shut tight.

"Hard enough," she murmurs sternly, keeping his head in place.

She doesn't feel any cuts or abrasions, which means he likely didn't hit a rock, but there's still a fair amount of swelling.

"Shhh," she soothes quietly, raking her fingers through his mess of blonde hair a few more times, as if in apology. She stands, peering down at him a bit helplessly. She's not sure what to do for something like this.

He keeps his eyes closed a minute.

"Do me a favor," he cracks them open and glances at her. "Darlin', go git Henry...tell 'im I think I might'a hit my head harder than I thought I did, ask 'im t'git back in here so's he can look at my eyes 'gain?"

She doesn't have to go far, as moments later Henry reenters the room with clean bandages and alcohol. When he sees the panic on Katherine's face, he quickly sets the items down, and gently moves her aside.

"Head hurtin' worse?" he asks Jay, checking his eyes again. Pupils still look normal, but when Katherine directs him to that lump on Jay's head, he winces.

"Jus'real dizzy, and it's kinda hard t'focus on anythin', 'less I give it a good deal of effort...course that makes my head hurt." He pulls in another breath. "After I git that wrapped up...s'probably not a bad idea t'head back out t'the bunkhouse...lie flat awhile, 'fore I head back out."

He does fully intend to return to work later that afternoon.

Henry shakes his head slowly.

"No, I think you better stay in the main house, where we can keep an eye on you. Just to be safe, Jay. You go lie flat, and you may not git back up," he remarks, carefully.

"You can't be seriously considering goin' back to work," Katherine breathes, throwing in her two-cents.

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