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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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.

"Still daylight left...I had another field t'check," he counters.

(He gets the feeling it might be hopeless.)

A glance at Henry. The man is right. "Yeah...yeah. If s'gets any worse...I don't wanna be alone if it..." he waves his right hand absently. "Y'know. Gets worse. Can't think'a the word I want."

Henry places his hands on either side of Jay's shoulders and shakes his head, as if telling the young man that it's all right, and not to speak.

"You ain't gonna be alone, Jay."

Quietly, he helps Katherine dress Jay's wounds, even letting the man have a small nip of whiskey.

When they're satisfied that he's taken care of, Henry helps Jay to his feet, and over to a couch in the parlor.

He's mindful to dust himself off - his pants are actually relatively clean, even after falling on his ass - and he kicks his boots off before he eases himself onto the couch.

He starts out on his back.

Eventually, however, he ends up on his right side, his left arm cradled across his chest, a pillow stuffed under his head and his eyes closed. With the adrenaline and rush gone, he's out cold pretty damn quick, sleeping silently.

Katherine stayed with him through it all. She made sure that he was comfortable, and when he finally drifted off, she stood vigil, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

She wanted to be sure that when he woke up, if he needed anything, someone would be there to get it for him.

Hours passed, and eventually evening set in.

This was seriously going to throw his sleep schedule out of order, but there wasn't anything he could do about it when he was so damn tired and worn out. Falling off a horse hurt.

The quiet of the house was broken as preparations for dinner started, and he stirred a little, but didn't wake up just yet.

Eventually, a gentle hand comes down on his left shoulder, prompting him to wake up.

He doesn't say a word.

He just sits, and waits.

If he wasn't so damn tired, he'd likely have scrambled awake in a panic and gone for his gun at the feeling of someone's hand on his shoulder. As it is, he jerks slightly and then blinks his eyes open, having to focus on...

oh, hell

"Shi...m'sorry, sir," he starts, trying to push himself up with his good arm as the room spins around him. Jay drops his head back to the pillow and closes his eyes.

A second hand reaches out to join the first, holding him firm to keep him from trying that again. He shushes Jay, shaking his head.

"I ain't exactly payin' you to lay around my house," he says, voice rough like sandpaper.

And then he smiles faintly. "But don't go apologizing. You stay right where you're at."

Once Jay settles down again, Samuel takes a seat on the edge of the couch.

"I heard what happened, son. Were you plannin' on ever waking up again?" he asks good-naturedly.

"Originally was jus'gonna lay down a minute," he says. "Henry an' the young miss 'cided it'd be better t'stay in the house n'case I don't wake up."

He reaches to the back of his head to touch the lump, gingerly.

The room is still spinning,slightly, which is why he focus his gaze on a spot across the room.

"Only had un'more field t'check on."

"Don't you fret about that, now. We got it taken care of," says Samuel, keeping his voice low and gentle.

His gaze stays steady and sharp.

"Room still spinning?"

"Jus'a bit, sir. Not as bad as it was earlier this afternoon."

Then he touches his shoulder carefully, fingers feeling at the muscle and bone (and those scars) for anything out of place.

"Least m'shoulder didn't slip 'gain while I was sleepin'," he adds.

"You were sleeping pretty hard, according to my daughter," he says, taking a careful sweep of the boy's torso. "She's been with you this whole time; I only just now took her place, so she could assist with dinner preparations."

He gingerly touches one of the wraps on Jay's shoulder. The cuts and scrapes weren't too deep, so they still look pretty good. He likely won't have to change them until the next time he cleans himself.

Samuel cuts his eyes carefully to the young man's face, smirking a little.

"You'll have to tell me your secret."

He's still glancing up at her father, so he catches the smirk.

He's just not sure what exactly he's smirking about.

"Which one s'that, sir?"

There are a few he's curious about, to be honest.

"Usually I can't get her to sit still long enough to catch her breath," he answers, shrugging slightly. "She always wants to be off on that horse of hers. Now, I'm hopin' I won't have to lame you up, every time I'd like her to stay close to home for once. Looks like you don't have that much real estate left to spare, if you understand me."

He means the scars littering Jay's body. The ones he didn't see before.

The smirk is still there, but somehow his expression looks more serious.

"This man you worked for before -- was he a real sought after gentleman?"

"He..."

He trails off as he considers just how to answer.

"I guess you could say that. Reckon after he got killed, rest of us...ended up bit more sought after than he'd ever been."

(Try a lot more if they're being truthful.)

Jay reaches up to his neck, palm smoothing over his throat, where it lingers. He can feel that phantom scratch of rope again.

"Like I said 'fore, sir...I wasn't gonna make it t'thirty."

His eyes twitch briefly, narrowing in concentration at the way the boy paws at his neck. After only a breath, they flick back up to Jay's eyes, expression the same.

"Why's that?" he asks carefully, in reference to Jay's first statement. But, he supposes, it's just as applicable to his last.

"Only so many times y'can git stabbed an shot 'fore you don't git back up."

How many bullets did you take to the chest, Doc? How many lead slugs are buried in that Kevlar vest back home? How many bullets have you dug out of your hide?

He shakes his head, ignoring the fact that it makes the dizziness worse.

"Only so many times y'can feel a noose 'fore you don't feel nothin' no more."

The crease in Samuel's brow deepens, and though his expression is grim and serious, it might be out of concern that it does so.

He leans toward Jay slowly, placing a heavy--but gentle--hand on his shoulder.

"Now, when you first came here," he begins, his voice low so only Jay will be able to hear, "I asked if there were gonna be any problems. Any reasons why I should turn you out, to protect my own. You said no, and I trusted you for that."

He draws in a deep breath, considering his next words.

"Still do. But if you're in some kinda danger, son... some kinda scrape you can't get out of... you let me know. Now. And I'll do what I can to help you."

"I ain't...I ain't wanted in Texas...sir."

He sighs and looks up at her father.

"I ain't really wanted anywhere, no more. Last time I got shot up, durin' a scrape, men who did it left me for the coyotes. They never found a body when they came back lookin' an' figured I was dead. So I ain't...I ain't really in no more trouble."

A slight shrug - which makes him wince, the movement of his shoulder still awkward - before he continues.

"I just...s'why I ain't back home. Why I ain't settled somewhere yet."

Well.

That wasn't exactly what Samuel Barlow had been expecting.

But, after one more cursory glance at the boy's body, he has to admit it doesn't surprise him much.

"Ain't... ain't wanted in Texas," he murmurs, blinking once. A quiet laugh escapes, and he buries his shaking head into a hand, rubbing at his eyes.

When he's finished, he sets his chin in the palm of his hand, and watches the young man quietly for a spell, a dull sort of amusement in his eyes.

"I'm not really one to ask... but, the things you've done before. Son, you get them outta your system yet?"

How Jay answers is very, very important.

He doesn't hesitate in his response.

"Sir, I never wanted them in my system in the first place."

That's the God-honest truth, in his eyes, and he nods, once. It's confident and firm.

"What I did...I ain't proud of it. I ain't gonna forget it, either. But that ain't...I don't want to live like that no more. I ain't been livin' like that for quite a spell, now."

(The scars are all several months healed, after all.)

"I never wanted...never wanted 'em in my system at all." A hard swallow. "And comin' a few inches from dyin' will change a man's point of view on the world, show him what he's got t'live for."

oom: barlow estate (4)

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