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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!"
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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"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?"
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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."
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"Why's that?" he asks carefully, in reference to Jay's first statement. But, he supposes, it's just as applicable to his last.
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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."
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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."
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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."
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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.
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"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."
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"It'll age you right quick, that's for bloody sure," he murmurs, a deep, compassionate understanding glistening in his ocean blue eyes.
Katherine reenters the room, carrying a wooden tray with food and water, and Samuel's gaze goes to her and lingers.
"Funny how the things worth fighting for then seem so trivial before the things you'd die for now."
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"Yeah. They do."
(Something knots in his chest and it's not from the day's injury.)
He shifts on the couch, pushing himself up a bit, trying to sit himself up.
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Once her hands are free, she immediately turns to helping Jay sit himself up, careful where she places her touch.
"If it's all the same to you, Jay, I think I'd like you to stay in the main house tonight with Henry," says Samuel, nodding when he's finished speaking as if to confirm that fact.
Once Jay is settled, Samuel nods to his daughter, who clasps her hands together and curtsies politely before turning around to leave the room. She's to inform the table to go on and say grace without them.
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He settles his feet on the floor and looks down at his socks, before he stretches his left arm out and flexes the muscles. His entire left side hurts, but at least he can bend his arm.
A wry smirk. "Might need someone t'kick me me outta bed come sunup."
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"Don't worry none about that. You get some rest. John's already offered to take over your chores for the day."
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The look he gets in response to that is enough to make him nod his head as he takes the tray. He'll be certain to thank John for that, after dinner.
He glances up at Samuel, then.
"...aren't you gonna go eat, sir?"
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And, to preempt any attempts the young man may make at arguing, he says (for the umpteenth time tonight):
"Don't worry about it. Shoot, son, you need to learn to let things go."
It's said with a smirk.
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But he does accept the advice.
(There's a lot hanging on those young shoulders, after all.)
He bows his head (there's a quiet, murmured grace) and then he nods, before he reaches for the water. He'll get to the food, too. But he glances up at Samuel.
"Guess I still gotta lot to learn."
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It's not said with accusation as its intent. It's light, uttered within a short laugh, because he's right.
"I'll git, once you've had your fill, and we've had opportunity to chat a bit. I'd like to hear more about your tumble, and what you did get done in the fields today."
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"Yessir," he replies. "Well you see, I was out in the south field, doin' some figurin'..."
The rest of the story is retold between bites of food, and eventually they do get to the actual work he did manage before falling off his horse and landing on his ass.
Eventually.