Wrong Side of the Briar Patch 6/27
Title: Wrong Side of the Briar Patch
Author: NDF/TS Blue
Fandom: Dukes
Rating: PG, maybe. It's not quite all sunshine and roses, anyway.
Summary: It's a summer of freedom and hardship, of love and calamities. Daisy and Bo have just graduated into adulthood and Luke is back from war. It ought to be the best time of their lives, but one disaster follows another. Who would want the Dukes hurt? Prequel, gen.
I should probably point out that I always picture the Duke farm as it appeared in those first five episodes in Georgia. Old, whitewashed house, trees, sloping farmyard, several outbuildings. In particular, in High Octane, you can see two barns. Jesse pulls Tilly out of one of them, and up the slope a bit, you can see the other one. I tend to think of them as one barn for the livestock and one barn for storage (and one of the stored items is a moonshine runner). This geography of the Duke farm will show itself in this chapter (and forward).
And this would be another nice time ot have a Rosco icon.
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Six: A Messy Mess of a Mess
July 5, 1974
It was a mess, was what it was. One big, awful, horrendous mess of a mess.
Smelled like smoke, but not like in a pleasant woodsmoke kind of a way. Like bunt coffee, maybe, too strong and hanging in the air thick enough to clog a man's lungs and turn his stomach. There was water everywhere: small, artificial lakes and streams, plenty of mud. And in the middle of the mess, there were burnt things; melted twisted remnants of something or other, charred wood. There was a disaster where the Dukes' barn had been, and nothing else.
Amos and his firetruck had gotten called in somewhere around midnight, and Rosco had already been en route. Got the call from Gussie the operator, who relayed it from the general emergency number to his home because she figured he ought to know. He'd had Gussie round up the volunteer fire force, then asked her to call Capital City rescue squad for backup. He'd been able to see the orange glow in the sky from the intersection of State Highway 21 and Old Mill Road, so he knew it was bad. Got there to find a flurry of motion, goats and chickens under his feet as he tried to make his way to Jesse Duke and find out what had happened.
Now that the fire was done and the sun was rising, he still had no idea, not really.
Bo and Luke Duke sat side-by-side on their porch, shoulders brushing together. Heads low, filth on their faces, not talking. But then Luke Duke probably couldn't. He'd breathed in enough smoke that he'd nearly lost consciousness. But the boy was tough, had spent time in the Marines and at war. Seemed he'd talked his feet into moving, one step at a time until he was a safe distance from the fire before he'd fallen to his knees, hacking and gasping. Probably ought to see a doctor.
Bo Duke, if it was possible, managed to look worse than his cousin. Dark shadows under his eyes that might have been soot, but were more likely from lack of sleep. Face taut, tense with worry and pain. He needed a real doctor, too, once the day got properly started. For now, Rosco had lightly wrapped gauze around both of those long hands of his. Burns, mostly redness from his fingers to his wrists, but some blisters on the right palm from where he'd fended off falling, flaming debris that had designs on smacking into his face. After he'd gone and been a moron, chasing after his idiot cousin who'd run into a burning barn.
Jesse Duke stood a few feet off in his farmyard, staring at where his barn had been and just plain wasn't anymore. Chickens milling around at his feet, a tethered goat nuzzling at his hand, which was hanging loosely at his side like he'd forgotten it was even part of him. Looking back over his shoulder at his boys and mumbling, "Fools." Shaking his head but there was no ire in it, none of his usual fire and brimstone. Just exhaustion, and maybe, under that, fondness.
Daisy Duke had brought Rosco some coffee. Because of all of them, she was the only one who seemed to remember that he was even there in the yard at all.
"I ain't sure," the girl was saying in answer to a question he'd asked: what happened here? "First thing I knew, the boys were running through the house. You know my cousins ain't exactly light of foot." She looked over at the porch and arched an eyebrow at them. Like it was a joke, but neither of them laughed. Or did much more than sit exactly where they were, unmoving. "Anyway, they was running and hollering something, so I woke up and I could see the fire."
"You didn't hear nothing before that?" He took another sip of the coffee. Good stuff, especially considering that it had to have been brewed with at least one part sleeplessness and two parts worry.
Rosco wasn't investigating the fire, not really. There was nothing much at all left to investigate, anyway.
"No," she answered. So this fire he wasn't investigating hadn't been caused by an explosion, then. That was good to know.
"You have anything in there that could start a fire? Cigarettes, matches, anything like that?"
There was a snort from over on the porch. He turned his head in time to see Luke Duke flick an ash off his own bare arm, which was more than either of the boys had done in what felt like hours. "We're too old to go off sneaking a smoke in the barn, Rosco," Luke croaked at him. Coughed, sounded like it hurt. Served the boy right for offering up that kind of sass.
"We keep lanterns in there," Jesse said. Didn't turn to look at him, just spoke out toward where the barn used to be and the horizon beyond that. "But not kerosene. All the combustibles get kept in the shed, and the cars and tractor get kept in the other barn." Which would be the one a little further from the house, down the slope of the farmyard. It was still intact, probably thanks to Jesse keeping it wet with a garden hose. When he wasn't using the hose to wet and cool Bo's injured hands, that was. "Separate from the livestock. So we won't go setting their shelter on fire by mistake."
"But you had hay in there," Rosco guessed.
"Yep," Jesse agreed. "It burns quick, but it don't start no fires all by itself." Which was the kind of statement Rosco would take note of, were he investigating this fire. Which he most definitely was not. Just following protocol, just showing a little concern for his citizens, that was all.
He cleared his throat. "Any losses to report?"
"Well, our barn for starts," Bo Duke snapped from behind him. He turned in time to see Luke shuffle just that much closer to his cousin, knocking their shoulders together. An odd mixture of consolation and scolding in the gesture.
"Aside from the barn," he clarified.
"Just some tools, Rosco," Jesse answered, and it sounded tired. Like a man who hadn't slept in days, like a man who had lost more than he was willing to say. Like it would take too much effort to explain to a fool like Rosco was it was like to stare at the blackened, stinking ruins of your barn, still sending up tufts of smoke here and there. "Rakes, shovels, a hoe. A couple of saddles, blankets. Milk buckets and," pause there as Jesse turned to look at him. Red eyes, but then he'd been exposed to heavy smoke through much of the night. "Fire buckets," he finished, his delivery dry as toast. No telling whether he recognized the absurdity, so Rosco let it go.
"Sadie run off," Daisy added.
"The other goat," Jesse explained, because Rosco was staring at her, trying to figure out who Sadie was. Far as he knew, there were only four Dukes living here. "Someone'll find her and bring her back." Four Dukes left after Jesse's wife died, back in 1963. Which was only six months after Daisy Duke's father had died and she'd moved here to live with her aunt, uncle and her two already-orphaned cousins.
This family was a mess. Always had been. But they were fairly decent folk when they weren't being pains in his neck.
"Reckon it would be a good thing if you got those boys off to Doc Petticord," he advised the head of the family. "Maybe let him take a look at you, too." Daisy appeared unscathed, but then again, she hadn't gone running into a burning barn to save the livestock and whatever else Bo and Luke thought they were doing in there. Jesse hadn't either, but he wasn't a young man. Last night couldn't have been good for him. "You want me to take you there?"
"Huh?" Jesse asked distractedly, turning to look at him again. "Uh, no, thank you, Rosco. Don't suppose Doc wants to get woke up at this hour. Besides, all our cars are safe and I can take the boys later. Thank you for your concern, though."
Which meant that he'd done all he could do. So he took his leave of the family and headed back to town. Because he was most definitely not investigating this here fire.
"Don't reckon I need no doctor," Bo said, once the dust from Rosco's cruiser had settled. Which got him a snort and a cough from Luke, followed by rolled eyes. "I like you quiet," he added, bumping his shoulder against Luke's.
Too much smoke inhalation and Luke could hardly talk, much less pick on him. Forced his cousin to skip the whole diatribe about how Bo never wanted to go to a doctor, but that didn't mean he shouldn't. How he'd better get proper treatment, because Luke wasn't willing to put up with him complaining about his pain for the next two weeks. Or whatever other clever comebacks that oversized brain of his had thought up.
"You're both going to see Doc Petticord," Jesse said, when Luke's eyebrows raised like he was about ready to retort after all. "And no arguing." A hard stare at both of them, then he went back to looking at the blackened disaster where their barn used to be. "Later. I reckon the best thing we can do for now is have breakfast."
Which seemed strange - a lifetime of no-food-before-chores, and here he was, getting herded inside for breakfast when about all he'd done the whole morning was sit on the porch and try not to move any of his fingers, not even a little bit.
Standing up was wobbly when he couldn't use his hands to press against the floorboards, but Luke's steadying hand caught hold of his elbow and guided him to his feet and through the kitchen door.
The three cousins got sent to their rooms to "get decent" first, since they were still technically in pajamas. The effort proved interesting when he couldn't use his hands for much of anything. Luke ended up sitting on the edge of his bed, bent low and holding out a pair of Bo's jeans, with one leg rolled up for him to step into. Other leg, and Luke was pulling up his pants for him like he was no more than three.
"Luke," he snapped and shouldn't have. The whole damn thing was utterly ridiculous (and there Luke was, zipping his fly for him), but his cousin was being about as patient as he could be and it wasn't his fault to begin with. Wasn't anyone's fault-
Unless it was.
Luke looked up at him, one sardonic eyebrow raised. You had something you wanted to say to me? it asked.
Bo huffed. "I don't figure that fire started itself."
That eyebrow stayed right where it was, even as Luke straightened up to full height. Fixed him with a look that somehow both agreed with and mocked him. Waiting for him to say something more, but he didn't have anything to add, so Luke went over to their dresser. Pulled out one of Bo's tee-shirts, the soft, brown one, and held it in his hands. Looked at Bo, then back at the shirt, back and forth, like he was trying to figure out how to get him into it. Used to be, when Bo was little and needed help dressing in the morning, that Aunt Lavinia would chirp, "Hands up!" at him, then slip the shirt down over his arms and onto his body. Of course, he couldn't have been more than three feet tall back then. Now he was taller than Luke, even with his hands down at his sides. Raising them up would put them eight-plus-feet into the air. (And damn it all, they hurt. Lifting them up over his head - no way. He wasn't going to do it.)
Luke seemed to concur with his unspoken thought, tossing the tee shirt onto the bed and heading for the closet. Pulling out a button-down shirt and coming back toward him with it.
"Who started the fire then, damn it?" Bo all but shouted. Annoyed at how Luke was looking at his hands and wrists, then methodically unbuttoning the cuffs of the shirt. Solving the problem of how to get Bo dressed when he really ought to be thinking about more important things.
"One guess," Luke answered him, followed by a cough that sounded like the worst cold he'd ever had. Bo was sorry he'd made him talk; that had to hurt.
Then a rolled up sleeve was getting offered to him. Waved in the air a bit when he didn't immediately offer up his arm for the slaughter. There was no way his hand was going through that small hole without cupping it more than Bo wanted to. (There was no way he was getting even one bite to eat if he showed up at the breakfast table without a shirt, injured or not.)
"J.D. Hogg," he agreed, because that was who Luke was thinking of. "He wants the land."
Luke nodded at him, then shook the shirt in the air again. Bo sucked in a breath (and his lungs hurt, too, but nowhere near as much as Luke's had to), and brought his fingers closer to his thumb. Left hand, wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Managed to get it through the sleeve and let Luke pull it up for him.
"But he didn't know what was up there," Bo countered. Luke brought the shirt around his back so he could get his right hand in. Bo had to reach back toward the sleeve, whimpered. His hand, his wrist - the sleeve was too far back and he had to squeeze his hand too much. He was steeling himself to try again when Luke walked back around him. Shaking his head at one or the other or both of them for how he'd tried to do this. Pulled the sleeve off Bo's left arm with a strangely gentle violence. He was frustrated; Bo was hurt. Balancing the two took more self-control than it seemed Luke had this morning. (But it had been a long night.) "Did he?"
Luke worked on rolling up the right sleeve so Bo could get his more-injured hand through first. "Dunno," he rasped.
Bo set to thinking more about the barn and loft than how he was being dressed like a baby by his rough-edged cousin. All that they'd lost, and it wasn't just wood and straw and tools. It wasn't the kind of thing Jesse would have mentioned to Rosco, it wasn't something you could put numerical value on (mostly). But it had to be what Luke went back in for after the livestock was safely out, and though Bo wanted to smack his cousin for his foolishness, he could appreciate that Luke tried.
"Ow," he mumbled when Luke came around behind him again, pulling a little too roughly on the fabric. It didn't really hurt, but he didn't much want to be manhandled, either. Luke sighed, coughed, relented. Slowed down and stopped tugging him around.
Up in the loft, which wasn't anything but ashes now, was most of what had been Lavinia's, once. Some shawls, the scarf she'd almost finished knitting when she died. A couple of girlhood toys, some photos, a mirror that had been handed down in her family for a few generations. A couple of locks of hair that she'd kept after his and Luke's first haircuts, her favorite books. Some old paperwork, old wills and news clippings-
Ow! Cupping his left hand and reaching back.
-all of it stored in her cedar chest and hauled up to the loft within a month after she'd died. Stuff that was important enough to keep, but painful to look at every day, and it had been carefully put away never brought back into the house again. It had stopped hurting to look Lavinia's stuff somewhere back a ways, and they'd each spent time up there sorting through her things and remembering her. But they'd been too lazy to ever haul it back down to the house, and now it was gone.
Luke was in front of him now, buttoning his shirt for him. Tongue hanging out of his mouth because it always did when he was concentrating.
Most of what was lost in the cedar chest was junk to anyone outside the four of them. But a couple of those papers, well. They were useful documents, and he didn't know whether they could be reissued or not.
Luke finished the bottom button, stepped back to admire his handiwork. Smirked, and made a move toward Bo's neck like he was going to fasten that collar button. No, thank you, he wasn't planning on wearing a tie. He swatted Luke back with his right forearm.
"Ow," he whimpered.
Luke managed to look like he felt bad about making him do it. For all of a second, anyway.
Then he put on his own pants, pulled his shirt around his shoulders and left it unbuttoned and untucked. "Come on," he croaked, opening the door to their bedroom.
He was halfway down the hall on Luke's heels before he got around to asking. "Where are we going?" Though there was only one room down here that either of them ever went into.
Luke looked at him over his shoulder like maybe he wondered if it was Bo's brain instead of his hands that had gotten singed. They were headed for the bathroom, of course.
"You going to go to the bathroom for me, too?" Bo asked. Blamed it on the relentless pain, and how it was making him halfway angry to hurt like that.
"You need me to?" He really needed to stop making his cousin talk. If Luke's throat hurt half as bad as it sounded, it was a wonder he bothered to keep breathing.
"I can handle it," Bo assured him, even if he wasn't entirely sure how. He'd figure it out.
But for now, he was getting shoved into the room first. Then Luke was at the sink, soaking a washcloth, wringing it. Turning toward Bo and raising it up toward his face and Bo ducked away on instinct. Luke sighed, coughed, pointed to the mirror. Bo took a look at himself and saw the mess of soot surrounded by filthy blond curls. "You handle that?" Luke asked him.
No, he couldn't wash his own face. So he stood still and let Luke do it for him. Felt the water dripping off his chin and the roughness of the washcloth and wished he could do it himself. Figured Luke was going to scrub all the skin off his face, then it stopped. Soft towel patting him dry, and then his cousin pinched his cheek.
"Now get out of here," Bo said. "So I can handle what I've got to handle."
Luke smirked at him again, hung the washcloth over the towel rack and turned to leave the room.
"Holler if you need help," he grumbled as he stepped out and closed the door.
Leaving Bo to stare at the button and zipper on his pants and wonder which would hurt worse: his hands if he tried to undo them himself, or his pride if he had to call Luke back in here.
July 6, 1974
She'd been kicked out of her own house. Sent off the property entirely because it had been more than a day. One out of the three days that Luke was supposed to be resting, out of the seven to ten that Bo was not supposed to use his right hand at all, and his left only sparingly. Her cousins had been grounded, and she'd been sent away.
For her own good, Jesse suggested. She should get out and do something, because Doc Petticord had seen to her cousins' injuries and pronounced that they'd both live. So long, that was, as they followed his advice. Which meant keeping Bo's hands clean and bandaged and keeping him from using them. And keeping Luke still.
Good luck. She'd tried doing things for them, bringing them magazines and books and her transistor radio to listen to. Making soups and other soft foods for Luke, sandwiches that Bo could manage to eat with his left hand only. Done their chores and saw to getting the livestock settled into temporary homes. She'd washed their sheets and made their beds, fluffed their pillows and asked if there was anything she could get them.
Got barked at by Luke for her efforts, which set him to coughing and rasping, then stomping his foot in frustration. Got told by Bo to just leave him alone, he was fine (but he wasn't, he was exhausted from all the sleep his pained hands were keeping him from getting) and finally Jesse sent her away.
Go out and enjoy yourself, he said, handing off the keys to his pickup.
She'd kidded herself about how she might like to go window shopping in town, maybe stop in to the general store and pick up some potatoes to mash for Luke. Maybe sit through a movie in the air-conditioned theater, or just walk around the square for a bit. Maybe call on her friend, Sally-Jo, who lived with her parents in a little house just off Elm Street, but in the end, she made a beeline for the library.
Up the steps with her clogs clacking on the cement, the hem of her sundress swishing around her thighs. Into the cooled air, past the desk where I. Young was looking at a book or some files or something and it didn't matter what she was doing when Daisy couldn't spare a moment to take a good look at her.
Clattering her way toward the back where the big tables were and for a split second she considered picking up a newspaper off the periodicals shelf. Pretending she was here to read the want ads, but by the time the thought became a clear one, it was too late and she was standing in front of that one table. The same one she'd found him at that first night, the same one he probably sat at every time he came here to study the law.
Enos Strate was nothing if not a creature of habit.
He looked up at her, smile starting to stretch out his face. Mouth opening to say-
And she didn't want to hear it.
"Enos Strate," she hissed, some attempt to keep I. Young from marching back here and throwing her out before she'd spoken her piece. "Why ain't you asked me out on a date yet?"
Seemed like a perfectly legitimate question when it was bouncing around in her head. Sounded utterly foolish coming out of her mouth. Like an invitation to be rebuffed, like an unmannered girl instead of a self-possessed woman.
"Oh, Enos, I'm-" sorry, and she was. For more reasons than she could say.
"Now, Daisy," he interrupted, quietly. Serious. "Don't you go saying you're sorry you asked me that. I reckon you got a right. I reckon I didn't mind hearing it none, neither."
Her face was hot, her guts were full of electric eels. Her body finally catching up with what she was doing, what she'd said and to whom. "Oh," was about all she could manage to say. She wanted to sit her weak legs down, didn't think it was a good idea.
"Now, I was planning on calling on you, but I figured to wait a couple of days. I heard about your barn and Bo and Luke. And I thought I'd come by and check on you all once them two was feeling a mite better. I figured I could help you rebuild, when you're ready."
"That's nice of you," she said, folding her hands in front of her, primly. Dipping her head a bit because she'd been so busy thinking about what he hadn't done that she'd never taken into account that he probably had reasons, and good ones.
"And then I was going to see if you wanted to come to town and walk around the square a bit, after the barn was done."
"Oh," squirming electric eels, and her heart had jumped into her throat and lodged itself there, merrily beating away. (Or maybe that was I. Young, rapping on her counter again.)
"I just reckoned this wasn't a good time to be asking you to take time away from your family, is all."
"It's good enough," she informed him. "Considering they don't really want my help just now." She smiled, or tried. The way her lips pulled across her teeth felt awkward and staged. "Today, right now, would be good." Those electric eels were dancing a merry little jig, bouncing her heart around like a beach ball on the waves.
"Now?" Funny how his voice seemed to go up at that, how he seemed almost as nervous as she was. Maybe she could hear his heart knocking around, too. (Maybe I. Young was marching over here to tell them to hush, right this second.) "I ain't properly dressed to be escorting you around town."
It was the first time, maybe, that she looked at him that day. Really looked, not just in nervous, fleeting glances, but taking in all the details. The brown and yellow plaid shirt that brought out all the warmth in his eyes, the worn blue jeans, the loafers on his feet. The cute chapped spot on his lip where he nibbled when he was thinking or worrying, the careful way his hair was always combed, even when he didn't take care with the way he dressed. Perfectly clean shaven, with no fuzz left over to hide the flushed color of his cheeks.
"You look fine to me, Enos."
Might have been the wrong thing to say. His color went close to purple, his lips pulled up hard at the corners, taking his cheeks and heck, even his eyebrows with them. His hands twitched, he knocked his knee on the underside of the table. A book fell to the floor with an echoing thud. Enos laughed and Daisy downright cackled.
And that was how they found themselves kicked out on the concrete steps of the library once again, giggling like a pair of fools. Deciding that between them, they had enough pocket change to head over to Monroe Street and stop at Coneiferous, the soft ice cream stand that was open for summer months only. A small cone each, maybe dipped in sprinkles.
Walking on the sidewalk so hot she wondered if their shoes could melt on their feet, talking about their respective job searches. She decided right then and there to put hers on hold for a while, at least until Bo had the proper use of both of his hands.
Enos' efforts weren't going a whole lot better. He was starting to consider whether he'd have better luck becoming a lawman in Hatchapee County, or maybe Placid. Sheriff Coltrane just kept saying he didn't have need or funds for rookie deputies here in Hazzard.
The smell of waffle cones and hot fudge pulled them around the corner from Church Street onto Monroe. They considered themselves lucky to find only a few folks standing in line in their brightly colored summer clothing, waiting to be served. Daisy and Enos barely had time to chat over the flavors (which were really just variations on vanilla and chocolate, but with fancy names) and sizes before an ice-cream-sticky hand reached out the opening in the window to hand off a cone to the young girl in front of them, and it was their turn to stand in front of the screen.
"How can I help you," was friendly, if a bit rushed. Enos was still ticking over potential selections, so Daisy squinted into the small building, letting her eyes adjust from the unbroken sun on the sidewalk, to the relative dimness inside. "I'll have-well, I'll be. Hi, Velma! How's Joey? And Irma?" The owner of the hands that served the ice cream was the same young woman she'd met on Hazzard Park's hillside just two days ago.
At least Daisy could have sworn she was. The blank look coming back out at her from the small shed seemed not to know her at all.
"It's me. Daisy," she clarified, feeling half a fool. "And Enos is with me, too."
The woman regarded her, but didn't smile. Nodded with what might have been acknowledgement of her words, and said, "Can I take your order?"
"Um, yeah," she answered. Feeling silly, but that was definitely Velma in there. Then again, the woman was working; maybe her boss didn't like her to chat too much with the customers? Or, well. Their first meeting had been a bit awkward, what with Joey running off and everything. Maybe Velma didn't appreciate Daisy reminding her of that. "I'll have a small chocolate cone dipped in chocolate sprinkles." Which somehow didn't sound as delicious as it had a few seconds ago, not in the face of Velma's curt nod.
Enos put in his order, and fished into his pockets. Daisy dug through her purse, and together they pulled together enough money to pay, with Enos joking about them going "Dutch treat." By that time, Velma had drawn the soft serve ice cream into cones and rolled them in sprinkles, and was handing them over. Enos paid her and Daisy thanked her. "Hope to see you again soon," she said to be polite, but she wasn't sure she meant it.
Not that it mattered. It was a nice day. A little hotter than she liked, and humid, but she had Enos by her side. Licking clumsily at his cone as sweet drips ran over his fingers. He steered her away from the few plastic picnic tables that surrounded the stand, and they walked out Monroe Street toward the covered bridge over Sandy Creek.
"If I worked at Coneiferous," Daisy said, "I reckon I'd be friendly to everyone."
"You'd be very good at serving ice cream," Enos agreed. "Or anything, really." Then he went back to lapping at his treat.
"Enos," she started, with intent to show him how to lick around the edges of his cone to keep the melting ice cream from making such a mess. Instead, she found herself blurting, "You should go to Sheriff Coltrane and demand that he give you a job."
Maybe it had been working its way through her mind all along. Ever since he'd said something about going to Hatchapee or Placid. He would move to either of those places if he had to, but he must want to be here, close to his parents and all of his friends. More importantly, she wanted him here. Needed him here, at least for now. At least until they got to know each other better and she could decide whether she might be willing to follow him to one of those other counties. Away from her family, and she liked him. But she figured she'd have to love him. Love him an awful lot and then some more on top of that if there was any chance of her leaving Bo and Luke and Jesse for him. And she needed more time to get to love him that much.
Or like him, even, because she wasn't sure about that right now, with how he was laughing. Nervous sound to it, but still. He was laughing at her.
"Daisy, it don't work like that."
"How do you know? Have you tried it?"
He shook his head and more brown rivulets trickled over his fingers. "No, but you can't just go telling people what you want and expecting them to give it to you." His words were sweetened with a chocolate-colored smile.
"Why, Enos Strate, yes you can," she scolded. Wished she'd thought to grab a napkin or two back at the ice cream stand. Maybe they should head back there. Then again, they were almost to the creek. Enos was a country boy, born and bred. He'd washed up in creeks before. "I told you I wanted a date right now, didn't I?"
"You did," he agreed.
"And ain't we on a date right now?" she asked.
"Reckon we are."
"Well, then, you just lick around the edge of that ice cream cone so it won't drip on your fingers no more. And then tomorrow, you go and tell the sheriff you want him to hire you as a deputy, right away!"
He shook his head, but his smile just got bigger and broader. "Tomorrow's Sunday."
"The next day, then," she said, waving her free hand through the air in dismissal of his silly objections.
"Yes, ma'am," he said and there was no telling whether he was agreeing to eat his ice cream properly or to get himself the job of his dreams by the end of the next business day.
Author: NDF/TS Blue
Fandom: Dukes
Rating: PG, maybe. It's not quite all sunshine and roses, anyway.
Summary: It's a summer of freedom and hardship, of love and calamities. Daisy and Bo have just graduated into adulthood and Luke is back from war. It ought to be the best time of their lives, but one disaster follows another. Who would want the Dukes hurt? Prequel, gen.
I should probably point out that I always picture the Duke farm as it appeared in those first five episodes in Georgia. Old, whitewashed house, trees, sloping farmyard, several outbuildings. In particular, in High Octane, you can see two barns. Jesse pulls Tilly out of one of them, and up the slope a bit, you can see the other one. I tend to think of them as one barn for the livestock and one barn for storage (and one of the stored items is a moonshine runner). This geography of the Duke farm will show itself in this chapter (and forward).
And this would be another nice time ot have a Rosco icon.
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Six: A Messy Mess of a Mess
July 5, 1974
It was a mess, was what it was. One big, awful, horrendous mess of a mess.
Smelled like smoke, but not like in a pleasant woodsmoke kind of a way. Like bunt coffee, maybe, too strong and hanging in the air thick enough to clog a man's lungs and turn his stomach. There was water everywhere: small, artificial lakes and streams, plenty of mud. And in the middle of the mess, there were burnt things; melted twisted remnants of something or other, charred wood. There was a disaster where the Dukes' barn had been, and nothing else.
Amos and his firetruck had gotten called in somewhere around midnight, and Rosco had already been en route. Got the call from Gussie the operator, who relayed it from the general emergency number to his home because she figured he ought to know. He'd had Gussie round up the volunteer fire force, then asked her to call Capital City rescue squad for backup. He'd been able to see the orange glow in the sky from the intersection of State Highway 21 and Old Mill Road, so he knew it was bad. Got there to find a flurry of motion, goats and chickens under his feet as he tried to make his way to Jesse Duke and find out what had happened.
Now that the fire was done and the sun was rising, he still had no idea, not really.
Bo and Luke Duke sat side-by-side on their porch, shoulders brushing together. Heads low, filth on their faces, not talking. But then Luke Duke probably couldn't. He'd breathed in enough smoke that he'd nearly lost consciousness. But the boy was tough, had spent time in the Marines and at war. Seemed he'd talked his feet into moving, one step at a time until he was a safe distance from the fire before he'd fallen to his knees, hacking and gasping. Probably ought to see a doctor.
Bo Duke, if it was possible, managed to look worse than his cousin. Dark shadows under his eyes that might have been soot, but were more likely from lack of sleep. Face taut, tense with worry and pain. He needed a real doctor, too, once the day got properly started. For now, Rosco had lightly wrapped gauze around both of those long hands of his. Burns, mostly redness from his fingers to his wrists, but some blisters on the right palm from where he'd fended off falling, flaming debris that had designs on smacking into his face. After he'd gone and been a moron, chasing after his idiot cousin who'd run into a burning barn.
Jesse Duke stood a few feet off in his farmyard, staring at where his barn had been and just plain wasn't anymore. Chickens milling around at his feet, a tethered goat nuzzling at his hand, which was hanging loosely at his side like he'd forgotten it was even part of him. Looking back over his shoulder at his boys and mumbling, "Fools." Shaking his head but there was no ire in it, none of his usual fire and brimstone. Just exhaustion, and maybe, under that, fondness.
Daisy Duke had brought Rosco some coffee. Because of all of them, she was the only one who seemed to remember that he was even there in the yard at all.
"I ain't sure," the girl was saying in answer to a question he'd asked: what happened here? "First thing I knew, the boys were running through the house. You know my cousins ain't exactly light of foot." She looked over at the porch and arched an eyebrow at them. Like it was a joke, but neither of them laughed. Or did much more than sit exactly where they were, unmoving. "Anyway, they was running and hollering something, so I woke up and I could see the fire."
"You didn't hear nothing before that?" He took another sip of the coffee. Good stuff, especially considering that it had to have been brewed with at least one part sleeplessness and two parts worry.
Rosco wasn't investigating the fire, not really. There was nothing much at all left to investigate, anyway.
"No," she answered. So this fire he wasn't investigating hadn't been caused by an explosion, then. That was good to know.
"You have anything in there that could start a fire? Cigarettes, matches, anything like that?"
There was a snort from over on the porch. He turned his head in time to see Luke Duke flick an ash off his own bare arm, which was more than either of the boys had done in what felt like hours. "We're too old to go off sneaking a smoke in the barn, Rosco," Luke croaked at him. Coughed, sounded like it hurt. Served the boy right for offering up that kind of sass.
"We keep lanterns in there," Jesse said. Didn't turn to look at him, just spoke out toward where the barn used to be and the horizon beyond that. "But not kerosene. All the combustibles get kept in the shed, and the cars and tractor get kept in the other barn." Which would be the one a little further from the house, down the slope of the farmyard. It was still intact, probably thanks to Jesse keeping it wet with a garden hose. When he wasn't using the hose to wet and cool Bo's injured hands, that was. "Separate from the livestock. So we won't go setting their shelter on fire by mistake."
"But you had hay in there," Rosco guessed.
"Yep," Jesse agreed. "It burns quick, but it don't start no fires all by itself." Which was the kind of statement Rosco would take note of, were he investigating this fire. Which he most definitely was not. Just following protocol, just showing a little concern for his citizens, that was all.
He cleared his throat. "Any losses to report?"
"Well, our barn for starts," Bo Duke snapped from behind him. He turned in time to see Luke shuffle just that much closer to his cousin, knocking their shoulders together. An odd mixture of consolation and scolding in the gesture.
"Aside from the barn," he clarified.
"Just some tools, Rosco," Jesse answered, and it sounded tired. Like a man who hadn't slept in days, like a man who had lost more than he was willing to say. Like it would take too much effort to explain to a fool like Rosco was it was like to stare at the blackened, stinking ruins of your barn, still sending up tufts of smoke here and there. "Rakes, shovels, a hoe. A couple of saddles, blankets. Milk buckets and," pause there as Jesse turned to look at him. Red eyes, but then he'd been exposed to heavy smoke through much of the night. "Fire buckets," he finished, his delivery dry as toast. No telling whether he recognized the absurdity, so Rosco let it go.
"Sadie run off," Daisy added.
"The other goat," Jesse explained, because Rosco was staring at her, trying to figure out who Sadie was. Far as he knew, there were only four Dukes living here. "Someone'll find her and bring her back." Four Dukes left after Jesse's wife died, back in 1963. Which was only six months after Daisy Duke's father had died and she'd moved here to live with her aunt, uncle and her two already-orphaned cousins.
This family was a mess. Always had been. But they were fairly decent folk when they weren't being pains in his neck.
"Reckon it would be a good thing if you got those boys off to Doc Petticord," he advised the head of the family. "Maybe let him take a look at you, too." Daisy appeared unscathed, but then again, she hadn't gone running into a burning barn to save the livestock and whatever else Bo and Luke thought they were doing in there. Jesse hadn't either, but he wasn't a young man. Last night couldn't have been good for him. "You want me to take you there?"
"Huh?" Jesse asked distractedly, turning to look at him again. "Uh, no, thank you, Rosco. Don't suppose Doc wants to get woke up at this hour. Besides, all our cars are safe and I can take the boys later. Thank you for your concern, though."
Which meant that he'd done all he could do. So he took his leave of the family and headed back to town. Because he was most definitely not investigating this here fire.
"Don't reckon I need no doctor," Bo said, once the dust from Rosco's cruiser had settled. Which got him a snort and a cough from Luke, followed by rolled eyes. "I like you quiet," he added, bumping his shoulder against Luke's.
Too much smoke inhalation and Luke could hardly talk, much less pick on him. Forced his cousin to skip the whole diatribe about how Bo never wanted to go to a doctor, but that didn't mean he shouldn't. How he'd better get proper treatment, because Luke wasn't willing to put up with him complaining about his pain for the next two weeks. Or whatever other clever comebacks that oversized brain of his had thought up.
"You're both going to see Doc Petticord," Jesse said, when Luke's eyebrows raised like he was about ready to retort after all. "And no arguing." A hard stare at both of them, then he went back to looking at the blackened disaster where their barn used to be. "Later. I reckon the best thing we can do for now is have breakfast."
Which seemed strange - a lifetime of no-food-before-chores, and here he was, getting herded inside for breakfast when about all he'd done the whole morning was sit on the porch and try not to move any of his fingers, not even a little bit.
Standing up was wobbly when he couldn't use his hands to press against the floorboards, but Luke's steadying hand caught hold of his elbow and guided him to his feet and through the kitchen door.
The three cousins got sent to their rooms to "get decent" first, since they were still technically in pajamas. The effort proved interesting when he couldn't use his hands for much of anything. Luke ended up sitting on the edge of his bed, bent low and holding out a pair of Bo's jeans, with one leg rolled up for him to step into. Other leg, and Luke was pulling up his pants for him like he was no more than three.
"Luke," he snapped and shouldn't have. The whole damn thing was utterly ridiculous (and there Luke was, zipping his fly for him), but his cousin was being about as patient as he could be and it wasn't his fault to begin with. Wasn't anyone's fault-
Unless it was.
Luke looked up at him, one sardonic eyebrow raised. You had something you wanted to say to me? it asked.
Bo huffed. "I don't figure that fire started itself."
That eyebrow stayed right where it was, even as Luke straightened up to full height. Fixed him with a look that somehow both agreed with and mocked him. Waiting for him to say something more, but he didn't have anything to add, so Luke went over to their dresser. Pulled out one of Bo's tee-shirts, the soft, brown one, and held it in his hands. Looked at Bo, then back at the shirt, back and forth, like he was trying to figure out how to get him into it. Used to be, when Bo was little and needed help dressing in the morning, that Aunt Lavinia would chirp, "Hands up!" at him, then slip the shirt down over his arms and onto his body. Of course, he couldn't have been more than three feet tall back then. Now he was taller than Luke, even with his hands down at his sides. Raising them up would put them eight-plus-feet into the air. (And damn it all, they hurt. Lifting them up over his head - no way. He wasn't going to do it.)
Luke seemed to concur with his unspoken thought, tossing the tee shirt onto the bed and heading for the closet. Pulling out a button-down shirt and coming back toward him with it.
"Who started the fire then, damn it?" Bo all but shouted. Annoyed at how Luke was looking at his hands and wrists, then methodically unbuttoning the cuffs of the shirt. Solving the problem of how to get Bo dressed when he really ought to be thinking about more important things.
"One guess," Luke answered him, followed by a cough that sounded like the worst cold he'd ever had. Bo was sorry he'd made him talk; that had to hurt.
Then a rolled up sleeve was getting offered to him. Waved in the air a bit when he didn't immediately offer up his arm for the slaughter. There was no way his hand was going through that small hole without cupping it more than Bo wanted to. (There was no way he was getting even one bite to eat if he showed up at the breakfast table without a shirt, injured or not.)
"J.D. Hogg," he agreed, because that was who Luke was thinking of. "He wants the land."
Luke nodded at him, then shook the shirt in the air again. Bo sucked in a breath (and his lungs hurt, too, but nowhere near as much as Luke's had to), and brought his fingers closer to his thumb. Left hand, wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Managed to get it through the sleeve and let Luke pull it up for him.
"But he didn't know what was up there," Bo countered. Luke brought the shirt around his back so he could get his right hand in. Bo had to reach back toward the sleeve, whimpered. His hand, his wrist - the sleeve was too far back and he had to squeeze his hand too much. He was steeling himself to try again when Luke walked back around him. Shaking his head at one or the other or both of them for how he'd tried to do this. Pulled the sleeve off Bo's left arm with a strangely gentle violence. He was frustrated; Bo was hurt. Balancing the two took more self-control than it seemed Luke had this morning. (But it had been a long night.) "Did he?"
Luke worked on rolling up the right sleeve so Bo could get his more-injured hand through first. "Dunno," he rasped.
Bo set to thinking more about the barn and loft than how he was being dressed like a baby by his rough-edged cousin. All that they'd lost, and it wasn't just wood and straw and tools. It wasn't the kind of thing Jesse would have mentioned to Rosco, it wasn't something you could put numerical value on (mostly). But it had to be what Luke went back in for after the livestock was safely out, and though Bo wanted to smack his cousin for his foolishness, he could appreciate that Luke tried.
"Ow," he mumbled when Luke came around behind him again, pulling a little too roughly on the fabric. It didn't really hurt, but he didn't much want to be manhandled, either. Luke sighed, coughed, relented. Slowed down and stopped tugging him around.
Up in the loft, which wasn't anything but ashes now, was most of what had been Lavinia's, once. Some shawls, the scarf she'd almost finished knitting when she died. A couple of girlhood toys, some photos, a mirror that had been handed down in her family for a few generations. A couple of locks of hair that she'd kept after his and Luke's first haircuts, her favorite books. Some old paperwork, old wills and news clippings-
Ow! Cupping his left hand and reaching back.
-all of it stored in her cedar chest and hauled up to the loft within a month after she'd died. Stuff that was important enough to keep, but painful to look at every day, and it had been carefully put away never brought back into the house again. It had stopped hurting to look Lavinia's stuff somewhere back a ways, and they'd each spent time up there sorting through her things and remembering her. But they'd been too lazy to ever haul it back down to the house, and now it was gone.
Luke was in front of him now, buttoning his shirt for him. Tongue hanging out of his mouth because it always did when he was concentrating.
Most of what was lost in the cedar chest was junk to anyone outside the four of them. But a couple of those papers, well. They were useful documents, and he didn't know whether they could be reissued or not.
Luke finished the bottom button, stepped back to admire his handiwork. Smirked, and made a move toward Bo's neck like he was going to fasten that collar button. No, thank you, he wasn't planning on wearing a tie. He swatted Luke back with his right forearm.
"Ow," he whimpered.
Luke managed to look like he felt bad about making him do it. For all of a second, anyway.
Then he put on his own pants, pulled his shirt around his shoulders and left it unbuttoned and untucked. "Come on," he croaked, opening the door to their bedroom.
He was halfway down the hall on Luke's heels before he got around to asking. "Where are we going?" Though there was only one room down here that either of them ever went into.
Luke looked at him over his shoulder like maybe he wondered if it was Bo's brain instead of his hands that had gotten singed. They were headed for the bathroom, of course.
"You going to go to the bathroom for me, too?" Bo asked. Blamed it on the relentless pain, and how it was making him halfway angry to hurt like that.
"You need me to?" He really needed to stop making his cousin talk. If Luke's throat hurt half as bad as it sounded, it was a wonder he bothered to keep breathing.
"I can handle it," Bo assured him, even if he wasn't entirely sure how. He'd figure it out.
But for now, he was getting shoved into the room first. Then Luke was at the sink, soaking a washcloth, wringing it. Turning toward Bo and raising it up toward his face and Bo ducked away on instinct. Luke sighed, coughed, pointed to the mirror. Bo took a look at himself and saw the mess of soot surrounded by filthy blond curls. "You handle that?" Luke asked him.
No, he couldn't wash his own face. So he stood still and let Luke do it for him. Felt the water dripping off his chin and the roughness of the washcloth and wished he could do it himself. Figured Luke was going to scrub all the skin off his face, then it stopped. Soft towel patting him dry, and then his cousin pinched his cheek.
"Now get out of here," Bo said. "So I can handle what I've got to handle."
Luke smirked at him again, hung the washcloth over the towel rack and turned to leave the room.
"Holler if you need help," he grumbled as he stepped out and closed the door.
Leaving Bo to stare at the button and zipper on his pants and wonder which would hurt worse: his hands if he tried to undo them himself, or his pride if he had to call Luke back in here.
July 6, 1974
She'd been kicked out of her own house. Sent off the property entirely because it had been more than a day. One out of the three days that Luke was supposed to be resting, out of the seven to ten that Bo was not supposed to use his right hand at all, and his left only sparingly. Her cousins had been grounded, and she'd been sent away.
For her own good, Jesse suggested. She should get out and do something, because Doc Petticord had seen to her cousins' injuries and pronounced that they'd both live. So long, that was, as they followed his advice. Which meant keeping Bo's hands clean and bandaged and keeping him from using them. And keeping Luke still.
Good luck. She'd tried doing things for them, bringing them magazines and books and her transistor radio to listen to. Making soups and other soft foods for Luke, sandwiches that Bo could manage to eat with his left hand only. Done their chores and saw to getting the livestock settled into temporary homes. She'd washed their sheets and made their beds, fluffed their pillows and asked if there was anything she could get them.
Got barked at by Luke for her efforts, which set him to coughing and rasping, then stomping his foot in frustration. Got told by Bo to just leave him alone, he was fine (but he wasn't, he was exhausted from all the sleep his pained hands were keeping him from getting) and finally Jesse sent her away.
Go out and enjoy yourself, he said, handing off the keys to his pickup.
She'd kidded herself about how she might like to go window shopping in town, maybe stop in to the general store and pick up some potatoes to mash for Luke. Maybe sit through a movie in the air-conditioned theater, or just walk around the square for a bit. Maybe call on her friend, Sally-Jo, who lived with her parents in a little house just off Elm Street, but in the end, she made a beeline for the library.
Up the steps with her clogs clacking on the cement, the hem of her sundress swishing around her thighs. Into the cooled air, past the desk where I. Young was looking at a book or some files or something and it didn't matter what she was doing when Daisy couldn't spare a moment to take a good look at her.
Clattering her way toward the back where the big tables were and for a split second she considered picking up a newspaper off the periodicals shelf. Pretending she was here to read the want ads, but by the time the thought became a clear one, it was too late and she was standing in front of that one table. The same one she'd found him at that first night, the same one he probably sat at every time he came here to study the law.
Enos Strate was nothing if not a creature of habit.
He looked up at her, smile starting to stretch out his face. Mouth opening to say-
And she didn't want to hear it.
"Enos Strate," she hissed, some attempt to keep I. Young from marching back here and throwing her out before she'd spoken her piece. "Why ain't you asked me out on a date yet?"
Seemed like a perfectly legitimate question when it was bouncing around in her head. Sounded utterly foolish coming out of her mouth. Like an invitation to be rebuffed, like an unmannered girl instead of a self-possessed woman.
"Oh, Enos, I'm-" sorry, and she was. For more reasons than she could say.
"Now, Daisy," he interrupted, quietly. Serious. "Don't you go saying you're sorry you asked me that. I reckon you got a right. I reckon I didn't mind hearing it none, neither."
Her face was hot, her guts were full of electric eels. Her body finally catching up with what she was doing, what she'd said and to whom. "Oh," was about all she could manage to say. She wanted to sit her weak legs down, didn't think it was a good idea.
"Now, I was planning on calling on you, but I figured to wait a couple of days. I heard about your barn and Bo and Luke. And I thought I'd come by and check on you all once them two was feeling a mite better. I figured I could help you rebuild, when you're ready."
"That's nice of you," she said, folding her hands in front of her, primly. Dipping her head a bit because she'd been so busy thinking about what he hadn't done that she'd never taken into account that he probably had reasons, and good ones.
"And then I was going to see if you wanted to come to town and walk around the square a bit, after the barn was done."
"Oh," squirming electric eels, and her heart had jumped into her throat and lodged itself there, merrily beating away. (Or maybe that was I. Young, rapping on her counter again.)
"I just reckoned this wasn't a good time to be asking you to take time away from your family, is all."
"It's good enough," she informed him. "Considering they don't really want my help just now." She smiled, or tried. The way her lips pulled across her teeth felt awkward and staged. "Today, right now, would be good." Those electric eels were dancing a merry little jig, bouncing her heart around like a beach ball on the waves.
"Now?" Funny how his voice seemed to go up at that, how he seemed almost as nervous as she was. Maybe she could hear his heart knocking around, too. (Maybe I. Young was marching over here to tell them to hush, right this second.) "I ain't properly dressed to be escorting you around town."
It was the first time, maybe, that she looked at him that day. Really looked, not just in nervous, fleeting glances, but taking in all the details. The brown and yellow plaid shirt that brought out all the warmth in his eyes, the worn blue jeans, the loafers on his feet. The cute chapped spot on his lip where he nibbled when he was thinking or worrying, the careful way his hair was always combed, even when he didn't take care with the way he dressed. Perfectly clean shaven, with no fuzz left over to hide the flushed color of his cheeks.
"You look fine to me, Enos."
Might have been the wrong thing to say. His color went close to purple, his lips pulled up hard at the corners, taking his cheeks and heck, even his eyebrows with them. His hands twitched, he knocked his knee on the underside of the table. A book fell to the floor with an echoing thud. Enos laughed and Daisy downright cackled.
And that was how they found themselves kicked out on the concrete steps of the library once again, giggling like a pair of fools. Deciding that between them, they had enough pocket change to head over to Monroe Street and stop at Coneiferous, the soft ice cream stand that was open for summer months only. A small cone each, maybe dipped in sprinkles.
Walking on the sidewalk so hot she wondered if their shoes could melt on their feet, talking about their respective job searches. She decided right then and there to put hers on hold for a while, at least until Bo had the proper use of both of his hands.
Enos' efforts weren't going a whole lot better. He was starting to consider whether he'd have better luck becoming a lawman in Hatchapee County, or maybe Placid. Sheriff Coltrane just kept saying he didn't have need or funds for rookie deputies here in Hazzard.
The smell of waffle cones and hot fudge pulled them around the corner from Church Street onto Monroe. They considered themselves lucky to find only a few folks standing in line in their brightly colored summer clothing, waiting to be served. Daisy and Enos barely had time to chat over the flavors (which were really just variations on vanilla and chocolate, but with fancy names) and sizes before an ice-cream-sticky hand reached out the opening in the window to hand off a cone to the young girl in front of them, and it was their turn to stand in front of the screen.
"How can I help you," was friendly, if a bit rushed. Enos was still ticking over potential selections, so Daisy squinted into the small building, letting her eyes adjust from the unbroken sun on the sidewalk, to the relative dimness inside. "I'll have-well, I'll be. Hi, Velma! How's Joey? And Irma?" The owner of the hands that served the ice cream was the same young woman she'd met on Hazzard Park's hillside just two days ago.
At least Daisy could have sworn she was. The blank look coming back out at her from the small shed seemed not to know her at all.
"It's me. Daisy," she clarified, feeling half a fool. "And Enos is with me, too."
The woman regarded her, but didn't smile. Nodded with what might have been acknowledgement of her words, and said, "Can I take your order?"
"Um, yeah," she answered. Feeling silly, but that was definitely Velma in there. Then again, the woman was working; maybe her boss didn't like her to chat too much with the customers? Or, well. Their first meeting had been a bit awkward, what with Joey running off and everything. Maybe Velma didn't appreciate Daisy reminding her of that. "I'll have a small chocolate cone dipped in chocolate sprinkles." Which somehow didn't sound as delicious as it had a few seconds ago, not in the face of Velma's curt nod.
Enos put in his order, and fished into his pockets. Daisy dug through her purse, and together they pulled together enough money to pay, with Enos joking about them going "Dutch treat." By that time, Velma had drawn the soft serve ice cream into cones and rolled them in sprinkles, and was handing them over. Enos paid her and Daisy thanked her. "Hope to see you again soon," she said to be polite, but she wasn't sure she meant it.
Not that it mattered. It was a nice day. A little hotter than she liked, and humid, but she had Enos by her side. Licking clumsily at his cone as sweet drips ran over his fingers. He steered her away from the few plastic picnic tables that surrounded the stand, and they walked out Monroe Street toward the covered bridge over Sandy Creek.
"If I worked at Coneiferous," Daisy said, "I reckon I'd be friendly to everyone."
"You'd be very good at serving ice cream," Enos agreed. "Or anything, really." Then he went back to lapping at his treat.
"Enos," she started, with intent to show him how to lick around the edges of his cone to keep the melting ice cream from making such a mess. Instead, she found herself blurting, "You should go to Sheriff Coltrane and demand that he give you a job."
Maybe it had been working its way through her mind all along. Ever since he'd said something about going to Hatchapee or Placid. He would move to either of those places if he had to, but he must want to be here, close to his parents and all of his friends. More importantly, she wanted him here. Needed him here, at least for now. At least until they got to know each other better and she could decide whether she might be willing to follow him to one of those other counties. Away from her family, and she liked him. But she figured she'd have to love him. Love him an awful lot and then some more on top of that if there was any chance of her leaving Bo and Luke and Jesse for him. And she needed more time to get to love him that much.
Or like him, even, because she wasn't sure about that right now, with how he was laughing. Nervous sound to it, but still. He was laughing at her.
"Daisy, it don't work like that."
"How do you know? Have you tried it?"
He shook his head and more brown rivulets trickled over his fingers. "No, but you can't just go telling people what you want and expecting them to give it to you." His words were sweetened with a chocolate-colored smile.
"Why, Enos Strate, yes you can," she scolded. Wished she'd thought to grab a napkin or two back at the ice cream stand. Maybe they should head back there. Then again, they were almost to the creek. Enos was a country boy, born and bred. He'd washed up in creeks before. "I told you I wanted a date right now, didn't I?"
"You did," he agreed.
"And ain't we on a date right now?" she asked.
"Reckon we are."
"Well, then, you just lick around the edge of that ice cream cone so it won't drip on your fingers no more. And then tomorrow, you go and tell the sheriff you want him to hire you as a deputy, right away!"
He shook his head, but his smile just got bigger and broader. "Tomorrow's Sunday."
"The next day, then," she said, waving her free hand through the air in dismissal of his silly objections.
"Yes, ma'am," he said and there was no telling whether he was agreeing to eat his ice cream properly or to get himself the job of his dreams by the end of the next business day.