(no subject)
LOST - Part 18
Title: Lost, Part 18
Rating: PG-13. But there's sex in the next update, I promise. Honest. Cross two cowboys and hope to die. :-)
Pairing: Jack/Ennis
Teaser: Ennis gets the worst news of his life, but all may not be quite as it seems...
Disclaimer: Jack and Ennis are not mine. Neither are any of the other original characters from the wonderful "Brokeback Mountain." They belong to Annie Proulx, and I am only borrowing them for a little while...
Author's Note: Argh. Just...argh. But here it is anyway. Pitched at you-all quick, while the internet connection holds.
Hydrotherapy, John had decided five minutes into his first session in the University Medical Center’s heated therapy pool, was a gift straight from the gods.
Never mind all those facts and figures about the benefits of the process that Rob Deckard insisted on spouting like an animated brochure, the warm water just felt good. “Know what that is, John? That’s your peripheral blood flow increasin’ an’ your vascular resistance goin’ up by thirty percent.”
“Feels jus’ fine to me, Rob, you talkin’ shit ‘bout it don’t change a thing.” That got a grin from Deckard that John only glimpsed with his peripheral vision - he was concentrating hard as he moved, so he wouldn’t accidentally overrotate his pelvis. As he’d quickly found out, the water could occasionally make things a little too easy if he didn’t watch himself, despite his therapist’s guiding hands. “I’m jus’ happy it don’t hurt near as bad when I’m in here.”
“See, that’s the buoyancy of the water workin’, John. Principle of Archimedes.”
“Principal a where?”
“Ain’t a where, it’s a who,” Rob explained patiently. “Archimedes. He was a man, not a school. He said, ‘when a body is wholly or partially immersed in a fluid, it experiences an upthrust equal to the weight of fluid displaced.’”
John paused in the middle of lifting his right knee, fixing him with a stare. “You been goin’ a those classes again, Deckard. Tryin’ a blind me with science.”
Deckard laughed, encouraging him to continue forward motion with a light guiding pressure. “No slackin’ off, now. What that means, all broke down to where a dumbass such as yourself can understand it, is the water decreases the joint compression from load bearin’ stress. Your skinny ass don’t weigh as much in the pool, so that eases the pain an’ your muscles c’n work easier. So we c’n strengthen you up some for when we get some meat back on your bones.”
“Not gonna happen from the food in here, that’s fer sure,” John grumbled. “Girls brought me somethin’ last night, looked like roadkill. Tasted like it, too.”
“Sounds like the voice of experience to me,” Deckard grinned. “Tell you what. Charlene’s makin’ pot roast tonight. What d’you say I bring in leftovers for you tomorrow?”
John smiled, trying not to look too pathetically grateful. “I’d kiss you fer that, but you ain’t my type.”
Rob’s mouth twitched. “Well, shit, I don’t know if that’s supposed to make me feel good or bad. ‘Specially comin’ from a guy who don’t remember what in the hell his type is.”
“Well, it’s gotta be taller, blonder and with a lot more curves than you, that’s fer damn sure,” John retorted. The words came out much harsher than he’d meant them to, and he clamped his mouth shut, shoving down the sharp edges of his anger. He pushed forward again, a little too fast, the resistance of the water almost knocking him off balance.
“Easy now,” Deckard said mildly. “Gonna be pickin’ metal off the bottom, you’re not careful.”
Something inside John was threatening to boil over and explode, spatter his insides all over the walls of the pool. He stopped, taking a deep breath, trying against the odds to contain it. It ain’t right to be angry, the voice in his head said. Not with these people, when you owe ‘em all so much. “ ’M sorry, Rob. It’s just…”
He shook his head, biting off the words, staring at the water. In the beginning he’d tried his best to go with the flow, give it time, but by now his repeated failure to recall anything was starting to make him hate any reminder of how much of his life was still missing.
Deckard watched him for a moment, then squeezed his shoulder. “Still nothin’?”
There was understanding in his voice, and John tried hard to be grateful for it, instead of feeling like it was going to choke him to death. “Nothin’ I can make any sense out of. Bits a things, mostly. Like I get a couple pieces a one a them jigsaw puzzles, only I ain’t got the picture on the box so they don’t do me no good.”
“I ain’t no expert, but it stands to reason there’s more where they came from,” Deckard pointed out. “You just gotta wait it out, get a few more of those pieces and then you’ll be able to figure out what they mean.”
“Yeah,” John said, looking up again, trying for a smile that he knew didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s what they all keep saying. Wait.”
“Healin’ takes the time it takes, John,” Deckard said, and John could feel the weight of too much knowing behind his words. “Cain’t do nothin’ to hurry it up.”
John exhaled, nodded. “C’mon, you’re done for now,” Rob said. “Ain’t gonna do yourself no good, all riled up like that. Gonna put you in the whirlpool for a piece, get those muscles loosened up again or you’ll be payin’ for it tonight.”
Feeling exhaustion start to pluck at him, beginning to ache all over from the exertion and the tension of the emotional outburst, John didn’t even think about arguing. It was getting tough just to stand up, even in the water. Deckard waved over Rick Washington, the brawny ex army orderly who usually brought John down from his room, to help him hoist John out of the pool and back into his chair. But before he could move his patient over to the whirlpool bath with its therapeutic jets, a call came in and Rob had to excuse himself to take it in the office.
White and drained and a little nauseated, John found he was sincerely grateful to just sit and rest for a while. He’d come a long way in these short few weeks, but he could still feel very bad indeed without warning. He was starting to get used to these abrupt drains of energy, going from feeling fairly normal one minute to being so wiped out he couldn’t crawl two feet by himself the next. He’d learned the hard way it wasn’t smart to fight it. Passin’ out is your body’s way of sayin’ it needs rest, Rob was fond of saying to him. Maybe it was finally starting to sink in.
Rick Washington wheeled him over to the floor to ceiling windows on the south side of the therapy wing, parking the chair where the early afternoon sun was making bright patterns on the red tile patio. John leaned his head back and closed his eyes, absorbing the warmth like a lizard on a hot rock. As far as he was concerned, Rob Deckard could take the rest of the day on that phone.
* * * * *
Ennis was nearing Pueblo by the time the sinking sun was beginning to cast long shadows across Pike’s Peak. Following the directions Russ Malone had given him, he exited I-25 a handful of miles short of the junction of Highway 50, taking several more turns until he saw the gate to the Chili Pepper Ranch appear to his right. He drove under the adobe arch, heading the truck and trailer down a narrow, dusty access road between rows of mesquite trees. Several of the ranch’s quarter horses grazed in the pasture to his left, coats burnished to a copper glow by the setting sun.
The ranch house itself was long and low to the ground, an attractive hacienda style building with a veranda that ran all the way across the front under a row of arches. In front of it the driveway formed a large turning circle around a central island with a stone fountain in its center. If there were other vehicles, he couldn’t see where they were parked, so Ennis simply pulled the truck and trailer over to one side of the circle and turned off the engine. They could tell him where to park at the house.
Shaking out the stiffness of a day’s driving, he walked through one of the arches and down the tile of the veranda to the big, iron-braced wood door. A hand printed sign on it said, “Use the bell, we’ll never hear you if you knock.” Mouth quirking, he eschewed the heavy iron door knocker and pressed the more modern doorbell to the side instead. He could dimly hear the deep, mellow chimes sound through the rooms inside.
The door opened moments later and a teenage girl with glasses and hair the color of straw peered up at him. “Yes?”
“Ah…I’m lookin’ for Sid…”
The girl turned, cutting short his explanation with a holler so loud it made Ennis wince involuntarily. “Mom! There’s some guy down here!”
She glanced back at him and shrugged. “Hang here for a minute. She’ll be right down.”
Bemused, Ennis stood there watching her departing back. Somewhere out of his field of vision there was a verbal exchange he couldn’t quite make out, and then a woman in a western shirt and jeans appeared at the door. She stood almost six feet tall in her cowboy boots, a blonde beauty with strong Nordic features and light blue eyes. She smiled at him, and for the first time the lines etched into her deeply tanned skin revealed that she was his age or maybe even a little older. “Can I help you?”
Ennis swept off his hat, almost in reflex. “Ah, yes, ma’am. I’m lookin’ for Sid.”
“Sid?” The woman looked at him blankly. Then comprehension dawned, and she laughed. “Oh, you mean Syb! That’s me. Sybil MacNamara. I own this place. And you must be Ennis Del Mar, all the way from Wyoming.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ennis took the hand she offered, she had a firm, strong grip.
“Call me Syb. You must be pretty tired from all that driving, Ennis. Come inside, I’ll get you something to drink.”
“That sounds fine, ma’am…uh, Syb…but I got horses to see to first. Can you have someone show me where to take ‘em?”
Sybil smiled. “I’ll do that myself. Most of the hands are off on a trail ride with the paying customers, won’t be home for another hour or so. Come on, let’s find a place for those horses. Then we can call Russ and tell him you got here safe and sound. I’m sure you won’t rest until you do that, either.”
“Probably not, ma’am,” Ennis responded, matching her deadpan tone. She glanced sideways at him, and he saw her mouth twitch at the corners. He ducked his head, hiding his smile. He could see why Russ Malone liked her.
She showed him where to stable the colts, demonstrating very quickly and with a minimum of fuss that she was very much the hands on owner of this horse ranch. She helped him feed and water both horses and brush them down, getting them settled for the night. “These two are for Roy Parker down in Texas, I hear.”
“Yeah, I’m takin’ ‘em into Childress tomorrow.” Ennis glanced up from where he was worrying a small stone free of one of the colts’ hooves.
“Wish I could spare my foreman every time I need to make a delivery halfway across the country,” she said, sounding amused.
“Ain’t exactly like that,” Ennis said, shoulders setting a little uncomfortably with having a conversation that revealed even this much of his personal business, although he couldn’t think of a single good reason not to say what he was saying. “I was makin’ the trip anyway - personal reasons. Mr. Malone and I just saw our way clear to doin’ each other a favor.”
Sybil came around the head of the colt he was checking. “Personal reasons, huh?” She smiled, eyebrows arching up teasingly. “You don’t exactly strike me as much of a traveler. So what is it? You’re getting married? Somebody died?”
Taken completely by surprise, Ennis flinched away, the words landing on him like a physical blow. He flailed for balance against the rising storm of his grief, swallowing hard, fighting desperately to choke it back. Sybil was beside him at once, fingers touching his arm. “Oh, God, Ennis, I’m so sorry. That was…please, forgive me. I didn’t mean… I’m always in trouble for the things I say, I’m much too blunt, I know it. My own daughter says that, and she’s fourteen!”
Ennis nodded, unwilling to trust his voice yet. His throat felt too swollen, too clogged for speech. He could feel her eyes on him, silently begged her to let it go. He was tired, he’d spent a long day driving and reflecting and thinking about Jack, stewing in a sea of regrets and self recrimination. He was dangerously close to losing it, and he couldn’t do that, not here, not now. Not in this place so far from home, in front of a total stranger.
Whether part of her heard him, he would never know. But he heard the smile in her voice when she spoke. “Well, Ennis, I know just the thing we both need. We’re going into town, and I’m going to buy you a drink. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”
* * * * *
At first, he thought he was flying. The way the ground sped past beneath him, the wind snatching at his hair and buffeting at his ears, the cold striking at him like needles against his skin. But then there came an awareness of other things - the driving, familiar rhythm that pounded up through his body, the long dun neck stretching out in front of him, black mane streaming back, small ears flattened back against the skull. The powerful ribs pumping like bellows under him, the explosive grunting exhalations of the horse’s breath as it ran.
As it bolted.
He’d been on horses running scared like this before. He knew that, although he couldn’t remember when, or where. He also knew what to do, how to stop this. His hands scrabbled on the corded neck below him, feeling for…
But there was nothing there to help him. No reins.
The horse had no reins.
What the fuck…?
Winding his fingers into the coarse hair of its mane, he risked a quick glance up, squinting, eyes tearing up against the cold wind. Ahead of him of him was a long, shallow slope, and after that, about two hundred yards away…nothing.
He started yelling at the horse, punching its neck, reaching as far forward as he dared without losing his balance to pulling on its thick mane with everything he had. Trying anything he could think of to get its attention.
It ignored him, running flat out towards certain death.
They plunged down the slope together at a full out gallop, the horse’s long legs eating up the distance. Mesmerized, he stared at the drop off, coming right at them.
Throw yourself off, you dumbass!
This was going to hurt. He braced himself, counted to three…then three again. Took a deep breath, counted one more time, squeezed his eyes shut and threw himself sideways.
Nothing happened. He opened his eyes, and he was still on the horse, hurtling toward destruction.
He couldn’t move.
Panic gripped him then, twisting hard into his gut. He tried to lift himself up, to wrench himself free. The lower part of his body seemed frozen in place, refusing to obey him.
The drop off loomed. The horse ran, hooves thundering across the scrub grass, flecks of saliva streaking its neck like white foam.
Unless he really could fly, he was going to die.
Then he saw it, out of the corner of his eye, two seconds before it hit them. A dark, hulking blur, barreling in from the right side, too fast and too close for his mind to process what his eyes were seeing. The horse he was riding was wrenched off course, jack-knifing its body to the left, half rearing up and staggering with the sheer effort of keeping its balance against the violent change of direction. All he could do was shut his eyes reflexively and hang on as he was dragged around in a circle and chaos boiled all around him.
All at once, he realized it was over. The horse’s body under him was standing still, trembling with exertion. He eased his cramped grip of its mane, shaking quite a bit himself, opened his eyes again.
They were six feet from the edge, and there was another rider there, right beside him. A rider on a dark bay horse, holding the dun horse’s reins in one gloved hand.
Reins. Where the fuck did they…?
He looked up, dumbfounded. The other rider was between him and the sun, the harsh brightness backlighting him and throwing his features into deep, unfathomable shadow. All he could see was a lock of dark blond hair, curling down from under a cream colored hat.
“John. John, wake up. John…”
He started awake, blinking, staring in confusion at the stranger bending over him and gently shaking his shoulder. He couldn’t make out the newcomer clearly, standing as he was against the sun that streamed in through the tall windows of the therapy wing.
“I’m sorry, John, I didn’t mean to startle you. We haven’t met. I’m Lukas Jarosek. Luke. I work with Rob Deckard.”
“You’re…a therapist?” John’s mind was still playing catchup, half of him still lost in that dream, the charging horse, the drop off, the man who’d come out of nowhere and rescued him. He wanted time, dammit…time to hold what he could remember of it before it slipped from his grasp, time to figure out what it meant. What if it was a memory, an honest to God real memory? Despairingly, he realized he had no real way of telling, one way or another.
“Sure am,” the man was replying. “My specialty’s sports medicine. Do a lot of work with the Raiders. Look, Rob had to leave early, had a family emergency. He asked me if I’d take over, get you into the whirlpool, see you back to your room.”
Still staring up at him, John realized belatedly that the newcomer was waiting for a response. “Uh…yeah, sure. Why not? Show old man Deckard we can have fun without him, right?”
The joke was instinctive with him, something in him that always rose up when he met people for the first time. He imagined it had been useful in his former life, smoothing the way, making them feel instantly comfortable with him. In his limited observations since he’d come here, he could only hope he’d used the ability wisely, since he had almost always seen it work.
This time was no exception. The young man - and he was young, John could see that now as he stepped sideways slightly, taking his face out of the direct path of the sun - smiled down at him, even blushing a little at the directness of John's attention. He was in his early thirties at the very most, and handsome, with warm brown eyes and thick curls of blond hair that brushed over the collar of his athletic shirt.
Curls of blond hair.
John stared at them, mesmerized. Rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak. Time felt like it was slowing down, stretching out around him, like he was about to drop through the center of the earth.
“John..?”
John dragged his eyes up at last, taking in the questioning expression on the younger man’s face. Later, he promised himself. Later, you’ll figure this out. But right now you gotta get it together, ‘cause you’re freakin’ this poor kid out.
He forced the corners of his mouth upward. “Let’s go, Luke,” he said, making himself look away. “Got me some real important prunin’ to do.”
tbc
Title: Lost, Part 18
Rating: PG-13. But there's sex in the next update, I promise. Honest. Cross two cowboys and hope to die. :-)
Pairing: Jack/Ennis
Teaser: Ennis gets the worst news of his life, but all may not be quite as it seems...
Disclaimer: Jack and Ennis are not mine. Neither are any of the other original characters from the wonderful "Brokeback Mountain." They belong to Annie Proulx, and I am only borrowing them for a little while...
Author's Note: Argh. Just...argh. But here it is anyway. Pitched at you-all quick, while the internet connection holds.
Hydrotherapy, John had decided five minutes into his first session in the University Medical Center’s heated therapy pool, was a gift straight from the gods.
Never mind all those facts and figures about the benefits of the process that Rob Deckard insisted on spouting like an animated brochure, the warm water just felt good. “Know what that is, John? That’s your peripheral blood flow increasin’ an’ your vascular resistance goin’ up by thirty percent.”
“Feels jus’ fine to me, Rob, you talkin’ shit ‘bout it don’t change a thing.” That got a grin from Deckard that John only glimpsed with his peripheral vision - he was concentrating hard as he moved, so he wouldn’t accidentally overrotate his pelvis. As he’d quickly found out, the water could occasionally make things a little too easy if he didn’t watch himself, despite his therapist’s guiding hands. “I’m jus’ happy it don’t hurt near as bad when I’m in here.”
“See, that’s the buoyancy of the water workin’, John. Principle of Archimedes.”
“Principal a where?”
“Ain’t a where, it’s a who,” Rob explained patiently. “Archimedes. He was a man, not a school. He said, ‘when a body is wholly or partially immersed in a fluid, it experiences an upthrust equal to the weight of fluid displaced.’”
John paused in the middle of lifting his right knee, fixing him with a stare. “You been goin’ a those classes again, Deckard. Tryin’ a blind me with science.”
Deckard laughed, encouraging him to continue forward motion with a light guiding pressure. “No slackin’ off, now. What that means, all broke down to where a dumbass such as yourself can understand it, is the water decreases the joint compression from load bearin’ stress. Your skinny ass don’t weigh as much in the pool, so that eases the pain an’ your muscles c’n work easier. So we c’n strengthen you up some for when we get some meat back on your bones.”
“Not gonna happen from the food in here, that’s fer sure,” John grumbled. “Girls brought me somethin’ last night, looked like roadkill. Tasted like it, too.”
“Sounds like the voice of experience to me,” Deckard grinned. “Tell you what. Charlene’s makin’ pot roast tonight. What d’you say I bring in leftovers for you tomorrow?”
John smiled, trying not to look too pathetically grateful. “I’d kiss you fer that, but you ain’t my type.”
Rob’s mouth twitched. “Well, shit, I don’t know if that’s supposed to make me feel good or bad. ‘Specially comin’ from a guy who don’t remember what in the hell his type is.”
“Well, it’s gotta be taller, blonder and with a lot more curves than you, that’s fer damn sure,” John retorted. The words came out much harsher than he’d meant them to, and he clamped his mouth shut, shoving down the sharp edges of his anger. He pushed forward again, a little too fast, the resistance of the water almost knocking him off balance.
“Easy now,” Deckard said mildly. “Gonna be pickin’ metal off the bottom, you’re not careful.”
Something inside John was threatening to boil over and explode, spatter his insides all over the walls of the pool. He stopped, taking a deep breath, trying against the odds to contain it. It ain’t right to be angry, the voice in his head said. Not with these people, when you owe ‘em all so much. “ ’M sorry, Rob. It’s just…”
He shook his head, biting off the words, staring at the water. In the beginning he’d tried his best to go with the flow, give it time, but by now his repeated failure to recall anything was starting to make him hate any reminder of how much of his life was still missing.
Deckard watched him for a moment, then squeezed his shoulder. “Still nothin’?”
There was understanding in his voice, and John tried hard to be grateful for it, instead of feeling like it was going to choke him to death. “Nothin’ I can make any sense out of. Bits a things, mostly. Like I get a couple pieces a one a them jigsaw puzzles, only I ain’t got the picture on the box so they don’t do me no good.”
“I ain’t no expert, but it stands to reason there’s more where they came from,” Deckard pointed out. “You just gotta wait it out, get a few more of those pieces and then you’ll be able to figure out what they mean.”
“Yeah,” John said, looking up again, trying for a smile that he knew didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s what they all keep saying. Wait.”
“Healin’ takes the time it takes, John,” Deckard said, and John could feel the weight of too much knowing behind his words. “Cain’t do nothin’ to hurry it up.”
John exhaled, nodded. “C’mon, you’re done for now,” Rob said. “Ain’t gonna do yourself no good, all riled up like that. Gonna put you in the whirlpool for a piece, get those muscles loosened up again or you’ll be payin’ for it tonight.”
Feeling exhaustion start to pluck at him, beginning to ache all over from the exertion and the tension of the emotional outburst, John didn’t even think about arguing. It was getting tough just to stand up, even in the water. Deckard waved over Rick Washington, the brawny ex army orderly who usually brought John down from his room, to help him hoist John out of the pool and back into his chair. But before he could move his patient over to the whirlpool bath with its therapeutic jets, a call came in and Rob had to excuse himself to take it in the office.
White and drained and a little nauseated, John found he was sincerely grateful to just sit and rest for a while. He’d come a long way in these short few weeks, but he could still feel very bad indeed without warning. He was starting to get used to these abrupt drains of energy, going from feeling fairly normal one minute to being so wiped out he couldn’t crawl two feet by himself the next. He’d learned the hard way it wasn’t smart to fight it. Passin’ out is your body’s way of sayin’ it needs rest, Rob was fond of saying to him. Maybe it was finally starting to sink in.
Rick Washington wheeled him over to the floor to ceiling windows on the south side of the therapy wing, parking the chair where the early afternoon sun was making bright patterns on the red tile patio. John leaned his head back and closed his eyes, absorbing the warmth like a lizard on a hot rock. As far as he was concerned, Rob Deckard could take the rest of the day on that phone.
* * * * *
Ennis was nearing Pueblo by the time the sinking sun was beginning to cast long shadows across Pike’s Peak. Following the directions Russ Malone had given him, he exited I-25 a handful of miles short of the junction of Highway 50, taking several more turns until he saw the gate to the Chili Pepper Ranch appear to his right. He drove under the adobe arch, heading the truck and trailer down a narrow, dusty access road between rows of mesquite trees. Several of the ranch’s quarter horses grazed in the pasture to his left, coats burnished to a copper glow by the setting sun.
The ranch house itself was long and low to the ground, an attractive hacienda style building with a veranda that ran all the way across the front under a row of arches. In front of it the driveway formed a large turning circle around a central island with a stone fountain in its center. If there were other vehicles, he couldn’t see where they were parked, so Ennis simply pulled the truck and trailer over to one side of the circle and turned off the engine. They could tell him where to park at the house.
Shaking out the stiffness of a day’s driving, he walked through one of the arches and down the tile of the veranda to the big, iron-braced wood door. A hand printed sign on it said, “Use the bell, we’ll never hear you if you knock.” Mouth quirking, he eschewed the heavy iron door knocker and pressed the more modern doorbell to the side instead. He could dimly hear the deep, mellow chimes sound through the rooms inside.
The door opened moments later and a teenage girl with glasses and hair the color of straw peered up at him. “Yes?”
“Ah…I’m lookin’ for Sid…”
The girl turned, cutting short his explanation with a holler so loud it made Ennis wince involuntarily. “Mom! There’s some guy down here!”
She glanced back at him and shrugged. “Hang here for a minute. She’ll be right down.”
Bemused, Ennis stood there watching her departing back. Somewhere out of his field of vision there was a verbal exchange he couldn’t quite make out, and then a woman in a western shirt and jeans appeared at the door. She stood almost six feet tall in her cowboy boots, a blonde beauty with strong Nordic features and light blue eyes. She smiled at him, and for the first time the lines etched into her deeply tanned skin revealed that she was his age or maybe even a little older. “Can I help you?”
Ennis swept off his hat, almost in reflex. “Ah, yes, ma’am. I’m lookin’ for Sid.”
“Sid?” The woman looked at him blankly. Then comprehension dawned, and she laughed. “Oh, you mean Syb! That’s me. Sybil MacNamara. I own this place. And you must be Ennis Del Mar, all the way from Wyoming.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ennis took the hand she offered, she had a firm, strong grip.
“Call me Syb. You must be pretty tired from all that driving, Ennis. Come inside, I’ll get you something to drink.”
“That sounds fine, ma’am…uh, Syb…but I got horses to see to first. Can you have someone show me where to take ‘em?”
Sybil smiled. “I’ll do that myself. Most of the hands are off on a trail ride with the paying customers, won’t be home for another hour or so. Come on, let’s find a place for those horses. Then we can call Russ and tell him you got here safe and sound. I’m sure you won’t rest until you do that, either.”
“Probably not, ma’am,” Ennis responded, matching her deadpan tone. She glanced sideways at him, and he saw her mouth twitch at the corners. He ducked his head, hiding his smile. He could see why Russ Malone liked her.
She showed him where to stable the colts, demonstrating very quickly and with a minimum of fuss that she was very much the hands on owner of this horse ranch. She helped him feed and water both horses and brush them down, getting them settled for the night. “These two are for Roy Parker down in Texas, I hear.”
“Yeah, I’m takin’ ‘em into Childress tomorrow.” Ennis glanced up from where he was worrying a small stone free of one of the colts’ hooves.
“Wish I could spare my foreman every time I need to make a delivery halfway across the country,” she said, sounding amused.
“Ain’t exactly like that,” Ennis said, shoulders setting a little uncomfortably with having a conversation that revealed even this much of his personal business, although he couldn’t think of a single good reason not to say what he was saying. “I was makin’ the trip anyway - personal reasons. Mr. Malone and I just saw our way clear to doin’ each other a favor.”
Sybil came around the head of the colt he was checking. “Personal reasons, huh?” She smiled, eyebrows arching up teasingly. “You don’t exactly strike me as much of a traveler. So what is it? You’re getting married? Somebody died?”
Taken completely by surprise, Ennis flinched away, the words landing on him like a physical blow. He flailed for balance against the rising storm of his grief, swallowing hard, fighting desperately to choke it back. Sybil was beside him at once, fingers touching his arm. “Oh, God, Ennis, I’m so sorry. That was…please, forgive me. I didn’t mean… I’m always in trouble for the things I say, I’m much too blunt, I know it. My own daughter says that, and she’s fourteen!”
Ennis nodded, unwilling to trust his voice yet. His throat felt too swollen, too clogged for speech. He could feel her eyes on him, silently begged her to let it go. He was tired, he’d spent a long day driving and reflecting and thinking about Jack, stewing in a sea of regrets and self recrimination. He was dangerously close to losing it, and he couldn’t do that, not here, not now. Not in this place so far from home, in front of a total stranger.
Whether part of her heard him, he would never know. But he heard the smile in her voice when she spoke. “Well, Ennis, I know just the thing we both need. We’re going into town, and I’m going to buy you a drink. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”
* * * * *
At first, he thought he was flying. The way the ground sped past beneath him, the wind snatching at his hair and buffeting at his ears, the cold striking at him like needles against his skin. But then there came an awareness of other things - the driving, familiar rhythm that pounded up through his body, the long dun neck stretching out in front of him, black mane streaming back, small ears flattened back against the skull. The powerful ribs pumping like bellows under him, the explosive grunting exhalations of the horse’s breath as it ran.
As it bolted.
He’d been on horses running scared like this before. He knew that, although he couldn’t remember when, or where. He also knew what to do, how to stop this. His hands scrabbled on the corded neck below him, feeling for…
But there was nothing there to help him. No reins.
The horse had no reins.
What the fuck…?
Winding his fingers into the coarse hair of its mane, he risked a quick glance up, squinting, eyes tearing up against the cold wind. Ahead of him of him was a long, shallow slope, and after that, about two hundred yards away…nothing.
He started yelling at the horse, punching its neck, reaching as far forward as he dared without losing his balance to pulling on its thick mane with everything he had. Trying anything he could think of to get its attention.
It ignored him, running flat out towards certain death.
They plunged down the slope together at a full out gallop, the horse’s long legs eating up the distance. Mesmerized, he stared at the drop off, coming right at them.
Throw yourself off, you dumbass!
This was going to hurt. He braced himself, counted to three…then three again. Took a deep breath, counted one more time, squeezed his eyes shut and threw himself sideways.
Nothing happened. He opened his eyes, and he was still on the horse, hurtling toward destruction.
He couldn’t move.
Panic gripped him then, twisting hard into his gut. He tried to lift himself up, to wrench himself free. The lower part of his body seemed frozen in place, refusing to obey him.
The drop off loomed. The horse ran, hooves thundering across the scrub grass, flecks of saliva streaking its neck like white foam.
Unless he really could fly, he was going to die.
Then he saw it, out of the corner of his eye, two seconds before it hit them. A dark, hulking blur, barreling in from the right side, too fast and too close for his mind to process what his eyes were seeing. The horse he was riding was wrenched off course, jack-knifing its body to the left, half rearing up and staggering with the sheer effort of keeping its balance against the violent change of direction. All he could do was shut his eyes reflexively and hang on as he was dragged around in a circle and chaos boiled all around him.
All at once, he realized it was over. The horse’s body under him was standing still, trembling with exertion. He eased his cramped grip of its mane, shaking quite a bit himself, opened his eyes again.
They were six feet from the edge, and there was another rider there, right beside him. A rider on a dark bay horse, holding the dun horse’s reins in one gloved hand.
Reins. Where the fuck did they…?
He looked up, dumbfounded. The other rider was between him and the sun, the harsh brightness backlighting him and throwing his features into deep, unfathomable shadow. All he could see was a lock of dark blond hair, curling down from under a cream colored hat.
“John. John, wake up. John…”
He started awake, blinking, staring in confusion at the stranger bending over him and gently shaking his shoulder. He couldn’t make out the newcomer clearly, standing as he was against the sun that streamed in through the tall windows of the therapy wing.
“I’m sorry, John, I didn’t mean to startle you. We haven’t met. I’m Lukas Jarosek. Luke. I work with Rob Deckard.”
“You’re…a therapist?” John’s mind was still playing catchup, half of him still lost in that dream, the charging horse, the drop off, the man who’d come out of nowhere and rescued him. He wanted time, dammit…time to hold what he could remember of it before it slipped from his grasp, time to figure out what it meant. What if it was a memory, an honest to God real memory? Despairingly, he realized he had no real way of telling, one way or another.
“Sure am,” the man was replying. “My specialty’s sports medicine. Do a lot of work with the Raiders. Look, Rob had to leave early, had a family emergency. He asked me if I’d take over, get you into the whirlpool, see you back to your room.”
Still staring up at him, John realized belatedly that the newcomer was waiting for a response. “Uh…yeah, sure. Why not? Show old man Deckard we can have fun without him, right?”
The joke was instinctive with him, something in him that always rose up when he met people for the first time. He imagined it had been useful in his former life, smoothing the way, making them feel instantly comfortable with him. In his limited observations since he’d come here, he could only hope he’d used the ability wisely, since he had almost always seen it work.
This time was no exception. The young man - and he was young, John could see that now as he stepped sideways slightly, taking his face out of the direct path of the sun - smiled down at him, even blushing a little at the directness of John's attention. He was in his early thirties at the very most, and handsome, with warm brown eyes and thick curls of blond hair that brushed over the collar of his athletic shirt.
Curls of blond hair.
John stared at them, mesmerized. Rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak. Time felt like it was slowing down, stretching out around him, like he was about to drop through the center of the earth.
“John..?”
John dragged his eyes up at last, taking in the questioning expression on the younger man’s face. Later, he promised himself. Later, you’ll figure this out. But right now you gotta get it together, ‘cause you’re freakin’ this poor kid out.
He forced the corners of his mouth upward. “Let’s go, Luke,” he said, making himself look away. “Got me some real important prunin’ to do.”
tbc