Wide Open Space (for aerye)
Recipient: aerye
Title: Wide Open Space
Author: kelliem and aukestrel
Fandom and Pairing: Getting Married in Buffalo Jump/Paris or Somewhere - Alex Bresnyachuk/Christy Mahon
Word Count: currently 30,000+
Even though we actually did start this two months ago, it's turned out to be longer than we thought it would be (how shocked are you to hear that?). So here's part 1, to be followed shortly by part 2 and possibly even part 3, today or tomorrow.
Soundtrack: Dreaming In Colour, Black Lab; Free for A While, Newcomers Home; To Salt A Scar, Belle & Sebastian; Voodoo, Paul Gross & David Keeley; Wait, Sarah McLachlan; Bobcaygeon, Tragically Hip; Hard Times, Eastmountainsouth; By Way of Sorrow, Cry Cry Cry; Missile, I Am X; Wheat Kings, Tragically Hip; One Day I Walk, k.d. lang; Wide Open, Black Lab; Summer Song, Carbon Leaf; All You People, Seven Nations. And if this were really a CD, your bonus track would be "Ride Forever."
Written for aerye for BrooklineGirl's midsummer2006 challenge. She said, "I would still love to read something slashing one of CKR's (nice!) characters with Alex from GMiBJ." Well, hell, who wouldn't? So AuK emailed Kellie and said, "Hey! What are you doing for the next month?" Then theamusedone rose to the challenge by getting us both copies of PoS and BJ by priority mail; and (as if that wasn't already above and beyond the call of duty) has been a very patient read-through-er.
Crossover: Alex Bresnyachuk/Christy Mahon (Getting Married in Buffalo Jump/Paris or Somewhere). Slash (duh), NC-17 (double duh). Timeline's basically following GMiBJ, since you can never really tell how old CKR's supposed to be at any given time. This takes place, therefore, about five years after the events of GMiBJ.
Wide Open Space
Alex is a week late, at least a week behind everyone else. Ilya and Irina had caught the chicken pox and even though he'd been vaccinated, he got it anyway. Who knew vaccinations expired? Three weeks later he's still faintly spotty, but at least the fever's gone and he can function again. So here he is, racing the weather to get the hay baled and the cattle down from the higher pastures. The problem is, all the seasonal workers have already been snapped up by the other farmers and ranchers who are at least a week ahead of him.
On the off chance that someone has already finished up and released his crew, Alex pulls into the parking lot of Beulah's, which serves as a sort of unofficial employment agency this time of year. A quick glance at the benches on either side of the door where the workers usually congregate in the early mornings lowers his spirits. One lone figure is slouched against the arm of the left-hand bench, gimme-cap pulled down over his eyes, duffel bag at his feet. Even from the truck Alex can see he looks underfed. Probably not much stamina.
Still, beggars can't be choosers. He opens the door and swings down to the pavement, resisting the urge to scratch his crotch- the worst of the pox had hit his groin and it still itches like he'd been swarmed by mosquitoes - and then shuts the door again. The fellow on the bench looks up at the sound, squinting and shading his eyes against the sun that was rising behind Alex's back. As Alex approaches, he stands up, his posture tentatively hopeful.
"Looking to hire?"
Alex nods. "Need to get the hay in. Won't be easy, just two of us."
The other man smiles suddenly, an odd little half-wince, half-smile, and shrugs. "I'm stronger than I look. Can't be any harder than planting potatoes."
"Room, board, and twenty-five dollars a day. Three hundred dollar bonus if we get everything done before the weather turns. You had breakfast?"
"I could eat," the other man says, and sticks out his hand. They shake on the deal.
"Alex Bresnyachuk," Alex says, and motions toward the door of the diner.
"Christy Mahon." He picks up his duffel bag and falls into step next to Alex.
After they both order the breakfast special (four eggs, ham, hash-browned potatoes, biscuits and coffee) Alex studies his new employee, noting with some satisfaction that although he's rail thin, his arms are corded with muscle that hasn't come from a gym and his hands are callused, long, knobby fingers scratched and scarred from working. His eyes are bright, blue and fringed with almost womanly lashes and his sun-bleached hair is overlong and tends to flop into his eyes. Alex would've guessed him to be in his early twenties but the crows-feet beginning to fan the corners of his eyes makes him revise his estimate up a little. He reminds Alex a little bit of someone but he can't quite put his finger on who yet.
It'll come to him.
"Just passing through?" he asks, not because he's making conversation but because he knows everyone in town, and fifty miles outside it too. Christy puts sugar in his coffee, three packets, and stirred it before he answers.
"Don't know yet."
Alex nods, accepting the uncertainty. "We're a week behind so I'm looking to work seven days a week. If you go to church you're welcome to use the truck."
"What about you?" Christy asks.
"I'm not a churchgoing man."
"Seven days is fine by me."
Breakfast arrives and is eaten in a companionable silence, broken only by requests for refills on coffee. After fourth cups are drunk and plates cleaned of all but grease, Christy stands and picks up his bag. "I guess we'd best get working."
Alex nods, pleased, and starts out the door, only to hesitate. "You got a car?"
Christy shakes his head. "Crapped out on me in Shelby. That's why I'm late to the dance."
"Put your bag in back, then." Alex jerks a thumb at the truck. "If you need to go into town for anything while you're with us, let me know."
"Us?" Christy asks. "Thought you said just you and me."
"Just us working, but my kids live with me most of the time." He frowns. "Have you ever had chicken pox?"
"Yeah, when I was six. Itched like a sumbitch. I still have scars. I never was much good at self control." Christy studies him for a moment, then grins. "That's why you're running late, isn't it?"
Alex nods ruefully and Christy chuckles. "Put oatmeal in your bathwater, it helps. That's a trick I learned after I cleared a field of poison ivy. How many you got?"
"A hundred and fifty head. Charolais cross. Got to get them down from the summer pasture after we do the haying."
"Actually, I meant kids," Christy says, but then he whistles softly. "Man, a hundred and fifty head, and just you working them?"
"I usually have Bennie to help, but this year he's off to Calgary for university. And my dad's getting too old to lend a hand, and Luke's gone to Toronto." He realized he sounds defensive and shuts up.
"I should've held out for more money," Christy says, then winks. "We'll manage. I've worked cattle before. Sheep too, if you got any. And don't worry about the hay. My dad always said if you raise a lot of hay during the year, you're probably in for a bad winter, or there will be enough to hold over for the next year. But, whenever you got enough hay to hold over, it'll be a bad haymaking year, but the carryover hay will get you through the winter. There's always enough one way or the other."
"Your dad do a lot of ranching?"
"Nope, he raised potatoes. But according to him, he knew everything so you can take his word for it."
Alex finds himself grinning, and shakes his head. "Sounds like your dad and mine are related. Oh, and the answer's three, by the way."
Christy looks at him blankly. "Three?"
"Kids. Bennie's the oldest and he's off to college. The twins are four."
"And that'd be where you got the chicken pox?"
"That'd be where I got the chicken pox," Alex agrees.
"What about your wife?"
Alex clenches the steering wheel, then slowly lets his fingers relax. It's a natural question, after all. "Car accident," he says succinctly. "Drunk driver."
Neither of them says much after that. Alex makes sure to point out the fence at the property boundary, and Christy acknowledges it with a nod. At the house, after he parks and they get out, Christy squints up at the barn and gestures toward it with his duffel.
"'m I bunking there?"
Alex looks at him, startled. "Of course not. You'll have a room in the house, and take your meals with the family." He studies Christy, frowning. "Do many folks ask you to sleep in the barn?"
Christy shrugs. "Lots of people don't have a spare room or a bunkhouse. A barn's not so bad long as you can use a shower somewhere."
"You can use the shower any time you like," Alex says firmly. Even when he'd been a roughneck, no one had expected him to bunk in a barn.
Thinking about roughnecking makes him realize suddenly who it is that Christy reminds him of, and his breath catches. He hasn't thought of Tom Rothberg in a long time. A very long time. Jesus. Tom. It's weird, though, because Christy doesn't remind him of Tom at all personality-wise. Just, they have that same long, wiry body, and the same floppy dirty-blond hair. Christy's better looking though. Tom's square German jaw had always looked a little odd on his narrow face. Christy's face is narrow too, but his jaw's more pointed, more in harmony with the rest of him.
He's really almost... pretty, if you can call a man that. It's obvious that he smiles a lot, because smile lines are starting to groove his cheeks and the corners of eyes that are a blue-hazel mixture and bright with intelligence and curiosity. Alex wonders what he's doing following the harvest. Somehow he strikes him as a man who wants roots, not the rootlessness of seasonal work, although he doesn't know why he thinks that. Not from anything Christy's said so far, anyway. But he does.
Christy twists to look at the horizon, and once again the lean lines of his body and floppy hair make Alex think of Tom Rothberg. He gives himself a mental shake. No point in thinking about Tom. None whatsoever. He nods toward the house and Christy follows without a word, though Alex doesn't miss the quick, puzzled glance toward the barn. He wonders what that was all about.
* * *
Well, he hadn't expected that. But he hadn't expected any of it, from the truck crapping out in Shelby to the combine salesman on his way to points west to Alex Bresnyachuk, widower.
His dad was dead for real this time, stubborn old bastard. Christy still didn't believe it, even when they started shoveling fill dirt into the grave. He thought about throwing in a rock or two but the old man would have just laughed at him.
So Christy headed west, following the harvest, then broke north at Shelby like those rocks were still calling him. His dad left him the farm - well, what else could he do? - but Christy wasn't going to grow spuds, or anything else, not there, not any more. He hadn't done for the past five years, isn't going to now.
He thought about college, for a while, and the old man hadn't said no, but there was more outside than inside, except books, but books could go outside, inside, anywhere. His duffel was heavier than it should have been 'cause he had to cart them around: his rock and mineral guides, a battered copy of Dubliners, an equally battered translation of Wegener. He was working his way backward, but the Dodson library didn't have much that was more recent than 1930 anyway.
Two kids - no, three - and 150 head... when Alex points out the property line, he does some mental arithmetic, figures Alex has maybe 10 times more than his dad's 100-acre spread. He thought the house would look a little more broken down, but it has a fresh coat of paint, a straight roofline, even flowerboxes.
The barn's in even better shape but Christy'd been expecting that, at least after seeing the house. When he asks if he's bunking there, though, Alex looks like he's just stepped on a spider in the house or something. "No," he says, his voice rougher than it has been. "You'll have a room in the house, take your meals with the family."
Christy shrugs, more to put Alex at ease than anything else, but Alex is still frowning. "Do many folks ask you to sleep in the barn?"
What's "many," Christy wants to ask - this is the first time he's followed the harvest since his dad's stroke, and he still isn't even sure why he's doing it this time - but he shrugs again. "Lots of people don't have a spare room or a bunkhouse -" hell, he and his dad had a four room cabin and that only because his mother had insisted on indoor plumbing, "- so a barn's not so bad long as you can use a shower somewhere." Old bucket rigged up outside, in a couple of places, but the cold water felt damn good after putting up the hay or straw.
"You can use the shower any time you like," Alex says firmly, leading Christy to the house. Christy would have said to start with the barn, but Alex seems kind of put out over the whole barn question so Christy just shuts up and follows.
It's a nice house, a real house with a second floor and clapboard outside. Alex points out the twins' room and shows Christy a room on the other side of the hall, at the end, by the bathroom. He apologizes, even, for the room not being enough but it was as much as Christy ever had, more even: a four poster with a quilt on it, a chest of drawers, even a table by the bed with a lamp. No worries about setting the barn on fire here.
Alex shows him the bathroom too: hot and cold knobs are reversed on the tub. Alex says he'd meant to get around to fixing it but never had the time, and Christy just says as long as you know the trick there isn't much point to worrying. That gets a real smile out of Alex and the line between his eyes, there since Christy asked about the barn, smoothes out.
Christy wonders how old Alex is, with a kid in college and two four year olds. He doesn't look much older than Christy but it's hard to tell. Maybe the twins are from a second marriage... Alex must be older - maybe a lot older - than he looks.
"To be honest," Alex says, leading him down the back stairs to the kitchen, stopping to show him Alex's own room on the way, "some of the meals are taken as they come. I thought I'd pack some sandwiches for lunch. My mom usually brings dinner over when she brings the kids home. Hope you like cabbage."
"I like almost anything, even potatoes," and Alex grins, a real grin, better even than the smile. "Want me to make the sandwiches?"
Alex argues a little, but not much, and they have lunch made and packed lickety-split, with a big thermos of lemonade and another of tea too, and then Alex shows him the main barn. "I got the tractor there already," he says, seeing Christy looking over the equipment. "Haul the rake-tedder out with the truck on our way. Weather holds, we could start baling tomorrow."
Christy wants to ask how he got the tractor there himself, but a whinny answers him: should've known, cause horse and cattle go together like geodes and amethysts, and he hasn't rode a horse himself in some years.
"You ride?" Alex asks, frowning again, like he'd read Christy's mind.
"I have," Christy says. "Guess you don't forget."
"You can ride Bennie's horse, she's real well-mannered," Alex says, that frown smoothing away again. "Won't give you any trouble."
On the way out to the fields Christy figures his first estimate was probably a good one. Alex has a lot of hay in grass and he sees cows in the distance that are probably the ones in the summer pasture.
It's pretty clear, too, that Alex has hayed by himself, using the tractor to mow, then following with the rake-tedder on the pickup. He sets Christy to mowing, telling him the rake can be a mite testy. Christy shrugs: it suits him either way. He notices Alex watching him for a while but he pretends not to see and once Alex sees he knows what he's doing, driving clockwise in, he gets in the pickup.
Could be, too, he was just waiting for Christy to get that far ahead of him. Christy hasn't had much experience with that "benefit of the doubt" thing, and Alex has been nice, real nice, so far. Or, hell, maybe Alex is worried about the tractor, but Christy's seen (and driven) worse. At least this one's got a tight clutch.
The field's smooth so even though the mower's narrower than the disc blade kind Christy's used to he gets done faster than he thought, and Alex not far behind him. Alex shows him a creek in some trees at the back of the field and they break for lunch. Alex had packed up a loaf's worth of sandwiches, back into the bag the bread came from, which Christy thought was maybe overkill, but he's hungrier than he knew and between them they finish off all of them.
"Cut the west field this afternoon," Alex says from under his hat. "Maybe get it done before dinner. It's bigger than this one."
Christy just nods, then says "yeah" in case Alex couldn't see him, and watches, a little surprised, while Alex goes to sleep. He's not tired, himself, so he watches the birds around the creek, some fish rising in the shadow of the bank. He remembers after a while that Alex had chicken pox and he wonders if Alex ought to even be working.
Not his concern, after all, and Alex a grown man.
He lets Alex sleep for about an hour, near as he can tell, then kicks his boot gently. Alex wakes up fast but not startled, and when he knocks his hat back, Christy's kind of surprised to see Alex grinning. He thought he might be embarrassed or maybe even mad. He's never worked for someone who took a nap in the middle of haying.
"I needed that," Alex says, stretching and yawning. "Appreciate it."
"Nice break," Christy says, and it was: he's never minded being alone, figured out that he likes it better than being with people, overall, but being with Alex sleeping is just about the same thing.
They finish off the tea, saving the lemonade for later, and Alex leads the way to the "west field." It's got a killer view, cliffs Christy strains to see through the bright sunlight, and his mouth is suddenly watering at the prospect of the rocks there. He knows Alberta's rocks but when they get back to the house he needs to see if there's anything here he ought to be looking for.
This field is bigger and not as smooth: about halfway through Christy hears a crunch and a crack. Alex is out of the pickup, looking worried, almost before Christy gets off the tractor. Christy guesses that Alex's equipment is maybe second hand, or maybe he's just worried about the weather.
"Just a blade," Alex says, sounding relieved, and Christy nods, relieved just because Alex is. He watches, too, while Alex pops off the section and hammers off the broken blade, bolting on another one he got out of the truck in its place. "Used to be," Alex says, tightening the bolt with a grunt, "had to weld 'em on. Picked this up at an auction couple years ago and got my money's worth in time alone."
"Handy," Christy agrees, wondering at the same time if Alex is just tired or always this calm: when the old man's seed cutter threw a disc, he'd blow a gasket, wasting more time and energy stomping around yelling at God and the devil and everyone in between than it would have taken just to fix it.
He drives a little slower the rest of the field but he's surprised when Alex waves him down: the sun's lower in the sky but nowhere near sinking.
"Dinner," Alex says, waving him over.
He barely gets settled in the truck before they're bouncing away across the field. "My mom's taken the kids for the harvest," Alex says after a few minutes, like he's just remembered there's someone else in the cab. "But she brings them over for dinner."
"Can't be late," Christy agrees, wondering still: Alex isn't like any other rancher (or farmer) Christy's ever met.
The driveway's empty and Christy's sure Alex gives a sigh of relief. He offers to wash out the thermoses but Alex shakes his head: "Take a load off, wash up for dinner. We've got time."
So Christy hits the john, then gets his rock and mineral guide out of his duffle and goes back down to the kitchen. The thermoses are draining in the sink but Alex is nowhere to be seen. Christy remembers the horses all at once so he leaves the book on the table and goes out to the barn.
Sure enough, Alex is bringing the horses in. Christy snags one who comes over to check him out - friendlier horses than he's seen before - and Alex grins at him across the barn, nodding at a stall.
There's five horses in all, and Christy watches Alex to see where the feed is. There's a bale of hay by the ladder, broken open, so he distributes a couple flakes to each stall, then helps Alex haul water.
"Gonna put a line in," Alex says, swinging two buckets up. "One of these days. You were hired for the harvest, Christy, not farm chores. But I appreciate it."
"I was hired," Christy says, and he puts all the emphasis he can into the word.
"Well," Alex says after another long pause, "I do appreciate it." And, to Christy's surprise, he holds out his hand. Christy shakes again, unsure: this isn't like the business deal, somehow, but he's not sure what it is exactly.
"Now get inside, take a load off," Alex says sternly, but his eyes are dancing. "We start baling tomorrow you're going to need all that extra energy you got."
Yeah, that's true, been a while since he put hay up, so Christy goes back to the kitchen and sits down with his book. He's lost in it, so lost that a woman's voice calling, "Sasha?" has him jumping like a skinned rabbit, almost knocking the chair over.
Alex's mom, he guesses, although he doesn't see much resemblance, maybe in the eyes. She's quicker to smile than Alex - Sasha? - and she's got an accent: somehow that makes more sense of Alex, now, coming in early to have dinner.
"I'm, uh, Ch-Christy Mahon," he says, wiping his hand on his pants and holding it out. "Alex hired me to help with the harvest."
"Good!" she says, smiling even more broadly, shaking his hand as hard as the old man would have. "This is good! He thinks he can do everything alone, but for some things, you must have help, yes? I am Ludmila Bresnyachuk, and I am happy to welcome you. Are you hungry?"
"Starving," Christy says, and he means it; and this makes her laugh, which makes Christy laugh. "Can I help you with anything?"
"There are cabbage rolls on the front seat," she says, putting her basket on the counter and starting to unload it.
Outside, Alex is covered in what seems to be a tangle of arms and legs and a black-and-white dog. He's laughing, and when he looks across the grass at Christy he has to blink, because Alex... Alex is... beautiful. He looks like a real live movie star, guaranteed to make women sigh with lust and biological clock-ticking, and look at their husbands and boyfriends with discontent.
Alex untangles himself and brings the kids over, one at each hand, the dog frisking around all of them. "My kids," he says, and Christy could have guessed: dark curly hair, big blue eyes "put in with sooty fingers," his mother would have said, the girl in braids, both of them the spitting image of their father. "Irina and Ilya, this is Christy. He's helping bring in the hay."
"Hi," Christy says after a moment, and then he remembers to stick out his hand. The boy (Ilya?) looks at him gravely, then shakes it carefully; the girl (Irina?) hides behind Alex's leg and smiles at him, all dimples. The dog sits next to Alex and watches Christy with interest.
"Sorry," Alex says with another grin. "This is Nellie. She's bored if the kids aren't here so she's helping Mama watch them."
"Uh, hi, Nellie," Christy says, which was apparently the right thing to say, because Irina comes out from behind Alex and flings both arms around the dog's neck, squealing and suddenly talking nonstop. Christy can't understand a word of it and he wonders if it's Russian or whatever Alex is, or if it's just baby talk: he's never been around kids.
"Dinner! Time to wash up!" comes a bellow from behind them. Alex swings the boy up to his shoulder and takes the girl by the hand, and Christy remembers the cabbage rolls.
He sees another basket on the floor so he grabs that too, and Alex's mom takes both from him with another broad smile. "Wash up," she says, and he feels six again.
Irina and Ilya are jostling each other at the sink, giggling, while Alex soaps all their hands at once, then helps Ilya rub his hands together. Irina rubs hers together too, giggling again, and Alex drops a kiss on her head.
Christy suddenly can't stand it: it's so different from his dad, they're so different from him, even with their mom gone, that he turns abruptly and goes back to the kitchen to wash his hands there even though that's something his own mom never held with.
He has no idea what cabbage rolls even are but they smell amazing and when he turns around, Alex's mom has enough food on the table to feed a small army. She's sitting at the foot of the table, looking at the pictures in Christy's book with interest. She doesn't have a place set for herself, and he guesses that she already ate, or will eat later, probably with Alex's dad.
Thudding and thumping and more giggling from the direction of the stairs heralds the arrival of Alex and his kids, Irina being carried this time and Ilya darting into the room ahead of both of them. The dog follows and goes under the table, clearly her accustomed place.
Christy somehow isn't surprised to see Alex take the seat at the head of the table: he imagines Mrs. Bresnyachuk insisted on it, the first time Alex ate dinner in his own house.
He isn't surprised, either, when Mrs. Bresnyachuk makes them say grace. It's in Russian or something, so Christy has no idea what they're saying, but even if it was in English he wouldn't: his father was godless, or so his mother always said: Christy's prayers were said at bedtime, at least until she died, and after that he stopped wanting to tempt God with the idea that he himself might die before he waked.
There's crusty homemade bread, glass upon glass of milk ("from my father's cows," Alex says, and his mother beams proudly), sweet butter, and, on top of the cabbage rolls, a pastry with poppy seed filling for dessert. Christy watches the kids tuck in the food, bemused: not a single complaint about "weird" food, and they even eat the poppy seed filling, which crunches not exactly unpleasantly between his teeth, with gusto.
"Story time," Alex's mom says, wiping their mouths and hands with a cloth. "Get your story from your father, then we go home for baths."
"Little Red Riding Hood," Irina squeals. Christy didn't know voices could get that high and it makes him smile: he bets a bat could hear her.
Alex's mom seems surprised that he helps her clear the table, but not upset; but when he offers to help wash up, she shoos him away just as firmly as she shooed the kids and Alex into the "parlor" for their story time. "Go read your book," she says. "Time enough to work tomorrow. I brought you breakfast. Sasha will want an early start."
Christy isn't sure what to say so he settles for "thank you," which seems to be all that's necessary, and he sits at the table with his book and listens with half an ear to the story in the other room. Alex imitates all the voices; Irina knows Little Red Riding Hood's lines by heart, and even Ilya, who seems to be the quiet one, chimes in when the wolf tries to coax Red Riding Hood nearer to the bed.
Mrs. Bresnyachuk sits down next to him and looks at him expectantly. "You find rocks here?"
"I hope so," Christy says.
"So pretty as those?" she asks, her eyes round; and suddenly Christy sees how Irina resembles her.
He wonders what their mother looked like.
"Yeah, they can be," he says, resolving to find her a "pretty" rock before he leaves.
"You are a scientist?" she asks next, and Christy has to laugh.
"No, I just like rocks," he answers and she smiles too.
"Rocks last a long time," she says after a few minutes. "Like the children of your children."
The kids and dog erupt back into the kitchen and there's happy chaos for a few moments as Alex tickles them to the floor, the dog running in circles and barking happily. Christy expects tears and protests when Mrs. Bresnyachuk says it's time to go. Irina looks sad, almost tearful, but she doesn't argue; Ilya turns his head away, burying his face in his father's shoulder.
"I'll take you to the car," Alex says in Ilya's ear. "I will see you tomorrow. And when the hay is in, we'll go riding."
"I want to go riding!" Irina shouts eagerly; Ilya just lifts his head and hugs his dad tight around the neck.
Christy feels like he's intruding, so he reaches down to pat the dog, who's leaning against his chair, tongue lolling. She doesn't seem to want to leave either but she follows Alex and the kids to the car like she's resigned.
Christy hears the car drive away but Alex doesn't come back in. For a while Christy thinks he might just want to be alone, but when he looks out the window he sees a light on in the barn.
Alex is tossing old hay down from the mow, moving other bales around. When he sees Christy poke his head up through the floor, he looks guilty.
"You were the one who told me to take a load off," Christy says. "And you're just out of the chicken pox."
"Just trying to get organized," Alex says, a grin that seems reluctant on his face.
"Let me organize this, you go get a shower. Your mom said you wanted to get an early start."
"Early to bed, etc.," Alex says. "Not much left, I'm keeping this over here, just stacking it up again. Don't forget the faucets are reversed."
"If I do forget I'll remember soon enough," Christy says, and is rewarded by Alex's laughter, full-throated and hearty.
He finishes stacking the hay in the corner, then stacks the bales Alex threw down where the broken-open bale was. He has to hunt around for the lights - by the side door, not the front door - and by the time he gets back to the house, the light's out in Alex's room.
He takes a long hot shower - it's been a while since he had one - and settles in with James Joyce. But he can't keep his eyes open - work and food and a hot shower - so he goes to sleep almost immediately and he could swear he doesn't dream, or even stir, until Alex's cheerful shout wakes him the next morning: "Breakfast's ready! You up?"
* * *
Alex wakes up before his alarm goes off at five and shuts it off, then gets up to use the bathroom. As he passes the guest room he notices with surprise that the door is open. He'd have thought Christy would close it for some privacy. He pauses in the hall just before he passes the door, hesitating, a little worried that he's going to find the room empty, the house denuded of all its valuables and Christy long gone, but after a moment can hear the soft whistle and sigh of someone else's breathing and he relaxes, feeling a little ashamed of his suspicions.
It's strange having another person in the house again, another person who's not a relative, that is. Since Christy was kind enough to finish up in the barn the night before, Alex decides to let him sleep a little longer, so he quietly pulls the door mostly closed and then takes care of his morning tasks. Once he's finished in the bathroom he taps on the doorframe of Christy's room.
"I'm starting breakfast, it'll be ready in about ten minutes. Up and at 'em, tiger."
A muffled and unintelligible response greets his words, followed a moment later by a bleary-sounding, "Yeah, okay," and he finds himself grinning as he heads downstairs to find the big glass casserole dish full of egg and sausage strata his mother had left in the refrigerator. Putting it in the microwave to heat, he starts coffee, and then has to stop it in mid-brew and add more grounds and water because he forgot about Christy. After re-starting it, he calls up the stairs.
"Breakfast's ready. You up?"
The sound of the toilet flushing answers his question, and a few moments later he hears feet on the stairs and Christy's coming down, wrestling a t-shirt on over his head. Before he tugs it into place there's a flash of muscular abdomen, bare almost to the hip where his too-loose jeans have slid down. The shadowy space there looks like it would be a perfect fit for Alex's thumb.
He feels his face get hot. Christy's his... his employee, not Tom, for God's sake. He forces himself to look away, grabbing up a towel to pull the casserole out of the microwave with. "Grab some plates, they're in the upper cabinet left of the sink. Forks are…"
"In the drawer left of the sink, under the plates. I remember from last night," Christy says, making a gun with his finger and thumb and firing it at Alex with a wink.
He quickly sets two places, grabbing paper napkins from the wooden holder by the toaster, and gets out the largest of the eight mismatched coffee mugs in the cupboard while Alex puts the casserole down and pours the coffee into the mugs. Christy's turning to grab the sugar, and then the cream from the refrigerator, putting both on the table. They dance the kitchen dance like they've been doing it all their lives. Christy puts his hands on his hips and lifts an eyebrow. Alex nods, and they both sit, scooping large helpings of the egg, bread, sausage and cheese mixture onto their plates and digging in. Christy reaches for the cream, and looks a question at Alex, holding the bottle up.
"This is the real deal, isn't it? Cream, not that half milk stuff."
Alex nods. "Straight from the cow."
"Must be nice to have a dairy in the family," Christy says, tipping a dollop into his coffee, then adding sugar and stirring. "I helped out on a dairy farm a while back." Finally he lifts the cup and sips, an expression of bliss on his face that makes Alex uncomfortable. Damn it, he really has to get a handle on this.
"You didn't use cream yesterday," Alex blurts out, just to distract himself.
Christy looks up, surprised. "You noticed that? Yeah, I don't use it at restaurants, 'cause most of them just have that non-dairy whitener stuff, and I'd rather take it black than use that. Who knows what that'll do to you? Probably causes mutations and stuff. Don't use artificial sweeteners either, just good old sugar. At least all that'll do to me is give me a gut." He pats his flat stomach, reminding Alex of that flash of skin.
It's been too long since Sophie died. Too long since he's touched anyone... a woman, he corrects himself. Since anyone has touched him. That's all this is. He thinks wildly about calling Annie for a minute, but knows she'd slap him across the face for even thinking about it if she knew. But he's never been comfortable with most women, always felt awkward and uncertain, always wondering if they liked him or just the skin he wears. Only Annie, and Sophie, and sometimes even with Sophie he'd wondered.
"Your mom's a great cook," Christy says around a mouthful of casserole. "It's been a real long time since I had home-cooked meals I didn't cook myself. Long time since I was in a house that felt like a home. Nice home, nice kids, nice mom." He sounds wistful, and the expression on his face can only be called envious. "You're lucky."
Alex thinks about what he has, and for the first time in a long time, he realizes he can agree. "Yeah, I am, aren't I?" He finishes his coffee, and picks up his plate to take it to the sink. "You about finished?"
Christy nods, stuffing a last fork full of casserole into his mouth, chasing it down with three swallows of coffee. "Let's hit it."
* * *
Turns out Alex's mom not only brought breakfast but packed lunches too - Christy's heard of pierogi but that's not exactly how Alex says it - and all they have to do is fill the thermoses, hook up the hay wagon, and load the baler on to it.
Probably a good thing there's a lot of work or he would be getting that gut he was joking about over breakfast, and he says as much to Alex, who looks startled, then grins big. "There's not much you can tell Ukrainians about feeding farmers," he says in agreement. "They come from the breadbasket of Europe, Mama'll be the first to tell you.
Ukrainian, well, that answers that question. Seems a lot more exotic than Irish potato farmers but he imagines Alex's reaction to being called exotic and that makes him laugh out loud.
Alex grins again, not getting the joke but willing to go along with it. "Give Mama another day or two and she'll be on about fattening you up," he says, clapping Christy on the shoulder.
"I wish her luck," Christy says, grinning back. "If potatoes couldn't do it..."
"Potatoes got nothing on my mom's cooking," Alex says, scoffing. "Thought we'd ride up, check on the herd. No point in turning or baling until the sun burns off some of the dew."
He says it like it's the most natural thing in the world but Christy swallows, hoping that horse of Bennie's is as well-mannered as Alex claims.
Turns out it was the horse who came over to him last night. She's a sorrel mare, Alex says, and Christy just nods: he knows it's a colour and that's about it. "Her name's Gracie," Alex says while he's putting her saddle on. Christy watches closely. "He's had her out barrel riding, even, she's quick on her feet."
Alex's horse is mostly reddish-brown with a black mane and tail, and seemingly not so well-mannered as Gracie, but Alex says she just wants to be rode. He takes it slow for a while and Christy's grateful: the saddle's comfortable and his body picks up the rhythm but still he'd forgotten just how big a horse is.
"You're doing real good," Alex says over his shoulder. "I told you Gracie was a sweetheart. Bennie'll be glad you're giving her some exercise. With him and Luke both gone I'm running short on time. Ready for a little more?"
Well, he wasn't really ready for any of it, especially not Alex on horseback, looking more like that movie star than ever, but when has that ever stopped him? So when Alex's horse picks up pace, after Alex makes a clicking sound at her, he just relaxes into Gracie's pace too. He remembers that, that horses like to go as fast as other horses.
After a while, when his knees are used to clutching the saddle without him having to think too hard, he's able to look around and enjoy the scenery, the early morning light on the mountains, breathtaking blues and greens offset by gold in the nearby fields. He's almost sorry when he hears the lowing of the cattle: he was starting to get used to it.
The horses are different around the herd: they seem to know what to do and where to go almost without being told. Alex clearly has a routine: checks the water, checks the gates, then opens up a paddock and tells Christy to hold the gate, count the heads. "Should've kept Nellie," he shouts over his shoulder, "this is her favorite thing, but she'd have been miserable the rest of the day."
And Christy gets the feeling he's seeing Alex in his element, not that he doesn't look good on a tractor but here, rounding up the cows without even a dog to help, his horse knowing just what he wants and where to go, it could almost be a poem, except words couldn't do it justice. He remembers to count just in time and he gets the gate closed behind the last cow as soon as Alex slips back through.
"Fifty seven," he says and Alex nods, motioning with his head to the water trough. The horses take a drink and so does Christy, from a canteen Alex passes to him. Alex drinks after him: manners Christy never saw before. And Alex doesn't take any of it for granted, the horses, the herd, even the land: when Christy lowers the canteen he sees Alex looking out like he's memorizing every part of it, looking happy like Christy hardly ever felt in his own life.
The horses sidle together so Christy's leg brushes Alex's and Alex looks down all of a sudden and colour floods his face. Christy hands the canteen back to cover the moment over but he spends some time on the ride back puzzling that out.
Could just be Alex is prone to that, he decides finally. Or could be Alex forgot he was there, lost in his own private moment. Because it's not really likely that Alex would be blushing for the same reason Christy usually does. 'Cause guys who look like Alex, especially straight guys who look like Alex, don't look at guys who look like Christy and blush for that reason. If anyone was going to be blushing for that reason, it should be Christy, because Alex is just about the most beautiful man he's ever seen, and even if he's never thought that about a man before, he's thinking it now.
Which is all kinds of confusing.
Back at the barn, they rub down their two horses, then turn them all out. Christy helps tidy up the stalls and Alex puts down fresh straw, then leads the way to the house. When Christy comes back down from the bathroom, Alex's head is wet: he's splashed water all over himself or maybe just stuck his head under the faucet. It sounds appealing, so while Alex is pouring them both some iced tea he sticks his own head under the faucet too. When he shakes his head, he spatters Alex, who laughs and flicks some tea at him, and the only thing stopping Christy from a full-on water fight is the thought of the horror on Mrs. Bresnyachuk's face to come in and find this neat-as-a-pin kitchen turned upside down.
The sun's high enough that they decide Christy can rake the west field while Alex drops off the baler. He stays to help Christy hook up the rake, even though Christy knows his way around a PTO, then heads off to the north field. By the time he's back, Christy's finished and they take a break for tea, watching the sun burn off the fog on the not-so-distant mountains.
"Looks like the weather's holding," Alex says finally, screwing the lid back onto the thermos.
Early to be saying that, at least where Christy's from, but being closer to the mountains and all might mean a rain shadow, so he just nods.
Alex, who obviously works smart and hard, hooks the rake up to the pickup again and tells Christy he'll meet him in the north field. Christy expected Alex to be waiting for him, but the third field - he's not exactly sure where that is - must be out of the way because the pickup bounces up while Christy's hooking up the baler. Alex swings down out of the truck and comes over, leaning down to check the twine, and Christy looks up from locking the hitch and finds himself nearly nose-to-pockets with Alex's backside.
If Alex was a girl, he'd whistle, but he's pretty sure Alex wouldn't appreciate it. He does, though, and he looks maybe a minute too long because he's still looking when Alex glances over his shoulder and says "Finished?"
It's Christy's turn to blush this time and he turns away, making a show of grabbing his gloves off the bailer and pulling them on. "Yup, all done." He can feel Alex's gaze on him as he climbs onto the tractor and refuses to look at him as he calls back: "Ready?"
"Whenever you are." Alex starts the tractor up. He goes slow at first, giving Christy time to get used to the rhythm of the baler. Soon enough Christy yells up to Alex that he can pick up the pace. He feels the strain in his shoulders but not his back, and that's a good sign. He wonders how Alex was going to do this himself... probably the old fashioned way, the way most of the farmers around Dodson do it, spitting the bales onto the field and following after with a pickup truck to collect up the hay. Christy's done that and this way's a lot better.
For the first time he admits to himself that he's glad he was outside that cafe yesterday morning, not just because he needs the work, needs to do something, but because Alex sure could use the help.
Alex surprises him again, stopping for a break when the sun's almost overhead, then changing places with Christy like it's a given, like Christy's not the hired hand, like they're partners or something, splitting the work down the middle. There's a lot he could get used to about this, not just looking at Alex every few minutes, not just the food, not even the sense of family. No, this is what he could get used to, what he's afraid of getting used to. He had to up and kill his old man, twice, before he thought of treating Christy like a human being; and Alex treats a perfect stranger better than most people treat their dogs.
He tries to keep track of the time, calling a halt when he judges it's been maybe an hour. When Alex frowns, straightening up and rolling his shoulders, Christy wonders what Alex's skin would feel like under his thumb if he ran it up Alex's nose and smoothed out that frown.
But all he says is, "I'm starving," and the frown clears away, crowded out by a reluctant grin.
They eat in the same stand of trees, by the creek, where they ate yesterday, and Alex tells him about a swimming hole they'll hit if the weather holds or maybe, he says with a grin Christy has never seen on a farmer, if it doesn't and they have to wait for the hay to dry out.
Alex doesn't nap this time: weather's so good the hay's dried out in a day, not often that happens. He frowns again when Christy jumps up on the bale wagon, pulling the gloves on: "You doing okay?"
"I'm doing fine," Christy says, off-handed as he can, turning away so Alex doesn't see him going weak at the knees. He thought Peg was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen until... well, until yesterday, a little after sunup, when a battered pickup drove into the parking lot.
"You want to use the hook?" Alex says, still hesitating, one hand resting on a bale near to Christy.
"Nearly took my leg off with one of those a few years back," Christy says with perfect truth. "Me and baling hooks, not a good mix. 'm fine, don't worry."
"I could give you a lesson," Alex says, still looking up at him and it would be rude not to look back even if he feels like he's going to drown in those deep blue eyes.
Maybe it's just Canada, or maybe Christy and Canada's a bad combination, like he didn't already know that twice over now, because this path, narrow and dangerous, can only end in disaster.
"Might take your leg off," Christy says, shaking his head. "C'mon, saddle up."
Alex hesitates, then finally shrugs and goes back to the tractor.
Christy pushes them a little, knowing Alex is going to call a halt way before sundown. He's gotten into the rhythm of it - grab, pull, turn, stack - and he's almost surprised when he feels the wagon stop vibrating under his feet.
"We're about done," Alex shouts. "Let's get some dinner!"
Christy's suddenly sure that Alex rode the barrels too, if he doesn't still; and he decides that tomorrow it's his turn to drive the tractor most of the afternoon, chicken pox or no.
By the time they get back to the house, where Mrs. Bresnyachuk's car is already in the drive, Christy can feel his muscles stiffening up. He feels a little better when Alex hands him some aspirin on the way into the house and takes some himself: not like either of 'em's out of shape but there was some lifting and hauling going on today.
Mrs. Bresnyachuk's got a pot of something on the stove that smells amazing and the kids are sitting at the table colouring, the dog underneath. They practically bowl Alex over. Christy already knows it'll take a while for Alex to get untangled so he heads up to the bathroom.
When he comes back down, sure enough Alex is still on the floor with the kids, playing pony ride. Irina's got Alex by the hair and Ilya is clinging to his sister and shrieking with laughter, the loudest noise Christy's heard to date from him.
Mrs. Bresnyachuk's sitting at the table, chin on her hands, watching, and Christy feels like an intruder until she notices him and smiles.
She doesn't interrupt them right away either, even though Christy kind of expects her to, and when she does she sounds reluctant. "Time now for dinner, little ones. Go wash."
Christy helps her set the table; she has him put the whole pot of soup on a trivet, something his mother never held with. "You okay?" he says finally when she sits down at the foot of the table again.
"I? I am fine," she says, frowning at him almost exactly the same way Alex does. "You are okay?"
"Just sore," and Christy grins and rolls his shoulders at her.
"Oh, I forget," she says, getting to her feet in a flurry. "I bring you some medicine, you and Sasha. For when you bale."
"We, uh, started today," Christy says, leaning in to sniff the bottle she's holding out to him. The next minute he wishes he hadn't: the food smells a hell of a lot better than that, whatever it is, but she's beaming proudly so he finds a smile from somewhere.
"Good, then you use tonight. Is not to drink! Sasha will tease you, he and his brothers tease always."
Brothers, well, there's another clue. "How many kids do you have?" he asks, specifying this time with an inward grin.
"I have three, three boys," she says proudly. "Viktor, Sasha, and Luka. And you, how many brothers and sisters do you have?"
"Me? I was an only child," and he's almost prepared for the horror on her face.
"And you are here alone?" she says, one hand on her chest. "You have no parents?"
"Not any more," Christy says, and he's glad to hear the rough and tumble of the kids on the stairs: somehow he figures killing his dad won't go over with Mrs. Bresnyachuk near the way it went over with Peg 'n them.
Dinner's a soup, almost a stew, with pieces of smoked sausage in it and lots of beans, and more of that amazing bread. Mrs. Bresnyachuk eats with them tonight: Alex's father and brother have already eaten, he learns, because they have to do something with the calves, and Christy's kind of pleased with himself that he figured it out the night before.
After dinner, she makes coffee, and he drinks some with her, hoping the caffeine will ease the ache starting in his head, while Alex reads not one but two stories to the kids tonight.
She talks about her boys: Viktor's the oldest, and married, but he and his wife have no children "yet," she says and crosses herself. "Luka" is studying in Toronto and Christy finally puts two and two together: "Luke's in Toronto," Alex had said, that first day.
She talks about Bennie, too, what a good strong boy he turned out to be, how proud his grandfather is of him, his way with horses, like his father. "Sasha's wife" wanted Bennie to go to university and Papa Bresnyachuk apparently couldn't believe it, the first one to go, which makes Christy wonder about Luke in Toronto. Alex - he has to stop himself from thinking "Sasha" now - didn't mention college and he wonders if Mrs. Bresnyachuk meant college or something else altogether.
There are no tears tonight when it's time to go: it's later than the night before, of course, and the kids seem pretty tired. Ilya clings to Alex again, but he seems more tired than sad, and Irina tells all of them something in whatever language it is she speaks.
Christy slips out to the barn while the kids are being loaded in the car. He's halfway through feeding the horses when Alex comes in with a full-bore scowl on his face.
"You were hired for the harvest," he says, almost angrily. "I can't -"
"I'm not angling for more money," Christy says, his head suddenly really aching and his neck and shoulders stiffer than a board: he's not really in the mood for a fight but he's not in the mood to be walked on either. "Just trying to help out."
"Last time I had a hired hand, it didn't work out so well," Alex says after a long pause, putting one foot up on a bale of hay and staring down at his boot.
Well, it's not the most graceful apology Christy's ever heard but it'll do. It's a long shot better than anything the old man ever came up with. "Call me something else then," he says with a grin just to show no hard feelings, but Alex looks up at that, looks up at Christy and stares at him for a very uncomfortable moment. Then he looks down, down and away, but not before Christy's been shaken to the core.
"Gonna hit the shower," he hears himself saying. "Guess it's your turn to finish up."
After his shower he stretches out on the bed with his book, bunching the pillow under his chin and trying to relax his shoulders. Now that he's off his feet he realises his ass is aching too. He didn't forget how to ride, exactly, but his muscles sure did.
He's about dozed off when there's a light tap on his door. He'd been vaguely aware of Alex in the shower but thankfully was too tired and sore to think on it much, appealing as it might be.
Still, here's Alex in the doorway, shorts and a t-shirt, or maybe boxers or something, holding that bottle Mrs. Bresnyachuk left.
"I forgot," Alex says quietly. "Mama told me to make sure you got some of this."
"Magic potion," Christy says drowsily, closing the one eye he'd opened. "Something like."
"She makes it with vodka," Alex says, his voice nearer the bed. "I guess you could drink it but it tastes awful."
He sounds nervous, and Christy guesses he's still embarrassed about the barn, so he opens both his eyes this time and smiles at Alex: no hard feelings, honest. It doesn't seem to make Alex feel any better, 'cause even in the lamplight Christy can see how white his knuckles are on the bottle.
"Well, get it over with," Christy says resignedly, closing his eyes again, and a few seconds later the mattress gives as Alex sits next to him. "Stuff smells to high heaven."
"Yeah," Alex says, sounding sympathetic. "I know."
His hands are warm and callused and in spite of the smell Christy about melts into the mattress at his touch. Alex is talking and Christy wishes he'd just shut up so he could enjoy the feel of Alex's hand on his skin, enjoy the warmth of Alex's almost-bare skin near his, enjoy the way his cock's getting hard between his sweats and the mattress, but Alex seems determined to make up for the barn. He tells Christy how his mom makes the liniment - and there's a word Christy never heard outside a book before - and how she left the soup for dinner tomorrow because she goes to Mass on Wednesdays and of course the kids go with her; and then he tells Christy about the horses, how his wife wanted to breed quarter horses, how he's hoping he might be able to afford a stud fee from a ranch north of Calgary, breed Gracie, maybe, and Lara too.
When he shuts up, finally, Christy murmurs at him to keep talking. He doesn't feel drunk, never much cared for that, but he does feel like the liniment went to his head - oil of wintergreen, is that what Sasha called it?
"Any better?" Alex asks and his voice is kind of husky, like he's tired or maybe talked out.
"Lot better," Christy says dreamily, rolling his shoulders. "At least up here." He chuckles into the pillow and squirms down the bed, the friction feeling so good against his lazy cock. "My ass is sore too but don't suppose there's anything we can do about that."
There's a quick intake of breath behind him, almost a gasp, and he suddenly realizes what that probably sounded like and his face goes hot. "Oh Jesus," comes tumbling out of his mouth. "I, uh... I mean..."
Sasha's hand comes to rest lightly on the small of his back, rubbing, fingers sliding just a fraction of an inch below the edge of the sheet that shields him from there down, and Christy shuts up, waiting, his whole body tense, but he's not sure if it's because he's scared, or turned on, or both.
"I worked the rigs for thirteen years. First at Leduc, then up north," Alex says, like that's supposed to tell Christy something. When Christy, still confused, doesn't respond, he goes on, his voice soft, rough, and low. "Wouldn't be the first time I've eased... sore muscles."
Christy can't believe his ears, or maybe he's drunk after all, or maybe he's fallen asleep and this is a dream.
Helluva dream, but he knows it's not. He's still trying to figure out what to say, what just happened or what's going to happen, and the next thing he knows Alex is saying he's, God, so sorry, he should never -
By the time Christy gets to his feet Alex's gone, gone but good, no chance he saw the hard-on tenting the front of Christy's sweats. He goes downstairs, making his way in the dark, but the door to Alex's room is open, the bed empty. He even looks outside - the upside of that liniment stuff is no mosquitoes are brave enough to come near him - but there's no light in the barn and it's the dark of the moon. He's got no clue where Alex could be. He calls, even, soft, once, twice; but there's no answer.
He's sore and tired but for all that he doesn't sleep much the rest of the night and when he does he's got dreams of running away from something, something that's about to catch him until he wills himself awake and stares at the black outside the window until he falls asleep again.
Part 2
Title: Wide Open Space
Author: kelliem and aukestrel
Fandom and Pairing: Getting Married in Buffalo Jump/Paris or Somewhere - Alex Bresnyachuk/Christy Mahon
Word Count: currently 30,000+
Even though we actually did start this two months ago, it's turned out to be longer than we thought it would be (how shocked are you to hear that?). So here's part 1, to be followed shortly by part 2 and possibly even part 3, today or tomorrow.
Soundtrack: Dreaming In Colour, Black Lab; Free for A While, Newcomers Home; To Salt A Scar, Belle & Sebastian; Voodoo, Paul Gross & David Keeley; Wait, Sarah McLachlan; Bobcaygeon, Tragically Hip; Hard Times, Eastmountainsouth; By Way of Sorrow, Cry Cry Cry; Missile, I Am X; Wheat Kings, Tragically Hip; One Day I Walk, k.d. lang; Wide Open, Black Lab; Summer Song, Carbon Leaf; All You People, Seven Nations. And if this were really a CD, your bonus track would be "Ride Forever."
Written for aerye for BrooklineGirl's midsummer2006 challenge. She said, "I would still love to read something slashing one of CKR's (nice!) characters with Alex from GMiBJ." Well, hell, who wouldn't? So AuK emailed Kellie and said, "Hey! What are you doing for the next month?" Then theamusedone rose to the challenge by getting us both copies of PoS and BJ by priority mail; and (as if that wasn't already above and beyond the call of duty) has been a very patient read-through-er.
Crossover: Alex Bresnyachuk/Christy Mahon (Getting Married in Buffalo Jump/Paris or Somewhere). Slash (duh), NC-17 (double duh). Timeline's basically following GMiBJ, since you can never really tell how old CKR's supposed to be at any given time. This takes place, therefore, about five years after the events of GMiBJ.
Wide Open Space
Alex is a week late, at least a week behind everyone else. Ilya and Irina had caught the chicken pox and even though he'd been vaccinated, he got it anyway. Who knew vaccinations expired? Three weeks later he's still faintly spotty, but at least the fever's gone and he can function again. So here he is, racing the weather to get the hay baled and the cattle down from the higher pastures. The problem is, all the seasonal workers have already been snapped up by the other farmers and ranchers who are at least a week ahead of him.
On the off chance that someone has already finished up and released his crew, Alex pulls into the parking lot of Beulah's, which serves as a sort of unofficial employment agency this time of year. A quick glance at the benches on either side of the door where the workers usually congregate in the early mornings lowers his spirits. One lone figure is slouched against the arm of the left-hand bench, gimme-cap pulled down over his eyes, duffel bag at his feet. Even from the truck Alex can see he looks underfed. Probably not much stamina.
Still, beggars can't be choosers. He opens the door and swings down to the pavement, resisting the urge to scratch his crotch- the worst of the pox had hit his groin and it still itches like he'd been swarmed by mosquitoes - and then shuts the door again. The fellow on the bench looks up at the sound, squinting and shading his eyes against the sun that was rising behind Alex's back. As Alex approaches, he stands up, his posture tentatively hopeful.
"Looking to hire?"
Alex nods. "Need to get the hay in. Won't be easy, just two of us."
The other man smiles suddenly, an odd little half-wince, half-smile, and shrugs. "I'm stronger than I look. Can't be any harder than planting potatoes."
"Room, board, and twenty-five dollars a day. Three hundred dollar bonus if we get everything done before the weather turns. You had breakfast?"
"I could eat," the other man says, and sticks out his hand. They shake on the deal.
"Alex Bresnyachuk," Alex says, and motions toward the door of the diner.
"Christy Mahon." He picks up his duffel bag and falls into step next to Alex.
After they both order the breakfast special (four eggs, ham, hash-browned potatoes, biscuits and coffee) Alex studies his new employee, noting with some satisfaction that although he's rail thin, his arms are corded with muscle that hasn't come from a gym and his hands are callused, long, knobby fingers scratched and scarred from working. His eyes are bright, blue and fringed with almost womanly lashes and his sun-bleached hair is overlong and tends to flop into his eyes. Alex would've guessed him to be in his early twenties but the crows-feet beginning to fan the corners of his eyes makes him revise his estimate up a little. He reminds Alex a little bit of someone but he can't quite put his finger on who yet.
It'll come to him.
"Just passing through?" he asks, not because he's making conversation but because he knows everyone in town, and fifty miles outside it too. Christy puts sugar in his coffee, three packets, and stirred it before he answers.
"Don't know yet."
Alex nods, accepting the uncertainty. "We're a week behind so I'm looking to work seven days a week. If you go to church you're welcome to use the truck."
"What about you?" Christy asks.
"I'm not a churchgoing man."
"Seven days is fine by me."
Breakfast arrives and is eaten in a companionable silence, broken only by requests for refills on coffee. After fourth cups are drunk and plates cleaned of all but grease, Christy stands and picks up his bag. "I guess we'd best get working."
Alex nods, pleased, and starts out the door, only to hesitate. "You got a car?"
Christy shakes his head. "Crapped out on me in Shelby. That's why I'm late to the dance."
"Put your bag in back, then." Alex jerks a thumb at the truck. "If you need to go into town for anything while you're with us, let me know."
"Us?" Christy asks. "Thought you said just you and me."
"Just us working, but my kids live with me most of the time." He frowns. "Have you ever had chicken pox?"
"Yeah, when I was six. Itched like a sumbitch. I still have scars. I never was much good at self control." Christy studies him for a moment, then grins. "That's why you're running late, isn't it?"
Alex nods ruefully and Christy chuckles. "Put oatmeal in your bathwater, it helps. That's a trick I learned after I cleared a field of poison ivy. How many you got?"
"A hundred and fifty head. Charolais cross. Got to get them down from the summer pasture after we do the haying."
"Actually, I meant kids," Christy says, but then he whistles softly. "Man, a hundred and fifty head, and just you working them?"
"I usually have Bennie to help, but this year he's off to Calgary for university. And my dad's getting too old to lend a hand, and Luke's gone to Toronto." He realized he sounds defensive and shuts up.
"I should've held out for more money," Christy says, then winks. "We'll manage. I've worked cattle before. Sheep too, if you got any. And don't worry about the hay. My dad always said if you raise a lot of hay during the year, you're probably in for a bad winter, or there will be enough to hold over for the next year. But, whenever you got enough hay to hold over, it'll be a bad haymaking year, but the carryover hay will get you through the winter. There's always enough one way or the other."
"Your dad do a lot of ranching?"
"Nope, he raised potatoes. But according to him, he knew everything so you can take his word for it."
Alex finds himself grinning, and shakes his head. "Sounds like your dad and mine are related. Oh, and the answer's three, by the way."
Christy looks at him blankly. "Three?"
"Kids. Bennie's the oldest and he's off to college. The twins are four."
"And that'd be where you got the chicken pox?"
"That'd be where I got the chicken pox," Alex agrees.
"What about your wife?"
Alex clenches the steering wheel, then slowly lets his fingers relax. It's a natural question, after all. "Car accident," he says succinctly. "Drunk driver."
Neither of them says much after that. Alex makes sure to point out the fence at the property boundary, and Christy acknowledges it with a nod. At the house, after he parks and they get out, Christy squints up at the barn and gestures toward it with his duffel.
"'m I bunking there?"
Alex looks at him, startled. "Of course not. You'll have a room in the house, and take your meals with the family." He studies Christy, frowning. "Do many folks ask you to sleep in the barn?"
Christy shrugs. "Lots of people don't have a spare room or a bunkhouse. A barn's not so bad long as you can use a shower somewhere."
"You can use the shower any time you like," Alex says firmly. Even when he'd been a roughneck, no one had expected him to bunk in a barn.
Thinking about roughnecking makes him realize suddenly who it is that Christy reminds him of, and his breath catches. He hasn't thought of Tom Rothberg in a long time. A very long time. Jesus. Tom. It's weird, though, because Christy doesn't remind him of Tom at all personality-wise. Just, they have that same long, wiry body, and the same floppy dirty-blond hair. Christy's better looking though. Tom's square German jaw had always looked a little odd on his narrow face. Christy's face is narrow too, but his jaw's more pointed, more in harmony with the rest of him.
He's really almost... pretty, if you can call a man that. It's obvious that he smiles a lot, because smile lines are starting to groove his cheeks and the corners of eyes that are a blue-hazel mixture and bright with intelligence and curiosity. Alex wonders what he's doing following the harvest. Somehow he strikes him as a man who wants roots, not the rootlessness of seasonal work, although he doesn't know why he thinks that. Not from anything Christy's said so far, anyway. But he does.
Christy twists to look at the horizon, and once again the lean lines of his body and floppy hair make Alex think of Tom Rothberg. He gives himself a mental shake. No point in thinking about Tom. None whatsoever. He nods toward the house and Christy follows without a word, though Alex doesn't miss the quick, puzzled glance toward the barn. He wonders what that was all about.
* * *
Well, he hadn't expected that. But he hadn't expected any of it, from the truck crapping out in Shelby to the combine salesman on his way to points west to Alex Bresnyachuk, widower.
His dad was dead for real this time, stubborn old bastard. Christy still didn't believe it, even when they started shoveling fill dirt into the grave. He thought about throwing in a rock or two but the old man would have just laughed at him.
So Christy headed west, following the harvest, then broke north at Shelby like those rocks were still calling him. His dad left him the farm - well, what else could he do? - but Christy wasn't going to grow spuds, or anything else, not there, not any more. He hadn't done for the past five years, isn't going to now.
He thought about college, for a while, and the old man hadn't said no, but there was more outside than inside, except books, but books could go outside, inside, anywhere. His duffel was heavier than it should have been 'cause he had to cart them around: his rock and mineral guides, a battered copy of Dubliners, an equally battered translation of Wegener. He was working his way backward, but the Dodson library didn't have much that was more recent than 1930 anyway.
Two kids - no, three - and 150 head... when Alex points out the property line, he does some mental arithmetic, figures Alex has maybe 10 times more than his dad's 100-acre spread. He thought the house would look a little more broken down, but it has a fresh coat of paint, a straight roofline, even flowerboxes.
The barn's in even better shape but Christy'd been expecting that, at least after seeing the house. When he asks if he's bunking there, though, Alex looks like he's just stepped on a spider in the house or something. "No," he says, his voice rougher than it has been. "You'll have a room in the house, take your meals with the family."
Christy shrugs, more to put Alex at ease than anything else, but Alex is still frowning. "Do many folks ask you to sleep in the barn?"
What's "many," Christy wants to ask - this is the first time he's followed the harvest since his dad's stroke, and he still isn't even sure why he's doing it this time - but he shrugs again. "Lots of people don't have a spare room or a bunkhouse -" hell, he and his dad had a four room cabin and that only because his mother had insisted on indoor plumbing, "- so a barn's not so bad long as you can use a shower somewhere." Old bucket rigged up outside, in a couple of places, but the cold water felt damn good after putting up the hay or straw.
"You can use the shower any time you like," Alex says firmly, leading Christy to the house. Christy would have said to start with the barn, but Alex seems kind of put out over the whole barn question so Christy just shuts up and follows.
It's a nice house, a real house with a second floor and clapboard outside. Alex points out the twins' room and shows Christy a room on the other side of the hall, at the end, by the bathroom. He apologizes, even, for the room not being enough but it was as much as Christy ever had, more even: a four poster with a quilt on it, a chest of drawers, even a table by the bed with a lamp. No worries about setting the barn on fire here.
Alex shows him the bathroom too: hot and cold knobs are reversed on the tub. Alex says he'd meant to get around to fixing it but never had the time, and Christy just says as long as you know the trick there isn't much point to worrying. That gets a real smile out of Alex and the line between his eyes, there since Christy asked about the barn, smoothes out.
Christy wonders how old Alex is, with a kid in college and two four year olds. He doesn't look much older than Christy but it's hard to tell. Maybe the twins are from a second marriage... Alex must be older - maybe a lot older - than he looks.
"To be honest," Alex says, leading him down the back stairs to the kitchen, stopping to show him Alex's own room on the way, "some of the meals are taken as they come. I thought I'd pack some sandwiches for lunch. My mom usually brings dinner over when she brings the kids home. Hope you like cabbage."
"I like almost anything, even potatoes," and Alex grins, a real grin, better even than the smile. "Want me to make the sandwiches?"
Alex argues a little, but not much, and they have lunch made and packed lickety-split, with a big thermos of lemonade and another of tea too, and then Alex shows him the main barn. "I got the tractor there already," he says, seeing Christy looking over the equipment. "Haul the rake-tedder out with the truck on our way. Weather holds, we could start baling tomorrow."
Christy wants to ask how he got the tractor there himself, but a whinny answers him: should've known, cause horse and cattle go together like geodes and amethysts, and he hasn't rode a horse himself in some years.
"You ride?" Alex asks, frowning again, like he'd read Christy's mind.
"I have," Christy says. "Guess you don't forget."
"You can ride Bennie's horse, she's real well-mannered," Alex says, that frown smoothing away again. "Won't give you any trouble."
On the way out to the fields Christy figures his first estimate was probably a good one. Alex has a lot of hay in grass and he sees cows in the distance that are probably the ones in the summer pasture.
It's pretty clear, too, that Alex has hayed by himself, using the tractor to mow, then following with the rake-tedder on the pickup. He sets Christy to mowing, telling him the rake can be a mite testy. Christy shrugs: it suits him either way. He notices Alex watching him for a while but he pretends not to see and once Alex sees he knows what he's doing, driving clockwise in, he gets in the pickup.
Could be, too, he was just waiting for Christy to get that far ahead of him. Christy hasn't had much experience with that "benefit of the doubt" thing, and Alex has been nice, real nice, so far. Or, hell, maybe Alex is worried about the tractor, but Christy's seen (and driven) worse. At least this one's got a tight clutch.
The field's smooth so even though the mower's narrower than the disc blade kind Christy's used to he gets done faster than he thought, and Alex not far behind him. Alex shows him a creek in some trees at the back of the field and they break for lunch. Alex had packed up a loaf's worth of sandwiches, back into the bag the bread came from, which Christy thought was maybe overkill, but he's hungrier than he knew and between them they finish off all of them.
"Cut the west field this afternoon," Alex says from under his hat. "Maybe get it done before dinner. It's bigger than this one."
Christy just nods, then says "yeah" in case Alex couldn't see him, and watches, a little surprised, while Alex goes to sleep. He's not tired, himself, so he watches the birds around the creek, some fish rising in the shadow of the bank. He remembers after a while that Alex had chicken pox and he wonders if Alex ought to even be working.
Not his concern, after all, and Alex a grown man.
He lets Alex sleep for about an hour, near as he can tell, then kicks his boot gently. Alex wakes up fast but not startled, and when he knocks his hat back, Christy's kind of surprised to see Alex grinning. He thought he might be embarrassed or maybe even mad. He's never worked for someone who took a nap in the middle of haying.
"I needed that," Alex says, stretching and yawning. "Appreciate it."
"Nice break," Christy says, and it was: he's never minded being alone, figured out that he likes it better than being with people, overall, but being with Alex sleeping is just about the same thing.
They finish off the tea, saving the lemonade for later, and Alex leads the way to the "west field." It's got a killer view, cliffs Christy strains to see through the bright sunlight, and his mouth is suddenly watering at the prospect of the rocks there. He knows Alberta's rocks but when they get back to the house he needs to see if there's anything here he ought to be looking for.
This field is bigger and not as smooth: about halfway through Christy hears a crunch and a crack. Alex is out of the pickup, looking worried, almost before Christy gets off the tractor. Christy guesses that Alex's equipment is maybe second hand, or maybe he's just worried about the weather.
"Just a blade," Alex says, sounding relieved, and Christy nods, relieved just because Alex is. He watches, too, while Alex pops off the section and hammers off the broken blade, bolting on another one he got out of the truck in its place. "Used to be," Alex says, tightening the bolt with a grunt, "had to weld 'em on. Picked this up at an auction couple years ago and got my money's worth in time alone."
"Handy," Christy agrees, wondering at the same time if Alex is just tired or always this calm: when the old man's seed cutter threw a disc, he'd blow a gasket, wasting more time and energy stomping around yelling at God and the devil and everyone in between than it would have taken just to fix it.
He drives a little slower the rest of the field but he's surprised when Alex waves him down: the sun's lower in the sky but nowhere near sinking.
"Dinner," Alex says, waving him over.
He barely gets settled in the truck before they're bouncing away across the field. "My mom's taken the kids for the harvest," Alex says after a few minutes, like he's just remembered there's someone else in the cab. "But she brings them over for dinner."
"Can't be late," Christy agrees, wondering still: Alex isn't like any other rancher (or farmer) Christy's ever met.
The driveway's empty and Christy's sure Alex gives a sigh of relief. He offers to wash out the thermoses but Alex shakes his head: "Take a load off, wash up for dinner. We've got time."
So Christy hits the john, then gets his rock and mineral guide out of his duffle and goes back down to the kitchen. The thermoses are draining in the sink but Alex is nowhere to be seen. Christy remembers the horses all at once so he leaves the book on the table and goes out to the barn.
Sure enough, Alex is bringing the horses in. Christy snags one who comes over to check him out - friendlier horses than he's seen before - and Alex grins at him across the barn, nodding at a stall.
There's five horses in all, and Christy watches Alex to see where the feed is. There's a bale of hay by the ladder, broken open, so he distributes a couple flakes to each stall, then helps Alex haul water.
"Gonna put a line in," Alex says, swinging two buckets up. "One of these days. You were hired for the harvest, Christy, not farm chores. But I appreciate it."
"I was hired," Christy says, and he puts all the emphasis he can into the word.
"Well," Alex says after another long pause, "I do appreciate it." And, to Christy's surprise, he holds out his hand. Christy shakes again, unsure: this isn't like the business deal, somehow, but he's not sure what it is exactly.
"Now get inside, take a load off," Alex says sternly, but his eyes are dancing. "We start baling tomorrow you're going to need all that extra energy you got."
Yeah, that's true, been a while since he put hay up, so Christy goes back to the kitchen and sits down with his book. He's lost in it, so lost that a woman's voice calling, "Sasha?" has him jumping like a skinned rabbit, almost knocking the chair over.
Alex's mom, he guesses, although he doesn't see much resemblance, maybe in the eyes. She's quicker to smile than Alex - Sasha? - and she's got an accent: somehow that makes more sense of Alex, now, coming in early to have dinner.
"I'm, uh, Ch-Christy Mahon," he says, wiping his hand on his pants and holding it out. "Alex hired me to help with the harvest."
"Good!" she says, smiling even more broadly, shaking his hand as hard as the old man would have. "This is good! He thinks he can do everything alone, but for some things, you must have help, yes? I am Ludmila Bresnyachuk, and I am happy to welcome you. Are you hungry?"
"Starving," Christy says, and he means it; and this makes her laugh, which makes Christy laugh. "Can I help you with anything?"
"There are cabbage rolls on the front seat," she says, putting her basket on the counter and starting to unload it.
Outside, Alex is covered in what seems to be a tangle of arms and legs and a black-and-white dog. He's laughing, and when he looks across the grass at Christy he has to blink, because Alex... Alex is... beautiful. He looks like a real live movie star, guaranteed to make women sigh with lust and biological clock-ticking, and look at their husbands and boyfriends with discontent.
Alex untangles himself and brings the kids over, one at each hand, the dog frisking around all of them. "My kids," he says, and Christy could have guessed: dark curly hair, big blue eyes "put in with sooty fingers," his mother would have said, the girl in braids, both of them the spitting image of their father. "Irina and Ilya, this is Christy. He's helping bring in the hay."
"Hi," Christy says after a moment, and then he remembers to stick out his hand. The boy (Ilya?) looks at him gravely, then shakes it carefully; the girl (Irina?) hides behind Alex's leg and smiles at him, all dimples. The dog sits next to Alex and watches Christy with interest.
"Sorry," Alex says with another grin. "This is Nellie. She's bored if the kids aren't here so she's helping Mama watch them."
"Uh, hi, Nellie," Christy says, which was apparently the right thing to say, because Irina comes out from behind Alex and flings both arms around the dog's neck, squealing and suddenly talking nonstop. Christy can't understand a word of it and he wonders if it's Russian or whatever Alex is, or if it's just baby talk: he's never been around kids.
"Dinner! Time to wash up!" comes a bellow from behind them. Alex swings the boy up to his shoulder and takes the girl by the hand, and Christy remembers the cabbage rolls.
He sees another basket on the floor so he grabs that too, and Alex's mom takes both from him with another broad smile. "Wash up," she says, and he feels six again.
Irina and Ilya are jostling each other at the sink, giggling, while Alex soaps all their hands at once, then helps Ilya rub his hands together. Irina rubs hers together too, giggling again, and Alex drops a kiss on her head.
Christy suddenly can't stand it: it's so different from his dad, they're so different from him, even with their mom gone, that he turns abruptly and goes back to the kitchen to wash his hands there even though that's something his own mom never held with.
He has no idea what cabbage rolls even are but they smell amazing and when he turns around, Alex's mom has enough food on the table to feed a small army. She's sitting at the foot of the table, looking at the pictures in Christy's book with interest. She doesn't have a place set for herself, and he guesses that she already ate, or will eat later, probably with Alex's dad.
Thudding and thumping and more giggling from the direction of the stairs heralds the arrival of Alex and his kids, Irina being carried this time and Ilya darting into the room ahead of both of them. The dog follows and goes under the table, clearly her accustomed place.
Christy somehow isn't surprised to see Alex take the seat at the head of the table: he imagines Mrs. Bresnyachuk insisted on it, the first time Alex ate dinner in his own house.
He isn't surprised, either, when Mrs. Bresnyachuk makes them say grace. It's in Russian or something, so Christy has no idea what they're saying, but even if it was in English he wouldn't: his father was godless, or so his mother always said: Christy's prayers were said at bedtime, at least until she died, and after that he stopped wanting to tempt God with the idea that he himself might die before he waked.
There's crusty homemade bread, glass upon glass of milk ("from my father's cows," Alex says, and his mother beams proudly), sweet butter, and, on top of the cabbage rolls, a pastry with poppy seed filling for dessert. Christy watches the kids tuck in the food, bemused: not a single complaint about "weird" food, and they even eat the poppy seed filling, which crunches not exactly unpleasantly between his teeth, with gusto.
"Story time," Alex's mom says, wiping their mouths and hands with a cloth. "Get your story from your father, then we go home for baths."
"Little Red Riding Hood," Irina squeals. Christy didn't know voices could get that high and it makes him smile: he bets a bat could hear her.
Alex's mom seems surprised that he helps her clear the table, but not upset; but when he offers to help wash up, she shoos him away just as firmly as she shooed the kids and Alex into the "parlor" for their story time. "Go read your book," she says. "Time enough to work tomorrow. I brought you breakfast. Sasha will want an early start."
Christy isn't sure what to say so he settles for "thank you," which seems to be all that's necessary, and he sits at the table with his book and listens with half an ear to the story in the other room. Alex imitates all the voices; Irina knows Little Red Riding Hood's lines by heart, and even Ilya, who seems to be the quiet one, chimes in when the wolf tries to coax Red Riding Hood nearer to the bed.
Mrs. Bresnyachuk sits down next to him and looks at him expectantly. "You find rocks here?"
"I hope so," Christy says.
"So pretty as those?" she asks, her eyes round; and suddenly Christy sees how Irina resembles her.
He wonders what their mother looked like.
"Yeah, they can be," he says, resolving to find her a "pretty" rock before he leaves.
"You are a scientist?" she asks next, and Christy has to laugh.
"No, I just like rocks," he answers and she smiles too.
"Rocks last a long time," she says after a few minutes. "Like the children of your children."
The kids and dog erupt back into the kitchen and there's happy chaos for a few moments as Alex tickles them to the floor, the dog running in circles and barking happily. Christy expects tears and protests when Mrs. Bresnyachuk says it's time to go. Irina looks sad, almost tearful, but she doesn't argue; Ilya turns his head away, burying his face in his father's shoulder.
"I'll take you to the car," Alex says in Ilya's ear. "I will see you tomorrow. And when the hay is in, we'll go riding."
"I want to go riding!" Irina shouts eagerly; Ilya just lifts his head and hugs his dad tight around the neck.
Christy feels like he's intruding, so he reaches down to pat the dog, who's leaning against his chair, tongue lolling. She doesn't seem to want to leave either but she follows Alex and the kids to the car like she's resigned.
Christy hears the car drive away but Alex doesn't come back in. For a while Christy thinks he might just want to be alone, but when he looks out the window he sees a light on in the barn.
Alex is tossing old hay down from the mow, moving other bales around. When he sees Christy poke his head up through the floor, he looks guilty.
"You were the one who told me to take a load off," Christy says. "And you're just out of the chicken pox."
"Just trying to get organized," Alex says, a grin that seems reluctant on his face.
"Let me organize this, you go get a shower. Your mom said you wanted to get an early start."
"Early to bed, etc.," Alex says. "Not much left, I'm keeping this over here, just stacking it up again. Don't forget the faucets are reversed."
"If I do forget I'll remember soon enough," Christy says, and is rewarded by Alex's laughter, full-throated and hearty.
He finishes stacking the hay in the corner, then stacks the bales Alex threw down where the broken-open bale was. He has to hunt around for the lights - by the side door, not the front door - and by the time he gets back to the house, the light's out in Alex's room.
He takes a long hot shower - it's been a while since he had one - and settles in with James Joyce. But he can't keep his eyes open - work and food and a hot shower - so he goes to sleep almost immediately and he could swear he doesn't dream, or even stir, until Alex's cheerful shout wakes him the next morning: "Breakfast's ready! You up?"
* * *
Alex wakes up before his alarm goes off at five and shuts it off, then gets up to use the bathroom. As he passes the guest room he notices with surprise that the door is open. He'd have thought Christy would close it for some privacy. He pauses in the hall just before he passes the door, hesitating, a little worried that he's going to find the room empty, the house denuded of all its valuables and Christy long gone, but after a moment can hear the soft whistle and sigh of someone else's breathing and he relaxes, feeling a little ashamed of his suspicions.
It's strange having another person in the house again, another person who's not a relative, that is. Since Christy was kind enough to finish up in the barn the night before, Alex decides to let him sleep a little longer, so he quietly pulls the door mostly closed and then takes care of his morning tasks. Once he's finished in the bathroom he taps on the doorframe of Christy's room.
"I'm starting breakfast, it'll be ready in about ten minutes. Up and at 'em, tiger."
A muffled and unintelligible response greets his words, followed a moment later by a bleary-sounding, "Yeah, okay," and he finds himself grinning as he heads downstairs to find the big glass casserole dish full of egg and sausage strata his mother had left in the refrigerator. Putting it in the microwave to heat, he starts coffee, and then has to stop it in mid-brew and add more grounds and water because he forgot about Christy. After re-starting it, he calls up the stairs.
"Breakfast's ready. You up?"
The sound of the toilet flushing answers his question, and a few moments later he hears feet on the stairs and Christy's coming down, wrestling a t-shirt on over his head. Before he tugs it into place there's a flash of muscular abdomen, bare almost to the hip where his too-loose jeans have slid down. The shadowy space there looks like it would be a perfect fit for Alex's thumb.
He feels his face get hot. Christy's his... his employee, not Tom, for God's sake. He forces himself to look away, grabbing up a towel to pull the casserole out of the microwave with. "Grab some plates, they're in the upper cabinet left of the sink. Forks are…"
"In the drawer left of the sink, under the plates. I remember from last night," Christy says, making a gun with his finger and thumb and firing it at Alex with a wink.
He quickly sets two places, grabbing paper napkins from the wooden holder by the toaster, and gets out the largest of the eight mismatched coffee mugs in the cupboard while Alex puts the casserole down and pours the coffee into the mugs. Christy's turning to grab the sugar, and then the cream from the refrigerator, putting both on the table. They dance the kitchen dance like they've been doing it all their lives. Christy puts his hands on his hips and lifts an eyebrow. Alex nods, and they both sit, scooping large helpings of the egg, bread, sausage and cheese mixture onto their plates and digging in. Christy reaches for the cream, and looks a question at Alex, holding the bottle up.
"This is the real deal, isn't it? Cream, not that half milk stuff."
Alex nods. "Straight from the cow."
"Must be nice to have a dairy in the family," Christy says, tipping a dollop into his coffee, then adding sugar and stirring. "I helped out on a dairy farm a while back." Finally he lifts the cup and sips, an expression of bliss on his face that makes Alex uncomfortable. Damn it, he really has to get a handle on this.
"You didn't use cream yesterday," Alex blurts out, just to distract himself.
Christy looks up, surprised. "You noticed that? Yeah, I don't use it at restaurants, 'cause most of them just have that non-dairy whitener stuff, and I'd rather take it black than use that. Who knows what that'll do to you? Probably causes mutations and stuff. Don't use artificial sweeteners either, just good old sugar. At least all that'll do to me is give me a gut." He pats his flat stomach, reminding Alex of that flash of skin.
It's been too long since Sophie died. Too long since he's touched anyone... a woman, he corrects himself. Since anyone has touched him. That's all this is. He thinks wildly about calling Annie for a minute, but knows she'd slap him across the face for even thinking about it if she knew. But he's never been comfortable with most women, always felt awkward and uncertain, always wondering if they liked him or just the skin he wears. Only Annie, and Sophie, and sometimes even with Sophie he'd wondered.
"Your mom's a great cook," Christy says around a mouthful of casserole. "It's been a real long time since I had home-cooked meals I didn't cook myself. Long time since I was in a house that felt like a home. Nice home, nice kids, nice mom." He sounds wistful, and the expression on his face can only be called envious. "You're lucky."
Alex thinks about what he has, and for the first time in a long time, he realizes he can agree. "Yeah, I am, aren't I?" He finishes his coffee, and picks up his plate to take it to the sink. "You about finished?"
Christy nods, stuffing a last fork full of casserole into his mouth, chasing it down with three swallows of coffee. "Let's hit it."
* * *
Turns out Alex's mom not only brought breakfast but packed lunches too - Christy's heard of pierogi but that's not exactly how Alex says it - and all they have to do is fill the thermoses, hook up the hay wagon, and load the baler on to it.
Probably a good thing there's a lot of work or he would be getting that gut he was joking about over breakfast, and he says as much to Alex, who looks startled, then grins big. "There's not much you can tell Ukrainians about feeding farmers," he says in agreement. "They come from the breadbasket of Europe, Mama'll be the first to tell you.
Ukrainian, well, that answers that question. Seems a lot more exotic than Irish potato farmers but he imagines Alex's reaction to being called exotic and that makes him laugh out loud.
Alex grins again, not getting the joke but willing to go along with it. "Give Mama another day or two and she'll be on about fattening you up," he says, clapping Christy on the shoulder.
"I wish her luck," Christy says, grinning back. "If potatoes couldn't do it..."
"Potatoes got nothing on my mom's cooking," Alex says, scoffing. "Thought we'd ride up, check on the herd. No point in turning or baling until the sun burns off some of the dew."
He says it like it's the most natural thing in the world but Christy swallows, hoping that horse of Bennie's is as well-mannered as Alex claims.
Turns out it was the horse who came over to him last night. She's a sorrel mare, Alex says, and Christy just nods: he knows it's a colour and that's about it. "Her name's Gracie," Alex says while he's putting her saddle on. Christy watches closely. "He's had her out barrel riding, even, she's quick on her feet."
Alex's horse is mostly reddish-brown with a black mane and tail, and seemingly not so well-mannered as Gracie, but Alex says she just wants to be rode. He takes it slow for a while and Christy's grateful: the saddle's comfortable and his body picks up the rhythm but still he'd forgotten just how big a horse is.
"You're doing real good," Alex says over his shoulder. "I told you Gracie was a sweetheart. Bennie'll be glad you're giving her some exercise. With him and Luke both gone I'm running short on time. Ready for a little more?"
Well, he wasn't really ready for any of it, especially not Alex on horseback, looking more like that movie star than ever, but when has that ever stopped him? So when Alex's horse picks up pace, after Alex makes a clicking sound at her, he just relaxes into Gracie's pace too. He remembers that, that horses like to go as fast as other horses.
After a while, when his knees are used to clutching the saddle without him having to think too hard, he's able to look around and enjoy the scenery, the early morning light on the mountains, breathtaking blues and greens offset by gold in the nearby fields. He's almost sorry when he hears the lowing of the cattle: he was starting to get used to it.
The horses are different around the herd: they seem to know what to do and where to go almost without being told. Alex clearly has a routine: checks the water, checks the gates, then opens up a paddock and tells Christy to hold the gate, count the heads. "Should've kept Nellie," he shouts over his shoulder, "this is her favorite thing, but she'd have been miserable the rest of the day."
And Christy gets the feeling he's seeing Alex in his element, not that he doesn't look good on a tractor but here, rounding up the cows without even a dog to help, his horse knowing just what he wants and where to go, it could almost be a poem, except words couldn't do it justice. He remembers to count just in time and he gets the gate closed behind the last cow as soon as Alex slips back through.
"Fifty seven," he says and Alex nods, motioning with his head to the water trough. The horses take a drink and so does Christy, from a canteen Alex passes to him. Alex drinks after him: manners Christy never saw before. And Alex doesn't take any of it for granted, the horses, the herd, even the land: when Christy lowers the canteen he sees Alex looking out like he's memorizing every part of it, looking happy like Christy hardly ever felt in his own life.
The horses sidle together so Christy's leg brushes Alex's and Alex looks down all of a sudden and colour floods his face. Christy hands the canteen back to cover the moment over but he spends some time on the ride back puzzling that out.
Could just be Alex is prone to that, he decides finally. Or could be Alex forgot he was there, lost in his own private moment. Because it's not really likely that Alex would be blushing for the same reason Christy usually does. 'Cause guys who look like Alex, especially straight guys who look like Alex, don't look at guys who look like Christy and blush for that reason. If anyone was going to be blushing for that reason, it should be Christy, because Alex is just about the most beautiful man he's ever seen, and even if he's never thought that about a man before, he's thinking it now.
Which is all kinds of confusing.
Back at the barn, they rub down their two horses, then turn them all out. Christy helps tidy up the stalls and Alex puts down fresh straw, then leads the way to the house. When Christy comes back down from the bathroom, Alex's head is wet: he's splashed water all over himself or maybe just stuck his head under the faucet. It sounds appealing, so while Alex is pouring them both some iced tea he sticks his own head under the faucet too. When he shakes his head, he spatters Alex, who laughs and flicks some tea at him, and the only thing stopping Christy from a full-on water fight is the thought of the horror on Mrs. Bresnyachuk's face to come in and find this neat-as-a-pin kitchen turned upside down.
The sun's high enough that they decide Christy can rake the west field while Alex drops off the baler. He stays to help Christy hook up the rake, even though Christy knows his way around a PTO, then heads off to the north field. By the time he's back, Christy's finished and they take a break for tea, watching the sun burn off the fog on the not-so-distant mountains.
"Looks like the weather's holding," Alex says finally, screwing the lid back onto the thermos.
Early to be saying that, at least where Christy's from, but being closer to the mountains and all might mean a rain shadow, so he just nods.
Alex, who obviously works smart and hard, hooks the rake up to the pickup again and tells Christy he'll meet him in the north field. Christy expected Alex to be waiting for him, but the third field - he's not exactly sure where that is - must be out of the way because the pickup bounces up while Christy's hooking up the baler. Alex swings down out of the truck and comes over, leaning down to check the twine, and Christy looks up from locking the hitch and finds himself nearly nose-to-pockets with Alex's backside.
If Alex was a girl, he'd whistle, but he's pretty sure Alex wouldn't appreciate it. He does, though, and he looks maybe a minute too long because he's still looking when Alex glances over his shoulder and says "Finished?"
It's Christy's turn to blush this time and he turns away, making a show of grabbing his gloves off the bailer and pulling them on. "Yup, all done." He can feel Alex's gaze on him as he climbs onto the tractor and refuses to look at him as he calls back: "Ready?"
"Whenever you are." Alex starts the tractor up. He goes slow at first, giving Christy time to get used to the rhythm of the baler. Soon enough Christy yells up to Alex that he can pick up the pace. He feels the strain in his shoulders but not his back, and that's a good sign. He wonders how Alex was going to do this himself... probably the old fashioned way, the way most of the farmers around Dodson do it, spitting the bales onto the field and following after with a pickup truck to collect up the hay. Christy's done that and this way's a lot better.
For the first time he admits to himself that he's glad he was outside that cafe yesterday morning, not just because he needs the work, needs to do something, but because Alex sure could use the help.
Alex surprises him again, stopping for a break when the sun's almost overhead, then changing places with Christy like it's a given, like Christy's not the hired hand, like they're partners or something, splitting the work down the middle. There's a lot he could get used to about this, not just looking at Alex every few minutes, not just the food, not even the sense of family. No, this is what he could get used to, what he's afraid of getting used to. He had to up and kill his old man, twice, before he thought of treating Christy like a human being; and Alex treats a perfect stranger better than most people treat their dogs.
He tries to keep track of the time, calling a halt when he judges it's been maybe an hour. When Alex frowns, straightening up and rolling his shoulders, Christy wonders what Alex's skin would feel like under his thumb if he ran it up Alex's nose and smoothed out that frown.
But all he says is, "I'm starving," and the frown clears away, crowded out by a reluctant grin.
They eat in the same stand of trees, by the creek, where they ate yesterday, and Alex tells him about a swimming hole they'll hit if the weather holds or maybe, he says with a grin Christy has never seen on a farmer, if it doesn't and they have to wait for the hay to dry out.
Alex doesn't nap this time: weather's so good the hay's dried out in a day, not often that happens. He frowns again when Christy jumps up on the bale wagon, pulling the gloves on: "You doing okay?"
"I'm doing fine," Christy says, off-handed as he can, turning away so Alex doesn't see him going weak at the knees. He thought Peg was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen until... well, until yesterday, a little after sunup, when a battered pickup drove into the parking lot.
"You want to use the hook?" Alex says, still hesitating, one hand resting on a bale near to Christy.
"Nearly took my leg off with one of those a few years back," Christy says with perfect truth. "Me and baling hooks, not a good mix. 'm fine, don't worry."
"I could give you a lesson," Alex says, still looking up at him and it would be rude not to look back even if he feels like he's going to drown in those deep blue eyes.
Maybe it's just Canada, or maybe Christy and Canada's a bad combination, like he didn't already know that twice over now, because this path, narrow and dangerous, can only end in disaster.
"Might take your leg off," Christy says, shaking his head. "C'mon, saddle up."
Alex hesitates, then finally shrugs and goes back to the tractor.
Christy pushes them a little, knowing Alex is going to call a halt way before sundown. He's gotten into the rhythm of it - grab, pull, turn, stack - and he's almost surprised when he feels the wagon stop vibrating under his feet.
"We're about done," Alex shouts. "Let's get some dinner!"
Christy's suddenly sure that Alex rode the barrels too, if he doesn't still; and he decides that tomorrow it's his turn to drive the tractor most of the afternoon, chicken pox or no.
By the time they get back to the house, where Mrs. Bresnyachuk's car is already in the drive, Christy can feel his muscles stiffening up. He feels a little better when Alex hands him some aspirin on the way into the house and takes some himself: not like either of 'em's out of shape but there was some lifting and hauling going on today.
Mrs. Bresnyachuk's got a pot of something on the stove that smells amazing and the kids are sitting at the table colouring, the dog underneath. They practically bowl Alex over. Christy already knows it'll take a while for Alex to get untangled so he heads up to the bathroom.
When he comes back down, sure enough Alex is still on the floor with the kids, playing pony ride. Irina's got Alex by the hair and Ilya is clinging to his sister and shrieking with laughter, the loudest noise Christy's heard to date from him.
Mrs. Bresnyachuk's sitting at the table, chin on her hands, watching, and Christy feels like an intruder until she notices him and smiles.
She doesn't interrupt them right away either, even though Christy kind of expects her to, and when she does she sounds reluctant. "Time now for dinner, little ones. Go wash."
Christy helps her set the table; she has him put the whole pot of soup on a trivet, something his mother never held with. "You okay?" he says finally when she sits down at the foot of the table again.
"I? I am fine," she says, frowning at him almost exactly the same way Alex does. "You are okay?"
"Just sore," and Christy grins and rolls his shoulders at her.
"Oh, I forget," she says, getting to her feet in a flurry. "I bring you some medicine, you and Sasha. For when you bale."
"We, uh, started today," Christy says, leaning in to sniff the bottle she's holding out to him. The next minute he wishes he hadn't: the food smells a hell of a lot better than that, whatever it is, but she's beaming proudly so he finds a smile from somewhere.
"Good, then you use tonight. Is not to drink! Sasha will tease you, he and his brothers tease always."
Brothers, well, there's another clue. "How many kids do you have?" he asks, specifying this time with an inward grin.
"I have three, three boys," she says proudly. "Viktor, Sasha, and Luka. And you, how many brothers and sisters do you have?"
"Me? I was an only child," and he's almost prepared for the horror on her face.
"And you are here alone?" she says, one hand on her chest. "You have no parents?"
"Not any more," Christy says, and he's glad to hear the rough and tumble of the kids on the stairs: somehow he figures killing his dad won't go over with Mrs. Bresnyachuk near the way it went over with Peg 'n them.
Dinner's a soup, almost a stew, with pieces of smoked sausage in it and lots of beans, and more of that amazing bread. Mrs. Bresnyachuk eats with them tonight: Alex's father and brother have already eaten, he learns, because they have to do something with the calves, and Christy's kind of pleased with himself that he figured it out the night before.
After dinner, she makes coffee, and he drinks some with her, hoping the caffeine will ease the ache starting in his head, while Alex reads not one but two stories to the kids tonight.
She talks about her boys: Viktor's the oldest, and married, but he and his wife have no children "yet," she says and crosses herself. "Luka" is studying in Toronto and Christy finally puts two and two together: "Luke's in Toronto," Alex had said, that first day.
She talks about Bennie, too, what a good strong boy he turned out to be, how proud his grandfather is of him, his way with horses, like his father. "Sasha's wife" wanted Bennie to go to university and Papa Bresnyachuk apparently couldn't believe it, the first one to go, which makes Christy wonder about Luke in Toronto. Alex - he has to stop himself from thinking "Sasha" now - didn't mention college and he wonders if Mrs. Bresnyachuk meant college or something else altogether.
There are no tears tonight when it's time to go: it's later than the night before, of course, and the kids seem pretty tired. Ilya clings to Alex again, but he seems more tired than sad, and Irina tells all of them something in whatever language it is she speaks.
Christy slips out to the barn while the kids are being loaded in the car. He's halfway through feeding the horses when Alex comes in with a full-bore scowl on his face.
"You were hired for the harvest," he says, almost angrily. "I can't -"
"I'm not angling for more money," Christy says, his head suddenly really aching and his neck and shoulders stiffer than a board: he's not really in the mood for a fight but he's not in the mood to be walked on either. "Just trying to help out."
"Last time I had a hired hand, it didn't work out so well," Alex says after a long pause, putting one foot up on a bale of hay and staring down at his boot.
Well, it's not the most graceful apology Christy's ever heard but it'll do. It's a long shot better than anything the old man ever came up with. "Call me something else then," he says with a grin just to show no hard feelings, but Alex looks up at that, looks up at Christy and stares at him for a very uncomfortable moment. Then he looks down, down and away, but not before Christy's been shaken to the core.
"Gonna hit the shower," he hears himself saying. "Guess it's your turn to finish up."
After his shower he stretches out on the bed with his book, bunching the pillow under his chin and trying to relax his shoulders. Now that he's off his feet he realises his ass is aching too. He didn't forget how to ride, exactly, but his muscles sure did.
He's about dozed off when there's a light tap on his door. He'd been vaguely aware of Alex in the shower but thankfully was too tired and sore to think on it much, appealing as it might be.
Still, here's Alex in the doorway, shorts and a t-shirt, or maybe boxers or something, holding that bottle Mrs. Bresnyachuk left.
"I forgot," Alex says quietly. "Mama told me to make sure you got some of this."
"Magic potion," Christy says drowsily, closing the one eye he'd opened. "Something like."
"She makes it with vodka," Alex says, his voice nearer the bed. "I guess you could drink it but it tastes awful."
He sounds nervous, and Christy guesses he's still embarrassed about the barn, so he opens both his eyes this time and smiles at Alex: no hard feelings, honest. It doesn't seem to make Alex feel any better, 'cause even in the lamplight Christy can see how white his knuckles are on the bottle.
"Well, get it over with," Christy says resignedly, closing his eyes again, and a few seconds later the mattress gives as Alex sits next to him. "Stuff smells to high heaven."
"Yeah," Alex says, sounding sympathetic. "I know."
His hands are warm and callused and in spite of the smell Christy about melts into the mattress at his touch. Alex is talking and Christy wishes he'd just shut up so he could enjoy the feel of Alex's hand on his skin, enjoy the warmth of Alex's almost-bare skin near his, enjoy the way his cock's getting hard between his sweats and the mattress, but Alex seems determined to make up for the barn. He tells Christy how his mom makes the liniment - and there's a word Christy never heard outside a book before - and how she left the soup for dinner tomorrow because she goes to Mass on Wednesdays and of course the kids go with her; and then he tells Christy about the horses, how his wife wanted to breed quarter horses, how he's hoping he might be able to afford a stud fee from a ranch north of Calgary, breed Gracie, maybe, and Lara too.
When he shuts up, finally, Christy murmurs at him to keep talking. He doesn't feel drunk, never much cared for that, but he does feel like the liniment went to his head - oil of wintergreen, is that what Sasha called it?
"Any better?" Alex asks and his voice is kind of husky, like he's tired or maybe talked out.
"Lot better," Christy says dreamily, rolling his shoulders. "At least up here." He chuckles into the pillow and squirms down the bed, the friction feeling so good against his lazy cock. "My ass is sore too but don't suppose there's anything we can do about that."
There's a quick intake of breath behind him, almost a gasp, and he suddenly realizes what that probably sounded like and his face goes hot. "Oh Jesus," comes tumbling out of his mouth. "I, uh... I mean..."
Sasha's hand comes to rest lightly on the small of his back, rubbing, fingers sliding just a fraction of an inch below the edge of the sheet that shields him from there down, and Christy shuts up, waiting, his whole body tense, but he's not sure if it's because he's scared, or turned on, or both.
"I worked the rigs for thirteen years. First at Leduc, then up north," Alex says, like that's supposed to tell Christy something. When Christy, still confused, doesn't respond, he goes on, his voice soft, rough, and low. "Wouldn't be the first time I've eased... sore muscles."
Christy can't believe his ears, or maybe he's drunk after all, or maybe he's fallen asleep and this is a dream.
Helluva dream, but he knows it's not. He's still trying to figure out what to say, what just happened or what's going to happen, and the next thing he knows Alex is saying he's, God, so sorry, he should never -
By the time Christy gets to his feet Alex's gone, gone but good, no chance he saw the hard-on tenting the front of Christy's sweats. He goes downstairs, making his way in the dark, but the door to Alex's room is open, the bed empty. He even looks outside - the upside of that liniment stuff is no mosquitoes are brave enough to come near him - but there's no light in the barn and it's the dark of the moon. He's got no clue where Alex could be. He calls, even, soft, once, twice; but there's no answer.
He's sore and tired but for all that he doesn't sleep much the rest of the night and when he does he's got dreams of running away from something, something that's about to catch him until he wills himself awake and stares at the black outside the window until he falls asleep again.
Part 2