by J K Ellem
“That’s the bunkhouse where you can store your gear and stay. It’s nothing special, but it’s clean and tidy. It has a hot running shower, beds and a woodstove. It can get pretty cold here at night. Dinner is at six and I’ll bring it down to you. Same with breakfast, which I normally make around seven.”
Shaw just nodded. Apart from the occasional moan of cattle the place was quiet, deserted. “And your mother? Does she help around the ranch?”
“No, not really. She’s been sick for a while. She hardly leaves her bedroom, so she’s always here,” she said. “I’ll bring you down some fresh linen after I take care of Jazz.” Daisy headed off to the stables leaving Shaw standing by himself
He watched her for a few moments then looked back at the homestead expecting to see an old woman at a window, looking back at him, but there was no one there. Shaw turned and headed towards the bunkhouse.
7
It was dusk by the time Daisy finished her chores for the day around the ranch. The sky stretched upwards from the horizon in a canvas of burnt orange, then blue and finally indigo.
Carrying clean sheets, a pillow and some blankets, Daisy made her way down to the bunkhouse. The first stars were coming out in the evening sky and she could see a grey twist of smoke spiralling upwards from the bunkhouse chimney. Winter was still a few months away, but the September evenings had an unseasonal chill to them.
She climbed the front steps and paused. The door was wide open and the glass front of the woodstove in the middle of the room cast a warm glow onto the porch. She knocked on the doorframe, but there was no answer so she stepped inside. The bunkhouse was small but comfortable. It was open plan with high raked ceilings, a small kitchenette with a bar fridge, a wooden table and chairs, six plain timber beds and an old leather couch. At the rear was a wall that separated the living and sleep area from the shower stall and toilet.
The amenities were spartan, but after a hard day mending fences and herding cattle most ranch hands just ate, crashed and slept. Some of the more ambitious would catch a ride into Martha’s End and hit the only bar there before either staggering or hitchhiking home. Daisy didn’t care as long as they fronted up for work the next day sober. But it had been years since she had a large crew like they had when her father was alive. Back then the bunkhouse was often full, but lately it had been just one or two people coming for a few days then leaving.
The air smelt of wood smoke and a few logs crackled in the heater box. One of the bunks had Shaw’s rucksack on it, so she placed the sheets, pillow and blankets at the foot of the mattress then turned to leave.
She stopped.
There was the faint sound of running water coming from the bathroom area.
Shaw was taking a shower.
Daisy shook it off and started for the door, then stopped again.
She turned around again and listened.
It was definitely someone having a shower. The sound of water splashing. Maybe someone humming? Yes, she heard that too.
She felt a hollow pang of guilt in her chest and her heart thumped a little harder. She was caught in two minds, but she gave in to her curiosity. She edged forward towards the sound, tip-toeing carefully across the worn floor, praying she wouldn’t step on a creaky floorboard.
She reached the edge of the back wall then, taking a deep breath, she slowly craned her head around the wall and looked down the narrow corridor.
Her breath froze in her lungs.
At the end of the short hallway was an open shower stall. No door. No glass. Three waterproofed walls and rudimentary copper pipes bracketed to the wall.
Shaw stood, wet and glistening under the stream of hot water that fell like rain from the large showerhead. His back was to her, his hands occupied washing soap out of his hair, water running down his nakedness.
Daisy could feel her throat constrict and her face and chest flare with heat.
His body was wrapped in a haze of steam that drifted like clouds around a mountain peak of bronze granite.
She couldn’t move. She wanted to turn and run, but she couldn’t take her eyes of him, his torso, his body. Everything.
Strong powerful shoulders, sculpted tapered back and shoulder blades that rippled under his skin as he moved and washed. Still her eyes dropped lower. Water cascaded down his back, over perfect butt cheeks, down strong supple legs and then over flared calves.
Shaw blindly reached for the soap, his eyes closed.
Her breath caught again, her eyes went wide, and she swallowed hard as heat spread across her abdomen, before seeping lower.
Between his legs, from behind, she could see something long and heavy swing like a pendulum as he moved under the stream of water.
Daisy turned and ran from the room.
Shaw stepped out of the shower, towelled himself off, then wrapped the towel around his waist. He walked out of the stall and back into the open area of the bunkhouse. Immediately he saw the sheets, pillow and blanket all neatly folded and placed at the foot of his bed. He went to the open door and looked out just in time to catch Daisy almost running back up the dirt road towards the homestead like she had left something burning on the stove.
He gave a wry smile.
8
The line of trees offered good cover from high on the ridge while still providing an uninterrupted view of the homestead and surrounding area below. The forlorn moan of cattle drifted up to where the woman stood, screened behind the row of trees. Darkness had fallen soon after dusk. The night vision binoculars she wore were military spec, unavailable over the counter. So was all the equipment and supplies she had, enough so that she could stay outdoors undetected for days, weeks if needed.
The landscape below was a wash of ghostly green, but she could pick out clearly some minor activity. The young woman had first left the main house carrying a bundle of something, blankets it looked like, and walked to the smaller building near the barn. The woman guessed it to be living quarters for the hired help and knew there was only one person in there.
The young woman had gone inside the quarters and remained inside for precisely four and a half minutes. She had watched her from the ridge, and didn’t need to look at her watch to know. A career of sitting for hours and even days totally concealed in a dugout hole in the ground, or perched on a chair in an abandoned building watching out of a window, had taught her patience and the instinctive measure of time passing.
When the young woman emerged again she looked flustered, agitated, in a hurry. She kept turning and looking back over her shoulder as she moved quickly back towards the homestead.
Guilt.
The young woman's mannerisms and gait reeked of it, like she had stolen something and was hurriedly leaving the scene of a crime.
The woman on the ridge panned the binoculars back to the bunkhouse and waited, almost expecting the man to appear on the porch.
But he didn’t.
Twenty-six minutes later the woman appeared on the veranda of the homestead and carrying a tray of what looked like plated food. She walked cautiously along the path again, careful not to stumble or tip over the tray. She placed the tray on a small outside table on the bunkhouse porch. A man emerged and they both sat down. He ate and the woman sat pensively with her hands in her lap and watched him eat.
Nothing was happening here. The threat assessment would conclude that the new arrival was of low-risk, like all the other ranch hands who had turned up looking for work.
This new one proved nothing special.
Nothing out of the ordinary. The woman on the ridge would make the call to Dallas when she got back and that’s what her report would say.
She was about to pack up her gear and retreat when something completely out of the ordinary happened.
After the man below had finished his meal, he stood and stretched. Nothing special about that.
He walked down the steps, stood on the road, then turned ninety degrees and in the darkness looked up to the tree line on the ridge.
>
The woman on the ridge stood perfectly still and watched through the binoculars as a ghostly-green face looked right back at her.
9
The air was cold and sharp, earthy, tinged with the dusty smell of wheat and the sourness of animal feces. The wood in the stove had reduced down to a glow of embers and powdery ash. The bunkhouse felt cold and empty, bled of the warmth and of conversation from the previous evening.
Shaw was up at dawn. He opened the woodstove and threw a few split logs onto the embers, and they soon rekindled into flame. He draped a blanket around himself and walked into the small kitchenette.
There was a coffee maker on the bench, commercial quality, stainless steel, solid with switches not buttons, proper glass decanter, made in the USA not some cheap plastic import, a welcoming sight to see first thing in the morning.
There was rust on the corners. That was a good thing too.
He found a plentiful supply of ground coffee in the cupboard. He set the machine then watched it patiently as hot water filtered through the basket and coffee began filling up the glass decanter beneath. The aroma filled the bunkhouse. Best smell on earth. But Shaw still waited, arms folded, huddled under the blanket, it was a ritual, an awakening process that couldn’t be rushed.
Shaw couldn’t function in the morning without coffee. He just couldn’t. Caffeine needed to be in his system, seeping through his DNA before he could get any semblance on the day ahead. Until the first cup went down, he would be a zombie.
Finally the decanter was full and the hissing and gurgling stopped. Shaw eagerly poured a serving into a large heavy ceramic cup and drank it, savoring the richness and taste.
He showered, and slipped into a change of clothes, before pouring another cup of coffee and walking out onto the porch where he sat and drank it as he watched the first rays of sun stretch across the paddocks.
Cattle grazed and moaned, and in the distance the blades of a wind pump turned lazily in a light breeze atop a rusted spindly frame.
The ridge rose behind the barn, tall and jagged, and dotted with a line of trees along the top. Shaw thought back to the previous evening. Daisy had returned with his dinner and they sat on the porch together, surrounded by darkness with just the warm glow of the wood burner casting light through the open doorway.
He could tell immediately that her demeanor had changed. She was standoffish, hesitant, awkward. She kept looking out into the darkness or to anywhere so their eyes wouldn’t meet. And when they finally did she seemed embarrassed and fidgety like she couldn’t string two words together, before quickly looking away again.
When he finished eating dinner he got up to stretch and suddenly he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
Shaw knew when he was being watched. It was like a sixth sense. He had spent so much of his life learning to watch and observe others that he knew intimately when prying eyes were on him.
And last night, in the darkness, he could feel eyes looking down on him. From high above, on the crest of the ridge.
It was a cloudless night and he could see the outline of the ridge in the distance against the brighter backdrop of pale cold sky and stars.
There was someone up there. Someone observing him. He didn’t know exactly where, so he just let his instincts lead his eyes to where he felt the highest concentration of unease.
Shaw shook the thought from his mind and sipped his coffee. He could feel the caffeine finally seep through him, waking his senses up.
There was no movement from the homestead, but the kitchen windows were open and he could faintly hear sounds coming from within.
He finished his coffee, his appetite satisfied for the moment and wandered down to the barn.
It was a typical barn of the like found all over the Midwest. But like everything else on the property it was in desperate need of attention. The paint was peeling, and some timbers were warped and broken.
The barns doors were wide open. Inside was parked an old Dodge pickup truck that looked like something out of the nineteen fifties. Shaw knew nothing about cars, but he could tell that someone had lovingly cared for this truck. It was all shining red paintwork, chrome, and sweeping fenders complete with whitewall tires.
The cavernous interior of the barn had layers of organization, a reflection of Stan McAlister and his personality.
Workbenches with ply tops ran along one wall. A wide assortment of saws, hammers, planes and other carpentry tools hung neatly on a long pegboard above the benches, and above these were shelves made from rough, recycled planks that held a collection of glass jars and old rusty cans full of screws, nuts, bolts and every fastening imaginable. Off-cuts were neatly stacked according to size and purpose. Paint cans meticulously sealed and labeled were stored in rows.
Order and efficiency was everywhere.
A place for everything and everything in its place.
The floor was dirt in some places, plain concrete in others, poured rough and stained with a lifetime of hard work, dedication and the unbridled satisfaction you get from making things with your hands. Patterns of oil, grease, paint, sweat and maybe even blood when a saw bucked or a chisel slipped, or when a hammer missed the nail.
Shaw understood. He felt at home in this place. Centered. Grounded. Purposeful. He needed to get back to the basics himself. For too long he had lived in a world surrounded by politics, distrust and other people's agendas. That’s why he had embarked on his road-trip, leaving Washington D.C. behind and another life, heading east. He had no regrets, but it was time for a change.
Shaw walked deeper into the barn. Everything was covered in a layer of dust, except the truck. It was regularly used.
A red steel upright tool chest and trolley combination sat against the wall. At the back of the barn hay bales were stacked high, and there was a set of steps that led to a loft, too gloomy for Shaw to see what was up there.
It didn’t take long for Shaw to find a large tool caddy that he filled with what he needed, then he walked back outside into the sunshine. An hour later he had replaced several rotting fence rails in the nearest paddock and had re-nailed the ones that had torn from the posts, but where the timber was still good.
The sun had climbed in the clear blue sky and the caffeine had started to wear off. He could feel the first pangs of hunger beginning to gnaw at him. It felt good to work with his hands again. There was something about manual labor that gave him purpose, the satisfaction that came from building or fixing something yourself. Shaw liked to do things with his hands and he wasn’t the type to sit behind a desk and answer phones or fill out reports.
He hammered in the last nail and stood back. A small group of cattle had drifted over to where he was working and were keeping a watchful eye on his progress. Maybe they were expecting food or were just curious about him. It was no problem just as long as there was a solid line of fence between him and them.
The smell of bacon drifted down. He dropped the hammer back into the tool caddy and went to a water trough to splash water on his face and head, washing away the sweat.
He heard the screen door of the homestead slam shut and Shaw looked up. Daisy was making her way towards him carrying a covered tray of food.
She had a certain saunter that he admired as he wiped his hands on an old rag. She wore cut-off denim shorts, ankle boots and a checked work-shirt unbuttoned, but tied off at the front over a thin singlet.
Shaw’s gazed lingered just a moment more than it should have and she caught him watching her. She smiled and took the food tray up to the bunkhouse, putting it down as before on the outside table on the porch.
“You’re up early,” she said as Shaw arrived.
“Not much sense in sleeping in when there’s work to be done,” he replied, eyeing the tray. Whatever was under the cloth, it smelt amazing, but Shaw couldn’t keep his eyes off Daisy.
Damn, she looked good. She seemed to have perked up since last night, more friendly.
Daisy lifted the cloth
and Shaw’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. There was a huge plate of pancakes, a side plate piled with bacon, eggs and steak, and a small jug of maple syrup.
“Wow, this is enough food to feed an army,” he said as he looked at the spread. “I hope you haven’t eaten.”
“No, I thought I’d join you and keep you company.” Daisy went into the bunkhouse to make a fresh pot of coffee while he sat down at the table, not before turning his head unashamedly and watching the curves of her butt in the cut-off shorts as she walked past.
Maybe he should stay a few more days.
10
The drive into Martha’s End was smooth and straight. Shaw had the window down of the old Dodge as he drove and the cool breeze ruffled his hair. The late morning sun filtered through the trees and the pickup truck hummed at a smooth fifty-five miles an hour, the reassuring feel of the tires on the asphalt and the dappled sun on his face. The traffic was light, mainly rural trucks and a few pickups towing horse floats.
He slowed as he passed the gas station and diner. The parking lot had a few more cars on this Saturday morning than the typical mid-week turnout. People giving themselves a treat, venturing out on the weekend for a late breakfast or early lunch.
Shaw pressed the gas pedal and accelerated past.
The road dipped slightly, and the small township of Martha’s End appeared in the distance, the water-tower rising into the sky like a real-life pin drop from Google maps marking the town.
Daisy had given him the keys to the Dodge so he could pick up a new irrigation pump. The old one had seized and the flow of water to the cattle troughs in the outer pastures had dropped. He was surprised that she trusted him with her late father's pride and joy, but she was in an upbeat mood during breakfast, his company may have had something to do with it. But Shaw had still seen no sign of Daisy’s mother and that puzzled him. The ranch, like Daisy herself, was proving to be an enigma. But she gave him the keys anyway as she didn’t have time, telling him any damage would be at his cost. She was busy herding cattle, rotating them through the feedlots for grazing so that the other pastures could replenish the feed on the ground. He said he didn’t mind. He wanted to see Martha’s End anyway.