"His women?" I protested between bites. "You make it sound like he owns people."
"No, he don't own folk—never did, neither," he added significantly. Then he flashed that con-man grin of his again. "But he surely thinks he does, of an occasion."
"He hasn't eaten either," I thought to mention, after slurping the last of the juice from the now-empty can.
Benj took the can from me and handed over a second carrot. "Oh, he won't stop for anythin' so inconsequential as feedin' himself—we're moving double-time, so's we can get to the Arkansas afore them beasts decide to turn back to the Cimarron."
"What's in Arkansas?" I asked, between bites. Eating had made me downright cheery. Everything seemed more real, now. That made me cheery, too.
"The Arkansas," he corrected. "Water, darlin'. Water."
Unlike some cowboys, Benj turned out to be a font of information. Apparently there used to be better trails across Kansas to the railroad, first to Abilene, and then Wichita, then Ellsworth, then Newton... okay, so maybe he was a font of a little too much information. But the farmers—aka clod hoppers, sodbusters, and/or nesters—had spent the last ten years putting up fences and establishing anti-cow quarantines that pushed the Texas drives farther and farther west until now they could only travel the western-most, driest edge of the state to the notorious Dodge City. Well, that clarified significant undercurrents from our visit to the Peaveses' farm.
"What's so special about the Kansas railroad?" I asked. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble to be choosy about trains.
Benj laughed as if I were the wittiest woman on earth—and don't think I didn't appreciate it! "Darlin', you shoulda seen the difficulty Texians had tryin' to herd beeves through the swamp to New Orleans, afore the war."
Surely he was joking.
In any case, our friend Garrison had seen the writing on the wall, especially with the railroad that had just come through Fort Worth. His livelihood, contracting to drive other people's herds to market, might not last much longer. So Garrison sold almost everything he owned—"'cept his son, his saddle, and his soul"—to go in with Benj and put together this herd. They weren't stopping at Dodge, but would continue north to "Wyoming Territory," to start their own ranch.
No wonder Garrison was so serious about this—he really was in charge of one hell of an endeavor. And Benj was....
"What do you do around here?" I asked. I'd noticed distant cowboys riding back and forth, occasionally yelling at cattle, waving coiled ropes or swinging uncoiled ones, for what had to be a good hour while we chatted.
But the voice that answered me wasn't Benjamin Cooper's. "Little as he can," drawled Garrison, approaching from behind us on a different horse, a black one. He didn't look particularly pleased to see us, which means he looked just as I remembered him—stocky and bearded and familiar. Cattle drives and Kansas farmers and Wyoming Territory felt completely new, but Garrison? Not so much.
Other than a brief nod at me when he thumbed the brim of his hat in offhand politeness, his full annoyance focused on Benj. "Hope you're enjoyin' your social while the rest of us work," he drawled, steely-eyed, and this time I recognized the sarcasm right away.
Benj just grinned, brazen. "More than someone with your poor sensibilities could hope to imagine." Then he looked back at me, to answer my earlier question. "I'm the silent partner."
Garrison snorted, and I grinned at the implied comment. Okay, so silent, Benj Cooper was not. Neither did he take offense at the teasing.
"I put up two-thirds of the money, and Jacob here does two-thirds of the work," he explained, turning back to his partner and pointing for emphasis. "Now that was our agreement. Seein' as how I had to boss this crew for the last two days while you wandered Kansas huntin' up pretty ladies, seems to me I'm entitled to keep company with our charmin' visitor."
Garrison wasn't swayed. "Next time you can take the dead boy to his folks."
"Well on the off chance that any more of the crew is from anywhere in Kansas and gets himself kilt in the locale of his birth, I will."
They glared, at a stalemate—but somehow I doubted either would draw his weapon and fill the other full of lead. The fight came too easily to them, as if they'd done it for years.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" I offered, as a distraction, as if I wasn't near exhausted.
"Now darlin', you are our guest," Benj protested, but I was watching the Boss.
He looked over my shoulder instead of straight at me—was I that offensive to him? But he did take off his hat as he whistled sharply toward the cook. "Best sit in the wagon; that pony's 'bout rode out."
The wagon began to slow to a stop, and so did we—Benj and Garrison on purpose, and me because Valley Boy seemed prone to peer pressure. Rode out? In my concern for my horse friend, I forgot that I couldn't dismount and so did. Grabbing tight to the saddle horn, I started to swing my left leg—
Garrison started to reach, opening his mouth in protest, and I remembered. Oops! Blushing, I found my left stirrup again and swung my right leg over Boy's rear end. Now came the hard part. Hugging the saddle for all I was worth, I kicked free of the left stirrup too and sliiiiid to the ground, which was a lot farther down than I'd expected.
By then, Benj was on the ground too, reaching out to steady me. But I hadn't needed him—I did it! By myself! I beamed up at Garrison, and for a moment he seemed taken aback, confused. Just as I realized he would see no particular triumph in my dismount, though, he surprised me with a nod—and then immediately looked elsewhere.
My heart soared, until I remembered that Valley Boy was 'bout rode out.
The horse looked a little sweaty under his bridle, and not exactly peppy, but he didn't look ready to drop either. In fact, after I scratched behind his ear, he relieved me by tossing his head and laughing his wheezy horse laugh. I pet his velvety nose, then looked up to see both men watching me, Garrison from atop his big black horse, Benj from the ground beside me. Again, Garrison looked away and busied himself putting his hat back on.
"Can I feed him a carrot?" I asked, suddenly feeling greedy for having eaten two, right on top of poor Valley Boy.
"No," said Garrison simply, riding forward to collect the reins. He thumbed his hat brim at me once more, with here-and-gone eye contact, then wheeled both horses away in an almost balletic move.
"Now hold it, Boss," interrupted Benj, eyes dancing. "Looks to me like you're takin' the gal's saddle along with her mount. You thinkin' of buyin' it off her?"
Garrison didn't stop, though his shoulders tightened—wow, I could even recognize his frown from behind! He just led Valley Boy off toward the larger remuda to the side of the herd, a whole cluster of horses strolling along as if trained to. There went another piece of the day's familiarity. Bye-bye, Boy!
Benj chuckled at his own joke, but waited until his partner had ridden out of earshot to explain it to me. "The boys are likely ridin' him 'bout sellin' his saddle."
"But he didn't sell it; he was just letting me use it."
"The implication alone is enough for a good jape or two," Benj insisted cheerfully. "Cowboy ain't a cowboy without his saddle, darlin'. Sellin' it means he's quit the trade."
I remembered the look I'd seen Garrison giving the herd when we approached it this afternoon. As if...as if it completed a part of him. Give up the trade? No wonder he'd stiffened at the implication. "That's not very nice."
Benj thought that was even funnier. "Miss Lillabit, have you noticed one cowhand approach this wagon since you got here?"
I shook my head.
"Well that's a mite unusual, particularly with company. Seein' as how you are female company, the only explanation I've figured is, either the whole durned outfit keeled over dead, or Boss's orders. Now which would you guess?"
I didn't have to guess. "He wants them to leave me alone."
Benj touched my nose, as it to indicate the precision of my prediction. "And it's likely eatin' them up inside. If they can vent some of their ri
ghteous annoyance regardin' these edicts by ridin' the boss about his saddle, I reckon Jacob's been lettin' 'em."
Allow himself to be made a laughingstock—on purpose? That did not fit with the Garrison I'd been exposed to.
"Luckily," added Benj, "that ol' judge ain't my boss. Yours neither."
He'd called Garrison a judge before, but not like a title. Did he just mean, one who judged? And why did that seem so—
But my thoughts were interrupted when, with a winning smile, Benj ducked in and kissed me.
As far as kisses go, it wasn't bad—it was quick, and gentle, and his lips stayed closed. My world stilled for a moment anyway, from sheer surprise. I felt flattered, sure, but also overwhelmed, which is why, when reality crashed back, I took a quick step away, still staring. I liked him, but this couldn't be a good idea....
He winked, not at all insulted—but seemed to be studying me, like the results of an experiment. "Now let's get you onto that chuck wagon afore Schmidty heads out to Canada," he said.
And we did.
Impractical shoes and carpeted hallways....
A large, dark room full of enemies....
The woman fears something about this place. Of the six employees in the dark-paneled executive conference room, she is not the only woman, but she feels like it. One man, seated casually in the corner, is of particular concern. He's handsome, with an expensive haircut, but his smile is shark-like.
She turns quickly away from him to the tall man in charge—the boss. She should be able to trust the boss. "I... your message said you had a solution?"
"It's somewhat irregular," the boss admits, "but so is this... matter... between the two of you. I believe it's what's best for the company."
Why is she so sure what's best for the company won't be good for her?
"You can't punish me for something Everett did!" she protests, wishing her words sounded more sure.
"Something I allegedly did." The shark wants the other men in the room to believe she's lying. She is not. But it no longer seems to matter, in here.
"True," purrs one of the impeccably dressed women. "But we can't afford the publicity. We can't afford any publicity."
The woman realizes that two men have moved to stand behind her, blocking her way to the door....
I awoke with a gasp, nearly fell, and caught myself against—what? Wood! Somehow, I'd fallen asleep on something wooden, although I did have lumpy, somewhat smelly pillows behind me. Why did I hurt so badly? Where the hell was I?
It seemed to take me forever to recognize the driver's seat of the chuck wagon and the bedrolls that made a nice backrest—or pillow—behind it. Part of the reason I felt disoriented was because there were no lanky horses in front of me anymore; we'd stopped, the wagon tongue angled down to the grass, far below me, and the team stood off to the right, their front feet loosely tied together and bags hanging off their funny noses. Wow—I'd slept as if drugged! The light was different too, low on the horizon, and we were no longer beside a huge herd of cows. Part of my disorientation came from that.
But part of the reason was the certainty that I had no business on a chuck wagon, much less on a cattle drive. I had no business riding horses. I had no business kissing cowboys. This wasn't me. Something awful....
I grabbed onto the wooden seat beneath me, tighter than I'd held on while riding over bumps and jolts next to the silent Schmidty, who'd made Garrison look like a reality-show host—
—a what? The thought vanished—
I held on until the wave of dizziness, a feeling as if I would fade into nothingness, slowly vanished. Of course I didn't belong on a cattle drive, or riding cow horses, or kissing cowboys. I was an educated lady from the East, right? Benjamin Cooper had said so.
Inhumanly stiff from the horseback riding and saddle sores both, I clambered slowly down from the wagon seat—it was a climb—and circled to the noise coming from the back. In the distance I spotted the herd, barely a dust-producing speck behind us. We must have put on some speed.
Supper time, I guess. Not only had Schmidty stopped the wagon, unhitched the team, and gotten them food while I snoozed, but he'd unfolded a wooden table out from the back of the wagon, from beneath the drawers, and he'd started a fire. He was well into what must be dinner.
"Can I help with anything?" I asked. At least if I did something, I'd be interacting with this strange world I'd found myself in, instead of just watching it like some... some....
Play, I thought. But that wasn't the right word. Show?
Schmidty picked up the largest coffee pot I'd maybe ever seen, went to the barrel lashed to the side of the wagon, and dipped water from one to the other.
"I could do that for you," I offered.
He put the pot on the ground beside his fire and went back to what turned out to be a huge box full of drawers built right into the back of the wagon. A grinder of some sort was bolted onto the side, and he cranked its handle to grind coffee—delicious, rich-smelling coffee—into an empty can. It was a long process, but not as loud as I somehow expected.
My whole body came to attention at that smell. Coffee!
Then he poured the grounds straight into the pot.
"Aren't you going to use a filter?" I suggested, only belatedly wondering how I knew about filters.
He glared at me and went back to the temporary table to pull down the bag of vegetables Garrison had bought. I glanced back toward the approaching herd, but the cowboys weren't exactly hurrying their charges, no matter what Benj had said about moving double-time. It was just Schmidty and me, the wagon and the fire, the prairie and the wide blue sky.
Woo.
"Or not," I hedged. "Maybe I could chop something?"
"Check on mules," he instructed. Sure enough, I did hear one of the team making that awful, bellowing noise they seemed to favor. Mules, huh? Well that might explain why they were such funny-looking horses.
"Okay," I said, despite being half-tempted to refuse until he said please, and stalked around the side of the wagon and toward the front. It really was a large, tall wagon, its side higher than my head, which I guess is why they used such big mules to pull it. Schmidty had held a big, scary whip-like thing while he drove, not so much a bull-whip as a long pole with pieces of whip hanging off the end. I had to duck around where it lay against the wagon seat, then began to step over the wagon tongue to get to where the mules were staked. One of them did look kind of upset, rolling its eyes and no longer as interested in the bag that still hung around its nose. I wasn't sure what to do about that, except maybe go back to my buddy Schmidty to report on it.
Yeah, real useful. Maybe if I patted the animal on the forehead or shoulder, and talked low and murmuring like Garrison had to the horses last night?
Only because I'd paused, foot on wagon-tongue, trying to remember those soothing non-words, did I not take the next step.
I heard the buzzing sound first.
The world swam around me then, with the strongest sense of déjà vu yet. I had never been in this situation before in my life, I felt sure. And yet there I stood, one heavy-booted foot propped on the thick, angled pole, going completely still as I clearly recognized the sound of a rattlesnake.
Maybe if I went still enough, I could vanish entirely?
But I couldn't waste time vanishing. I had to find the snake. Wasn't I supposed to see it immediately, up-close and personal? But no, I had to drag my fear-shrunk gaze across the grassy ground ahead of me far too many times before I finally saw the reptile, coiled defensively not a yard in front of me, sending its scaly warning with everything it had.
One of the mules brayed its upset and stamped at the ground with its tied-together feet.
The snake, like the wagon and the mules, seemed larger than it should have been. It was a creamy color, with a brown design on its back. Its flat, triangular head practically hid its beady, hateful eyes, and I couldn't even make out the tail from which the buzzing sound continued.
I was willing t
o bet that the rattlesnake could lunge farther than three feet.
I could hear Schmidty moving pots, chopping things, bustling about at the back of the wagon, miles and miles away.
I opened my mouth, and nothing came out.
Now that I'd spotted the snake, it did look close. More close-up than I wanted it. I couldn't drag my gaze from it, even as I tried again to call something—anything. I heard nothing but my strangled gasp, the mule's braying, and the buzzing rattlesnake. Great. I was going to have a very clear view of it as it lunged at me and bit me and filled me full of venom.
You don't belong here, whispered my subconscious. This isn't real.
I stared at the snake and told my subconscious where to stuff it.
Chapter 6 - Cowboys
If anything was real other than me—whoever I was—it was that snake. For an eternity, nothing else existed in my world. I wanted to yell. I wanted to run. I wanted to think, but my thoughts were drowned out by pure, panicked instinct—kill it kill it kill it kill it. Yeah, right. Like I could....
Then I remembered the whip.
While the snake buzzed at me, I leaned slowly—so very slowly—back, stretching my arm as far as I could... and got nothing. I grasped again, and had to risk looking away from the snake long enough to locate the black, leather-wrapped pole with the long, leather rope dangling down it. My fingers brushed it. I looked quickly back at the snake, hoping it hadn't figured out my plan—where was it? Oh yes, there, still coiled, drawing its nasty triangular snake-head back as if about to lunge at any second.
Kill it kill it kill it kill it—my fingers brushed the whip again. If I leaned back much farther I'd fall on my butt in the tall grass, and that snake would probably be all over me. But damn it, I wasn't going to sit helplessly by again while anyone or anything....
Again? I wondered, at full panic.
Later, I told myself.
I managed to lean just a little more, my stiff muscles screaming protest, until my fingers closed around the whip. I lifted it slowly, trying to maintain eye contact with the beady little eyes of my enemy. Good snake. Nice snake....
OverTime 1 - Searching (Time Travel) Page 7