OverTime 1 - Searching (Time Travel)

by Jocks, Yvonne

  "Stay with us, Martha," Peaves said, finally directing his words to me but using his dead wife's name. "We could sorely use a woman's touch 'round here. Sherman and I could give you a decent life."

  As I made for the door I noticed Garrison take a subtle step, staying between me and them. "She cain't cook no how," he offered, as if to console them. "Leastwise not poultry. Best go mount."

  That last sentence was, I realized, directed at me. I hesitated only a moment; were they going to actually fight over me? I should try to stop it—I knew that, sensed it deep down inside me where I'd once been a real person. But no words came to me to neutralize the situation, no brilliant plan of action. Whoever I'd once been wasn't offering any suggestions. All I had were orders from Cowboy Garrison.

  That, and a serious need to not stay here.

  Chapter 4 – The Herd

  I felt disoriented as I hurried out into the heat. Whoever I was, I couldn't be from someplace like this! The little farm with its garden-plot fields and its dirt house had taken on an ominous, foreign air. Even the rope-o-horses seemed....

  What? The horses stood idly by, facing off against the yard pigs and flicking away flies. What could be so strange about them? Valley Boy tossed his head at me in badly needed welcome, and I barely held my bolt toward him to a nervous stride, not wanting to "spook" him. Something awful had happened. And considering my recent proposal of marriage, something awful might happen yet unless I got my butt on this horse and got the hell out of....

  ...out of where? I hesitated as a familiar name tickled the tip of my tongue. Get the hell out of....

  But the thought vanished. And there hung the stirrup, waist high to me. So much for a fast getaway.

  Trapped by my own incompetence, I leaned my forehead against the sun-warmed leather of the saddle and closed my eyes in frustration. Had I always been this useless? I had food and clothing only because of Garrison, and now the Peaveses. Truth be told, all three of them scared me, although for different reasons. But I, unable to even mount my own rent-a-horse alone, scared myself most of all.

  Who was I? I knocked my forehead gently against the saddle, and the wall of horsiness beneath, to jiggle the information loose. It had to be in my head somewhere; it had to. Who was I? If I only tried hard enough....

  Something bumped my shoulder, distracting me from that less-than-stellar technique of memory recovery, and I turned my head in that direction. Valley Boy swung his big, brown, whiskery nose—and mouth—at me again, and I stepped quickly back with a squeak. Do horses bite?

  He tossed his head in a way that made me think of laughter. Now even the animals were mocking me. Do horses bite? Oh puh-leeze! But it made me laugh a weak, snoggy laugh at myself. I really was the complaining-est gal, wasn't I? Well no more! At least, not until I'd escaped the threat of becoming Mrs. Martha Peaves II and found some freaking civilization, with doctors and restaurants and communication, where someone would give a rat's ass about my situation. I stepped back to Valley Boy's side, grasped the high saddle horn with my left hand and used my right to haul my booted foot up, up, up. My oversized toe touched leather and then—yes! I had achieved stirrup! Now I grabbed the back of the saddle with my freed right hand and not only hopped but, on the third hop, hauled—

  And I successfully flopped across the saddle on my stomach. Victory!

  From there it took only minor effort to swing my right leg over Valley Boy's butt, to wriggle myself into sitting position and find the other stirrup with my right foot. I patted him on the neck, immensely pleased with myself. I was not only fully clothed but I'd gotten on a horse, all by myself. Wait 'til Garrison saw!

  One worry, though. During the duration of my horseback ballet, Garrison hadn't made it out.

  It was hard to imagine the cowboy being bested, even two-to-one by men who outsized him and had the home-field advantage. But with the animosity that had hung between farmer and cowman from the start, it didn't take much to remember the big pistol on Garrison's hip, and the really big rifle with which Sherman Peaves had first greeted us. What if the argument escalated? Would I hear anything, through those stacked dirt walls?

  I could easily picture some kind of dramatic showdown, spurs ringing on a dusty street, hands hovering in readiness to draw, undertaker standing eagerly by. Too easily. We didn't have dusty streets or undertakers here, and Garrison was the only one who'd worn spurs, but that's still what I envisioned and with startling clarity. Was it a memory? Twisting in Valley Boy's saddle to check, I saw with mixed relief that our rifle was still holstered out here.

  With me.

  Whoever I was, did I know how to use a rifle? I extended a tentative hand, gingerly touched the worn wooden end that stuck out of its leather scabbard—

  —and jumped guiltily at footsteps from the house.

  I felt greater relief at Garrison's appearance before he narrowed his eyes at me and the rifle. He didn't say anything, though. He just walked past me, now wearing his vest and old-fashioned coat, and proceeded to wordlessly show Wendell Peaves one of our horses. Sherman disappeared around the back of the cabin, which made me nervous. Was he going for reinforcements? Planning an ambush? Garrison seemed unconcerned, which in turn made me feel confused and over-reactive. What had happened?

  I ended up venting my frustration by combing snarls out of my hair with my fingers. We weren't at the table anymore.

  The horse Garrison and Peaves examined was a scruffy black one with white feet. The two men silently noted the horse's teeth, its eyes, its shoulders and legs, its four whole feet. I could empathize. When Sherman appeared again, it was with a very large cloth sack full of something lumpy. Garrison nodded toward me. Sherman blushed and headed in my direction. My heartbeat sped into double-time.

  Surely he didn't trade for me—did he?

  As Sherman drew closer, I reached oh-so-subtly behind me, let my fingers brush the rifle again. I didn't know if I could shoot him, if I could shoot anyone, but maybe if I pointed it at him they would at least let me go... somewhere.

  Anywhere other than here.

  Then Sherman gingerly took a coil of rope from the saddle, by my knee and used it to tie the sack onto another of our horses. He was blushing.

  Oh. I moved my hand away from the rifle before anybody could notice it and wished, again, that things made sense.

  The Peaveses got the black horse. We got the big sack and the clothes I wore. Garrison said, "Obliged," and swung easily onto his horse before reclaiming the rope attached to the rest of our remuda. He glanced expectantly at me, then at the Peaveses.

  Thinking I'd change my mind? I could barely look at them, the peg-legged father doubting my future without their protection against Texas cowboys, the son still eyeing me like I was all he wanted for Christmas. But when I turned back to Garrison, the distaste in his expression—distaste aimed dead at me—made me even more uncomfortable than either Peaves had. So I didn't look at anybody. I busied myself with securing my hair up under little drowned Eb's hat and gathering Valley Boy's reins the way I'd been shown.

  Finally, too slowly for a self-respecting getaway, we escaped the farm—and at least a little of the disorientation.

  Only after fields and hut had faded into the rolling golden background did I summon up the courage to ride more or less abreast of Garrison and ask, "So what happened in there?"

  His glance in my direction had the gall to look irate and, moreso, confused. But I'd seen that brief, coiled anger in him, fierce and capable of... of things better left unimagined. I'd seen it, as sure as I knew my own—well, as sure as I knew my own gender, anyway. Something could have happened.

  "In the, uh, house," I clarified. "Why did they let me go so easily?"

  He widened his eyes, as if to ask why they wouldn't.

  "You saw how determined they were—they thought I'd marry them!" I shuddered at the thought.

  "You'd be a prize," he drawled, looking forward.

  "As if what I wanted didn't even—what did you s
ay?" But he didn't repeat himself. I had to urge Valley Boy farther forward, several times, to duck my head and get a decent look at Jacob Garrison's bearded face. Distaste again tightened his mouth. "Excuse me, but was that sarcasm I just heard?"

  His cool eyes sliced in my direction before returning to the fascination of sheer nothingness—grass and sky, yay—that spread around us. That expression, I decided, must be cowboy for Duh.

  "You don't know any more about me than I do," I defended, surprisingly hurt by his low opinion—and after I'd climbed onto my horse alone and everything! "I could be a wonderful person. There might be someone marvelous somewhere, looking for me right now!"

  He spoke as if to a two-year-old. "Ain't somewhere, it's Kansas. Hard land. No insult to offer shelter."

  "They offered marriage."

  "Only way proper."

  Excuse me? "I didn't ask to stay," I pointed out. Then, a few beats too late for the right effect, "I'm proper!" In fact, I let go of the saddle horn to examine my soft right hand. "I might even be a lady."

  He shook his head. "Weren't nothin' shameful 'bout 'em," he drawled, stubborn. "Aside from bein' nesters. Hard workin'."

  Had I rejected them for being lazy? Heck, had I even rejected them for living in a dirt house? Well... maybe partly because of the house. But more because of the lack of boundaries and, hey here's a thought, maybe because I didn't know them, much less love them, much less belong with them.

  I returned to my first question. "So you didn't have to threaten them, then? Pull your six shooter? Slug it out? Warn them that this gal wasn't big enough for the both of you? What convinced them to let me head out with a drover?"

  Garrison squinted a bit as if I was crazy. But I was crazy, wasn't I? Touched in the head. "Told 'em to."

  "That's all?" On second thought, a direct order from this man might be more than enough for the weak of heart.

  "Been better from you," chided Miss Manners.

  I didn't even bother to wonder where that term, Miss Manners, came from. "I said no! 'No' means 'no!'" And where had I heard that before?

  "'D'ruther not,'" he corrected, his drawl mocking my earlier equivocation.

  "'I'd rather not' means 'no,' too! It's just more... diplomatic."

  He didn't deign to comment. In the meantime, I was beginning to give more credence to Wendell Peaves' warnings. "I will be okay at this cow-camp of yours, won't I?"

  "If'n you refrain from your toiletries afore them lonely boys," he warned.

  From my what? Toiletries? Luckily I figured out what he meant before I could make a more obvious stupid assumption. "You mean my hair? I should hide away somewhere to comb my hair?"

  Curt nod.

  "Why?"

  "'Tain't modest," he clarified, with only an implied you ignorant slut.

  "So cowboys like modest women," I pursued, and he startled me by pulling up on his reins, so that his horse stopped, and catching Boy's bridle so that mine did too. The other four horses started to wander past us, like boats in a light current, until they reached the end of their...well, rope.

  "Ain't supposed to like you," he explained with a finality that brooked no argument. "Supposed to leave you be."

  So I didn't argue. Not exactly. "Well that shouldn't be a problem—I hear I'm no prize!"

  He closed his eyes, as if he hoped I wouldn't be there when he opened them. Of course, I was. This didn't seem to make him happy. He let go of Boy's bridle, clucked his horses into motion again, and ignored me.

  "Why didn't you just leave me there?"

  Nothing.

  I reminded myself that whether I liked it or not, I owed him. For the moment, that pissed me off. So I reminded myself that I was next to helpless without him. And he was better than the Peaveses... I hoped.

  I also hoped that Sherman Peaves was right and I was a lady. I hoped I could pay Garrison for his help once we reached civilization, add a nice tip for the oh-so-charming company, and that would be that. Even-steven.

  The fantasy helped distract me from the incessant heat and the wind, drew me deeper into a protective sense of unreality.

  It passed the time, anyway. Grass. Sky. You get the idea.

  The herd, when we reached the immense cloud of dust it raised, disoriented me all over again, like something out of a... book? No, that wasn't quite what I was thinking, but something along those fictitious lines. We didn't ride too close, a fact I appreciated when the wind changed direction and I was introduced to full-strength, sinus-burning eau de cow. Even at a distance, squinting with watering eyes from under the insufficient shade of my floppy hat, I marveled at the sheer number of cows. We approached from the side, and I couldn't even take in the slow, almost endless river of cattle without turning my head from their start to their dust-billowed finish. That had to be at least a mile of animals!

  I glanced at my escort who, big surprise, wasn't paying me any attention. He wore an honest-to-gosh expression on his face for once, though: pride. He liked the bovine array ahead of us. While I watched him, he leaned way off his horse, plucked a stalk of grass, rubbed it between his fingers and took a nibble. Then he nodded to himself, perhaps deeming it cow-worthy.

  Job satisfaction.

  What most caught my interest, in contrast, was the sight of other people. I could make out five cowboys on our side of the herd, apparently spotting the animals' moseying movements and discouraging any breaking of ranks. It seemed like very few men for that many cows, though there could have been even more hidden in all that dust they kicked up. But someone was also driving a high, old-fashioned horse wagon, pulled by four funny-looking horses, well ahead and to our side of the whole parade. Farther back and also to the side I could make out a large herd of horses, though they had nothing in number against those cows; I could only imagine someone was keeping the horses together too.

  Considering the size of this operation, surely they had medical facilities and communication with the outside world! Whoever owned all these animals would insist on it. Imagine the liability issues otherwise!

  When Garrison glanced briefly at me—probably an accident, I was just in the way of his view of the cows—I let my relief show in a smile. Victory! I definitely couldn't have done it without him!

  He dodged my smile and slid off his horse to go untie the sack the Peaveses had traded him. Was he trying to look busy for one of the two riders who'd broken from the parade to approach us? Of these, the good-looking, clean-shaven cowboy in his late thirties was probably in charge; he just had that public-relationsy kind of confidence about him, and though dressed like Garrison, he seemed somehow neater about it. Beneath an inevitable layer of dust, his coat looked to be of a finer fabric, and his boots seemed newer. The red kerchief he wore on his neck wasn't nearly as faded as the one I'd borrowed.

  "Jacob, you old scamp," he greeted, gesturing broadly toward me and the extra horses while, sack in hand, Garrison vaulted easily back onto his own mount. The new man's southern accent seemed somehow more refined, even when he then butchered his grammar—deliberately, I suspected—by adding, "You show up a day late, and this don't resemble Beauregard in the least. What'd you go and do, trade one of our hands at a profit?"

  Garrison tolerated the teasing in exasperated silence.

  The third man who'd approached us, round-faced and younger despite his long, droopy moustache, said, "I don't know how t'other boys'll take it, Boss, you hirin' a nester."

  "Ain't hired her," Garrison protested, sulky to even be having this discussion, and while I did a double-take at him—Boss?—the younger, round-faced guy did a double-take at me.

  The friendly one just laughed a contagious, cackly laugh, so hard that our horses began to shift restlessly. "See now, Jacob, you're workin' these boys too hard," he finally scolded, trying to catch his breath. He also managed to thumb his hat, with a nod of greeting, toward me. Very polite people around here. "Murphy here's done forgot what a female of his own durned species looks like!"

  The round-faced one
stared, appalled. "It's a..." he stuttered. "She's a...." Then he yanked off his hat. He immediately dropped it, causing his horse to dance backwards and mine to jump straight up. I squeaked, grabbing frantically for my saddle horn before I could be flung right off the saddle.

  Garrison snagged Boy's bridle and held firm, which made a bigger difference. When the excitement abated and I glanced back at Murphy—Mr. Murphy, or Murphy Something-Else?—his face was maroon.

  I suspected it had less to do with the handsome man's mirth and more to do with the weight of Cowboy Garrison's disapproval.

  Garrison, who was working these boys too hard.

  "You're the boss?" I asked my cowboy companion, partly to draw his stern attention away from Murphy.

  Boss Garrison glanced toward me with a matter-of-fact nod. If he knew I'd expected someone more articulate, more charming or better dressed to hold that rank, he didn't show it. Or he didn't give a damn. He was too busy shifting his glare to the man I'd mistaken for the boss, the one who'd laughed.

  On second thought, Garrison had such authority, how could I have thought he was anything but the Boss, with a capital B?

  Momentarily reprieved, Murphy slid from his horse, retrieved the hat, and nodded bareheaded up to me. "Pleased to meet you, miss. Forgive Benj's—Mr. Cooper's—poor manners."

  His companion snorted good-naturedly. "I ain't the one spooked her horse nor accused her of bein' a boy and a sodbuster at that, now am I?" But something in the man's voice, a twinkle in his blue eyes, hinted at a level of affection toward both men that allowed such teasing. When he yanked off a leather glove and extended his hand—acknowledged me as a real person—he won me over completely. "Benjamin Cooper, ma'am. Charmed to make your acquaintance."

  "I—" Wow, where to start? From the corner of my eye I noticed the slightest negative shake of Garrison's head, so I gave up on an explanation for now and simply moved to accept the handshake. Benjamin Cooper turned my hand and kissed the back of it instead. There went that weird tickle of unreality in my stomach, again.