by Nathan Jones
He paused to take another bite, then waved his bread around for emphasis. “With no other options, we found our way here and got busy on a new life. Worked hard for the last four or so years to improve our circumstances. But for all our struggles, our homestead looks much the same as it did back at the start. So how much have the wheatcoats really done for us?”
Wheatcoats, huh? That was a term Skyler didn't hear often, referencing the grayish-gold colors of the League's military; most people were grateful to the reclusive country for helping them.
Or at least wanted to stay on their good side hoping to share in their prosperity.
Adalia set her spoon down a bit more forcefully than necessary, making her plate rattle. “The “wheatcoats” chased off the bloodies!” she said heatedly. “Where would we be without them? Without the help they provided back then we'd be destitute, wandering from place to place desperate for aid and getting chased away with thrown rocks.”
Her voice raised as she built up a good head of steam. “Without the hope of sanctuary they offered we might even still be in Mexico, me and Mama getting raped every time Sangue rolled by our farm, or taken as sex slaves like so many others were. Carlos might've been old enough by now to be taken by them and pressed into the bloodies or the army. And they might've taken you and even Antonio, too, as they got more desperate for recruits. You don't think we should be grateful for being spared all that?”
An uncomfortable silence settled. “We'd have left regardless,” Mr. Ruiz protested, shifting awkwardly. “And you shouldn't speak of such things in front of your brothers. Or our guest, for that matter . . . what will he think?”
“I know how Sangue operates,” Skyler said quietly, eyes on his plate. “Better than most.” Still, he didn't like to think of the good women here being hurt by them.
How old would Adalia have been when they left Mexico? He guessed she was a year or two younger than him, so she would've been thirteen or fourteen. About as old as Lisa as he remembered her.
He knew that Sangue, lacking any humanity at all, had sometimes abused kids even younger than that by the end of the war. No wonder the normally confident and outspoken young woman had been so wary and distrustful to begin with; it pained him to think what sort of traumatic past she might still be recovering from.
Mrs. Ruiz cut in hastily, as if guessing his thoughts. “Just so there's no misunderstanding, our farm in Mexico was in a remote location where Sangue barely went, thank God, and we got out before they could do anything like that to us. Some of our friends weren't so lucky, but we were blessed.”
That was a relief to hear, although he couldn't think of a way to say that without making things feel even more awkward.
To his relief, Mr. Ruiz brought the conversation back to the point. “In any case, no matter what the League did for us back then, today they drive the value of our crops into the dirt by bringing in their own crops and fresh produce as trade goods, selling them for prices we could never match. Food grown with the aid of sprinklers, tractors, even pesticides and fertilizer. All the technology we just don't have access to. We'll be scraping the soil just to eat for the rest of our lives, while a stone's throw north of us the ranchers wear factory made clothes and have deodorant and shampoo, and eat chocolate and talk about bringing in electricity for their houses!”
Skyler shifted uncomfortably, keenly aware of the deodorant he himself was wearing. From the sidelong glances Adalia and her mom shot him, they had also noticed it; maybe it hadn't been such a good choice for this dinner after all.
It certainly kicked the legs out of any argument he might've presented on the Northern League's behalf. He had more reason to be grateful to the League than most, after they'd rescued his family and friends and the rest of the Camptown refugees from annihilation and taken them to safety. Not to mention everything else they'd done for his family and for New Emery since.
But even he could admit that the homesteaders' situation was kind of BS. A good, hardworking family like this didn't deserve to have barriers to their success dropped in their path. Even if those barriers were unintentional.
Thankfully, the conversation shifted to the evening chores and the next day's work. Mrs. Ruiz offered to make up a pallet for Skyler in the main room to spend the night, which he appreciated since he didn't relish an hour long ride back to town.
“I'll take you up on that, thanks, and thank you for the delicious meal as well, ” he said. “Is there some way I can repay you?”
“Aside from stepping in to protect my daughter when most wouldn't?” Mr. Ruiz said, giving him an appraising look. “Actually, I can think of one thing. I was debating whether to turn over another field for planting, but even with the kids helping out it's backbreaking work.”
Skyler fought a grimace. He'd been thinking more along the lines of sharing some of the food he'd bought in town; farming really wasn't his thing, either by talent or inclination. And plowing a field by hand was, like the homesteader had said, incredibly hard work.
The older man seemed to sense his reluctance and hastily continued. “Doing it with a shovel or pick, that is. Only our neighbors to the south, the Lowrys, have a horse-drawn plow they rigged up from scrap metal. It wouldn't be much use trying to use by hand, and I could never afford to rent their horse for the job.” He paused. “But seeing as you have that fine beast in the pen . . .”
Ah. That was possibly something Skyler would be willing to consider in exchange for room and board. Especially if it meant an opportunity to spend more time around Adalia, which seemed worth a bit of work. Most of which Junior would be doing, anyway.
Not that he was interested in her romantically, of course. Not when Lisa was still out there somewhere, and he didn't know what the situation with Tabby was back home.
It was just that after so long on his own, it might be nice to have someone to talk to. A friend. Even if they'd only spent a few hours together so far, he had to admit he liked Adalia and wanted to get to know her better.
“I couldn't pay you much more than meals and a place to sleep,” Mr. Ruiz added when Skyler took too long to respond, his tone suggesting he expected to be turned down. “But I'd be grateful, if that counts for anything.”
Well, it would be a step up from the man threatening to run him off at gunpoint.
“Do we have time to go take a look at this field before dark?” Skyler asked, wiping his mouth and standing.
✽✽✽
Apparently Skyler was a field hand now.
He probably would've slept better if he'd rented a room in the town of Lone Valley, although the pallet Mrs. Ruiz made up for him was surprisingly comfy, close enough to the banked stove in the kitchen to be the warmest bed in the house.
It certainly beat roughing it on the road or bedding down in a barn or shed, which was his more usual accommodations when he found someone willing to offer him even that humble shelter.
Wake up call was at the crack of dawn, which was about when he usually woke up anyway. Sleeping in wasn't really an option, either, since the Ruiz women made him move his bed so they could take over the kitchen to begin preparing breakfast. Not long after that Mr. Ruiz and his sons headed out to do chores, and Skyler tagged along and pitched in.
It didn't take long to discover that running a homestead took just as much work as running a ranch. Skyler could admit he wasn't enamored of it, thinking longingly of early morning milkings and tending the livestock back home, then herding the animals out to graze. Even harvesting the tough mountain grass in the meadows for hay seemed nostalgic.
Breakfast was oatmeal sweetened with a handful of dried fruit, not particularly interesting but filling enough. By far the highlight of the meal was having Adalia settle down in the seat beside his and engage him in pleasant conversation as they ate, although Mr. Ruiz didn't seem best pleased by it.
That was probably why he called Skyler from the table the moment he scooped up his last spoonful, curtly waving away his wife's attempts to offer their g
uest seconds, and led him outside to get Junior saddled so they could go fetch the plow from their neighbors.
The man didn't comment on the fact that Skyler was taking his pack, saddlebags, and other gear with him; he liked the Ruiz family, and figured they were as honest as folks came. But hard experience had taught him caution, and he was sure nobody could begrudge him that.
Although it turned out the homesteader did have something to say. “You remember our little chat yesterday?” he growled as Skyler was tightening Junior's girth strap. There was no doubt what he was referring to.
“Yes sir,” he replied, a bit annoyed at how his mouth dried at the older man's tone, so he had to resist the urge to swallow. He'd faced squads of vicious Sangue troops, bandits, and trigger happy gunslingers, but a wiry farmer had him shaking in his boots?
Then again, no bloodies, bandits, or gunslingers had been suspicious of him being interested in their daughter. At least as far as he knew.
“Good,” Mr. Ruiz said curtly. “I don't want to have to repeat my earlier warning. With emphasis.”
Neither did he. He'd kind of hoped that agreeing to plow a field for the homesteader might make him more kindly disposed, but apparently his regard wasn't so easily earned. He wondered if the man would feel differently if he knew that Skyler's family owned one of the most successful ranches in Utah, which he'd worked hard to help build and make prosperous with his own two hands . . . twice. That he wasn't just some penniless drifter who might have any sort of unsavory past.
Given Mr. Ruiz's opinion of ranchers, probably not.
The Lowry farm had a slightly more prosperous look than the Ruiz homestead. Much of that was probably due to the horse in a small paddock beside the shed, with another pen beside it holding a modest herd of Nigerian dwarf goats and a chicken coop and rabbit hutch across the small yard. Compared to the dozen or so chickens and single milk-producing goat Adalia's entire extended family kept between them, it was a wealth of animals.
Lowry turned out to be a polite but curt man. Skyler couldn't tell if his lack of warmth came from his general nature or as a response to Mr. Ruiz's heritage, but he seemed willing enough to let his neighbors borrow his homemade plow.
“Got my plowing done a couple weeks ago,” he said, spitting to one side. “Use it for as long as you need.”
“Thanks,” the homesteader replied in halting but passable English. “Should only need it for a day or two.”
“Fine, fine,” the farmer said. He started off, gesturing for them to follow. “It's just this way.”
Talkative or no, Lowry went to the effort to show Skyler how to harness the makeshift plow to Junior, how to push down on the plow so it cut a clean furrow, and how to distance the furrows for optimal planting. The man then gave him a chance to try it out, and Skyler quickly realized it wasn't as easy as it looked; his furrow zigzagged lopsidedly as he pushed down too hard on one handle or the other, or the blade hit a rock and bounced aside. On top of that it was either too shallow or too deep depending on how hard he pushed down.
The farmer gave him a few more pointers, then helped him and Mr. Ruiz load the plow up onto Junior's back. Then they were on their way back to the Ruiz homestead so Skyler could get started on the job.
Once at the marked off section of grasslands intended for the new field, evenly lined up with Mr. Ruiz's existing two that had already been planted, the homesteader left Skyler to the job and went off to his own work. Either the man had a lot of confidence in his ability to pick up using a homemade plow after a few minutes of halfhearted instruction, or he was happy to leave Skyler to sink or swim on his own.
In a way, though, it was a relief to not have the older man looking over his shoulder, probably with a disapproving glare. In fact, Skyler was happy to be left to his own devices to figure things out; he lifted the plow off Junior's back, harnessed the stallion to it, then got started on the first furrow.
At which point it didn't take long for him to wonder if he'd made a huge mistake agreeing to do this, because apparently the backbreaking work of plowing a field by hand was just as backbreaking with a plow, the process just went a lot faster.
The sad thing was, Skyler had no doubt that his horse was doing most of the work pulling the plow. And the job still completely kicked his keister up one side of the field and down the other: the constant strain on his arms and legs of pushing down to keep the plow at the right depth, and the way it sent jolting vibrations up his arms every time it hit even a small pebble, at times halting completely on a larger rock and forcing him to either go around or retrieve the shovel and dig out the obstruction.
And that wasn't even taking into consideration the times when he didn't run a straight furrow and had to start over again, or noticed himself veering to one side or the other and had to go back and redo a few feet. That happened more often than he would've expected, especially at first.
It was exhausting before he'd gone an hour, and the job looming ahead of him was enough to fill him with dread. The modest square of land, which had looked so small when he started, now seemed to stretch on into eternity every time he lifted his head from the plow to look.
In comparison, what he'd managed to do so far felt ludicrous.
Assuming he wasn't completely incompetent, Mr. Lowry had assured him that he could easily get a field of this size done in time for lunch. So either the man had been exaggerating, he'd underestimated how difficult it was, or Skyler was just a complete embarrassment as a farmer.
He wasn't much more than half done as the sun climbed to noon, although at least he'd gotten the hang of it enough to be confident he could finish in a few more hours. He hoped; the thought of doing this for the rest of the day made him want to sit down right in the dirt and give up.
He tried to imagine doing the same work with shovel, hoe, and pickaxe and drew a blank, imagining days or even weeks of effort for one person. Probably with nowhere near the same results. So the carefully tended fields beside this one, which had seemed so humble when he first arrived, suddenly seemed like a truly impressive feat.
It was impossible not to respect the Ruiz family for what they'd accomplished here. Or feel a bit glum about how much trouble he was having with far better tools. Skyler would've been completely disheartened by the job before too much longer if Adalia hadn't come to get him for lunch.
First off just seeing her was a lift to his spirits, especially when she waved eagerly as soon as he caught sight of her. But what was even better was her reaction to the sight of his progress, running out onto the field grinning from ear to ear.
“You've done this much already?” she shouted. “This is amazing!” She threw her arms around Junior's neck. “Good job, boy, we couldn't have done it without you!”
The stallion simply stood there, indifferent to the affection. Probably mostly just relieved to have a break from the work.
As for Skyler, he was a bit miffed that he hadn't earned at least a smidgeon of that praise; he wouldn't have said no to a hug, either. Purely a platonic one, of course.
Although like his faithful horse, he was definitely relieved to have a break. “How the blazes did you guys do the other fields by hand?” he asked, leaning wearily on the plow's handles.
The young woman made a face. “With a bunch of backbreaking work from the whole family.” She fondly stroked the stallion's mane. “But we didn't have this noble steed back then, did we?”
“Yeah, he certainly has been working hard,” Skyler hinted, wiping at his brow for good measure.
She laughed. “Please tell me you're not trying to have a “who did more work” contest with a horse that weighs five times more than you. You're not winning that.”
“Hey, I raised and trained Horse Jr. myself. He wouldn't be doing any work at all without that.”
He must've sounded more defensive than he'd meant to, because Adalia just laughed harder. “Sure he would, unless you're claiming nobody would've trained him if you weren't there.” He fumbled for a good re
sponse, and she took pity on him and nudged his arm. “Relax, I'm just giving you a hard time.” She waved at the mostly plowed field. “You've obviously been working just as hard as Junior.”
“Thanks,” he said, surprised by how pleased he felt at praise he'd practically begged for.
Her smile faded as she gave Junior, then him, a closer look. “Not only your own horse, but you raised and trained him yourself? Only so many ways you could've been living where that was an option, and none of them flow smoothly into you being a wanderer now.” Her expression turned sympathetic. “Bandit attack? Sangue?”
“Sangue,” he agreed. Although not the way you're probably thinking; if the bloodies hadn't begun searching for Camptown then Lisa's family never would've left, and he wouldn't have gone looking for her.
He'd probably be with her now.
The young woman was either very perceptive about his subtle mood shift as he thought of his vanished friend, or misread it as bad memories about the invaders from south of the border, or was dealing with her own memories. Maybe a combination of all of them.
Either way, he sensed her pulling back emotionally a bit. “Either way, I bet you're ready to eat,” she said brightly. She turned back to Junior, vibrant eyes sparkling as she leaned down to begin freeing the horse from his harness. “Come on. Let's get this big fellow rubbed down and fed and watered, then we can eat.”
Skyler helped Adalia get the stallion freed, ruefully reflecting on the fact that she seemed to like his horse more than him. Not that he blamed her; after two years as a constant companion, he was pretty fond of Junior himself.
✽✽✽
If Adalia had been delighted about Skyler's progress, Mr. Ruiz was less impressed. Surprise surprise. Then again, the man had been there to hear how long plowing a field should take.
At least the homesteader didn't get on his case over a lunch eaten out on a communal table beneath a tree between the houses, with twenty or so extended relatives and friends. It was heavy flatbread smothered with some sort of fruit preserve, maybe currants, a heaping platter of scrambled eggs, shredded carrots mixed with chopped nuts in some sort of sweet sauce, and an assortment of preserved foods from winter stores.
