by C. J. Hill
Mrs. Daniels took a bite of her fishcake.
“Are you still happy with your program?”
Given a perfect world, Jamison would have studied for a doctorate. Perhaps in philosophy or history. He needed a way to support himself soon though, a way to eventually support Bianca too. She was the sort of girl who deserved better than years of poverty while he amassed degrees. He’d gone into international business instead. It was perhaps an attempt to gain his father’s approval. After all, his father had a talent for knowing which businesses to invest in. Mr. Daniels may have had a skeptical view of human nature, but he believed in businesses. Businesses ruled the world.
“I liked all my classes,” Jamison said. “Economics is a powerful force.”
Mr. Daniels nodded and refrained from making his usual comments about how people put too much stock in degrees and not enough in common sense. Which translated into glowing approval.
Jamison went on. “Maybe someday I’ll find a way to bring a few more businesses to Saint Helena.”
“We’ve already got Napoleon’s home,” Nathan said. “If we can get a few more famous people exiled here, we’ll be set. You work on that.”
“Maybe when you graduate, we can go into business,” Mr. Daniels said. “We’ll set up shop in England. You can be the respectable front man. I’ll be the one who gets things done behind the scenes.”
“What do you mean, ‘gets things done’?” Jamison asked.
“What do you mean, England?” Nathan asked. He blinked, horrified. “We can’t move away, not when…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
Mr. Daniels sent Nathan a sympathetic look. “You can’t live here forever. We’ll move when your brother graduates.”
“When you say ‘respectable front man,’” Jamison continued, “that sounds like you’re planning to do something illegal.”
Mr. Daniels turned his attention back to Jamison. “For businesses to succeed, they all have to bend the law a bit.”
“That’s not true,” Jamison said.
Mr. Daniels shook his head. “That school of yours is overpriced.”
Mrs. Daniels let out a happy sigh. “It’s so good to have you home, Jamie. It’s just like old times.”
Jamison had told Bianca weeks ago to reserve tomorrow for an outing with him. It was the only free day before he started his job on the plantation and he wanted to hike to Lot’s Wife’s Ponds and have a picnic with her. It was three miles each way, and then they would have to climb down a rope to reach the pools of shallow ocean water trapped in a cove.
The scenery was stunning: ragged gray rock, pale white sand, and the clear blue ocean. It was one of the few places on the island to swim, at least on a good day. If the waves were too high, they washed over the rocks and could drag swimmers out to sea. Even if they couldn’t swim tomorrow, they would still be together, and most likely alone. The difficulty in getting to the place discouraged most tourists.
While Jamison unpacked his suitcases, he called Bianca to confirm the plans.
She answered the phone cheerfully. “You’re back.”
“Like Lazarus from the grave.”
“From the grave? Oxford can’t be that bad.” Her voice conjured up her image perfectly. The bright blue of her eyes against her pale, smooth skin. Her expectant smile. The sweep of her blond hair laying on her neck.
Jamison shoved several T-shirts into a drawer. “Oxford wasn’t bad. It just had a stunning lack of you.”
She laughed, pleased at his answer. “You seemed to get along well enough without me. Toward the end of term I hardly ever heard from you.”
“Exams. They were brutal. Oh, I know Oxford looks terribly civilized, but it’s a scholar-eat-scholar world over there.” Now that he knew she had been going around with Brant, he couldn’t help judging her reactions, measuring the tone of her voice. Was there any apprehension in her words? Any sign that she was about to break it off with him altogether?
There was a smile in her voice. “I’m glad you didn’t get eaten then.”
He tossed several socks into an open drawer, missing only one easy shot. “Who says I didn’t? For all you know, I’m terribly wounded.”
“I know you better than that. You out-studied, out-thought, and out-examed the best of them.” It was a compliment, and yet there was something of an accusation there too. When he left in September, she had tearfully predicted that he would forget about her. He hadn’t.
He threw the last of his socks into the drawer. “I can’t help being brilliant. It’s my curse.”
“Will you be studying every free moment you have?”
“Of course not. Tomorrow we’re going to Lot’s. You didn’t forget?”
“No,” she said, and there was a teasing lilt to her voice. “I even bought a new swimming suit. So I was going to be mad if you forgot.”
“I’ll pick you up at ten.”
In the background, he heard Bianca’s mother say, “Is that Brant again?”
Again? Brant had called Bianca today?
Bianca ignored her mother and kept speaking to Jamison. “I’ll make some sandwiches and pack some chips and fruit. Can you bring the drinks, plates, and napkins?”
“All right,” Jamison said. He wanted to ask her about Brant, but didn’t. That was a conversation they should have in person. It would be easier to reason with Bianca, to convince her Brant wasn’t right for her, if Jamison took her hand while they talked.
Bianca’s mother spoke again. “Then who is it?”
Bianca sighed. “I’d better go, Jamison. My mom needs to use the phone.”
Bianca’s mother let out an ohhh of understanding.
What did that mean? What sort of understanding was packed into that ohhh? Bianca’s parents had liked him before he left the island, although that wasn’t readily apparent from the drawn-out vowel her mother had just spoken. That sound was more of an “Oh, it’s just Jamison? Because Brant is really rich and I’d like to be his mother-in-law someday.”
“Um, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jamison said.
“Tomorrow,” Bianca agreed, and hardly waited for him to say goodbye before she hung up.
Jamison told himself not to worry, spent a good part of the evening reassuring himself about it. Brant might have money, but he was mean-spirited and egotistical. Bianca was smart enough to realize that.
At ten o’clock in the morning he would see her. Everything would be all right.
Chapter 3
At ten in the morning, Jamison didn’t see Bianca. He was mucking out the Overdrakes’ horse stables. He shoveled the mess in a quick, angry rhythm. Even though the morning was cool, sweat beaded down his back and soaked into his shirt. Flies darted back and forth around his head.
Mr. Overdrake himself had rung up the house that morning and told Mr. Daniels to bring Jamison to work with him. One of the stable hands had called in sick and Mr. Overdrake wanted Jamison to do his chores.
“I told you I had plans,” Jamison protested when his father woke him and gave him the news. Jamison had only asked for one free day before he transformed into a plantation serf. “I haven’t seen Bianca for nine months.”
Mr. Daniels walked across Jamison’s bedroom and pulled up his shade. “Then one more day won’t matter.”
Jamison didn’t give up. “Couldn’t you have told Mr. Overdrake no for once?”
“I could have, but I figured you needed to earn as much money as you could. Stodgy old professors don’t come cheap, you know.” Mr. Daniels turned and left the room. “Hurry or you’ll miss breakfast.”
No one ever came late to work for Mr. Overdrake. He didn’t allow late.
Jamison hadn’t called Bianca until a few minutes ago. He had hoped, with a sort of pointless optimism, that he would get the work done in a few hours and would only have to postpone their hike to the ponds, not cancel it altogether.
He should have known better. Before he finished one chore, Mr. Overdrake strolled by and assigned two more. Usual
ly Mr. Overdrake was nowhere to be seen before noon, but today, when Jamison wanted to beg one of the other hands to cover for him so he could slip away, the owner’s full attention was on him.
Jamison slid his manure fork along the floor of a horse stall. There were only five Overdrakes. Why in the world did they need seven horses?
“What died and rotted in here?”
Jamison didn’t have to turn to know Brant Overdrake had walked into the stables. Jamison recognized his condescending tone.
“Oh, it’s you,” Brant went on. “I guess that explains the smell.”
Jamison only cast a glance over his shoulder. Brant was six foot two and an expert at using his broad shoulders to shove rivals out of the way during football games. At Prince Andrew he had always been the undisputed leader, not just of his class but of the entire school. It always irked him that Jamison wasn’t impressed by his money, size, or strength.
Jamison tossed the manure onto the nearby wheelbarrow. “I’m surprised you can smell anything except that cologne you’re drowning in.”
Brant took several swaggering steps toward the stall Jamison was cleaning. He wore jeans, no doubt the designer kind, and a casual shirt that still managed to look expensive and affected. A bracelet shaped like two twining silver ropes peeked from under one sleeve. It seemed out of place. Brant liked to flash his wealth, but he wasn’t the sort that wore jewelry, let alone bracelets.
“Having some trouble?” Brant’s gaze ran over Jamison, surveying him from head to foot. “You’re out of shape. I guess sitting around in a university for months will do that.”
Jamison paused, a load of manure poised on the fork. “If you think you can do the job better, be my guest.”
“I can’t.” Brant took another swaggering step for emphasis. “I’m picking up Bianca in a few minutes. Seems her plans fell through.” Brant sent Jamison a triumphant smile. “It would be a shame for her picnic to go to waste.”
So that was it. Jamison had suspected Brant had been behind the work schedule change today. He hadn’t been certain, though, until that moment.
As Brant turned to go, Jamison tossed the load of manure at him. It hit Brant’s head and back with a satisfying thud. Jamison wasn’t one to act impulsively, but still, Brant should have known better than to taunt someone who was holding a forkful of horse manure.
“Sorry,” Jamison said. “I’m out of shape. My aim is bad.”
Brant turned, swearing and knocking the manure off him.
Jamison surveyed him. “You need a shower. I guess you can’t pick up Bianca after all.”
Brant stormed toward Jamison, thunder in his eyes. Over the years a few boys had been stupid enough to take on Brant Overdrake. No one had ever beaten him. Jamison was nearly as tall as Brant, and despite Brant’s claim, he hadn’t completely lost the muscles that had come with ranch work. Still, Jamison had never been in a fight in his life. Fighting was how uneducated drunken thugs solved their differences.
Jamison didn’t flinch away from this fight, though. In the time it took Brant to reach him, he planned his strategy. When Brant swung, Jamison would intercept the hit with the back of the fork tongs. It might break a few of Brant’s knuckles. Finger bones were delicate. Jamison couldn’t be blamed if Brant didn’t know that. Bullies ought to pay attention to their anatomy classes.
A few broken bones would take the fight out of Brant and keep him from using that hand against Jamison. Brain would triumph over brawn once again.
Brant swung his fist toward Jamison, fast and hard. Jamison met the blow with the fork. A loud smacking sound reverberated as fist met metal.
It was the only thing that happened the way Jamison imagined it. Instead of reeling back in pain, Brant knocked the fork head completely off the handle. It flung backward and hit the stable wall with a clang.
Jamison stood there, holding the broken stick in utter surprise. Things could have gone bad right then if Brant had followed up with a second blow. He didn’t. Brant stared at the broken fork and his flare of temper faded.
“You’re an idiot,” Brant muttered in disgust. “I could have killed you.” Then he turned and stalked out of the stables. If his hand hurt, he didn’t show it. It was still clenched in a fist.
Jamison wasn’t used to having his plans proved immediately and utterly wrong. This bothered him as much as the feeling that he’d lost the fight. He checked the broken end of the fork. The wood didn’t look old or rotted. The jagged ends were pale and yellow, new. The whole thing looked sturdy enough. How had Brant knocked it apart? Jamison turned it over in his hands, then went and threw it into the trash bin and got out another manure fork. The first one must have had some crack or flaw Jamison hadn’t noticed. It was luck. And yet Jamison still had an uneasy feeling that something odd, something wrong, had just happened.
He didn’t think about it long, because his mind switched to dwelling on the fact that he had thrown horse manure on his boss’s son. Mr. Overdrake would most likely fire Jamison within half an hour.
When the stable door next swung open, it wasn’t Mr. Overdrake who marched in, anger dripping from his tongue; it was Jamison’s father. Mr. Daniels strode over to him, red faced. “What were you thinking?”
His father had already taken Brant’s side. That stung.
Jamison slid his fork over the wood shavings on the floor. “That’s a broad question. Can you narrow it down?”
Mr. Daniels pointed his finger at Jamison. “Throwing manure on Brant was stupid, reckless, and ungrateful!”
“Are you even going to ask to hear my side of the story?”
Mr. Daniels kept jabbing his finger in the air. “Do you think this is a schoolyard where you can mess about and only receive a hand slap from the headmaster?”
“Is that what the headmaster does? I never actually got into trouble at school.” Jamison did regret what he’d done. Throwing manure was beneath him. He couldn’t admit this, though, not when his father was busy criticizing him. To admit he regretted it would be like agreeing with his father’s condemnation.
Mr. Daniels raised his voice. “You go away to that almighty university and now you think you’re too good to take orders from someone else. You’re too good to do manual labor. We’re all beneath you now.”
Jamison let the fork tongs clang against the floor. “Are you sure I’m in the wrong or do you just not care? Is your almighty job more important than anything else?”
“My job has put clothes on your back, food on your table, and paid for your precious Oxford. Maybe you should think about that while you’re busy making enemies of the Overdrakes.”
Jamison sighed and looked upward. He hated feeling beholden to his father for money. His father used that obligation like a whip. “What did Mr. Overdrake say to you?” Jamison asked.
“Langston didn’t tell me about your fight. Brant did.” Mr. Daniels ran a hand over his hair, thinking. “He might not tell his father. I don’t think Brant wants to admit he lost his temper and took a swing at you.”
Jamison hiked up one of his eyebrows. He had assumed Brant would rather take some chastisement if it meant he could make Jamison’s life miserable in the process. “So I’m not fired?”
“You’re not fired, but I don’t know if you should work here anymore.” The way Mr. Daniels said it made it clear he was the one deciding the matter. “You’ll have to promise me you’ll never goad Brant again. It’s too dangerous.”
Too dangerous? The words seemed discordant coming out of his father’s mouth. To be sure, Mr. Daniels was Langston Overdrake’s yes-man, but he wasn’t a coward. In fact, Mr. Daniels was so unbendable in his views, Jamison had always assumed that one day his father would become fed up with Langston Overdrake and tell him where he could stick his cattle.
Instead, Mr. Daniels stood here, clearly worried, telling Jamison it was too dangerous to make Brant angry. Was his father such a slave to job security? Did it mean more to him than standing up for his son? Jamison thought a lit
tle less of him then. It was an empty, hollow feeling.
Jamison turned away from his father and went back to the stall. He smoothed out the shavings on the stable floor. Mr. Daniels watched him, didn’t leave. “Bianca is just a girl,” he said in what was probably supposed to be a soothing tone. “You’ll find plenty of girls you like better before you’re ready to settle down. She’s not worth all of this.”
Jamison didn’t answer his father. There wasn’t a point. His father didn’t care what he thought.
Mr. Daniels didn’t wait around for commentary anyway. Without another word, he turned and left.
When Jamison finished mucking the stalls he stalked off across the grounds to find his father and ask what he was supposed to do next. No one was around. Not his father, not any of the Overdrakes.
Jamison headed toward the meat processing building in the middle of the ranch. Someone was always hanging about there. Frequently that someone was his father. It was Mr. Daniels’s responsibility to bring the unlucky cattle inside. Mr. Overdrake wouldn’t allow anyone else to do it.
The building was a windowless metal monstrosity that was much too big for its purpose. You could fit all the Overdrakes’ cattle inside and still have room left over for a couple of swimming pools. Jamison asked his father once why the place was so large. Mr. Daniels said it was built with expansion in mind.
Typical Overdrake, Jamison supposed. Think big; act bigger.
Jamison had nearly reached the front door when one of the ranch’s vets stepped out of the building’s entrance. “What are you doing here?” The man’s voice was gruff, like he suspected Jamison had come to spray-paint graffiti on the walls. Maybe Mr. Daniels wasn’t the only one who knew about Jamison’s fight with Brant.
“I’m looking for my dad. Have you seen him?”
“You’re not allowed around here. You know that.”
Jamison had been told often enough that only people who had health department clearance were allowed inside the building. It had to do with some food handling laws. According to Mr. Daniels, if anyone else so much as stepped foot inside, the whole place and all the meat in it would be considered contaminated. It would cost Mr. Overdrake hundreds of thousands of pounds. For that reason, the door was always locked and only a few people had keys.
