Neige by TwoDonkeys
Winter in Boston...
Scott saw it through a window of Grandfather's study, individually weightless yet falling, blanketing the ground, bringing a silence heavy and expectant. Flakes sometimes so thick, their accumulation bent tree limbs and filled the night with sounds of branches snapping like gunshots.
His breath against the pane fogged the view and a shiver in the air lurked behind heavy drapes.
Behind him, Grandfather's muffled tsk and Pull those curtains. You're letting in the cold.
Let loose in winter shoes and extra layers, scarf wrapped so high his trapped breaths made eyelashes freeze against bits of wool when he inhaled, he made fresh tracks in the garden. A clean, new world, his and his alone. Pathways planned in loops around mounds of snow, and the careful soldier boy hunted the enemy, stepping into his own footprints so no one would know he followed or how many men he led.
Stuck in the kitchen, nowhere to go and no way to go in a blizzard, the coachman showed him how to carve wood. What did every boy want? His own gun.
Free at last, outside Scott took off gloves to adjust and handle the product of his labor thrust behind his coat's belt – a pistol which, if he squinted, didn't look as much like a dog-legged tree branch with uneven gouges to shape it. In moments, frigid air turned bare fingers fat and useless, and needing warmed by the fire. How it hurt when feeling and color returned to whitened flesh!
Grandfather's worried look and gruff admonition: Have some sense, my boy! Leave your gloves on!
He learned to work while wearing gloves, and the experience pushed him to become more expert with his jackknife. The next carvings brought squint-eyed jealous looks from his friends. Through making and selling pretend pistols, he soon had enough to buy a fine carving knife.
Enough of that. Think of winter and air so cold it turns lungs to ice.
The taste of fresh snowflakes on tongue and crystal brilliance floating in rays of sunrise. Fog muzzled sound and rime coated everything. One night he'd been outside when the temperature dropped quickly. The sight of water racing to become a spiderweb of ice across paving stones made him pinch himself to make sure it wasn't a dream.
That most wonderful, chilly winter day spent sliding down the back hill on Grandfather's best tea tray. The remembered speed, thrill and rush of air past his face more than made up for not being able to sit down for supper after being paddled for ruining the good silver.
Winter. Cold fingers reaching inward from every wall and window. Seeing your breath in the bedrooms. Wind whistling at the eaves, pushing drops of water to make icicles hang sideways.
Grandfather told Scott to collect his words in a scarf: when he came inside, they'd thaw what he'd said and listen to it in front of the fire.
That memory brought a smile and a chuckle to the here and now.
Scott squinted and the bright dirt of the Lancer barnyard became sun shining on snow with the mounded white pile of the hacienda in the background. It brought coolness to a hot summer day. He used a forearm to brush hair off his sweaty forehead and out of his eyes before driving hay hooks into the next bale.
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"Don't know how he does it."
Johnny sneezed. That makes four times this load. More than once for each bale.
"Ya see, Johnny? It ain't right, us workin' this hard."
Johnny pulled off a glove and used the edge of his thumb to wipe hay dust from the corners of his eyes. He could barely see Wes sitting in the dim corner of the loft, feet up on a bale of straw.
"You oughtta have your brother come up here to help. We're here sweating our lives away and he's outside where there might be a breeze."
"Get up and move, Wes. You can make your own breeze." Johnny reached to steady the rope while below, his skinny brother pulled more bales up to the loft. Pretty strong for a man who looks to be built of sticks.
Wes spoke in his ear, making him flinch. "You figured how he does it?" Peeking around the side of the loft door, Wes looked down at Scott.
"Does what?"
"He don't sweat. Look at you. You're soaked." Wes slapped him on the back, making a sound wet and sticky.
Johnny shrugged his shoulders, feeling cloth pull across his back and chest, and under his arms. "Comes with the territory." Winches squeaked as the bales inched higher.
"You're workin' yourself to an early grave. And for what?" Wes moved away, out of reach and too far to help. Johnny swung the bales onto the loft floor and unhooked the rope, letting it slide down to Scott.
He paused to look through the loft opening. Lancer unfolded in front of him, building to the mountains that surrounded the hacienda's valley. He turned to the bales but tipped his head toward the view. "For that."
"The ranch? I thought you said you owned it. Why you workin' so hard for something you already have?"
"I only own a third. If you aren't going to help, get out of the way."
Wes rolled a bale onto its side, sighed, and sat down on it. "You should switch jobs with your brother. You know he's picked the easiest part."
"Move." Wes got up and Johnny heaved the bale into place. He'd always thought Scott's end of the deal not only harder, but more dangerous. Bales could fall and kill a man, or break an arm or leg. Besides, the view from up here's better. "I'm doing what I want."
"Are you?"
Johnny swiped sweat from his face and hooked fingers around the edge of the loft doorway so he could lean into the air. A stray breeze puffed against his cheeks. He pulled on the front of his shirt, waving it back and forth, and felt cooler for a moment. "You're not sweating."
"I know how to pace myself." Wes eyed the bales and found a new place to sit. "I don't think your brother likes me much."
"Well, Wes, what's not to like?" Down below, Scott had the next bales ready. He'd unbuttoned his shirt but still hardly looked sweaty. How does he do it? Movement caught Johnny's eye – two hands herding steers past the barn. One-third of those beeves are mine.
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"Johnny?" Scott lifted a gloved hand to shade his eyes. Above him, Johnny leaned on the side of the loft door, looking off into the distance. Scott repeated his query. "You ready?"
Johnny lost the far-away look on his face. Daydreaming would be a way to deal with Wes's blather. Johnny looked worn down even though they'd been taking a ten minute break every hour – a habit Scott had picked up from the Army which seemed to work well for this type of ranch work.
"Yeah, we're ready."
You mean you're ready, brother. Wes's rule was more like ten minutes of work per hour – if that. It wasn't time for break yet, but rules could be bent. This wasn't digging in, preparing trenches for an attack or trying to ride or march all day. The hay wouldn't go anywhere. "How about a break? I need to refill the water bucket down here."
"Sure." Johnny picked up the canteen he'd propped nearby and drank before pouring some water onto his head. He leaned through the loft opening to shake the water off. Drops fell, nearly dried and gone before they reached the ground. Only a few landed on Scott as he stepped into the barn, making pinpricks of momentary coolness.
Wes's unmistakable voice floated down from above. "Hey, I want summa that. Don't waste it."
Johnny answered, voice flat. "You could refill it."
"Nah. It ain't empty yet."
Scott's mouth twisted into a wry grin. Lancer would never get its money's worth from Wes. What Johnny saw in him, Scott didn't know, unless it was to have a tie to his old life: to remember a freedom to do what he wanted when he wanted, a way of life guaranteed to leave no ripples.
Wes had told Scott he didn't know Johnny well. They'd met years ago while trying to sign up for a range war at the same time. While waiting to hear whether they'd been hired (Johnny was, Wes was not), they'd shared a bottle or two and got along well enough to remember each other fondly when they ran into each other again in Morro Coyo.
Johnny had offered Wes a job at Lancer. If Johnny wanted to pick up slack for someone he considered a friend, it was no business of Scott's. Johnny had been proving he had the energy to work as hard as two men. The question is, how long will it be before Johnny gets tired of it?
Without sun blazing on his shoulders, the inside of the barn felt cool. Scott grabbed the water bucket.
In a Boston winter, water grows a layer of ice. Water below it feels too cold to drink – its glacial burn turns teeth into ice cubes. Those who dare jump into that water will find that their manly parts... shrivel.
Scott used the dipper to scoop the last of the water from the bucket and downed the lukewarm drink. The memory of ice and snow, and how they made nether regions shrink, made him shiver. He headed to the well.
Then there were the frigid days where we'd dare each other to lick metal...
He drew a fresh pail of water.
… and days when snow fell soft and fluffy, easy to kick. It would shoot up like rooster tails from our toes.
He returned to the barn, enjoying the feel of a light breeze against his bare skin and memories of sending ice crystals dancing through the air.
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"Now look at 'im." Wes shook his head. "He's smilin'. What's he got to smile about?"
"I don't know. Here. Let's get these bales put up and then we can take a break."
"How about we take a break now? Your brother is. He's in charge, ain't he?"
"Not so's you'd notice." Johnny grinned. He and his brother hadn't yet tired of joking about how Murdoch called the tune.
"Now he's walkin' funny. What's he doin'? Kickin' rocks?"
"Don't know." Johnny didn't bother to look. He put the last loose bale onto the stack and sat. Hard to figure what ol' Boston's doing sometimes. I'd think he'd use some of those fancy words and talk Murdoch into letting him stay inside where it's cool. Scott didn't mind doing books, but he also didn't seem to mind lending a hand or getting dirty. Would be nice to know how he keeps from sweating, though. Maybe it just doesn't show much on that dirt-brown shirt of his.
"He starts whistlin', I'm gonna shoot 'im." Wes leaned back against a bale and pulled his hat over his face. "Sure is funny."
"What is?"
"You two bein' brothers. Only thing you have in common's wantin' to work too hard on a hot day."
They had more in common than that, but Wes would have to figure it on his own time, which he always seemed to have plenty of.
If only I could see fit to being that lazy. Doing things when I want... wouldn't that be something? Seems like it's been forever since I've been free.
Two thumps in the barnyard meant more hay had been tossed off the wagon. The ropes swung as Scott positioned them around the next two bales. Johnny leaned forward and brought himself to his feet."Come on, Wes, time to get back at it."
Wes groaned and didn't move. "Too soon."
"How do you know? You got a watch?"
"Don't need one."
Johnny leaned out the loft door. Scott looked up, a hay hook in one hand like he could be one of those pirates in that book Murdoch had. Johnny waved to signal he was ready. Scott put down the hook, picked up the end of the rope and took a flying leap off the wagon, using his weight to get the bales started into the air. The slow creep upward continued as Scott heaved on his end of the rope.
Sweat ran down Johnny's back. He'd swear he could hear Wes snoring.
Down the road, dust hung in the air behind a wagon: Walt and Fox bringing the next load of bales.
Maybe when Hell freezes over I can start living again.
February 2021