Notes:
Loved the series for decades, but this is my first Big Valley fiction. Just finished my latest novel and needed a slight break, so dabbling in fanfiction for a little fun. If you enjoy whumpage, and my style, you might want to check out my website lauraactonauthor dot com
Whumptober2021, Drama, Protective Older Brothers, Whump Heath, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family, Relationships, no.3, no.5, no.13, no.21, no.27, taunting, insults, burns, blood-matted hair, passing out, vertigo, collapse, betrayal
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Where the Blazes Is He?!
Cracking open his eyes, Heath squinted as the brutally bright sun overhead caused his brain to thunder like a locomotive. He slammed his lids shut rolled to his left, groaning as the pain in his abdomen amplified. Once he made it over, he continued rolling to his stomach, hoping to get his knees under him, and … well, he didn't rightly know the next step.
Lying face down, Heath rode a bucking bronco of nausea which threatened to relieve him of his last meal. Alone and in enormous pain, he contemplated the dire situation—he would bleed out and die if he continued to lie here. Soul-deep self-preservation kicked in, and with immense effort, he managed to push up from the ground and teetered on his knees until he sat on his heels.
Taking another shot at opening his eyes, Heath scanned the area around him. He found the road empty … his trusty Gal nowhere in sight. Though parched, he tried to whistle for her, but the sound came out nothing like what his horse would recognize.
Disappointed, Heath closed his lids again and breathed through the burning agony in his gut and pounding hammer in his skull. Trying to recall what put him in this position … he came up blank. His left hand moved to his temple and his fingers made contact with blood-matted hair. The sticky clotting substance told him he had lain in the dirt for quite some time. That and the fact it had been pre-dawn when he set out on his special errand and the sun was now high in the sky.
Drawing a ragged breath, his hand dropped and sought out the epicenter of his pain. He lowered his chin to peer at his shirt, noting a hole and the crimson staining the right side of his blue chambray shirt. Reaching around, he couldn't find an exit wound … not good. It meant the lead was in him somewhere, along with threads from his shirt … a surefire precondition to infection.
Aware the bullet must be dug out, but not having anything available to treat himself, Heath wondered which direction to go—and determined he must be closer to the ranch than Stockton. Expending much effort, he struggled to his feet and swayed as the world's axis titled. Once vertigo abated somewhat, pressing a hand to his right side and shuffling his boots, Heath started towards his home for the past four months.
The word home bounced around in his mind as he staggered onward. There were days he still couldn't believe he had a home … a grand one on a prosperous ranch … that the Barkleys, for the most part, recognized his birthright … and that Victoria Barkley allowed him to stay. The only true dissenter was Nick. The loud and brash legitimate second son of Tom Barkley barely tolerated him on a good day.
But he could handle Nick's anger, and all the crap Nick threw his way—he was a bastard after all and dealt with worse all his life. And he was the one who came here and destroyed Nick's idolized image of their father. To make amends for his parentage, Heath endeavored to work harder than any of the hired hands. He put in long hours, did the jobs others shirked or grumbled about—all without a single complaint. Perhaps, in time, if he proved himself worthy, Nick might come around and accept him as a brother … or at least a half-brother.
Sweat trickled down his face as Heath stumbled along the rutted path. The heat was intense, he wished for water to quench his thirst, but with Gal missing, he had no canteen. Again, he wondered what occurred, and what happened to Gal. She would never leave him of her own accord. Many times in the past he'd been incapacitated in one way or another, and his Modoc would happily graze nearby until he righted himself.
Retreating to his mind as he zigzagged through the dirt, the passage of time lost all meaning, but he comprehended he must continue to put one boot in front of the other or he'd be food for the buzzards. Instead of focusing on his discomfort … a mild word for the excruciating pain and lightheadedness of blood loss … he thought about how much he had come to enjoy living with the Barkleys … despite Nick's attitude towards him.
Audra was a breath of fresh air. A wild cat with a heart of gold and the sweetest smile, she could do no wrong in Heath's books. He liked having a little sister … even if she was challenging at times. Of all his siblings, he felt the strongest kinship with her. They shared the same eye and hair coloring—they both took after Tom he learned from his sister. Whereas Jarrod, Nick, and Eugene all favored darker hair of their mother's side.
His mouth dry as a desert, Heath wished to be sitting on the veranda and drinking a glass of Audra's lip-puckering sour lemonade—though she always had plenty of sugar for the horses, Audra often failed to add the proper amount of sweetener to her concoctions—be it lemonade, cookies, or cakes. Silas though, the majordomo knew how to cook, and his sweet tea reminded him of his mother's—that is the few times they could afford enough sugar to sweeten their tea.
Lurching forward as his heel got stuck in a rut, Heath's hands flew out in front of him to break his fall. The agonizing jarring of his body as he collapsed into the hard-packed dirt sent him into darkness once again.
"Where the blazes is he?! This is a working ranch and he's shirking his duty … off lollygagging who knows where." Nick paced in Jarrod's office after grabbing a quick lunch with his brother since Mother and Audra were visiting the Meyerson's place today and wouldn't be home until late this afternoon.
"Nick—"
Whipping around to face his older brother, Nick interrupted the patronizing tone. "No, Pappy. Not this time. You all should've listened to me. It's only been a few months, and now the boy feels entitled to go off and play while we've got cattle to round up." Nick inhaled, then set off again, disparaging his bastard brother's work ethic.
Aware he wouldn't make any headway with Nick in this state, Jarrod patiently waited as Nick continued his tirade. As much as he loved Nick, his mule-headed, short-tempered brother could be quite unreasonable at times. Though Nick possessed a heart as big as the valley and was the staunchest protector of his family, when it came to Heath, Nick didn't view their younger brother as a family member.
Jarrod sometimes worried Nick would drive Heath off … but then he weighed that against Heath's actions. The young blond quietly took all Nick's vitriol and never failed to complete every task Nick set out for him. Not only did he finish, but he also excelled, getting done fast and with high quality before moving on to the next chore. Heath never complained, just diligently set to work—as if Heath expected he must prove himself worthy to his family.
That part annoyed Jarrod. Heath didn't need to prove anything. The young man already suffered significantly due to Tom's failure to check if he left a child behind in Strawberry. By Jarrod's account, Tom's ledger was filled with red with regard to Heath. Tom betrayed an innocent child, leaving him to grow up in harsh conditions and be subjected to the indignation of being called a bastard—as if his life meant less than a child born in wedlock.
Jarrod wished Nick could see past his hurt over their father's indiscretion, and accept it wasn't Heath's fault he was conceived and born. Heath shouldn't be punished for their imperfect father's moment of weakness. Mostly he prayed Nick would quit aiming the anger he held for Father at Heath.
"Well, what do you have to say to that?" Nick stood with arms crossed and spurred boots shoulder-width apart in front of Jarrod's desk.
Realizing he missed something as his mind wandered, Jarrod sighed. "I'm not sure."
"Not sure!" Nick bellowed with fury written in his features. A fist clenched and slammed into his palm. "He's not pulling his weight. This isn't a free ride. He's outta here if he won't work."
"Nick—"
"I mean it!"
At his wit's end, Jarrod stood and adopted a firm tone he rarely used on his siblings, but one that let them know he would brook no dissension. "Stop. Do you hear yourself? Are you so blind? Heath is up before you, out doing chores, comes in for breakfast … because Mother insists. Then he is out all day, often forsaking lunch. Again, he returns for dinner, per Mother's wishes, but how many nights has he relaxed in the parlor with us afterward?"
He raised a hand to ward off a response. "I'll tell you … six times in the past four months. Six. Where does he go? Back to the barn. Heath's been picking up the slack of several of the hands—most notably the ones who disrespect your brother. I'm certain McCall's told you that already."
Nick huffed. "That boy doesn't belong here and he knows it … that's why he goes out to the tack room."
Exasperated, Jarrod threw up his arms, but then slammed both fists on the wooden work surface. "Enough!"
Taken aback by the show of emotion, Nick only stared. Calm, cool, and collected Jarrod didn't often explode, but when he did, you best pay attention.
Rounding his desk and coming face to face with Nick, Jarrod jabbed a finger in Nick's chest to emphasize each word. "Quit being obdurate. Open your eyes and use the brain the Lord gave you." Pivoting and striding a few feet away, Jarrod recomposed himself before turning back to his bullheaded brother.
Calmer, Jarrod said, "Heath's been doing the work of two or more men … all to please you or prove his worth to you. I let it go on, hoping you would come to your senses and realize what's happening right under your nose. But unfortunately, you are still choosing to wear blinders when it comes to Heath.
"I don't know where he is today … likely off doing something that needs doing. However, your haranguing of him must stop. Whether you like it or not, Heath is our brother and he deserves the same respect you show other members of this household. When he returns for supper, you will not demand an explanation of where he went today. As far as I'm concerned, he's more than earn a day off … more like weeks off."
Nick scowled, as he said, "You can accept him if you want, but that don't mean I hafta," then stormed out of the house, needing an outlet for his anger … hammering fence posts into the ground might do the trick.
After pouring two fingers of whiskey, Jarrod slumped into his chair. "How am I going to fix this?" His eyes landed on the portrait of his father sitting on the corner of his desk. Thomas Barkley was a young man in the photograph, and Heath's resemblance to him was unmistakable. Although Heath took after Tom more than any of his legitimate sons in appearance, Nick's passion and hard-driving, pigheadedness mirrored their father's. "Father, if only you had checked on Leah …" he trailed off and took a sip of the amber liquid.
