Author's Note: Marvel Owns what it owns, and I own what I own. Let's keep it that way, shall we? Please don't sue me!
TW: suicidal ideation; PTSD flashback
Funny enough, this would be roughly considered the "montage" sequence in any given Disney or animated film, although, after much discussion, this fic has a far more Dreamworks than Disney vibe to it. (recommended listening includes Tarzan and Road to El Dorado soundtracks. Yanno, despite the dark themes)
Chapter 6: Chores and Choices
He watched her descend the ladder and then much later return to the farmhouse after the evening feed had been completed. He was starting to get a clearer picture of what was going on. She wasn't an idiot, or oblivious to the danger that he posed. She wasn't blind to what was going on. There was no way she could be. The expression on Davidson's face told him that the man knew he was dangerous, and he wasn't likely to keep that to himself. She wasn't an idiot. She was desperate. The near-paralyzing fear that had come over her when he'd told her not once but twice that she needed to get a professional to look at the roof, the well-used tools that had gone to rust in her toolshed along with the drywall. There was all of the roofing material she needed to repair the barn, the outbuilding, and the main house three times over. She was alone out here, but she hadn't always been. And now she was at her wit's end, and she was desperate. Desperate enough to ask for his help when she knew, or at the very least had a strong suspicion that he was dangerous. Desperate enough where a leaky roof was more dire than falling from that roof.
It made so much more sense to him that she was desperate rather than acting on some kind of strange, wholly altruistic urge. She needed him to fix her roof, and he needed her not to raise an alarm that the Winter Soldier was living in her barn. At least until he was able to get his collective shit together long enough to continue north. For the moment it was mutually beneficial to both of them. At least that is what he could tell himself to ease some of the guilt that had started to build in the back of his mind.
He was endangering these people with his presence, but so long as he could somehow convince himself that he was helping, he could justify laying low here for a little while longer.
When he finally lost light, he settled down into the fresh hay that had been spread in stall ten. Opening the food that Ramirez had left that morning, his stomach growling, he ate in silence and thought about what he'd seen throughout the day, trying to sort through his muddled thoughts. His head was loud. He was remembering more, the memories were coming in sharper, more defined than before, haunting him in his sleep and in the waking hours now too. He was thinking as both the Soldier and as James Barnes if that was possible.
What would the Soldier do? Move on. Leave no evidence that he was ever there. He knew that much. But he also knew that he needed supplies, needed to be able to move quickly and without pause, which at the moment was a problem for him. James Barnes? James Barnes, on the other hand, wanted to help. Wanted to help this woman. She'd asked him for his help and had thus far been an invaluable ally. She would be able to secure the proper supplies necessary for whenever he made his move north. Was that James Barnes? Or was that the Soldier? Looking to extract the highest value from a given asset before moving on? He didn't know.
He fell into a fitful slumber, every noise pulling him from his sleep until finally, he woke to the sound of nothing but restless silence in the barn.
He rose, blinking at the light streaming through the barn's loft window, and glanced around. Ramirez wasn't there. He looked up at the clock. She was late, he could feel it, and so could the horses. Their energy reeked of nervousness, and it was putting him on edge.
Walking from the stall, he slowly proceeded toward the office in one of the rooms off of the main barn. He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, but he had a feeling that he'd know it when he saw it. Opening the door to the office, he stopped. The desk was piled high with envelopes, scraps of papers with various numbers were hung on the board on the wall in front of the desk, very nearly obscured by the envelopes and other unopened mail. Hanging on the wall beside the corkboard was a photo of Ramirez with a man: white, lanky, with sandy hair. They were standing side by side, the sign for Last Chance Ranch behind them. The man, who was wearing aviator sunglasses, was addressing the camera directly, but Ramirez was looking up at him. There was an expression of absolute adoration on her face, a radiance in her eyes. Love. This was Underdahl. This was her husband.
She's a widow. He decided. Surveying the photo closer he saw that the man, Underdahl, was wearing an Air Force shirt. She's a military widow. So the ranch for veterans made sense. Or a bit more sense than before. She had or likely still has personal ties to the military, and a personal reason to want to keep the place going. But why risk it all for one man? Why risk it all for me?
She doesn't know she's risking it all for me. He reminded himself. She doesn't know she's harboring the Winter Soldier. Mutually beneficial, remember? But it hadn't started that way. He'd stumbled into her barn half dead, and she'd been the one to make the decision to not involve the authorities. It had only devolved into mutually beneficial whenever he'd discovered the leak in her roof. So, why hadn't she called the cops in the first place?
He shook his head. He wasn't in here to delve into her personal matters.
He shut the door and went to the next one. This one had all sorts of saddles and other riding equipment. On the wall, there was a whiteboard. Each of the horses' names was written out, with feeding instructions, their favorite treats, feed restrictions, as well as grooming instructions. Ghost was at the bottom and, in addition to all the other information, his had several annotations "Trust + Weight = GEN POP May 31, 2014, or BUST" was written in large block letters.
Along the walls, there were rows of saddles, each of them labeled. There was also a yolk and harness set up for the Clydesdale, Shadow. Everything was neat, organized, and in its place. A stark contrast to the office only feet away.
"Matt? What are you doing?"
He turned to find her standing behind him, she looked frazzled, her dark eyes heavily ringed with circles and slightly bloodshot, her expression weary, while riddled with confusion, edging on suspicion. "The horses were restless, looking for feed specs," He managed.
"Oh." She said, shortly. "You didn't have to do that. The horses can be big babies when they're not fed right on time. But I see that you found it."
He nodded. "Do you need help?"
"You're already helping me with the roof." She commented, removing a large water bottle and a couple burritos from her satchel and extended them to him.
"Thanks." He said as he took the items from her.
"About yesterday. I'm sorry if Bill came off a little strong. He can be a bit overbearing at times, particularly with new people."
"I didn't notice."
"Oh. Oh, that's good." She exhaled quickly as if relieved.
So she knew Davidson was concerned or otherwise unhappy about his presence, enough that Davidson might actually say something to him about it. There was a pause, and Ramirez looked like she was going to say something, but then at the last minute thought better of it. "Guess I should hop to." She sighed, turning stuck a to-do list on the same rusted nail as she had the day before.
He nodded and climbed up the ladder resuming his place in the loft, setting the meal she'd brought for him down before climbing out onto the roof.
Mike and Bill arrived first, just like the day before, and they nodded their greeting before starting on the extensive to-do list. How had she managed to keep people out of the barn when he'd been delirious? Had she lied? What had she told them? Certainly, a half-dead man in your friend or colleague's barn would be cause to call the authorities. It would have been reasonable if not advisable for her to call someone, anyone, yet it didn't appear that she had or would. Unless this was normal for her and for the volunteers of Last Chance Ranch, that she was just known for taking in strays. It seemed like the most likely scenario. The outbuilding, with its extra toiletries and non-perishable items, was an indication of that. It was possible that none of them had lingered as long as he had.
He tried not to think too much about his current situation. Fortunately, it didn't hurt as much to focus and think, but the rest of his body felt like one gigantic bruise, throbbing and aching, while the buzzing in the prosthesis was only getting worse. That, he couldn't do much about that at the moment. He'd have to suffer through that, or risk being detected and caught. His only task at the moment was to finish the roof so he could get out of here.
"Hey Matt, you coming to the cookout on Friday?"
The man's voice pulled him from his thoughts and he blinked as he looked around and down to see Mike standing at the foot of the ladder. "Pardon?"
"Sorry about that, didn't know any other way to get your attention." Mike said apologetically. "Just wanted to let you know, Ramirez is having a cookout on Friday for the April birthdays, clients and volunteers are all invited."
"She hadn't mentioned anything." He replied.
"Well that doesn't surprise me, she's been a bit scattered lately. You should come. It's a good time." Mike commented. Then without waiting for a response, he walked away.
Why hadn't Ramirez invited him, but Mike had thought to? And she did this every month? Well, naturally. She was building a community here. She had cultivated and created this, so of course, she would do this for her volunteers and clients every month. If she put her mind to it, she'd make a dangerous political or social activist. He'd killed people on Hydra's behalf for less.
The thought pulled him back, stopping him in his mental wandering. It made his stomach twist and twinge. That isn't my life anymore. I don't want that life. It was strange to even have the thought of 'I want.' Like he had any choice or say in the matter. His only option was to keep out of Hydra's hands. Everything after that was secondary.
He winced, his head spinning as a white-hot flash of pain flared at his temples. It was like they knew. Hydra. They were still in his head, and they knew he was fighting them. They were That nagging itch in the back of his brain yelling, screaming to end it, telling him the only way to silence the voices was to put a bullet in his brain. He wouldn't listen. He couldn't. Hydra had found him half-dead and retooled him for the purposes before. They would and could do it again, over and over as many times as it took to subdue him permanently.
The rest of the day passed quietly, and as day turned to dusk, he was vaugely aware that Ramirez had flipped on the floodlights around the secondary enclosure, and was sitting on the bench just outside the fence, legs crossed, watching the gray horse alone in the enclosure. She had already brought in the other horses and completed the evening feeding.
Then just as he lost light entirely, he collected his tools and started down the ladder. He was almost to the last wrung, when a voice stopped him.
"Hey!" She called.
Taking the last steps, he turned squarely to face her. "Ma'am." She was twisted around, watching him, and he realized that she must've walked into the main house while he wasn't paying attention. She was wrapped in an embroidered shawl, and her hair was down, and it streamed in long dark waves, midway down her back, her satchel sat beside her.
"And we'd been doing so well." She cracked a small smile. His expression must've conveyed confusion because she added. "You called me Ramirez earlier, we were making progress."
"Right," he said dryly.
"I brought you dinner," She motioned to the satchel. "And I'm eating mine if you'd like to join me."
An invitation? She knew she was dangerous, Davidson had told her as much. She knew he was. She was just desperate. So she was willing to overlook it. The question then became. Why? Why take the risk, aside from sheer desperation of it all? She wouldn't risk her life, livelihood, and the safety of her clients and friends for a bit of pro-bono carpentry, would she? Though if she was willing to do so, she was far more cold-blooded than he would begin to give her credit for. But that wasn't it. That wasn't it at all.
The woman looked him up and down uncertainly, trying to figure out why he was just standing there. 'Why am I just standing here?' He reflected.
He watched as she opened her satchel and removed a thermos and a plastic bag with tortillas inside. "Calibasita." She said shortly, extending both items to him.
"What?"
"Squash and pork stew." She explained quickly.
"Oh." He nodded, crossing the distance between them took the items from her.
Glancing down, he saw that there was a crumpled protein bar wrapper beside her, but there was no other indication of the 'meal' she'd said she was eating. Then, for a reason he couldn't quite explain, he sat down beside her on the picnic bench. The woman said nothing, but there was an air of satisfaction to her expression.
Mike had said she was a little scatterbrained recently. Was it because of him? He licked his lips as he thought through what he wanted to say. "Mike mentioned something about a cookout." He said slowly.
"Oh. Shit. Yeah. I totally blanked on that; Friday evening, hotdogs, hamburgers, non-alcoholic beverages, you're welcome to join if you'd like." Unlike with Mike, there was a level of expectation to her tone. She wanted to know what his plans where, if he planned on being around that long. He didn't know. He knew he couldn't stay any longer than absolutely necessary, which was contingent on how his brain reacted to a prolonged time away from Hydra and the roof.
"I appreciate the offer." He said finally.
That seemed to satisfy her because she nodded. A cold gust of wind blew around them, and she drew the shawl closer to her. It was heavily embroidered with flowers in bright colors that clashed with the rest of her attire: rubber boots, faded, tattered jeans, and a plaid button-down flannel rolled up to her elbows. She was rolling a pencil between her palms, chewing on the inside of her mouth, expression pinched in concentration.
He unscrewed the lid to the thermos and frowned. The scent wafting up, conflicting what his brain was expecting. Bringing the thermos to his nose, sniffed it experimentally before pouring some into the thermos lid and taking a sip. The taste of chocolate and the slightest hint of chili burned his tongue. Hot chocolate? He poured more into the lid, cupping it in both hands, inhaled the warm vapors the smell of chocolate, cinnamon, and again the chili. It had been a while since he'd had anything this sweet. He took another sip, and the warm filed him, pooling in his stomach and settled in his chest.
"How's it?" She asked, though her tone was distant.
"The squash stew?"
"Yeah? Why-" She cut herself off as she turned to face him. "Oh shit. Sorry." She rushed, turning back to the satchel and removed an identical thermos and set it down beside the one he'd opened with hot chocolate in it.
He wasn't even hungry, his body was used to surviving on far few calories. But the hot chocolate, it was something different, something that he hadn't in a very very long time. His body remembered it, remembered that it was comforting, soothing, and even though the chili made his tongue burn, he took another sip.
"You don't mind the Chili?" She asked uncertainly. Taking the open thermos poured some into her mug.
"No."
"I mean your stomach. I know chili can do terrible things to sensitive stomachs."
"Oh." He hadn't thought about it, and he paused to take stock. He hadn't actually had to think about his stomach all day. It seemed to have settled. "No." He repeated.
"Glad to hear it." She nodded, taking a sip from her own mug, before looking back down at the journal open in her lap and making a few annotations.
He finished the hot chocolate and opened the squash stew pouring some into the bowl. He heard the rustle of plastic and looked down to see that she'd pushed plastic-wrapped single-use utensils across the bench between them. "Thanks." He mumbled, taking the utensils, unwrapped them, and started eating in silence.
She didn't ask questions or watch him eat. So far as he could tell, she was in her own world, working on something in the notebook in front of her. She scribbled something in her journal and closed it was a snap. She gathered up her hair, winding it in a loose bun, and stuck the pencil through the mass to secure it. Then the woman's hands went to the chain around her neck, fiddling absently with the two gold bands a moment.
Wedding bands? He couldn't help but think of the photograph back in the office, almost entirely obscured by the pile of envelopes. She had been smiling, really smiling, in the photo, and had a radiance about her that was all but completely gone now. Was her husband the reason she was doing this? Was she carrying on for him? How long had it been since he'd died? What had the ranch been like before he had died? Was that why she was so desperate to pretend that nothing was wrong? His mind spun with the questions that he wanted to ask. It's not my place. You don't have any business here other than finishing the roof.
Unprompted, she dropped her hands to the side and rose. Climbing down from the picnic bench, she approached the fence. The horse picked up his head, watching her warily as she stepped between the fence railings, and entered the enclosure. He said nothing, watching intently as she marched purposefully around the fence perimeter, pulling the shawl closer to her as a gust of wind blew around them.
He finished off the squash and pork stew, his eyes never leaving the woman and the massive animal she was walking around. He'd heard some of the volunteers and Ramirez talking about this horse. Ghost is what they had called him. Suzanne had mentioned him too. The woman was working on socializing him, he'd been abused and had been massively underweight when Suzanne had brought him to her. Why? Why did she care? Why did she want to do any of this?
Ramirez walked the perimeter of the fence, talking indistinctly in soothing tones to the horse, in Spanish and then in English, and then in Spanish again. Her eyes focused on the massive animal.
It could kill her if it wanted to. He couldn't help but think. She was a tenth of its weight and size. It would be easy, almost effortless for the creature, yet she walked with confidence and ease, offering words of comfort and encouragement to the massive animal.
Why was she willing to risk her life to help this creature? What was in it for her? What could she possibly gain? He stopped himself. That line of questioning was dangerous. It was the same line of questioning that applied to him. Why was she helping him, and why did she seem to trust him? Her volunteers had earned her trust, there had probably been an application and a rigorous screening process. He'd just stumbled into her barn half-dead, yet she'd taken him without question or apparent hesitation. Yes, she was desperate, or at least that's what he'd decided. Regardless of all of that, he was the beneficiary of this woman's misplace kindness and generosity. There has to be an angle. There is always an angle, a motive. Well, you're fixing her roof, aren't you? Yes, but that had been a cascade of circumstances that had led to this particular arrangement. She couldn't have possibly planned for this. Why is she doing this? He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, which just made his head spin. Why protect me?
Wordlessly he returned the thermos to her satchel, collected the garbage from the utensils, and walked back toward the barn. When he looked back, she was still talking to Ghost, walking around the enclosure alone.
The next day came, much like the ones before, volunteers in and out of the barn, clients at various intervals, and he was up on the roof looking down over it. It unusual having people move around him with ease, without worry or care about what he was doing. It was an invisibility of sorts he'd utilized as the Soldier but was now using to observe the inhabitants of the ranch.
A mid-afternoon shower drove him inside and the last of the volunteers to their cars. Covering the roof with a tarp, he retreated to the interior of the barn. Ramirez came through only moments later through the barn doors with Shadow the Clydesdale and Duchess Cookie Cake, the black and white speckled regular-sized horse, all drenched. She laughed, leading both horses to the center of the barn, which had a tie off, and went to the radio, adjusting the station, Tejano filled the barns with its crackling tones.
Ramirez looked up at him in the loft and smiled, water dripping from her hair and face. "How's the roof going?"
"Slowly."
"Yeah. I bet with this rain." She agreed with a nod. "So, this is a strange thing to ask all things considered, but you ever been around horses before, Matt?"
It was a strange thing to ask, all things considered, he'd been lodging with and around horses for over a week now. "No." He shook his head. That was unless he counted the time at Coney Island he'd seen Brooklyn Supreme. Or that time that one time when you were six, and you wanted to be Zorro and ride around on Tornado. He blinked. It was a strange thing to remember. Such random and irrelevant thought to have. Out of all of the things coming back, that one factoid. I wanted to be Zorro when I was a little kid? He couldn't quite wrap his mind around it. A masked vigilante, he would've laughed at the irony if it wasn't leaving a bitter taste at the back of his throat.
Her voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Wanna learn some of the basics while we wait out this rain?" She asked.
He hesitated. What was he going to say, No? Well, he could. There was nothing about this interaction that indicated Ramirez would be upset or otherwise offended if he declined. It just seemed...rude. Rude? The fact that politeness and manners were coming into this at all was laughable. Almost. He could hear a stern voice with a matching careworn face, not too unlike the Suzanne's, telling him to sit up straight and say please and thank you.
"I could use an extra pair of hands. Shadow and the Duchess need to be shod." She said. "I'll show you how to pick out hooves and then give them both a good brushing." Ramirez paused, "I'll be right back."
He watched her go into the tack room, and there was the sound of wheels rolling on the wood floors, which stopped with a resounding crash followed by swearing. She wasn't going to ask for his help, she hadn't even really asked for his help with the horses or the roof, but she obviously needed it.
Choice. That's what she'd said the other day. Choosing to be a good person or a bad person. Hopping down from the loft, walked to the tack room where the large wheeled cart had fallen over, the trays and their contents spread out on the floor. Ramirez was on her hands and knees, trying to collect the horseshoes and tools that had scattered.
"Let me help with that." He mumbled, moving into the tack room, and the cart.
"Oh no, you don't- it's really...heavy" She stammered out as he lifted the cart easily, setting it upright. Ramirez glanced between him and the cart, opening and closing her mouth. "Than-thanks." She managed after a moment picking up what had been dropped, returned it to their respective places. Standing up, she dusted herself off, breathlessly. "Thank you. Really. That would've been too heavy for me to lift on my own fully loaded down like that."
"Oh. It's fine."
"Do you think you could help me roll this out there?" She asked meekly. There was an edge, jagged and rough, to her voice, as if she was ready to cry.
He nodded, and She stepped back. Wordlessly he moved the rolling cart out to where she'd tied the horses, watching her body language relax slightly, the tension from her shoulders easing. "Just between them, please." She interjected quickly, and he adjusted in response.
When the cart was in place, he moved away and watched as she opened and closed the drawers, returning all of the spilled contents back in their place. Finally, she opened the top drawer and removed a metal hook (that looked more akin to a torture device than a farm implement) and a round metal brush, setting them atop the cart. She didn't look at him, didn't address him, or ask him if he would help. She just picked up the metal hook and moved to Shadow. The horse's back was easily a head taller than her, but she picked up one of the massive hoofs, stepped over it, straddling it between her thighs. Then she took the metal hook and started scraping the bottom. All in a single fluid, confident motion.
"All right city, slicker. Horses 101." She began. "Horses are prey animals. So that means their eyes are set on the side of their heads; it gives them pretty good vision to spot potential predators. However, this does mean that they have two massive blind spots," She continued talking about how to approach the animal, what to do, and what not to do. It was clear from her tone that she on autopilot. Her voice was chipper to the point of being almost brittle, but he found that he was fascinated. Not because of the information she was giving him, that was all self-explanatory, but the authority with which she spoke.
He bent his focus to the woman's motions as she set the massive hoof down.
"So, what are you doing?" He asked, watching as she moved to the next hoof.
"Well, come here and I'll show you." She motioned for him to stand over her shoulder. When he'd done as instructed, she continued. "So the hoof for a horse is rather like human fingernails, it grows and has to be trimmed. Much like fingernails, the hoof is also brittle. So to prevent the hoof from cracking, we put metal shoes on the bottom. Now, because most horses spend their time in some kind of soft, muddy, grassy combo, they get all sorts of stuff compacted against the sole of their feet. What this hook does is scrape out and make sure there isn't anything stuck to the bottom." She explained, "You want to avoid the frog, but the sole you can scrape out." She explained, motioning to the various parts of the hoof with the end of the hook. "Here. Give it a try." She extended the pick to him.
He took it in his hand, weighing the implement in his hand a moment before taking the metal hook to the horse's hoof. He slowly picked out the hoof, minding the frog.
When he finished, he glanced up at her. She wore a proud expression. "Very good." She commented. "You think you can manage the other ones? So I can get onto the business of shoeing."
He nodded, and she let go of the massive hoof. "Then, when you're done with that, you can brush them both down." She commented as she moved to the rolling rack of tools, opening and closing various drawers.
She'd said it so casually he almost hadn't realized it was an instruction, rather than a suggestion. "Can I?" He countered dryly.
"If you want." She shrugged. "Small stokes in little circles gets all the dirt out."
She knew he was going to heed her instruction. It wasn't a trick, not as such, but it was very clever. It wasn't exactly the same as the Tom Sawyer whitewashing gambit, but it was a way to get people to help without actually ever asking them. There wasn't anything that was forcing him to comply. He felt compelled to help. He wanted to help because while she was roping him into her chores, he did have a choice. He had a choice without repercussions, good or bad. A choice.
Then, suddenly, the buzzing in the prosthesis intensified, and he dropped the pick, wincing.
"You okay?" She asked.
"Fine." He bit out shortly, flexing the limb, scooping up the pick with his right hand, went to the next hoof, cleaning it out with ease. Continuing to the last hoof, the massive animal moved and responded to his touch, just as it had to Ramirez.
"Same thing with the other?" He asked
She had just pulled out the first shoe and was now working the hoof with a rasp. She was humming along to the music; her focus bent on what she was doing. She moved deftly and with ease, and again despite the animal's size, she was in total control of the situation.
She hadn't heard him, which meant she wasn't watching him or paying attention. He glanced down at the pick. His mind immediately ran through exactly what he could do with an implement like that. His stomach turned. You're still a weapon, even if she doesn't see it. It just means you're a very well disguised weapon.
Shaking his head, he started toward the other horse, and it jerked away.
"Horses can tell the type of energy you're bringing to the interaction." She commented, without looking up. "Be aware of how you're approaching the horse, the energy and intent you're bringing into the interaction. Mindfulness is key." She coaxed. "Take a deep breath and try again."
He glanced over at her. She hadn't skipped a beat, hadn't even glanced up. Was she giving him an impromptu session, like he was one of her clients? Like he was James or any of the others? His mind wandered to what he'd seen written under Ghost's name on the whiteboard. Trust + Weight = Gen POP. Or BUST! Was she doing the same thing to him? Trying to gain his trust so she could get him help? Was that her long term goal? It made about as much sense as anything else.
He exhaled, focusing on the task she'd given him and made another attempt to approach the horse again. This time he was able to get close enough to pick out the hooves.
When he was done with that, he retrieved the brush and began brushing down Duchess Cookie Cake, which gave him a good vantage point to watch her as she worked. She was shaping a second horse shoe now, beating it with a hammer into the correct shape for the Clydesdale's massive hoof.
"Blacksmith?" He asked.
"Ferrier." She replied. "Shoeing horses is part of the gig, and I've been around it all my life. Which is why I make it look easy." She added with a smirk.
"Ah." And she was making it look easy.
"I mean, I took some metal working, shop classes, and did a semester's worth of welding."
"But not carpentry?" He asked wryly.
She paused, stopping what she was doing, and met his gaze. "No. Not carpentry. Never got around to it." She said, returning to her work, "What about you? Jack of all trades, but master of none?"
"Better than a master of one." He concluded.
She chuckled to herself, "That is how it goes, isn't it." She paused, "I'm about halfway done with Shadow. If you wanna brush the old girl out, she would appreciate it."
They continued their work in silence, and he was finished with his part before she finished shoeing the Duchess.
"Sounds like the rain's stopped. It should be clear for the rest of the day." She commented. "If you could lead Shadow back out to the pasture, Duchess Cookie Cake and I aren't quite done. Bring the lead line back with you."
Again there was the instruction phrased like a suggestion. Was that her way of getting around outright asking? Was that how she'd managed to outsmart her pride and sheer stubbornness to allow herself to ask for help? He didn't know but wordlessly led the massive animal out toward the pasture. The grass was soaked, and the air was damp, but it looked like the clouds were burning off for the day just as Ramirez had said. He swung open the gate and unclipped the lead line. Closing the gate after the horse, he froze at the sound of a voice behind him. "Hey!"
He turned to see an African-American man approaching him. "Can I help you?" He asked curtly.
"You must be the new guy, Matt, right?" The man stopped and extended his left hand, the right t-shirt sleeve tied in a tidy bow. "James." He took the man's left hand and shook it. "Pleasure to meet you. Word is your helping Ramirez fix the barn roof." James said, letting go of his hand.
"Yes," He answered shortly, watching James closely. It was the man from the barn a few days earlier, but there was something familiar about him, something that he couldn't quite place on the timeline, something from before.
"Is she around?"
He blinked, the man's voice bringing him back to present. "Pardon?"
"James?" Ramirez appeared in the barn doorway and proceeded out toward them. "I thought I heard your voice. What's going on?" She walked toward them, concern, and worry on her expression.
"Oh. Nothing bad. Out for a drive with my girls. Molly wanted to see if the horses were out."
"Good. Good." She exhaled, a warm smile spreading over her. "McSmush is all wet from the rain earlier. But the Duchess just had a spa day. Would that work?"
"Absolutely," James nodded. He motioned to the car, and an African woman with long braids climbed out, followed by a young girl with an Afro. "Nice to meet you, Matt, see you around," James called as Ramirez led him toward the barn to greet the two women.
He said nothing, an icy chasm opening in his stomach. He climbed the ladder, even as the gnawing intensified. He remembered the man from somewhere.
The whole family was in the barn below, Ramirez talking them through how to saddle a horse. They were going for a ride.
He blinked, trying to focus on what he was doing. He was up high on the roof now, looking down at the ranch below. It's a figment of your imagination. Focus. Focus! He pulled the tarp off the roof and watched as it floated down to the wet grass, leaving the gaping hole in the roof exposed.
There was a burst of laughter from Ramirez, the man's wife, and Molly, his daughter.
He exhaled a shaking breath, squeezing his eyes shut. The wind picked up, and the air felt dry in his lungs, dryer than it had been even before the rain shower earlier in the afternoon. He could feel himself slipping away. Slipping into the before. He opened his eyes. There were footsteps down below, and he watched as James and James's family, along with Ramirez, walked with the black and white horse down toward the round pen.
Only it wasn't exactly right. The wind blew, and it was dry and hot. The open area below him wasn't grass and mud, it was a dirt and sand streaked road, lined by bombed-out buildings riddled with bullet holes on either side. He was up high, up higher than just on top of a barn. He was dug in on a rooftop overlooking the American Marines on patrol. They were guarding a Humvee and a tank as they went through the center of town. The initial sweep had missed him, so he didn't have much time. He leveled his gaze on the security detail, his mission to destroy the tank and make the American forces scatter. He looked through the scope, James looked up at him, making eye contact.
He blinked, glancing around. Molly was laughing, she and James's wife were both on top of the horse while Ramirez and James were leading the horse around the round enclosure.
Get off the Roof. Seek cover you've been compromised. His brain screamed. He scrabbled down from the roof through the loft roof and retreated to the far corner of the stall. He'd pulled the trigger, he was the reason James was here at the Ranch.
His head pounded, practically screaming, though what it was screaming he couldn't make out. The four walls of the stall closed around him, providing him cover and comfort, almost like the cell that Hydra had placed him in between missions.
Safe. You're safe. He tried to tell himself, but it was drowned out by the screaming. His screaming, the screaming of the people down below in the street, the other screams that blurred and warped together into a single voice.
End it. End it before it's too late. You owe these people that.
But he was helping, wasn't he? He was helping her, with the roof, that had to count for something, didn't it?
No. It didn't. It didn't matter, none of it did. Not why she was doing all of this, not why she was desperate, not why she hadn't called the cops on him when he'd stumbled into her barn. He was the reason all of these people were here. The Soldier was responsible for the wars that had broken these men and killed Ramirez's husband and brought them to this desperate state, had brought him to this state. He didn't get a choice, he didn't deserve a choice. He had only one path before him, which was to make a clean escape and keep moving before he could harm these people any more than he already had.
I hope you enjoyed! Please R&R, send carrier pigeons, or some signals! Regardless! Thanks for reading! This chapter was a bear, but necessary to get us where we're going!
Next time buckle up for more Ramirez pain and a little more of her back story.
