JOURNAL ENTRY 1
I dunno how to do this. I've never tried keeping a diary before; that was the sort of brainy thing Jarrod always did. Doc Martin says keeping a journal can help me figure out what's going on in my head. Just write down my thoughts for 10 minutes a day, and if I don't know what to say, just spend ten minutes writing I don't know what to write down.
I don't know what to write down. I don't know what to write down. I don't know what to write down. I don't know what to write down. I don't know what to write down. I don't know this is so stupid, how am I supposed to figure out anything this way? I'm not Jarrod. I'm not the brainy one; I'm not the one who thinks in words.
He told me that once, that he thinks in words. I think I'd asked him why he never seems to lose his temper or say things he's sorry for later, and he said he sees his thoughts in words. Literally, like reading a book, and because he can see it he doesn't have to say it. I visited him at his law school once and he took me to the library: a huge room filled with thick books written in tiny print. That's when I understood why he wanted to be a lawyer: it was the only job he could find that had enough words for the things he was thinking about.
I always think in pictures, and sounds and colors. That saying about how someone gets mad and 'sees red'; that's me. I really see red, like some angry spider clawed its way to my brain and bit me in the eyes with red tinted poison.
Ideas are the same way; I see them. I can't get anyone in the family to agree to a new irrigation system for the valley because they want facts and figures and words and how it would work and I don't have any of those things. I can just SEE it. I can see how it should be laid out for the ranch, and how we would organize it around the orchards and how it could be spread throughout the valley. But I don't know how to tell them what I see, everything comes out in a rush and gets mixed up and no one can understand it. So Jarrod, Mother and Audra don't listen to me when I try to explain it to them because I've tried to explain it a half a dozen times now and I just can't and they're tired of talking about it.
Heath listens, but he doesn't SEE it. At least if Heath brings up the subject the family pays attention.; the problem is he's just doing it as a favor to me. Because he doesn't really care about it, the family doesn't care about it and it gets voted down every time; and all because I don't have the words.
Maybe that's the point of writing down my thoughts every day. Maybe Dr. Martin is trying to make me think in words like Jarrod. The strange thing is, Doc doesn't even like Jarrod very much, but I think he wants me to be more like him. Think in words like Jarrod. Write things down like Jarrod. Be more like Jarrod.
Funny how it always seems to come back to that.
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Branding calves was a filthy, exhausting job that Nick had always enjoyed, at least in Heath's opinion. The young man had decided soon after arriving at the ranch that Nick had fun with even the grungiest, most mind-numbing jobs by treating them as a contest.
The first time they had branded calves together, Heath had noted a slightly self-congratulatory smile on Nick's face after he roped and tossed a calf a shade faster than Heath. Curious, the young wrangler had put on a bit of speed with his next calf, finishing it a half second faster than Nick. Nick had responded by speeding up slightly with HIS next calf and so on. By the time the tenth calf was branded, the unspoken, impromptu contest was in full swing and both brothers were wearing grins.
This never-discussed-always-in-progress game of one upmanship made even the dullest jobs entertaining and, Heath figured was one of the reasons Nick had never seemed to tire of the ranch work. At least, until now. At the moment, Nick looked anything but enthusiastic as he mechanically roped another calf. His movements to Heath's practiced eye looked stiff, tired and a bit graceless. Heath though was more concerned with Nick's attitude than his technique as Nick greeted the arrival of more calves with a hostile stare.
"God, Heath." Nick groaned as he swung into the saddle. "Just how many more of the damn things are there? We're never gonna to get finished."
"There's probably no more this year'n last year." Heath pointed out reasonably.
"Yeah? Well you couldn't prove it by me. I swear there-Oh Christ!" Heath followed Nick's disgusted glare as it fell on a blameless heifer trailed by two delicate calves. "As if we don't have enough to muck about with, she hadda go and have TWO of them."
He glowered at the oblivious bovines, as if the identical babyish youngsters had come into the world with the express intent of making his life difficult. Heath sighed. Last year, or even six months ago Nick would have cheered the sight of twins and probably decided to make the heifer a major part of a breeding program designed to create an entire herd of multiple birthing cattle.
"C'mon big brother, last batch for the day."
Grumbling, Nick shook out his rope and went grudgingly to work. For the rest of the afternoon Heath watched Nick closely as they roped and branded calves. His brother was distracted, ungraceful, unenthusiastic.
UnNick.
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With the last bawling calf of the day branded, and the last straggler watered, the cowboys headed back for the mansion and Heath glanced at the lowering sun, calculating the time.
"About 45 minutes of daylight left." He hazarded to Nick with a sidelong glance.
Nick shrugged, with a total lack on interest. "So?"
Heath blinked. Daylight was a precious commodity to Nick, something that arrived far too slowly and left far too quickly. Anytime they were finished with a major job for the day and there was time left, Nick seized the chance to investigate the smaller corners of the ranch or visit favorite hiding places or, on occasion, just happily ride around and soak up the richness of the land. More than once, Nick and Heath ended up splashing about in a nearby swimming hole like two schoolboys playing hooky. This bore investigating.
"Nick?"
"Hmm?"
"Are you all right?"
Nick stared absently at the shaggy V between his horse's ears.
"What?"
"Are you all right?" Heath reached over and jostled Nick's arm. It would make Nick mad as hell, but Heath was willing to risk it.
Nick looked at Heath as if it was the first time all day he'd seen the cowboy.
"What? Oh, fine. Just thinking, is all."
Heath waited patiently for Nick to elaborate. Nothing. Heath scowled in frustration. Nick had occasionally complained that getting Heath to talk could be like pulling up all the tree stumps in a forest; it took a lot of time and effort and you had to start all over again every day. Heath had laughed at the comparison, but for the first time he understood how Nick felt.
"Kinda cloudin' up."
"Um-huh."
"Might even get some rain."
"Umm."
"Would sure cut down the dust."
"Yep."
"Ciego said that bay mare foaled a colt with three heads."
"Good."
Oh to hell with it.
Heath gave up trying to make conversation and just rode in irritated silence. A few more clouds drifted overhead; nothing threatening but plainly the valley was going to get a bit of rain. Heath threw another sideways glance at his brother, noting the tense shoulders, the distracted stare and the way Nick continually flicked his fingers, a nervous habit he had developed in the last few months.
What the hell was going on?
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Nick flexed his fingers as they spasmed again; the tightening muscles sending short, intense stabs of pain through his hand.
'Serves you right for punching out a mirror dummy. Jeez, what a stupid thing to do'
Actually, Nick didn't remember punching out the mirror, he was taking everyone's word for that. Plus he had the scars on his hands to prove it... that and the problems that occur when you slam your fists repeatedly into shards of glass. Miraculously, he had managed to avoid severing nerves, ligaments, blood vessels or any of the hundreds of intricately connected muscles that operated the so delicate but so necessary limbs. He had damaged some of them rather badly however, and he was still getting feeling and movement back in some of his fingers. This made even simple tasks challenging at times.
For one thing, Nick's days of the old fast draw were in the past. His index finger on his gun hand wasn't strong enough to pull a trigger quickly and smoothly; it spasmed and jerked when he tried to fire quickly. He could compensate using a rather awkward shooting hold and triggering with his middle finger but it slowed him down considerably. Roping was another task made more difficult, and of necessity he had made changes in his technique there as well.
Nick's efforts to compensate for the newly stubborn digits were made more difficult by his determination to work it out alone. He did not want the family hanging over his shoulder anxiously watching every move. Lately everything about the ranch had felt like an uncomfortably tight harness that he chafed against daily. Add to that Doc Martin's continued interest in how he felt about the whole Mayville incident-
'Incident? Try massacre'
And his insistence that Nick was still 'recovering', whatever the hell that meant, and the end result was one very recalcitrant and irritated goldfish in an extremely confining bowl.
Even these constant aggravations might not have been so bad was it not for the Doc's latest kick: insisting that Nick keep a journal in which he wrote his thoughts down every day. So far, Nick didn't much like where those thoughts were taking him. Not just what he had written last night but all the restless feelings clamoring to be put down in black and white ever since he had agreed to keep the damn book. He was vaguely awareness of dissatisfaction, an uneasy sense of shame and regret, an uncomfortable level of jealousy towards Jarrod and Heath that Nick insistently assured himself didn't really exist.
Worse than that was a feeling of self-contempt welling up. The only memory he had of the night he had injured his hands was of seeing his face in the mirror and feeling a sense of disgust toward the person looking back. At that moment he had seen a coward, a liar, a blowhard who had thrown his weight around in an effort to hide just how hollow and small he was. When he had started writing last night the feelings had returned in full force. Thomas Barkley started with nothing and built a fortune. Heath was one of the strongest people he knew. Mother had a will of iron that exceeded anyone in the valley. Jarrod was a brilliant attorney. Eugene would probably be a brilliant doctor. What did Nick Barkley do? He chased cows.
Nick was so busy nurturing his sense of self-loathing that he didn't even notice time passing until another nudge from Heath yanked his attention in another direction.
"Almost home."
"So what?" Nick demanded morosely.
"For starters, there's Jordan." Heath pointed to the little girl wobbling precariously across the lawn under the watchful eyes of her mother.
Instantly Nick grinned, kicking his horse into a canter and pulling it to a stop safely short of the toddler before bounding off his saddle. He shouted a cheerful greeting to Angela before picking up the baby and giving her a kiss on the cheek as Jordan giggled.
"How's the most beautiful baby girl in the whole world?"
"Hi." Jordan was talking exceptionally early, and Jarrod teased it was Nick's influence on her.
"How is she doing today, Angela? Did the new crib work?" Jordan had started making determined efforts to climb out of her crib, and Nick had built her a new one with higher bars that was considerably lower to the floor.
"Worked jes fine, Mister Nick. Thank ya for buildin' it."
"Nothing is too good for Jordan." Nick bounced the girl gently in his arms and she squealed with laughter. Angela smiled, perfectly content to entrust her child to Nick's arms, in marked contrast to the nervousness she showed when other members of the family handled the baby. Jarrod and Victoria, used to being trusted implicitly, were baffled and slightly hurt at Angela's puzzling preference for the more tempestuous Barkley.
Heath gathered up the reins to Nick's horse. When Nick was playing with Jordan, everything else came second, and Heath wanted to get the horses in before it started to rain. Angela glanced up as a slight breeze cooled the air and picked up the blanket she'd been sitting on.
"Shower comin', Mister Nick. Ah don' want Jordan catchin' cold."
"Want me to read you a story, Jordan?" The little girl nodded her head enthusiastically. "Let's go to the library, then."
They were almost at the door when the first drops fell. Jordan laughed in delight and held her hands up, catching the water on her fingers and showing the wet streaks in her palms to Nick.
"Rain."
Nick shook his head and brushed a wayward drop off her face.
"Angel tears."