When he opened his eyes at the freezing cold enveloping his whole body, he didn't know why he was there or what had happened. He was surrounded by the water. There was water below and there was water above. His eyes open wide with fear, he began to swim toward the surface, his lungs yearning for air. His movements were slow, too slow. He was weak, his mind beginning to be incoherent.
This was his end. There, alone, he would die.
The surface was nearer now. But he hadn't any more time.
Suddenly someone was there, strong arms grabbing him carrying him upward. He was out of the water just in time, opened his mouth and greedily breathed, hot air painfully filling his lungs. He opened his eyes to look directly into his father's concerned, expressive light blue eyes.
"Fa… Father?", he muttered confused, panting, gasping. Then, he passed out.
The smell of fried fish woke his stomach first. He couldn't remember. Maybe he had gone fishing with his brothers and now Nick was cooking. Suddenly, the memory of those eyes resurfaced, silencing any other thought. Was Father with them? How could it be? Father was dead… had been killed… six years before.
The thought woke him up definitively. A young man was looking at him amused, with a small lopsided smile on his face.
"Boy Howdy, it was about time you woke up, Mister ", he said.
Jarrod started to rise, then realized he was naked under the sheet that covered him. Where were his clothes? His eyes searched around. There it was, his expensive suit, hanging from a tree branch stuck in the ground, above a campfire. Much more modest clothes that Jarrod assumed belonged to the other man, were hanging from another branch as well.
The young man, who could seemingly be around twenty-four, twenty-five years old and, by the way he was dressed, could be a cowboy, took his clothes and threw them to him.
"Sorry, I had to undress you… you were pretty wet", he said and laughed, then turned to give Jarrod some privacy. Jarrod watched him revive the fire poking the flames with the same branch he had used to hang his suit. "Breakfast's ready in five minutes. I cared to bring a couple of fish, along with a stylish dude, out of that river". He said jokingly. "You must be hungry, too, you threw up your dinner".
"I owe you my life, I suppose?", Jarrod asked, wearing his pants. He saw his boots there beside and grabbed one of them, then turned it upside down to let the water flow out. His poor expensive, polished leather boots. Jarrod groaned. His suitcase was nowhere to be seen.
"Well, I managed to bring you out of the water if that's what you're asking. Except for a black eye, a bloody nose and some bruises, you're going to be alright. I don't think you're going to die today, Mister. You're lucky, you know. You could've drowned. Someone beat you and threw you in the river".
Jarrod passed the back of his hand under his nose and watched it, blood. He watched upward, the way mother had taught him when he was a little boy and his nose was bleeding. The sky was blue, light blue, like his father's eyes… Why was he thinking about father so much?
The young man was sitting on a rock by the fire. He put the cooked fish into two tin plates and laid one on another flat rock next to him. "Don't let it get cold", he said with the amused tone Jarrod was beginning to get used to.
Jarrod rose and groaned, for the physical pain this time, wondering if there was a single place in his body that didn't hurt. He approached the boy, took his plate and sat beside him. He put out his hand. "Jarrod Barkley, eternally grateful for saving my life".
Jarrod watched the boy's shoulders stiffen just a bit and he heard a slight intake of breath at the mention of his name. The young man hesitated for just a moment, keeping his gaze on his own plate. Then he turned, all signs of joking gone from his face and took Jarrod's hand shaking it. "Heath Thomson", he said, staring at him with such intensity that for a moment it took Jarrod's breath away. That's why he had been thinking Father was there when he woke up, those eyes were exactly of the same shade of blue.
But what struck Jarrod the most was what he could see behind those eyes, an intriguing mix of shyness and wildness shone through them. The father he had known wasn't shy but could be quite wild. He was a natural born leader, the most charismatic man he had ever known. He could see an almost matching charisma, yet dissimilar for the different social standing and age shine through this young man, Heath.
Jarrod noticed the patches by both elbows of Heath's checkered shirt, the worn out boots, the too long hair. This young man, who had saved his life, wasn't certainly swimming in gold.
The little shy smile appeared again and Jarrod realized he was still keeping Heath's hand in his own and quickly released it, slightly embarrassed.
Heath went back to eat his fish, apparently uneasy under Jarrod's piercing gaze. Jarrod just couldn't help it, there was something in Heath that made him feel inexplicably drawn to him.
"Don't you like your fish, Mr. Barkley"? Heath asked, trying to divert Jarrod's attention from himself.
"It's Jarrod, and I'm sorry, I guess I was daydreaming. I do like my fish very much, thank you".
For a moment they both keep silent, chewing their food. Jarrod realized how very hungry he was, and the fish was delicious.
"Those men who beat you…", Heath said between one bite and another, "You're lucky they didn't take that fancy saddle on your horse, Mr… ah Jarrod".
"Jingo!" Jarrod suddenly stood, worried about his old friend's well-being.
"Don't worry, he's safe. I found him pretty scared not far from here and brought him back, while you were sleeping".
Jarrod caught sight of his horse, who was placidly nibbling grass next to a little black mare, and felt relieved. He was amazed, though: Jingo was a quiet horse, but diffident. He wondered how Heath had managed to handle him. He sat again.
"What brings you in the Valley, Heath, business or pleasure?"
"Business. I'm looking for a job".