Joan jumped on her own horse and rushed off to the far end of the paddock to calm the horse down.
Billy skidded to a stop by Machiavelli. His face loomed over his, the American's countenance white and ashen. "Mac?"
"I'm okay," Machiavelli mumbled dazedly. He made a motion with his hand, but didn't open his eyes. "The horse got spooked, I think, by a bag in the wind..." He trailed off. Scathach sighed and patted him on the knee. She got up, heading in the direction of the Frenchwoman and the nervous horse.
"Mac, are you sure you're all right?" Billy was still worried. There was sensation of guilt making its way down into the pit of the American's stomach, making him feel that he could have prevented this somehow.
Machiavelli opened his eyes a crack. "I'm fine. Why?"
"Why? Cause that was the scariest thing I ever saw!" Billy yelped.
"It was pretty scary being on the horse too," the boy told him. Machiavelli raised himself off the ground and looked over in the corner of the paddock where Scathach and Joan were calming the horse down. "I don't think I want to ride the horse anymore today, Billy."
"That's fine," Billy agreed immediately. Both immortals looked up as Germain ran towards them.
"Saw it from the barn," the Frenchman wheezed. "Are you alright, dear boy?" Behind Germain, Nicholas ran up, leaning heavily on his knees as he came to a halt.
"I'm okay," Machiavelli mumbled, growing embarrassed from the attention he was receiving. He looked over at Billy again, focusing on his clear blue eyes. He tried a joke. "What do you think, doc? Will I ever play the piano again?"
"I said that," Billy muttered.
"Doesn't seem so funny now, does it?" Machiavelli asked attempting to get to his feet. His legs were shaking badly from fright and nearly collapsed underneath him, before the Frenchman grabbed him under the armpits.
Billy took one look at the boy and took pity on him. He collected the Italian in his arms and still managed, somehow, to swing himself over the paddock fence. "Come on Mac, we'll bring you home." The trio of adults headed in the direction of Billy's Thunderbird. Machiavelli was quite happy to let Billy carry him to the car until he saw the women coming towards them and then he struggled to the ground.
"I'm feeling better," he said to the men and ran in front of them to get in the car.
"Well, he's walking again at least," Nicholas muttered to Billy as he climbed into the Jeep with Scathach and Black Hawk.
"I've been meaning to ask you, Billy," Machiavelli called sleepily from the backseat of the convertible. "Do you know how to play the piano? Or were you just joking?"
"I was joking at the time, but yeah, I play the piano a bit," the American conceded. He looked at his Italian friend through the rear view mirror. "But there's no piano in the cabin for me to prove it, so you're just going to have to take my word."
"We should get you a piano," Germain said, settling beside Machiavelli.
The Italian nodded in agreement. "Then you could play for us!"
Beside him, Germain tapped his chin thoughtfully. "How quickly do you think we could get a piano sent to us?" he asked his wife as she slid into the passenger's side of the front seat.
"I really don't know, Francis."
"Don't get your hopes up, anyways," Billy said from the front seat. He stepped heavily on the accelerator and pulled out of his parking spot. "I'm nothing special, I play a lot of rock songs."
~MB~
After the excitement of the horse riding incident, the immortals were more than happy to stay in the cabin and relax for the rest of the afternoon and night, but this decision was ultimately taken out of their hands at any rate by the mass of thunderclouds rolling across the sky. By nightfall, a cool breeze had stirred up.
Nicholas sat by the window, frowning as streaks of lightning cracked the sky. He turned to the other three men and cut the cards placed in front of him before passing them to the Frenchman at his left. "What are we playing?"
"Five card Monte," Billy answered happily from across him.
Black Hawk groaned. "Want to fill in for me?" he asked Perenelle who sat closest to him in the arm chair.
Perenelle smiled, but shook her head. She never lifted her eyes from cross-stitching. A crack of thunder made her miss a stitch and she made an impatient noise as she undid the damage. "Not particularly, no."
"Quit bellyaching, you'll have fun."
"Why do you always want to play Monte? Are you trying to scam us out of our money?"
Billy seemed vaguely insulted by this accusation. "Excuse me, three card Monte is a scam game, five card Monte is an art form."
"I've never seen a lightning storm when it wasn't raining," Germain broke in, deftly changing the topic. He began to deal the cards.
"It's fairly common in this area of the country," Billy commented, organizing his cards. "Of course, dry lightning storms are more dangerous because the risk of fires is more prevalent. But you would know that already." Germain dipped his head slightly in agreement.
"We can play a different game after this one," Nicholas commented to Black Hawk.
"Like poker?" Black Hawk asked, discarding. He swore slightly when the gate was turned over. "Did you ever play poker?" he called to Machiavelli, poking the Italian on the back of the head.
Machiavelli looked up from the 3D puzzle he was fitting together. "No, I've never been one to gamble."
"That's too bad," Black Hawk muttered. "You were born with a poker face attached."
Somehow, Machiavelli ended up feeling both complimented and insulted. The Native American seemed to hover in between times of wisdom and times of arrogance. He looked up when the back door and watched Scathach and Joan come into the cabin. He was surprised when they sat beside him on the couch. The Italian cast around for a topic. "Did you know that jigsaw puzzles were originally just maps cut up by parents trying to amuse their children?"
"I didn't know that," Joan admitted. She paused a moment. "Did you create jigsaw puzzles for your children?"
Machiavelli shook his head. "Puzzles like these weren't created until the 18th century, nearly two hundred years after my children lived."
"How many kids did you have?" Scathach wondered out loud.
"Six," Billy answered for Machiavelli. He noticed the boy looking over at him in surprise. "Sorry. It was in that book I read." He tossed his cards on the table. "I win." The three other men tossed their cards into the center. None of them seemed surprised that the American had won. They all looked up when a bout of thunder rolled over the area nearby. Machiavelli stiffened slightly, but breathed out.
Black Hawk stood up. "I'm going to get a beer and then we're going to play a real game. Anybody else want one?" Scathach nodded, as did Nicholas after a moment's pause. The big man swung around right before leaving the room. He looked over appraisingly at the other American immortal. "What about you Billy?"
"You know that I don't drink," Billy said. "Never have."
"I had two daughters and four sons," the Italian told Joan, warming to the subject. "I was particularly fond of my baby Guido, despite what my wife believed."
"It's really strange talking to you about having children when you look so young yourself," Germain broke in. He tossed a couple of logs into the fire and ignited them. The Italian immortal noticed that the Fire Master seemed particularly fond of purple flames.
Machiavelli wanted to continue to tell the two women about his children, but another thought had intruded upon him and was taking up residence in the front rooms of his mind. He slid off the couch and strolled over to where Billy was sitting. He leaned against him, pulling the outlaw's left arm around him. "Could I have the beer that you're not going to have?" he asked Billy hopefully.
Billy looked up. "No," he said, sounding exasperated.
"Oh why not, Billy? He's over five hundred years old," Black Hawk called. The muscled immortal grinned at Machiavelli.
"Absolutely not."
"Well it was worth a try," Machiavelli sighed. He put down the finished puzzle on the coffee table behind him. There was a loud bang above them as a tree branch came down and he grabbed for Billy's waist. "What's the matter, you a bit scared, Mac?" Billy asked softly. "No," Machiavelli insisted. "It just surprised me."
Germain looked up. "This sounds more like it should," he said, nodding. "Although you never struck me as a beer person," he told the Italian.
"I never was," Machiavelli agreed. He frowned, tiny creases forming on his forehead. "I don't know why I want a beer now."
"Hormones?" Joan suggested, drawing her legs up beneath her.
"Or just typical male stupidity," Scathach interjected, accepting her drink from the Native American. Machiavelli stuck his tongue out at her. "Ooh, mature."
"Add this to your puzzle facts," Machiavelli said to the Frenchwoman, circling back to her and their earlier conversation. "Jigsaw puzzles were actually very popular during the Great Depression even though they were nonessential. They were relatively cheap, reusable, and kept people occupied for hours."
Billy nodded. "They distracted people from how hungry or tired they were."
"Well that's one thing we really don't have to worry about," Germain said cheerfully. "Ready to play poker?"