Samuel
SAMUEL
"I've got to admit, they weren't kidding about working us hard," I grunted as I dropped onto a low bench. Only to grimace as I realized some twisted bastard had made a seat for comfort out of solid stone. Like for the sake of the God, these people seemed to love so much you'd think they believed in comfort and rest once in a while, even if it was just on Sundays, which it was! "But this...this is a whole new level of hard work."
My grumpy friend only grunted in response as he came to rest on a chair under the awning of a nearby building. His lack of response told me I wasn't the only one suffering from the hard work they’d put us through over the past week. Well, it wasn't really them so much as Ambrose, who was apparently our taskmaster as well as our warden.
"Maybe if you didn't piss everyone off by openin' that idiot mouth of yours all the time, we wouldn't be in this mess," he growled, immediately proving me a liar about how tired he was.
"Well, and here I thought you were too tired to be a mean-spirited asshole," I said with a sigh, leaning over and wincing as my ass dug into the bench, or really, the bench dug into my ass. I'd always thought the thing was cushioned enough to withstand anything, but apparently, there were limits. Those limits appeared after I’d spent the past three months being worn down by assholes who didn't believe in law or decency, being locked up in prison, and then worked to the bone.
"And apparently ain't nothin' that can stop your mouth from bein' smart," he snapped, spitting on the ground before grinding his teeth. Which was a pretty annoying sound considering the asshole did the same thing in his sleep, so it seemed I was never going to get away from it.
Honestly, I didn't have the energy or desire to stand around and trade quips back and forth. I was too exhausted to constantly find ways to throw his attitude back in his face and rile him up even further. Some parts of me didn't normally ache, which was fine, but they were all aching at the same time, which was new and not so fine.
"These assholes don't seem to be too bothered," came the next complaint, and I rolled my eyes, ignoring him. I loved tormenting people as much as the next person, driving other people crazy, but much like the durability and stamina of my ass, there was a limit to what my trouble-making tendencies could handle.
Admittedly, he did have a point. Everyone else at the ranch, while tired-looking by the end of the work day, didn't seem too worn down. That might be a source of irritation for Garrett, though I still liked to think of him as Broken Nose and Ugly, but it told me plenty. First, it told me that even out in this lawless wasteland that pretended to be the opposite, the people in charge of this ranch didn't run its people ragged even if they could get away with it. Which, in turn, told me the people who worked here probably weren't desperate for the work, or if they were, had found a place that didn't take advantage of their desperation.
It also told me that while we were being run hard, that was outside the normal operations. Which meant we were special, which grumpy asshole Garrett had already caught onto, but I was surprised he hadn't come up with the idea that it might be me that was the cause of our misery. It didn't exactly take the most aware person on the planet to realize that while all three of us were offensive to Ambrose due to our outlaw status, I, in particular, seemed to piss the man off.
It didn't surprise me that Ambrose had a special hatred for me, but I thought it strange that Garrett hadn't picked up on it. The guy clearly hated me as much as Ambrose, probably more, and it was the perfect opportunity for him to have another reason to despise me. Frank, it turned out, wasn't all that stupid without a head injury, it was hard to tell what he did or didn't know. The only times I ever heard him talk was when someone in charge, like Ambrose, spoke to him or in quiet tones to Garrett.
"Maybe ranch life is a lot harder than...whatever you were doing before," I said with a shrug. We weren't the sharing types, so it wasn't as if we knew what the other had been up to, or at least I didn't as the odd man out. "I thought it was rough before, but this is...something else."
I couldn't make out the words, but I heard Frank say something in a low voice that made Garrett snort harshly. I rolled my neck to glance at them and saw Garrett still sitting in the chair while Frank stood behind it, leaning on the back. Neither was touching the other, but their closeness was telling. They were clearly two guys who’d come to rely on and trust one another before, and I wondered what their story was and what had brought them to this point.
I shut the thoughts down immediately before they took hold. I’d learned several times, several hard times, not to let my curiosity get involved when it came to people. All too often, it tended to mix with my desire to get to know and understand people. Or I should say my old desire to know and care about them because that was long buried. Nowadays, I only bothered to get to know people to anticipate or outmaneuver them if needed.
That was it.
"Ugh, and here he comes," Garrett muttered, his good mood gone faster than a puddle in the heat.
That same disappearing act happened to whatever playfulness I might have briefly had. I knew exactly who he was talking about and felt my shoulders stiffen at the sound of boots coming down roughly on the hard-packed dirt from somewhere to my right, rather than glance over and risk making someone think I gave the slightest shit about him .
"You boys look like you're having fun," came Ambrose's irritatingly familiar voice. If it wasn't for the fact that he was a petty, hypocritical, overly zealous asshole, I might still think he had a nice voice...and a nice face...and a nice body from what I had seen...and probably a nice?—
It didn't matter because the rest of him wasn't very enjoyable.
"Well, boys, looks like the slave master has returned, and it's back to the fields for us," I said wryly.
To my surprise, Garrett snorted at my joke and gave me a knowing look. Less surprising was the way Ambrose came to an abrupt stop, and though I couldn't see it, I could feel his glare burrowing into the side of my head, desperate to find some sign that I would recoil or shrink. Not that I had or would ever give him the satisfaction, especially not after the first day when he'd set me to shovel huge piles of animal shit baking in the afternoon sun while the other two had been chosen to wash the animals.
That smell still hadn't left my nostrils.
"We don't do slaves around here," Ambrose finally said in a tight voice that made me smile.
"Funny," I said, closing my eyes and tilting my head back so I didn't have to look him in the face. "I guess that means the three of us are free to go."
"Sure," he said, almost surprising me. "Go right on ahead. I'm sure you remember how to get back to town. They probably remember your faces o'course, but hell, you might be able to snag a horse before they realize. Then ya might run into a few issues once ya leave Rapture, though, namely where you don't have food or water to survive to the next town...if ya even know how to find it."
My mood soured, but my face remained impassive as I shrugged. “And I'm sure plenty of the same things were said to slaves. Why sure, you can get off this here plantation, you just gotta make it past all the people who will kill you, beat you, and throw you to the wolves, and then you have to get through a land you can't survive in...but you're sure to be free."
"It's not the same thing!"
"Why? Sounds the same to me."
"Probably because you went and broke the law and?—"
"So that means we're lower than dirt and don't deserve the slightest dignity or fairness," I finished for him. "Funny, you ever read a history book?"
"A few. Why?" he asked, sounding even more irritated. "What does that matter?"
"Because history has always been written by the ones who came out on top, but if you're smart enough, you can figure out what isn't being said," I told him in a bored voice. "And it's funny, every time a group of people get fucked over, it's because whoever's in charge decided they didn't deserve to be treated right. So, for you, it's outlaws you don't know a thing about other than someone told you they were wrong, and for others, it's all because their skin ain't the right color and so?—"
"Shut your damned mouth right now," Ambrose snarled, and I grunted as a hand gripped my arm and yanked me down onto the hard ground.
"Yes sir," I emphasized between gritted teeth as I tasted the grit on my tongue from the dirt. "I'll be...a good boy."
And I thought Garrett was the teeth grinder.
"Get up," Ambrose managed to growl. Not that it mattered because the other two were slow to stand up, and I took even longer. I might be at his mercy, at his beck and call, if I wanted to get through this in one piece, but I was not and would forever not be his willing slave.
"And what can we do for you?" I asked once I was on my feet and facing him. His expression exploded with frustration and fury, but despite his tight jaw and narrowed eyes, he turned his face away with a huff.
"Ain't no one getting anything done without food in their bellies, so get some food," he said, using his blunt chin to point in a direction opposite us. If I thought him capable, I would have said he was feeling a twinge of guilt at the idea of potentially enslaving other human beings on the sole basis of his beliefs. But as it stood, so far, he was only capable of feeling a measure of guilt if his daddy was the one who made him feel it. Much like how he only seemed capable of doing something worthwhile if he thought his dad would give him credit for it.
"If you can call it food," I said, rolling my shoulders as I stood up.
"Is there ever a time when you don't have something to say?" he shot at me.
Garret, never one to miss an opportunity to insult me, snorted. "No."
"Just like the two of you never miss a chance to complain about everything," I said, knowing I had won the battle when I heard Frank give a soft snort that would have been lost in the noise around us if there hadn't been a brief lull. I didn't miss the glance Garret gave him, and for a moment, I got a glimpse of the man he was under all his bluster and anger. In that one glance, there was a fondness and exasperation that came from only three places, fraternity, family, or a love that would have gotten them strung up if anyone even suspected it was happening.
Well, anyone that wasn't me. I didn't think they were more than close friends and brothers, but I also wouldn't care if they were the type to share their beds and cots with other men. Maybe it was because I was one of those men, and I wasn't going to throw the first stone when my own hands were 'dirty.' It was probably that, but I also considered myself open-minded about things that weren't 'normal' or 'right.'
Then again, maybe that was because I’d turned out to be neither of those things. Personal experience had a way of making people more understanding, though sometimes it made them close their hearts to others in the interest of preserving and hiding their own abnormalities.
Now that our escort had returned, we made our way toward where we could get fed. To Ambrose, I'm sure I sounded ungrateful, considering they were feeding us the same food as the non-criminal workers.
"We could always feed you scraps," he grumbled from behind me, and not for the first time, I wondered if our minds worked along the same paths. It was not a comforting thought. "Or figure out what they were feeding you in jail and give you that."
"If I'm honest?—"
"Are you ever?"
"Usually, but people always seem to think I'm lying."
"I can't imagine why."
"And I can't imagine why you would feed your workers, the ones not accused of being outlaws, the kind of gruel that’s only a step above what I've been given in jail."
"I wouldn't have thought Rapture would serve you gruel...and it's not gruel."
"I never said it was Rapture," I said as we reached the tented area where long tables sat in rows, another where the workers could grab their plates or bowls and a serving of food. "And it might not be gruel here, but it's pretty close. Or have you been having lunch too often in your house with your own cook to notice?"
His shoulders stiffened, hunching over the food table to grab his portion. “I eat here."
"Huh, that's news to me."
"The cook in the house doesn't know how to cook for more than a few people at a time. So, the men at this ranch take turns cooking for everyone. A lot of them here are hardworking men who just know how to cook the basics."
"That's very, uh...okay, I don't have anything nice to say other than that's nice of them to take turns. But damn, why not pick a few who don't cook the worst and have them take notes from the one who cooks for you and your family? At least then you could have better meals for your workers."
His brow furrowed, grip around a roughly carved ladle tightening until his knuckles were white before grunting and dumping some of the food into a bowl. “It feeds them, gets them what they need."
"Their bodies, sure," I said as I took a helping of some sort of stew that looked more like the congealed remains of dirt mixed with something that might have been cactus. "But we both know this kind of food isn't going to help them where it counts."
"And where's that?"
"Their hearts, their minds, whatever you want. Nobody here will come to these tables looking forward to a good meal to start or end the day or enjoy halfway through. They're going to eat because they need to and eventually spend their hard-earned money on...better food. Or drink to wash down the taste of the food when no one is looking."
A grunt brought my head up, and I saw a tall man with a litany of scars on his face frowning at me. “You sayin' our food is as bad as what y'all got in jail?"
"Nice going," Garret muttered behind me, and I rolled my eyes.
"No," I said with a sigh. "I've definitely had worse, but...it's not much better either."
The admittedly fierce and mean-looking man looked all the meaner as his eyes narrowed to slits. “That so?"
I shrugged, sensing that if we had a problem, it would have started. Why he was continuing to look intimidating was his business rather than mine, though. "Take it from someone who's eaten a lot of different food in his life, this isn't very good."
The man jerked his head toward Ambrose, lip curling. "Told you."
"Do not make the outlaw in our custody feel like his opinion counts around here," Ambrose growled, turning to glare at him to make his point.
"Well, last I checked, breakin' the law just means you broke the law. Don't say nothin' about knowin' how to cook."
"Woah, now," I said, holding up my hands. "I never said anything about knowing how to cook."
"You made all those complaints and don't even know how to cook?" Ambrose asked in irritation and then rolled his eyes. "Of course you don't."
"Not the way he's asking," I said. "I know how to cook some things, but I never got to learn more than a few. I wouldn't know how to start to cook for a bunch of people. My mo…I didn't learn much, and being out in this part of the country didn't teach me more. Except that food tastes much better if you've got some bacon fat, lard, or if you're lucky, butter to cook things in."
My mother had taught me other things when it came to cooking, like how to properly get the browning on the bottom of the pan to get more flavor into a meal or how to use herbs and seasonings. We hadn't been a rich family, not by some standards anyway, but my father's prosperous mercantile affairs had afforded us a comfortable life for the most part. Enough for us to have a steady home, with a small staff to clean and care for a few animals.
It had been my mother, though, who had taken care of raising the children. At least, it would have been children, except for her health. She had nearly died giving birth to me, and the doctors had sworn she would never make it through another birth. She had always told me that having me as a son was more than enough, though, and she was happy the way she was. Except, sometimes, I had seen the shadow that passed quietly over her features when she said that to me, and I remembered the happiness on her face when she spoke of growing up with so many siblings.
Deep down, I always wondered if my mother had wanted more than one son, one to take over the family business, another to perhaps go to school, and maybe another to raise a little hell and keep everyone honest...or at least on our toes. Had she also wanted daughters who knew how to care for animals, cook delicious food, mend and make clothes, and raise the children that would come to them one day?
Except there had only been me, and there were only so many roles I could take on without a disaster...or more than I already was. I'd never been much for making clothes, but I could repair them just fine. I had a good head for numbers and running a business, but I’d always been so busy with other things that I'd never focused on honing those skills to see if they were worthwhile. I was good with most animals, horses mostly, and cats, but I didn't know much about their care, only where to scratch them to get the best results...which wasn't all that important with husbandry.
Though if my hunch was right about my mother's expectations, wherever she was, if she could see me, that was, at least she got a son who raised hell. Of course, it wasn't with my family since they were no longer part of the equation, but it was something. And if I was wrong, she was just going to shake her head, her lips thinning as she raised her brow, the clearest sign that she was over my tomfoolery.
"I don't know...much," I said with a shrug, feeling more awkward now I realized I’d put myself in that position and didn't have an easy way out. It wasn't like anyone like Ambrose or Garret would come to my rescue. "Just...some things."
The man grunted. “Sounds like you know more than the rest of us."
"Don't let him get to you, Leon," Ambrose said and I didn't have to look at him to know he was scowling heavily in my direction. "He's just?—"
"Someone who knows something more than what we know...unless you wanna make us that famous mush of yours again, Ambrose," Leon said, cocking his head.
There was a moment of pure silence from Ambrose, which usually wasn't a good sign for whoever had made him quiet. Or at least that was my experience dealing with Ambrose the past week. Admittedly, that wasn't a long time, but I considered myself a good reader of people. Then again, I'd also learned a long time ago not to get too attached to my powers of observation and evaluation; otherwise, I could find myself working on an assumption that proved fatal.
A lesson I learned the hard, but not quite fatal way a few times before and wasn't interested in having to learn again.
"Fine," Ambrose said after a moment. "I'll give you a couple of hours every Saturday to pick his brain and see if anything comes of it. Maybe a couple of weeks’ worth."
"Three times a week and a month," Leon shot back without hesitation. It was bold enough that I glanced over at Ambrose and took his measure as Leon all but balked and made new demands. The West was regarded, not unfairly in my experience, as a crap shoot of people you could find on both sides of the law. Some men obeyed the law or appeared to, only as far as it would keep them on the free side of a jail cell or noose, lacking precisely zero honor or regard for their fellows, while there were still outlaws with more honor and respect than even the most virtuous saints.
A glance at Ambrose showed the tightening of the muscles in his jaw, which I already knew was a sign that his temper was starting to grow. Yet he lacked the tightening around his eyes or the flash of danger that foretold how much self-control he used to keep his temper in check. Instead, there was a furrowing of his brow that only showed up when he gave something a lot of thought.
I half expected him to snap at the man or make a demand, but instead, Ambrose grunted. "Three times a week. An hour each. If we don't see something change in a few weeks, I'm pulling him back to normal duties. If after a month, you've barely made anything better, he's also out, got it?"
Leon thought about it for a minute before giving a grin. “Deal."
I, of course, was given absolutely no choice in the matter, which wasn't surprising. Even if Leon was clearly willing to treat me as a person, he was just as aware as anyone else that I was still a prisoner and, before that, an outlaw. I might be useful for something other than shoveling animal shit and digging holes in the blazing heat, but that didn't mean I was given a choice...perish the thought.
"Frank's handy," I said as Ambrose made to turn away.
"What?" Ambrose asked, glancing over his shoulder with a scowl.
"I've seen him use one of the repair kits that someone left behind in that...wonderful cabin you stuffed the three of us into," I said with a shrug. "I don't know what he's added, but he repaired his and Garret's clothes and even did something with my boots that made them fit better even though he never measured me...and thought I didn't know it was him."
Ambrose looked toward Frank, who stared back passively. The only indication he was aware of what was going on was the way his eyes slid to me for a moment before returning to stare straight ahead, looking like he might have been waiting for his turn to get food. Beside him, Garret scowled, though whether that was because I had spoken or because Ambrose was now staring at Frank, I couldn't tell.
"And I overheard them talking. I'd put good money on the fact that Garrett there is damn good at carpentry," I added, smirking when Garret's expression turned into an outright scowl aimed at me.
At that, Ambrose turned to stare at me, the tic in his jaw returning before he took a deep breath. “Get your food, and then you , smart mouth, come with me."
I had no one to blame for the sudden twist but myself, and I had to restrain the urge to sigh as I took my bowl of food and followed Ambrose as he stomped down the row of dining tables. Following him, I wondered what trouble my mouth had got me into now. Not that I hadn't found myself in trouble more than once before because of my mouth, and I was usually comfortable with that reality. Still, there were times when I had to look skyward and wonder why I needed to run my mouth so often.
"Here," he said, finding a spot at the far end of one of the tables where no one else was sitting. He pointed to the chair across from him. "And you there."
"I could figure out the clues well enough on my own," I said with a roll of my eyes. "God, treat me like a leper because I was a big bad outlaw, but don't treat me like a simpleton."
He sat across from me, pausing to adjust his seat and stare at me. “Huh. Interesting."
"What's interesting?" I asked as I sat, wondering what he could have finally found about me that made him think it was interesting.
"Oh, I was starting to think there wasn't a thing in the world that could get under your skin," he said, the corner of his lips twitching at the thought. "I guess treating you like you're stupid sets you off."
I knew I’d given myself away the moment my spoon hesitated in the bowl of stew before bringing it to my mouth. It wasn't that I hated being seen as an idiot or incapable. Those were things I could live with if need be. Sometimes, I even preferred it because being seen as stupid or inept was a great way to be underestimated and disregarded by others.
Survival was the name of the game, especially in the Far West, where the rules might change from town to town, group to group, or not even exist. I had been learning to survive from the prime age of fifteen, so I knew how important it was not to let your guard down. And if other people believed there was nothing to me but a smart mouth and some good luck, that worked just fine.
What bothered me about Ambrose's stare was that it felt as though he’d caught a glimpse of something I'd prefer he hadn't. He was still irritated, but after only a week of dealing with him, I was sure that was his normal mood with just about everyone. But there was something thoughtful and watchful about him that I wasn't too thrilled about.
Just like I wasn't thrilled that he’d caught me out. Despite my more practical attitude, I hated being treated like an idiot or incompetent. Learning how to let that sort of thing happen and not get to me had been one of the hardest lessons, and I thought that after a decade, I’d succeeded. Which meant the mask had slipped because of my failure, or something about him had made it happen. Neither was a particularly happy thought.
An old impatience flared inside me as he continued to take his time getting to his point and...speak. I clamped down on the urge to say something, shoving the spoon into my mouth and pretending it didn't taste like dust and sand. If it had been an outright unpleasant, nasty taste, I could have used it as a distraction from my nerves jumping all over the place.
"You watch," he said after a moment, coming out more like grunts than words.
"I'm told that's what the eyes in our heads are for," I said, glad the first words that left my mouth sounded wry and a little dismissive rather than nervous and wary, which I was feeling. "Unless you're using something else, I'm gonna have to ask that you share your secret with me."
His nostrils flared, but he glanced down at his bowl to get another spoonful. “I wouldn't have noticed anything like that about those two."
"If I'm not working with them, I eat with them. I'm sleeping half a foot from them. Hell, I've had to see them butt naked, and let me tell you, it's nothing worth seeing," I said with a snort. Which wasn't strictly true. After getting a solid wash, Garrett was almost presentable, and Frank...well, all I could say was that if Frank had ever fucked anyone, I had sympathy and mild envy because God above, even soft, it was impressive. "It's hard not to notice things about them."
Annoyance flashed across his tightening brow as he swirled his stew around. “That so?"
Hmm, he was trying not to let me get under his skin. Which, while admirable, was not a great sign for my attempts at distracting him from what felt like an interrogation. It was normally easy to keep him focused on my sarcasm and quips since he was almost unnaturally sensitive to them as far as I’d seen.
"Fine," he grunted again after a moment. "Then why did you tell on them?"
"Tell on them? Are we children?"
"You had no reason to tell us what the other two could do well. You were just being given the chance to do something other than what you have been doing."
I snorted. “You mean, shoveling a lot of animal shit."
His brow furrowed. “You too good for that?"
As bizarre as it might have sounded, especially to someone like him, his prickly nature was becoming endearing and not just amusing with a dose of irritation. It reminded me of the small cactus my mother had found while shopping in town years ago and had studiously listened to the merchant to learn how to care for it. The thing hadn’t been much bigger than a chicken's egg when she brought it home, but she’d doted on it, and against all odds, considering how cold and cloudy it could be, it had thrived.
So I supposed if you took a small cactus and applied it to a man who was as tall as we were, with a sour expression, and the mind of a moody child, then I could stretch myself to see the comparison. That little cactus pricked my mother more than once, no matter how much care she took. And so it seemed, no matter what you said or did, Ambrose would huff, puff, and growl to show his spines.
His eyes narrowed. “What?"
"Nothing," I said with a wave of my hand, fighting to keep the image of the little potted plant out of my head as I looked at him.
Thankfully, I was spared needing to elaborate by the presence of a wet nose shoved into my arm. I looked down and smiled. “Well, hi there, Bear."
The dog gave a low huff that could have been a growl, shoving his face into my stomach. I had come to learn it was a 'polite request' for more attention. He wasn't the prettiest of beasts, but the affable spirit of his kind was strong in him. Bear, or more specifically, his behavior, was one of the things on a short list that made Ambrose less of a dickhead than normal.
I knew enough about dogs to know that even the sweetest beasts could turn mean or sullen if they weren't treated right. Bear, however, followed Ambrose, not out of obligation or command, but with the happiest look on his face. He was friendly and gentle, both willing to use his deep bark to scare a calf that kept trying to fight its siblings and use his jaws to gently pry a lamb out of a hole while it bleated pitifully. Ambrose was grumpy, prideful, and a demanding foreman, but if his dog loved him without reservation or the slightest fear, then he wasn't the worst sort.
"Bear," Ambrose rumbled in warning.
"He's not doing anything wrong," I said, rolling my eyes. "It's not his fault he has good taste in men."
Ambrose gave a huff. “He's trying to butter you up, so you'll give him food."
"That's okay too," I said with a small laugh. "If I had something you could have, I'd give it to you, Bear. You're probably best waiting until dinner to scrounge up something, or maybe go back to the Big House and see if you can't give a sad face to someone with some bacon or ham."
Bear, however, seemed perfectly content as he dropped his butt down and left his head in my lap. Chuckling, I stroked his broad head and let him stay there even though he was going to make me hotter than I already was from the day's work.
"Fool dog," Ambrose muttered into his bowl. He tried his best to sound annoyed, but his attempts were swiftly thwarted when Bear dragged his tail happily through the dirt in response to his master's voice.
"Most dogs are fools," I said fondly. "They're a good lesson for the rest of us."
"What do you mean?"
"Pick your lesson. It could be how faithful, loving, and forgiving they are when people can't do the same, even so-called God-fearing Christians. It could be that they have a good sense for other people, and we could learn to listen to our instincts more. Or maybe it's just that they might be fools, but that doesn't mean they're worth nothing. We love them anyway."
"I was gonna say they're bed hogs," Ambrose said.
Of course, he slept with the dog he grumbled about all the time. Maybe there was a softy of some sort under all those prickly spines. "There is that."
He looked up. “Anyway?—"
I sighed, suddenly weary of the interrogation coming back around when it felt like maybe we were moving on. "I'll tell you what. You ask me a question, and I'll answer it honestly. No smart comment, no jokes, no avoiding. I’ll just answer it."
"One question?"
"One. Maybe if you're a good boy, I'll treat you to another."
"You always?—"
"Have to be a smart mouth, I know. Now, your question. Pick one."
He stared at me for a moment and then surprised me with, “You a Christian?"
I knew the surprise showed on my face as I leaned back for a moment and then snorted. “No."
"So you don't believe? You one of those folks that fell into those heathen thoughts?"
"Heathen, you mean the natives?"
"Yeah."
"No, I don't believe...whatever it is they believe. Most of them around here would see my pale skin and yellow hair and decide I was more trouble than I was worth, let alone teach me their beliefs."
"Okay, but?—"
"I said one question."
He rolled his eyes. “First one didn't count. It was part of the whole question."
I snorted, kind of appreciating the slickness. "Fine, what?"
"Do you believe in God? Like...the Almighty, Christian one."
I remembered my mother's tears, wet and shining on her face after she'd tried to have another child but had lost her halfway through and was forced to bury her. Then there was the acrid smell of smoke burning my nostrils as my leg was in agony, the heat of flames coming from the broken windows burning my face. There had been a moment of hope months later when I thought I might have found friends, only to wake up weeks later to an empty camp and meager rations left for me. Ten years since I'd left my hometown, and I could still remember every pain, every betrayal, disappointment, the taste of bitterness on my tongue every time people proved to me that they weren't as good as they pretended.
"I do," I said after a moment. "But I don't think I like him very much. Don't know if you could call it hate, what I feel, because you can't hate something you've never truly loved, but it's as close as it can get, I think."
I spared a glance upward, expecting to see righteous indignation or at least disappointment. To my surprise, he had a thoughtful expression as he stared at me. After a few heartbeats, I expected that to change or for him to ask me why I felt that way. Instead, he looked back at his food and began eating again.
I didn't know what was more uncomfortable for me, that I had been so open and honest without a trace of obfuscation or that he had taken my answer with such grace. Most people on this side of the country made attempts to seem pious, refusing to accept even the slightest hint of blasphemy or sacrilege. Most I had known would have accepted that I didn't believe in God more gracefully than the idea that I could believe in his existence and not only actively deny his love but actively despise Him.
"You ain't stupid," Ambrose said after a moment, pushing his empty bowl away and looking up toward the canvas strung up above us.
"I'm aware," I snorted, deciding it was probably time to finish my food before it grew cold and even more unpleasant. "Thanks, I guess."
"But you don't always seem that smart."
I squinted at him. “I can't tell if you're trying to compliment me, insult me, or get me to talk."
"Getting you not to talk is the real trial," he said so blandly and tiredly that I couldn't help but snort.
"That's...true," I admitted with a chuckle. "Now, since you went and asked me one question for free, let me do the same to you?"
He looked up, brow inching upward. “Why?"
"Because it's fair?"
"Since when should I worry about fair with you?"
"I don't know. You honorable types seem to believe in fairness, even when you're dealing with someone who probably doesn't have the same kind of honor."
His brow fell into its customary and expected scowl. “So you're admitting you don't have it?"
"I already admitted I see honor differently than you," I shrugged. "Now, do I get the question or not?"
"Yes, I believe in God the Almighty," he said in the same angry, irritated voice he seemed to reserve especially for me. The difference was in the small way his eyes darted away, not just from me, but in the opposite direction of anyone nearby who might so much as glance at his face.
"Okay," I said slowly, mind racing as I realized he was lying . He certainly sounded like he believed it, and maybe he believed that he believed, but some part of him deep down didn't believe or at least severely doubted that he believed.
I had to stick that into the same place as many of life's other ironies. Here was this God-fearing man, or so it seemed, who lived his life honestly and by the law yet wasn't nearly as God-fearing as he seemed. Yet a proven outlaw, a breaker of the peace, was the one who admitted to believing in the Almighty. Sure, it came with the caveat of having complaints for the Lord, but at least there was some genuine belief.
But it probably wasn't the best time to point out that reality, so I pushed it down to clear my throat. “That wasn't going to be my question, though."
He glanced back toward me, narrowing his eyes. “Fine, ask your question, I suppose."
"How gracious of you," I said with a heavy snort but then quickly scrambled to continue as I saw his annoyance returning. "What's your family like? And remember, I want the genuine answer, not the one you'd give to someone at the saloon or wherever you go to lay down your worries and woes."
"I don't do that."
"Lay down your worries and woes?"
"I...go to the saloon. Or anything like that."
"Damn, do you have any fun?"
"You don't have to drink to have fun."
"Sure doesn't hurt...and you don't even drink? What do you do in your spare time? Sit in that big house and stare at the ceiling while brooding at how annoying the world is?"
"I don't stay in the house," he said, pushing his bowl away. "I have my own cabin near the worker's cabins. That's where Bear and I have stayed for years now. The rest of my family stays in the house. It's been like that ever since my father put me...since he basically put me in charge of some things."
Interesting, I would never have figured that out on my own, at least not with what I’d been allowed to see so far. It hadn't occurred to me that Ambrose might be keeping everything he could about himself wrapped up tight from us. Not that I was necessarily surprised, he didn't trust me as far as he could throw me, which, after working on the ranch long enough, he could probably throw me a surprising distance if he was really feeling up to it.
More interesting than whatever he tried to keep from us was that he had that nice big house to sleep in and chose...a cabin? A worker's cabin? Admittedly, from what I'd seen of those cabins, they were similar to ours, solidly built, and had beds that didn't feel like you were sleeping on stone. But even if I hadn't laid eyes on the main house's interior, I would bet a good chunk of the money I’d stowed all over the place that it was far nicer than anything the workers would ever know.
So, all that self-righteousness Ambrose was chock full of wasn't just overcompensation and hypocrisy. He was noble and honorable. Or he was doing a really good impression of someone who was and was extremely dedicated. The latter would have been the sort of thing I’d come to expect, and the first...well, if there was anything more terrifying than a vicious lawbreaker, it was a well-meaning and genuinely honest good man.
The thought was unnerving, and I didn't have an immediate answer. He hadn't technically answered my question, but I didn't think he even realized as he stared into the distance thoughtfully.
"Good with their hands, eh?" he finally said, glancing at me.
"In different ways, but yeah," I said, raising a brow. "Why?"
"Because it's pointless to waste good skills like that on something like shoveling shit or cleaning out stalls," he said with a snort.
"I...and what about me?"
"What about you? You haven't proven anything to me other than you pay attention, have a smart mouth, and a quick mind. That just means you need extra watching as far as I'm concerned," he said, pushing away from the table. "I'll figure out what I can do with them. And you? You're going to stay right where I can see you at all times."
"You know, this isn't the first time someone wanted to watch me so intensely. But the last person at least had the decency to offer me money for the show," I said, raising a brow even as I felt the sting of his dismissal of...well, me.
I hadn't been trying to get a reaction out of him, but I watched as his eyes widened slightly, color rising in his cheeks before he jerked his head away. It made the skin of his neck go taut, and I could see the way he swallowed hard, not once, but twice. Then he cleared his throat and pushed to his feet, reaching up to adjust his hat, which was sitting perfectly fine on his head.
My eyes widened before I could stop them, and he glanced at me to see the surprise on my face. He stared at me for a moment with a blank, slightly confused expression before giving another harsh clear of his throat.
"Get to finishing up," he huffed at me. "Then get ready. You've got more work to do."
It was said with the same air of authority as always but lacked the forcefulness it normally had, almost like he was pushing himself to sound that way. He strode away to return his bowl, shoulders hunched and his head slightly down, probably trying to avoid eye contact with anyone as he stalked away from me.
As much as I prided myself on being able to read and predict people, I couldn't help but feel a shiver of remaining shock run through me as I stared at his retreating back. That was not the reaction of a man who was offended or horrified by the implications of my words. If I wasn't delusional from long hours in the heat, working harder than I had since I was a teenager, then that had been the reaction of someone disturbed by the implication...disturbed and... interested .
Well, wasn't that an interesting development?