The Lancer Fanfiction Archive

subglobal1 link | subglobal1 link | subglobal1 link | subglobal1 link | subglobal1 link | subglobal1 link | subglobal1 link
subglobal2 link | subglobal2 link | subglobal2 link | subglobal2 link | subglobal2 link | subglobal2 link | subglobal2 link
subglobal3 link | subglobal3 link | subglobal3 link | subglobal3 link | subglobal3 link | subglobal3 link | subglobal3 link
subglobal4 link | subglobal4 link | subglobal4 link | subglobal4 link | subglobal4 link | subglobal4 link | subglobal4 link
subglobal5 link | subglobal5 link | subglobal5 link | subglobal5 link | subglobal5 link | subglobal5 link | subglobal5 link
subglobal6 link | subglobal6 link | subglobal6 link | subglobal6 link | subglobal6 link | subglobal6 link | subglobal6 link
subglobal7 link | subglobal7 link | subglobal7 link | subglobal7 link | subglobal7 link | subglobal7 link | subglobal7 link
subglobal8 link | subglobal8 link | subglobal8 link | subglobal8 link | subglobal8 link | subglobal8 link | subglobal8 link

Barb A

 

 

FGood Man Feelin' Bad
An episode tag for The Black McGloins

"The blues ain't nothing but a good man feelin' bad"
Leon Redbone



Silver coins rattled in Scott's hand, dull and tarnished like everything else about him, the kitchen stuffy from the combination of closed windows and morning sunlight. He'd gotten up later than usual, an indulgence he rarely took and one rarely tolerated by ranch work. And, so far, he'd made it to the kitchen. In truth, he meandered, but in all fairness it was a straight meander, mostly because he was thinking. He tossed the coins into a chipped blue-flowered bowl, watched them swirl for a bit in their noise to settle at the bottom. He could make coffee, just pretend like it didn't matter. But he didn't feel like coffee, wasn't needing it.

He licked his lips experimentally, and his mouth blossomed with a fleeting taste of Moira. Sweet, mixing with the smell of new hay.

He didn't sit, couldn't, roamed the periphery of the room, fingers testing the texture of the rough adobe covering seams where walls had been spliced together, felt the grain of the long table, finding pits and unhealed scratches. With every pass of a window, he heard voices, and his gaze darted outside.

Yellow light peered out from under the kitchen door. He swung it open. Pungent marigolds poured into the kitchen pulling him outside like gravity.

Beyond the portico at the garden, Ricardo and Gabriel, Isidro's sons, argued back and forth. A mound of good black dirt lay in the middle of the plot amongst the new season's eager weeds. Two forgotten shovels lay crisscrossed against the stone wall.

He could sweat, clear the tangle.

Stepping out onto the porch, he waved off the two young brothers to more manly work with their father. They left at a trot with Gabriel looking back over his shoulder, eyebrows pulled together in question.

The heft of the shovel felt solid in his grip. Gave him release to attack the most offensive of the weeds. The rhythm of the work was a distraction until the first tendril of sweat made its way down his back. He stripped off his shirt and hacked steadily away.

When he had most cleared away to stubble, he plunged the sharp edge of the shovel into the ground severing roots. He bent down and grabbed one of them, yanked, pulling a straight diagonal line down the row.  

The thunk of metal hitting dirt sending sharp spikes to his elbow should have satisfied him. This day last week, he'd found a few under-things dotting the banks of the lake, had gone down to the water. Watched. She'd shrieked, he could still remember her laughter. He also remembered her pounce in the barn, eyes darkening when he kissed the back of her damp neck.   

A little breeze brought in the blunt smell of horses and cows from the corral, mixed with junipers, giving him a chill.

He drove his shovel into the earth, turned the soil over and over. Shoveled and turned, hoping to fill the hollow. Where was she now? He wanted to do what was right. That's what men like him did. Should he go looking for her?

Scott pulled his shirt on. What was he supposed to do, ride into the woods, calling for her like a lost dog? She hardly looked at him when they'd said goodbye.  

He brushed at the dirt on his thigh. There was a spark between them, they both knew it, and he'd felt needed, somewhere else other than Lancer. He ran his hand over the back of his head. But what if he'd been wrong to think she needed him? He spun in the garden, looking to the bright lemon of sun, the green junipers, the glaring white of the arch across the courtyard, a useless scarecrow twisting in the field.   

He stopped, sighted the watering trough and pump.

The soap was a hard scrap of lye that hardly lathered. He tried not to think where the soap had been, who and what it had washed up. He scrubbed hard and wished he could somehow just stop feeling anything. 

 

.

 

~end~
June 2013

Want to comment? Email Barb A