OverTime 1 - Searching (Time Travel) (5 page)

But I had to do it verrry slowly, hugging the oversized coat tighter around me so that no body parts fell off. Though my ankle wasn
't as bad as yesterday, I could barely hobble to the creek's edge. Damn, but I hurt! I stared dazedly at the shallow, muddy water where the horses had churned it up, then looked up at Garrison.

He shook his head sadly and nodded to my right, so I limped stiffly in that direction. The water was clearer upstream from the horses. Duh. There were even some bushes and scrubby trees to put between him and me. The best privacy I
'd gotten since... well, since....

In around 24 hours, anyway.

The water wasn't particularly cold. I unbuttoned the coat I wore and hung it on a bush before wading in. Then I had a make-do bath in the little creek, a quick one both because I was so sore and because I didn't want to try my keeper's patience or get caught naked. I dried myself off on the borrowed bandana, which was hardly up to the job but less dirty than the outside of the coat.

I did
not
attempt washing my hair.

Miserable an experience though it was, I
did
feel better—if no less stiff—as I shrugged back into the too-large, calf-length coat. On instinct I swung my arms around. It both hurt and helped. Twisting at the waist, I repeated the motion a few times. That felt natural and seemed to loosen me up. Without letting myself think, I began moving into some kind of step pattern, lifting my knees high—ouch!—and reaching over my head—whimper—and kicking. Like a strange dance, or a choreographed fight. I could almost hear music, a driving beat, and I started to feel dizzy....

No, don
't remember!
A blast of fear chased the energizing rhythm from my mind. I staggered to a stop, and all I could hear were groggy birds.

But I still felt better, all the way through an unappetizing breakfast of tepid turkey and packing up the camp beneath a cotton-candy sunrise. Trying to get my foot to the saddle
's stirrup however, when time came to head out, was
not
going to happen, not even using two hands to do it—and not because today's horse was any taller than yesterday's. Without a word, Garrison bent and offered me a hand. I stepped, he lifted, and in a minute I was straddling my make-shift leather pillow, with a horse underneath.

Garrison vaulted gracefully, bareback, onto a gray horse. While he gathered his rope-o-animals I discreetly adjusted the vest beneath me and looked forward to reaching civilization. But instead of moving out, he asked, "Can you rein?"

Was this a trick question? "Maybe?"

Shaking his head, he rode closer—and I realized that this morning my horse was free roaming. When it stepped away from his approach, I squeaked and grabbed the
saddle horn with both hands. Garrison did a lot more good by snagging the bridle with one. Then he pried my left hand free through sheer force and pressed both reins into it. Leaning precariously off his own horse, as easily as if he were attached, he then showed me how the reins would steer mine. It was a fairly simple process really, once I realized it wasn't about pulling. It involved the horse's ability to sense the reins against one side of its neck or the other. In fact, it was so simple I was able to also notice the calluses on Cowboy Garrison's strong hands, and the warm, coiled bulk of him leaning near to me.

I remembered the gentle touch on my cheek last night—and those oh-so-tender words:  "
'Tain't fever." My blank memory was probably just confusing things. Jacob Garrison was too old for me, wasn't he? Maybe? And I'd only known him a day. But since I didn't know anyone else, that made him my oldest and closest friend.
That I knew of
. I could be happily married, with children, as far as that went.

The problem wasn
't going away.
Who was I?

He released my hands and sat back on his horse, assessing my grip on the reins. Then he extended a booted foot and nudged my stirrup—and my own bare foot with it—into my horse
's side. The horse took several steps. Startled, I quickly drew back the reins and, ears back, my mount obediently stopped.

Okay, okay; I didn
't have to glance in the direction of my driving instructor to sense his disapproval. That annoyed me—this was obviously a new skill on my part!—but it also motivated me. On my own, I nudged the horse's sides. It started to walk again. I made it go left, then curved around right, then reined proudly to a stop right beside Garrison. Hey! Whoever I was, I could now steer a horse!

He nodded, made a clucking noise, and headed our little remuda out. Glowing praise it was not. But hell, the man was chintzy even with nods. At least I was
riding
, instead of being led. That fact alone kept me happy for the first hour or so of our ride.

But silence gave me too much time to notice how sore my rubbing thighs were, how hot it was getting, how I still couldn
't remember jack and how that couldn't possibly be a good thing. And that, FYI, flies love horses. By the time the sun was high and we hadn't yet reached civilization, boredom and insect-filled silence became my enemy yet again. "Does this horse have a name?" I asked finally, just to break the monotony of the not-so-scenic open grassland.

Garrison gave a barely perceptible shake of the head.

"Can I name it?"

Apathetic nod.

Now here was an intriguing experiment—what does a person with no memory call upon to find names? My horse was a golden-brown, though not as brown as yesterday's. I probably wouldn't have noticed the difference if this one's mane and tail hadn't been wheat-colored instead of black. It made a pretty contrast, but if this horse were human I'd be sure she bleached her hair.

Valley Girl.

I didn't know where the name, or even the concept, came from, but I said it anyway before it could vanish like a soap bubble. "Valley Girl."

Garrison snorted.

"Well okay," I defended. "So we aren't in a valley. But it seems to fit somehow."

He shook his head. "
'Tain't a girl."

Oh. My embarrassment battled with curiosity at the strange gurgle in his voice, and I urged Valley G— Valley Boy jerkily forward with my heels until I could see my companion
's face.

He was smiling! It lit his shadowed eyes and softened his Neanderthal features, beautiful in its unexpectedness. And here I
'd started to think he was incapable!

"I declare," he muttered, shaking his head. Then he fell back into silence, letting the smile drift away to wherever he kept them.

I continued to watch, still amazed. The man could smile!

A useful thing to know about one
's current oldest friend.

Before I could explore the idea further, Garrison was stopping his horses—"Ho. Ho now!"  I reined in Valley Boy as well, all by myself. Our fearless leader squinted toward what looked like some bushes, breaking the monotony of the toasting grasslands. I squinted that way too, couldn
't make out anything of interest, and so glanced back at him and waited.

He pointed for me. "Chimney smoke."

I squinted again and could barely make out the wispy white smoke, much less where it came from. But Garrison edged the horses in that direction, so I reined Valley Boy right along with them. The horse did just what I wanted him to, so I leaned over and patted his neck, like I'd seen Garrison do, and added a "Good horse."

The horse
's tapered ears swiveled back in confirmation that he'd heard me. If it weren't for the fact that every muscle I owned needed oiling, and the burning inside of my thighs would need a skin graft to fix, I might like horseback riding.

As we got closer I recognized the
"bushes" as the tops of trees, just lower than us, along a creek bottom. I saw two really large gardens, patches of order in this dry ocean of wild grass, and my own excitement grew. Civilization? I knew Garrison meant to get back to some kind of herd, but maybe these people had a... a.... The more I wanted them, the less the words came to me. Some means of communication or transportation that would save us time, help contact the proper authorities! Oh sure, the shed that came into sight past the field, complete with chimney smoke, didn't much impress me. The tiny building made me think of an ugly, quilted coat, as if it was made out of hairy bricks of grass and dirt. But Garrison had to be detouring here for a reason.

A man with a hoe limped out of the green plants to meet us. Garrison nodded at him. The gardener raised a tentative hand and came carefully closer. But he was staring, I realized, at me.

I glanced self-consciously at Garrison, but he stayed tense, watching the gardener.

"You ain
't got no cows, do you?" demanded the gardener, holding his hoe as he might a weapon. “You got cows, it'll cost you.”

"Not
on your land," assured Garrison coolly.  From the gardener's curt nod, I assumed no cows was somehow a
good
thing. "You lose a gal?"

Oh! My humming nerves hit higher frequency as I forgot the cows and reexamined the man. Did I know him? Husband, father, brother? Father seemed most likely—his straw hat hid his hair color, and he was clean-shaven, but he looked pretty leathery, with wrinkles cutting deeply into his face. Despite sweaty muscles bulging out from beneath his overalls, I
'd guess his age at well over fifty. I felt a lot younger than that—and had unwrinkled hands that had never plucked a bird, too.

Bracing the hoe on the ground, like a simple tool again, he surveyed me back, eyes squinty from the sun.

"Nope," he said finally, and my rush of relief surprised me. Didn't I
want
to go home?

Maybe that depended on the home.

He asked, "Found one, did you?"

Garrison nodded.

"We ain't heard of nobody what lost one," the gardener told him after some consideration; I was beginning to feel like a stray dog. "But we don't get much news this way, not like you drovers do. She ain't dressed decent."

Now remember, I was completely covered to the knees, with sleeves overlapping my hands like a kid playing dress-up. The coat was buttoned. Surely it would make sense to bare
more
of my legs and arms to this heat, not less. How could I not be dressed decent?

I mean, decently?

Maybe he just meant I was a Fashion Don't. But considering his own couture....

"
'Tain't likely her doin'." Garrison was holding a regular conversation here! With a flat hand he indicated the shed's one open window, through which fluttered—of all things—a raggedy curtain. "You got a woman, maybe fix her up?"

Here?
I suddenly suspected I'd misjudged the shed
and
the gardener, not to mention our options for getting help. The suspicion unsettled me.

"Died,"
our host admitted. "Took the cholera two years back—we burnt her clothes. Had a few sons, though. Some of their old duds'd be a mite better'n she's got." And he turned, still leaning on the hoe, and bellowed toward the little shed, "Sherman!"

The shed was, in fact, a farmhouse! It couldn
't be more than ten by fifteen feet, and... it was
shaggy
. Someone might live here, but this was
so
not civilization.

Another hulking figure appeared in the doorway of the quilted dirt house, but he was a
young
hulk, all awkward teenager angles. Sherman carried some kind of huge rifle, which he thankfully wasn't pointing at us. He stared suspiciously across the yard at Garrison and me before responding. "Yessir?"

"Fetch yer little brother
's clothes outta that trunk yer ma kept," shouted our host.

He then looked back up at us and said, "Our Eb went and drowned
'bout four years back. You folks light here and rest yerselves in the shade of the soddy." Then he turned suspicious again. "Long as your cows ain't nearby."

My cowboy escort extended a hand downward, half in greeting and half in challenge—I suspected that, even at my best, I couldn
't hope to understand the macho undercurrents going on here. Hell, I was still reeling from finding myself smack in the middle of Hillbilly World. "Jacob Garrison," he offered, far more comfortably than he'd introduced himself to me yesterday.

"Wendell Peaves," responded the gardener—no, I realized, the
farmer
—as he took the hand in a grudging shake. Then he looked up at me, waiting for my name too. Join the club, Wendell.

"Pleased to meet you," I bluffed.

Garrison urged his horse parade forward, up to the cabin door. Three pigs scattered out of his path with sulky squeals. "Cain't recollect no name," he explained, swinging easily down.

I eyed the distance between myself and the pig yard, did a mental inventory of my abused muscular structure, and waited. Belatedly, Garrison helped me down without me having to either ask.

My bare feet touched filthy ground—Hillbilly World, up close and personal—and I waffled between trying to explain my own situation, edging away from the skinny pigs, and staring at the cabin. Since the fly-dotted pigs didn't get too close—yet—the cabin won.