"Work on a farm is never done, though I suppose that's stating the obvious; building a dream is a full time occupation. While I'm out working in the fields, making trips to town for supplies, or splitting wood to build up our winter stockpile, Eliza stays busy with harvesting the vegetable garden, filling the root cellar and putting by as much as possible. How she also manages laundry, cooking, cleaning, and chasing after little Jacob, I'll never comprehend. The woman is simply amazing. I should tell her that more often, I think..."--excerpt from the private journal of Ephraim Barton
Smoky Hills Part 7
First Impressions
Heero threw the handful of mail on the passenger seat of his car as he climbed into the driver's side, the image of the scowling mailman still fixed in his mind.
Attitude. The man clearly had an attitude. And that braid--!
The Japanese man frowned, thinking how very unorthodox his letter carrier was--both in appearance and personality. He'd rather expected a stolid, older man--someone who might take the job seriously.
Instead, he'd found a very young, very flippant guy, who clearly was disgruntled about having to drive all the way out to the farm to deliver the mail.
A small smirk found its way to Heero's lips as he started up the car and headed for the town hall. In all honesty, he found it perversely pleasing that he'd obviously inconvenienced the lazy civil servant.
Obviously the mailman was used to an easy routine, and the extra work put a crimp in his free time. Well, tough luck! A little hard work never hurt anyone; at least, that's what Heero's parents had taught him at a very early age. And he'd espoused that belief his whole life.
Frankly, he felt that if more people had a well-developed work ethic, things would run much smoother in the world.
He glanced down at the list on the seat beside him: post office, bank, town hall, gas station, pharmacy, pet store, and grocery store. Well, he could cross off the first stop, but he expected the others to take up what remained of his morning, and a fair portion of the afternoon.
His estimate was about right. While the town hall visit was merely to pick up a copy of zoning regulations, it included a lengthy wait in line and then a discussion with the clerk about which sections he needed. On top of that, there was a charge of ten cents per page for the copies, and he ended up having to wait for the busy clerk to free up some time to make the aforementioned copies.
He rolled his eyes in frustration as he left the building, thinking that if only the town were a bit more up-to-date, they'd have all this information posted on-line, where it would be a simple matter to bring up the needed sections and print them--free of charge.
"What a backwards place," he muttered, crossing item number three off his list and heading for the gas station.
When he got there, he almost went inside to pay up front, but then recalled that in this tiny station, you dispensed the gas first and then paid afterwards. It wasn't like the city, where you could swipe your own card at the pump.
Again, he shook his head, feeling a bit like he'd stepped backwards in time. Apparently, technology hadn't quite caught up to Smoky Hills. The town seemed like it was preserved in a bubble--harking back to a simpler time, and a simpler world.
"Hey, you're back!" The girl behind the counter greeted him like an old friend when he stepped inside to pay.
He gave a curt nod at her statement of the obvious.
"Which pump?"
"Number one."
She punched in the number and smiled up at him. "Twenty-three fifty."
When he handed her his credit card, she eyed the name and then swiped it through the machine. "So--you live at the Barton place, Mister Yuy?"
"Yes."
"What's it like?"
He gave a casual shrug, his eyes narrowing at the prying questions. "It's a farm. I suppose it's much like any other farm."
She shook her head, her earrings jangling with the motion. "The Barton place isn't like any other," she asserted. "It's been the best-kept secret in town for years."
Heero raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "How so?"
"Well--the previous residents never let us kids near the place. There were 'no trespassing' signs everywhere--an' the old man kept big hound dogs and a shotgun filled with rock salt. Hardly anybody ever dared get close enough to see the place."
"Ah."
Hilde laid down the credit card slip and a pen. "So, is the new Mister Barton any nicer than his ancestors?"
A tiny smirk touched Heero's lips. "Probably not. And yes, we do have dogs." He signed the receipt, and picked up his copy. "Good day, Miss."
"Hilde!" she said quickly, smiling back. "Just call me Hilde."
He gave a curt nod and turned away, eager to cross another errand off his list and keep moving. While he was well aware the girl had been trying to both dig for information, and flirt, he had neither the time nor the inclination to indulge her. Trowa was waiting back at the farm, and although he'd left lunch on the night stand for his injured friend, he wanted to be back early in case he was needed.
~*~
The rest of the day flew past in a steady succession of tasks, and it was late afternoon before Heero found himself driving up the back road towards the farm.
He stopped at the mailbox, pulling out a fairly thick stack of mail and tossing it into the top of one of the grocery bags, pleased that his lecture to the postman seemed to have had the desired effect. The mail was on time, and inside the box.
"Mission accomplished," he smirked, shifting the car into gear and pulling into the driveway.
When Heero stepped into the house, juggling three bags of groceries and a gallon of milk, he nearly tripped over one of his huge grey wolfhounds, who'd come to greet him at the door.
"Agh! Tho-back off!" he ordered crossly, sighing as the big dog moved away. But then he muttered a curse as the milk began to slip from his tenuous grasp.
When the milk was lifted from his weakening grip, he looked up in surprise. "Trowa! What are you doing out of your wheelchair?"
His auburn-haired roommate gestured to the crutches supporting his weight. "Exercising."
"It's too soon!" came the concerned response.
"I've been careful," Trowa insisted. "And the doctors said it'd be okay to start some weight-bearing exercises this week."
"Yes--with assistance," Heero reminded him, setting aside the grocery bags and taking back the jug of milk. "Let me put this away. You can't possibly maneuver on crutches with this thing in your hand."
"Prob'ly not," Trowa conceded. He followed along as Heero took first the milk and then the rest of the groceries to the kitchen and began unpacking bags. "How'd it go in town?"
"Fine."
Trowa hobbled over to the table and lowered himself into a chair. "How 'bout more than a one-word answer, Heero?" He chided, reaching for the cup of tea he'd made himself, and taking a sip.
Heero gave a long-suffering sigh. "I stopped at the post office and complained about the damaged mail, and then went downtown to deposit my paycheck, pick up a copy of the zoning regulations, fill the gas tank, pick up your meds, buy dog food, and get some groceries. There's not much to tell, Trowa."
"What did they say about the mail?" Trowa prodded, so bored from being housebound that he was hungry for information from the outside world.
"The postmaster promised me it won't happen again," Heero told him, tucking the bread into the breadbox. "Of course, the letter carrier came up and bitched about having to drive all the way out here." He allowed himself another smug smirk. "He wanted us to get a post office box, but I assured him that won't be happening."
Trowa grinned too, able to picture his stern friend glaring down the mailman. "Bet he just loves you to death."
"He was an ass," Heero said flatly. "Hair down to his thighs...not in uniform...drives a beat-up old Jeep that looks like it could break down at any second. In fact, the postmaster tried telling me he'd had a flat tire, which was why the mail was so late yesterday." He gave a derisive snort. "Looking at that hunk of junk, I could believe it." He opened the refrigerator and began putting away perishables.
"Maybe the guy can't afford anything better," Trowa pointed out, nibbling on the edge of a cookie.
"On a civil servant's pay?" Heero shook his head. "I would expect he could at least afford reliable transportation, since he has to use it for work. I heard they get compensated for that--some sort of vehicle allowance. Obviously he never spends a dime of it on his vehicle."
"Maybe he needs his money for conditioner for all that hair," Trowa teased. "Down to his thighs, you said?"
"Yes. In a braid." Heero scowled faintly as he stacked the old egg carton on top of the new, so they'd know which was fresher. "I can't imagine why anyone would want hair that long."
"Well it sounds pretty odd, for a guy." Trowa raised an eyebrow. "Maybe he's gay."
He got a sharp look from Heero, followed by a shrug. "Could be. But my money's on his boss. He seemed more the type...soft-spoken...kind of, well, pretty."
"Oh. So braid-guy wasn't pretty?"
Heero opened his mouth to disagree, but caught himself sharply. "I couldn't tell," he said flatly. "His loud mouth and attitude were hard to look beyond." He turned back to his arranging of the refrigerator. "His boss, however, had blonde hair and blue eyes, and at least knew enough about customer service to be polite to me. When he said the incident wouldn't happen again, I believed him."
"Right," Trowa snorted, finishing off his tea.
"I did."
Trowa shook his head. "You're the original skeptic, Yuy. You never take anything at face value...let alone a line of sweet hogwash fed to you by a customer service representative."
Heero frowned thoughtfully, and finally shrugged. "You may be right. I'll put it this way. It better never happen again!"
"Or--?"
"Or I'll take my complaint a few levels higher next time."
Trowa gave a chuckle. "You're a hardass, Heero. You know that?"
"Yes, I do," came the very serious answer. "Do you want chicken or fish for dinner?"
Trowa laughed again. "Fish sounds nice." He fingered the stack of papers that Heero had taken from one bag and set on the table. "Hm...looks like your mailman took you seriously," he commented. "Your mail's sorted according to size--and--there's a note."
He read the message scrawled on the note paper, and gave a rueful chuckle. "Poor kid. You've got him apologizing for the damaged mail."
"He should. I don't care what lame excuse he had about being 'startled.' There was no reason for him leaving mail on the ground like that."
Trowa shrugged. "Sounds like he's sorry about it. Maybe give him another chance, hm?"
"You're welcome to do just that," came an indifferent response.
"Like I said--hardass."
"And proud of it."
Trowa moved on to the papers underneath the mail. "Is this the zoning stuff?"
"Such as it is. They wouldn't give me a complete set of regs; the book is a couple of inches thick. But they copied the pages regarding livestock, as well as the codes for new structures. I got them to throw in any information regarding variances, as well as applications for building permits."
The auburn-haired man shuffled through several pages, his brow furrowed in thought. And then he looked up at Heero, who was already laying things out in preparation for making dinner. "D'you really think I should go through with this?"
"You mean selling the place to a developer--or the other idea you had."
Trowa scowled at him. "You know which one," he growled.
The Japanese man stopped what he was doing and turned to face his roommate, his expression softening. "If this is your dream, Trowa, to make this farm into something more than it was, then by all means, I think you should pursue it. You know I'll help in any way I can."
"Yes, you've said that," Trowa sighed. "But when we came here, the plan was just to let me rest and heal up, then fix the place up to sell it."
"And if that's what you decide to do, I'll back you one hundred percent."
The tall, slim man at the table let out a huff of frustration. "You'll back me--but you won't tell me what I should do!"
"It's your decision," Heero shrugged, turning back to the counter. "This farm is your inheritance, not mine."
"Yes, but after all you've done for me, you deserve to have your wishes taken into account, too," Trowa pointed out, his green eyes troubled. "If we start this project, you'll be here a lot longer than the two months we originally planned. Will they hold your job that long?"
Heero stiffened, but didn't turn around. "They'll hold my job as long as necessary," he said tightly. "And you know I'm in no hurry to return to it."
"I don't blame you," Trowa said firmly. "But I do worry about you. You're supposed to be having a quiet interlude in the country to rest and recoup. Somehow I don't think your therapist envisioned you performing lots of manual labor as well."
"But she did say I should keep busy and find diversions that occupy my mind." Heero turned to fix a level gaze on his friend. "Renovating that dilapidated old barn should fit the bill perfectly."
Trowa smiled back at him. "You've got a point there. It'll take plenty of planning; that's for sure."
"And secrecy," Heero noted. "Apparently this place is something of a curiosity for locals. The girl at the gas station was asking a lot of questions."
A faint frown settled across Trowa's brow. "What did you tell her?"
"Just that you're probably as anti-social as the last Mister Barton and we keep dogs--big dogs." Heero glanced over at Thor and Balder, the two wolfhounds lounging in a corner of the roomy kitchen keeping tabs on their master.
"You keep dogs," Trowa pointed out. "Me--I'm into things a bit more--exotic."
"And illegal," Heero added. "At least until we get our permits lined up. Best to keep folks away with whatever stories they want to cook up, until we have all those issues settled."
"I agree."
Heero gave a short nod, and reached up into the cupboard. "Rice or pasta?"
"Rice, of course."
"Of course."
Trowa watched Heero measure out the water and seasoning for the rice, and then glanced hopefully at the refrigerator. "Do we have any broccoli left?"
"I bought some--along with the greens and fruit for Zero. I'm sure he won't begrudge us a couple of servings."
As if on cue, there was a flutter of sound, and the large grey parrot flew in from the recently repaired and reinforced screened porch, alighting on Heero's shoulder. "Fruit for Zero?" he demanded in a voice with the same inflection as Heero's.
The Japanese man smiled and reached up to ruffle the feathers under the bird's chin. "Yes, I brought fruit." He went to the refrigerator and took out a mango, cutting a wedge-shaped piece and holding it out to the eager beak. "Go eat your snack," he told the bird.
Zero grabbed the morsel and flew over to a sturdy perch that took up a corner by the window. There he busied himself delicately eating the tender flesh of the fruit and making contented sounds.
"Where's Wing?" Heero asked, looking around for Trowa's ever-present myna bird.
"In his cage," replied the green-eyed man with a frown. "He decided to amuse himself by dissecting the flower arrangement in the dining room, and I thought he needed a time out."
"The flowers Catherine brought?" Heero asked, smirking. "He's lucky that's all you did. She'd serve him for Thanksgiving if she found out."
"In plum sauce," Trowa agreed amiably.
"Speaking of sauce, would you like the fish grilled or baked?"
"What kind of fish?"
"Salmon."
"Oh, grill it!" Trowa said eagerly. "It'll be delicious with some lemon and seasoning."
Heero walked over and set down a platter with a large fillet on it. "I'll gather the ingredients. You sit and rest that knee while you prepare the fish, and I'll go start the grill."
They worked well together, Trowa handling the prep work that could be done while seated, and Heero acting as his "gofer," bringing whatever tools he needed. And less than half an hour later, they were seated in the shady, screened-in porch eating their supper.
Neither man was a big talker, so they ate in companionable silence, cleared the table the same way, and then settled in to watch the evening news.
TBC...
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