Aftermath
folder
1 through F › The Big Valley
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
14
Views:
2,728
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
1 through F › The Big Valley
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
14
Views:
2,728
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I in no way own The Big Valley. I make no money from writing this, I just hope you have as much fun reading as I do writing.
6
Hands roamed across his back and grabbed his hips painfully. Oh, god, no, he thought in terror and his heart raced in fear as he felt the hard tip of the other’s penis push against his ass. Not again, please, God, not again.
Jarrod sat up, his body drenched in sweat. His chest heaved as he took in huge gulps of air and his half-healed ribs protested the sudden movement. He drew his knees tightly to his chest and tried to calm the uncontrollable shaking of his body. Just a nightmare, he told himself harshly, just another goddamned nightmare. But he couldn’t banish the crawling feeling across his skin and convinced himself it was just discomfort from his slowly healing back.
The lawyer dragged himself to his feet and made his way to the nearby stream. The icy water he splashed on his face helped him regain a measure of control over his mind and body and he frowned at the pain in his right hand when he automatically slicked back his wet hair. Regarding the hand grimly, Jarrod slowly tried to make a fist. In spite of the doctor’s best efforts, his little finger still only moved slightly and Jarrod sighed in frustration. Combined with the limited range of motion in his left shoulder, he knew that realistically he shouldn’t be chasing down a clearly ruthless and dangerous man by himself. He knew he should have waited back in Knight’s Ferry for Nick and let his brother either help him or talk him out of going after Coulter. But he’d made his choice, for good or for ill, and maybe, just maybe, taking care of Coulter might banish the nightmares for once and for all.
Jarrod resolutely trudged back to his camp as the eastern horizon started to glow and patted the nose of the chestnut horse who whickered a greeting. “How about some water, fella?” He untied the horse, led him to the stream and tethered him to some nearby bushes where the gelding could browse along the bank after drinking his fill. Grabbing the small coffeepot, Jarrod filled it and placed it on the still smouldering coals of his fire. Then he picked up his rifle and gunbelt and walked a short distance away.
Jarrod set the gunbelt at his feet and hefted the rifle. There was no way he could work it with his injured right hand, so he loosely gripped the barrel in his right instead and braced it against his left shoulder as he sighted the trunk of a dead tree. Awkwardly levering the bolt with his left hand, he squeezed the trigger, gritted his teeth against the pain of the recoil against his shoulder, readjusted his aim and chambered another round as his shot missed the target. His next shot managed to take a chunk out of the edge of the tree, but after a third shot also went wide, Jarrod lowered the rifle in frustration. He just couldn’t work the lever fast enough with his left and his shoulder was aching fiercely, not to mention his abysmal aim.
Jarrod put the rifle on the ground and pulled his pistol out of the holster. He first tried firing right-handed, but the pain and weakness made the bullet fly wide as he clumsily squeezed the trigger. Switching to his left hand, his aim was marginally better. He found if he braced the barrel of the gun in his right while firing with his left, he was almost as accurate as he was before his injury. The gun’s recoil still caused his shoulder to ache, but he could live with that. The only other problem was that he’d bought a right-handed belt and he certainly couldn’t draw from that side with his hand the way it was. Even if the holster was on the left, Jarrod wasn’t sure he would be able to manage a left-handed draw with any speed without a lot more practice. Pushing the gun into the waistband of his pants with the handle facing left was the best option he could think of.
Carrying the gunbelt and rifle back to the fire, Jarrod poured a cup of coffee. The strong smell turned his stomach as he sipped it slowly and he forced down the nausea that threatened to bring it back up when he nibbled at a piece of hardtack. He knew he should eat more; his healing body needed all the energy he could give it, but his appetite had been less than non-existent and it was all he could do to choke down enough to keep him going.
Jarrod used the rest of the coffee to douse the fire as he tidied up the campsite. Then he saddled his horse and rode off on his mission to Plymouth and his confrontation with Ben Coulter.
*
Nick ended up getting a few snatches of sleep after pacing around his hotel room for what seemed like hours. The small room felt like a prison, but Nick didn’t venture out. He knew that in his current mood he’d likely end up in the thick of a bar brawl and probably spend a few days behind bars for starting it. That wouldn’t do his missing brother any good so Nick prowled from one side to the other until he grew worn out enough to sleep, only to rise to the sounds of the awakening town.
Stretching his tall frame, Nick donned his boots and gunbelt, slapped his Stetson on his head and went out for a quick breakfast while he decided what his next move should be. He debated sending a wire home, but the little he knew would be more worrying than nothing at all. Hopefully, the lack of a message would just make Mother and Audra think he was on his way home with Jarrod and buy him a day or two until they started growing concerned for him as well.
Nick shovelled in his breakfast, not even tasting it and was downing a last cup of coffee when a nervous looking young man approached his table.
“Are you… are you Nick Barkley?” he asked hesitantly, as if he expected the rancher to jump up and bite him.
“That’s me.” Nick wondered why the youth was looking for him.
The young man tentatively held out a yellow piece of paper. “Telegram just came in for you, sir.”
“Thanks.” Nick grabbed the paper and reached into his pocket for a coin to give the messenger. The other man took the money and scurried off in obvious relief as Nick opened the telegram.
Nick tucked the paper in his pocket and threw some money on the table before going to pack up his things before heading north to follow the only lead he had.
Jarrod sat up, his body drenched in sweat. His chest heaved as he took in huge gulps of air and his half-healed ribs protested the sudden movement. He drew his knees tightly to his chest and tried to calm the uncontrollable shaking of his body. Just a nightmare, he told himself harshly, just another goddamned nightmare. But he couldn’t banish the crawling feeling across his skin and convinced himself it was just discomfort from his slowly healing back.
The lawyer dragged himself to his feet and made his way to the nearby stream. The icy water he splashed on his face helped him regain a measure of control over his mind and body and he frowned at the pain in his right hand when he automatically slicked back his wet hair. Regarding the hand grimly, Jarrod slowly tried to make a fist. In spite of the doctor’s best efforts, his little finger still only moved slightly and Jarrod sighed in frustration. Combined with the limited range of motion in his left shoulder, he knew that realistically he shouldn’t be chasing down a clearly ruthless and dangerous man by himself. He knew he should have waited back in Knight’s Ferry for Nick and let his brother either help him or talk him out of going after Coulter. But he’d made his choice, for good or for ill, and maybe, just maybe, taking care of Coulter might banish the nightmares for once and for all.
Jarrod resolutely trudged back to his camp as the eastern horizon started to glow and patted the nose of the chestnut horse who whickered a greeting. “How about some water, fella?” He untied the horse, led him to the stream and tethered him to some nearby bushes where the gelding could browse along the bank after drinking his fill. Grabbing the small coffeepot, Jarrod filled it and placed it on the still smouldering coals of his fire. Then he picked up his rifle and gunbelt and walked a short distance away.
Jarrod set the gunbelt at his feet and hefted the rifle. There was no way he could work it with his injured right hand, so he loosely gripped the barrel in his right instead and braced it against his left shoulder as he sighted the trunk of a dead tree. Awkwardly levering the bolt with his left hand, he squeezed the trigger, gritted his teeth against the pain of the recoil against his shoulder, readjusted his aim and chambered another round as his shot missed the target. His next shot managed to take a chunk out of the edge of the tree, but after a third shot also went wide, Jarrod lowered the rifle in frustration. He just couldn’t work the lever fast enough with his left and his shoulder was aching fiercely, not to mention his abysmal aim.
Jarrod put the rifle on the ground and pulled his pistol out of the holster. He first tried firing right-handed, but the pain and weakness made the bullet fly wide as he clumsily squeezed the trigger. Switching to his left hand, his aim was marginally better. He found if he braced the barrel of the gun in his right while firing with his left, he was almost as accurate as he was before his injury. The gun’s recoil still caused his shoulder to ache, but he could live with that. The only other problem was that he’d bought a right-handed belt and he certainly couldn’t draw from that side with his hand the way it was. Even if the holster was on the left, Jarrod wasn’t sure he would be able to manage a left-handed draw with any speed without a lot more practice. Pushing the gun into the waistband of his pants with the handle facing left was the best option he could think of.
Carrying the gunbelt and rifle back to the fire, Jarrod poured a cup of coffee. The strong smell turned his stomach as he sipped it slowly and he forced down the nausea that threatened to bring it back up when he nibbled at a piece of hardtack. He knew he should eat more; his healing body needed all the energy he could give it, but his appetite had been less than non-existent and it was all he could do to choke down enough to keep him going.
Jarrod used the rest of the coffee to douse the fire as he tidied up the campsite. Then he saddled his horse and rode off on his mission to Plymouth and his confrontation with Ben Coulter.
*
Nick ended up getting a few snatches of sleep after pacing around his hotel room for what seemed like hours. The small room felt like a prison, but Nick didn’t venture out. He knew that in his current mood he’d likely end up in the thick of a bar brawl and probably spend a few days behind bars for starting it. That wouldn’t do his missing brother any good so Nick prowled from one side to the other until he grew worn out enough to sleep, only to rise to the sounds of the awakening town.
Stretching his tall frame, Nick donned his boots and gunbelt, slapped his Stetson on his head and went out for a quick breakfast while he decided what his next move should be. He debated sending a wire home, but the little he knew would be more worrying than nothing at all. Hopefully, the lack of a message would just make Mother and Audra think he was on his way home with Jarrod and buy him a day or two until they started growing concerned for him as well.
Nick shovelled in his breakfast, not even tasting it and was downing a last cup of coffee when a nervous looking young man approached his table.
“Are you… are you Nick Barkley?” he asked hesitantly, as if he expected the rancher to jump up and bite him.
“That’s me.” Nick wondered why the youth was looking for him.
The young man tentatively held out a yellow piece of paper. “Telegram just came in for you, sir.”
“Thanks.” Nick grabbed the paper and reached into his pocket for a coin to give the messenger. The other man took the money and scurried off in obvious relief as Nick opened the telegram.
October 10, 1873
To Nick Barkley, Knight’s Ferry, CA
From Sheriff Fred Madden, Stockton, CA
Horse reported in Plymouth matching description -stop- Barkley brand -end message
Nick tucked the paper in his pocket and threw some money on the table before going to pack up his things before heading north to follow the only lead he had.