Chapter Text
He should have felt the change in the air. He was an experienced ranch hand who had survived three Montana summers already. He ought to have sensed the way the wind stilled and the fine hairs on his arms seemed to levitate away from his skin. Besides, the ranch wasn’t completely trapped in the 19th century. The satellite forecast on the radio in the main barn that morning had threatened squalls. All the signs were there. But Michael-not-Jason – he’d said it enough times by now it was hard to think of either name alone – had at least two good reasons to be distracted.
First, ever since he’d watched his wife – no, Jane, just Jane – disappear down a dirt road, he’d been trying to nudge, then tuck, then shove memories of his life in Miami out of his mind. Maybe it was the after effects of what Rose did to him, but every effort only increased how often his Miami years asserted themselves. He couldn’t look at a bright saddle blanket without being reminded of the tiles outside of the Villanueva household, or hear a gust in the trees without thinking of crashing waves on a glittering beach. His steady, simple world was now a minefield.
Second, he sensed that the foreman, Rick – okay, him and really everyone else on the ranch – could see his mind was scrambled, and he felt a mounting urgency to prove himself as capable as he’d ever been. He knew that his fellow hands, at least, were sympathetic, but Rick had been blunt. The offer of continuing on the ranch was conditional on Jason-fine-sure-Michael being able to focus on his work, not pining over some gal who’d left him for the city slicker life.
Late this evening Rick, in front of everyone, commanded him to go take care of broken gate on the far paddock. It was a painful errand tacked on to the end of an already backbreaking day at the height of the season, and they all knew it. Michael-not-Jason did at least take satisfaction from the grudging respect in Rick’s eyes when his only reaction was to nod and turn Shelby back to the fields.
All this added up to Michael-not-Jason crouched on the edge of the far paddock at the first brush of dusk, blind to the fact that the air promised trouble. He was concentrating instead on the latch, a finicky, rusty piece that clearly needed a total replacement. He ended up taking a length of wire and painstakingly running it around every piece of the latch to hold it together, then fashioning a second loop that could be slipped off and on to fully secure the gate. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto his gloves as he finished, and when he pulled them off he found a new blister. He swore softly under his breath, and heard Bo give a low whine.
He glanced over to his dog, thinking the sound was a reaction to his frustration. He’d tied Bo to a fencepost because they were at the border of Charlie’s land, and despite the current truce, the thought of losing his dog – well, it couldn’t happen. Now Bo was worrying back and forth at the end of his lead, sniffing the air. Michael-not-Jason frowned and glanced around. Well, there was no Charlie. No cattle. No snakes. What –
A low rumble rolled over the treeline. His shoulders relaxed. Thunder. They could handle that.
“Don’t worry, Bo,” he reassured his dog. “We’re ‘bout done here. We’ll get on home.”
He turned back to the latch, testing it a few times and tweaking the wire, oblivious to the wind kicking up through the grass and the unhappy set of Bo’s shoulders. Just as he was satisfied, a rhythmic, soft drumming in the air grew louder and louder, cresting over the horizon and pushing him right back into a memory of the Miami surf. A bright warm day, a picnic on the sand, the laughter of his wife – no, Jane – no –
He shook his head vehemently, and listened again, recognizing the noise instead as the sound from a great curtain of rain approaching over the trees. He swore once more, closing the latch and jogging over to Bo and Shelby. So much for being dry for dinner. He untied Bo and swung himself into the saddle, settling his boots in the stirrups just as a brilliant flash of light tore through the sky.
The blast of thunder followed immediately after, so powerful his hearing rang and his mare shied. He steadied her and swung towards the treeline and the trail to the ranch. The rain arrived, soaking him in seconds. His vision had barely cleared when lightning struck again with another crash right behind it. The wind picked up, driving a torrent in his face, forcing him to tuck his head low and urge his mare on. She broke into a reluctant trot and Michael-not-Jason felt a moment of relief. Then the rain turned to hail.
He only heard Bo yelp once, and by the time he’d swung back around, he could see the dog running clear across the paddock into the treeline – in the wrong direction, onto Charlie’s property.
“Bo!” he roared. “No! Get back here!”
Somewhere underneath his blind panic and anger, he could at least acknowledge that it was hard to blame Bo. The hailstones were the size of golfballs and coming fast. Shelby was equally unhappy and pinned her ears down. He was forced to dismount and drag her by the reins into the treeline, winding along the narrow trail where he had last seen Bo. He continued to shout the dog’s name, but it was lost in the constant thunder and howling wind. The world was growing darker under the cover of clouds and the setting sun, his path more and more lit only by intermittent flashes of lightning. A tree branch crashed down, clipping his left shoulder, barely missing his hat and head. His heart sank as he realized he had to find shelter now, or he might not be in one piece to find Bo later.
He cast around, squinting through the dense downpour through the trees and finally – a steady light, down a fork in the path. He climbed back in the saddle and drove his mare forward, grateful when she responded with a surging canter.
They crashed into a clearing, where he could see the light was a lantern hung from the side of a great wooden barn. He dismounted again and led Shelby over to it, dragging the door open, relieved to find it unlocked. He stepped over the threshold to meet the business end of a rifle.
“Hey, Charlie,” he managed, raising both hands, stepping backwards into the deluge.
“Hey yourself, you son of a bitch,” Charlie snarled. “Damn good thing I came to lock up the barn. I listen to your damn wife, I let your stupid dog go, and you show up here again?”
“She’s not my – ” Michael-not-Jason shook his head, trying to focus through the sheet of rain between them and a sudden image of Jane, by the campfire, her face right next to his. No.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I am. Shelby and I got caught in the rain and turned around. Just looking for a place to ride it out.” He glanced once at her furious expression, then lowered his eyes again, keeping his hands up. He tried to hold them steady against the cold and fatigue.
Charlie huffed out an angry breath and finally lowered the end of the rifle. Shelby decided that was invitation enough and barged forward towards the smell of sweet hay and the warmth of the barn. Charlie shifted out of the way just in time, looking back between her and Michael-not-Jason.
Another crack of thunder sounded, and he flinched minutely, but didn’t move to enter. Rain streamed from the sides of his hat, onto his shoulders. His gaze stayed low.
Charlie abruptly turned around and went to tend the rogue horse in her barn. It wasn’t until she had all Shelby’s tack off, brushing the mare with her back to him, that she finally snapped, “Well, get in here and close that damn door, the floor’s getting wet.”
He moved forward, legs stiff, and rolled the door closed behind him. He found that afterwards, finally out of the driving rain, his legs decided to become liquid instead. Michael-not-Jason managed to turn himself around and sink to the floor of the barn with his back against the wall, preserving at least some semblance of dignity as the last of the day’s strength left him.
He looked up to find Charlie watching him, looking thoroughly unimpressed. He met her gaze now, too tired to be intimidated any more.
“Thank you for taking care of Shelby,” he said. Shelby, munching on hay, flicked an ear in his direction and gave a low whicker.
Charlie shrugged. “Ain’t her fault you couldn’t see sense to be home before the hail hit.”
Michael-not-Jason dipped his head in a nod. “You’re right.” He tried to sit straighter.
Charlie frowned and leaned back against a post. “Didn’t see the sky turn?”
Now it was his turn to shrug. Silence stretched between them, only broken by the quiet shifting of the horses in the barn and intermittent crackles of thunder.
“Suppose you want to stay the night,” she said at last.
His mouth twitched. “Reckon I’d need some assistance not to, but if you asked, I’d find a way to go.”
She snorted. “You can stay in the loft.”
A hayloft sounded like heaven, but sleeping here – “Bo. My dog. He’s out there.”
Her face didn’t change, but her tone was genuine rather than mocking. “That thief? He’s smarter’n you. He’ll find his way home afore you do.”
He gave a small nod. He forced himself upright, clinging to the door before getting his legs under him. He regarded the ladder to the loft with grim resignation. “I’d rather skip an audience for this, if it’s the same to you ma’am.”
Charlie rolled her eyes, but went to the door. “Suit yourself, Michael. If you ’n your horse are still here in the morning I’ll shoot you.”
He offered a tired smile. “Fair enough. Good night, Charlie.”
She closed the door behind her. It wasn’t pretty, but he got himself up the ladder, and onto a slab of hay bales. He peeled off as much of his wet clothing as he thought was decent, and pulled a saddle blanket from a pile in the corner to stretch out on. It was soft but scratchy, just like the carpet at his mother’s house. He and Jane were almost caught on that carpet once, making out. They had to flee, giggling furiously, like teenagers. They ended up cuddling on the roof, watching the clouds and airplanes overhead, listening to a distant strain of salsa blaring from a few houses down -
No. He covered his face in his hands, slowly scrubbing back and forth until the images faded. This was going to be a long night. Michael listened intently one more time to make sure Charlie had left the barn, before letting his eyes close.
--
Charlie had not had an easy day herself, and she’d slid into her bed in the main farmhouse with a grateful sigh. Suffice to say she was less than thrilled to be dragged from her sleep only a few hours later by a commotion in the barn.
At first, she worried it was a fox. In the winter, they would sometimes sneak in and raise hell with the chickens. But by the time she was awake enough to have her boots on and remember she didn’t have chickens anymore, she could make out a man’s voice among the whinnies of distressed horses.
Another intruder? She grabbed her rife, thinking, I oughta get a dog myself.
She stomped down to the yard, still being pummeled by rain. She crossed quickly to the barn door and listened for a moment, trying to make out what might be happening within.
She could make out only one voice, and realized it was saying the same thing, again and again: “No – Jane – no – Jane – Jane ¬– ”
She threw open the door. The clatter was enough to catch the attention of every horse in the barn, but the voice above continued. This close she could make more words out in between.
“Jane… Glor – Gloriana! Jane, Gloriana, Villaneuva. Please, please, I know her, I still remember, please let me go, Jane – Jane!”
She scrambled up the ladder to the loft. Pulling herself upright, she confronted the source of all the ruckus.
Michael – that pain-in-the-ass cowboy, that prior archenemy, that simple decent man who came through a tempest after his dog – lay in the hayloft calling out again and again for this woman who wasn’t his wife, his face etched in grief and horror.
She had no idea what to do. She coughed and tried to knock her hand, then her rifle against the wood in the barn. He stayed trapped in his nightmare. Finally she nudged him with her foot, hard. He startled, then froze, then slowly sat up.
“Jane – no, God, what – I – oh…” His gaze focused on her. He blinked. “Charlie?”
He sounded lost. Her insides twisted, but her voice was gruff. “Yeah, Charlie. Your hollerin’ woke up the whole damn household worse than the damn thunder.”
He blinked again, rapidly, and color flooded his cheeks. He looked down, rubbing his neck. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I hoped – I didn’t mean – I should have warned you.”
She raised an eyebrow. He said, “I talk in my sleep when I don’t have Bo.”
She couldn’t help it. “Talk?”
He winced. “Okay, fine, shout. I get nightmares of – of another time, a bad time, and it’s hard to tell what’s what. Bo usually wakes me early, or licks me till I stop, or somethin’.” By now he was looking firmly at the ground, face aflame.
She was so still he thought she’d left, but when he glanced up she was still there by the ladder, rifle still loosely in hand, staring at him. She finally asked: “Anything else but Bo can make you quit it?”
He raised a helpless shoulder. Suddenly he froze, as though a thought had struck him, but then shook his head again. “Nothing, ma’am. I just ride it out and try not to bother anyone.”
To be fair to Michael, he was so deep in his own mind, he had no way of remembering how little Charlie appreciated people being less than forthcoming on her property. She reminded him by leveling the rifle at him again. He sat back down.
“What. Else.” she said.
Michael, in the interest of being at gunpoint as briefly as possible, gave her a one-minute summary that covered the following: I had a good life in Miami, married, working as a cop. A crazy woman, a criminal I hunted, needed me out of the way, while she got some kind of revenge, or leverage, or something with her lover, who’s also my wife’s son’s father’s sister. She kidnapped me, faked my death, and erased my memory with electricity and that’s – that’s the bad time. After it was done, she told me I was a villain and left me in a field near here, so I ended up on the ranch as Jason. Then my wife’s son’s father came and found me, and brought me back to Miami. I got my memories back, fell in love with my wife again, brought her here to see my new life, and she left me for her son’s father.
Charlie’s grip on the gun slowly went slack while he went on, as did her jaw.
“She’s gone now, but when she was here, sleeping next to me, I didn’t have nightmares. So, that, I guess, made me quit it.” He finally looked up at her dully, and the rifle at her side. He nodded at it. “You ever put that thing away?”
She cleared her throat, and reassembled a scowl on her face. “Not s’long as there are strange men staying in my barn.”
He stood again, suddenly very conscious of his missing shirt. “I’ll go, ma’am.”
A gust of wind hammered against the roof, and Charlie rolled her eyes.
“That’d be foolishness.” She turned back to the ladder, and jerked her head towards the house. “Come on, now.”
-
The shrill, distant ring of an old dial-up phone roused Michael. He cracked his eyes open against gray dawn light from where he lay in a flannel sleeping bag on the floor of Charlie’s bedroom. He sat up slowly, stretching sore muscles. A curl of coffee scent tickled his nose, and he looked over to see her bed was empty. How long had he slept?
In the daylight, the old farmhouse that Charlie apparently inhabited alone looked worn but cozy. Sunlight streaming through the windows would suggest the rain had passed at last. He descended a creaking wooden staircase and eventually found Charlie on her porch, a mug of coffee in hand, surveying a yard full of fallen branches. She tipped her head toward a second mug that sat on the railing, waiting for him.
He hesitated before taking the first sip and turned to her. “Ma’am, I can’t thank you enough. I hope I didn’t – um, that is – I hope you – ”
“You didn’t wake me up again.” She blew gently on her mug.
He did take a sip then, more for something to do as they watched the sun creep into the yard. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. He decided to chalk it up to sheer exhaustion and not think about it again.
“Rick called,” she said. “Bo came back without you, and he got worried. Said he felt bad about some fool errand he sent you on.”
Michael thought of the broken gate with a twinge of vindication. “You told him I’m not dead?”
“I did,” Charlie said, then smirked. “Eventually.”
Michael suppressed a grin, then let it fade, thinking about the ranch and Bo. “I should head back.”
She nodded and waved a hand at the railing. Next to the mug, he hadn’t noticed before, was a set of clean clothing, with a worn red shirt and faded jeans.
He glanced down at his undershirt and boxers, then back at her. “I appreciate it, ma’am, but you’ve done enough for me. I can just put my own back on.”
“Those’re still wet. These here ain’t doing nobody any good sitting in a closet.”
Michael just nodded his thanks, trying to graciously ignore the obvious question of who the clothes had belonged to before. When he came back out of the bathroom wearing them, though, the flicker of loss over her face was telling.
He opened his mouth to ask and she sighed. “My brother.”
“I’m sorry.” He tucked his hands into the pockets of her brother’s jeans. “I can’t imagine.”
She tilted her head. “Not exactly, sure. But you ain’t a stranger to somethin’ like it.”
He nodded again, not trusting himself to meet her gaze. When he looked up again she was already walking out the front door, calling over her shoulder, “Go on ‘fore I keep my end of the deal from last night. And you still owe me chickens!”