Oranges and Peppermints

Oranges and Peppermints A Torquere Press Single Shot by Dallas Coleman "You ain't thinking on riding out, is you?" Catter McCloud stared at him from the depot office, odd light eyes enough to give a man the jitters. Jeremiah Bridey didn't bother answering; of course he was gonna ride out. The supply train'd come, finally, trundling through the snow with the most horrible burps and squeaks, smelling like Lucifer’s ass itself. Jeremiah'd stood in the bitter, bitter cold with all the rest of them, buying what he could afore the others stripped the ironclad dry. He'd told Charles that it was gonna be a bad 'un, dammit. Early and cold. Them steers in pasture was as wooly as big ole red sheep and the critters went into hiding right early – they'd had fine luck and had meat for the winter, what with them wild pigs and that bear the size of an Abilene’s madam’s backside, but still. When the bear were heading to ground afore the leaves came off the trees, it weren't good. Charles, though, that man weren't scairt of nothing – weather nor Injuns nor strangers coming to make trouble and the man'd just swatted him on the backside real hard, laughed at him like he was a

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dadburned fool. "You worry like an old woman," Charles had said, before hauling him out to the woods to get to chopping and stacking them some wood. There'd been bacon to smoke and hunting to do and that little bed to make groan and creak with their business. Him and Charles had themselves a lot of business. Course that was afore the ground froze solid and Charles had wandered down next to the creek and had hisself a bad fall. Lord, lord. Two day ride outside of any good doctoring help and Charles just screaming with it, one of them big old tree trunk legs all twisted up and bent wrong and what if Charles had fallen into the creek and drowned and shit… Lord, save 'em, and thank Jesus the train stopped at their depot. "That storm ain't gonna let up, you know? That ole Injun woman had visions on it, was all growling and foaming and stuff." Catter made the sign of the evil eye and they all did it, six full grown men washed in the blood, acting like gypsies and blushing as they did. Preacher Johnson would’ve took a switch to him, back in the day. "That crazy old woman ain't said nothin' sensible in thirty year. She's tetched. Ain't no harm in her though. You men best get on home to your women." Old Franc stomped in, growled and spit. The depot seemed smaller then, Franc filling up every space that didn't have something there already. Jeremiah laughed under his breath as the boys all took to scattering, making excuses and saddling up, leaving him and Franc and Catter alone. That big old black beard and web of scars that had taken one eye completely away made the man look plumb scary, even though everyone in fifty miles knew there weren't a kinder man on Earth. Hell, Franc even went over to see them damned heathens with food. 'Course, rumor was that Franc had himself a little squaw and a bunch of little brown babies, but that was neither here nor there. Live and let live, that was his motto. "I heard tell Charles took hisself one hell of a tumble, eh?" That one black eye was like a coal just burning away, staring into him and Jeremiah forced himself not to look away, not to shudder. "Yessir. Busted his leg but good. 's why I cain't stay." Charles was needing him. "You tell him we're thinking on him and I need him all whole when spring comes." They'd made a nice bargain, between their Morgans and Franc's oxen, they worked the land right easy. "We'll be there for you." Lord. He needed to get his ass on Buck and get a move on. A little fullcloth bag was pressed into his hand, something rattling in there. "Peppermints. I got them when I drove the Parker boys in."

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"That's mighty kind of you, sir." Charles would hoot and pull out one of the little jugs that he'd brought over from Kentucky when he'd left the east behind. Then they'd warm that whiskey up and let a candy melt away in it. "Happy Christmas, eh? Think of old Franc when the thaw comes. We'll have ourselves a dance." Jeremiah tucked the precious candy in the pocket of his shirt, alongside the paper packet of white sugar that he'd managed. The rest was in Buck's saddlebags – one filled up with wheat for them to grind, the other had coffee and salt and some nails. Best of all, though? There was two of them orange things. Bright and firm and ripe and perfect for him to give Charles for Christmas. He'd heard Charles just a'talkin' on them things last year come Christmastime. Honest, going on and on like they was magic or something. The fire'd been all going and they'd made themselves some popping corn and settled in for the evening. Their beer'd been right good last winter and Charles set to gabbing about growing up in tobacco country, in the big fine house that his daddy'd had, and the fancy-fine parties – cotillions, he'd called them – that they'd had for the holidays. It sorta seemed like something out of a fairy story for a boy that growed up in a lean-to in the Comancheria and then headed to pan gold up in the mountains afore taking up farming. He'd never had a pot to piss in or a window to toss it out of, afore Charles'd come around for him. There'd been something, though, Charles' too-pretty-for-a-man blue eyes shining at him from that shock of dark hair that was still crookedy as a bad fence from a inauspicious meeting with a dull blade after Saturday's bath. "I swear, Texas, I lived for them oranges on the table come Christmas morning." So, damn it, his Charles' have oranges come Christmas morning. Catter patted his shoulder, face serious. "If you're gonna ride, ride. Otherwise, bunker down. Charles'll know that you stayed." "I cain't leave him. We'll go." Buck was a strong one, stubborn as he was, and they'd stop when they had to, clear the Morgan's nose from the ice. He bundled himself up, good as he could, and wrapped the soft bit of scarf around his face before he crushed his hat onto his head. Franc’s hand a’landed on his, heavy as a stone. “You think there’s enough room for Clair in yer stables?” “Course. Why?” Why on Earth would Franc be needing to come be with them afore the spring came?

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“’Cause I’m thinkin’ your man makes a better pot of stew than me and I been guiding through this land since before you was born.” That one eye just stared. “It’ll make for a good Christmas and I kin poultice up Charles’ leg for him.” Oh, thank you Jesus. He weren’t scairt. He weren’t, but having Franc at his back to help was a blessing. He’d never seen snow like this – so deep, thick as fog in the screaming wind. “If you think you wanna, I won’t hate the comp’ny on the way.” “I ought. They’s chinks in my cabin big ‘nough that the wind blows through like they’s whole logs a’missin’.” That big hand clapped down on him. “’sides, I hear’d you tell there was a bearskin needing tanning. You needs a Frenchie to do that work, I vow.” “We do. Charles don’t do it worth a lick.” He nodded, pushed his hat down as tight as it would go. “We’d best head out.” Franc hooted, the sound just ringing out as they stumbled across the planks. “Save me some molasses back, Catter, I’ll be here for it.” If Catter said a word in reply as he opened the doors to heat to the stables, he didn't hear a single word of it, because that damned wind was moaning and bitching, the old girl raising a fuss as she blew. *** Charles sat in his chair, Sallie heavy and hot at his feet and Harvey curled up right behind her, tail wagging slow and easy as that silly hound slept. He sure enough hated having his Texan wandering out there in all that mess. Buck was a good horse, but that wind was going and going and he was thinking that taking Lady or Luck would've been the better bet, even if those draft mares didn't work near as well apart as they did together. If Jeremiah had a lick of sense, he'd stay in town, wait out the storm and come later. Charles chuckled aloud at the thought, startling Sallie enough that she lifted her muzzle and did that odd mooing sound that spoke of the wolf in her. Silly beast. Still, she was right. He was being a fool. He'd never met himself a single Texan that had sense or more than a passing acquaintance with healthy fear. Jeremiah weren't any different there. Lord, the man had been het up, though, when he'd taken his tumble and got hurt. His Mamma'd told him never to take up with a redhead 'cause they could scream as long as the day ran. Sure enough, Jeremiah'd fussed and hollered, even as those strong arms had eased him into the cabin, so careful, so gentle like the lad was carrying window glass. Heaven above him, he'd never hurt so bad, never imagined anything could, at least 'til the fevers took him and he didn't know Texas or himself or nothing but the demons howling and jibbering about him. The damn leg still weren't right and Charles was man enough to

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admit he didn't reckon it ever would be good as new again. Still, it worked, it held him and, with the walking stick he was carving right now, he could whap any fool who dared to point and stare at him for limping. That included his Texan, damn it to hell. 'Course, whacking Texas with a stick might just be the kind of fun that had him running up here to the places where the winter snows kept strangers out and friendly fellers right close and, well, friendly. He could kinda see it, Texas spread out for him, pretty little backside in the sun, waiting for him to do things that decent folks never knew was possible. He sure did though, lord yes. He’d been buried so deep inside that fine hiney that he done lost his soul there, give it up for Jeremiah, yessir. Lord, lord, lord – that man was something else. Charles grinned, kept working the handle of his stick, whistling some old song the foreman back at Daddy's used to sing, wincing as the wind started singing back, the howl there strong enough to set both wolf and hound to answering. Gave him goosebumps, it did, and he levered himself up and went to stir the fire against the cold. Lord, he hoped Jeremiah'd stayed in town. He surely did. *** “We got to turn around, Jeremiah!” Franc’s voice was damn near lost in the scream of the wind, the man hunkered down, head pushing against the blowing. Jeremiah didn’t think so. He weren’t done and he weren’t home. He didn’t intend to stop. “Son, we gonna die out here. The horses’ll freeze!” Franc pulled up close, grabbed his reins and pulled hard, whipping Buck’s head around. “Don’t be a fool!” “I ain’t gonna leave Charles to starve!” He pulled back, the muscles in his shoulders grinding. “You’ve gone mush-headed. Charles Howell is more than able to spend a storm inside warm and dry, unlike the dumb Texan he’s taken up with.” Jeremiah stared, more out of a shock that Franc’d say such a thing than from the cold. “I…” “Come back to town. We’re gon’ freeze, Bridey. I got babies to provide for, a woman.”

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Yeah, yeah. And he had himself an old hulking son-of-a-bitch that did things to him that he never dared dream of – from making love to rubbing salve into his hands when they cracked from the axe handle. “Then go. I won’t think worse of you.” “You come too.” “I can’t. Charles is waiting. You go on, now. Me ‘n Buck, we’ll be fine.” Franc shook his head, snow falling from the big man in clumps that landed with dull thuds. “You’ll die, Bridey. You’ll freeze solid.” “Then I’ll freeze. I cain’t leave him now. It ain’t in me.” Home was that a way and he’d be damned if he didn’t head just that way. *** The first time he’d met up with his Texas he’d been in a trashy saloon outside Kansas City, drunk so deep that he couldn’t hardly put one foot in front of the other. Charles’d taken the train to deliver some papers for Doc Trumpton and to do some business at the town hall. Well, and to visit a certain house of ill repute he’d learned about on his first trip through the city on his way from Savannah to somewhere else. He’d learned that him and Bill Connor weren’t the only lads on earth to sin in that particular way. Hell, he’d learned that him and Bill Connor hadn’t even begun to sin yet. He’d learned himself a lot them first few years in the North, but he’d taken each and every lesson to heart and god knew, by the time Jeremiah’d found him, he’d started doing the teaching. The place had red shades on the lights, brought in fancy from back East, and it made all the folks look like demons and devils. Except the Texan. Jeremiah’d been there, shadowed by the black hat and wearing a red mustache that tried to make the sweet boy look like he weren’t just a poor young’un in a man’s boots, and damned if Charles hadn’t fallen in a rush, right at them pointed-toed feet. A Texan, lord help him. Still, Texan or no, Jeremiah’d just laughed and picked his sorry ass up and dragged him to the stables and, in the morning, when he could remember his own name again, he found himself with one huge hand wrapped around a sweet drover backside, bruises just starting to bloom over that milk-white skin. That had been the first marks he’d left and Heaven knew he’d spent time leaving more, onced he got his Texas back to his cabin and stripped down bare.

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Charles nodded, eyes caught by the firelight. Damn, but he wanted to leave more, right now. Wanted to hear Jeremiah’s low cries and know that the stubborn son of a bitch was home snug as a bug, just he ought. “I tell y’all. He needs to come on.” *** He’d done lost the feeling in his feet an hour ago and Buck was starting to stumble more than a little. Jeremiah cussed the goldurned wind that kept trying to push them both back toward town, little gusts that made him sway back in the saddle like a newborn fool and said, ‘turn around now, afore you meet your maker’. It was too late for that. The sun had gone and the world sorta got leached of all its colors. There was the white of the snow, the black of the trees and them, slogging farther and farther. He’d been searching, hunting for either a place to stop or a sign that he wasn’t lost, that he wasn¹t riding them both into a whole lot of nothing. Lord, have mercy and help him find his way home. Charles waited on him, needed him there to check the critters, follow that clothesline out to the barn and do the feeding. This cold would have that leg aching, bone-deep. Buck's steps stuttered on the ice, both of them nearly going ass over tea-kettle, slipsliding down an embankment he hadn't even seen. Buck kept his feet, although they went far enough that Buck's hooves slammed into the creek, the ice shattering. That poor Morgan screamed and reared up, backing up and up. Jeremiah prayed hard and held on, Buck rattling his bones until he liked to shatter. Still, when all was said and done, they were both upright and breathing hard and whole, praise Jesus. He slid off the saddle, boots hitting the ground with a crunch. The wind was better down here, the lee of the hill protecting them some and he trudged around to check Buck's nose, make sure things weren't froze solid up there. The Morgan's nostrils were damn frosty and he slipped his glove off, warming that wet flesh up again. All the way he looked around, trying to see beyond his snow-dusted eyelashes and crusted up scarf. The snow covered everything, drifting up in strange shapes that looked like wild animals and nightmare monsters that them Injun men liked to whisper about. Lord, help me, he prayed. I know this ain't Texas and I know this ain't home, but it's where I am, where my man is and I gotta make it. The wind picked up a swirl of snow, made it twirl about like a little tornado, sorta

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fascinating him a second, gloved hand reaching out toward it. The motion startled Buck

and the damned beast danced a little, knocking him right into a little stand of trees and…

Oh.

Oh, thank you Lord.

He brushed the snow off the big flat stone, hooting when he caught sight of the notches

Charles had cut in to hold the fishing poles up. Jeremiah slid down, frozen hands digging

and pulling away the heavy stone that covered their hidey hole. Lord, yes. There was a

corn whiskey jar, right there, and a tin of tobacco.

He took a swig of the whiskey, feeling it burn him, all the way down, even though it was

cold as ice.

If they was to their fishing hole, they was only an hour's easy ride away, a couple hours

in this weather.

For the first time since the sun truly set, Jeremiah felt the glimmer of hope. He'd get home to the cabin, get Buck in the barn and then have Charles cook them up a mess of stew. Something warm and heavy that would settle in him and let him sleep. Buck's head was hanging low when he turned around and Jeremiah called out. "No sir.

We ain't fair now, honey. We gotta ride. Them mares is waiting on you."

***

He put on his kit, then dug out three pairs of socks and his too-big boots. Every layer

made it harder to move, but every layer meant one more minute of making it through that

goddamn storm.

Jeremiah was out there. Freezing. Riding.

Charles just knew it.

He shoulda listened to his Texas when the man said the winter would beat them all down.

He shoulda told Texas to take the team. To take him.

Goddammit.

Them Texans didn't have a lick of sense and couldn't find their own asses in a snowstorm

with a handful of fish hooks. Rain? Dust storms? Cyclones? Sure. But Jeremiah still

looked at the snow like a child looked at a new foal – which more wonder than sense.

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Charles reckoned the town was only a five hour ride, if he didn't get lost, and he'd bet his eyeteeth that he knew the path that Buck would take, even if Jeremiah led him wrong. All Charles had to do was follow the landmarks and not fall into the creek and he'd be meeting right up with Jeremiah. Then they'd either come home or head into town, whichever was closest. He didn't think about those things like what if Jeremiah'd headed into the plains, or what if Jeremiah'd done froze, or what if Jeremiah'd took a fall from that Morgan and was bleeding out into the snow, sharp cheekbones gone all grey, pretty eyes dead and open and empty... No sir. He didn't think on that one bit. Not. One. Bit. The wind gusted again, just like it wanted to scare him, shaking the cabin walls and all. It was enough to drive a man to worry, to madness and the found himself throwing the door open and screaming out against the wind. It was something, the way that wind and cold just stole his voice away, tugged it out into the darkness and made his fury a part of itself. He shut the door with a sigh, shaking balls to bones. "Good thing I don't scare easy, huh?" The dogs looked at him, both still at their place by the fire. They was real quiet, real still, had been for a while. It was damned near like they was warning him, telling him to stay put and wait for Texas to walk right in that door like he ought to. It was the wise thing to do. It was the best thing to do. Too bad he weren't good at being wise. He grabbed his coat and mitts and wrapped a big old sarape that Texas had brought from down Comancheria way around his face. His hat went down good and tight and he strapped on his pistols for good measure. Never could tell what a man might find in a night like this night. His cowboy was out there waiting and he'd be damned if he waited 'til spring runoff to hold that lean body close. No. Charles reckoned he needed Jeremiah home for Christmas. There was still popcorn. *** It was the trees that fooled him and he'd never forgive himself for falling for it – not so long as he lived. Buck fought him, but the cold was making them both stiff-legged and raw and Jeremiah

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thought he remembered the tops of them trees from the edge of the back paddock, thought for sure he knew the way that one tree was bent and cracked and… When Buck went down with a snap, rolling as the snow slid from under the sharp hooves, both of them barreling down an embankment, his leg caught under the saddle, Jeremiah knew he was wrong. Real wrong. Then his head whapped against the side of a big ole black rock and he didn't even know that no more. *** It took him more than an hour to get hisself down to the barn, that old leg of his a'creakin' and a'crackin' like he was made of blowed glass. His breath was freezing on the inside of his sarape, his whiskers just keeping his chin from falling off. Lord, save him, he was already damn tired and ready to give it up. Course, every time he thought that way, he'd heard Jeremiah's voice in his head, that sweet drawl making promises that that Texas was gonna keep, by God. He muscled the barn door open, fighting that old north wind for all he was worth. He beat it, too, up until the wind slammed it closed behind him, knocking him right down onto his belly, gloved hands slapping the hard pack, breath woofing out of him like he'd done been kicked by a mule, the barn blacker than a Frenchman's heart. He could feel something in his leg give a little, the cold and the damp and the blow making tears come to his eyes like he'd been popped in the nose. Charles' frustrated roar rivaled that howling outside, the horses stamping and tossing their heads and whinnying right back. "I ain't losing him to no storm! You hear me? I ain't! I waited on him my whole life and I ain't losing him now!" His pa would thrash him for daring to holler at God that way, but he'd just about had enough and, for Jeremiah, he'd dare – God and Devil alike. It took him a good, long while, but Charles worked his damn fool feet up under him and managed to crawl along the side of the wall and get to the match safe so's he could light the oil lamp. The spoilt egg smell was kinda comforting, really. Kinda right, when it mixed with the smells of the hay and the horses and the tack and the hint of molasses in the stores of sweet feed. It looked damn near normal in the barn, 'cept that Buck was gone and Texas' saddle weren't sitting on the wall like it was supposed to. Lady and Luck stared over to him, two matching sets of big brown eyes questioning him like to ask if he'd done gone crazy. Charles sorta reckoned he had either lost his mind or been cursed.

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Course, he had reckoned that from the second he'd run across'd Jeremiah and kept the man in his hip pocket. Lord, save him, from taking a red-headed West Texas gunslinger in and calling him a frontiersman. The good Lord did have himself a sense of humor. "Well, ladies. Which one of you has yourself a death wish? We gotta go fetch old Buck." *** That saloon was dark as all get out and Jeremiah couldn't for the life of him make out the bartender's face, the shadows beneath that big black hat just like looking down a well. It weren't empty, though, there was folks packed in like it was Boston, the smell of smoke and whiskey and sweat sharp and acrid, burning his nose hairs. He walked up to the bar, real careful like, kinda shuffling his heels against the floor so's he wouldn't step on folks. He had some coin on him, not much, but some, and a whiskey would suit him down to the ground, yessir. The bar was ice cold and slick as snot, like glass, he reckoned, except not even a little wet. It weren't right, this place, he could feel it like he could feel a posse coming over an escarpment. "What can I get for you, mister?" The barkeep's voice echoed right on through him, like the sound had little teeth on it, scraping and scratching all the way down. "Whiskey." He put a coin on the bar, the clink the sound of bone on glass. Lord, have mercy. How'd he get here? He hadn't been to a place like this since afore he'd lit out of Fort Stockton like his ass was on fire. Since he'd slipped his way through Comanche country and past the drovers on the Goodnight-Loving and up into them mountains with forests so thick that a bandito could hide a lifetime. Since Charles. Jeremiah frowned, fingers digging a smoke from the pouch at his waist. Charles. Why on God's green earth was he here without Charles? Where in Hell was he? The piano player was banging away at the ivories, but it was like that big old thing was busted, 'cause there weren't a sound coming from it. Or maybe there was and it just wasn't getting through the dark. No. No, that didn't make no sense. Everybody knowed noises got louder in the nighttime, got right up close and fooled you.

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Fooled your mind and played tricks like the damned coyote in them Injun stories.

Tricks.

The bartender put the shot glass on the bar, the coin disappearing like magic.

He brought the glass up to his lips, about to drink it back when he heard someone

hollering for him, calling out to him over and over, voice just raw. Jeremiah frowned,

looked into a shot of whiskey that was red as the color of blood.

Tricks.

It was all tricks.

"Texas! Texas, goddammit! I found Buck. Where are you?"

Charles.

Praise Jesus.

Jeremiah slammed his hand down upon the top crust, waving like all get out. Here. Right

here.

He was right here, damn it. No lie.

***

Charles would say later – when they were old and crusty together, sitting on the old front

porch of their place and watching the mustangs chase each other like puppies in the pastures – that he never doubted he'd find Jeremiah, that he'd had faith that the good Lord would guide him and lead him to that dark spot in the center of all that blinding white. He'd say it, but it would be a lie.

The truth was that by the time he'd stumbled over Buck's frozen body, tears had already

frozen in his mustache, his heart throbbing in a pure panic. He felt Lucifer himself

breathing over one shoulder, that sweet-as-sin voice making promises and threats,

whispering that he was a damned fool, to be out in this with his leg a'screamin'. That

Jeremiah was lost. That he ought to just go back for the supplies and head home, settle in

for the winter and safe his own skin.

"I ain't losing him. I ain't. Texas! Texas, goddammit! You listen to me, I'm coming for

you! I found old Buck!"

He thought he heard a cry, but it mighta been that durned old wind, laughing and

screaming around him.

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That bright red mitten, though, crusted with snow and waving like mad from a drift? That weren't the Devil or the wind. That was his Jeremiah, his Texas. "I see you!" He struggled over, yanking Lady along. He'd go for Buck's saddlebags onced he got Jeremiah up in the saddle. Lady whinnied and tossed, refusing to go much further, so he let her stay, hauling his ass across the ground until his hand could wrap around Jeremiah's. "You with me, Texas? Goddamn, I send you for wheat and sugar and a little snowstorm blows you off course." "Charles." Jeremiah stared up at him, cheeks red as fire, eyes burning from under that wide-brimmed hat. "I fell. I can't get myself out. You gotta help me." "Yup. Me and Lady come to fetch you up." He grabbed Jeremiah's arm, started trying to drag him up, but it weren't going to work. The snow pack didn't want to hold him a bit, and neither did his goddamn leg. "Okay. Okay, I'll get a rope and the bags off Buck and we'll let Lady help." "Don't tarry, Charles. I'm froze to the bone." "You're too ornery to freeze, Texas." God knew, Jeremiah came from a place that was close to Hell on Earth. Jeremiah's weak chuckle followed him, as he worked his way against the wind to where poor Buck lay, neck broke, eyes wide and empty. He worked the tack off, saying all the prayers he knew – Christian and Apache, both – for Buck's soul, for his and Jeremiah's too. "You was a good horse, Mister Buck. A fine mount. Your babies'll fill this valley plumb up one day, I swear to God." It seemed to take a month of Sundays, dragging the bags to Lady, getting things settled with fingers that had gone numb and dead too damn long ago. Finally, though, he managed, sliding on his belly over to Jeremiah who'd gone altogether too quiet, rope in hand. Please God, let the ground hold. "Texas? Don't you fall asleep on me now. You gotta help me out." If he hadn't been so damn scared, he might not've shook Jeremiah so hard, might not've made the snow pack shift and slide under him. He was scairt, though, scairt that he'd done lost the one real good thing he'd ever managed to hold onto. "Jeremiah! God damn you! You wake up and help me or I swear to God I'll bury your and tell everybody you was a damn Yankee!"

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Just about the time he was fixin' to scream like one of them banshees, Jeremiah's eyes popped open, hands reaching for him. "I ain't no Yankee." "No. No, you ain't. Hold on. Lady, back it up, now." He pushed back and pulled, the whole thing working like it ought and goddamn if Jeremiah didn't pop out of that hole, looking for all accounts like a landed fish. Lady tossed her head, stumbling some and Charles reached for her, steadied her. He couldn't fathom having to walk this without his horse. He'd do it, but he wasn't gonna fathom it. Charles started talking, easing Lady and he tugged the slack away from that rope, dragging Jeremiah to them. As soon as he could, Charles set his hands on Texas, feeling arms and legs, neck and chest. Lord have mercy, it didn't look like nothing was broke; there was just a lot of groaning and too much cold and not near enough sense coming out of that moving mouth. Jeremiah could survive that. Jeremiah would survive it, goddamnit. He got Jeremiah's bulk up on the saddle, tied the man down but good. "Okay, Lady. Home. We're going home." She snorted and nodded, his big old boots breaking a trail before them. The house and barn weren't far. Not far at all. And Lady knew the way; she'd been raised out here, wasn't bothered by the way the moonlight shot up off the snow and made the whole world look like something that ought to be in Revelations. He sang a little to himself, breathing into the scarf to keep his cheeks warm, to keep that wet cold from seeping in to deep and stealing his heat away. He sang a little to drive away that ache in his broke leg, that grinding that said things was going south in a damn hurry. Jeremiah weren't moving, weren't muttering, just swaying and sliding in the saddle. Charles could just see the shape of the barn, the smoke still coming from the chimney of their cabin. "We're almost there, Texas. I can see it now." Praise Jesus. So close. There'd be fire and light, quilts and dogs and a warm ticked bed. So close. He made it about fifty yards from the barn before his leg buckled, the bones refusing to hold him another second. He hit the ground hard, Lady dancing and fussing above him. Well, goddammit. Sure as shit he'd get trampled to death right here, close enough to home to smell the wood smoke. ***

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"God damn it straight to hell!" The good lord had hisself a nasty sense of humor, especially when it come to cowboys. Shaking his head to get rid of the fog, Jeremiah yanked back on the reins, backing Lady up just as hard as he could. Would be just his durn-fool luck that he'd be trussed up on the saddle like a sacrificial lamb while Lady went to tramping Charles into mush just a'cause she was cold and spooked. "Lady. Lady, easy!" His muscles felt like froze rope and they sure as anything didn't want to work, but he growled and made him, pulled Lady's head up and made her mind. Finally – finally – she settled out, head drooping like she just couldn't bear no more. "Charles?" His voice trickled out of him like he was a simpering girl and he coughed, cleared his throat. "Charles? You good!" Charles rolled over, looked up at him from behind that big old scarf, those eyes shining like new buttons. "She didn't tromp me none. You get on to the barn, now, and I'll follow." "Pshaw. I ain't leaving yer sorry ass." He tried to make his poor froze fingers work, to untie himself as he hollered over the wind. "Can you stand?" "I said go." Lord save his sinner's ass from all them that would be martyrs. Like dying in the snow would raise a grouchy catamite up to sainthood. "I heard what you said, you ornery mule. That ain't what I asked. Can you stand on those fool legs or am I gonna have to drag you?" Charles' big old poofy head tilted and the man stared like a goat looked at a new fence then that smile broke out, looking damn near painful on those red cheeks. "I'll do my best, Texas." Well, praise be. Stubborn beast. He shoulda took up with a woman. They was supposed to do what they was told. They was both crusted over with ice and snow by the time he got Lady standing close enough for Charles to haul himself up, clinging to her neck. "That's it. We'll go easy." That wind started pushing them as they turned, Lady heading straight for the barn, her head nowhere but getting in, getting warm, and damn if Jeremiah wasn't with her on that. He'd never been so cold, his bones felt like pure ice and he couldn't hardly imagine what Charles' leg must be feeling. He'd managed to get himself untied in enough time to work the barn door open, get them all in the shelter, such as it was. Charles leaned against the wall as Jeremiah plopped down on the ground, chest heaving like a bellows. The horses whinnied and stomped,

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Lady limping over to nuzzle and get her some love. Jeremiah closed his eyes, let the smells of hay and molasses and horse ease him, free him from the sharpness of the snow that was caught in his nose. Every single bit of him felt heavy, like his bones was packed with mud and left to dry in the Texas sun. It was damn quiet in there, compared to the way the wind fought and hollered and it sure seemed warm, for all that he could see his breath. Lord. They needed to get into the house. Needed to get where he could doctor them both. "You want to stay here or risk the house?" The damned snow was melted, water sliding down the back of his neck, wetting his scarf. His hat brim started drooping, drops falling on the ground before him, splashing some. Lord. "It's a long walk over." Lord, he did love that raspy voice, the flat, sure tones setting his heart to beating harder. He coulda lost this. He surely could have. If he had an ounce more strength, he'd roll over and touch. As it was, Jeremiah sure stared. "That string's there and the bed's waiting." Their straw bed with all them quilts and feather pillows and some coals in the footwarmer… "You're always thinking about that bed." The words made his eyes pop open, a laugh surprised right out of him. "The things you say." "The things we do." Charles' eyes closed, slow and sure, like that was just too damn heavy to hold open a second longer. "There's a fire ready in the cabin. I set the coals up right. Even have beans on the back, warming." "You make bread?" "Biscuit." Life was good. He nodded. "And them dogs'll be fretting." "They always do." Charles' backside slid a little, dungarees catching on the barn wood. "You got coffee in them saddlebags?" "Coffee. Wheat. Sugar. I even found that bottle of hooch from when we was fishing. Buck came on it for me…" He turned to look at Lady, Buck's saddle and bags on her like she was an overgrowed pack mule. Damn. Buck. His heart twinged him some. Buck'd been under him for a long damn time, had rode him all over Texas, saved him from the Comanche. Goddamn cold.

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"He was a good 'un, Texas. He surely was." Good and solid, even if the critter had been ugly as a mud fence. And run? Lord, lord. He'd never find another horse that had the wind on his side like old Buck had. "Yeah. He fought hard. He just weren't meant for this weather." Not even a little and Jeremiah couldn't help but wonder iffn he shouldn't have knowed that. Now that big old body would just sit out there and freeze 'til him and Charles could do some burying. Charles grunted and stood, swaying a little, chunks of ice dropping from his clothes and crashing to the hard pack. "No, good thing you was, though. I wouldn't want to face it without you no more." "No. I don't reckon." He nodded, crawled a little ways so that he could use the stall door to work himself up. "Okay, Lady. Let's get you undressed so's we can head in and eat us some." *** The walk from the barn to the cabin liked to kill him, but Charles set his mouth to it, telling himself that, once he was settled, he could have a nice long rest and a chat with his Texan and maybe a nap. And a big ole bowl of them beans. Just as soon as they got to the door and started fighting the snow away to get it open, the dogs set to howling, Sallie's voice rivaling the wind. "Lord, they're something." Jeremiah was grinning, face all lit up and victorious. "They was worried." They'd had good reason. “Yeah, so was I.” “You shouldn’t have gone out in all this mess, Texas. You weren’t made for it.” “Shut your pie hole, Charles. You remember that when we’re eating johnnycakes and not butchering the horses to stay alive.” Jeremiah stopped what he was doing, got all puffy and het up. Lord, his Texas was touchy as all get out and rumbly as a bear with a bruised paw. “I don’t got to shut it. You know how scairt I was? Looking for you out in all that? Finding Buck’s body all stiff and froze solid? I coulda lost you!” He got right in Jeremiah’s face, nose-to-nose, fighting the wind and his durn fool leg for all he was worth.

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“I know.” Jeremiah’s eyes went from crystal and hard to all soft on him, looking at him like he was something precious. “I ain’t never gonna forget. Let’s go inside, now. Get warm.” He nodded, sore hands working the leather cord on the latch, tugging it with all he had. Together, they opened the door, tumbling inside. Lord, the cabin felt warm as the blazes compared to outside and them pups set up a ruckus. “Hush up, you hell-hounds, we’re here. Home.” Christ, his voice sounded like an old man’s, raw and rough like he’d swallowed a corn cob. Sallie bounced over him, licking and nuzzling, tongue lapping the snow off his serape, shaking the white stuff all over him. Charles pushed her away, going to stir the coals and find them a nice blaze. He stood there, watching as the flames licked up like that pot bellied stove was a gate to Satan’s backyard itself. Lord. They were home. *** Charles just stood there, teeth in his mouth until Jeremiah couldn’t hardly bear it another second. "Charles, I…" Charles shook his head like a man just waking up and stood, lips pressed tight together like if they opened the words would come pouring out in a rush no one could stop. The stove door shut with a clang that rang out in the cabin, rattling the lid of the beans. First Charles' sarape came off, then gloves and coat, all plopping on the floor. Then the man wobbled over, hands at his throat, working open his scarf with the gentlest of hands. His eyes closed and his hat went flying as his chin lifted. Jeremiah didn't bother to hold back his own words, because he needed to tell Charles, needed to spill his secrets over the heavy, broad chest. Charles let him jabber on like a monkey as the cold, wet wool was unwound from him, baring his throat to the touch of those damn eyes that burnt through him. Those thick fingers opened his coat, pushed it over his shoulders and let it fall to the ground. The paper bag of peppermints spilled from his pocket and the scent hit him, spicy and sweet above the musky scent of wet wool and the smoke from the wood stove. Charles must have smelled it too, because the stern face found a smile, that pitch-black beard making the man's teeth gleam where they peeked out. "Smells like Christmas." “Yessir.” Jeremiah spared a fleeting though to Old Franc, a passing prayer that the old Frenchman wandered his way back to his squaw and the passel of babies waiting on him. The thought didn’t linger long, though, because Charles put that mouth on him, so hot and so fine that he didn’t know if he could stand it. Those lips brushed his own, so fast he damn near missed it, then they traveled on down his jaw, tugging at his whiskers. All the

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while that mouth was tasting, Charles’ hands were moving, sliding over his hips, working open buttons to get the clammy, wet fullcloth off him. Jeremiah thought he oughta help some, really. Lord knew Charles had to be as cold, had to be feeling the damp in that poor leg, but God help him, he was caught up in that touch like a galleynipper in a wolf spider’s web. “I ain’t losing you yet. I jus’ found you a while ago.” Charles groaned low against his throat, teeth threatening a little, scraping his skin and making him jump. “No. No, you ain’t. I’m staying with you.” He finally got his old hands to working, fingers pushing through the heavy mass of Charles’ hair, damn near cradling the man. “I told them all that I needed to come home.” Home. The word echoed through the cabin, followed close by Charles’ groan. They stumbled backward, both of them stiff and tripping over clothes and all as they hunted the bedstead with its quilts piled on. They stripped down to the skin afore they tumbled in, cocooning themselves under the covers. Charles’ hands wrapped around him, tugging him in close, pushing in hard enough to bruise. His body warmed in a rush, his blood flowing through him, his cock filling against his thigh. The scent of need filled him up and he groaned as he pushed closer, tried to slip inside Charles’ skin. The heavy mat of dark hair tickled his own smoother skin, the sensation making him shiver and rub like a cat in heat. Heavy hands dragged down his spine, cupped his backside and squeezed again, thumbs rubbing circles on his hips. The kiss they shared burned him right down to the bone and Jeremiah didn’t shy away from it a bit. He’d been too cold to bear it; Charles’ heat was welcome as the flowers in May, scorching away that little voice that had been whispering, brought to life by the wind. He shifted to straddle Charles’ hips, their shafts resting together like two peas in a pod. Charles nodded and took a hold of his hips, moving them in a rhythm old as Eden. He leaned, rested his forehead against Charles’, stared down into them eyes. He could see himself reflected there, see the faint glow of his wild red hair from where the firelight lit the edges of him up. “Texas.” Charles could make that single damned word mean so much, could make it ring out. “Yours. I ain’t going nowhere.” Charles’ answer was another kiss, lips slanted and hard against his even as one of those hands wrapped around both of them and started driving them up along the trail of glory.

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There weren’t a prayer on Earth that meant what all they was about, no sir, but he’d take it and run with it and be grateful. His balls drew up like tanned leather, and once Charles’ thumb started working on the thin skin at the tip of his prick, Jeremiah knew it was all over but the crying. Seed shot out of him in a rush, his joy cried right on out. It didn’t take long for Charles to tumble on along behind him, heavy shaft jerking and throbbing against his belly, the scent of them both heady as hell on the air. They sorta rested, leaning together, hearts pounding something fierce. The wind bashed and wailed, sounding almost friendly from his warm, little cocoon in the quilts. The whole thing gobsmacked him – hell, they’d lost a good horse, damn near lost each other, but somehow it all didn’t matter much, not here in the bed. He opened his mouth to say stuff that needed saying – things like love and thanks and need and all – but as soon as he did, Charles took to snoring and Jeremiah figured he’d best oughta wait on that mess. Maybe for a year or three. *** Charles woke with Jeremiah cuddled against his side, one leg bent and curved over his hips. For his independent Texan, snuggling close as a pup to its momma's teats told him how cold things had gotten, how close to the bone. It had damn near been a hard Christmas, he'd got used to having Jeremiah about, to having a wee family to meet the holy season with, sing the old songs and tell the Great Story with, just like his grandpappy always had before. He took a minute to just feel, hands moving over them long ole legs, the rough spots on his hands just catching some of the coppery hairs and tugging a little. Jeremiah grunted and shifted, turning and taking a goodly chunk of bedding along for the ride. He shook his head and laughed, slipping up out of the bed to find him his kit, check the horses. Go through all that rigamarole that Jeremiah brought from the train and get him some of them nice peppermint candies. If they was careful, they'd last 'til the thaw. Of course, he liked how they made his lips tingle and, if they made other things tingle, they might not last to the New Year. Of course, soon as he tried to stand on his leg, it buckled on him. His arms went to windmilling and his good leg started sliding on that red rag rug he'd bought from the widow Clarke. Like a lead plumb bob, he went down with a crash and a thud, the dogs galumphing over to him about the same time that Jeremiah popped up, eyes wide and curls all wild. "Shit marthy!" "Yeah." The floor was mighty cold on his bare naked butt.

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"You okay?" He looked up at Jeremiah and considered throwing something heavy at the man's head, just to see if it knocked any sense back in there. "I reckon." His leg was swolled something awful at the knee and ankle, and lord it bitched when he did too much bending of it, but the skin seemed whole – not too feverish, not streaked, not that bone-deep screaming agony. Now, if the damned dogs would stop pushing at him and licking at his face, he might be able to get his good leg under him and gimp over to his chair near the fire. "Y'all leave him be. Hold up and I'll help." Jeremiah slid out of the bed, grabbing some britches and tugging them on before heading over to help him up. Charles did his best not to snarl and snap and, even he'd admit it didn't take too terrible much to get him into his kit and into a chair. Even so, he sighed, looking over at the stick he'd been whittling. "Maybe I shoulda stayed out in the snow…" What good was a broke-dick farmer in the grand scheme of things, especially to a young Texan? "Excuse me?" The words came out so fast he started repeating himself before he even noticed how they were snarled out. Course he didn't miss the way that Jeremiah's fist connected with his jaw, popping his head back on his neck. "Jesus! What'd you do that fer?" Jeremiah got right down in his face, them eyes just snapping like sparks coming off a fuse. "Don't you never say that again, you sorry-assed, mule-headed old bastard. I found you, drunk as a skunk and not able to think worth a hill of beans. I walked through the badlands and the hinges of Hell to find your goddamned soul in and around all this mess and I aim to keep you – gimp leg or no. You understand me, you stubborn dirt farmer? I ain't losing you, not for love or money, so you'd best settle to it or God help me…" He didn't grin, because Jeremiah had a heavy fist and he wasn't looking to be hit again, but he sure wanted to, lord yes. Instead he tugged Jeremiah down, smashing their lips together and pushing his tongue right on in to taste. That way, if he did grin, Jeremiah'd not see it. The kiss went on and on, his tongue exploring that fine, hot mouth. He knew every inch, from the crookedy tooth in the front to the tiny little scar on the thin bottom lip. When their lips parted, Jeremiah took a breath to speak and he growled, shook his head. "Hush. Hush, now. I heard you, just fine."

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Charles got himself a little laugh, Jeremiah settling down on those bony knees in front of his chair, hands on his thighs, rubbing at the sore muscles, thumbs digging in on those hidden tender parts. He leaned forward, hands smoothing down that wild mess of hair, combing through the mass like his Texas liked it. His momma'd warned him on the temper of red-headed strangers, she had. He reckoned the old woman woulda like Jeremiah, onced the initial shock was all past. "Open yer britches." Jeremiah's fingers fumbled and struggled, working over those britches, long shaft popping out to say good morning and merry Christmas. "I'm wanting." "You're always wanting." Jeremiah nodded, copper curls bouncing along with that pretty cock. "From the first time I seen you, Charles. Like a sickness or a spell. I'm for you." Charles thought on that a minute, then he took Jeremiah's mouth again and kept it 'til weren't neither one of them that had a single breath to speak. Hell, they didn't need to talk none right now. They was home and they was gonna stay that way. Them and the dogs and the horses and those ornery goats. He got his fingers wrapped around Jeremiah's need and started working it, pumping up and down. He knew what his Texas liked of a morning, knew the way Jeremiah wanted a tug here and a rub there and a little squeeze, just at the base. He kept it up until his Texas was damn near sobbing into his lips, hips jerking and rolling like a young man's ought to, when the pleasure crashed on down around him. "Come on, now. I need." He needed to see, to know that all that need was for him, for his touch and all. Greedy and prideful, but true, all the same. White seed poured from Jeremiah in a rush, the wet heat splashing over his fingers in pulses, slicking the way for the last, final strokes. Jeremiah stared at him, eyes wide and near stunned, then he got a smile, Jeremiah bringing his hand up so that wicked mouth might lick him clean. "You're something else, Texas. Enough to make a man sell his soul." "Well, I reckon I'd keep that safe for you, should the hooved man come tapping for it." Yeah, he'd see that. Jeremiah'd fought the law, the Injuns, the storm. Mister Lucifer weren't hardly a match. After a bit of resting, Jeremiah pulled away from him, got all tucked back in and buttoned up, before his Texas headed over to where the saddle bags lay and started rummaging. Coffee, flour, sugar – everything looked like he'd reckoned and he couldn't figure why

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Jeremiah was digging all this mess out now until the man came up with a little worn bag, something bulging inside. He tilted his head, trying his damnedest to figure why his Texas had carried rocks in the storm, but Jeremiah didn't give him no hint, just smiled like a woman with a secrets and brought the bag over. "What you got there?" "Something from the train." "Is it rocks?" "Does it look like rocks?" He looked again. "Well, sorta. Yeah." Jeremiah rolled his eyes, gave him another grin. "Lord have mercy. Here. It ain't goddamn rocks." He worked the tie and, lo and behold, two little sweet oranges tumbled out into his lap, bright and nice-smelling as you please. "I couldn't let the train go by, Charles. I'd sent for 'em, wanted you to have something like you remembered from when you was a young'un." Lord, Jeremiah looked pleased as anything, with a dose of pure bashful thrown in. "Lord, Texas. I… Well, I hadn't had a taste of one of these in near fifteen year…" He took one in hand, brought it to his face to sniff and smell. Oh, sweet Jesus, that brought him back to sitting in Mamma's parlor, watching the bits of colored felt dance in the oil lamps while they waited for Daddy to bring their good shoes down from the attic. "Every one of us got one, the night before Christmas. We'd sit at the big table and feast, and my Papa'd light the candles on the tree and we'd sing." Jeremiah nodded. "My folks weren't big on stuff…" No, Jeremiah comed from hard-scrabble and harsh living. "I bet you got them praline candies and the shoes with Injun beads." Jeremiah nodded. "And one peppermint candy, just like them there. We didn't need more than that, little as we was." "Well, this is 'bout the finest present I ever did get, I vow. This and finding you in the snow." He pushed his thumbs into the meat of the orange, the juice spraying out into the air. He was about to apologize for not having anything to share with Jeremiah, beyond beans and blankets and good dogs, when he saw Jeremiah's nostrils flare. "You ever tasted one?"

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Jeremiah shook his head, eyes looking fascinated as all get out. Charles grinned, nodded at the little ottoman he'd made. "Drag that over to sit." "Oh, I don't..." "Pshaw. Drag. Sit." Being wishy-washy was for women. Jeremiah plopped down onto the stool, watching as he pulled the orange open, showing the wet, rich fruit, the little pockets of juice inside just waiting to pop open. He worked the outside off, saving it so careful on the little bag. "Once upon a time, my mamma took them outsides and soaked 'em in whiskey. They made the hootch taste like heaven and them bits of peel she'd chop up good and make cakes." "You and me make some good cakes." "Yessir. You and me make some good whiskey." He got a section off, held it careful between his fingers. "Open up for me." "I got them for you, Charles." "Hush. I ain't got one thing that ain't yours, from roof to fence." He rubbed the fruit on Jeremiah's lips, figuring that was enough to tempt his own outlaw into tasting. Sure enough, it did, Jeremiah opening up, moaning as the fruit burst over his tongue. "See? That's Christmas for me. Or it was, years ago." Jeremiah nodded, leaning over to press their lips together, the flavor of the orange on the kiss liked to make him cry. He searched out each and every bit of sweet, then he searched again. Finally, Jeremiah pulled back and grinned, cheeks flushed from the tasting. "I want to try the peppermint, the same way." "You do?" He took a bit of the orange, sucked it dry, loving the way it bit his tongue. "I do. That's my Christmas and I reckon to know the truth of it from your mouth." "Well, then, go fetch 'em. We'll make a meal of it." Jeremiah stood, stared down at him for a minute, eyes shining like jewels. "I reckon I want more than a meal, sir. I reckon I do." He nodded, stretched his old leg and grabbed the untouched orange as it rolled. "I don't see where we cain't make it last and last, Texas, come hail or high water." Jeremiah looked toward the window where the snow was building up in drifts. "We ain't got to worry on the water being high."

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"Hush you, I'd hate to have to thrash you on a Christmas morning." That thin mouth quirked, grinning like an imp. "I'd sure love to see you try, you old farmer." "Outlaw." "Rebel." They snorted together and Jeremiah wandered toward the peppermints, whistling one of them good old hymns that he could remember his mamma singing, her voice like a little bird. Sallie came up, nudged the bit of orange rind on his thigh and huffed, tail wagging nice and slow and he took another bit, the bright, tartness better than he remembered it, better than almost anything. He watched Jeremiah sit again, admiring the way that tanned throat looked, with his mark upon it from the night before. A little white peppermint candy was held between the man's teeth, melting nice and slow. Yeah, better than damn near anything. Amen.

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Oranges and Peppermints Copyright © 2006 by Dallas Coleman All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680 Printed in the United States of America. Torquere Press: Single Shot electronic edition / December 2006 Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680

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