New Friends

Crunch, crunch, crunch...
Vivian was smiling as she walked briskly in the direction of the stables after her detour through the school gardens. The pebbles under her leather buttoned boots made it sound like a giant was chewing breakfast cereal under the path. Her taffeta day dress was the most colorful thing as she moved through the winding trail that would lead her out.

She clutched a small letter in her pocket that said she request to be a garden attendant was accepted. The shrubs and bushes were well manicured but the flowers were no where to be seen. Easily fixed. Her usual remedy: a few drops of blood in a watering can a day and the most vivid colored buds would begin to ripen. Dreamy images of topiaries and lilc arches floated through her mind as she finally cleared the hedges.

It wasn't that the coach house was far from the school, it was just tucked away. Standing near the edge of the large forrest, she could make out the turn out behind the building and hear the familiar whinnies of the horses. She quickened her pace in anticipation.

As exquisit as the school was, the stables were obviously just as old but without as much preservation. The roof had been replaced for certain but the stall format was that of an old coach house with a large center isle so the carriages could pull through if necessary. Tackles, tools, and brushes hung on various nails of all different levels and the saddles were resting against the wall on racks. The smell alone was so comforting.

Stables had always been a sanctuary for her. Like every other little girl, she played with ponies and insisted horses were as loyal and dependable as any dog, if they trusted you. Here in lay the magic to Vivian. Being the keeper of life that she was, the horses could innately tell she only wanted to care for them, to act in the best interest. They favored her whenever they crossed her, and let her ride them as she pleased without so much as spooking once. They were large, powerful, warm and never thirst for her.

The stable door was large and heavy, but forcing it with all her might, she managed to slide it open with a long, loud sigh from the old hinges. She could hear the low sound of large molars grinding hay and tails being flicked and her heart grew light and giddy. Her exposed skin began to glow with joy as a few handsome heads poked out from the stalls. Walking down the isle, she admired each breed, counting four horses and two huge draught horses that looked like Percherons. Standing in the center of them, her radiant face casting a dim glimmer in their eyes, she removed her long kid gloves to reveal her ruined, glowing flesh. With soft hands she stroked the first horse's nose and watched his eyes closed, knickering softly and nuzzling her face and neck is velvet mouthes. They all watched and moved with her as she visited each animal, cooing and humming to them, peacefulness washing over her and making her cheeks pink.

She had just pulled the sugar cubes from her pocket when she noticed something peculiar in the last stall of the row. Cautiously, she slowly walked past the largest horses to get a better look of what appeared to be a boot. A man's boot. As she rounded the corner of the stall, she realized she was staring at someone's room. A modest bed was made from one of the spare bunks and the empty on below it was used like a makeshift shelf, holding a few personal objects. Someone lived here? She took one step towards the meager loggings to see if she could find anymore clues.

The was the distinctive sound of someone's footstep behind her on the wooden floor boards. Startled, Vivian jumped and spun around to face her guest, cubes of sugar tumbling from her hands and rolling over the stay strewn floor.

In all the months during which he had stayed at Caislin Hallows, Gunnar had only known anyone other than himself to visit the coach house. Two separate occasions, two separate people. One had vanished from the school as so many seemed to, and the other was the headmistress that secretly ran it from her place in the shadows. So when Gunnar found the door to the coach house ajar as he returned, he readied himself for the worst. Three options stood out most in his mind: Sarthas had returned and was out for blood, the assassin of whom the headmistress had spoken had come seeking him, or last and least of the worries, the youth Distol had decided to engage Gunnar in a longer conversation than their initial greeting at the gate had been.

Prepared for the worst, Gunnar crept through the gap between door and wall, a revolver drawn. The cool, polished wooden handle of the Trooper MK II warmed while his calloused fingers strangled it. Gunnar already had his index finger threaded through the trigger guard, applying the faintest of pressure to the trigger, as if his touch was a ghost haunting it. Unfortunately, not even the experienced tracker could keep the old floor boards silent beneath the thick soles of his work boots as he entered the coach house. With his first step, he winced from the creaking floor, the wrinkled flesh of his sun-tanned face creasing further, deepening the furrows that wounds and weather had etched into his skin from nearly two decades living in the harsh embrace of nature.

At first, coming in from the bright day and entering the poorly lit coach house, Gunnar’s vision was poor. While the layout of the stables was familiar to him, since he was the one who had taken up residence in the coach house, he paused a moment for his eyes to adjust. The still shadows solidified into the shapes of the stalls and the beams overhead while the others that shifted like shades were the horses stirring at his arrival. It was the form that wasn’t a shadow, even when he first entered that kept Gunnar’s thumb perched on the hammer of his revolver, ready to snap off a shot.

The woman who glimmered with a ghostly glow as she stood in front of the stall that he had claimed as his place to bunk was not one Gunnar knew. When he took a few more steps towards her, the straw crinkling between his boots and the creaking floorboards, he saw her jump and spin. The ex-hunter leveled his gun on her, expecting the worst. There was no attack though, only startled eyes and sugar cubes spilling to the floor. After a few seconds of silent pause, Gunnar lowered his handgun.

“Can I help yah, Miss?” asked the older man. Just in case she was more trouble than she looked, Gunnar kept his revolver in his right hand, though his thumb let the hammer ease back into place.

Vivian almost choked in shock as she spun around to lock eyes with a dark form facing her, and a small gasp escaped her parted lips as she saw a glimmer on a steel barrel and cocked hammer. She gulped, her skin, once alight with comfort, went out like a flicked switch as she stood staring at the man with a gun pointed at her. Weapons were never in her best interest.

He was focused on her not like a wolf about to strike but as a man who kept his guard up. He wouldn't shoot and ask questions later, she could tell in his intent, slightly creased eyes. His face was lined not with age as much as a the tanned skin showed signs of a life in the sun. Perhaps a farmer or dock worker. The handsome but worn face of years set with determination. And yet there was something quiet and gentle about him that was more apparent when he spoke to her. She recognized his American accent instantly. 

"I- I beg your pardon sir" she stammered, hurriedly and clumsily putting on the arm length gloves to hide the ugly scars on her hands and arms. She hoped he hadn't noticed.  "I'm new to these grounds and was simply familiarizing myself with the commodities. I'm rather fond of horses and they tend to be...less intimidating than people". 

She could tell he was slightly puzzled, even curious about her presence.  Feeling the tension tighten she continued on, hoping to assure him of her intentions. 

"And please forgive me for intruding on your personal space. I did not realize there were lodgings here. I merely came to befriend the horses" She was rambling. With an ever so slightly trembling hand she held out a sugar cube from her pocket. She spoke softly, her Irish accent lilting as she spoke, almost like a lullaby. Her eyes held his gaze even in her fright, and though her skin was of a normal pallor, her eyes shone bright gold even in the dim shadows of the stable. 

The man made no move, nor did he speak. The uncomfortable nature of their meeting began to give Vivian a feeling of suffocation. She bag to back away from him, wringing her now gloved hands, her feet moving cautiously so as not to trip on someone unfamiliar. She backed into a wall and to her relief, she felt a latch bump her arm. The man didn't approach her, but lowered his gun. It was still getting hard to breath. She was mortified for peering into his belongings and even worse for being caught. She lifted the latch behind her back and felt the door open a fraction of an inch.

"Again I'm so sorry to intrude, I didn't know...I- I- " her voice seemed to fade away as the flush of her embarrassment grew more robust. She wasn't sure if her presence offended him, she contemplated turning heel and bolting out the door. But she knew if she did she would never be able to bring herself back to this place. With her right hand gripping the door behind her back, she lifted her head and bravely looked into the eyes of the man who held the gun. Maybe if he knew her name, she would seem like less of a threat. She swallowed her urge to stammer. "My name is Vivian" was all she could express, her voice barely above a whisper

When she turned, terrified by the sight of the armed man that greeted her eyes, Gunnar was too distracted by the arch of her eyebrows in surprise, the tight ring of her lips in exclamation, to notice the scars that decorated her hands and arms before the gloves covered them. While she fumbled to yank the leather up her arms though, his eyes flitted down for a moment to check for the possibility of a weapon, when he saw none, his eyes returned to hers.

“No pardon needed,” amended the gunslinger as he slipped his weapon into its leather sleeping bag to rest again. It was rare that he let the firearm speak its anger for having its sleep interrupted, but when it yelled, people listened. Sadly, even as a silent threat it had been more than enough to unsettle the young woman that had crept into the coach house. “Yah’ve got nothin’ to be sorry fer, Miss.”

Gunnar watched as she retreated toward a door. A bushy eyebrow lofted, as he wondered if she realized her exit was nothing more than a closet filled with more tack and tools than what had been left scattered around the coach house. She'd find no escape through the door behind her.

“Yah don’t hafta fear me, Miss Vivian. I’m Gunnar Sigmund, a… helping hand here at Caislin Hallows,” he spoke in his gentlest of voices, though it was beyond his ability to remove all of the gruffness from his tone. Where his former voice had been coarse-grade sandpaper scraping across the nerves, the softer tone with which he spoke was still sandpaper, but at least of a finer grade that tried to smooth away the rough edges of her terror.

Vivian let out a low, slow exhale through slightly parted lips. Her eyes still wide but her shoulders began to lower and her stance relax. She was still not at ease, but she realized she was no longer in danger. For the moment at least. She finally allowed herself to observe his countenance, reading his story in the lines of his face and the light in his eyes. His hands were large and battered but they moved with the dexterity of someone who worked with them their whole life. He was a man to be reckoned with but there was something about him that seemed slow to anger and the last to strike. Even in high spirits and fear of threat, he managed to calm her with just a few words. She would bet her silver tea set he had worked with animals, even on a farm, for as long as he could remember.

She closed the door behind her but in the process jumbled the contents. Slightly surprised, she peeked behind her to see not an exit but a tackle shed. Now slightly embarrassed, she closed the door with a small snap and turned to face him. She could tell he wasn't going to exploit her naivety but she felt stupid just the same. Stupid for being caught looking at his things and stupid for reacting like he was a snake instead of a man of flesh and blood. However in her past, even the men with the kindest eyes and sweetest smiles could hurt someone in unfathomable ways. She cleared her throat before giving a small curtsy at his introduction. Her voice was clear and matched the gentle tones of his.

"Thank you for stowing your weapon. I'm afraid I've had unpleasant encounters with men who spoke with their trigger finger before their mind. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. If you couldn't tell I'm a new student" She gave a rueful smile, taking on step towards the horses to release the tension of being caught red handed. Once she had she let out a more audible exhale letting the smile wash over her face in relief. "Again forgive me, my history has been one of great danger. I'm afraid I'll have to make up for the poor introductions" She still felt like she was an intruder, as if she was where someone else should be or a place that wasn't meant to be accessed by the general public.

The horses watched her step closer, their large eyes surveying her and then occasionally darting back at Gunnar. She could see the tension in their neck and ears begin to soften as she cooed gently to them, stoking their velvet muzzles with her now gloved fingers. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at Gunnars wide stance and chiseled arms, managing to steal a look at the gun he carried. It wasn't a simple revolver or the gun of a ranch hand. Something about it was specific. She couldn't put her finger on it but perhaps she had been mistaken, perhaps he was more than just a stable hand who's bark was worse than his bite. But why the stables? Why did he feel compelled to live here as opposed to the luxurious accommodations provided by the school? Curious. This man had a past. This man had secrets. Whether she was privy to them of not she didn't fret, but there was something to be wary about a man who lived with a death-maker at his side. She supposed the real question was did he carry a gun to protect or to hunt?

She realized she was staring at him. Smiling warmly, she approached the deep gray Percheron who knickered softly at her touch. When he buried his nose in her hair, she giggled softly, and she felt the pressure of the room ebb slowly in a moment of joy. "They're lovely. I'm not sure what the policies are but i would love to ride. If it's a matter of ownership i can have a horse brought and I'd be happy to care for him" She added quickly. "Are they all yours?" She hoped she didn't seem desperate for communication, but Vivian was always driven to connect to those around her, even if they were mysterious and possibly dangerous. However there was something about his gaze on her face that made her blush...ever so slightly.

The clatter of tack tumbling to the floor within the closet made the gunslinger wince—who but him would be the one to have to clean up the mess she had inadvertently made. The flush of her cheeks kept him quiet on the matter though and let her nurse her embarrassment in silence. When she distracted herself by curtsying to him, he returned the gesture with a light nod of his head, which was the closest to a bow as she was going to get from the gruff gentleman. Gunnar kept his silence as she spoke, explaining why she had been so jumpy, though he was certain that anyone would have been startled to find themselves staring down the barrel of a gun.

For a few seconds after she had spoke, Gunnar remained silent. He observed as she turned her attention to the horses and sought the comfort that the animals could provide. At long last, he spoke: “That is something we share, Miss. Danger and I are old friends; death, an acquaintance I never want tah meet again.” His voice was soft and pensive before it fell silent again. The quiet crinkling of straw and creak of floorboards beneath his boots announced his approach. The gunslinger stopped beside her, resting his elbows on the latched gate of the stall. The hinges groaned as he brought his hands together, fingers entwining like a thicket of brambles.

“There’s no policy, Miss. The horses belong tah the school and anybody can ride ‘em.” Gunnar paused and then added, “Since nobody else ‘as been ‘round, I’ve been tendin’ tah ‘em fer the last several months. Guess since summer when I first came ‘ere.” The wrinkles in the man’s weathered face creased into deeper furrows as he cracked a grin. “Yah wanna ride ‘im?” offered Gunnar. “I can saddle ‘im up fer yah if yah’d like, Miss. Wouldn’t want yah tah dirty up yer dress.”

Vivian's eye lit up in a fright blaze of gold at his consent, and a gleeful smile spread across her face. She was one outburst away from a "Geepers Mister!". Her attitude had completely changed, she was lively and glowing as she managed to respond to his kind offer. "Oh thank you! I would very much. But please don't trouble yourself with the tackle, I've made such a mess of things as it was. And i really do know my way around a horse." She assured him. "May I?" She gestured to the harness hanging beside the horses' stall. When Gunnar stepped aside, she took it and placed it carefully over the large gray head. She was indeed comfortable in her mannerisms, cooing and whispering to the horse as she slipped the piece over the nose and face face of the huge horse. She managed to fling the strap over his head and secure it on tip toes. Clipping the lead rope on the underside of the harness, she walked the enormous horse from his stall and let him down the aisle to where the tackle was stored. Securing him to a hitching post, she grabbed a bucket of brushes and moved quickly to brush and curry comb him. She could see Gunnar sitting back against one of the stalls watching her with those worn but intelligent green eyes. She would smile when their eyes did meet and continue grooming the horse so he was suitable to ride.

"And not to worry about my dress. It's just a cotton day frock. This is worth the dirty price to pay" She said ecstatically. She had managed to find the largest of the saddles, but was having some difficulty pulling the enormous, forty pounds of leather and straps from the shelf it sat on. Wish a frustrated sigh she stopped struggling and instead grabbed the largest bridal hanging against the wall.

She was lost in the process and prospect of being able to escape for a while. The horse was calm the entire time we worked deftly around him, and she was obviously focused on the task at hand. She was humming a soft melody to herself as she buckled and adjusted the straps to fit the horses' enormous head. When it came for the bit, the Percheron took it calmly, immediately chomping complacently as she finished. She stepped back, petting his muzzle affectionately before turning back to Gunnar.

"I don't suppose you could help me with the saddle? and then I'll be on my way and out from beneath your feet" She smiled, the remark was playful but she knew she was probably inconveniencing him in some way. The vulnerable way she stood so small beside the giant creature gave her an even more helpless look. But her eyes and bright face said otherwise ans she gripped the reins in anticipation.

Before Gunnar could object, the young lady began bustling about to fetch the tack and gear to saddle up her steed. As she opened the stall, he stepped aside to avoid getting smacked by the swinging door. Straw crackled softly beneath his boots when he escaped to the stall opposite of the one from which she was leading the horse. Gunnar leaned against the gate, the hinges and wood creaking as they accepted his weight, and folded his arms across his chest. Keeping quiet as she busied herself with the various tasks associated with preparing for a ride, he admired both her efficiency and affection while tending to her mount.

“’Course,” he answered, lifting from his perch against the stall door. Walking over to the shelf that sagged beneath the weight of the saddle, Gunnar reached out for it. Calloused fingers clamped onto the aged leather before hoisting it up off the ledge. The floorboards creaked louder than before as he approached the horse with the saddle. Stretching his arms, he managed to set the saddle atop the steed’s back. “I suppose yah know how to do the rest, too?” he asked, looking down to the excited woman clothed in a cotton dress smeared with leather polish and dust and speckled with twigs of straw.

A smile tugged at the corners of Gunnar’s lips and he reached towards her face. If she didn’t pull away, he plucked a stick of straw from her ruddy-hued hair. Otherwise, his fingers faltered and hung back from her face before he explained, “Sorry, yah’ve got some straw in yer ‘air.”

The new smell of polished leather mixed with the warm musk of the horse filled the air with a sense of comfort as Vivian watched Gunnar place the saddle upon the horse. Her eyes were appreciative as she admired his quiet demeanor. There were still nagging questions in the back of her mind that only the truly curious had trouble ignoring. For a man of such soft and gentle demeanor, why did he chose to stay here? Aside from the obvious skill he had with animals, he seemed like a helpful, kindhearted soul who in spite of wear and tear still presented himself as a contributing member of the human race. She admired the way his hands were sure and strong as they gripped the tackle. Even as he turned the buckling and adjusting to her, she was sure he would have done it all without asking. As he stood in front of her with the slightest hint of a smile, he didn't seem dangerous or wicked. Just a man who had seen enough years to know when to fight and when to give. There was a slight pinch in her stomach as she realized that perhaps he was his own excommunicator. Was there something about himself that he kept away from others out of fear or self loathing?

The voices were getting out of control as she just stood there meeting his eyes. Despite blinking to alert herself of her surroundings, she felt drawn to his quiet nature. There was something inherently protective about him, and the vulnerable angel that lived in her veins longed to know him, to be close to him. Although she spoke none of this aloud, she bit her lower lip in reflection. Was she really that big of a love sick sap? The air turned pungent and heavy, the flecks of straw in the air were irritating to the eyes, and a draft snaked its way in the room as the magic of the moment faded with the reality. She couldn't just force someone to care for her, to be hers. He's older, handsome, strapping, and here long before me. He has a lover no doubt. Who am I to think he would want to look after a stupid, inexperienced, chi-

His hand was outstretched and coming close to her face. She stood as a doe when approached in her thicket. Her eyes were not wide in fright but rather in the anticipation of his action. She didn't even notice the way her corset seemed to tighten as she held her breath or how her hands had grabbed her dress so tightly her knuckles were pale. Everything seemed to slow down as his hand almost touched her.

“Sorry, yah’ve got some straw in yer ‘air.”

A half of a sigh escaped her lips, parted under the enchantment of the moment. She closed her eyes in defeat. She could never have him, she would never know him, no part of hers would ever belong to him, or vise versa. But this gesture, this offer, she would never forget. Holding perfectly still waiting for what was sure to be their first and last tender moment, She now realized she had fallen in love with him. At first sight none the less. And there was nothing she could do about it than plan to ride away.

The shaft of straw snapped between Gunnar’s fingers as he retrieved it from her hair, and he let the two pieces drift to the floor—broken and lost just as her dreams of loving him, of being loved by him, were. The ex-ranch hand was unaware of the fantasy that filled her head as she admired him. The older man retreated from her a step and indicated the horse with a wave of his hand, “Well, Miss, I think yah can handle the rest on yer own. If yah need any more ‘elp, just say so.”

“Have a good ride, Miss.”With a brief nod, Gunnar dismissed himself and walked to the stall that he had turned into his impromptu lodgings. Straw crinkled with a soft crackling with his every step, nearly drowned out by the muted clomp of his booted feet on the floor, until he’d entered his domain. After the clatter of the latch catching, there was no more crackle of straw from his footsteps. A few more thumps across the swept floor of his stall and then there was a groan of straining ropes, a ruffle of cloth. As Gunnar sat on his hammock, he swung his legs up onto it, kicking his boots off at the same time. They fell to the floor with a pair of dull thuds. By the time they had settled, so had he. Gunnar lay on his back on the hammock, nestled at its center with a thin pillow beneath his head.