• Peigra's Blog:

Fields Of Gold

By: Peigra

This is an old, old story, a first attempt at combining a love of writing & a love of storms together, & it's over 20 years old now & copyrighted, & it's time it was dusted off & shared again
This story is based on a piece of land hubby & I were looking at buying, & sadly had to pass when we were transferred out of KS. The day we saw the land, all 120 acres, a storm blew up, & the "city slicker realtor" who we'd been assigned to started to freak that tornadoes wouldn't be far off (which she was wrong)



It was the whisper that woke Margaret again, the whisper of leather against leather, slick mud trying to grapple with hooves and the power of muscle and skin overcoming the chill of both mud and morning's coming.

Margaret was city-folk, nothing more in her eyes but the splendor of the city she had left behind for a month's long stay at the abandoned house of her recently dead great-aunt. She had no allusions to the farm that had long been spoken of, but she refused to set foot upon. She had too many other matters to envelop her time in. Her stocks were climbing once again, and already there were three messages waiting in her que on the computer. She must remember that eastern time was ahead of her now and her employer would simply need to please remember that fact. Brookstone, Gessler and Dunn were good to her, though, and had given her the leave to come here...kicking against their nearly forced demand for her to take the leave and settle the family affairs. Not that she had truly needed to "ask" for the time off. She could have remained in the city, but the firm insisted it could survive without her for two weeks.

It had been a sudden death to Margaret, her mind whirling more on stock prices and how much she was losing with insider tips by being here, that being on the spacious acreage of her great-aunt's farm in Kansas, as opposed to New York's scummy grayness and familiar shouts and sounds.

She felt awkward, having been raised in the city, born to the cries and shrieks, brakes at 4am due to a cabbie running a light, the rustle of a couple outside the apartment door who didn't bother to hide their liasions, muffled snores from the shipyards beyond the tops of the buildings as they worked through the night to fulfill contracts she had only dreamt of.

Her grandfather had founded Brookstone, Gessler and Dunn, passing it to her father, and she, out of her seven siblings, had been the only one to care about it. Four brothers, three sisters, she cared nothing for them now. They had their lives, wiping running noses of their children, scuttling from house to job to basketball games and soccer and wasting precious weekends on bake sales. She shuddered to think of the loss of finances those children were incurring on her siblings' 401k programs. Her brother was constantly dipping into his to pay for time off due to broken limbs, her youngest sister struggling with a child with drypepsia? No...what was that word? Always their problems. She rarely talked to them any longer, but her mother kept her ear pulled with what she considered pertinent information. Margaret didn't believe she knew half of the names of her nieces and nephews, had she been asked them. Nor did she carry around photos of them in her slimline purse, cell-phone with headset attachment so she could speak and drive, as state regulations were becoming tougher about driving and phone calls.

Margaret was a wealthy woman, her grandfather's brokerage, her father's brokerage, now her brokerage. Senior Partner. CEO. The velvet glove and all of the old cliches. She smiled to herself, staring out from the porch again at the fields of wheat stubble around here and smiling.
Now, if she could only find a decent cup of coffee to drink, life would be so much better.

Incessant beeping called to her again, her firm wanting to know again, and she cursed the house again. It was a tiny slum of white boards on the outside, dank old-smelling boards on the inside with black knots all shot through the wood. No one would want the house, as it barely could support her laptop and the computer she'd turned on upon her arrival at the airport. It still struck her as strange that the clerks had no concept of "delivery" when she told them the address for her lost luggage. Didn't she have a truck?

That had brought her up with a sniff of disdain. She was from New York. No one owned a vehicle, much less cared to own one. Parking was the proverbial fairy godmother...they didn't exist, and if you DID happen to stumble upon one, you should go back to your dealer and demand some more of that particular cut.

The electricity in the house was minimal at that, and she had extension cords all about the house. She had already shorted out two breakers, and believed a third would probably join its brethren today. Two computers lay side by side now, one simply for quotes, the other for e-mail, conferences, browsing to see how matters were progressing with the firm. Her laptop was in the kitchen, beside the coffee-maker that was nearly as ancient as her great-aunt had been. Who drank straight coffee any longer? Oh, but she would give her cell phone (the older model she'd purchased four months ago, the one that didn't match her laptop now) for a decent double mocha.

The kitchen was dull, still, morning not changing its view, save that the sun came into it with a fierceness Margaret wondered over. It fell in deep rays against the ancient wood table, staining it a deep amber, and she once again made a note to bring in the first antiques dealer she found in the phone book.

When she found the phone book, that is.

Her great-aunt, Emily, barely a haze of memories, caught in photographs in gray and white tones, dull colors of childhood memories with her parents and aunts and uncles, brighter photos hanging everywhere. The woman must have been taking photographs daily to occupy her time.
And the animals.

The dammed animals.

Her laptop was up and running, the messages now up to seven despite the early hour of midwest-time, and she glanced at them briefly. The coffee maker had better work this morning. She had no yen to argue with it again. She had discovered a tin of coffee on a shelf, half-empty and foul-smelling. Her aunt must not have appreciated good coffee, and Margaret had too many items to attend to today to go out in her little rental car for another attempt at finding a good grocery store.

Four scoops...she'd seen them do that at the espresso shop back on the corner, while she was talking quotes and insider tips with Colin, her present companion. She had some reservations about Colin but he knew how to entertain, as well as his sense of rising stocks was uncanny. She would keep him around for a while at least for the appearances.

She pressed the button, moving to the table and cursing the heavy chairs once again, but even she had to admire the woodworking on them. Intricate patterns, each chair different from the other, with designs of little animals and a name on the back of each. She was sitting in the one named Emily, as it was the only name she recognized in her present state of mind.

Garrison Dunn's e-mail was first on her list, inquiring, as courteously possible, how she was coping in cowboy land and she snickered to herself and got on her cell phone to talk with him. It was another brisk day in New York, balmy and sticky, thank GOD for air conditioning. Was she doing well? How were the details coming? Had she seen the latest rise in the yen? She could picture him at his desk, tie tucked into his shirt and staring out at the skyline that she never tired of. Unchanging rows of gray.

She sniffed once as something irritated her nose. She was missing the city and its familiar streets, and hopefully today she could find a buyer for the furniture and start working on getting rid of the dammed animals in the barn. But she had managed to find one of the neighbors to take care of them while she worked on other details. Yes, they were still coming in droves to express their sympathy over Emily's death, and she informed Garrison she'd hung up a sign finally saying "Yes, Emily is dead, and Margaret is too busy with work to talk to you about it. Go away." To that he laughed and made a rude joke about cowboy boots and they shared another laugh, she moving from the laptop and looking up to the smoke coming from the coffee maker.

"ACK!"

"What? Maggs, what's happening?"

She nearly dropped the cell phone, rushing up to the white smoke coming from the tiny machine, and unplugged it, hissing at the heat from it. "It's on fire, Garrison!"

"What's on fire? The latest quotes aren't that good."

"The coffee maker! It's steaming!"

A dry chuckle. "Trying to make espresso again, are you, Maggs?"

"No, it's steaming...I'll call you back." Disconnection, and she stared at the machine with a deep frown. It had done this yesterday before finishing the cycle, and she wondered again how old the machine was. Perhaps she should just break down and get those coffee-tea-bags her sister had been raving about one afternoon at a mandatory family gathering. How dull.

Perhaps it was time to go journey for another one. A quick note in her appointment book, conveniently next to the laptop on the table, going next to the growing list of necessary phone calls she must make today. She had been here two days, and already she had seen quite enough of this place.

Emily Gracey, widower, known by half the state it seemed as a kind woman who had been found in the barn dying from simple old age it was. Margaret had no memories of the woman, or if she did, she'd long forgotten them. She didn't recall ever being here, as it would have been an unpleasant memory she knew. Her grandfather's sister, outliving her twelve children and her spouse and the charity case of the community Margaret had determined. People had been swarming around the farm the day she had arrived, and she had worried about theft as well as having to hire a bodyguard to keep herself safe.

The nearest neighbor was nearly four miles down the road, she'd driven it that first day to ask how much they had been paid by Emily to tend to the animals. Margaret had been shocked to hear that Emily had been tending to the farm herself for many years now, aided by the neighbors who were always there in the mornings and at night, as she cooked breakfast for the spare hands and dinner for anyone who came through the front door.

They had been shocked, that first night, to find Margaret had installed a lock on both doors for her own protection. Imagine, living without locks where anyone at any time of the night could walk in and rob you, or worse!

The coffee maker, she determined, had to be replaced, and soon. Another morning without coffee and she would be in more of a foul mood than if the market suddenly dipped several hundred points.

"Mornin, ma'am."

Instinct made her reach for the handbag, and the pistol, that she was neither carrying nor equipped to use in the state.

The face on the other side of the screen door, that she had neither locked nor closed the heavy wooden door, was smiling warmly, taking off his hat with a bow of his head. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

"What are you doing here? This is private property."

A look of puzzlement, and he made a strange gesture of confusion. "You're Margaret Brookstone?"

Anger, and fear, brought a nod from Margaret, inching closer to her cell phone and her laptop. Garrison would at least known how she had died.

"You asked me to come tend the critters? Remember?" He sniffed the air, and frowned. "You makin coffee, ma'am?"

She was still confused, but pointed to the coffee maker. "It's broken."

His look was just as confused. "Can't be...we gave it to her new last christmas, ma'am."

"It's broken," Margaret said again, standing her ground and glaring at him now. She had quotes to get back to. What did he want...oh, yes, he'd said he was here to do what?

He frowned, eyes wide with a sad expression. "I'm sorry, ma'am...I can see if Henry's'll take it back for a new one if you like."

She waggled her fingers at it, nodding. At last! Someone was doing something! "Good luck with it. I need to get back to work. And what are you doing here?"

"Um..I'm here to feed the critters, ma'am...remember?"

"The who?"

He motioned with his head towards the barn bathed in early May sunshine. "The critters, ma'am...Emily's little ones."

Oh, the animals...she remembered now, she'd asked someone to feed them for her so they didn't die before she could find someone to cart them away.

"Oh," was her only reply, and she sat down again in Emily's chair and glanced at her e-mail. Another four since she'd been distracted by the coffee-maker and this man in overalls. "They're out there somewhere."

She responded to two e-mails and started to dial Garrison again, looking up suddenly to see that the man hadn't moved from the screen door. "What do you want?"

"Um...I can't replace the coffee maker with a new one if I don't have the old one, ma'am."

To that, she had to agree, and nodded. "Come in, but wipe your feet."

That he did, making certain his feet were very clean before stepping onto the flooring, and Margaret went back to her e-mails. Garrison had e-mailed her back, asking if she'd gone up in smoke yet, and she gave him a quick reply of assurance.

"Ma'am?"

She groaned, looking up with irritation. What did he want now?

He held up the coffee maker, having taken the filter out, and held up something white. "Didn't you put water in this?"

Water? Espresso didn't require water...just coffee and some flavor. Every idiot knew that. Just put the beans in and let the machine do its work.

"What are you talking about?"

He held up the white object, which she moved closer to identify as the lid to the back of the machine. There was an empty reservoir there, and several notches in the plastic for increments. "Water, ma'am...you can't make the coffee without water in this machine. Emily liked it because it made single cups when we needed'em."

Water? You had to FILL the machine with water...by hand?

"Here, lemme show you." He took down a glass with familarity from the cupboard, filling it and draining it in the reservoir. More steam, though this brought a smile to his face, and he plugged the machine back in. Margaret wrinkled her nose as the filter's contents began to smell like...well, smell like wet coffee.

He nodded to her kindly and handed her the cover. "There you are, ma'am...I'll be feeding the critters now. I know you're busy."

He moved past her slowly and to the door, out it without a word, and Margaret had the distinct feeling she'd been had.
Adding water to the machine? What type of primitive coffee machine was this? But there was definitely coffee dripping into the glass container now...and THAT made her smile.

Well well well...it might be a good morning after all!

She waited, taking a cup for herself of the black brew, frowning at its taste but pronouncing it "coffee substitute sans mocha" and settled down at the double computers to check quotes and get on-line for business.

Emily's 120 acre ranch, she had been told umpteen times, had been in the family for five generations, and it would bring a healthy price if she found the right realtor. It could be subdivided for quite a healthy sum, and Margaret knew several realtors back in New York who might want in on the deal, as well as contractors who might be willing to fly out and give her some plans for a subdivision. She already had figures bouncing around, and her writing tablet near the quote computer was already on its third page for the day with numbers and notes.

The house, two-story with warrens of rooms and antiques, would be visited by an antique dealer Garrison had recommended, via a friend, tomorrow. The man was flying in from Chicago and she was wondering where she could take him to seal the deal over dinner. There didn't seem to be much here to recommend either the area nor the town.

Noises brought her out of her cyber reverie, noises that sounded neither happy nor human, and she took her fourth cup of coffee with her back out to the porch off the kitchen, staring out at the barn...

To the line of horses, all in black and being scrubbed down by the man, as if they were prize Cadillacs in a row awaiting a buyer. To the swarming mass of brown and black goats in an outside pen milling about a pipe-like structure she assumed had the food in it. There were chickens, geese, and ducks scrabbling all around in search of whatever it was fed them, but now she saw that there were circles of something on the dust. What was he thinking? Hosing down the horses in the DRIVEWAY?

She went down to him, cursing her slippers again on the rocky surface and vowing that she would pave this before she sold it. The rocks were killing her toes.

He was brushing and washing down the third in line of eight horses, black hides shining in the sun, the two wet ones waiting patiently for the sunshine to dry them.

"What are you doing?" She seemed to be asking that a lot lately and wondered if she weren't speaking a foreign language.

He looked up from hosing off one of the horse's feet and and gave her a bright, stunning smile. For a moment, Margaret was stunned, almost smiling back herself, had it not been for her anger that he was putting water and whatever else on the driveway the day before the antique dealer, and perhaps a realtor, came to look at the property.

"They need a bath before they head to the show, ma'am. They're awfully dusty."

Dusty? There was dust everywhere here! What was he talking about dust? Animals didn't need baths. And what..

"What show?"

He straightened, a frown equalling Margaret's, and leaned against the horse he hadn't washed as yet. "The show, ma'am...tomorrow, in the next county. We go every year, and Miss Emily always goes with her horses."

"Emily's dead," Margaret reminded him harsly, "And these horses better bring a good price at the sale."

His confusion was now greater than before. "Sale?"

"You are talking about selling them? The show?" She knew something about auctions...one of her cousins had once raised sheep for a couple summers for a project or something...had it been a college thing? She didn't remember now...oh well.

"No, ma'am, the draft horse show...Miss Emily was always there, and she always did good with her horses."

"A show? You mean, like a dog show?"

He pondered that, and nodded. "Yes, ma'am...the ribbons she got are in the barn, still...she was mighty proud of'em."

Margaret bit back her anger, partly out of what little respect this fellow human being may deserve. "The horses don't belong to you, they belong to me, and I did not give any permission for them to leave, let alone for you to do this mess to the driveway."

"They can't go to the show all dusty, ma'am."

"They aren't going to show at all."

"They're already registered in it, ma'am...Miss Emily's all paid, and we're bringing the trailer this afternoon. She'd have been proud of this team, and the carriage is already at the house."

Carriage? What carriage? She'd not even begun to ask what of Emily's property some people had at their houses. She knew that several of the heavier pieces of farm equipment didn't belong to the estate itself, and Margaret had been sad. The prices she'd gotten from a local dealer would've made the trip at least worth her while that first day.

The man slapped the rump of the dry horse and scratched it with a grand smile on his face. "This here, this was her pride and joy...good ol Emmie."

Emmie? The horses had names? Like children?

"She's good good lines, ma'am...she's a winner, gonna take top honors again I bet."

"If she went to the show, which she's not, none of them are."

"They gotta go, ma'am...the top prize money's good this year."

That perked Margaret's interest. "Money?"

"Prize money...Miss Emily's had the winning team the last seven years, and the goats are going to the show week after next."

Goats? At a show? Had he put something in the coffee that she hadn't seen? It wasn't possible.

Her cell phone was ringing, she could hear it, and he motioned to the house. "That's your phone, ma'am. Probly someone important."

And it was, as she retreated, having no clue how to continue the conversation. This man probably hadn't finished high school, and she didn't expect him to know what she was talking about. Emily's property was now her concern, and everything on it.

It was Garrison, joking if she'd burned the house down yet, and she informed him that she had finally discovered rural america. Garrison chuckled, and let her know some of the insider tips he'd just been informed of, as well as two realtor friends of his were also on the same plane as the antique dealer, in the morning. If she could arrange for them to be picked up at the airport and the latest quotes were that the market's rising stars might not be doing as well as they believed, time to sell?

Margaret went back to her computers, to the quotes, forgetting her conversation about the horses as Garrison's voice suddenly dipped with concern as one of their inside sources called on another line to let them know the rumors of a dip were confirmed.

Scraping gears brought her back to the reality of where she was once again, and she told Garrison to handle the situation as best he could. Back out the door again, but not before adding more water to the coffee maker for some more of the brew.

Two trucks, complete with trailers, were now in the driveway, the horses being loaded into them, as well as most of the leather harness she had cast a weary eye upon the day before. The man in overalls was there, supervising the loading of the eight freshly washed and nearly dry horses.

Four other men and a woman were there, and Margaret sighed. She could always sue later, and took down license plates. She didn't have time to deal with this. If the animals were stolen, she could always demand charges be brought against them. New York attitude...watch, observe, take details for the cops later, but do not get involved.

She retreated back inside, stumbling as something crossed her path in a streak of gray and white feathers, and stopped to glare at the chicken racing across the driveway with a grasshopper. In pursuit were four others, and Margaret moved the sale of the livestock to the top of her list. They were making a mess of what little attractiveness the flower beds still had.

She watched the trailers off up the driveway, frowning as the market began to take a dive due to the announcement that the computer stocks weren't doing as well as planned, and there was a discreet rap at her screen door again. She poked her head around the corner and looked, seeing the man at the door again. Didn't he have anything else do to?

"Yes?"

"Just wanted to give you the number they'll be at, ma'am...and the copies of the schedule case you need to know what they're doin." He laid down a folder of papers on the kitchen counter and bowed his head to her again. "I know you're busy, and I'll be back later to put the chickens in."

"Did I or did I not tell you the horses were staying here?"

He shrugged. "Shane came with the trailers, ma'am...kind of a waste for him to come and not take'em, and he's good with horses. He won't do ya wrong at the show. He and Shelly are good people. Miss Emily's had them take the team before and show'em."

"Do you have a name?"

He flushed at that, or perhaps her tone, and perhaps remembered his manners and took off his hat again. "Allen Jacobsen, ma'am...you talked to my dad the other day, said you wanted someone to watch the critters."

The farm down the road...she nodded, and made a note of his name on her pad.

"Miss Emily has all the phone numbers up here," he said, motioning to the cupboard. "She has a list on the door up there. We're on the top I think."

"Are you done for the day?"

"Yes, ma'am...I gotta get back home and check my prices for the day."

Prices? She eyed him strangely and he shrugged at her. "I gotta see how the wheat's doin today, ma'am...gotta see how the market's doin. I got too much money tied up in this year's crop, and after last year's good prices, be nice to not have my folks worried this winter."

"You...you check stock prices?"

"Wheat prices, ma'am...that's right. Need to know how it's doing."

This man in the overalls...he knew commodities? He was joking, he'd looked at her laptop perhaps from the earlier visit.

But he fished something from his overalls, pulled the door open, and laid a business card on the kitchen counter. "There's my card, ma'am...I don't get on as often during the day as I'd like, but it's got my phone, and a fax, if you need it. I know Miss Emily's wheat don't look good right now, cuz it's young, but it'll be a good crop if the summer's good, ma'am. She always had good crops here."

Margaret got up and took the card, staring at it. This man...he knew commodities? And he checked prices of wheat?

"You know the market's dipping right now due to the announcement of first quarter reports from the high tech industry?"

He nodded, pulling something from the back pocket of his overalls, and she stared at the cell phone. It wasn't possible. "Talked to Jess while I was feeding the goats, ma'am...he's worried that there'll be a slump this year in prices, but I'll watch and see. Doesn't appear to be a wet spring, which is good because there's no storms, but we do need a bit more rain for the crop so it'll get a fair price. And the folks upstate are about three weeks ahead of us now, so the market may already be bad when we get the choppers out there, but we're hoping for another good year."

Margaret was the one flushing now, and cleared her throat. "Um...do you want to use the computer to check your quotes?"

Eyes lit up, and he nodded gratefully. "If you wouldn't mind, ma'am...please? It'll just take a few minutes, and I can compensate for the time..."

She shook her head now, moving away to give him room, and motioned to the laptop. His eyes brightened and he sat down in Emily's chair. "You got the new one, nice model."

"Gift to myself after the last one ran out of hard drive space."

He chuckled and loaded up a website, faster than she could have cleared drive space herself, and regarded the morning's prices as well as the forecast. "Well, they're predicting a good summer for us," he said, motioning her to the laptop. "See this? This is the download from Okie State, they got a good forecaster there, son of an old friend of my dad's, and he hasn't let us down yet. Says it'll be a long dry summer come June, and with luck no bad storms to knock the wheat down."

She didn't make heads nor tails of the information, and simply nodded at him. Perhaps she had been wrong about this.

But Allen...yes, Allen, she remembered that was his name, was sitting back in Emily's chair and looking around the room with sad eyes. "She kept this place well, ma'am...be a shame to see it go. I'm having to have dinner with my folks more often now to keep'em going. They used to come here to see Miss Emily every nite, and she made good food. We set aside the best of the herd and Miss Emily did wonders with that meat."

Margaret didn't ask, as she didn't want to know any more details.

But Allen was already up, moving towards her two computers, and impressed. "Nice systems...and you get your quotes instantly." He chuckled for a moment, prompting a question from Margaret. "You set the computers up on Miss Emily's old quilting table. She'd be laughing at that."

He was staring at the far wall, though, to the hundreds of photos there, some framed, some simply tacked there, and motioned to them with his head. "Won't be the same without her at the show." He strode to the wall, pointing out several photos. "This was the first one I remember her at the show with, and there's Mister Gracey with her. He got her crazy on horses while she was bringing up the kids."
Margaret moved closer, staring at the photos, not so much with interest, but wondering what this had to do with anything.

Allen touched one particular one, sighing, looking down at her with a sad smile. "This one...this was the first one Miss Emily got into the show. Blaze, she found him in the barn and raised him when his dam died from colic. He did her well, ma'am...did her mighty well. Was her herd sire for long as I could remember. She used to give us kids rides on him while she was driving to town."

The photo was black and white, the tiny woman dwarfed by the huge beast beside her, held only with a simple halter and a lead rope. Emily had on a pair of riding breeches, which Margaret suspected might have scandalized her own mother when she'd been a child, and was not smiling at the photographer, but the horse was staring at them. Huge, with great legs and a tapering head with large jowls and a tail swishing with what might have been flies or irritation.

"Blaze was her baby...we think she died of a broken heart when he went this past winter."

Margaret frowned, looking to Allen and wondering how old he was, then back to the photo. Black and white photos were still taken by people on occasion, and this beast in the photo had been alive during Allen's youth?

To her question, he laughed. "Blaze was thirty-eight when he died, ma'am...old for a stud, really old, but she kept care for him, and he loved her. Emmie's one of his get, last one before she put him out to graze, and she's gonna do him proud."

Her cell phone rang again, and she ignored it. "So Emily was raising horses?"

"Oh, Miss Emily was doing horses for a long time, ma'am...and her goats got good fleeces. We'll shear'em after the show in two weeks and send'em off for you to get recorded and carded." Margaret had no idea what he was talking about. "And the chickens, she won a couple fairs with them, but I don't think we'll take'em to the fair this year. My brother's daughter may be able to buy a couple off you for a 4-H project if you'd be willing, ma'am."

"This is all nice talking about Emily, but I'm not selling anything in pieces. I'll be selling the livestock as soon as I can find a buyer, and there's someone coming out tomorrow to look at the property, as well as everything here in the house. In two weeks the goats won't be at a show nor will the chickens be in anyone's project but the highest bidder's." And she escorted Allen to the door with a smile.....