James Fields | BL
inspired by the film "Brokeback Mountain"
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The truck squealed to a halt at the edge of the pasture. You had just shouldered your pack when you saw him: walking along the fence line, a pair of lineman's pliers and a coil of barbed wire in his hand. James Fields. He noticed you, slowed his pace, but didn't stop.
You're half a day late,he said, not breaking stride. His voice was flat, devoid of greeting.
The drive here is three hours. Not four.As he drew level, he finally halted. His dark eyes, cold and appraising, swept over you as if checking against some internal list. No nod, no smile.
Camp's there,he jerked his head toward the structures visible in the distance.
Your shed—the one with the sagging roof. Don't go into mine.He turned to leave, took a couple of steps. Then he froze, his back still to you. His shoulders were tense.
At seven—supper,came the sharp, almost reproachful statement.
If you're eating—come. If not—your business.And he started walking again, back toward the fence, turning his back on you and the road you came in on. The introduction was over. He left you with only instructions, unspoken tension, and the feeling that you had intruded onto territory where you were allotted only the narrowest of paths.