Falls Chance part 17

 

Full summer brought hot, dry days and cool nights. The river in its
stiller stretches leapt and flashed with trout, and elk and deer
walked the pastures amongst the sheep, grazing on the grass and the
wildflowers that grew thickly all over the ranch. Paul picked the
wild raspberries, strawberries and thimbleberries that grew thickly
out towards the woods, and for several days the kitchen smelled
sweetly of jam and bottling, as neat rows of labelled jars appeared
in the pantry. Purple pasque flowers carpeted the higher ground and
hills, and indian paintbrush, blue flag, sage and gilia grew freely
on the open land, lighting whole swathes of grass with colour and
carrying a rolling scent that you breathed while you rode.



The cattle were rounded up and brought in during two very crowded
days, a task that took all five of them while the new calves were
tagged, vaccinated and the bull calves castrated before the herd was
moved down to their summer feeding pastures. Shearers arrived in a
truck and for a week they slept out in the bunkhouse, a building
behind the paddocks that Dale had previously taken little notice of
but where the six men slept and could be seen in the evenings,
sitting on the tiny veranda around it, sipping beer and smoking and
talking. Dale and Riley took the dogs up to the pastures to round up
and bring the sheep down in batches to the yard, where the shearers
plus Flynn and Jasper stood in the cleared, scrubbed barn, rolled
the sheep over one at a time and clipped the heavy fleeces from
them, where one of the shearing team then spread it out on a table,
cut around the edges to clear the soiled fleece from the good, and
at intervals put the fleeces through the compressor in the truck,
making up bale after bale of wool. The speed was amazing to watch,
each man processing a sheep in just a few minutes before the fleece
was on the table and a shorn sheep was pushed through a channel of
rails to swim through a trough of strong smelling dip to protect it
against the summer ticks and flies before it reached the stable
pasture to graze. Four hundred sheep a day were processed at this
steady speed. Paul cooked for eleven people and appeared completely
unfazed by the experience, and brought out tea and water by the
gallon to the men in the barn who worked stripped to the waist and
shining with sweat.



Around that, the work continued as normal. The daily rides out to
check on stock and fences were punctuated with checking the grazing
ground for any poisonous flowers or shrubs which then had to be
thoroughly eradicated before horses, cattle or sheep could eat them.
The shelters on the open ground where animals took refuge from the
sun needed frequent maintenance. Bandit kept his herd near the woods
during the heat of the day and the horses were often found grazing
there or dozing in the hollows under the trees. Riley and Dale rode
the young colts for hours every day, building on the slow, patient
groundwork Flynn did in the training pen in the yard. Most of the
ranch trained horses were sold for riding, many for the working and
the dude ranches throughout the state, and the trail work was an
essential part of making a good, safe riding horse. They took the
two year olds through the woods and walked them through the creeks
and across the riving crossings, introduced them to steep ground and
rough ground and taught them to place their feet carefully, and
introduced them to simple cow work with the cattle herd. In this
season, the riding was an open pleasure, and several times in the
heat of the day they stopped a while by the rivers and creeks to
swim and cool down in the water. Some late afternoons when work was
finished, Jasper walked out to fish and Dale fell into the habit of
going with him, finding it easy to stretch out on the river bank and
to enjoy the stillness as Jasper did; the pleasure of Jasper's easy
company without the need for conversation. They regularly brought
trout back for dinner and Dale, whose experience of fish had been
limited to childhood fish and chips as a treat at school, got very
used to the exceptionally fresh taste of trout grilled or fried less
than an hour out of the water. One evening Flynn set up a row of
cans in the home pasture, well away from the horses, and he and
Riley familiarised Dale with the rifles they carried until Dale
could have loaded and fired one in his sleep. Always good with
anything mechanical, he found to his surprise that he was a natural
shot, remarkably accurate, and he practised for barely a week before
Flynn handed him a rifle and showed him how to attach it to his
saddle, after which, like the others, he carried one with him
whenever he rode out.



Gerry and Ash wrote regularly from Seattle , Paul often read the
letters aloud at dinner, and Ash enclosed occasional articles or
journals for Dale. There was a friendliness in the gesture that to
Dale never wore off: it was very different to share the information
with someone who not only got the jokes and the points of interest
in their field of work but wanted nothing more from you than to
share it. There were several of the articles too that he knew Ash
sent because they contained references to or ideas for free lance
possibilities, and that Ash saw such things and thought of him,
touched Dale deeply. He talked a few times to Flynn about some of
those ideas, thinking aloud to him, and Flynn encouraged him to do
it although he always repeated firmly until Dale could say it along
with him, that there were no deadlines, no pressure to make
decisions, and to take it one day at a time.



"Which is likely to mean you're pretty much stuck with me here
forever if I don't come up with something soon." Dale pointed out
once while they were digging out a choked section of river. Flynn
shrugged, not looking up from his spade.



"Not a fate worse than death, is it? You're a part of a long
tradition, there's plenty of people who know they have a bed here
whenever they need it and most of them have stayed years rather than
weeks or months, so no, there's no reason to feel pressured at all.
And you more than earn your keep here and you always have done.
Think about that."

"Not if you count the time you lose in training and supervision."
Dale said dryly. "You lose more work time by supporting a client to
work alongside you than you gain from an extra pair of hands, even
if it is therapeutic for the client."

"It is." Flynn agreed, "But it depends on the client. You learn like
that."



The snap of his fingers made Dale blink. Flynn stooped once more to
digging, shoulders working as he dug the blade deep into mud.



"Show you once and you've got it, and you're a born grafter. You
need telling to stop, not chasing to get things done, and there's no
question of anyone needing to go and check you've done it properly
or got it right."

"And we all know why." Dale said, rolling his eyes. Flynn gave him a
brief smile.



"Yes. And you know about the work on the functional benefits of
conditions like perfectionism."



There was no question of that. Flynn had been extremely thorough in
the work he'd made Dale do on the subject and the insight he'd made
Dale gain on it.


"You don't subscribe to that, do you?" Dale said, dodging under
Flynn's blade to pull back another slipping section of bank before
it collapsed the section Flynn was working on. "That there is
functional benefit? Some researchers even question whether these
kind of conditions should be treated, if they're what's enabling
someone to be exceptional."

"An exceptional person is exceptional," Flynn said
bluntly. "Whatever they're doing. If you'd been happy in your work
and you'd been keen to go back to A.N.Z. we'd still have done the
same work here. It won't stop you being a perfectionist, it won't
stop you over achieving. There are benefits: I'm not afraid to admit
it. What I have a problem with is anxious, unhappy, addictive
behaviour that you feel controlled by. Hyper vigilance and
hyperactivity coming directly from anxiety. Self destructive or self
abusive behaviour, rooted in guilt and anxiety."

"That's why I question any good in it." Dale threw back the last
spadeful, checking the ground once more. "Whatever you taught me, I
know if I went back to those circumstances I'd do the same thing
again until I snapped. I wouldn't be able to help myself."

"That's you and you're leading us in doing the right thing for you."
Flynn climbed up the bank, shaking his head like a dog to get the
water out of his hair. "Bearing in mind you're a different kettle of
fish anyway."

"Separate the CEO from the brat if you can." Dale said, grinning.
Flynn returned the grin.



"Why? It's the difference between nature, talents and bad habits.
You have the perfectionist nature, you have talents you've honed
sharper than most people's because you are a perfectionist and you
will always push yourself further and demand more of yourself, and
that's fine while it stays under your control and it doesn't do you
harm. But while you live here, or if you choose to live with a Top,
you've got plenty of support in keeping it controlled and it doesn't
need to be something you worry about. We set the lines and you stay
within them."



He said it so simply and bluntly, stood there on the bank, wet
through and bare chested in a way that made Dale's own chest tighten
if he looked too long. Tanned and sculpted, with the smoothness to
his skin like the velvet gleam of a horse's hide. His hair was wet
and the curls at the back of his neck were dark, yanking on a sharp
awareness of how they felt under one's fingers when you touched
them… the powerful memory of those few minutes together in the
study. Flynn hadn't moved under his touch, and the privilege within
that was one Dale was acutely aware of: Flynn hadn't flinched or
commented, he hadn't even reacted save for that arm around Dale's
waist, as though to accept his comfort came so normally and
naturally that it might have been Paul or Riley there instead of
Dale, who was a relative stranger. It was that willing
acknowledgement of friendship that came from them all and that went
so deeply into Dale. There had been other men, other pleasant
evenings when he had enjoyed touching and being touched, but there
had never been the experience of looking at someone with that
immediate and powerful knowledge of emotion. Warmth. Loyalty.
Affection. Trust. Whether it was Riley or Paul or Jasper – or
especially Flynn – it was a certainty and clarity of emotion that
Dale had never known before in his life. What did you owe to the
people who taught you that?



"It sounds ridiculous," he said eventually to Flynn while they
cleaned up and headed back towards the grazing horses. "It shouldn't
feel this way, but I actually feel – freer – knowing I can't cross
those lines than I did when there were no lines at all and I could
do whatever the hell I wanted."

"You can still do whatever the hell you want," Flynn said calmly,
mounting up. "You're just choosing to do this. You're no effort to
support, Dale; you're a pleasure. Ask Paul and Jas. And you more
than earn your keep, you're an asset here and not a drain of any
kind, so trust me. You're on no deadlines, give yourself time and
make the decisions as you get to them. If I have to come rescue you
from New York because you jump to some job you're not ready for,
then you'll be in trouble."

"You'd come and get me?" Dale demanded, startled. Flynn looked
across at him, shaking his head in mild exasperation.



"Of course I would. Likewise Paul, Jasper or Ash, not to mention
Riley."


Oddly Dale had no trouble at all in believing him. It was an
amazingly liberating thought.









*







It was at dinner a few days after this that Flynn said
calmly, "Dale, it's usual at this stage for us to invite someone
from work to visit. Jerry Banks asked for it to be him."



Dale looked at him, startled. Paul gave him a look, lowering his
fork.



"A visit. Usually a few hours or overnight, and if you want to put
it off that's fine. It doesn't have to be now."

"I think it would be a good idea to be now." Flynn said
quietly. "You need both sides of the coin in mind and to start
connecting up to your own life again before you can make any
permanent decisions and be sure what it is you want."

"Banks and the other directors signed our usual contract when they
applied to place you here," Paul said when Dale didn't answer. "Part
of which is that the client may decide not to return to work. They
knew that was an option and they agreed to it, you have nothing to
worry about there."



"Nor do you need to tell him anything on this visit," Flynn
added. "None of us will. If you choose to then that's your decision,
but that isn't what he's coming for. It's social contact we're
interested in, and that's all. Not making any kind of plans, not
setting an exit date, no deadlines."

It was said with all of Flynn's usual blunt authority and no tact
whatever. In other words, if I catch you packing, there's going to
be trouble. Dale gave him a brief smile, understanding and more
reassured than if Flynn had reasoned or encouraged.



"Ok."











It was the following afternoon that Flynn parked the battered four
by four in the garage and walked with Jerry Banks around the front
of the house in the afternoon sun. It wasn't the first time Banks
had been to the ranch. Flynn remembered a younger and slimmer Banks
visiting Philip, and visiting his nephew during his nephew's stay at
the ranch not too long ago, and Banks had met him on the landing
strip with a strong handshake, a warm smile and a demand to know how
they were treating A.N.Z's finest. The information sent back to
sponsors and family was minimal when a client was at the ranch. For
immediate family and partners they gave a little more lee way and
certainly more sympathy, but generally when a client reached the
point of needing the ranch's programme, everyone in their life,
including them, benefited from a complete break. Corporate sponsors
got very short shrift indeed. However very few clients had ever
stayed as long as Dale had needed. Flynn had returned a few emails
to Banks, sharing no information other than that Dale was well,
doing well and was moving through the work he needed to do. Walking
with the man into the yard, he was aware of the man's genuine
interest as he scanned the yard, with a little more concern than
most corporate sponsors showed, and not based entirely on whether a
very necessary corporate resource was repaired. Dale's deep and
personal loyalty to the man didn't appear to have been misplaced.



Dale and Riley were putting away two of the young two year olds into
their paddock and picking up the scattered tack they had removed in
order to rub down the colts. Banks' eyes passed over them once
before he looked again, sharply, and Flynn heard his mutter of
shock.



"That's not Dale?"



Flynn stifled a smile, trying to see what the man beside him saw. A
slim, lightly built man in a blue shirt and jeans which showed the
muscle at legs and chest, and emphasised the dark tan of his arms
and face from months of outdoor work. Somewhat long dark hair from
months without a hair cut, and a heavy fringe which he shook back
while he talked to Riley, quiet face alive when he laughed at
something Riley said to him. Sure hands which pulled confidently at
the saddle he picked up, and a smooth, even stride. Very different
to the thin, restless and exhausted man of early spring, who
struggled to stand still or to look you for long in the eye. He
glanced up as he started towards the barn, and Flynn saw his stride
check as he saw Banks, his face flashing to reserve as Dale very
often did when uncertain or thinking. Then he smiled – one of his
careful, controlled smiles – set down the saddle and came across the
yard, holding out a hand.



"Jerry."

"Dale." Banks shook his hand, looking at Dale with both eyebrows
raised. "My God boy, look at you."

"I'm a mess, we've been jumping the colts this morning," Dale said
apologetically, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "Riley-."

"We've met." Riley said cheerfully, offering a hand to shake. "How
is Joseph, sir?"



Banks took it warmly, but Flynn could see his eyes kept returning to
Dale.



"Doing well, thank you. He would have liked to have come with me,
but I'm stopping over on my way to a conference in Washington
tonight, the plane's waiting an hour or so up on the landing strip.
Just wanted time for a quick visit with Dale."



How well Dale remembered those hours spent on flights, cramming
information for whatever meeting you were headed for. Jerry's office
equipment would be aboard the plane and running, probably under the
care of his PA. To be one of Jerry's priorities, enough to divert on
a flight, was no small gesture on Jerry's part.



"Want me to take that?" Riley offered, holding out an arm for the
saddle. Dale took a breath and shook his head, still controlling
himself and thinking fast about how best to handle this. And not for
any personal strategy either: he was aware he was planning mentally
how Flynn would want him to handle this. Not to view it as a test.



"No thanks, I've got it. Jerry, want to come with me? I've a few
things left to do."



"That sounds like you." Jerry said wryly, walking with him towards
the stable. Dale found himself stifling a quick smile of response.



No, not like me Jerry. You have no idea.



"The physical work is great," he said easily, opening the stable
door with his hip and walking down to the tack room. "There couldn't
be a more beautiful place to be outside in."

"Better than your damned gym." Jerry agreed, watching him sling the
saddle and nudging the tack door closed behind him to give them
privacy. The others hadn't followed, and Dale knew without looking
that they wouldn't. Just as he knew without asking, that Flynn would
be nearby and at the slightest cue would step in and help. That
knowledge alone was enough to feel secure. They would not interfere,
but they were there.



"You look better than I've seen in years." Jerry said shrewdly. "All
fresh air and counselling?"



"And a firm hand." Dale said candidly. "How are things going? Who
carried on with the Aurora project?"



"I did." Jerry said gruffly. "And they weren't happy about it, they
wanted you and they made it damned clear I was a poor substitute.
Have you been all right here, boy?"



It was asked with real concern and Dale's heart went out to the man
who had always been kind to him.



"This was exactly what I needed. It's been a – revolutionary –
experience. A good one. Not an easy one, but nothing but good."

"They were good with Joseph," Banks said roughly. "He was far better
for coming here and he's damned fond of Flynn and the rest of them,
he's been back at least once to visit of his own accord. Look, I
know you were steamrollered into this, we gave you no choice, but I
was damned if I could think of anything else I could do for you. Is
there anything you need? Anything you want me to do? Anything at
all, boy."



It wasn't corporate concern for a valued resource. Dale smiled at
him, touched and wondering why he'd never previously realised how
much Banks had been concerned. He remembered numerous conversations,
Banks taking him for dinner after meetings, telling him to slow
down, to delegate, to ask for help. It was advice Dale knew now that
he never would have been able to follow. At the time, he simply
hadn't had the understanding or skills to be able to. And at the
time, it had sounded like concern for optimum output for the
corporation: concepts Dale did understand. He had never recognised
the emotion lying beneath. Banks was a good man and a good mentor,
and he was still offering to be a good friend if Dale allowed him to
be. It was humbling, and a little shaming, that Banks, like Flynn
and Paul and the others, was prepared, despite numerous rejections,
to keep on trying.



"Thanks Jerry." he said, meaning it. "I appreciate it, I really do.
I'm fine here, this was the right thing to do. I needed it. And I'm
not done yet, I know that."

"Flynn said he'd warned you this didn't mean you were leaving with
me." Banks said, giving him a studied look. "This happens in your
time and on your terms, Flynn's made that damned clear too."

"He worked with Joseph?" Dale said gently. Banks grunted.



"Jasper did a lot I believe, but Flynn did most of the explaining to
me. I mentored Joe when he first went back to work, with Flynn
advising me, and we did all right. The offer's there for you too,
any time you want it. You've made quite a hit here from what I've
heard – not that I'm surprised, mind you. You always did charm the
socks off anyone we sent you to."

"They're not used to having clients stay for half a year." Dale said
dryly, putting away the rest of the tack. "Most seem to get their
acts together a bit quicker."



Banks snorted.



"Flynn told me you've challenged him, made him think about every
step he took with you, research and stretch his skills – said you'd
taught him a lot and you were a damn special individual. Not sure
how many people he'd say that about, and he doesn't talk idly,
Flynn."



No, he didn't. Stunned, and touched, Dale kept his face averted
while he finished the work and Banks, after a brief silence, changed
the subject to A.N.Z. affairs.



They sat on the porch for a while with Paul and Flynn and drank tea,
after which Paul passed Dale the keys to the four by four and
suggested he drove Jerry back up to the landing strip. It was
another gesture of trust that touched Dale still deeper, a quiet,
every day suggestion that Jerry wouldn't have even noticed for its
ordinariness but which made Dale look at Paul, understanding what
bit by bit they were handing back to him. It was a short drive up
the grass slopes where not even a road was marked, until they
reached the plane on the open land in the valley, and Dale watched
Banks walk up the steps and wave from the window as the plane
started its engines. Within a minute it was out of sight over the
hills, and Dale started the engine on the four by four and drove it
slowly back down through the pastures to the ranch.



He put the four by four in the garage, shut the door on it and
returned the keys to the kitchen, leaving them on the side for Paul
before he went back to the tack room. The last few pieces of tack
took pitifully little time to put away and the shelves were untidy
and the floor was dusty. He was attacking it with a broom and a good
deal of energy when Flynn leaned on the door jamb, arms folded
across his chest.


"Banks get off ok?"



"Fine." Dale said briefly, organising the dust into a precise pile
away from the clean half of the floor. Flynn moved back a little to
avoid the broom, watching it work.



"I think you're done in here."

No, not by any stretch of the imagination because the floor was
inarguably, horribly, unacceptably dusty. Flynn clicked his fingers
and held out a hand for the broom. Dale managed three more very
hurried sweeps before Flynn took it out of his hand and stood back
to let him by.



"Out."



Leaving the floor in that state was almost too annoying to tolerate.
Dale reluctantly let Flynn guide him up to the porch and sat on the
swing where Flynn put him, feeling the sway of it as Flynn sat down
beside him.



"What are you thinking about?" Flynn said bluntly.



A hundred and one answers sprang to mind, starting with the
automatic response of 'nothing', a demand to know what business it
was of Flynn's, and a request to know how that outweighed a bloody
horribly dusty floor. All of which were unacceptable. If it was
being chewed on, then it was public information. Dale took a short,
exasperated breath and made himself search for the words.



"The floor needed doing, it can't be left like that."

"And tell me about not leaving tasks half done when necessary?"
Flynn said calmly. Dale glared at him.



"Perfectionism, and I don't need to give in to it."

"Yes." Flynn agreed, settling back to watch him with a manner that
said very clearly he was waiting for Dale to Talk. Properly.



Dale gathered himself and forced a smile, making his tone normal,
warm.



"It was just good to see him. That's all, nothing more."



"Ok, let's go." Flynn said calmly, getting up.



There were times that Flynn's ESP seriously sucked, to borrow a
really excellent word of Riley's. And yes, all right, it felt good
too to be seen through so easily, to not be allowed to shut away or
refuse the help. Give in or refuse: either way you chose Flynn, and
either way he would reach you. It was up to you what you needed.



He only used the flat of his hand once they reached the privacy of
the study couch, and only briefly, but he matter of factly
unbuttoned and peeled Dale's jeans down before Dale lay over his
lap, and once there, he tugged Dale's shorts down to his knees,
applying those dozen sharp spanks to a bare bottom, which made his
message doubly acute in every conceivable way. And he kept Dale
where he was after the twelfth, voice just as calm.



"Want to try again?"



Somewhere, some maniac at the back of Dale's mind, wanted to
say 'no'. The rest of Dale hastily stifled him. The view of the
couches dark leather was as calming as the lively heat and smart of
his backside behind him, still upturned and vulnerable across the
hardness and warmth of Flynn's lap. Flynn's hand was heavy on his
back, and without trying, Dale knew it would prevent him turning
around to see Flynn's face.

There was nothing whatever to do but relax where he was – as much as
was possible – and to give in. Which came with its usual rushing
sense of relief in surrender.



"He likes me. Banks. I never really – got – that he liked me. Or
that he worried about me."



Flynn didn't answer. Dale folded his arms on the couch seat, resting
his head on them. This was a stupid position to think in, and yet he
knew he was thinking clearly and freely.



"You know he tried to talk to me so many times? I can remember them
now and I know what he was trying to do. I can see how he tried to
help, he –"

"Just didn't know how?" Flynn said softly when Dale stopped. Dale
nodded slowly.



"I wasn't co operating. I feel so bad, Flynn. Why didn't I see that?
Why does he even still bother to try with me!"



"You're thinking you were a lousy person, and you were not." Flynn
said quietly and firmly. "You never were. You have always been good,
caring and likeable, you deserved for Jerry Banks to like you and to
care about you. And yes, he does. He didn't know how to meet your
needs – he isn't a Top."

"That is not the answer to life, the universe and everything." Dale
muttered. Flynn raised an eyebrow.


"And you're here now, talking, because…….?"



One hand patted, gently and meaningfully. He was actually waiting
for an answer. Dale felt himself flush and felt his mood fracture
into a wry smile with the sheer ridiculousness of it.



"Because you'll spank me if I don't."

"And that isn't the answer to everything either, but it's what you
want and need from someone close, to be able to open up to them."
Flynn said gently. "And you lacked emotional literacy, if you want
to call it that. Inexperience. You didn't ignore Banks; you didn't
have the ability to recognise or to respond at the time. You do now.
And blaming yourself for knowledge and skills you didn't have at the
time?"



"Perfectionism again." Dale said, sighing. "It's irrational, hyper
critical and not something to give in to. It's just hard."

"Yes, it is." Flynn agreed. "But like anything else, it'll get
easier with practice. You haven't done anything wrong."

"Except proved I'm not ready to leave." Dale muttered, shifting
slightly over Flynn's lap. Flynn held him where he was, not letting
him fidget.



"And you feel it's time now?"


"I feel like that was the last step and I'm done and I should just
go gracefully." Dale admitted bleakly, giving in to Flynn's hand and
once more relaxing where he was. "And I know you said not to think
like that, but-"

"Who's talking now?" Flynn said gently. "The CEO or the brat?"



"I don't think they're separable." Dale said heavily. Flynn put an
arm around his shoulders, steadying Dale up from his lap where Dale
fumbled his pants back into place. And then he took a firm clasp on
Dale's wrist and pulled him down on the couch beside him, one arm
tightly around his shoulders.



"No, they're not, and this is where we stop trying. You've done
everything we've asked of you since you came here. There's things we
can work on – if you stay another twenty years there'll still be
things we can work on – but that's part of this kind of lifestyle,
and that's your choice, not something you need to do in order to be
healthy again. Paul keeps telling you, you're not a client. You
haven't been for a while, but clientwise, you've done everything I
need of you. Bratwise, we haven't even started yet, and we're in no
hurry. Are we?"



"If I was just a client," Dale said, digesting this, "What would
happen now?"


"You'd be showing me the kind of exit plan you wanted," Flynn said
mildly. "Whether to dive back in, to change roles, whether you
needed support to re enter the workplace – some need more gradual
integration than others. And we'd be looking for a mentor for you to
help you keep work under control."

"That wouldn't have worked for me." Dale said slowly. Flynn shook
his head.



"Not unless the mentor was a Top. No."

Like the other simple boundaries, there was a security in that
knowledge that was infinite. A sense of safety that Dale knew in all
honesty he had never known in his life.



"So you haven't failed." Flynn said quietly beside him. "You haven't
shown me you're not ready or not fit. You get anxious. That's the
way you are, so we talk about it and we work on it together. That's
ok and it isn't something I expect you to quit doing any time soon."

"It is something I should quit and learn how to control." Dale said
slowly. "That's why we've worked on all the perfectionist stuff."

"You are who you are." Flynn said simply. "We control the aspects of
it that make you anxious and unhappy, we stop it controlling you,
that's something we do together by the rules we have and the
measures we agree on. Over time you'll get confident and practiced
at handling it, but I told you before, Dale. You won't stop being a
Perfectionist, and you won't stop being a brat. And that's ok. It's
accepting yourself, your own identity with all of its strengths.
We're very proud of you, you know?"



Dale felt himself turning scarlet at the thought. They sat for a
while, before Flynn looked down at Dale under his arm.



"Is that making sense?"



"It makes sense." Dale said slowly. "I get it. Sometimes I fight
getting it, but I do – get it."

"You've got a lot of insight. It's not letting the Perfectionist
voice take over." Flynn said mildly. "So I want you to go stand in
the corner in the family room until dinner and think that through. I
think you could do with chilling out and not doing until you've got
yourself calmed down."

Dale groaned but got up.



"I could just go deal with that floor. I'd like to go deal with that
floor."



Flynn smiled and the swat he placed across the seat of Dale's jeans
was a firm and painless pat.



"You can stand and think about how dusty that floor is, and why its
ok that it's dusty."









*









It was an evening or two later that all of them together went
through the old compartment in the desk in the study. There was
nothing of great importance there, just things that had for Philip
been personal – notebooks, letters, several of which were business
letters, and most of which were David's, some of them more than
fifty years old. It was something they'd put off for a long evening
together, and it was leisurely done, gathered on the couch and the
window seat and in Riley's case the study rug. They looked together
through the odds and ends, looking over each others shoulders and
punctuating the conversation with many reminiscences, teasing and
laughing, until at last Riley abruptly got up and said cheerfully
that he was going to make a tray of tea, but Dale, near enough to
see his face, was shocked to see his eyes full of tears as he
disappeared towards the kitchen. He looked across to Paul for help
but Flynn had already got up to follow him.



"It's hard to hear Philip's voice like this," Paul said softly to
Dale, sliding the letter he had been reading back into its envelope
and offering it to him. They had been passing the letters around,
sometimes Paul reading fragments of one aloud, and they had included
him in this very family event without hesitation. Dale took the
letter gently, unfolding it, recognising David's spidered
handwriting.



"It's particularly hard for Riley and Flynn." Paul took another
letter and turned it over in his hand but didn't open it. He didn't
say anything else, but Dale had seen Jasper look up as Flynn
followed Riley, and Jasper's expression said a good deal in itself.



Flynn found Riley in the kitchen, leaning on the counter and
swallowing hard. He turned around when Flynn touched him, and buried
himself in Flynn's chest, locking his arms around Flynn's waist.
Flynn wrapped him tightly enough to lift him off his feet, and held
him closely, leaning his head against Riley's.



"I still miss him." Riley said eventually and unsteadily. "I still
need him. There's always things I want to talk to him about. Even
now there's times where I think, 'I want Philip', and whoever else
I've got, they're not him."



He said it without inhibition, straight from the heart as only Riley
could.













It was a few days later that Dale began to notice the bickering.



It began quite mildly at first. Just a few occasions where Riley
sniped at Flynn when he was asked to do something, and Dale saw him
sent to stand in a corner, which as always, made him briefly furious
and then deeply contrite. Riley always apologised and things always
returned immediately to normal. Then there was a breakfast time
where Riley seemed to have gotten out of bed on the wrong side and
everything Flynn said to him seemed to raise a mutter or growl,
until Paul sent Riley back to bed and kept him there the rest of the
morning.



He was his usual self when Dale saw him again at dinnertime, but
Dale, who had spent a lot of time watching and learning about these
four people, noticed how often Riley touched Flynn, leaning on his
shoulders, brushing against him, the physical cues Dale knew usually
made Flynn automatically – sometimes without even looking – reach to
put an arm around him or to pull Riley down into his lap. He was
always very physical with Riley, but there seemed to be something
very slightly – different – about the way he responded. Attention
caught, Dale found himself watching Flynn still more carefully than
usual, studying him, and there it was. The change Riley was aware
of. Flynn's face was just fractionally more impassive than usual. He
was fractionally quieter than usual, and his smiles were still
rarer. There was a tension to him – something grim but tangible, and
day by day it was getting stronger.



And once he'd seen that, Dale began to watch and to see the rest of
the pattern. Paul said nothing and behaved as usual, but Dale began
to notice how discreetly he distracted Riley, guiding the direction
of conversations and filling Flynn's side of the conversation at
mealtimes which covered Flynn's quietness. Jasper equally said
nothing, but with Jasper it was never words that told you what he
was thinking. Several times Dale saw him standing with Flynn at the
corral fence watching the horses, or the two of them walking down
towards the woods together, apparently not talking but shoulder to
shoulder. A stranger who didn't know them would barely have noticed
it, but to Dale, the difference was as plain as day. He felt it
wasn't his place to say anything or to show that he had noticed.
Something obviously wasn't right, and between themselves, they were
handling it. These four had been together a long time and to respect
their privacy was the one consideration that Dale felt he could give
them. His one way to help.



He was washing breakfast dishes one morning while Paul
cleared the table, when they heard Riley's voice raised and shouting
from the yard, and Paul muttered and promptly put the dishes down,
heading fast for the door. Dale shook off wet hands and followed.
Riley was standing directly in front of Flynn in the yard, as if
blocking his way to the stables, and Flynn was impassively holding a
saddle in his arms, not moving.



"Riley." Paul said from the steps, firmly enough to get Riley's
attention. "Corral. Now. Go."

Flynn turned away, heading for the training paddock and heaving the
saddle higher in his arms.



"I'm going to clear the brush at the falls!" Riley yelled after
him. "And then I'll damn well swim if I feel like it!"



"Riley, look at me." Paul said firmly.

Riley's head snapped around and his tone was no nicer than it had
been to Flynn.

"What?"

"Go do as Flynn asked you to do," Paul said levelly, "Right now, or
you're grounded for the day. Your choice."

"And you can stuff it too." Riley snarled back, stalking towards the
corral. Flynn, across the yard, dumped the saddle on the fence and
turned around, voice sharp.

"Riley."

"I'm going!" Riley growled at him. Flynn's voice lifted and
deepened.

"You do not talk that way to Paul. Kitchen corner, face the wall and
wait for me."

There was a moment where Dale thought Riley was going to yell back,
then he turned and stalked towards the house, running up the porch
steps past Paul who was heading down them. Flynn turned back to the
saddle and Paul had to call him to make him stop.

"Flynn."

Flynn looked back at him, face unreadable. Paul's voice was soft,
but Dale still heard it.

"I'll handle Riley. You go do what you need to."

Flynn didn't respond and Paul looked straight at him.

"Flynn, I'll deal with him. Go on."

If Paul saw any kind of reply, Dale couldn't spot it. Flynn simply
took the saddle towards the pasture where the yearlings were
grazing.

Paul stood for a moment as if he wanted to follow, then turned back
towards the house and went into the kitchen, putting a hand gently
on Dale's arm as he passed him.

"Riley, come here."

Riley, who had stood stiffly in the kitchen corner without a word,
turned around. Paul held out his arms and Riley walked straight into
them, clutching.

"Well you got what you wanted, didn't you?" Paul demanded gently
over his head. "You wanted him mad, and now you've got him mad. Does
that make you feel any better?"

That was enough. Dale saw Riley melt into real tears and Paul
sighed, holding him tightly.

"I know. It's ok, honey. It's all right."

"I didn't mean to speak to you like that," Riley said
miserably. "I'm sorry."

"I know you didn't. Do you need your mouth washed out for you to
remember?"

"No." Riley said shakily but emphatically.

"Ok." Paul let him go, running his fingers gently over Riley's face
where tears were still visible. "Well we warned you and you made
your choice. You're grounded to the house today. Go upstairs, wash
your face and strip the beds for me. All of them."

Riley went at once and Dale heard him run upstairs. Paul took a
breath and came to put the kettle on, giving Dale a rather harried
look.

"Leave the rest of the dishes. I'll get Riley to do them."

"It won't take me long." Dale said quietly, positive Riley wouldn't
be made any happier by the chore, but Paul shook his head.

"I'll keep him busy in the house today. At least that'll keep him
away from Flynn and neither of them have to deal with a fight."

That was a very open invitation to ask, and Dale took it, coming to
gently take the kettle away from Paul and take over the making of
the tea since Paul looked in need of a little care himself.

"Let me do that. Why would they fight?"

Paul surrendered the kettle, watching Dale get out cups.

"You've seen it before. Riley hates for Flynn to be withdrawn and he
can't stop picking at him, trying to get a reaction. It's like
poking a sleeping bear with a stick. And Flynn then walls Riley off
even tighter because he's afraid of losing his temper."

He doesn't do strong emotion well. Or any emotion really.

"It's the desk, isn't it?" Dale said softly.

Paul nodded slowly. "I think so. Finding the journal was a huge
thing, Philip meant so much to Flynn and he needed so much to feel
he was worthy. And this does just happen sometimes, usually around
anniversaries. He gets lonely for Philip and it takes him a while to
come around."

It was hard not to feel responsible.

Dale swallowed on an intensely personal question as he put a cup
down in front of Paul and took the seat beside him. Paul gave him a
watchful look and a faint smile.

"Dale Edward, you are not a client, or a guest anymore. Stop chewing
and say it."

"I just wondered if Philip put up with him brooding." Dale said as
lightly as he could. Paul shook his head, looking somewhere between
affectionate and sad.

"No, he didn't. I think that's some of why Flynn misses Philip so
badly when he's in one of these moods. Philip could always reel him
in. It just doesn't work for anyone but Philip. I've tried, I tried
for years, and Flynn tries to listen to me and he tries his best to
talk to me because he can't bear to hurt me, but it doesn't help
him, and all that happens is that he gets still more upset that he's
worrying us. Push too hard and he'll go off by himself for a few
days, and that's even worse. Jas has always said the best we can do
is to give him quiet and space if he needs it, be there for him and
let him find his own way out. It's just a very hard thing to do when
you love him, and Riley really can't. Not because he's angry with
Flynn, he just –"

"Can't stand to not to try. And any reaction is better than none."
Dale said quietly, understanding. Paul nodded, sipping tea.

"Exactly."

"But Flynn will take orders from you."

And Dale had seen it. Gentle, usually genial Paul was the one person
who seemed able to lay down the law to Flynn, and Flynn usually
obeyed without a word on the very rare occasions when he did.

"Orders." Paul said wryly. "Yes, I suppose he does, but you can't
order someone to feel better and you can't reach Flynn like that.
Like I said. Philip wasn't any kind of drill sergeant, it wasn't
just authority. I don't know exactly what he did do- I wish I did.
He used to follow Flynn outside and a few hours later you'd see
Flynn subdued but his usual self again."

Dale, who knew exactly how it felt to find someone who could, and
always would break through to you no matter how bad things seemed,
swallowed on that with something a good deal more powerful than
compassion. It was ironic- beyond ironic – that Flynn, who could do
that for others, pull them out of any nightmare their own mind could
produce, could not do it for himself. And had lost the man who could
do it for him.

Riley's footsteps were heard on the stairs and Dale got up, well
aware Riley wouldn't want an audience right now and too sympathetic
not to get out of his way.

"If there's nothing else I can do, I'll go get started outside."

Paul leaned across the table for his hand, catching it and
squeezing. "Don't worry about either of them. Really. This is a bad
one, but they happen. We'll look after Riley and Flynn always comes
out of it, it just takes time."

It was a sudden impulse, but one that came before Dale had time to
think about it. He stooped, and roughly, clumsily kissed Paul's
cheek before he headed outside.



*



The morning frost left footprints on the grass and the horses'
breath hung in the air, white steam against the still grey, early
morning sky. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the house where Paul
was cooking breakfast, and Philip strolled slowly down alongside the
fence of the paddock, hands dug in his pockets, hat shading his
eyes. He said nothing at all while Flynn finished saddling the
horse, but he leaned against the gate which effectively prevented it
being opened, and watched. There was no point whatever in asking him
to move. Flynn unwillingly led the horse to the gate and stood
there, forced to face him. Philip gave him a calm look from under
the brim of his hat, pushing it back a little on iron grey hair.

"Not hungry this morning?"

"No sir."

Philip didn't respond. He very often didn't, just looking at you
with steady, grey eyes and waiting. And he'd wait hours, or even
days if necessary. Flynn reeled in the leading rein with several
abrupt yanks – or as abrupt as he could manage without spooking the
horse – and kept his eyes on the frosty pastures beyond. After a
while, Philip unlatched the gate and opened it a little. Enough for
a man, not a horse. The inclination of his head said it all.
Stifling a huff of exasperation, Flynn tied up the horse's reins and
came through the gate, letting Philip latch it behind him. And
without looking, Philip began to walk slowly up the line of
paddocks, along the fence, towards the distant paddock where the big
shires grazed. There was nothing to do except walk with him. Philip
said nothing at all, hands deep in his pockets, eyes on the paddocks
around them, the trees in the distance. It was impossible to be out
here and not to feel the silence, interrupted only by the occasional
baa of a sheep in the far distance, or the snort of a horse, or not
to see the white smoke of their breath and the white mist that hung
just above the frosted green grass, stirred by their boots. The
grass crunched slightly as they walked, and they left clear
footprints behind.

"I told Paul it was better I got out of the way before breakfast
this morning." Flynn said eventually, and shortly. He was
immediately aware his accent had thickened, as it did under stress,
and he was irritably aware too that Philip would have noticed.
Philip nodded slightly, not looking at him as they continued to
walk.

"And this is about Hamilton ."

Not a question. Flynn took a breath, trying not to explode.

"Did Paul tell you where I was last night?"

Philip glanced at him, one brow mildly raised. Flynn stopped on the
grass, gripping his hands into fists in his coat pockets.

"That kid was out here half the night to be near the horses. It took
long enough to get him to talk to me and longer still to get him
back to the house in anything like a fit state to sleep – I won't be
around Hamilton . I can't, not without telling him what I think of
him."

"You like the boy." It wasn't a question, and mildly said. Flynn
growled.

"He's a nice kid. He's damned good with animals, and they like him –
the worst tempered ones we have stand still and let him do whatever
he wants, he picked out Napalm's feet yesterday before I saw to warn
him and Nape stood and let him like he was a child's pony. He's a
bloody good rider. And he works hard; this crap from Hamilton about
him being spoiled or good for nothing is pure bullshit, there's
nothing lazy or unwilling about him. He's followed me around for two
days and he's pitched in with everything I've done, he's glad to be
doing and he's desperate for company and any shred of kindness –
look how he responds to Paul for pete's sake! Looks to me like a
classic school refusal."

"School refusal?"

They had reached the shire paddock and Philip leaned on the fence,
clicking softly to the big shires who looked up and then eagerly
came across the grass towards them.

"Something goes wrong at school which makes the whole place
untenable to the kid." Flynn said shortly. "He's bright – maybe not
academic, I don't know, but given something real to do with actual
self esteem attached to it, he's a good worker and he's keen. I'd
think something's gone wrong socially. Bullying, some kind of
emotionally based problem, probably not helped by the fact Hamilton
hawks him around from state to state every few months."

"What would you do?" Philip asked, taking several broken carrots
from his pockets and feeding them to the two shires who lipped them
from his hands, crunching noisily and snorting white breath over the
fence rail.

"Get him doing something real. Physical, real responsibility, which
tells him at the end of every day exactly what he's done and done
well, that's solid self esteem. What he needs most is listening to
and basic routine and care – Hamilton doesn't even bloody tell him
to go to bed. He's fifteen years old! What kind of damn security is
there in that?" One of the shires nudged hard at Flynn's shoulder,
demanding the attention it was used to receiving, and Flynn took a
step back to balance himself, then absently rubbed the massive
nose. "He's a whole mess of emotion he doesn't know what to do with,
it's spilling out all over the place and Hamilton calls that
being 'difficult' or just plain 'teenaged'. Our stock gets more
consideration than he gives that kid."

"And he's a kid worth the consideration." Philip said mildly. There
was another long silence. Then Philip looked over at Flynn.

"What do you want to do?"

"Break Hamilton 's face." Flynn said flatly.

Philip gave him a faint smile and Flynn eventually, unwillingly,
returned it, leaning against the rail.

"All right, all right, I won't. I promise. I want you to talk to
Hamilton, sir. If he doesn't do something about that kid now, Riley
will turn himself into the kind of mess Hamilton keeps telling him
he is. Or he'll run away."

"You think that's a real possibility?" Philip said quietly. Flynn
grunted.

"He's gay. He told me last night. I'd guess I'm the first person
he's said it out loud to. Hamilton doesn't know."

Which made a good looking, desperate teenaged boy twice as
vulnerable. Philip pulled himself up off the rail, briefly grasping
the nape of Flynn's neck as he did so. It was a familiar gesture of
affection, one that Flynn had always been able to tolerate as
relatively non invasive, and he knew what Philip meant by it.

"Come back to the house and eat breakfast." Philip said firmly, and
started to walk with the calm expectation that Flynn would come with
him. And from Philip, that, in itself, was a cast iron guarantee
that all would be well.





In summer, the paddock where the shires grazed, was deep and green,
and peaceful.

The sun was warm on his back and there was no one else leaning on
the fence rail beside him. Flynn watched one of the shires go down
on the grass and roll, hardly seeing the massive horse there. He was
goofing off and he knew it: the saddle he had been taking to work on
one of the two year olds was on the fence beside him – but his feet
had brought him here of their own accord. Philip had often come to
watch the shires. He said the size of them raised an awe in him that
he never grew tired of. All that careful movement and grace on top
of all that power. It was something Flynn had always understood
since he felt much that way about Bandit.

Jasper was walking slowly down from the corral, some way off,
carrying a bag of feed over one shoulder. He moved like a cat. It
had been slightly past one am last night when Jasper came into his
room where he had been lying awake, watching the dark pastures out
of the window. How he had known, Flynn had no idea, but he silently
shouldered out of his t shirt and Flynn moved over to make room for
him, and Jasper's long, hard body was warm against his, one arm
heavy over Flynn's chest. They slept on and off until the sky began
to turn from midnight blue to grey, and then they dressed and went
quietly downstairs, Flynn pausing to look in turn through the half
open doorways as he very often did at night. Paul, dear and staid
and peacefully asleep – and it was for Paul he and Jasper were most
careful; Paul was quick to hear anyone in need at night. Riley, on
his stomach, one smooth arm around a pillow, long legs sprawled, his
face peaceful. Dale, who for a few weeks now had been sleeping back
in his own bed next door, as quiet in his sleep as he was when
awake, dark hair scattered, one arm bent above his head, long
fingers half curled. He often lay like that, and Flynn felt his
usual, brief and ridiculous impulse to lay his own fingers inside
that half open palm. Jasper made tea downstairs, Flynn dug bread and
fruit out of the pantry and they ate together on the porch in the
coolness of very early morning.

Paul's support was just as powerful: his love was shown in the neat
piles of freshly ironed laundry that appeared on your bed, the house
always immaculate and comfortable, the table set and welcoming at
mealtimes with what he thought would tempt you; in his hands, in his
voice, in the things he didn't say no matter how much he wanted to,
because he understood. And Riley….. who had all the impetuous
courage and determination of his nature, who couldn't bear to see
someone he loved turn so dark, and who wouldn't be protected from
it, couldn't accept that he couldn't somehow force things to come
right. There had been times in the past that the only thing left to
do had been to take a horse and go out somewhere too far for Riley
to find, until the darkness passed.

And Dale. Who watched, taking it in as quietly as he did everything
else, and said nothing. For a business man, a powerful man, he was
one of the most un judgemental people that Flynn had ever met –
save that Dale was by heart and soul not a predator but a
mathematician. By nature he observed and collected and organised
data, that was how he saw the world, and his conclusions were drawn
slowly and tested on evidence

"Hey." a voice said softly from a few feet away.

Paul. With a mug in his hand which he held out, coming to lean on
the fence beside Flynn.

"I thought you might want this. I saw you and Jas were up at dawn."

Flynn took it without a word, cupping his hands around the warmth.

"Riley's ok." Paul said, as if he'd asked. Flynn flinched, visibly,
and Paul's face twisted. He put a hand behind Flynn's sandy head and
drew it down, dropping a brief and fierce kiss against his forehead.

"Stop it. He's fine, he'll live."

Flynn didn't pull away, standing for a minute with his head against
Paul's.

"Can I help?" Paul said softly into his hair. "Is there anything I
can do?"

Flynn shook his head, drawing gently away and sipping the tea.

"I miss him too." Paul said candidly, leaning on the fence beside
him.



There were times when without actually moving, Flynn could appear to
rear like a panicked horse. Paul looked back at him with compassion.



"I won't lie. My stomach did a few flops when Dale showed me that
key."



"I can't get a grip." Flynn muttered, drinking tea.



"Thinking of him?"



It was hard to explain. Why that small key in Dale's hand should
have translated into this bleak and aching sense of loss – it had
been years.



"I'm a damn psychologist and I don't know why." Flynn said savagely.



Paul, who had just left Riley in the kitchen, seething on a very
similar sentiment, put a hand on Flynn's shoulders, rubbing where
the muscles were hard with tension.



"That man is a psychologist for pete's sake!" Riley had stormed a
few minutes ago. "He's trained, he's written books on it!"

"He is never a psychologist or a professional when it comes to you
or to us." Paul had told him firmly, knowing Riley understood even
if he didn't want to. "How could he be? How could we want him to be?"



Jasper was walking quietly across the grass to them. Paul looked up,
catching his eye and communicating a brief message he saw absorbed
in Jasper's dark eyes as Jasper leaned on the fence beside them,
shoulder against Flynn's. Even in the days when Paul first knew
them, before they really spoke to each other or to anyone else, they
used to stand like that: blocked hard up against each other as if
the weight of the other was some kind of tether or anchor. Flynn was
still staring out at the pasture in front of them as though trying
to see something through a fog. Paul put an arm around his waist and
hugged him, leaning against his other side.



"Why do you need to know? It's ok to be sad, it's ok to miss him,
grieving takes time."



That wasn't it. Flynn looked down at his hands, bleak and ashamed
and angry with himself, and still angrier that he knew he wouldn't
tolerate this from Riley or Dale or anyone else he cared about.



Physician heal thy bloody self. If you have any real idea of what
the problem is.



"I'm going to take Leo and go out for a few days-" he began gruffly,
and Paul interrupted him, firm and determined.



"No. There's no need for that."



"I'm driving Riley mad."

"Riley is fine and he got himself into trouble this morning. You
didn't go and pick a fight with him, you can't protect him from ever
having to feel frustrated or angry-"

Flynn made a sound that reminded Paul of something breaking, and he
folded his arms on the rail, putting his head down. Paul held on to
him, concerned.



"Flynn, you can't. You won't lose your temper with him, you never
have, and it wouldn't actually kill him if you did."

"I won't do that to Riley." Flynn said stubbornly, straightening
up. "And you know what Riley's like if he knows I'm …." He broke
off, without an adequate word to describe it. "He knows every single
one of my buttons, he can't stop himself."



"At some point he's going to have to learn." Paul said firmly. "You
do not need to remove yourself for anyone's sake, this will be fine."

"There's Dale too." Flynn said grimly. "It isn't just Riley now,
we've got the two of them to think of-"

"Don't you under estimate Dale." Paul turned Flynn to face him and
Jasper caught Flynn's eye, recognising Paul's tone. Both he and
Flynn stood a head taller than Paul and both of them had
involuntarily come to attention.



"He's stronger than Riley and me put together and he's got enough
insight to know exactly what's going on." Paul informed
Flynn. "Don't think he doesn't. You are not harming anyone and you
don't have to go off and do this alone."

"It's better that way." Flynn said shortly.



"No." Paul said definitely. "It's not. I'll pack you lunch and you
spend today riding if you want. Go watch Bandit and the mares. Go
and swim, whatever you need, God knows you work hard enough to
deserve all the time off that you want, but you come home tonight
and you stay with us where you belong."



It was the tone with which he had occasionally scolded Philip – the
only one of them who ever tried – and it had the same effect on
Flynn. Jasper saw Flynn's expression as he stooped to drop a kiss on
Paul's cheek, hugging him with as much apology as need, and Paul
returned the hug as tightly.



"Don't you dare go off anywhere without taking food with you." he
said, taking Flynn's empty mug, and heading back towards the house.



"There's times I find myself biting back the 'yes sir'." Flynn said
under his breath to Jasper, who grinned.



"It's not worth taking the risk. I'd do exactly as he says."



"Sorry." Flynn said briefly and brusquely, not really looking at
him. Jasper dropped an arm around his neck, pulling him over to kiss
his cheek.



"Osda oginali-i."







*







On Jasper's request, Dale spent several hours riding out to the
south west of the ranch where Bandit led the brood mares, to look
over the herd. At this time of year it was a light job: the mares
had all foaled, the weather was gentle and the land in the south
west was the safest for the herd with their foals. Dale checked the
many streams and creeks that cut the bright green and thick growing
grass as he rode, all of which were running clear, and followed the
increasingly familiar curves of the valley, watching out for the
first glimpses of the herd who moved somewhere within this large
expanse of land. He found them eventually near one of the strips of
woodland on the banks of a wide creek, mares cropping the grass
peacefully with several of the foals asleep under the shade of the
trees, little legs thrown out. Bandit himself came into view only
when he crossed the creek: Dale looked back and found the big
stallion circling slowly around behind him at a steady walk, coming
politely to see what he wanted. Dale slid down to the grass and the
stallion came to join him, standing quietly for a moment to let Dale
rub his nose and speak to him. With a habit that had been building
for a while, Dale dug a hand into his pocket and came out with the
odds and ends they all stuffed their pockets with from the boxes in
the stables: carrots, apples, lifesavers – or what Dale knew as
polos – with a knowledge of who liked what. Bandit was, Dale knew,
one of the peppermint fiends, and he courteously accepted the
offering of the several lifesavers Dale produced, lipping them with
surprising delicacy from Dale's palm. He walked with Dale when Dale
moved towards his herd, keeping pace as Dale circled the mares
slowly, looking for one distanced from the others, any indication of
limping or wire cuts or fly blown sores. He found Marika, the lead
mare, to be limping slightly as she stepped, and Dale took the
halter from Hammer's saddle, hanging it over his shoulder before he
approached her. Her foal was asleep on the grass near by and Marika
gave him a wary look, but apparently calmed by Bandit's lack of
concern, she stood quietly and let him lift her foot and dig a knife
out of his pocket to clear her hoof. Bandit stood for a moment,
huffing down Dale's neck and watching while Dale searched, then
moved over towards the creek where another mare was drinking. She
reared up a little and sidled as he approached, bucking with her
feet out towards him – although in no danger of making contact.
Bandit nipped at her and she squealed and danced, although made no
effort to get away from him, and the stallion spun around to nip her
again, lightly, almost like a game of tag. Belle. Dale watched,
sharing his attention between his work and the horses, until he
found the small but sharp piece of flint that was causing Marika's
discomfort. He threw it well out of reach into the undergrowth and
watched Bandit chase Belle out of the water, careful around the
foals gathering and darting about too in excitement at the game.
Another mare – Dale didn't know her name – lifted her head as Bandit
passed, and Bandit ran his head along her neck in a heavy caress.
The harem stallion with his many wives, who were themselves gathered
in their friendship groups around the foals protected in the centre –
and when Dale looked, who had their sentries posted around the edge
of the herd, two always facing the way the herd had come, watching,
and others at the perimeter, ready to signal at the first sign of
danger.

Bandit escorted him to the edge of their valley, although Dale saw
him turning his head frequently, scenting the air and listening for
any warning from the herd behind him. One of the foals, a little
paint colt, skipped and trotted beside him, eagerly keeping pace,
and as they reached the edge of the valley, Bandit snaked a head out
to guide the foal back with him.

In what was known as the home pasture – the start of the twenty or
more square miles that made up the south west of the ranch – stood
the quartz cairn by the lake, and from a distance as he saw the
first glint of the quartz in the sun, Dale saw the horse cropping at
the grass nearby, and the outline of someone sitting by the lake.

There was no doubt that it was Flynn. Dale knew the outline of the
head and shoulders too well, even at this distance. His first
thought, fresh from the herd in the valley some miles away, was the
gut warning of trouble at the sight of an animal who went off alone.
Which was ridiculous: Flynn was not a herd animal. Except Paul's
words from this morning came back to Dale, about how someone such as
Flynn's father had managed to breed a man capable of the affection
and strength of family feeling fundamental to Flynn.

Dale was already drawing Hammer away, intending to ride wide of the
cairn out of Flynn's sight and not disturb him, save that Flynn
looked up and then lifted an arm, signalling. Which of course he
would: dutifully he would pull himself together and be polite
however he was feeling. Dale found himself wishing that Flynn didn't
feel he needed to. He rode slowly across the pasture, and Flynn got
up and came to meet him, face shaded by the brim of his hat. Dale
slid down to the grass when he came into range, but kept hold of
Hammer's reins. He had no idea what to say, and he saw Flynn see his
awkwardness and step in to cover for it, falling in to step beside
him.

"Bandit and the others ok?"

"Fine. They're in the valley by the woodland."

"Let Hammer drink a minute." Flynn stepped back to let the horse
past and Dale let go of Hammer's reins, watching Hammer step
carefully down to the banks of the lake. The cairn glittered behind
him, the pink quartz that marked David and Philip's grave. All the
family came here when they wanted peace or time to think; it was a
precious place to them and Dale couldn't shake the feeling of
dreadful intrusion.

"I should head back," he said lightly, trying to sound off hand
about it, "See what else Jasper needs doing-"

"Rubbish." Flynn said curtly, glancing at his watch. "By the time
you get back it'll be dinner. Nothing else going to get done today."

Ok. Dale took a seat astride one of the large, sun-warmed boulders
around the lake, digging his hands into his pockets.

"Where was the quartz quarried?" he said aloud, still watching the
glint in the sun. Flynn glanced with him at the cairn.

"Some up behind the falls. Some in a quarry out to the far west of
the ranch. Jasper knew of it."

"That's where the stone works are."

"Indian burial ground." Flynn said shortly. "Or so Jas thinks. We
had some historical society wanting to investigate a few years back,
but Jas wouldn't allow it."

No, Jasper wouldn't.

"It's nice that it's the ranches own stone." Dale said, still
watching the cairn. "The best of their own land."

"David had a thing for the stuff." Flynn folded his arms across his
chest, leaning against another of the boulders. "There's several
chunks of it in the house that he found over the years – or mined.
Jas thought he did some mining up at the stone works, there were
signs there."

That was interesting. David appeared to have tried his hand and been
capable at most trades he turned his mind to, and Dale could
understand how the find of the stone on his land might have
motivated him to such a project. Flynn sat down on the rock, eyes
narrowed against the sun.

"Jas knows the stone's properties. Philip did as well, I remember
him telling me about it although I don't know where he heard it or
how he knew. A lot of crystal type stones are supposed to have
various influences or healing powers or so Jas says. It's a Native
American tradition. I never did understand what you were supposed to
do with the stones – eat them or carry them around in your pockets,
whatever."

"What is the pink quartz supposed to do?" Dale asked, intrigued.
Flynn shrugged.

"It's supposed to be associated with compassion. Supposed to remove
negative impulses – anger, bitterness – attract healing, inspire
friendship. And other things. Sometimes called the love stone."



In that sense it made a perfect marker for David and Philip.

"I suppose David was here when the last of the tribes were still
trading in the area." Flynn said abruptly. "There were no
settlements left then, but there were a few who worked as trappers
and had a trading post out east in the woods on the wagon trail.
Philip said there were still one or two around the town when Three
Traders was still occupied. He probably got the knowledge from them –
they would have known the stone and where it came from."

"Is Three Traders part of the ranch?" Dale asked. Flynn shook his
head.

"No. It's still private land, some of it owned by whoever bought out
the railway when it went bust, some of it belonging to whoever owned
the town in the first place. It's about three miles east of our
borders. Good grazing land, but whoever took it would have to deal
with the town smack in the middle. It's all still there, it was just
abandoned. Too much money involved to clear it."

"You wouldn't want them to." Dale said, hearing the tone in his
voice. Flynn lifted one shoulder, shrugging.

"I'm just old fashioned. Preservationist. Jas explains it better
than I do, but he and Philip saw it the same way. There's more here
than we understand, there's knowledge in the land if you look for
it, you live with what's gone before and share in that knowledge.
It's a cheap and arrogant act to obliterate everything and believe
that what you on your own put there is more important."

"Philip had those beliefs too?"

Flynn nodded slowly. "Mostly from David. David knew the tribesmen
around here when he was younger and here alone, when they still
lived near our land. Philip said they liked him, they thought he was
wild as all get out, but they weren't afraid of wildness in their
youngsters, they valued it and they knew how to mould it. They gave
him a couple of the horses that started our bloodlines in the herd,
for various things he did for them – I'm not sure what. Philip
thought he went on some hunts with them, or possibly raids from the
sound of it, and they had free passage over our land when a lot of
other ranchers were using guns and dogs to warn them off. They
picked up a lot of the local knowledge of the land and how to use
it. The way we use the pastures and move the herds in season comes
from them. They knew how to work with the land instead of against
it. Life from the land. Jasper has a phrase for it, not in English,
and apparently it doesn't translate well."

"How does that fit with your work as a scientist?" Dale gave Flynn a
faint smile as Flynn glanced up. "I can see a lot of that philosophy
behind how you work with clients."

"I'm not sure there's such a thing as a pure science when it
involves people." Flynn leaned his elbows on his knees, looking down
at the grass and his hands. "I don't know about new knowledge
either. I suspect we call it different things, generation to
generation. We all have the basic knowledge that vacations have some
restorative value – maybe we don't yet think enough about why, or
what beaches and forests and outdoor places do. I suspect we're the
most indoor generation in the history of humankind and maybe we'll
have to deliberately learn what was never an issue to previous
generations, that we only thrive when in contact with the physical
land."

"There's a calmness to physical work." Dale said, reflecting on
it. "Real, physical work as opposed to a gym or just pure physical
effort. The sensory aspects of it. What you touch, what you feel,
what you see, what you smell – you don't get any of that from a
computer or an office or a rowing machine."

"There is just a love of the land." Flynn got up, clicking to Hammer
who came to him, letting Flynn take his reins. Leo lifted his head
and came to join them.

"When I first came here I hated farming, I never wanted to shear
another sheep or see another sheep, I was going to do something
real, something with some ambition, and spend the rest of my life
nowhere near grass. Or mud. Or rain. I spent months hating it before
I realised hate and love aren't too far off the same thing. I'd go
mad in an office, this is what's real, this is what keeps me sane to
be able to do the more cerebral stuff."

Dale gave him a faint smile that Flynn saw the understanding in –
Dale was the same, needing the anchor to be able to safely let his
mind go – and Flynn mounted up, realising in the silence just how
much he had been talking.

What had Dale said? Well few, if any questions. Just comments, no
more than thoughts spoken aloud, and he had a gift for opening up a
space that you then found yourself filling without realising, even
if you were trained to see that kind of thing. No wonder A.N.Z.
found that their most difficult clients confided in him.







The kitchen smelled warmly of cooking as they heeled
their boots off in the doorway, and Flynn disappeared into the
bathroom, pulling his shirt off over his head, with a nod to Paul.
Dale, heading for the sink and a glass of water, saw Paul stand
where he was for a moment, staring after Flynn, then as the bathroom
door shut, he turned straight to Dale.

"How on earth do you do that? Where have you two been?"

"Out by the cairn," Dale said, surprised. Paul opened his mouth to
ask further, and stopped, and Dale turned to see what had caught his
attention. Riley was in the doorway with an expression Dale
recognised and which caught at his stomach. It was somewhere between
angry and apprehensive, and Dale knew the sensation – the one he
himself associated with that crazed inner driver, bent on
destruction and caring nothing about the consequences. Riley's shirt
was torn and dusty, his boots were dusty, and he looked direct at
Paul as if daring him to comment. Paul pointed towards the family
room.

"Take those boots off and show that shirt to Jasper. He's in the
family room."

"I want a drink." Riley said defiantly, unlacing his boots. Paul
crossed the kitchen at the same calm way he always did, as though
going to turn a tap off or check a pie in the oven, took Riley's arm
and drew him to his feet, although the several swats he landed
across the back of Riley's jeaned legs made Riley squirm.

"Paul!"

"Move." Paul said firmly.

This was aimed entirely at Flynn. Dale, watching, saw it as clearly
as if Riley explained it. Riley had seen them come in to the house,
his raised voice was pitched to pull Flynn out of the bathroom, and
he was vigorously thwarting Paul's attempts to hustle him out of the
kitchen. Dale moved without thinking, swiftly into the family room
where in one of the alcoves Jasper was crouched, surveying a
bookshelf. He glanced up at Dale, and almost instantly came to his
feet, dropping a hand on Dale's shoulder as he passed him, headed
for the kitchen. Riley had progressed as far as a ringing stamp on
the kitchen floor, still wearing his thoroughly dusty boots, and
Jasper didn't say a word, simply taking Riley by the back of the
neck and pushing him towards the family room with a lot more
strength and dispatch than Paul. The bathroom door opened and Dale
saw Flynn take in Riley's state of dress and dustiness in one
glance, his face hardening.

"I thought you were grounded?"

"So did I." Paul said dryly. "We'll be talking about what 'stay in
your room' means."

"I've got it." Jasper said to Flynn, pushing Riley ahead of him and
out of sight in that peculiarly light grip which Riley didn't appear
to be resisting.

"Little horror." Paul said, opening the fridge and pulling out the
juice box. "I thought he was asleep up there and that was why he was
so quiet."

"He's been up by the falls." Flynn said shortly. "Climbing, from the
look of those scratches."

Paul poured a glass of juice and put it into his hand, pouring a
second for Dale.

"Very probably. Dale, go and change, you're just as dusty."

Flynn knocked back the juice in several long swallows and put the
glass in the sink. Dale, still drinking, watched him, not liking the
expressionless look on his face.

"I'm going to pack for two or three days and I'll go now." he said
to Paul. "I'm not going to push him into hurting himself to prove a
point to me."

"This is attention seeking and you know it is." Paul said
calmly. "He does this when he's upset, it's designed to scare you,"

"It's working." Flynn said grimly. "Since when does he sneak out of
the house when he's grounded? Riley doesn't do that kind of thing.
It's not right, I won't do it to him."

He opened the larder door and started to pull out what Dale
recognised as riding provisions: the rolls which lasted several
days, fruit, the dried meat, laying them on the table. Paul watched
for a moment, then came to help, taking down several of the large
canteen bottles.

"All right. All right, let me do that. But take Dale with you."

Flynn looked up at Dale, startled. Paul went on unpacking the
larder, putting Flynn out of his way.

"It would have to be him or Jasper, they're the only two that don't
drive you mad, and with Riley in this frame of mind I need Jasper
here. Dale, go upstairs and get yourself a couple of changes of
clothes and a thick sweater. Plenty of socks, it gets cold out there
at night, and you'll find duffle bags in the bottom shelf of the linen closet."