Harry on the Prairie

Chapter 2

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I'm kinda imagining Hayden Panettiere from "Nashville" as Frankie.

So how's everyone feeling about Prairie so far? Gimme a yee-ha!

*****

"My birth name's Frances, only nobody calls me that," she looks to the ground and back up at me with those blazing eyes, "I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"Believe me, disappointed is the last thing I am right now," I grab her other bag as well, and walk Frankie over to the wagon.

*****
You say you're having trouble figuring me,
I don't believe I'm such a mystery.
Baby what you get is what you see,
I am a simple man.

I want a job and a piece of land,
three squares in my frying pan.
Don't seem so hard for me to understand,
I am a simple man.
-Ricky Van Shelton

The ride home is pretty uneventful.
I learn that Mrs. Tomlinson had passed away not long after sending off the letter. Twice I try to fish for information about Louis, but Frankie's answers are vague. This doesn't surprise me since his orneriness usually led to trouble of some sort or another, but at least I know he isn't dead.

Other than that, it is a quiet ride except for the few times I accidentally on purpose steer the wagon over a rock or a stick so it'll jostle and hopefully toss Frankie up against me a little bit. I am successful only once. She smells nice, which is odd after such a long train ride. Maybe she's wearing some of that fancy toilet water.

When I'm able see the house and barn from a distance, I say to Frankie, "That's it up ahead."

Frankie squints and looks into the distance. "Looks good, sir. How much land do you have?"

I grumble, "Don't call me sir. Makes me feel older than dirt when I reckon I'm not much older than you are."

"I'm 17 years and 2 months," Frankie says proudly.

"You right sure that extra two months makes much of a difference?"

"Mrs. Tomlinson always says it's impolite to ask a lady her age." Frankie gives me a look as if I'm being improper.

"Did Mrs. Tomlinson tell you how old I was?" I ask her, slowing the wagon to a stop in front of the cabin.

"She did not. And I didn't ask."

The wheels barely stop turning and Frankie hastily jumps out before I can come around to help her down. This one might be harder to handle than I thought.

"I'm 20 years old. And I have 80 acres of land here." I walk around to the back of the wagon where Frankie's trying to pull her heavy bags out of the back by herself. "My part of the prairie runs all the way up to the base of that mountain over yonder." I lift my chin in that direction and Frankie looks.

I lift one of Frankie's bags out with ease, and then grab the handle of the second bag that she's been struggling with. Our fingers touch as she stubbornly refuses to let go of the bag.

"Let. Go." I look her in the eye.

She surrenders with a huff and turns her back, striding to the porch in a record pace. Once on the porch, she does a quick turn, and shoots me a subtle glare.

"You think I don't know you drove over sticks and rocks to give me a rough ride on purpose? I wasn't born yesterday."

Shit. She is smarter than I thought. Called me out right proper.

With a smirk I saunter to the porch, "I don't know what you're talking about." I pass her by and stroll inside the cabin.

Frankie follows me inside, and I set her bags on the kitchen table. "Uh...you can look around a bit in here. I'll go unhitch the horses and then we can have some supper."

"Do you need any help?" she asks.

"I was warming some stew before I left to pick you up. It's still in the pot there if you wanna get the fire going under it."

Frankie goes over to the kitchen area, and I skedaddle to take care of the horses. I unbridle them, throw fresh hay, and fill their trough with several buckets of water from the well before putting them in their stalls. I pull out my pocketknife, slice in half an apple I had in the wagon, and give each horse a piece. The sunset shines bright orange as I grab my rifle from the wagon and head back to the cabin.

As I approach, I pull a handkerchief from my pocket to wipe my sweat away when I notice Frankie sitting in my porch rocker.

I don't say anything but nod and go directly inside to clean up. I notice Frankie's bags have been moved from the table top and are now sitting over near the fireplace. I'm surprised to see the table set, a candle burning, and a basket of bread on the table. I can smell the stew too.

Hanging my hat on a peg by the door, I place my gun on the rack over the fireplace, and immediately go to the water bowl to wash up. I feel her eyes on me as I cup my hands together, scoop a bit of water, and use it to smooth the front of my moppy hair away from my face.

"I could give you a haircut if you want. I know how –" she begins.

"Absolutely not." No way. I read Samson and Delilah. I know what happens.

"I'll get the stew," she changes the subject, crossing quickly to the kitchen area.

I dry my face and by then she reappears carryin' two bowls of stew, places the bowls on the table, and we sit down to supper. All that can be heard is the sound of spoons clinkin' against tin bowls and some quiet chewing.

This is the first I've seen her without her bonnet. I wonder where it is, since it isn't hanging on one of the door pegs next to where I hung my hat. Her hair is a golden blonde color and shiny. I take in all I can with my peripheral vision before I can't stand it anymore and turn my head a tiny bit so I can get a better look. Her hair is braided back from her face, and I wonder what it would look like if it were unbraided, let loose around her shoulders. There's a light dusting of freckles across her nose. I'm noticing how long her eyelashes are when her eyes suddenly look up and meet mine. I think I see a twinkle of mischief.

In my haste to look away, I suck a hint of soup down my windpipe. Christ, this woman will be the death of me! I cough and sputter, and drink some water to ease my wounded pride. I do not look back over at her, but I can feel her satisfaction radiating from her and heating up the room.

"Are you okay?" Frankie asks. "Do you need more water?" I hear her chair slide away from the table.

"No, no. I'm fine." Another sip and everything settles properly.

I clear my throat, trying to think of something to say. "I don't know how much you looked around already, but there's an outhouse out back. You saw the barn, and probably the water pump out front? There's a creek not too far from here..... and... there's a door to the cellar under a rug in the kitchen, and also one out in back of the house."

"Alright," Frankie nods, "This stew is very good, sir – I mean, Harry." Calling me by name for the first time, she stumbles a bit over her words.

I'm not used to compliments. Hell, I'm not used to talking to anyone at all much. "Yeah, uh, thank you," I reply, then tack on, "And thank you for heating it up. With the bread and all."

"You're welcome," Frankie says. After a slight hesitation, she speaks again, "I've got just one question?"

"What's that?"I respond.

"Where do I sleep?"