He was walking down Route 340 into Charles Town on the right shoulder, right where a pedestrian was not supposed to be. He was half hoping he’d get flattened by a semi, but the 18-wheelers seemed to be off the roads today. To the right was a horse pasture, above which he could see a ridgeline, where he imagined there was an access road. He decided to turn right at the crossroads and maybe find a country store. He did not want to go to a gas station or commercial farm store. These places reminded him too much of his adult life as an inmate of the 21st Century. He hoped that a country store would remind him of his 20th Century childhood—the good parts at least.

Then it occurred to him that no country store would be open on Christmas. But Jay Bracken was nothing if not stubborn, so he continued along the rural route, walking along the painted line next to the cold crunchy grass and weeds between the road and the fence-line; grass that was still green in spots despite the time of year.

After about 15 minutes he noticed a lone horse in the pasture, nosing about the semi-green stubble like a kid poking through his long-ago-plundered Easter basket in June, hoping to find something good to eat.

If I was a horse I’d want some onion grass, some round plump green shoots, maybe even the bulb. With nostrils like they have I bet they could use something to clear their sinuses.

As he walked along looking over at the distant horse he stopped to pick the occasional bunch of onion grass, avoiding all of the brown stalks, the stringy crab grass, and the bristly tall grass. Eventually, as he continued to follow the fence-line, he noticed that the horse—who occasionally eyed him from a distance—was keeping pace with him.

You know dummy, it’s about time you made friends with one of these critters.

On sheer impulse he vaulted over the top rail of the wooden fence and jogged up to the big beast. When he got within a few yards, the horse apparently snorted a warning and slapped its tail this way and that, holding its head high and shaking its mane.

“You a big fit boy ain’t ya?”

He walked slowly up to the horse and extended the hand that held the onion grass. “Got somethin’ fer ya boy. Figured me en you can get along. I’d like to make up fer da past.”

The stallion took the grass and munched it down making a noise in its throat that Jay hoped was approval. Jay jogged toward the fence-line, “Come on boy. You can keep up—I got but two legs afer all.”

When the horse cantered up beside him he broke into a full run, and then that horse just broke into a gallop and left him behind, turning to wait for him by the fence-line. He caught up within seconds, slapped the horse on the shoulder, “Good run hotshot”, and hopped the fence again, “Jus’ keep pace with me en I’ll fine you da res’ a dat grass boy.”

The horse eyed him suspiciously, as a teenager would to an uncle who had made a seemingly unsustainable promise. But the horse walked on besides him nibbling at the turf, even as Jay rooted in the weeds on the wrong side of the fence.

He walked aimlessly along the fence-line picking shoots for the horse and feeding him as he went. They had finally come upon a crossroad at the ridgeline, which was just a private road with a trespassing notice. He stopped to pet the big boy one last time before heading off to look for a campsite on the wooded ridge-line above. “Dis da end a da road fer me boy. Merry Chrismess.”

The horse snorted slightly and lifted his head as a chromed-out 2009 black Mustang rumbled up besides them, pulled over on the shoulder and idled. He turned to look into the vehicle and a young pretty girl with long brown hair waived him over as she leaned to look at him through the lowering passenger-side window. “Excuse me—Merry Christmas by-the-way—but what are you doing with my horse?”

The horse really lit up at the sound of the girl’s voice. Jay felt somewhat embarrassed, and was already looking up and down the road expecting a tribe of redneck brothers in pickup trucks to swoop down on him in defense of their sister at any moment. “Ah, sorry miss. I whuz jus’ feedin’ ‘im some onion grass.”

With your luck that stuff probably kills horses. She’s looking at you like you are an idiot.

“I didn’t mean no harm miss. He jus’ seemed kine’a unsatisfied wit da grazin’. En dere’s still some green shoots lef ova on dis side—I’m sorry. I don’ wan’ no trouble. I’ll be off—sorry miss.”

He hustled off down the road with his hands in his pockets, not knowing where he was going.

The horse had kept pace with him on the right and now the mustang was chugging along beside him on his left, the window still down. The girl’s voice was apologetic, “I didn’t mean to be rude. His name is Ethereal Hooves. He won a few races before I bought him. I don’t race horses. I just love them. He’s my buddy—thanks for picking him the onion grass. His trainer doesn’t approve, but I know E.H. loves the stuff.”

He risked a look over his hunched shoulder and saw that she was smiling. “Merry Chrismess miss.”

“My name’s not ‘Miss’ it’s Duty.”

“Nice to meet you Miss Duty. Name’s Jay, sorry ta trouble ya.”

“No trouble at all. Get in.”

He stopped and looked as she hit the door lock, and tried not to dwell on her shapely little body, “You sure Miss Duty?”

“Mister Jay the only thing I’m sure about, is, if you call me Miss one more time I will leave you in the road. Now get in.”

He slid into the seat and noticed her really checking out his buckskins and moccasins. He had never felt this insecure around a woman before, and she was just a girl, not even 21 he thought.

She feels sorry for you; thinks you’re homeless—a hobo off the train.

Her voice was warm and light and made his chest hair prickle under his buckskins, “Where are you headed Jay?”

“Really Miss…”

She raised one accusatory finger and wagged it, “Ah, ah, ah—the name is Duty, not a ‘miss’ in it.”

“Yeah, sorry. Ah, I’m really jus’ wandering. Jus’ finished a job en had a few bucks, so I decided to walk through my ole home state a bit before headin’ back out wes’.”

“No place to stay, no backpack, no bedroll. What do you sleep in trees?”

“I have, fer a fact, slep in trees.”

He could not help but crack a smile when he said that and she broke into a light airy laugh. “Well Jay, I am taking you to my farm, and you may sleep in the barn, in my tree, or on the couch in front of the fireplace. My roommate is Amber, and her parents were not able to make it out from New York for the holiday. My brother would love a guy to hang around with too. We have a lot of food, how about it?”

“Sure Miss”—shoot.

“Okay Jay, I warned you. Really, this is serious. I want you to get out and follow me up the driveway okay. You are welcome for dinner and I’ll have time to inform Amber. But you are not driving in my Mustang so long as you address me like some Southern belle. Go on, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

He left his jacket on the seat hopefully and shut the door easily.

Dummy, you have got to be the biggest idiot on the planet.

Before he could finish the argument with himself he bolted past her, knees pumping up to his chest, hands knifing the air, sucking in oxygen like an engine. No matter how ridiculous the odds, since he had never lost a footrace to a man, and had managed to outrun animals as varied as Irish Wolf-hounds, whitetail deer, black bear and Jurassic raptors, Jay simply could not visualize losing a race—even to a sports car. He could not even imagine not being fast. E.H. was breaking into a gallop to his right and passing him. He ate up twenty, forty, eighty yards as the stallion pulled away. Then she blew by with a sparkling laugh and he was sucking in fumes, obviously fated to finish a distant third. He would not quit though. He ran it out hard all the way to where the mustang was parked in front of a feed station outside a small barn.

Duty was there wearing his jacket and petting EH when he pounded to a stop. She smiled at him sideways and winked. “I’ll give you a head start tomorrow. We’ll have to bring my brother along—he’ll get a kick out of you actually trying to win. His name is Edwin. Edwin has Down’s Syndrome. But it doesn’t have him. Just treat him like a kid. He’s about your age I imagine. How old are you Mister Jay?”

Damn, when is the last time you tried to figure that out?

“I won’t hold it against you Jay. I like older guys.”

“I think I’m thirty-two.”

She grinned in surprise, “You think you are thirty-two?”

“Well I been away for long stretches ‘ere and dare—en my math’s none too good. I was born in Nineteen-eighty.”

She then walked over to him and looked up into his eyes while she seemed to measure his chin between her thumb and forefinger, or was she checking out his broken nose? She dropped her hand to his shirt sleeve and squeezed his bicep. When she did so her eyes widened and then she smiled with pursed lips as she dropped her hand to his rock-hard chest and held her palm over his heart, cupping his pectoral muscle. Her voice had become a little husky, “Jay, you may not know how old you are, but every geek on the planet wishes he were you.”

She then slapped him on the butt as she walked by him up to a redwood cottage. “I’m legal by-the-way; nineteen. At least we were born in the same century.”

He followed, a bit bemused, pleasantly surprised, a little nervous, and absolutely incapable of keeping his eyes off of the swishing seat of her stone-washed jeans.

She held the door for him, and then ran her hand up the inside of his thigh as he walked by her. “Oh yeah, I’m a Daniel Boone fan now.”

Ignore that. These young chicks now-a-days are like dudes.

She took off his jacket and hung it up on a coat hook. There were no interior doors or closets. The place was one huge redwood paneled room with a bricked archway leading into a bricked kitchen with a ceramic floor. The furniture was hand-crafted oak and brown leather. The fireplace was massive and had a kettle suspended in front of it on a swivel. A small thin blonde girl was stirring the contents with a wooden spoon. The girl turned and Duty dragged her palm across his broad back.

“Hey Girlsy, look what I found. His name is Jay, a rambling man of undetermined age. Jay this is Amber.”

Amber had a squeaky voice. “High Jay! I hope you like sausage gravy. Oh, Duty, George won’t be bringing Edwin home until dinnertime.”

Duty turned to him with a sparkle in her eyes and motioned toward the couch. “Make yourself at home Jay. We have Stout on tap in the kitchen. The steins are on the mantel there.”

He had never been this nervous after being picked up by a woman. Well, at least not since Mrs. Benson hired him to help her move furniture when he was 14. He poured a stein full of black beer and reclined on the couch in front of the fire while the girls went up to the second-floor loft and had a hushed conversation—yes, planning your torture and emasculation no doubt. They probably need one more magic ingredient in their man-stew. Go ahead and drink the black beer—it’s just poison…

The girls came downstairs, poured themselves each a stein of stout and sat on either side of him. Amber had obviously been detailed to observe him, and did not say a word, just sat and stared. Duty had a curious note to her voice. When she asked a question you knew she had already been trying to arrive at an answer. She asked him all of the basic questions about family, school and work, and he answered truthfully short of confessing to polygamy, time-travel, public rape of a Neanderthal alpha-female, cannibalizing a living enemy and other assorted war crimes.

They both seemed very intrigued by him and Amber winked and nodded to Duty a few times that he noticed. The hat was really bugging her though. She kept looking at it, and eventually just ripped it off of his head. Then she gasped, “Oh, I’m sorry—you’re still handsome. They don’t look like burns. Does it hurt? What happened?”

“Naw, don’ hurt ‘t all. I was joggin’ up a mountain en got jumped by a cougar. A friend helped me, actually held my head together. I know it’s ugly.”

Amber then spoke up, “Actually, it’s a bit scary looking, but just makes you look more rugged—really you’re hot.”

“I guess I’m lucky I’m a dude.”

Amber agreed, “Yeah, you’d make some kind of ugly chick. People would probably stone you on the street!”

They all laughed, and he continued to grin as he considered his predicament.

Duty curled up next to him so she could rub her hands all over his head and the sandpaper-like stubble on his jaw. She even tried to straighten his nose. “You’re fine Jay. Besides, a pretty boy isn’t the man for the job around here.”

She downed the rest of her stout and straddled him, and Amber spoke up, “I’ll go see to E.H. Girlsy—I just roasted some whole oats for him.”

Woah. You are definitely not driving this car.

Only Tina and Fierce Woman had dominated him like this. With them it had seemed so natural; with Tina being so frighteningly smart and able to read minds, and Fierce Women being, well, psychotically fierce. But this was unsettling. Duty was a carefree young girl who had unintentionally intimidated him. She was positively disarming. Now, having disarmed him, she was drawing him out of his obsolete scrap-built fort one kiss at a time.