Hangover

Jade tries to compose herself as Dan joins her, managing a smile at the hot cocoa. "Thanks, Dan..."

Just sitting a while, she mulls over what he's said. "Yeah... yeah, I'll be okay. I'm just worried I misjudged Dad is all. It's been over a year since I came looking for him because I felt I didn't belong at home. Then I worked things out with Mom... now I feel like I'm right back in the place again. Except this time, maybe I don't really belong here either. I don't know."

She takes a sip of the hot drink, closing her eyes as it slips down her throat. "Mm... making hot chocolate is your job from now on."

Staring back at the fire, Jade tries to change the subject, just wanting to end on a good note tonight. At least that much is accomplished until they say goodnight. But as she slips quietly into the house a while later she had a hard time not dwelling on what had happened that evening.


The next day dawns clear. There was as crispness to the air, but not much more than a jacket was required to be comfortable outdoors. It's early yet - breakfast hasn't been put on yet. But the ranch is starting to move as the morning begins. Horses need to be let out, and chores need to be done.

Jade had decided to get up and keep her hands busy for a while, so she'd pitched in to help with barn chores alongside the other guys, sure to tell Dan good morning as well. She felt a little better this morning, and hoped this day would be easier than the last. Working next to Dan and seeing someone else enter the barn though, she wonders.

Mick slowly makes his way into the barn, speaking to no one and looking no one in the eye. Though having cleaned himself up a bit, he hadn't been to the house, which meant he hadn't shaved or changed his clothes from the day before. It was odd to see him without his hat, but that had been misplaced somewhere yesterday. His head hurt like nothing else, his eyes felt like they had needles sticking in them, and his bad knee wanted to buckle with every step. But he enters the barn anyway. Despite his downcast eyes, his shoulders were square.

He walks past the others working, not stopping to satisfy the questioning glances that are thrown his way. His route takes him straight to Remmington's stall. The tall bay is eager to get out and he willingly takes the halter, standing still as he's tied in the aisle.

Mick's eyes are bloodshot, underlined with dark circles - hardly the picture of anyone wanting to ride. But he goes to the tackroom anyway, emerging with his saddle and Remmington's bridle. Within minutes, he's cinching up the girth, his hands, though shaky, too experienced to fumble with the leather.


"...Yes, Dr. Garrison? This is Dr. Schreider from Northside Hospital." He sighs deeply into the phone as he looks across his office to the slouched figure in the chair. "I've got Brent Franklin here with me this morning, and he won't talk to me at all, but insists that if you come, he will talk to you. I'm at my wits end... would you come?"