OverTime 1 - Searching (Time Travel) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Yvonne Jocks
it needed to worry about being sanitary at this point.
"I am absolutely positive I have never done this in my life," I announced, hoping my voice didn 't shake, while Garrison eased the saddle to the ground.
He paused to stare at me, still deadpan, but now a real incredulity shadowed his eyes. "Never plucked a bird," he repeated. Then he stepped closer, took my poultry-free hand, and turned it palm-up for inspection.
He shook his head and dropped the hand and returned to his horse-tending. He removed the saddle blanket, grabbed a handful of dry grass, and began to rub it over the horse he'd just ridden, where its back had gotten sweaty. I stared after him, torn between insult and uncertainty.
He must have realized I actually needed instructions, because he drawled, "Pull the feathers off."
The dead turkey—which, by the way, seemed far skinnier than I imagined a turkey should be—made me increasingly uncomfortable. "Ah," I said channeling some of that discomfort into sarcasm. "Of course. I pluck the turkey by pulling its feathers off. How simple. Thank you for that detailed tutorial."
He was staring again, over his shoulder. Fascinated? Disgusted? I had no way to tell, but the force of his direct gaze disquieted me even more than holding a murdered bird—I would hate to have this man angry at me. In any case, he left the horse again to pace over to me and take the bird. My relief was short-lived when he held its scrawny corpse in front of me by its feet, grabbed a fist full of feathers, ripped them right out—complete with an awful, tearing noise—and handed it back to me.
He opened his other hand, and most of the feathers fluttered away.
"Pull the feathers off," he repeated, and turned away with a final warning. "Right harder to pluck, once it cools."
I sooo didn 't want to pluck that bird. The words you can't make me swelled into my throat, but I swallowed them back. This felt so wrong. Eating shouldn't be this complicated.
And yet, if I didn 't pluck , I might not eat . I could see that in the set of the cowboy's shoulders.
And he was still busy with the big, sulky horses.
At least I was starting to visualize where I wanted to be, instead of here. I wanted civilization . I wanted a place with not only doctors, but… but restaurants. And stores .
See how much I began to remember?
But in the meantime, I plucked the damned turkey.
You know how a lot of things aren 't as bad as you fear they'll be? This one proved worse. I kept thinking I saw little bugs in the feathers, and cringed from them as much as from the ripping sound. I felt sorry for the slowly balding headless dead bird. It didn't help my mood that, once he'd finished checking the horses, Garrison squatted beside my pile of wood, threw a third of it aside like trash, easily formed a tent with some more, and lit it with a match from his saddlebag.
Of course. Matches. Make it look easy.
Rip. Downy feather bits floated up my nose and made me sneeze. Rip.
In the end it was Garrison who cooked the turkey, too—Garrison who knew how to gut it, Garrison who knew how to prop it over the low-flame fire on a stick. My job was simply to turn the stick, like some organ-grinder 's monkey, so that it would cook evenly. Sad to say, I doubt I did even that very well. I kept getting distracted, watching the way this man incessantly worked.
He was big-boned, but that was all the breadth he had... probably because he never slowed down long enough to build bulk. While I turned our turkey, he moved amongst the horses yet again, using a knife to pick at their feet, examining their teeth with a frown of concentration, running his big, bare hands over their sides, occasionally murmuring to them in that raspy voice I was coming to recognize.
I turned the turkey.
He led the horses to the creek, so that they could have another nice aperitif, and when they finished he led them back out and methodically tied each horse 's front feet together with short lengths of
"I am absolutely positive I have never done this in my life," I announced, hoping my voice didn 't shake, while Garrison eased the saddle to the ground.
He paused to stare at me, still deadpan, but now a real incredulity shadowed his eyes. "Never plucked a bird," he repeated. Then he stepped closer, took my poultry-free hand, and turned it palm-up for inspection.
He shook his head and dropped the hand and returned to his horse-tending. He removed the saddle blanket, grabbed a handful of dry grass, and began to rub it over the horse he'd just ridden, where its back had gotten sweaty. I stared after him, torn between insult and uncertainty.
He must have realized I actually needed instructions, because he drawled, "Pull the feathers off."
The dead turkey—which, by the way, seemed far skinnier than I imagined a turkey should be—made me increasingly uncomfortable. "Ah," I said channeling some of that discomfort into sarcasm. "Of course. I pluck the turkey by pulling its feathers off. How simple. Thank you for that detailed tutorial."
He was staring again, over his shoulder. Fascinated? Disgusted? I had no way to tell, but the force of his direct gaze disquieted me even more than holding a murdered bird—I would hate to have this man angry at me. In any case, he left the horse again to pace over to me and take the bird. My relief was short-lived when he held its scrawny corpse in front of me by its feet, grabbed a fist full of feathers, ripped them right out—complete with an awful, tearing noise—and handed it back to me.
He opened his other hand, and most of the feathers fluttered away.
"Pull the feathers off," he repeated, and turned away with a final warning. "Right harder to pluck, once it cools."
I sooo didn 't want to pluck that bird. The words you can't make me swelled into my throat, but I swallowed them back. This felt so wrong. Eating shouldn't be this complicated.
And yet, if I didn 't pluck , I might not eat . I could see that in the set of the cowboy's shoulders.
And he was still busy with the big, sulky horses.
At least I was starting to visualize where I wanted to be, instead of here. I wanted civilization . I wanted a place with not only doctors, but… but restaurants. And stores .
See how much I began to remember?
But in the meantime, I plucked the damned turkey.
You know how a lot of things aren 't as bad as you fear they'll be? This one proved worse. I kept thinking I saw little bugs in the feathers, and cringed from them as much as from the ripping sound. I felt sorry for the slowly balding headless dead bird. It didn't help my mood that, once he'd finished checking the horses, Garrison squatted beside my pile of wood, threw a third of it aside like trash, easily formed a tent with some more, and lit it with a match from his saddlebag.
Of course. Matches. Make it look easy.
Rip. Downy feather bits floated up my nose and made me sneeze. Rip.
In the end it was Garrison who cooked the turkey, too—Garrison who knew how to gut it, Garrison who knew how to prop it over the low-flame fire on a stick. My job was simply to turn the stick, like some organ-grinder 's monkey, so that it would cook evenly. Sad to say, I doubt I did even that very well. I kept getting distracted, watching the way this man incessantly worked.
He was big-boned, but that was all the breadth he had... probably because he never slowed down long enough to build bulk. While I turned our turkey, he moved amongst the horses yet again, using a knife to pick at their feet, examining their teeth with a frown of concentration, running his big, bare hands over their sides, occasionally murmuring to them in that raspy voice I was coming to recognize.
I turned the turkey.
He led the horses to the creek, so that they could have another nice aperitif, and when they finished he led them back out and methodically tied each horse 's front feet together with short lengths of
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