jack_f_twist | (no subject)

Seems to him, sometimes, the stables're just as busy as the bar itself. There's forever people milling around: newcomers or stablehands or folks who've just gotten lost on their first day or week, not to mention all the horses that have arrived since he was here last.

And, sure. Ain't like Jack's exactly ever been a contracted employee, so to speak, but nobody's ever given him a hard time about bein there, neither, which is good, because even with the people coming in and out and the work that's never got an end to it and his own loose ends that keep flapping around just out of eyesight, he kinda prefers it here. It's quiet, for the most part, and it's all familiar smells and sounds, which ain't always the case inside the bar or out, considerin.

Not that he particularly sounds like he's enjoying himself at the moment, tugging on a stubborn piece of leather that's supposed to be a useful part of the unnamed mare's halter, and swearing to high heaven while the creature in question lips at the hay in her trough and flicks an ear now and again in response to the frenzy of curses being pelted in the direction of the hapless thing.

Probably a good thing Ms. Kate ain't around just now. It ain't the sorta language appropriate for a lady.

Threaded | Flat

Good thing there aren't any ladies about, then. Just Grace, who is singing the Oklahoma fight song under her breath, one hand shoved in the pocket of her tight jeans, the fingers of the other trailing over stall doors as she saunters along. She takes it all in: the feel of warm wood; the smell of hay, horses and musty feed buckets; the soft give of the shavings under her boots; and the familiar stable sounds all but drowned out by the curses coming from Jack. It almost feels like home. Grace smiles to herself, expression nearly dreamy...

I'm a Sooner born
And a Sooner bred,
And when I die,
I'll be Sooner dead.

...and stops right behind him.

"Problems, Cowboy?"

(Oh, who can bother to count?)