Jack Fuckin' Twist

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.

Sallie'd have his head if she caught him napping during chores--

or, anyway, that's what Jack supposes, even if it ain't, strictly, true.

He'd sure like a nap, though. He's been chopping wood for going on half an hour now and his arms are burning, his back is burning, and the sun that had been just warm enough when he'd started out now feels like a blaze along the back of his neck.

Rise, and fall. Chop.

Nothing better to do, no better place to go. And it's quiet: the only sound is that off the axe chopping through wood.

His company isn't much in the way for words, after all.