Spike kneaded and prodded the tendons and sinews of the horse’s leg, and Buffy found the motion of his long, slender fingers utterly fascinating. When he bent over, pushing against the horse and lifting its leg to inspect the hoof, Buffy’s eyes were almost magnetically drawn to the faded denim that hugged his backside. Something caught her eye and she peered closer, focusing on a small rip near one of the back pockets, she quickly averted her eyes, whirling around and away from the flesh peaking at her through the worn jeans.
Did men not wear underwear in this time period? She raised an eyebrow at the thought, turning to look back over her shoulder at Spike’s nicely displayed butt. She shook her head and turned away once more.
“What are you doing?” She turned to walk towards the horse’s tail – figuring that rump was a lot safer than the one she’d been ogling.
Spike looked up, squinting at her in the early morning sunlight. “Just checkin’ under the hood and kickin’ the tires. Want to know what I’m dealing with before we head out.”
“You really know what you’re doing.” It was a statement, not a question, and was accompanied by a petulant frown. Somehow he was fitting into this timeframe much better than she was and it annoyed her.
Spike grinned and went back to poking at the spongy underside of the horse’s hoof. “In my day, Slayer, this was the best mode of transportation. Had quite a nice stable. Not like these,” he said, patting the immense creature on the shoulder as he dropped the hoof back down to the ground. “Thoroughbreds, Hackneys. Carriage horses. Had a beautiful matched set of bays.”
Buffy raised a slender brow. “A matched set of what?”
Spike smirked at her over his shoulder. “Mind outta the gutter, Slayer. Bays. A color of horse, like mahogany. A matched set are two identical, right down to the blaze on their nose and socks on their feet.”
“Horses wear socks?”
Spike dropped his forehead to the horse’s back. “Slayer,” he sighed.
“Stop calling me that,” she hissed, stepping up next to him.
“Fine,” he said, drawing himself to his full height. “Elizabeth, my darling, you can’t possible be that daft. Better?”
She huffed and twirled around, settling to lean up against the horse’s flank. “I just hate this. I hate being here. I hate dressing like this. I hate that I now smell like Eau de Flicka. Mostly I hate the fact that you seem to fit in just fine and I’m like this big, old, sore thumb.”
Spike’s smile softened a bit. “You’re not a sore thumb, Buf—Beth.” He looked around at the hustle and bustle that surrounded them. Everyone was harnessing their horses and oxen and packing up to move on. No one was paying them particular notice, but better safe than sorry. He leaned in to her, reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, then tugged at the ties of the cotton sunbonnet that was hanging down her back. “Best put this on or you’ll get yourself a nice burn.”
Buffy fumbled with the bonnet. “Sorry, I didn’t mean turn into Pity Party Buffy with matching accessories. I’m just feeling a bit out of my element.”
“That’s okay,” Spike murmured, watching as she struggled with the bow under her chin. “Today’s gonna be the worst, yeah? But we’ll suss things out quick and, just watch, we’ll both be fittin’ in before you know it.”
She returned his smile half-heartedly. “I guess. I just wish we could find a chance to talk with Shay.”
Chucking her under the chin, he turned back to checking the harness once more. “We’ll get our chance. Maybe this evenin’ when we set camp. In the meantime, let me give you leg-up.”
Buffy hitched her skirts up to her knees, as Spike bent to grab her heel, hoisting her onto the wooden plank that served as the wagon's seat. Grabbing hold of the side rail and the front support of the wagon, he placed his foot on the front wheel and pulled himself up into the wagon, plopping down next to Buffy.
Pushing her skirts out of the way, he reached for the reins and then for the lever to release the brake on the wagon wheel. As the brake gave, the wagon began to roll forward slowly, the two giant horses straining at the collars of their harness to begin the momentum.
They were approximately in the middle of the wagon train and Spike made a large arching circle before coming up behind the wagon he was to follow. The Turners, if he remembered correctly. He’d caught their name over a quick cup of something they called coffee, but that bore only passing resemblance to the 20th century brew with which he was familiar, before harnessing the horses and preparing the wagon for departure. They seemed a nice family; a father, mother and two young boys. Frank, the father seemed amicable and Spike figured he’d hang close to the man and take whatever cues he could from him. It had been a very long time since he’d sat a wagon and he’d never driven a draft team.
At the thought his hands tighten on the reins and both horses threw their heads up, nickering and whinnying their displeasure.
“Easy there, Will.”
Spike glanced over to find Matthew on horseback, keeping pace beside them.
The dark haired cowboy tipped his hat at Buffy and looked back to Spike. “Don’t worry, son, you’ll get the hang of it. There are a few in this train that haven’t driven wagons this size before. Slow and easy does it. Let me know if you need anything.” Matthew dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse and galloped away, a cloud of dust trailing after him.
Buffy wiggled on the seat next to Spike. “I could use a pillow … or two. Could they have made this seat any more uncomfortable?”
Six hours and a mere twelve miles later the seat that had started off being mildly uncomfortable had turned into a veritable torture chamber.
Buffy was settled, for the moment, on her left hip, relieving some of the pressure on her spine from the jolting ride. When the wagon hit another rock, she grunted in pain and gritted her teeth.
Spike mopped the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve and turned to look at his companion. “You okay there, Slayer?”
Buffy squirmed a bit more and glanced over at him with a very uncharitable look. “Oh, just fine and dandy. It’s not like I really needed those vertebra.”
“I feel your pain, luv,” The ex-vampire grumbled, scooting up on the bench a bit. “This rig makes the Desoto’s suspension seem like a Rolls Royce.”
A dry gust of wind caught the brim of Buffy’s bonnet and she clamped her hand on top of her head to keep it from flying off. “Yeah, never thought I’d actually miss that old bag of rolling rust.” She glanced over at him again. “How are your hands?”
His fingers reflexively tightened on the reins as he looked down at his leather clad hands. “Not too bad. Glad you found these gloves. Saved me a layer of skin or two.” He took his hat off and again wiped the sweat from his face, then pulled the Stetson back low over his brow.
Buffy watched as Spike flapped the reins, chucking to the horses to keep them moving up the low but steady incline they were following. Like her, his clothes and face were covered in dust. His skin had reddened, even with the protection of the hat. Wind burn, he’d told her, was just as bad as sun burn. It looked like he was proving his point the hard way.
Spike shook his head slightly and tried to blink the sweat that was getting into his eyes. Buffy’s fingers fiddled with the cloth flour sack she held in her lap, resisting the sudden urge she had to reach over and wipe his face clean. She’d found the tattered piece of fabric, along with the leather gloves, tucked in what she learned was the jockey box; a small storage area that hung to one side of the wagon. Spike had taken the gloves thankfully and told her to keep the cloth and use it when the dust kicked up. Both items had more than come in handy.
The terrain was rough and the horses needed a lot of encouragement to keep moving, and more importantly, keep moving in the direction they needed them to go. Unfortunately this encouragement came at the expense of Spike’s shoulders, arms, and hands, as he used all of his strength to guide and goad the animals along. Buffy had been annoyed, at first, having to be the one to wear the petticoats, being weighed down with yards of homespun to her ankles. Now, watching Spike work the horses, she felt embarrassingly thankful to be able to hide behind the protection of her skirts.
“Fuck,” Spike exclaimed, removing his hat again to wipe at his eyes. “Damn it all to bloody hell. That stings.”
Quickly Buffy reached behind her into the wagon, dipping the cloth into a small water cask she’d been using to fill their canteen. She scooted closer to Spike her fingers grabbing his chin to turn his face towards her. “Here,” she murmured, using the cool cloth to wipe his brow, over his eyes and, finally, his cheeks. He simply watched her, blinking slowly, as she mopped at his face until she was satisfied and then unfolded the cloth and laid it across the back of his neck.
Resting her hands back in her lap she looked at him, a small smile quirking the corners of her lips. “There, that better?”
He blinked again, once. “Yes. Much.” He hesitated a moment, then returned her smile. “Thank you, luv.”
Buffy’s smile softened as their gazes caught. It seemed like hours, but was mere moments, as green and blue held steady. Buffy was the one to look away first, ducking her head and then looking back at the bleak landscape. “No problemo. I wouldn’t want you running us off a mountain or into a buffalo or something, just because you couldn’t see.”
Spike dragged his eyes away from her profile, his teeth catching his lower lip. He gazed at the rolling backsides of the horses and chucked the reins to speed them up. “Right. Well, glad to see you’re not goin’ soft on me, Slayer.”
“Me?” Buffy asked, glancing at him from the corner of here eye. Her smile reappeared, briefly, before she turned her eyes from him again. “Getting soft? On you? Never.”
To Be Continued