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Red Oak
By : DarkDavea
Category: Twilight Series > Het
Views: 1346 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or make any money from this story.
Chapter List
- 1-Red Oak
- 2-Maggie
- 3-Parsons'
- 4-Away
- 5-Elliot
- 1
- 2
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. I do not own Twilight, and I do not make any money from these writings.

This is just the first chapter. I will post more once I have it proofed. This will likely change, but i am interested to see what people think.

Jasper has, I think, one of the most unique histories in the Cullen Family, and by far the least documented. This is my attempt to reconstruct what I would imagine his history to be like.

3 miles from Red Oak, Ellis County Texas, September 1st, 1861.

The warmth of the sun beating down on my Chestnut Arabian, Anna, leaves a shimmer in her coat that never fails to amaze me. They told me while I was growing up that my father rode her sire while chasing down General Santa Anna after landing in Veracruz with the rest of General Scotts troops. They also told me that my father, Michael Whitlock died of Spanish Influenza and that he was so desperately mourned by his troops that they called out his name hours later while trampling the Saint Patrick Brigade. His Surgeon and Horse never left his side till he was gone, and though the stallion was stabled on three separate occasions throughout his last night, Douglas managed to loose himself and find his way back into the quarters of his master.

Douglas would not be moved after my father was brought home and buried save to mate once six years ago with his only other companion. Anna had not known her father any better than I and yet has still maintained the spirit of her linage. Douglas died at the very same instant as Anna’s mother gave her birth.

I think it’s the somber of our history that ties us together more than the time we have grown together. Though I have saddled her up every day this week I have yet to get on her back and ride as I start out with my intention. Instead, I simply walk her to my favorite spot at the middle of our new land where the stream on our property runs past a cluster of aspen trees. A thirty minute ride on Anna takes the better part of two hours with her reins in my hand. I use the time to think.

I can tell she gets restless about the slow pace I have taken with her. She and I had many a times that her remarkable speed came to save my life. And now I am forcing her to walk, not physically though, she is loyal and undemanding, but her spirit, her feelings tell me volumes of her anxiety.

As we come over the last roll of hill and I can see down to the base of the trees that I can see the tops of from the roof of my house, I loose her of her bit and give her an encouraging smack on the hind quarters. As always, she takes off at full gallop and dances through the trees. She would make an excellent barrel racing horse. She has all the instincts.

The hillside is so fertile that alfalfa grows wild and as a child visiting my grandfather’s land the stocks uses to tickle my elbows as I ran to the shade. I can still hear my mother calling to me to mind myself, and not fall into the water. Her words were that of both humor and honest sorrow, to lose me after all she had been through would have killed her. The green grass the very same hue as her eyes.

The last few feet before the shade brings a cool breeze, a combination of the stream and the leaves, and the smell of rich soil being tilled. No doubt the last harvest of hay from my closest neighbors.

The aspen trees provide a harmony of bird songs accompanied by the bubbling of water over the rocks in the stream and the rustling of the grass like waves in the wind. It’s a shame I am not simply able to live here by this calming orchestra.

My boots come off with a satisfying “thuck” and my wool socks take a perch out of the reach of the field mice. I roll up my legging and take one step towards the water before I am stopped in my tracks. Sometimes I am unable to even get my boots off before this moment, Anna feels like it’s unfair for me to get undressed and her to have to carry my saddle and bags.

While I stand with my feet in the soft undergrowth, her straps and trappings come off leaving the nearby rocks set upon by the leather and fabric. The smell of her natural scent always leaves me a bit heady, the smell I most associate with home when I am on the trial.

I place my hand on her shoulders and we both walk, as if hand in hand into the stream taking in the coolness. Looking down I can see that it’s about time for a new set of shoes. My other favored past time, though I have managed to enjoy it a fair bit less often.

The sun is far from setting this afternoon and I perch myself on a toppled log lying just out of reach of the water’s surface; a perfect distance to let my ankles dangle in the current. Pulling from my hip sack a book of my drawings and a charcoal pencil I re engage my half drawn portrait of Anna drinking from the stream, as she always does. Her ears twittering back and forth have been a point of contention to my creativity. Do I want to draw them forwards or back?

Her tail lay motionless despite the breeze, now just out of reach of our positions. As I have completed her hind quarters this leaves an obvious beginning and I start at the base, whisking away to define the thick hairs.

From time to time the birds dive down and land on her back side, antagonizing her to whip at them. A harsh grunt tells me my time for drawing has come to a close and play time must resume. She whinnies and turns about with her lightning quick speed before taking off into the meadow to chase after them, they slow to allow her to come just close enough before lifting up into the air. This part I like too, she acts more like a dog then a well breed horse should. I laugh as softly as I can when she gets frustrated and stamps her front hooves.

She very sensitive to criticism and takes not at all kindly when she knows the fun is being had at her expense. She runs back towards me and I realize just too late her intent as she splashes a wave over me and in my attempt to dodge the attack I fall back into the water; saving, by an outstretched arm, my drawings.

How can I be mad though? My laughter muffled by Anna’s licks to my mouth. I push her nose away and gasp for air not tainted by the smell of fresh grass and mucus.

I roll to my side, her soreness subsided by feeling guilty she grasp the booklet from my still upward arm, and takes it a few feet away into the dry rocks.

I lay out on the very stones my book was saved too allowing my shirt to dry by my socks and take in the rays. Anna’s foot falls continue as she chases the birds about.

Another set of foot falls stir my attention and that of my companion and I see John Wilks, my last Command’s Executive coming over the hill. A new young stead under his spurs but still the familiar sight of a military rifle and that of a cavalry mans saddle.

Anna, sensing my troubled self argument as to whether be happy to see my old friend or wary of his tidings, moves over to me as I sit up and prop my arm on my bent knee. Reaching up to brush from her nasal to her ears, my intent to show I am not afraid nor should she be. She has known John and his mistreatment of horses. I had to reprimand him once about the bloody wounds he would exact on his mount while wearing unauthorized spurs. I remember his retort and how it emphasized his only flaw in my mind, “They are beast of battle sir, blood is of their nature.” By the books I had no grounds to dismiss him but had I not known his otherwise exemplary exploits I’d had him clean the stall a few days of the week.

The strong mare came to a trained halt, his flanks scared with the healed whip wounds. Though I could tell he attempted to brush them over, I had been raised to well to not notice mistreatment.

“You’re Looking Well Lieutenant.”

“Mr. Whitlock if you please, or Jasper to an old friend.” My smile invited him to use the less formal.

“Jasper it is, at least for now then.” The tone in his voice alluded to his intentions, but conversations don’t come often enough these days.

“John, or Lieutenant Wilks,”

“John is fine.” He corrected on an interrupt. His remembrance of my predetermination to call my officers by their first names shown off in his bolstered attempts to appear masculine and confident.

“ John,” I continued “it’s good to see you”

“Not as good as it is to see you, are you aware that your mother named no less than six locations of your possible presence? And this is not my first stop.”

“She looks out for me, probably gave me a few extra minutes of time to myself.”

“A mother to be had by all and a force it took to have her let me ride off with just two of the three loaves she wanted to give me.”

“The Italian from my grandfather’s side never fails the Preacher when he comes by looking for church bake sale donations.”

He dismounted and wrapped his reins around the roots of the log he used to cross the stream.

His simple understanding for horses’ natural calm demeanor and good behavior to those that treat them well seems to continue to be lost on him; the poor thing hadn’t the leash to nibble on even the tops of the grass. My pity lifted me to my feet and I walked over to the black stallion.

“Business I suppose, but tell me, what has brought you out to the middle of my getaway world? Perhaps a dip in my opulent ocean” Motioning to the water now under foot.

“Business indeed.” He stated proudly, his pride pouring out in chocking waves.

“Well go ahead then,” I stated with more anxiousness then intended, I don’t mean to lead him to believe I am excited by his obvious news. The Stallion, grunts as I reach to pet on his head, not used to anyone with confidence taking the time to care for him. Though after a few stokes he clams and I un lash him. His gratitude pronounced in the motion he made to have my hand touch his nose again as I placed the reins loosely around a lower root.

“You always had a way with animals Jasper.” Indeed I had, I have always thought I could tell the emotions of animals and that of any number of persons I have encountered. My Mother says it’s something I inherited from my Father.

“Your news John, your delays serve only to prolong the inevitable.”

“Your mother warned me that the sun makes you snappy. She also told me to bring you this canteen of sarsaparilla should you show signs of ‘frustration’” he mocked while tossing me the leather bound container. “Mothers know best.”

“Much appreciated, I seem to have left mine some place.”

“Business, correct?”

“Business, John”

He reached into his side saddle bag an drew out a piece of parchment the from the back looked as though a hand scribe had found it, washed it, and placed a new message on it.

Unrolling it, he read aloud what I instantly recognized.

“Attentions citizens of Ellis County, of the great Texas. Your presence is hereby requested and encouraged at the town hall of Red Oak to discuss the Confederacies offensive in response to recent attacks by the Union Butchers. All land holders and men of various worth are expected to provide an ear to the Honorable Lieutenant Colonel W. H. Parson. The States Governor Edward Clark will personally be in attendance and will entertain questions in nature to the topic of discussion.”

Land holders, unfortunately that would be me as my mother passed on her portion of the title to me in honor of my return.

“The Colonel, he wants nothing of me and mine, John. Why have you come?”

“To the contrary Jasper, he has heard a great deal of your personally and professional exploits and achievements. In fact, your praise rains down from the General Lee Himself.”

“I did a solitary mission on his behalf once, what could he possibly say of my abilities, he ordered and I did as any of my counterparts would have given the chance.”

“Jasper, you are much too modest,” his hands reached up to fix a pipe in his mouth. “You’re considered by many to be the greatest scout in the whole Confederated States.”

A blush betrays my feelings and I turn hoping to hide the reddish cheeks that would undue my next phrase.

“John, have I not lived my fair share of war? Has my family not already given enough?” I feel my face return to normal and I stare my friend down with the intended guilt.

“I’m not here because I want to be, though it is good to see you, given the choice I would simply respect your wishes at our last acquaintance and come to you when I have completed my on contract. But I am under orders.”

“I can understand that,” I can feel the sorrow he has for this. All vestiges of pride stripped away. “What can I do for an old friend?” My attempt to lighten the mood.

“An ear, is all the Colonel request, and a private conversation to revive that patriotic blood in your veins.”

“Alright,” looking down at the water passing around my legs before I make a commitment, “but on the condition that you let my mother cook us a dinner and you must not stay at the inn tonight, there is plenty of space in our house for your gear.

“Agreed.” His voice denoted his intended superior nature, but his eyes betrayed the relief of not having to fight out with me in order to complete a tasking he didn’t want himself.

The sun was barely setting as we came over the yard fence, I was determined to let our friend ship foster in our conversation and I had not talked to anyone in some time. So I made him walk.

I was afraid though, when we made our mounts comfortable with blankets and fresh hay in the stable, that we had talked for too long and dinner would go on quiet enough to here the mice in the attic.

“Mother,” I called to the open window of the kitchen facing the stable. “Be sure to fix a plate for John, he will be staying this evening.”

“My dear son, the sun has run away with your memory, or have you simply forgotten how much is always left over?” Her laughter warmed both of us and the smell of Rabbit stew near filled our bellies as we entered the front door.

“Mrs. Whitlock, the mere smell of your cooking could feed the army for weeks.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment, Mr. Wilks, though I should think you mock an old maid.” She waved a wooden spoon at him all the while smiling. Her blue bonnet captured very little of her golden rod hair and the apron looked as though it had been washed and not spent a full day’s duty, though I had no doubt that it had. The bonnet came off and so did her apron, resting on the coat rack that would have also held my father’s coat. The peg left empty since longer than I can remember a constant reminder of my mother’s longing.

“Madame, your food is already assured to be better than the rations I have eaten. Fat men with an old pot do not make ‘home cooked’ meals.”

We both chuckled with the shared image of trail cooking.

“And what brings you to this part of Texas Mr. Wilks”” My mother taking control of the conversation, alleviating the worries I had had of a conversation or lack thereof.

“Your son, as it were.” John eyeing the ladle of soup poured out in to each of the white porcelain bowls.

“Indeed.” My mother’s tone suspicious.

I waited behind my mother chair for her to come around and be finished with her preparations, pulling it out for her and scooting it in behind her as she sat.

“A gentleman as always Jasper.” I leaned forward to kiss my mother head and as I moved to my own chair at the head I motioned to John with an open hand for him to sit opposite my mother. He sat then I; hands clasped all around to say grace.

“Bless us oh lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive through the bounty of Christ our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen” echoed by myself and John.

“Jasper has been well spoken of and the Colonel would like to speak with him when he comes to talk at the Red Oak Town Hall.”

“You’ve had my son long enough wouldn’t you say Mr. Wilks? Or are you off to play Soldier again Jasper?” my mother always a bit apprehensible to my military career but nonetheless supportive of my decisions.

“He’s done his duty and more Mrs. Whitlock, but his State cannot be blamed for asking, can they, he’s quite a good shoot and never a man better with the livestock.”

“So you mean for him to be a stable boy? A small comfort I suppose.”

“Mother, I’m no stable boy, I have a decent hammer and a strong arm, and these men would be better served if I am a blacksmith.” I joust.

“You said that last time, and all you took was that saddle, your horse and rifle, if I remember correctly a blacksmith doesn’t use a rifle.”

“You’ve caught me again in my lies, I was a hunter, and they have a fierce problem with field mice. Mr. Wilks here has come to enlist my able shot.”

“A pity your humor is far more fetching than your shot then.”

“Indeed.” John chimed in. “I seem to remember the tin you were supposed to shoot clean out of Sergeant Stock’s hand.”

“Jasper!” my mother scorned.

“And I would have hit my mark to had his hand not been floating about like his head with that ale. Poor fellow, that graze cost him three stitches and he was none the wiser when he woke.”

“What happened? why does my arm hurt and where is my drink?” John and I impersonated. My mother having heard it before from my own mouth laughed heartily with us and the conversation turned to John and his family back home in Tennessee.

The night grew late and the candles scarcely allowed us to see one another faces, too late an indication that we should turn in. the crickets outside filled the house with their song, as the owls kept the measure with their calls.

I showed John to the guest quarters and I myself turned in. I waited till I heard the final latch indicating my mother had made it safely to her room and I blew out the candle.

The light from my window shone brightly, the moon was barely rising and its presence took up a considerable size of my window. I tried to count the black spots when the dreams took me, though the dreams kept me from actual rest.
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Red Oak	By : DarkDavea Category: Twilight Series > Het Views: 1346 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or make any money from this story.

Red Oak