Kajirus of Gor Chapter Fifteen

 

We disembarked at the same railway station, and, being an English gentleman, I felt obliged to assist Kelly Milford with her suitcase.

 

“Are you really going to hike across Montana carrying all this?” I asked. Perhaps she had packed it full of kettle bells for exercise purposes. It weighed a ton. 

 

“I thing I overdid it with the packing. I’ll probably have to leave some of it behind,” she admitted. 

 

We stood together on the platform as other passengers swept by, either disembarking or getting on to the train for the first time. Kelly and I had shared a moment last night, and I found myself fond of the girl as she stood beside me, sweeping her lovely hair back with one hand as a platform guard sounded a whistle from another, adjacent, platform. 

 

“That was quite the overnight journey,” she said as she gazed up at me.

 

“So it was.” I moved towards her, placed my left hand on her waist, drew her closer and planted a soft kiss on her lips. “It was obvious you were a woman, when you first sat down beside me. But now I know you’re wyld, as well.”

 

She laughed at that and gave a good natured, controlled jab to my chest with her balled fist. “Beast!” 

 

“The hated Patriarchy, remember?”

 

“Obviously!” She kissed me back and then gazed around the platform. A few modestly dressed women watched us, offered a condescending sneer, and then paced away. “If looks could kill.”

 

“Never mind them,” I said. “You’re lovely.”

 

“I know I am. Oh! Almost forgot.” She opened her shoulder bag, produced a roll of adhesive, circular stickers, peeled one off, and stuck it to the side of my canvas hold all. The sticker was an advert for her blog, Wyld in Montana. “Hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I have to advertise.”

 

“Not at all. I shall wear it with pride. Do you have another roll of stickers for men who’ve had you in their bed?”

 

“Ooh, you really are outdoing yourself this morning!” She laughed. 

 

We gazed at each other in that awkward way you do when you’ve shared a moment and it’s time to say goodbye, and you know it’s unlikely you’ll ever see one another again.

 

“You’ll read my blog, yes?” She sucked at her lower lip as she stood on tip toes close to me. 

 

“Of course. Though how exactly are you going to blog without a wi-fi signal?”

 

“Oh, there will be trips into town, and we have dealings with the ranches nearby. I’ll save up my posts for when I’m within distance of a signal.”

 

“What sort of dealings do the Wyld Wymen have with the ranches?” I thought of Chelsea Frick’s ranch that I was now headed to, and wondered whether the Wyld Wymen dealt with Miss Frick at all.

 

“I think we trade with them?” Kelly was still some way off becoming an actual Wyld Wyman, but she was already in the habit of referring to them as ‘we’. 

 

“What do you trade?”

 

“I’m not sure. Commodities. I didn’t ask. But there is trade at designated trading posts. It’s all very amicable, as long as everyone stays on their side of the fence.”

 

I nodded. I knew how territorial Americans could be out on the ranges. They were famous for it. 

 

“I suppose this is goodbye, then?”

 

“I was going to use a different word,” said Kelly. She nodded towards an all-day diner. “Breakfast?”

 

I smiled and nodded. “Of course.”

 

We lingered over breakfast, and I think we both knew that this would be our last time together. I ate bacon and eggs and hash browns that was served in a ridiculously large portion, and there was a stack of fresh pancakes with maple syrup, and lots of coffee. Americans eat big and well. I thought back to some of the motorway service stations I’d ate at in the UK, and how small the portions were in comparison. While we ate, our feet strayed close to one another under the table, and we enjoyed maintaining contact that way, touching one another where no one could see. Occasionally my foot touched the steel band that was locked around Kelly’s left ankle, reminding me it was there and that she could not remove it.

 

And of course she insisted on taking a selfie of the two of us together, which she immediately uploaded to her blog with the caption, breakfast with the (admittedly cute) Patriarchy. Oppression isn’t always bad.

 

“I’ll miss you,” I said as I drank a third cup of coffee to prolong this moment together. “Are you sure you really want to spend a year on some isolated lesbian commune?”

 

She laughed at that. “If they’re all lesbians then I’ll run a mile.”

 

“Which won’t get you very far in Montana.”

 

“A hundred miles, then.” She reached out and touched the back of my right hand with her fingers. “What can I say? I prefer men.”

 

“Perhaps when your year of adventure is over we can…”

 

“Hush.” Kelly put a finger to my lips. “Don’t say that. You know it wouldn’t actually happen. In a year you’ll have some other girl, and I might be anywhere. Let’s not make promises we can’t keep.”

 

I nodded, knowing she was right, but still wishing things might be different 

 

I paid the check, added a generous tip, mostly to gain Kelly’s approval – I’m still not used to his universal tipping custom in the States - and then we dragged our feet, heading out along the platform, and over to the rental car office where Kelly would collect the keys to her pre-booked hire car.

 

“I could offer you a lift?” she suggested as she dangled the set of keys from a perfectly manicured finger.

 

I shook my head. “I appreciate that, but the ranch is a long way away, and I’ve already arranged to phone Chelsea on arrival here. She’ll send a car to pick me up. I’d rather say goodbye to you here than at the gates to the Frick ranch.”

 

I had told Kelly about Chelsea, though I hadn’t told her about Felicity. I didn’t want to speak about Felicity. It was far too soon.

 

“So this is goodbye?” She looked wistful. 

 

“Brief Encounter,” I said. 

 

“Before Sunrise,” she said. I smiled for I knew the film reference.

 

“Shame this isn’t Vienna.”

 

An hour later I was in a large jeep, being driven to the Frick ranch by a traditional looking farm hand, complete with linen coloured cowboy hat. As far as the eye could see, there were vast tracts of grazing land in every direction, along with equally vast tracts of Badlands. Chelsea’s land is situated west of the Bighorn river in Mountain, just before it flows into the Yellowstone river, and to the east of Billings, which has an airport that I was planning on flying out of when my weekend break was over. 

 

The cowboy driver wasn’t particularly talkative, and so after a few attempts at small talk, I simply sat back and enjoyed the panoramic view that is Montana. I had tried looking at the Wyld in Montana blog, but by the time I thought to do so there was no phone signal to be had.

 

The Frick property holdings are vast, which is to be expected in a state as huge and sparsely populated as Montana. And, like most privately owned land, it was heavily fenced. In the UK I’m used to farm land being partitioned off by wild hedge growth or single strand wire fencing just significant enough to deter a wandering sheep, but incapable of posing difficulties to any but the most infirm trespassers. The Frick fencing however was state of the art, mostly steel posts set deep into concrete, with multiple strands of razor wire running between them. Interestingly, the fences were higher than necessary to keep animals in. I judged the fencing to be eight feet tall in places, making it seem more like the security you would have found around a concentration camp. The fencing was unlikely to be so elaborate around the entire estate, for that would be cost prohibitive, but this area certainly looked incredibly secure.

 

“You folks take your boundaries seriously in these parts,” I said.

 

The cowboy driving the jeep regarded me for a moment, and then said, “we take most things seriously round these parts.” 

 

“Do you really need fencing that high? I guess your cattle must be pretty good at jumping.”

 

“Ain’t just there for the cattle, mister.”

 

We drove through a set of gates that opened wide as we approached. And from then on in, as we drove along a gravel dirt track, I saw security cameras routinely positioned at intervals on high poles. 

 

I had expected to drive all the way to the farmstead where I would be staying, but instead we pulled over at a set of low built structures with corrugated iron roofs. There were few windows in sight, and, of the couple I could see, they were narrow and tightly closed with heavy wooden shutters. There was some asphalt parking there and a number of high-powered arc lights mounted on poles. Concrete had been laid between the outbuildings and there were a couple of cattle trucks parked nearby, alongside a couple of dusty looking cars. 

 

“This is as far as I go, mister,” said the cow hand. He sounded the horn of his jeep and I saw a door open at the front of one of the out buildings. Two ranch hands in jeans, boots and flannel shirts emerged and walked slowly towards us. To my surprise, one of the men was carrying a rifle under his arm, in the rest position. It had a telescopic scope for long range shooting. Both men were tanned, probably in their late forties, and frankly they looked mean and ornery as the Wild West clichés go. 

 

“You Mister Martell?” asked the man who didn’t have a gun. He stood there with his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans, while he chewed tobacco to just add to the cliché. 

 

“Yeah, that’s me.” I climbed out of the jeep and walked round the side of the car to collect my canvas hold all. “I hope this isn’t my weekend accommodation,” I joked.

 

“You’re not a girl, are ya?” asked the man without a trace of amusement.

 

“Definitely not a girl,” I said.

 

The man nodded, spat some tobacco onto the ground and then replied, “then why the fuck would you be staying here?”

 

It seemed a strange thing to say. I looked back at the small shuttered windows and the grim, whitewashed walls.  

 

“So, what now?” I asked, as I slung the canvas hold all over my right shoulder.

 

“So, now we take you over to the House.” He seemed now to notice my accent. “You English?”

 

“Guilty as charged.”

 

He spat some more chewing tobacco onto the ground. “Figures.” 

 

This wasn’t quite the warm friendly reception I’d been expecting. Chelsea had promised me a fun weekend. It wasn’t off to a good start.

 

The two men led me to one of the cars. I heard the internal door locks snap open as the tobacco chewing man used his remote. 

 

“Get in the back, son,” he said as he sat down in the driver’s seat.

 

I did as he said, as the man with the rifle settled into the front passenger seat. I couldn’t help but remark, “are you expecting bandits to shoot at us on the way to the House?”

 

Both men gazed round at me. Neither man seemed to find my remark funny. “Just sit down and enjoy the ride, mister. I ain’t much one for small talk.”

 

It was a ten minute drive to the main house, and when I caught sight of it I saw it was built in the grand style, overlooking several acres of recreational gardens. The car pulled round to the front of the building and the driver left the engine running as he sounded his horn twice.

 

“End of the road, son. Enjoy your stay.”

 

“If it’s as pleasant as my welcome so far, I’m in for a great weekend,” I joked.

 

“You being funny?” The man turned round to regard me with a cold expression. 

 

“Yeah. It’s a joke. Look, you got a problem with me?”

 

“No problem, son.” His gaze didn’t waver from mine. 

 

“Really?”

 

“Why don’t you just get the fuck out of this car, mister.” He paused for a moment before adding, “and welcome to the Frick ranch. Have a nice fucking day.”

 

Fine. I climbed out of the car, dragging my canvas hold all with me. I was already regretting coming out here. But then, if I hadn’t come out here, I wouldn’t have had a great night with Kelly Milford. Swings and roundabouts.

 

The car took off with a roar of the engine, even before I had the side door properly closed. I stared in amazement at the vehicle as it sped back down the way it had come.

 

From that point on, the reception improved considerably. I was welcomed into the house by a man who seemed to be the butler, but wasn’t referred to as such. Nevertheless, he seemed to run the household for the Fricks.

 

I casually mentioned the boorish manners of the men who had driven me here in tandem. 

 

“You’ll have to forgive them,” remarked Mr Kane as he led me down a perfectly appointed corridor, with great ceiling beams cut and shaped from ancient Ponderosa Pines, and past large oil paintings of several generations of wealthy Fricks, all of whom looked miserable or cruel, or cruelly miserable, as old portraits from the Victorian era onwards tend to do. “They’re rough ranch hands and not over endowed with manners. I shall speak to Miss Frick about the matter. I know for a fact she’ll be mortified.”

 

“No need to trouble her,” I said. “I have a thick skin.”

 

“Splendid.” Kane smiled and gestured for me to enter an enormous living space with a glass wall that slid back to reveal a courtyard garden of exquisite beauty and tranquil calm. “Make yourself comfortable while I inform Miss Frick that you’ve arrived. Can I offer you a drink?”

 

“Bit early in the day, but I’m on holiday, so, yeah. A cold beer would be nice.”

 

“Of course. One moment.”

 

I settled myself down on what had to be the most comfortable sofa I’d ever sat on, and I reached over to the coffee table to examine a selection of Taschen art books. They all looked to be in mint, unread condition, and probably just there as table pieces. My cold beer arrived within a minute or two, brought to me by a thirty something woman dressed in a traditional maid’s uniform in the style of the Edwardian, era with a tightly buttoned collar high around her throat, a long, shapeless dress that just about showed the heels and ankles of her dark brown leather boots, a long utilitarian apron, and a loose bonnet that covered much of her upswept dark hair that was gathered and pinned in place. Her face was bare of any makeup. I thanked her as she placed the drink down on a side table, before she then withdrew and asked me politely if I required anything else. 

 

“Beer’s fine, thanks.”

 

Ten minutes later, Chelsea Savannah Frick entered the room. She was dressed, head to foot, in a gorgeous silk kimono with voluminous balloon sleeves, a tightly sashed waist, and a long hem that almost touched the ground. 

 

“Roland, so glad you could make it. Welcome to the Lazy F.” 

 

I stood up as she walked serenely to another sofa, set at an angle to mine, smoothed the back of her kimono, and sat gracefully down, crossing her legs at the ankle. “How was the journey?” she asked, motioning for me to sit back down, opposite.

 

“Pretty good.” I thought back to the lovely Kelly Milford and her excited gasps of arousal in the sleeper compartment of the train.  

 

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

 

“This is a lovely place you have here, Chelsea. You’re very lucky.”

 

“Not as lucky as you might think. It’s not actually mine. Though, one day…”

 

“Apologies, I was under the impression that you…”

 

“No. I didn’t inherit, upon the death of my father. The ranch and the lands belong to my uncle, Wilson Frick. Property tends to pass down through the men of this family. Women live off their trust funds.”

 

Felicity had mentioned before that Chelsea’s father had died in a violent attack in London, ten years ago. 

 

“I am, however, a Lady of the House.” She smiled. “The ranch hands refer to me as ma’am.”

 

“I saw a few of your ranch hands. I don’t think they’re very partial to strangers.”

 

She laughed. “No, they’re not. Out here in Montana we maintain good relations with our neighbours, but we still keep our distance. It’s the Montana way. Good fences make for good neighbours. My uncle’s foreman always says that. You may have seen the no trespassing signs?”

 

I hadn’t. 

 

“Trespass is a very serious matter around these parts. You don’t ignore a man’s fence.”

 

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

 

“You have free access to the house and grounds, Roland, but the ranch hands don’t really know you, so I’d advise you not to wander off too far, especially at night, or, if you do, let me know, and I’ll arrange for someone to escort you. Some of the older ranch hands can be a bit twitchy if they see a stranger.”

 

I smiled at that.  

 

“I can offer you some really good fishing and riding while you’re here, and you must take a trip out in a jeep to see the Bighorn. If you like water sports, there’s plenty of that in the region, and we even have a private golf course. Uncle Wilson is a keen golfer.”

 

“Never played, but the water sports could be fun.”

 

“I’ll speak to Mr Kane and have him arrange something. You may also enjoy the hiking. The area around here has canyons and some Ponderosa Pine woodland around a large lake, populated by elk, pronghorn, antelope, and whitetail deer. You’ve missed the Spring hunting season for black bear, I’m afraid.”

 

“I wouldn’t want to shoot a black bear,” I said, finding the idea abhorrent. 

 

“Oh?”

 

“I’m English. We like bears. Especially Paddington.”

 

“Perhaps I could take you out to shoot wolf and mountain lion, then?”

 

“Again, rather partial to both, so wouldn’t want to shoot them, either.”

 

“I thought the English loved hunting?”

 

“You’re thinking of our landed gentry. I’m just a common oik, Miss Frick.”

 

“Oik?”

 

“Peasant.”

 

“Oh, Roland, how sweet. Was Felicity your Lady Chatterley?”

 

I felt a bit uncomfortable hearing her name all of a sudden, though I knew she would be a topic of conversation this weekend. “Felicity and I…”

 

Chelsea said nothing, but indicated I should continue.

“We parted on bad terms. A misunderstanding, I think.”

 

“She said as much.”

 

“You’ve talked?” I leaned forward slightly and laced the fingers of my hands together. “About me?”

 

“Curiosity is not becoming in a man like you, Roland.” She seemed amused by her own remark. “I’d have to spank you. But yes, we’ve talked about you. I met Felicity in New York, last week.”

 

“And?”

 

“She’s not happy.” Chelsea’s left foot peeked out from the long hem of the silk kimono as she flexed that leg, crossed at the ankle. “But then, how could she be, dating Dexter Bannon?”

 

“Why is she dating Dexter Bannon? When I last saw her she’d been to dinner with him, and he’d upset her.”

 

“I suspect Dexter upsets women regularly. But he’s persistent, and he doesn’t let a woman walk out of his life.”

 

“You’re saying that’s what I did?”

 

“You didn’t go after her.” 

 

“I didn’t have the chance. She moved out. I didn’t even know she was still living in New York.”

 

“You mean you didn’t try to find out.”

 

“I’m not a stalker, Chelsea. I respected her decision.”

 

“And I suppose you never want to see her again?” There was a sparkle in her eye now.

 

“Well, I didn’t say that…”