Chapter Text
Steve Rogers woke with a grunt, his head banging against the sill of the window against which he’d been dozing. The train - the great, shuddering beast of soot and steam which had rattled the teeth in his jaw and the bones in his body across the endless miles of bloodsoaked country - had jolted to a stop. Steve promptly sneezed, his oversized cap falling down across his eyes as the boy sitting next to him glared. Steve glared right back, then turned his attention to the world taking shape outside the window as the dust and grit settled on the platform.
North Star, Kansas. An optimistic name for a town without much to say for itself, considering all he could see beyond the platform was a lonely strip of drab, gray buildings - false fronts built up tall to hide the ramshackle structures behind them. Wasn’t home, even if it was where he intended to stay. It was a place to be; a place where he felt bound and determined to build a better life for himself. He was done relying on other people.
The thing about Steve Rogers was that he could take care of himself. He was getting good at it now that his mother was gone. Sarah Rogers had been dead six months, though he didn’t like to think about it often. Didn’t like to think about how much he missed hearing the cadence of her voice, trailing behind her as she did her work - one hand curled into the material of her skirts when he was small - watching the beads of a rosary pass through her hands.
The doctor said it was yellow fever that took her, but Steve knew better - she’d died of a broken heart. His father was two years gone, killed in the muck and the mire of Spotsylvania. Joseph Rogers had been a decent man, kind to his wife and bemused by his son. Death didn’t care for decency. Didn’t discriminate between the righteous and the rebels. Steve's father had died with a bullet in his skull, leaving a broken family behind him.
Steve didn’t like to think about that, either.
Instead, he thought of his future. At sixteen (almost seventeen), he figured he had one. Even if that future meant leaving Brooklyn behind to come here. The middle of nowhere. On a train filled with rude, squalling children. He was neither a child nor a man grown, and as such, he’d run out of options.
He had spent the six months since his mother’s death living with various parishioners who were coaxed into taking him in by Father Murphy. Everything was impermanent. Unsafe. He’d begun to think of himself more as an obligation than a person. Father Murphy had done what he could - he’d been kind to them after Joseph’s death, and when Sarah was gone, he’d worked hard to find Steve a permanent home.
When he’d brought up the idea of the ‘Family Placement’ program, Steve had been willing to listen.
The program was meant for younger children (“orphans,” Steve’s mind supplied bitterly), sending them west to be adopted by childless families. Those participants who were Steve’s age took a different route - families brought them in, but as farmhands and laborers. Steve had been intrigued, half-swept up in the romance of it - New York meant limited prospects, but a ticket west could mean a future. The chance to stake his own claim in the rising tide of westward expansion and fashion a place for himself in the world.
He had no need for a family, but he could work hard and learn fast. He was sure he’d be a boon to anyone who took him in. Farming seemed simple enough - he’d helped his mother cook, clean, and tend a garden. He wasn’t strapping or strong, but he was willing, and that had to count for something. He planned to work and save his wages carefully, then at twenty-one file for a homestead claim. His own land, his own farm. His own peace of mind.
Because Steve Rogers? He could take care of himself.
The trip itself had been a trial. He’d endured the indignities of being one of the few older boys lumped in with the squalling babies and children. He’d scowled his way through being ignominiously given three sets of clothing from the charity barrel, along with a threadbare wool overcoat, an ill-fitting hat, and a pair of used boots with the soles nearly worn through. The people at the agency had handed him a Bible and given him a pat on the head along with a train ticket that would take him away from the only home he’d ever known. From the bones of his parents and the clinging grime of the city.
He’d not bothered looking back. And now, there he was. New life, new start. North Star. He wouldn’t say he was optimistic, but at least the sun was shining.
A couple who worked with the agency - the Fortunes - had accompanied them on the journey from New York, shepherding them from train to train as they navigated the vast country. The man was a blowhard and the woman a fluttering fusspot. They both fawned over the babies and the toddlers, leaving any children over the age of six or so to fend for themselves. That meant plenty of petty fights, scraped knees, bites and bruises. Steve liked to think he was above it, but he’d scrapped with a boy just two days before, resulting in a cut on his cheek and a bruise on his shoulder. The boy in question had been frightening some of the smaller children, and while Steve didn’t like them, he wasn’t about to see them terrorized.
They were all at the ends of their ropes, here at the end of the journey. They’d stopped three times, in three different cities. Each stop had reduced the size of their cohort as ten or twenty children left the train, going on to be claimed by families, taken to their new lives. Steve was privately wounded at not being in these earlier groups - the healthiest, happiest children were taken first. Here in North Star, they were left with the sickly, the sullen, and the weak. People living so far out couldn’t be picky, and wasn’t it just lousy to know you were among the last to be chosen?
Mrs. Fortune stood at the front of the carriage, calling instructions in her sing-song voice. Steve hated her. He grabbed his valise, filled with everything he owned in the world, and waited his turn to shuffle into the aisle. The older girls had to handle the babies, a fact for which he was privately grateful. He’d had plenty of experience, but he didn’t like to let on. Not when it might earn him more work.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” Mrs. Fortune trilled. “Right this way, dears.”
Steve scowled at her, squinting in the doorway, daylight temporarily blinding him. Goodness, it was hot, the summer sun beating down on him as he shielded his eyes and stepped onto the platform.
There wasn’t much to it - rough clapboard running along the length of the train. A set of steps leading to the street. Not even a proper ticket booth. It wasn’t like New York or Chicago. The town behind it seemed smaller now, stripped of any false hope the wavy glass of the train window might have carried. North Star wasn’t any bigger, brighter, or better than it had initially appeared.
He thought of Brooklyn. Cleared his throat and gripped the handle of his bag tightly, walking in a clump with the others to descend the stairs.
Plenty of people came to gawk at them as they disembarked - an arrival of orphans fresh from the east was apparently a spectacle to be seen. Probably people here didn’t have many other options. The thought wasn’t kind, but he didn’t like that they were staring.
But of course, they were staring. They were there for a reason. He ought to make a good impression if he wanted to be hired, so he stood as tall as he could and puffed out his chest. Tried to look healthy despite the fact that the clothes he wore were too big, and he’d had a persistent cough since they’d stopped in Chicago.
Mrs. Fortune ushered them towards the main street. The only street. Steve hardly had time to take it in (mercantilehotelblacksmithschool) before they were shown into a church, Mr. Fortune standing in the doorway to count them as they entered.
There was a raised dais in the front of the room which they were expected to stand on, crowded together with the older ones in the back, the little ones in the front. Babies held in weary arms. There were people in the pews. Mostly women, some with their men, some not. Ruddy faces and rough clothing, hardly a color to be seen. Some of them looked nice, though nobody was smiling. That might have been due to the church being stiflingly hot. Steve hated being closed in - made his throat tight, and his heart beat fast in his chest.
Once they were all assembled on the dais, Mr. Fortune stepped forward and began what seemed to Steve to be the world’s longest speech. They were the poor, destitute, motherless and fatherless children of New York City. Those pitiable souls who’d come west seeking families with open hearts to take them in. And he was so honored to have them introduce themselves because each child had prepared something unique to say.
This was the part Steve had been dreading. They’d been forced to practice speeches and songs, poems and history recitations. Each time he said his piece he felt a bit more like the organ grinder’s monkey he’d seen once at a street fair in Manhattan. It was humiliating and pointless - as though reciting a poem or giving a heartfelt speech meant anything.
There were seventeen of them, and every single moment was agony. He was hot and irritated. He’d come here to work, not to be paraded on a stage like so much merchandise.
When it was Steve’s turn, he cleared his throat and promptly forgot everything he’d practiced. So he rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged, saying precisely seven words. “M’Steve Rogers. I’m a hard worker.”
Mr. Fortune didn’t look pleased. Steve didn’t care. Being the oldest, he was the last one to speak, and once he was through the prospective families were free to come and talk with them. He watched as the babies were cuddled and the older children were prodded. Questions asked about their intelligence, their looks, their strength.
Nobody was looking to see how strong Steve was. He scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. One of the twelve-year-olds had been picked over him. It wasn’t his fault he was small, and he’d work just as hard as anyone. Heck, he’d work harder.
The crowd began to thin out eventually - babies and toddlers picked first, then the smaller children, then those around ten or so. By the time the church emptied there were four of them left - two sullen looking girls, a younger boy who’d had a cold for a week, and Steve.
Steve, who was growing more anxious by the minute. What happened to the ones who weren’t chosen? It hadn’t occurred to him that he might not be. Perhaps that was naive. Would they send him back to New York? Chicago? Were they obligated to do anything for him at all?
His rising panic was threatening to drown him when the door to the chapel opened, and a man entered, face hidden under a hat, dressed in rough brown trousers and a sweat-stained white shirt. No jacket or tie, unlike most of the other men who’d come looking.
The newcomer stalked forward, giving his name quietly to the woman handling the paperwork. When he approached the dais, Steve realized he was younger than he appeared from a distance. Hardly more than a boy, though he had several day’s growth of beard on his face and long, tangled hair visible under his hat. He walked with a stiffness, a slight limp in his stride. When he reached the stage, he tipped his hat back, taking in the four who were left, close enough that Steve could see the blue of his eyes.
Handsome - oh, but he was handsome. The thought was in Steve’s head like lightning, though he banished it quickly, pushing it down deep, angry with himself for allowing it in at all. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he tried not to scowl when the man looked him up and down. It was hard not to be embarrassed by that sort of appraisal, yet he found himself wanting to look strong and sturdy. Worthy of being selected.
“You ever work on a farm?” the man asked, his voice rough, as though he didn’t use it often.
Steve stuck his chin out. “No, but I learn quick.”
The man huffed, looking Steve over again, his lip curling up in a way that might have been a smile, though it was hard to tell. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Small for sixteen.”
That was rude. Steve opened up his mouth to tell the man so when he spoke again. “I’m looking to hire a hand. Got a claim a few miles out of town. Ain’t much, but I can pay you.”
Steve’s jaw snapped shut, all thought of reprimand was forgotten as he nodded. “Yessir, I can do that.”
The man snorted, turning and walking back up the aisle without another word. Steve could only assume he was meant to keep up, so he picked up his bag and scurried behind.
“I’m hiring this one,” the man said to the woman with the record book. “You need me to sign something?”
As it turned out, she did, presenting a printed form to Steve’s new employer. He scrawled his signature first, taking up a good portion of the bottom of the page, before filling in the few blank spaces that remained.
“What’s your name?” He looked to Steve for an answer, though Steve was distracted by the words printed on the page. He hadn’t seen the form before - hadn’t realized what it said. Regardless of employment, he would be bound to this stranger for the foreseeable future and had no way of knowing if he was cruel or kind, funny or furious. Did he have a family, friends, a place for Steve to lay his head? The whole endeavor began to feel monumentally stupid, and yet there he was - his future laid out in a few lines of print on a page.
“Steven,” he said, voice hitching. “With a V. Rogers.”
The man filled in the remaining empty space.
Children's Shield Society (Family Placement Division)
June 3, 1867I, the undersigned, James B. Barnes hereby agree to provide for Steven Rogers now of the age of sixteen years, until the said boy shall reach the age of 18 years, according to the following terms and conditions, and with the full understanding that the Society reserves the right to remove the child previous to legal adoption if at any time the circumstances of the home become such as in the judgment of the agent are injurious to the physical, mental or moral well-being of the child.
The terms and conditions for the retention of the boy being as follows:
To care for him in sickness and health, to send him to school during the entire free school year until he reaches the age of 14 years, and thereafter during the winter months at least, until he reaches the age of 16 years; also to have him attend Church and Sunday School when convenient, and to retain him as a member of my family until he reaches the age of 17 years, and thereafter for the final year, until he is 18 years old, to pay the boy monthly wages in addition to his maintenance, the amount thereof to be previously determined after consultation with the Society's local agent and his approval.
In case he proves unsatisfactory, I agree to notify the society and pending his removal, to keep him a reasonable length of time after such notice has been given. I agree, moreover, to use my best endeavor than and at all times, to detain him, should he try to leave me, until the Society can take steps for his removal. I agree to keep him at all times as well supplied with clothing as he was when I received him.
Detain. Injurious. Unsatisfactory. Steve swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. He hadn’t realized - thought he could just work and be paid. Nothing more, nothing less. The paper made him out to be this man’s ward, which sat funny in his stomach. This Barnes, whoever he might be, was hardly older than Steve. Five years if he was a day, and possibly less. Steve didn’t like to feel indebted, especially not to someone young enough to have been his friend in another life.
The paper was signed before he had the opportunity to ruminate on it much longer, the woman putting her name as a witness before Barnes jerked his head at Steve. “C’mon, then. Daylight’s burning.”
It was by far the strangest encounter of Steve’s life.
He followed Barnes out to where there was a buckboard wagon waiting, along with two horses hitched to a post. Barnes set about unhitching them, gentling the animals with a few soft noises. These horses were different than the sad, worn-out city horses Steve had spent his whole life observing. One was a pretty chestnut color, seemingly biddable as it nuzzled Barnes’ shoulder. The other was black, save for a blaze of white on its nose. It wasn’t quite so sweet, stamping a foot, blowing out a breath, looking at Steve with, well, he might have said wariness if that didn’t sound stupid - horses weren’t capable of wariness. He didn’t think so, anyway.
“What are your horses called?” he asked. Seemed polite.
Barnes grunted, taking Steve’s valise and pitching it into the back of the wagon. “Black one’s Winter,” he replied, hauling himself up one-handed into the seat. “Chestnut one’s Bright.”
“Oh,” Steve said. It took him three tries to pull himself up into the wagon. Barnes didn’t comment, for which Steve was privately grateful. “And you’re James...Barnes?”
“Suppose I am,” he replied, flicking the reins to get the horses moving. “Most everyone calls me Bucky. You can call me what you like.”
Barnes seemed disinclined to continue the conversation. Steve fell silent, taking in more of the small town as they drove through it. People were milling about, though not as many as there had been when the train arrived. His eyes lingered on a woman with the reddest hair he’d ever seen, brazen as anything without a bonnet on her head, crossing the street into the alley that ran alongside the hotel. Barnes noticed her, too, his gaze lingering long enough that Steve wondered if he ought to say something. The moment passed; Barnes urged the horses to take up a quicker pace, and they soon left the hotel behind.
“Everyone just calls me Steve,” he offered when the silence grew oppressive.
“Alright,” Barnes grunted, the conversation dying on the vine once again.
Sarah and Joseph Rogers had never been quiet. Steve’s life had been filled with noise since the moment he’d come into the world, a tiny, red, squalling thing who’d spent his childhood learning from his loquacious parents. They’d been neither wealthy nor comfortable, but they’d been happy in their one-room lodgings filled with songs and stories - Sarah always singing, her voice never on-pitch and never lovelier; Joseph reading passages from the paper, fascinated by the politics of the day.
He wasn’t sure about this Barnes, this silent figure sitting beside him, staring straight ahead as the wagon rolled out of town and onto the flat prairie. There was a road if one could call it that - a place so many wagons had run through that there were ruts in the dirt and some semblance of differentiation from the grass on either side. Steve hadn’t thought land could go on like that until he’d seen it from the window of the train. It had a certain beauty, the tall grass undulating like waves on the sea, sun glinting off the stalks when the light caught it the right way.
Before, he would have liked to draw it with the paper and pencils his parents scrimped and save to purchase for him, despite the fact that it took food out of their own mouths. With Joseph gone, Sarah had tried to keep him supplied. Then she’d fallen ill, and there wasn’t money for anything anymore. He couldn’t imagine there would be any for him in the future, either. It had been a childish hobby, no more, and he was a grown-up now.
Barnes remained silent the entire drive, eventually directing the wagon off the worn trail and making for a small rise that one might charitably call a hill. Steve couldn’t imagine how he was able to differentiate that particular knoll from any other. From the top, Steve could see a clearing in the distance - two wooden structures in a yard with what looked to be wheat fields stretching behind them. His experience with farms was minimal, but he supposed he knew that much.
As they drew closer, his stomach sank. This was where he was expected to spend the next year of his life? The primary structure could only be described as a house if one had never seen a proper home before. In truth, it was no more than a rough shanty made of cheap boards and tar paper. The second building was sturdier - a stable with a real foundation and a proper log frame. Someone had taken great care in making sure the animals had a comfortable place to bed down for the night. Less so for the humans.
Barnes pulled the wagon up to the stable and hopped down, leaving Steve to fend for himself. He had to stretch as far as he was able into the wagon bed, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wood before he managed to hook a corner of his bag. It wasn’t very dignified, and he was sure his face was bright red by the time his feet were back on solid ground. He didn’t like to think of how silly he’d looked during his descent - it was a long way down. Barnes was fiddling with the buckles that hitched the horses to the wagon, his left hand stiff, fingers awkwardly gripping the leather while his right hand did the finer work.
“I can help with that…” Steve offered.
“Don’t need your help,” Barnes said, his tone brokering no argument. “Go on in the house. I’ll be along in a minute.”
Considering the man had signed a paper explicitly stating he wanted Steve’s help, that seemed wrongheaded. But Steve didn’t want to argue - part of him worried that Barnes might find some fault with him and send him back. If this gruff stranger was his only chance at succeeding in North Star, he needed to keep his temper in check and do as he was told.
When he pushed open the door, he was greeted with a whiff of stale, hot air and the odor of a man living on his own - the smell of boarding houses and bachelors. Steve knew that smell, following his mother around as she scrubbed floors for an extra dime when times were tough. He’d hated the work, hated seeing her on her knees when he knew how capable she was of doing so much more. Sarah Rogers deserved a place among the saints, what with the miracles he’d seen her perform.
The smell, though - the warmth and masculinity of it all? He’d never minded that.
The walls were lined with newsprint for insulation. Rough pine boards lined the floor, hard-packed dirt visible between the slats, unswept for ages. Everything in the house, in fact, felt vaguely grimy - as though Barnes hadn’t ever bothered cleaning a dish or laundering his clothing. Said clothing was strewn about, though it had mostly accumulated on the bed shoved up against one wall.
The single room was cramped, the bed on one side of the space, a proper stone fireplace on the other. There was a cookstove - a luxury he hadn’t necessarily been expecting - with a rough-hewn table and two equally shoddy-looking chairs set near it. A small storage hutch lined the opposite wall. It might have been pretty once, though the wood needed a polish. Four shelves, odd and uneven, jutted from the wall near the hutch, covered with odds and ends of daily life - dishes, tools, a lantern. There was a window as well, though the shutters were closed over it, leaving the room dark and sullen despite the daylight outside. Finally, there was a quilt hung as a curtain from the ceiling, creating a partition to section off one small part of the room - a corner in the back near the bed.
The squalid neglect was a punch to the stomach when compared with his family’s small, warm place in Brooklyn. They’d had no more than this, but it had always felt like a home. This felt like a hovel.
He wasn’t going to dwell on it. Living in the past wouldn’t change a thing about his future. So he stiffened his resolve before setting his bag down near the table and walking over to unlatch the shutters. The window had no glass, so he could at least air the place out. See things more clearly.
A warm, fragrant breeze infused the room, carrying with it the summer sunshine and the sweet smell of prairie grass. Barnes darkened the doorway a few minutes later, interrupting Steve’s intense scrutiny of the cookstove. Steve jumped at the sound of his voice.
“You keep your things behind the quilt.” Barnes was looking directly at his valise, and Steve flushed, feeling small and stupid, as though he’d somehow made the mess when Barnes was the one living in a sty.
“Oh.” Steve glanced at the hanging partition. He’d assumed that the quilt was there to give Barnes a makeshift bedroom - that Steve would be sleeping in the main room. “I thought that was yours.”
Barnes grunted, hanging his hat on a peg by the door, then sitting down on the bed, which creaked under his weight. (Steve told himself he imagined the cloud of dust that rose from the covers. Surely he had to be imagining that.) Barnes began unlacing his boots, speaking more to the floor than to Steve. “I sleep here. My sister, she slept back there.” He shrugged, awkward, running a hand through his messy hair. “You have your own bed.”
Steve picked up his bag and investigated the space behind the curtain. ‘Bed’ seemed a generous term for the straw mattress laid out on the floor, but it would afford him a modicum of privacy. The mattress was made up with a patchwork quilt in log cabin style, along with a pillow. Two small shelves were notched into the wall above the bed - too high to reach while lying down, but useful all the same. They were bare, except for two issues of Godey’s Lady’s Book lying on their sides.
Steve frowned. Slept, Barnes had said. Sister slept. Past tense.
He put his bag on the bed before stepping back into the main room. “Thank you,” he said, rubbing a hand across the sweat-damp skin at the back of his neck. “Do you...did your sister die?” There were, he realized, more tactful ways to phrase the question, but tact had never come easily.
Barnes laughed, the sound short and sharp, as though something was caught in his throat and fighting to get out. “Nah,” he said, knocking the pile of accumulated clothing off his bed. “Got married last March, living with her husband on a claim a few miles west. That’s why I need the extra hand.” The last bit was said grudgingly, as though he didn’t believe it to be true.
Steve shrugged, forcing himself to remain pleasant. “I can be helpful.”
“Here’s hoping.” Barnes yawned, leaning back onto his mattress and crossing his arms over his chest. “Ain’t teaching you things twice.”
Steve bristled. “That won’t be necessary.”
“We’ll see,” Barnes said, yawning and turning on his side, back to the room. Evidently, he was done with Steve for the time being.
Steve had never known anyone to nap in the middle of the afternoon unless they were very old, very young, or very ill. Barnes was none of those. Didn’t he have a farm to run? The man was stranger and stranger.
With Barnes napping, Steve was left with an abundance of time and nothing to do unless he fancied reading one of the Lady’s Books or the Bible. He wasn’t feeling a great generosity of spirit at that moment, so the latter seemed a poor choice. He’d have to ask God’s forgiveness when he next confessed - he’d likely be feeling less hard done by.
In the end, he retreated behind the curtain and lay on his bed, lonely and troubled, hoping that sleep might take him. It didn’t. He couldn’t settle. It was too quiet - the only sound in the cabin the soft snores emanating from Barnes. The silence was disconcerting to a boy who’d spend his life in noisy, crowded, happy places.
He missed his mother. He ached for her embrace, her bright laugh, her wicked sense of humor. He wondered what she would think of this place. This person. This new life he’d determined to build for himself in her absence.
He wasn’t sure she would like it.
