Feminine 101

If you have not already done so, or if you are new, I recommend starting with Chapter 1. This is a linear story and will make a lot more sense read as a whole. Please leave a like, comment, or subscribe to my blog to get notifications when a new chapter is published. If you only missed the last post, you can read Chapter 2 here.

Rain pelted steadily on the plank roof rousing her from a restless slumber. Ordinarily she awoke to the gray light of dawn just before the first beams of sunshine glowed amber ‘round the door frame. Even in the overcast gloom, she could sense that it was early. Out of impulse, she reached for her husband, but before her hand came to rest on the woven cotton, she remembered what she would find. Tomorrow, she thought. With a sigh she rose and peered out the door towards the outhouse, little more than a smudge through the downpour. Draping an oilcloth over her head and shoulders, she dashed barefoot towards the old building. She returned to the house only mildly damp where the hem of her nightgown tussled over water-laden prairie grasses, tall even now in the chill of spring. Safely beneath the eaves of the sod house, she paused to survey the empty prairie so much obscured by heavy rain and predawn shadows. She hoped he was warm knowing that dry was unlikely at best. 

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She stirred the fire to life from faintly glowing coals and put on a tiny pot of tea from their diminishing supplies. She would save the coffee until he returned and they could both partake. Meanwhile, she made the bed and spread the oilcloth by the door to dry. Dressing herself properly, the young woman took a small porcelain teacup down from the mantle and filled it for herself. She waited by the gentle blaze for the night to retreat into the western sky, patiently sipping her tea. When the cup was empty, she rinsed it in the remaining boiling water and replaced it on the mantle.

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Jo mooed a gentle greeting to the mistress of the homestead and was rewarded with an affectionate scratch on her throat. The old milk cow was getting sunken in the hollows of her hips after the harsh, prairie winter. The woman resolved to peg her in the tall grass the moment the rain let up. Bucket in one hand and stool in the other, she perched next to Jo’s rounded belly, just behind her shoulder. Jo’s calf called eagerly from the stall next door, pacing expectantly and butting his head against the gate. Before long, the calf was fed and the woman began collecting eggs from the hens’ nests towards the rafters of the three-sided sod barn. Matthew had brought the chickens back from town last autumn so they had enjoyed eggs all winter long. He had constructed cubby spaces in the rear of the barn, up high so as to be beyond the reach of predators. 

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She smiled in satisfaction at the chickens and the small miracle of their survival. She would not have always appreciated such a mundane reality. Indeed, only two short years ago, she had been accustomed to a life in town, where most things came on supply trains to her father’s general store. Really, she had been quite coddled. But when Matthew returned from The War, he’d collected all of his captain’s pay–scarcely a penny of which had been spent–approached her father, then set about gathering supplies for the journey west. She shook her head at her own naivety knowing she would have followed him anywhere. Chuckling softly to herself, she admitted silently that she would still follow him anywhere. She always had.

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The woman set about a dozen chores that needed done. The downpour had morphed into a light drizzle, but there was still no sunshine in sight by the time she looked up from her current project. A flurry of prairie hens had scattered into the sky just over the rise to the east drawing her attention. Surely he could not be returning so soon. The woman stood craning to see over the rise and became aware of a growing hum. A steady vibration rose through the soles of her bare feet gaining in strength. The hum swelled to a rumble, but she did not wait to act. Gathering her skirts to her knees, she bounded toward where Jo was staked in the grass. Clearly agitated, the old cow was pacing on her tether. The woman tugged the slipknot and hauled on the rope. Jo gladly followed after her, bustling along as only a pot-bellied bovine can, scrambling toward the barn. The woman could see a black mass rippling in the distance, and the rumble escalated to a roar. Fifty yards away was the barn, where Jo’s calf was bucking in his stall, she urged the panicking milkcow to greater speed. The black horde separated and materialized into individual bobbing masses as the stampede surged toward their homestead, a tiny pocket of civility on the vast, wild face of the ancient prairie. Finally she and Jo rushed into the barn, and she swung the gate closed behind her. She tugged the straps that secured the old canvas wagon cover from the rafters and it cascaded to the floor like a curtain. By now the roar was deafening as she pressed herself into the corner of the barn, Jo’s tether in her grip, softly singing to herself. Her fingers trembled and her voice wavered, but the soft hymn filled her soul.

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“Abide with me, fast falls the eventide…”

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Shadows began to flicker past the canvas first like a dribble, then as a flood. A steady stream of dark figures rippled past the front of the barn, mud spattering the canvas. Suddenly there was a crash and the splintering of wood. The canvas billowed in as a dark figure of the bison tumbled headlong into the stall. The flickers of more bison hurtled over the fallen beast. It was on its side, feet jolting. All but one leg pawed at the air and ground. The fourth limb floundered helplessly. Blood pooled under the creature’s neck as Jo bawled in terror pacing nervously from side to side. The last of the herd trampled by as the prone buffalo finally shuddered and was still. 

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The woman stroked Jo’s neck singing, “I triumph still if thou abide with me,” until the creature slowly calmed. The woman led the old milk cow into the stall with her calf and left her. She tugged hard until she was able to drag the canvas from beneath the dead bison, an old bull, it seemed. Blood spread across the edge of it, but she slid it up to hang from the rafters so she could survey the damage. She could see a shard of the wooden gate piercing the shaggy brown chest directly in front of the shoulder blade. The bull was massive, easily two thousand pounds, and Jo was hardly a beast of burden so moving it whole was out of the question. The woman, mud squelching between her toes, trotted to the house which was little worse for the wear, all things considered. Quickly, she removed her outer dress then retrieved the skinning knife. She kept a razor’s edge on it and quickly set to work. First, she removed the head, ultimately rolling it away. Then she wound a rope round the rear ankles before swinging it over the rafters. With all her might, she hefted the rear legs off the ground, as blood poured from the neck. She opened its belly next, raising the ever-lightening carcass upward so it might be properly gutted and butchered. 

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Poor Jo was utterly distraught so the woman led her to a tall stand of prairie grasses, surprisingly resilient after the trauma of thousands of hooves, and staked her down. She simply let the calf free. He wasn’t likely to go far from his mother. Until she could move the pieces of the carcass and clean up after it, there was little else to be done for the old girl. 

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Butchering the monster took the rest of the day, but, as the gray skies deepened, she was scraping fresh grass into the stall. The entrails and gore were buried over the rise to the east. She kept the horns, thinking maybe she could make something from them. The meat was carefully cut and salted. Most of it would begin drying as soon as the sun returned. Tonight though, she would roast some over the hearth and celebrate that the homestead had emerged from the stampede relatively unscathed. Not for the first time, she wished Matthew could be there. He would have to do a real repair on the barn stalls, but she had managed to put it back together enough to hold the docile Jo. Her calf’s stall was untouched so he would do no harm there. She washed the old canvas and hauled water to the tub for a bath. Now the large pot was bubbling on the hearth and should warm it all nicely. Her muscles ached and she was bone weary. 

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The rays of morning sun peeking through the gaps in the door brought a smile to her face even before she opened her eyes. Even the weather seemed to know that today was one of cheer. She kicked the covers off donning her best dress. Carefully she re-braided her hair, weaving intricately until it was piled on her head like a Greek goddess. She’d never done that before, but her fingers knew precisely what to do. 

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Jo greeted her cheerfully and the chickens clucked their “hellos.” Today’s tasks bore striking resemblance to those of yesterday save the stampede, but, to her, it all felt fresh and the brisk, sun-filled air nearly rang with anticipation. Still, she went diligently about her chores, mostly resisting the urge to crane her neck towards the horizon every other moment. 

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By afternoon sweat dripped down her nose to sizzle in the coals as she tentatively sampled the scalding stew. Perfect. The rhythmic undulations of approaching hoof beats reached her ears and she straightened. Delight filled her so she placed the spoon on the hearth, and quickly turned to tidying the small cabin. There was nothing more to be done about the dirt floor, but she brushed the most recent layer of dust from the table, scrubbed the perspiration from her face and smoothed the curling tendrils of dark hair around her temples. At the last minute she realized she still wore her gingham apron now thoroughly spotted with broth. Tearing it off frantically, she was just placing it on its peg when the door swung wide.

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The daylight streaming from behind obscured the figure at the door so that the first thing she saw clearly in the dim light of the sod house were his boots. Black, dusty and worn, she would know them anywhere. They had carried her across the threshold after the last board of the roof was hammered into place. They had bounced around next to her when he swam the horse across the Platte River. Now they darkened her door after days away hunting. He moved into the room, tucking his Smithfield rifle around the doorpost and letting the bundle of fresh game–geese, rabbits, and prairie hens–slip from his shoulder to the floor. 

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Not needing to see his face, Lorena hurtled into his waiting, newly-emptied arms. The familiar scent of him overwhelmed her senses and she breathed all the more deeply. As long as she lived, she would never get tired of it. She tipped her head back and peered up into his face.

To continue, click here for Chapter 4.

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