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 I get 100 views on a single post of One More Life, I will self-publish a digital and printed copy with an exclusive Epilogue. If you only missed the last post, you can read Chapter 11 here.

He crouched in the prairie grasses, inching closer to the hilltop. Utilizing every bit of scout’s training he could, he maneuvered silently forward. The torrent of rain fell in sheets soaking through his oiled slicker, streaming from his hat. He consoled his sodden self that the rain concealed his approach. At the rise of the hill, he paused, glimpsing through the swaying grasses, his prey. Raising the Smithfield rifle to his shoulder and propping the barrel on one hand, he took careful aim, silently cursing the flicker in the sky. Two seconds later, the thunderclap brought the doe’s head up and she, prodded by ancient instinct, bounded away. Lifting the rifle, and standing upright, he made his way back to where his horse was hobbled. Hunting in this was a fruitless endeavor, so he determined to head toward the ridge, possibly find a cave or, at the very least, an outcropping–anything to escape the blasted rain. 

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The horse’s coat was so thoroughly soaked he could see its skin beneath the lighter colored fur. The gelding nickered softly around a mouthful of wet grasses as he approached. Patting the animal on the neck, he stowed the rifle in its sheath and removed the hobbles. The ridge was several miles away and, in the driving rain, he did not force a difficult pace. It settled into a drizzle before long and he continued his trek. Even with the meager game he’d won, the weather itself being against him, he decided it was time to head home. 

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He remembered being lost in thought when he heard the familiar roar in the distance, remembered the sinking dread as he looked in the direction from whence it came. Immediately he rounded toward it and rode hard for home, the mud sucking at his horse’s hooves, like a thousand grasping hands painfully hindering all forward progress. Despite being near enough to see the distant rise that hid his homestead, it took him all day to skirt the precarious ridge. Crossing the swollen creek at the bottom had nearly done them in and dark had fallen by the time he reached the opposite bank. Fighting the foolhardy instinct to rush headlong into the night, he instead built a fire and scrubbed the mud from his boots. If he broke the horse’s leg or injured himself, they’d be far worse off than if he simply waited until morning. He banished thoughts of her lying broken and alone on the endless prairie, even as they rose unbidden to the forefront of his mind. 

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He coaxed a small flame from wet grasses and even wetter wood, deciding on the wisdom of dry clothes and warmth. Catching fever would be no good, especially if she was hurt. Once the fire was blazing defiant of the damp and muddy estate of the evening, he took out his rifle and a wad of cotton to clean it. The motions were so familiar he could have performed them in his sleep, yet his focus was razor sharp, intent on the task lest he acknowledge the helpless feeling gnawing at his insides. It took him twice as long as usual, but he didn’t mind. He was painfully aware of the creeping passage of time. Finally, when he was convinced the bedroll was dry enough, he wrapped himself in it fighting for sleep that dallied in coming. 

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He summoned the memory of her head on his chest, the feel of her breath playing across his skin, powerful enough to ward away the most evil memories. Yet in her absence, the old ghosts of battlefields past haunted his dreams: men fought and died beside him, under his command. Screams from the wounded echoed through him until he felt ill. He could not close his eyes to, could not unsee the horrors of missing limbs and bloodstained uniforms. In the midst of it all, images of her, broken and bloodied from the stampede, made him want to cry out. He would wake to the dazzling prairie sky, alight with a million pinpricks of light–blessed relief from the whelming blue-black expanse of the heavens where the ghosts dwelt. Restless, he tossed and closed his eyes to the demons again, steeling himself until dawn finally came. 

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He was up before the sun, lashing his bedroll to the dun mustang’s back along with the birds he’d shot and swinging effortlessly into the saddle. With a flick of the reins and a cluck of the tongue the animal started off at an easy, rolling canter. Grasses brushed the animal’s belly, wet with dew. Again and again he fought the urge to whip the creature into a run, instead alternating between a swift walk and a relaxed lope with the practiced discipline of a soldier. 

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At a distance he could make out the strand of smoke swirling into the sky and felt his heart leap. She was keeping a fire going, at least. As he drew closer, he saw the trodden, muddy tracks of the enormous herd that had reached his ears even so far away. The grass lay flat in a wide swath as far as his eye could see. He swallowed the apprehension that goaded him forward and set his face grimly for whatever was over that rise. But the horse was at a full gallop as he crested the hill and plunged down into their very own little valley, trampled by a thousand hooves before he slowed to survey the state of things.  

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The miniscule sod house stood square and alert despite the grass sprouting from its walls. The barn was little worse for the wear, though he noticed a freshly turned patch of dirt out away from the buildings that looked suspiciously like a grave. Stretched out in the sun was the hide of an enormous animal that could only be a buffalo. Casting about, he took in the hastily mended stall where Jo stood sleepily chewing her cud. Then he noticed the hanging strips of darkening red meat everywhere and the buffalo head propped against the side of the house, its horns removed. How on earth had she managed that? Even the smaller ones could weigh a thousand pounds or more. But judging by the very dark, bushy hair of the massive head, and the size of the skin staked to the ground, it was an older bull and definitely not a small one.

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He pulled the dun to an abrupt stop and took a deep breath. He could hear her now. She was humming, the soft tune bringing a wave of relief that he had tried to produce all of yesterday, now washed over him in full force. As he dropped from the saddle, he suppressed the urge to sag against the animal or in any way acknowledge the weight of fear he felt lifting. Shouldering the game he’d bagged, he walked into the sod house where she stood smoothing an invisible wrinkle at her hip. She hurtled into his waiting arms lifting her face to kiss him.

To continue this story, click here for Chapter 13.

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