Renegade
Detective Trace Sheridan is a 21st Century corrupt cop who thinks life is about the last highest bidder and the next cheap thrill - until her luck runs out and she realizes she is fortunate to escape to a simpler time with just the clothes on her back. The worldly, wayward, not-so-nice Trace meets Rachel Young, a naive, sweet, proper yet troubled ranch woman whose challenges are more than meet the eye. Despite their differences, the two women forge an unlikely friendship as they bond and grow closer, eventually changing each other and the people around them, sharing an unlikely love whose true nature must remain hidden from everyone else. With some unexpected help along the way, they form a united front against the type of individual Trace once was and what seems like insurmountable odds of good over evil.
1
She was powering herself forward, sure by now she was running on pure adrenalin alone. Sweat was running down her face, into her eyes and ears, trickling down her back, pain and strain reminding her of her limitations, muscles and ligaments screaming at her, "enough, already!" But it was not enough, it couldn't be. She had not caught up to him yet and, damn it, this time she was not going to let him get away. The burn in her legs had long passed and now it felt like she was sprinting on two stumps. Thankfully breathing was automatic and not something she had to think about doing because right now her only focus was to catch the man who shot her partner. But not for any reasons of nobility, as one might expect of her. Her quest was not to capture this man and bring him to justice, but to finish him off for self-preservation.
It had happened so fast. They hadn't been on duty that long when one of her most valuable confidential informants called her and asked for a meeting. Told her he had certain knowledge of a situation that would probably garner her another commendation. Told her that Vincent DeSienna, once a cohort, now the bane of her existence, had resurfaced and her CI knew where she could find him. The fact that she would act on this information was a no-brainer.
Responding to the requested area, Tracey Sheridan and her partner, Robert Montesano, pulled their vehicle into a secluded alley, the usual dark, obscure place to talk, and sat in their car, looking for Boney Jackson, her snitch. Checking her watch, Trace remarked to Bobby that it was unlike Jackson not to be right there. That's when they saw a shadow move in the foreground and mistakenly assumed that person was the one who should have been there to meet them.
Complacently, almost lazily, Bobby Montesano opened the driver's side door and was about to get out when a series of shots rang out, one striking the young detective of almost two years in the shoulder. Reacting quickly, Trace reached over and pulled him down level on the seat as two more bullets slammed into the backrest of the driver's side seat, where Montesano's head had been merely seconds earlier.
When the sound of gunfire stopped abruptly, Trace surmised whoever was shooting at them had emptied his clip and utilized the three seconds it took to slap another magazine in, to exit her side of the vehicle with her portable in one hand and her Glock in the other. Crouching by the wheel, hoping the engine block was between her and the shooter for some protection, Trace raised up quickly and unloaded her clip in rapid succession, drawing fire away from her wounded partner. Ducking down, she released the empty magazine, replacing it with a full one as more shots rang out, flying over her head, at least three striking the front grill of the sedan.
She was about to put out an emergency 'shots fired, officer down' call, when she heard Bobby's voice, strong but in definite pain. "Trace! You all right?"
"Still here," she yelled back. "You?" More gunfire. "Bobby! Hit the brights one time!" As he did, she laid prone on the pavement, peeking in the direction the vehicle's headlights were pointing. Recognizing the blinded face, a startled Trace hesitated while the ramifications of this development registered, which gave the shooter enough time to dive down behind his trademark BMW. "Son of a bitch," she whispered to herself, "It's DeSienna. Fuck." She yelled to Bobby to call it in and she moved her aim to the Beamer's tires, flattening two so that he could not escape by vehicle.
"Can do. Go get that bastard," he told her, as it was suddenly silent except for the sounds of footsteps running away. Jumping to her feet, Detective Tracey Sheridan took off after the fleeing figure as though she had been jettisoned from an idling spacecraft. If anyone could look into her normally alluring ice blue eyes right now, growing darker by the second, they would not see life in them, they would see death. Murder, to be more precise.
She had to have been chasing him for at least a mile. The only sound she could hear was her own breathing. The cadence of two sets of footsteps was no longer registering in her brain. On a casual day, Trace could do that length in eight minutes. With her intentionally putting on the speed, she knew she had covered twice that distance in the same amount of time. And yet she still had not caught up to him...but she was gaining.
2
Damn, she was fast, he thought as he could hear her behind him, almost on top of him. He hadn't thought this out fully, hadn't planned on not killing her, or at least wounding her. What had gone wrong? Well, first, the bitch disabled his car, so he couldn't make a quick getaway and, second, a back-up plan would have been good, maybe have one of his men at a rendezvous point to pick him up in case things had not worked out as intended. Well...spilt milk and all that, he was just going to have to keep running and stay ahead of her.
He had impatiently waited for them, set up the ambush, his vendetta against her so thorough and raging. She had been his father's favorite dirty cop, taking money to make evidence disappear in any case involving his family. Then she suddenly stopped, defecting to an even more corrupt influence, and it appeared as though she was on a calling, trying to personally eliminate his family members one by one. She had been instrumental in the arrest of his father, a man who had been like a father to her, also - at least financially. She had been in on the apprehension of his younger brother, used her connection with him and knowledge of his deep anger issues to provoke him into taking a swing or two at her, resulting in jail time. Then she expertly entrapped and testified against his cousin, the family attorney, which helped get him disbarred.
He had laid low for a while, felt it was necessary for his own survival but her being such a traitor ate away at him, eroding what emotional security he might have had remaining. She left him with no choice, he needed to get her before she got him. He was the only one left to run the family empire, if he went down, the dynasty went with him. His other relatives were idiots, he couldn't rely on them to keep the family on top where they deserved to be. He had to get this bitch. He had to. This mission couldn't be left up to one of his flunkies, he had to do this himself, had to have that satisfaction.
It should have been so easy. He coerced one of her most faithful confidential informants into requesting a meeting. Then he killed him. Hey, the guy was useless anyway, working with the cops, betraying his streets, he didn't deserve to live. And, the fact that the dirtbag informed to her just made said dirtbag's demise even sweeter. Then all he had to do was wait for them to come into the alleyway expecting to meet with her CI and eliminate them both. He was really only after her. Capping her partner would have just been an added bonus.
His biggest mistake, he knew, was that he had underestimated her. Again. As much as he despised her, he couldn't deny the bitch knew her shit. He should have had someone else take her out, someone who was expendable, just in case. But no, he had to do this himself, had to be the one claim bragging rights on this one. He would be damned if she would get him, too. He had to be the one to stop her, to eliminate her as a problem, it was only right. He owed it to his family to kill her.
But, as usual, her reflexes had been too quick, she was just too smart. He had kept himself adequately hidden and protected. Hitting her first had been his intention but she hadn't been driving, her partner had. He'd started firing at them the second the car stopped and the doors opened, had unloaded two full clips thinking he couldn't miss. Yet he had.
Missed her. And now, the sound of her gaining on him pushed him harder, even though he knew he was almost out of steam. And, as he was out of bullets, he knew if she caught him, she'd kill him.
DeSienna had led her through a labyrinth of back alleys which crisscrossed over several deserted side streets. He knew this territory well as he had spent most of his childhood here. He was running out of places to divert off to until he could hear music and noise up ahead, emanating from the usually overcrowded craft street fair that littered the next eight blocks. Turning the corner, he was relieved to enter a sea of people occupying the street and he quickly, gleefully, got lost in the haphazard throng.
3
She was so close, not even ten steps behind him. She watched him turn the corner and disappear from her sight. She came bounding around after him and before she could slow down, she smashed into a young couple, who were heading toward the alley to get a little more privately acquainted. The force of the collision sent the two lovebirds crashing to the ground. Barely losing her balance, Trace recovered by turning out of the fall and was about to continue her foot chase when a hand reached out and grabbed her ankle.
"Hey! Where the fuck do you think you're going?" the older teenage boy spit at her, his ego bruised more than his body.
She so did not have time for this, some little ham head trying to prove his machismo to some chick he probably didn't even know. Looking at the crowd of people lining the street for the next eight blocks, she knew she had lost DeSienna. And even if she hadn't, it would have been too dangerous to pursue him in this setting. Whirling, she stomped her free foot down on the young man's wrist, which prompted the automatic, immediate release of his grip on her ankle. Howling, he let fly a string of uncomplimentary expletives that almost made Trace blush. Almost.
"Shut up," Trace advised him, evenly, displaying her badge and pointing her gun at him...not so much for threat as for emphasis. She wasn't sure but she thought he might have pissed his pants. She scanned the people enjoying the evening's festivities and then realized she needed to catch her breath.
Bending at the waist, leaning the palms of her hands on her knees, she closed her eyes as perspiration continued to drip down her forehead, neck, chest and back. It was then and only then she realized how hard she had been pushing herself. Straightening up, she paced a bit, trying to regain a somewhat normal respiration.
"Shit! Son-of-a-bitch! Fuck!!" She sputtered, trying to collect her composure before she keyed the radio. A few deep breaths later, she reported in and cursed herself again for losing him. As she walked back toward the alley, she sneered at the man still on the ground, however, extending a hand toward the young woman, whose eyes were glued to her Glock, which had just been holstered. Accepting the offering, the girl rose to her feet easily with the help of the woman pulling her to a standing position. "You okay?"
"Yes...I'm...I'm fine, thanks," the girl responded, a little nonplussed by the last couple of minutes.
"I'm sorry," she apologized, sincerely.
"Hey - what about me?" The young man asked bitterly, still seated on the sidewalk.
She looked down at him, with a smirk, shaking her head. "What about you?"
4
Detective Sheridan walked toward the ambulance to where her young partner was about to be wheeled on and moved to a hospital. The EMT attending to him had given him something for the pain and it was starting to take effect. "How are you, Bobby?" she asked, clasping his hand, tightly.
"Great now," he grinned, then grimaced. He indicated the paramedic. "Hector here gave me some good stuff, which I'm sure must be illegal," he stumbled over his words, "and I feel pretty darn good, comparatively." When Hector smiled down at him, Montesano looked at the nice looking Hispanic EMT and said, "If I weren't straight, I'd marry you."
Winking at Trace, Hector then patted Bobby's arm and said, "First, that would make you a bisexual bigamist and second, you just love me for my drugs."
"I never said I wasn't shallow," Montesano retorted.
"A couple minutes, Detective, then we need to get him out of here," Hector advised Trace and then walked to the front of the vehicle.
"So I guess it's not life threatening, huh?" she smiled at her usually dark complexioned, ruggedly handsome, twenty-eight-year-old partner who was now extremely ashen.
"No. Thanks to you."
"Aw, come on, Bobby, I was only doing my job."
"You saved my ass, Trace," Detective Robert Montesano conceded, graciously. "If you hadn't reacted so fast, we'd be the lead story on the eleven o'clock news."
"You probably are anyway." Looking up, she spotted their boss, Lieutenant Quintana, exiting a police cruiser. This was routine, so she wasn't surprised to see him. His presence was required at any incident that involved his officers getting shot or discharging their weapons for any reason.
Behind him was Lance Eaker from the Internal Affairs Division. That wasn't unusual, either, given the circumstances. She was grateful that it was Eaker, as he was one of the nicer IA officers, less obnoxious than most. Having run the gamut with nearly every officer from IAD, her being the focus of several investigations, which never amounted to anything, she liked Eaker the best. She also took full advantage of the obvious, hammering unrequited crush he had on her. Trace understood Internal Affairs had a job to do and they usually weren't as bad as they were portrayed in the movies or on television, but if you had something to hide, they could be repugnantly relentless. As well they should have been. It was dirty cops that ruined it for the rest of them. If they got caught, she mused to herself, a satisfied smile curling her lips.
"Sorry you didn't get him," Bobby told her, sincerely.
"Me, too, the bastard," she spit out. "If DeSienna didn't have such a hard on for me, none of this would have happened. This isn't over yet, partner. He still is going to have to explain what his car is doing here and why bullets registered to his gun are everywhere, including in you and our sedan." And, hopefully, not explain to them why he was really trying to kill her.
"And in Boney Jackson," Montesano supplied.
"What?" Shocked, Trace turned to see the coroner's office loading a bagged body into their van. "No..."
"Sorry, partner," Bobby consoled. Jackson was not a model citizen, he had an arrest record as long as his own arm, but he had redeemed himself by becoming Trace's informant and he had done a damned good job. She could feel her blood pressure rise just at the thought that DeSienna most likely killed him because of her, that he would have killed Bobby because of her. That he would have killed her without a second thought.
She would make sure Jackson got a funeral and a proper burial. It was the least she could do. DeSienna's blood money in her alias account should cover the expenses just fine. Or at least cover what she spent from her own pocket.
Hector reappeared and strapped Montesano securely to the gurney. "Okay, Detective, it's time to go."
As they lifted him slightly and rolled him backward, the legs of the stretcher collapsed, fitting nicely into the back of the ambulance.
Just as Quintana and Eaker stepped next to Trace and before the meat wagon's doors were closed, Bobby grinned at his partner and slurred, "And if you were straight, I'd marry you, too!"
Laughing, Trace looked over at the stunned faces of her boss and Eaker. Oops. Oh well. Although she had never been blatant about anything neither did she go to great lengths to keep her orientation a secret, either. They had to know. They couldn't be that dense. Or could they? Most of the men she knew or worked with were guided by their little head, rarely, if ever, thinking with their big head, so...her male colleagues probably couldn't get passed the fact the she was naturally beautiful and had a body a bishop would have given up his vows for.
Even though she knew she wasn't considered 'stereotypical' with her long black hair and mannerisms neither masculine nor feminine, she also didn't own a dress or skirt, never carried a purse, always wore men's jeans, was always 'one of the guys,' the fact that she never showed up at company functions with a date and - oh yeah, there was that 'scandal' two years ago when she picked up the gorgeous, recently divorced, female district attorney and left the holiday celebration with her. Even if none of the other signs clued them in, that incident should have been the kicker.
She specifically remembered that division Christmas party where she showed up late, had a few drinks, flirted outrageously with and, shortly thereafter, left with the city's DA. It had been the talk of the surrounding precinct men's bathrooms and workout rooms for months. Had they or hadn't they? Neither was talking which only seemed to stimulate the rumor mill more.
And, boy, had they! Okay, so it was a one-night stand, as the sex did last one night, all night, and at a few points, they were standing. But she was the envy of all her co-workers, even though no one had the gonads to say anything to her about it. They all wanted the intelligent, deliciously sensual DA, a fantasy that dominated locker room conversation and personal dirty jokes between partners - but it was Trace Sheridan who got her.
Even the dayshift watch commander, the most conservative of cops, couldn't help but be jealous - not that he approved of any form of homosexuality - but...just the thought of what the two women must have done in bed together, especially with them both being individually so hot and sexy, and that he would have preferred to be the one in bed with either...or both...or watching them...it was a scenario that stayed with him and the others a very long time. A lot of them thought that Trace and the DA were still secretly seeing each other but both women mutually agreed that it wasn't a good idea. Not that one time in the sack was nearly enough but even if Trace did do relationships - which she didn’t - an affair between them would have been much too distracting. For everyone.
She never really thought about the possibility that most of her male colleagues did not want to believe she was a lesbian because a majority of them wanted her for themselves. It wasn't that she was a great cop (because she wasn't, the only thing she was really good at was being deceitful - not that any of them knew anything about that part of her life), it was more that Trace Sheridan was a looker.
The tall detective was a striking woman by anyone's standards. She had expressive, intense, light crystal blue eyes, almost a shadowy aqua when angry or aroused, under inherently long, dark lashes, sculpted cheekbones and a strong set to her jaw which was somewhat reminiscent of a proud, noble tribal warrior from generations past. She had a spirituous, sensuous mouth which, when she smiled, parted to reveal an easy yet almost carnal grin. Her mahogany-streaked ebony hair always fell playfully tousled around her tanned, expressive face
She also had a body to die for stretched over a six-foot frame, and she knew this because she worked very hard at keeping it that way. It was not her initial intention to attract anyone with her figure as it was more to stay in shape just in case she had to rely on her own physical resources in situations like tonight. She ran five miles at least every other afternoon before her shift began, worked out for forty-five minutes three days a week at the gym and taught women's unarmed self-defense classes at the local YMCA once a week. That and random good genes blessed her with the body now coveted by nearly all her male co-workers and a few of her female ones.
But even if Trace did do relationships, she didn't want them or have time for them. It was difficult to commit to anything other than her profession and the times she had attempted something more than just a few dates had all ended badly. Going out with anyone 'on the job' proved either too competitive, too familiar or too much of a gamble at being found out as a cop on the take and dating a civilian was too difficult because they never really understood the dynamics of her profession and she got tired of explaining why she was always late, always being called away, always canceling plans.
It worked out better for her to rely on special 'friends' who didn't mind sharing a bed now and then or meet someone when the mood and circumstances were right to satisfy her healthy sexual appetite. She wasn't the most discriminate lesbian in town and she never had a problem finding accommodating women.
Shaking her head, the detective turned to them, resting her fist on her hip, waiting for either one of them to speak. From the looks on their faces, it might be a while.
5
Opening a can of Canada Dry, thirty-year-old Detective Tracey Sheridan took a long drink, allowing the harsh carbonation to conquer the dryness all the way down her throat. She knew even the minute amount of ginger in the beverage would help settle her stomach somewhat. She wasn't trying to calm herself from being afraid, on the contrary, she had been angry. Frighteningly angry. Had she got her hands on Vincent DeSienna, the ball-less, gutless little prick, she might have not had any need for her trusty service weapon, so incensed had she been at his cowardly attack of her and her partner. She was well aware of the risks that came with being a 'double agent,' so to speak, and that what had happened earlier was always a possibility but it didn't make her any less furious. Getting even with her was one thing but taking out those around her, who had nothing to do with their personal fight, enraged her.
Looking across the table of the gray, dull but practical interview room at IA Officer Lance Eaker, Trace watched as he finished adding some information to his report. He glanced up and studied her intently. Of all the luck...his Greek Goddess was a dyke. He had heard the rumors but his feelings for her helped him deny them. Well - that didn't mean he still couldn't fantasize. She was staring at him but it was obvious her mind was a thousand miles elsewhere. Eaker snapped his fingers to bring her back to reality.
"I know it's been a wild night there, Sheridan, but try to pay attention so we can both get the hell out of here and go home." His words were playful but his eyes were humorless. Maybe it was perfect timing to find out that Detective Sheridan was gay and he didn't stand a chance with her because he knew she wasn't going to be around too much longer. She had already been on borrowed time with her systematic but barely legal elimination of the city's most notorious crime family. Anyone who pissed off a DeSienna was a moving target and it was only a matter of time until she was taken out. Who she was or what she did for a living or who she knew couldn't save her. Trace Sheridan was a dead woman walking.
"What else do you need, Lance? We've been over everything four times," she sighed, wearily.
"Just want to make sure we didn't miss anything - for your sake," he replied, reviewing his paperwork one last time. "You going home or up to the hospital?"
"I'd be too antsy at home," she answered him, not daring to mention she was concerned DeSienna might be waiting for her there with another sneak attack on his agenda. "I'm going to see Bobby. I hope someone called his wife."
6
Tracey Sheridan didn't know she wanted to be in law enforcement until the month before she applied to the police academy. The decision was as much of a surprise to her as it was to everyone around her. Especially her mother, a former crack whore who'd spent more time in jail than out of it.
Zelda Sheridan had been cycled into the foster care system when she was three years old. Her biological parents had abandoned her and she journeyed through one abusive situation after another. At sixteen, she ran away, finding more love and compassion on the streets with strangers. She also learned she was sitting on a gold mine and used her natural 'assets' as a way to earn money. At eighteen, she looked thirty, acted fifty and found herself pregnant by an unknown john, who could have been one of many. For reasons even she didn't understand, she cleaned herself up and decided to have and keep the baby.
After Tracey was born, Zelda actually settled down, secured a legitimate job and became a doting mom to her little girl. Until her daughter turned six. By then, the twenty-four year old woman was bored with a routine nine-to-five workday and barely earning minimum wage. She regressed to her former profession getting much more caught up in it than before, turning her little girl into a feisty, independent but protective, latch key kid.
Trace had always been spontaneous - as a child, an adolescent, a teenager - and headstrong. When she made up her mind to do something, she did it and never worried about the consequences of her choices until it was too late. That got her into more trouble than it was worth, usually. But not with her mother...Zelda had her own issues to deal with...like where her next fix was coming from. This left Trace to basically bring up herself.
From an early age, she learned how to get around the law, how to dodge any authorities looking for her, how to get what she wanted by manipulation and, more than anything, how much money was the passport to everything in life. At least in her life.
She also knew soon after she hit puberty that she liked girls much better than boys. She witnessed too frequently how men treated her mother, who was normally a kind, sweet woman who just happened to look for love in all the wrong places and through a syringe. As Trace matured, she realized that her predilections were inborn and not environmental, even though her experiences with the opposite sex were rarely positive. The difference between her and her mother, though, was that men never scared or intimidated her.
Then fate intervened and she got hooked up with a man named Vittorio DeSienna. Not by choice but by a mistake of her mother's. Zelda and her 'man of the minute' found themselves dangerously beholden to the most notorious mob boss in three states for assaulting one of his 'lieutenants' who was walking back to his car after a payoff and stealing the money to support their drug habit. Trace came home from school one day and found her mother a bloody mess and the lifeless body of Zelda's boyfriend on the kitchen floor. It was a warning. Since the DeSienna's got most of the money back, they left Trace's mother alive. Barely. If Vittorio did not get the rest of the money, Zelda would pay for it with her life, which she had little of, since she'd already paid for it with her soul.
The defiant but enterprising eighteen-year-old went directly to DeSienna and offered to work off her mother's debt. DeSienna took one look at her and immediately wanted to employ her as a high-priced prostitute. When she told him just exactly where he could stick that offer, instead of being angry, he was amused by her courageous obstinence. He soon learned that Trace could get into places and accomplish things his sons and ‘family’ could not. And she found that she liked it - her mother was safe and the money was great. Then, two years after he took on Trace, Vittorio suggested she try to get into the police academy, wanting nothing more than to have his own personal cop on the payroll.
Liking the idea, she submitted her paperwork, aced her written exam, charmed her way through an oral board, easily passed her physical and smoked her psyche evaluation. The entire time she was in training, she had no contact with the DeSienna family or anyone affiliated with them. She wanted no previews of complicity or hint of impropriety in her behavior or associations, the promise of unlimited income so great if she could pull this off.
Graduating at the top of her class, Trace spent four years on patrol in Union City's downtown station, the busiest area in the county, the precinct Vittorio ran his operations in. Trace learned quickly what she could and couldn't do to be effective in her job and work for DeSienna on the side. Or, more correctly, be useful for DeSienna and work as a cop on the side.
The trouble started when Vittorio's son, Vincent, became obsessively jealous of the attention his father was lavishing on the statuesque, stunning woman and, also, after he realized that he could never make her his mistress. Without his father's knowledge, Vincent began to undercut everything Trace did, not only making her look incompetent but raising suspicion in Vittorio's eyes that the woman might be double-crossing him. Knowing the old man would always side with his number one son, regardless of how many times Vincent had disappointed him and she hadn't, Trace realized her 'career' with the infamous crime family was coming to an end.
Trace was not a stupid woman. Before she could be completely cut loose, she sold herself to the highest bidder, who happened to be the nemesis of Vittorio DeSienna and his nasty brood - the Union City Police Commissioner. She knew the commissioner was not the sterling character his publicity staff and PIO made him out to be as she had dealt with him a few times in the past in underhanded deals and agreements with the DeSienna family.
Her first assignment was a big one and one that would really prove her mettle with the highest police official in the county. She got promoted to Detective 2nd Grade following a single-handed take down of her former boss. Trace had previous knowledge of the day, time and place, the racketeering top mobster and two of his cronies were planning to personally torture a long time but traitorous colleague in an abandoned store in the old warehouse section of town.
That particular incident raised her to nearly legendary status which, for a brief time, almost became much more of a hindrance than a help. Keeping as low a profile as possible under the circumstances, she eventually had to be transferred out of the downtown precinct for two years while the dust cleared. In that two-year period, she took down another DeSienna, Vittorio's youngest son. Angelo "Andy" DeSienna was a reckless punk who stupidly (and drunkenly) confronted her outside a cop bar one night. She had been on her way in after her shift when it happened. While in jail, awaiting his trial, hot head Andy killed another resident who he claimed made sexual advances, which earned him twenty-five years in an out-of-state prison.
After that, Trace requested to go back to the downtown station and was paired off with a rookie detective named Montesano. Their first week out, she subtly arranged for them to be in the right place at the right time to witness a bribe being taken by Evan Lenoci, the DeSienna family attorney and cousin of Vincent. Testimony given by Trace (but not her partner, who wasn't completely sure of what he saw) resulted in Lenoci being disbarred. Vittorio's oldest boy then stepped up his gunning for her before she could remove him from his rightly inherited throne in the DeSienna kingdom.
7
Vincent DeSienna had been arrested the next day for the murder of one Reginald "Boney" Jackson and the attempted murder of Detectives Robert Montesano and Tracey Sheridan. Those were the major charges. He was being held in the county lock up with more charges pending. There was so much solid evidence against him even his crooked, high-priced attorneys couldn't get him out of this one. She had even gone to visit him, just to rub his nose in it and to insure he would keep his mouth shut about her, very unprofessional she knew but it was too good an opportunity to pass up, regardless of the ass chewing she got from her boss.
If looks could indeed kill, Trace would have been a victim of multiple fatal wounds, courtesy of one Vittorio Vincent DeSienna Jr.'s steely gray homicidal orbs. It was a shame he was such a vindictive, loathsome person because, despite that, he wasn't a bad looking man, a trait Trace was sure, got him places his muscle and influence ordinarily wouldn't, even though it got him nowhere with her.
But this had been a deadly game of one-upmanship between the two of them for too long and she had finally won, she had destroyed the mighty DeSienna snake pit. Sure, other distant relatives would slither in to take Vincent's place as the head of the 'empire,' but she had been the driving force behind the demise of the truly powerful family members. It was a good feeling. It was a better feeling that her reputation would be fiercely defended by the police commissioner, regardless of what he had to do to keep their little secret.
The first thing she did, after personally informing Bobby, who was still in the hospital recovering from shoulder surgery, was phone her dear friend, Mark Teranovich, her very first patrol partner who had quit the force after his leg had been shattered during a gun battle with a few of the DeSienna entourage. Mark had barely been out of the academy four months when the attack occurred. Even though he was getting full disability and compensation for his line duty injuries, he was still sour at the abrupt end to his law enforcement career at the hands of the infamous family. This incident occurred on a day Trace wasn't at work and even though Vittorio always denied it was intentional, she wondered if it was a warning to her to be loyal. Mark and Trace had remained fast friends, though, and she tried to take a day out of every two weeks or so and spend it with him.
Since then, Mark had become somewhat of a hermit, buying a small house in the mountains and wallowing in his hobby of inventing. He had made a fortune on a simple, silly little thing constructed from foam rubber, cloth and velcro, used to wrap around the hard plastic handles of a laundry basket. They were distributed in supermarkets, drug stores and discount stores, places that sold out of the product the very first week it went on the shelf. The income from that and his police pension allowed him to live very comfortably and lavishly indulge in more complex, technically innovative creations. He missed being a cop but he found his niche in inventing, in fact, the more eccentric, the better.
Following that phone call, she had gone out to celebrate with her best friend, Sandy Cline, but Trace had been so exhausted from the recent activities, that she really could not enjoy the evening. Returning home earlier than either would have really liked, Sandy and Trace agreed to go out at the end of the week and really make a night of it.
The next day she arranged for Boney Jackson's services. That took a good chunk out of her legitimate savings but it was something she knew she had to do. Paying for the funeral out of her illegal savings would have been easier but unwise, as she was sure an investigation would be launched into where she got that much money. Regardless if the commissioner squashed any inquiry, the suspicion would remain. She would file a requisition to be reimbursed by the city, knowing it probably wouldn't happen and, even if it did, she more than likely wouldn't see the money until one of her retirement checks.
A majority of the rest of the week had been spent on paperwork, documenting the DeSienna bust, making sure all the 'T's were crossed and 'I's were dotted so that when this case went to court there would be no mistakes, no loopholes, no tricks the defense attorney could pull out of his ass to weaken the state's case against good old Vinny. At least through no fault of the detective's, that was.
****************************************
8.
Trace and Sandy had been out on their planned celebration night, blowing off steam. It had been four days since the shooting and the chase and three days since DeSienna's arrest and, as there had been no further incidents, it was almost off the detective's mind - almost - when the inevitable happened.
The night had started out pleasantly but went consistently downhill from there. Trace had barely got through the door and ran smack into one of her exes (and a prime example of why the detective didn't do relationships). And, unfortunately, an ex who was not pleased with the break up and still not ready to let go of the tumultuous relationship. Karen Wong was attractive and, for all intents and purposes, congenial...to everyone but Trace. She hid her insanity well and Sandy used to tease Trace about her and Karen skipping down the psychopath of love. Or lust, more accurately. She became dangerously obsessed with the police detective, a fatal attraction of sorts, and Trace had to file a temporary restraining order against her after they broke up.
Since then, Karen had only tried to contact her once and that gesture was met with serious reprisal, so it had not happened again. However, there were times that they ended up at the same places, out of coincidence and Trace left it alone as long as Karen kept her distance. Tonight, they found themselves standing shoulder to elbow at the bar. Trace acknowledged her politely, civilly, and walked away with two Coronas for Sandy and herself. Karen just glared at her, eyes boring holes into her back, resenting her for being there with anyone, even knowing Sandy was just a friend.
Trace tried not to let it bother her that Karen was there and did not want to possibly aggravate an already tense situation even more by insisting her ex leave the bar, as the TRO required Karen to stay at least five hundred feet away from the detective. Sandy was more disturbed that the obviously spiteful and unstable woman was there than Trace was. Looking back on it, she would have much rather dealt with Karen at her worst than what eventually transpired.
Dancing, drinking, releasing all the tension in her body that had built up over the past week, Trace hadn't let her guard down and enjoyed herself like this in what seemed like forever. The club was crowded and she danced with everybody. Or it felt like everybody. Except Karen.
She was having such a good time, in fact, that she couldn't hide her annoyance at Sandy, who elbowed her way across the dance floor and grabbed her quite roughly, and escorted her toward a wall.
"Wh -? What are you doing?!" Trace yanked her arm out of her best friend's grasp. She swallowed her anger, however, when she saw the look of sheer panic and fear on Sandy's face. "What's wrong?"
Leaning in, to be heard over the pulsating, loud music, Sandy said, "DeSienna is here...and I think he's brought his whole gang with him."
"That's impossible - he's in jail..." Following the direction of Sandy's subtle pointing, Trace was sure her heart stopped beating...after it jumped into her throat. There, at the front entrance, was Vincent DeSienna, surrounded by three of the biggest goons she'd ever seen. All she could think of was the tuxedoed, gorilla door man in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?" in triplicate. Her instinct pushed her automatically toward the back door but once again, Sandy stopped her. "Don't bother, I checked. They're back there, too."
Crestfallen, stopping short of being downright panicky, she ran her hand through her long locks in contemplative frustration. "Fuck! How the fuck did he get out of jail?"
"Hello...! Earth to Trace...! He's a freaking DeSienna, I'm surprised he was in jail as long as he was and you should be, too."
"How the fuck did he know I was here? I know no one tailed us. I was extra cautious on that...how -?"
Realization struck them both at the same time. "Karen!" they furiously chorused.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" Trace's mouth went dry. "How could she do this?" Her head swiveled back and forth between the front entrance and the hallway leading to the back door as though she were intently watching volleying in a tennis match. Had they seen her yet? Hopefully not. She reached for her cell phone to call in reinforcements, feeling around the area where the device was normally clipped to her belt. It was gone. Physically looking down, she visually searched her own waistline and then the immediate area around her. "Shit...Sandy, my cell's gone!"
"What do you mean?" Now the fear was beginning to rise in Sandy. Trace was never without her phone and Sandy did not have hers as she had dropped it and damaged it that afternoon. Suddenly this was turning into a real Murphy's Law kind of a night.
"I mean I don't know where it is...!" She was still frantically looking around.
"Did you leave it in the bathroom?"
"I haven't been to the bathroom yet." Trace's eyes suddenly locked with Karen's, who was standing at the bar, a smug yet contemptible expression crossing her normally delicate features. In an exaggerated movement, she raised her arm high into the air so that it could be seen above the heads of the other bar patrons. In her hand was Trace's cell phone. "That bitch!" the detective bellowed, her voice roaring with anger.
Sandy scoured the bar until she focused on what Trace saw. "Man...she wants her revenge. Bad."
"She's signed my fucking death warrant, whether she's realized it or not."
"Let's borrow someone else's cell...show 'em your badge, tell 'em it's a police emergency. Take your gun out, and -"
"No. No time. Besides, I don't want to do anything that might provoke these idiots to open fire in this crowd." Trace ushered Sandy toward the restroom area. "We've got to think of something fast or I'm never going to make it out of here alive...and you might not, either."
"Fire," she suggested, quickly.
"We can't start a fire, Sandy. Jesus, people might get hurt or killed."
"Who said anything about starting one? All we have to do is yell it and then we can move out with the crowd."
A look of satisfaction and relief washed over the detective's face. "No one would hear us over this noise...but if we could set the sprinkler system off..." she pulled Sandy into the ladies room with her.
Trace was never more grateful that Sandy smoked than at that moment. Sandy helped brace the detective who climbed precariously onto a stall wall, directly under a sprinkler valve and flicked on the lighter she had passed up to her.
Just then, a bar patron walked in and stopped, startled, by what she saw. "What are you doing?" she asked the two women. Before either of them could respond, she began to back out. "I'm going to get the manager..." and with that threat, she was gone.
"Yep, go ahead," Trace muttered, continuing her task. "I may get banned from this place but I'll be alive." In a matter of seconds, water was spraying everywhere and an ungodly loud alarm began sounding. Jumping down from her perch, getting soaked, she handed Sandy her lighter back. "Let's get out of here."
******************************************************
9.
It should not have worked as well as it did, both women thinking that it was almost too easy. But they had escaped, losing themselves in the thick of the crowd that moved quickly toward the exits, out into the streets, passed the henchmen watching the doors. The frenzied bar patrons had shot out of the club entrances, literally pushing DeSienna and his stooges out of their way, knocking a few down in the process, just enough confusion to distract the gangster from his worst intentions.
"Wow. That was close," Sandy remarked, unnecessarily, as they ran to her car parked two blocks away. "Now what?" she asked, unlocking the doors with her remote.
"Just...just drive," Trace told her friend as she climbed into the back seat and laid down.
Starting up the car, shifting it into drive, Sandy pulled away from the curb. "What are you doing?"
"I don't know if they know your car or not or what Karen might have told them but even if they don't, they'll be looking for two people not one. It may not work, but I'll just stay down here until we get out of the city."
"Where are we going?"
"Head west, get on 105. I'll tell you from there."
While they drove, Sandy continued to check her rear view mirror for headlights following them. Once they made it past the city limits, they were pretty much alone on the highway. Slowly, Trace rose from the backseat, cautiously looking around before she sat up completely. There were no lights behind them and no tail lights ahead of them.
"How much gas do you have left?" the detective rubbed her eyes, trying to regain her focus.
"Half tank. Where did you want to go?"
"I...uh...I think I want to go to Mark's."
"Where is that?"
"In the mountains. I'll tell you where to drop me off."
"Drop you -? Are you insane?"
"I'm not going to tell you where exactly Mark's place is, Sandy. If you don't know, no one can torture it out of you."
"You think they won't kill me, anyway? Christ, Trace! No one will ever believe that I don't know where you are. Take me with you, where ever it is," she pleaded, desperately.
"No. I won't turn you into prey with DeSienna as the hunter. You don't deserve that. It's bad enough one of us is going to have to be looking over her shoulder the rest of her life, both of us shouldn't have to."
"Come on, Trace, you can't leave me now..."
She was shaking her head before Sandy could finish speaking. "No. You will be fine as long as you're nowhere near me. Just - just don't go back to your place tonight, let things cool down." Reaching in her pocket, Trace took out ninety dollars in cash and handed the wad over the seat to Sandy. "Take this and get yourself a room somewhere. Tomorrow, call Bobby and tell him what happened...depending on what's going on, he'll be able to advise you from there."
Sandy continued driving, concerned silence filling the time. Finally she said, "What about you? What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. I'll think of something at Mark's. If DeSienna finds out where I am, by the time he gets to me, hopefully I'll have a plan together and be out of there." Pointing to a poorly lit gas station/convenience store, Trace said, "Stop up there and let me out. I'll call Mark from that pay phone and tell him where to come get me."
"When will I hear from you?" Sandy inquired, slowing the car to a stop.
"When I feel it's safe. I'll call you." Trace exited the car and walked quickly around to the driver's side, leaning in the window and hugging Sandy. "Take care of yourself. Don't take any shit off anybody."
"You take care of yourself, Trace. I'm frightened for you."
Smiling ruefully, the tall detective told her, "I've been playing Russian Roulette with the DeSiennas for years. It was only a matter of time before I took the bullet."
"Don't say that! Jesus, Trace..."
"You need to get moving, Sandy. Now." Trace commanded her, stepping away from the car. "We'll talk in a few days, if not before."
"Promise?"
"Promise." She watched as the Firebird eased back onto the highway, heading further away from the city.
*********************************************************
10.
"You just can't keep yourself from stepping into a pile of shit, can you? Not going to come up smelling like a rose on this one, huh?" Mark commented, rhetorically. He maneuvered his pick-up truck uphill through a thickly forested, dirt road that wound around the mountain he called home. Taking nearly an hour to reach the house, it was close to midnight by the time he and Trace pulled in to his driveway.
He had picked up his phone on the second ring, alerting instantly on Trace's tone of voice, somewhere between forced composure and agitation. He didn't ask her why, when she asked that he come get her, knowing she would explain once they were together. After hanging up the pay phone at the store where Sandy had dropped her off, Trace then hiked directly into the woods for about a mile and a half, remembering the path that took her to the gravel road where she told Mark she would meet him.
After hugging him gratefully, she buckled herself in and unloaded her "story" to him as they drove. She neglected to advise him about the real reason Vincent was after her, knowing that he was too intelligent not to figure out that Trace may have been the reason he got shot and pensioned out all those years ago. Mark was too good a friend to ever have him find out any of the bad things she did, so she unraveled a tale of woe he would buy. He shook his head, sympathetically, cursing the DeSiennas for once again ruining another life.
Once inside Mark's humble abode, he cracked open a Budweiser, handing it to her, and embraced her again for comfort. He could tell she was angry but also ready to break down and cry, an emotion he knew she considered weak and would never reveal to him unless keeping it in would literally cause her to implode. Holding her so close benefited him, as well...it wasn't often he got to put his arms around such a sensuous woman. He knew Trace was a lesbian, that there would never be anything sexual between them but, respectfully, it didn't stop him from having his fantasies.
Finishing her beer, she asked if he minded if she took a shower. Handing her a fresh towel, he provided her with an old but clean set of sweats for her to change into. Afterward, sitting on the futon where she would sleep, sipping on a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea, she seemed to physically relax, at least more than he'd seen her since she got into his truck.
"So," she paused, looking around at all the contraptions and gadgets that cluttered Mark's den, "invented anything interesting?"
"Well...interesting to you and interesting to me are two different concepts. I'm working on a few things that might tweak your shorts."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Aw, come on, Trace, you know you're really not interested," Mark grinned at her.
She regarded him seriously. He was an attractive man, in a "B" prison movie sort of way. Kind of rough and swarthy, muscular, with short hair and almost always a two or three day stubble, very much contradicting the science geek image that he conveyed to anyone who had never personally met him. He had an even, white smile that enhanced that playboy look and an untapped charisma that only Trace rarely got a glimpse of. If she had been into men, she would have gone after Mark in a heartbeat.
She sighed. "I need to take my mind of my troubles, Marky-Mark, so tell me what you've been up to."
"Well...if you mean it then let's do the rounds."
He took her on a tour around his den and office, showing her and explaining about all his new inventions, some that were finished and quite clever and a few that were still crude and in various stages of creation and completion. The internet had provided him with a plethora of areas that aided him in his research and the knowledge he gained was invaluable when combining it with his imagination.
Downstairs, in his basement, he led her to what looked like a seven-foot plexiglass tube, and beamed at her, contentedly. "And here is my baby...my pride and joy, my future Nobel Peace Prize winner."
Trace studied the cylindrical shaped object before her with question and amusement. "What is it?"
"This? In lieu of a more scientific name which I doubt you would understand anyway, I call it my retro molecular transference device."
She shook her head, laughing. "That sounds like something Frankenfurter and Riff Raff would come up with. What does it mean?"
"It's a...uh...time machine."
Nearly choking on her tea, Trace looked at the tube, then him. "You're kidding. You mean like in 'Time After Time' and 'Back To The Future'?"
"Well, not quite as elaborate or dramatic but...yeah, something like that."
"Seriously? Have you experimented with anything yet?"
"Just plants and objects and a few annoying rodents."
"And?"
"And...nothing...I'm not sure anything has made it to where I've sent it and
I haven't figured out a way to get anything back yet. And don't ask me why I can't just reverse the process because, for some reason, it doesn't work that way."
Trace nodded, "Damn, Mark...still, that's pretty impressive."
*****************************************************
11.
By the time Trace woke up and roused herself from the warmth of the comfortable futon, Mark had already been down to the store and back, having retrieved his mail, two coffees, two cheese danish rolls and a local newspaper. Accepting the cup from him, Trace couldn't help but notice the somber expression on his face. In contrast to his sunny, talkative, friendly mood the night before, he was silent and brooding.
"What's wrong?" she looked up at him after taking a long swallow of coffee.
"Um...what kind of car was Sandy driving last night?"
Hesitantly, with dread, she answered, "A 2002 burgundy Firebird...why?"
Mark just shook his head, solemnly and tossed the paper to her, walking to the kitchen to get napkins for the danish pastries.
"NOOOO!!!" It was a wail, a voice of pain like he had never heard from anyone, especially his ex-patrol partner. "Those fucking bastards!! Why? Why her?? I'm the one they wanted...!!"
"They haven't identified the body yet, are you sure it's her?" Mark asked, sitting beside her on the futon.
"Oh, God, I'm positive. An African American woman, dressed in a black leather skirt and a lilac-colored blouse, found dead in a totaled maroon Firebird?" Trace fell back against the pillow, her arm covering her eyes, not being able to control the tears. "How did they find her? No one followed us..." She sat up quickly. "Mark. I've got to get out of here. You're in danger...anyone around me is in danger now."
Grabbing her before she catapulted off the futon, Mark put a reassuring arm around her. "Okay, just settle down a minute. Sandy's car went off the road about a hundred miles from here in the other direction. So unless they talked to her first, they won't have any clue where she dropped you off. And, even if they did, the guy who owns the gas station never said anything about any strangers around asking any questions about anyone. And, trust me, he is the highway busybody, if anything out of the ordinary was going on, he would have told me." His tone was as soothing as it could be but it didn't stop Trace from hugging her knees to her and rocking.
"You know these guys, Mark...they won't stop until they find me, until I'm dead. I am not going to be responsible for your murder as well."
"Trace, come on, you can't just leave, you have to have a plan. Now calm down and lets put our heads together here."
There was an awkward silence between them as they both thought the same thing: Trace was a dead woman, regardless of what they came up with. Her premature end was inevitable. Unless...
"Mark! What about your time machine?" She blurted, suddenly.
Eying her incredulously, he responded, "What about it?"
"Can it transport me?"
"What!? Are you nuts? I am nowhere near close to that kind of experimentation yet, and even if I was, I can't get you back!! And...and...like I said, I don't even know if the objects I've played around with have made it to wherever they go alive and in one piece!!"
"So what? Either way, I'm dead. I have nothing to lose."
He looked at her, almost pleadingly. "I do."
"Then help me do something. I can't stay here and I will be a target wherever I go. Please, Mark...I am desperate...!"
"Then move to the Swiss Alps, to the jungles of Central America, to Alaska, somewhere remote where it won't be worth it to them to look."
"This man will never stop looking until he physically sees my dead body. I am not going to spend the rest of my life hiding, waiting to be ambushed, waiting to die."
"Trace...I'm not -"
"Look, Mark, think of it this way, if I make it, you can start working toward your Nobel Prize."
"But I won't know if you make it, that's my point." He scratched his head, exasperated. "Trace, even if I was positive it worked, honestly, you're not exactly the woman I'd handpick for this experiment."
"Why not?"
"Because it's set for over a hundred years ago - the old west. You know nothing about the culture, don't own a dress, every other word out of your mouth is 'fuck.' Five minutes of listening to you and they'd hang you for…for God knows what."
"I could learn..." she argued, unreasonably.
"In a day? Even I'm not that much of an optimist." And then he got an idea.
**********************************************
12.
Looking at the finished product, Mark was pretty pleased with himself. Standing at arms length from him, Trace was dressed in the comfortable, old pair of Frye boots she had worn the night before, a pair of Mark's black jeans that hung a little loosely on her, which Mark assured her was a good thing and a faded black denim shirt Mark couldn't wear anymore. The hardest part for both of them was binding Trace's chest down with a bandage used to wrap the body to protect broken ribs. The brunette was pretty well endowed, a fact that needed to be hidden if she was going to be successful at this. Her face scrubbed of all make-up, all earrings and other modern jewelry removed, her hair now clipped in a shaggy boyish cut, Trace looked like an exotically adorable younger man. It just might work.
He knew he was crazy to go along with this but he also knew she was right. If she was going to die anyway, at least (he hoped) it wouldn't be horrifically excruciating or at the hands of the DeSiennas.
"Okay...you'll need money..." he continued.
"That's not a problem, I have enough money to get me started," she told him.
"Uh, no," he smiled at her, patiently. "Money looked different back then. We need to find you jewelry and trinkets you can used to pawn for money, things that aren't too modern or don't look too suspicious." Mark ran to his bedroom and, was gone for less than five minutes and returned with his hand closed. "Here."
Trace displayed her palm and dropped onto it were two gold bands, a small diamond ring, two diamond earrings, a pearl, sapphire and a jade necklace. "What's this?"
"My great grandmother's jewelry."
"No, I can't take this -"
"Yes, yes, you can. You have to. You'll need it. And it's style and design is closer to the era you'll be in. I won't miss it. It's just been sitting there in this small cedar box for a few generations."
They studied each other for what felt like an eternity before he pulled her into a strong embrace. She pulled away and kissed him on the cheek. "You ready?"
"Yeah," he told her quietly. "Are you?"
*******************************************************
She didn't expect to be dropped from mid-air...she had mistakenly thought if she made it at all, she would just 'beam' there like Captain Kirk. When she hit the ground, it was with a bone-crushing thud that knocked her unconscious.
********************************************************
Name: Cheyne
Email: Whenpiggsfly55@aol.com
Title: Renegade
Disclaimers: See Part 1
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****************
13.
The petite, pallid, slender blonde stepped cautiously, listening for any unusual or suspicious noises around her, ready to use the shot gun she would now carry with her at all times. She was still skittish and frightened from her attack three weeks earlier and wasn't at all pleased that on her first foray outside the sanctity of her ranch, one of her horses got loose and trotted away. She should have just let him come back on his own but with all that had happened lately, she couldn't be sure if he would return or meet with an untimely demise at the hands of the ruthless Crane family, who were doing everything they could to intimidate her off her land.
Any sane person would have just taken the monetary offer and let them have their way. But her resolve went way beyond what anyone one else considered rational. Small as it was, compared to others in the area, this ranch had belonged to her mother and father and it meant too much to her to just give it up. It was all she had left of her family. It was her home and she stubbornly did not care that it was blocking the influentially, territorial, strong-arming Crane clan from their direct cattle drive route eastward or their mission to own all the property west of the booming little town of Sagebrush. She had paid dearly for her obstinacy - slaughtered cows, burned crops, crippled horses and the worst of all, her rape.
Ben Crane was the youngest of the Crane boys, the only one who hadn't married yet and was under a lot of pressure from his family to do so. But Ben was a notorious philanderer, considered merely roguish by his father and brothers but was known as a violent womanizer in the town. Ben was a mean drunk who preferred the company of the wayward women who resided above the saloon because he knew he could treat them any disrespectful way he pleased and pay them enough to take it.
However, now with the strong insistence of his family to take a wife, he cast his eye upon Rachel Young, perhaps the most beautiful woman in the valley, easily the comeliest of any female Ben had ever seen. After all, why shouldn't he have the best? Besides, it would solve the problem of gaining access to the land she owned. It never occurred to him that she wouldn't be interested, that she would resist his offer, that she would have the audacity (much less the courage) to turn down a Crane.
Well, he had to admit that his reputation wasn't the most proper and maybe that was the deterrent. And she had been polite but firm in her refusal, even though he had taken a bath, donned his best Sunday suit and brought her a bouquet of flowers. However, a Crane never took no for an answer and he thought that he could just wear her down. He was, he knew, very handsome, rich and charming, when he put his mind to it, and he felt that the lovely Miss Rachel would never get another offer like his. So, why had she been so difficult? It wasn't right that she lived on this big spread of land by herself, her father losing his battle with cancer three months before her mother, who passed away a year earlier from consumption, her beau had been killed in a train robbery almost right after her mother died. She had to be lonesome and she needed a husband to take care of her and all the manly responsibilities that owning a ranch entailed.
Ben Crane tried several times to call on her but Rachel Young would have none of it. The more persistent he was, the stronger her unyielding nature became. Stubborn woman. He was getting to be the town joke and began to feel humiliated at some of the more brazen comments aimed at his manhood. One evening, nearly a month ago at Wilbur's Saloon, the more he drank, the more his anger soared. He rode out to the Young ranch, well after dusk, and caught Rachel leaving the stall of a new mama and her colt.
She fought him fiercely, screamed, yelled, struggled, begged, pleaded...but she was no match for his physical strength or nasty alcohol-induced demeanor. By the time he was finished, she had nearly passed out from the pain and injuries her body had sustained from the brutal attack.
She was weak and terrified, in shock, embarrassed and at a total loss for what to do next. Crane, reeking of stale whiskey and bitter tobacco, rolled off her, smug, arrogant, plainly lacking any shame. He staggered to his feet, pulled his trousers back up, sunk back to his knees and drew back his arm at her. She flinched, cowered, instinct directing her to cover her face but her limbs wouldn't respond. She prepared herself to feel the blow of his fist again but something stopped him from following through.
"Now look at ya. Ain't too good for me now, are ya? You're a nice piece of tail, Miss Rachel, and I'll make sure the whole town knows it, too. I'll make sure if you don't marry me, then no man will want ya." And, with that, he left the stall, mounted his horse and rode away.
She laid there for several minutes after he was gone, frozen, her brain feeling paralyzed, not fully believing or comprehending what had just taken place. Tears involuntarily crept down her face as she slowly sat up, her favorite gingham work dress now in tatters, every movement excruciating, every bone in her body, every inch of her skin, feeling agonizingly damaged. She brushed straw and hay out of her hair with a shaky hand, her trembling fingers then inspecting the cuts and bruises on her cheek and lips. And then there was the blood on her dress. There seemed to be so much blood.
She had been a virgin, scheduled to marry her childhood sweetheart, Thomas Baines, and she had been saving herself for her wedding night as any respectably brought up woman did. But then Tommy had been killed in the crossfire of a train robbery gone horribly awry. He had been on his way back to Sagebrush after finishing school and earning his law degree...he was coming home to her, to marry her when the unthinkable happened. He had been sitting in his seat, minding his own business when a stray bullet from the revolver of one of the marshals pursuing the robbers went clean through his heart. It was as if the bullet had penetrated her heart as well, even though she was safely a hundred miles away, tending to her herb and vegetable garden. In a little over a year, she had lost the three most important people in her life...who could blame her for becoming a recluse?
Rachel had been warned by her mother that she might bleed on her wedding night, sometimes the breaking of the hymen would cause that, but if it happened, it was natural and she shouldn't worry about it. Certainly her mother hadn't meant it would have been like this...no, Tommy would have been gentle and loving, he never would have hurt her. Not that she had been even thinking about it, still being in mourning and all, but Ben Crane was right. No man would want her now. Yet that was the least of her worries, as she slowly rose to her knees, feeling as though someone had inserted a fist, which had grabbed hold of her female organs and yanked down with all their might. She collapsed to a fetal position, convulsing in pulsating pain and then she couldn't stop herself from heaving up the contents in her stomach on what was left of the clothing remaining on her battered body.
Hours had passed before she felt able to leave the stall and even think about making her way back to the main house. Once inside, she bolted her door closed, not daring to face her reflection in the mirror, afraid of what she knew she would see. She utilized the indoor pump to fill the kettle that she would use to heat water for her bath. She barely waited for the liquid to roll to a boil before she finished filling the tub with tepid water right from the pump. And she scrubbed what skin wasn't already raw and bleeding until it was.
In the twenty-five days since, she had lived off her own land, not leaving the ranch. Once a week, Caleb Tipping's boy, Isaac, rode out to the property with a regular feed order from his store, so the stock was always taken care of. When he looked horrified by her appearance, she explained away her bruises by telling the teenager that she had been trying to break the new mustang she got and was thrown for her efforts.
Even if someone had believed she had been raped, no one would have done anything about it because her attacker had been one of the all-powerful Cranes. She would heal herself, keep her own counsel and do the best she could to keep her home and sanity intact. And then other incidents started to mysteriously happen to her animals, her property, her livelihood. That's when she started carrying around the shotgun everywhere with her. She swore if Ben Crane ever came near her again, she would blow a hole in him bigger than the entire Texas territory.
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14.
Rachel blinked, thinking the sun was playing tricks on her at first and then praying the man lying motionless on the ground in front of her was not dead. Approaching carefully, she first gently prodded the person with the barrel of her gun. There was no movement. She looked for obvious wounds such as bullet holes, slash marks, rope line around the neck...but she saw no evidence of any of that nor did she see any blood anywhere.
She wasn't above thinking that Crane might have sent one of his men to trick her, so she was guarded when she knelt down to study the situation more closely. If it wasn't a ploy, this person was hurt somehow and she just couldn't leave him there to die or to suffer alone for the coyotes, buzzards and God only knew what else to finish him off. Seeing nothing to convince her that there was anything to be concerned about on this cowboy's back, she rolled him over with great effort to observe the front side of him.
She started at the man's boots, which didn't look like any cowboy footwear she had ever seen before, then noticed that his denim trousers also seemed different...or maybe that was just the way they fit over this slender man's lower frame. As her eyes traversed up this stranger's body, her focus was suddenly pulled to his head. This was no one she had ever seen before and, having grown up in Sagebrush, she thought she knew everyone. Although, there were always saddle bums moving through town at any given time, picking up enough work to get them enough money to move on to the next town.
Her gaze finally focused on the drifter's facial features and her heart stopped as she looked at the most striking face she had ever laid eyes on. The features were sculpted, high cheekbones and tanned complexion which could have indicated a possible Indian or Gypsy heritage, long dark eyelashes and shaggy, black hair cut in a style she'd never seen any man sport in these parts. The nose was slender, almost womanish, but it seemed perfect on this face. The lips looked soft and they were slightly parted, an expression which immediately got Rachel's heart beating again, only a little faster than she was used to. She wasn't sure exactly what emotion was washing over her but she knew it wasn't fear.
Her hand automatically brushed against the cowboy's face, feeling no stubble, no evidence of a beard and she guessed, despite his long and well filled out form, and this stranger must be young or reiterated the notion of some Indian blood in him. Transfixed, she had to mentally chastise herself to continue searching for injuries. Rachel's free hand moved down to the stranger's denim shirt, scanning for anything out of the ordinary. Finding a tear in the fabric, she then felt something odd. She began unfastening the metal buttons, opening the shirt to reveal an unusual looking wrap, a binding of some kind. Spotting a circle of blood, approximately the size of her fist, Rachel assumed she had found the wound that must have made this stranger pass out.
Feeling the odd stretchy material of the binding, she put her fingers on the dark, moist area that appeared to be bleeding. Separating the layers of the wrap to see what type of wound she was dealing with, when she found skin, she saw a small jagged cut that did not look like a bullet hole or a knife slice. Her eyes grew wide, however, when she immediately noticed something else. Cleavage.
Startled, she glanced back up at the fascinating face and found herself looking directly into the most intense pale blue eyes she had ever seen. Before she could react, a hand grabbed her wrist, holding her in place securely, strength she was surprised to find in a woman.
"What are you doing?" the stranger asked, tersely. Her voice was raspy but her register was a low alto, one that could have been possibly mistaken for a callow male.
"N-nothing...I...I was checking to see if y...you were hurt..." She sounded terrified and confused.
Trace realized how tightly she was holding this woman's wrist and quickly eased up her grip and then let her go. Rachel lost her balance and fell back on her rear end, dropping her rifle. She scrambled backward, picking up her shotgun, got to her feet and fixed the weapon at Trace.
"Who are you? Why are you dressed like a man?" Rachel's voice may have been shaking but her aim was steady.
"How do you know I'm not?"
"Well..." she hesitated, "...you don't have any whiskers..."
"All the men in my family have light beards." Trace scratched her chin for emphasis and moved to leaning on her elbows. She had to squint to protect her eyes from the sun, which was still high in the sky behind Rachel.
"And," Rachel's face reddened in embarrassment, "you have breasts."
Trace smiled at her. "And you would know that because...?"
"I was checking to see if you were hurt."
"Uh huh." The brunette nodded, not taking her eyes off the blonde.
"Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because you're pretending to be a man," Rachel reemphasized.
"Shit," Trace swore. "Not even here, what, thirty minutes and I've already blown my cover." She shook her head, disgusted with herself.
Rachel was more than mildly surprised that this woman did not seem at all afraid of facing down the barrel of her shotgun. And her words were peculiar. Blown her cover? What did that mean? "Answer my question," The blonde demanded, readjusting the hold on her shot gun training it on Trace as she slowly, stiffly sat up.
The Twenty-First century police detective rubbed her eyes and then directed her attention to the Nineteenth Century woman. Her long, golden blonde hair probably bleached lighter by whatever time she spent outside in the sun, was pulled back away from her face and shoulders by a ribbon. She had intelligent, piercing, emerald green eyes and a lovely face. Her slender figure was covered from shoulder to toe by a dress that showed off her more than an adequate bust line, trim waist and then billowed out from there. When Trace's eyes moved back up Rachel's body and pinned her with a defiant glare, the blonde set her jaw and matched her recalcitrance.
Casually putting her hand up in surrender, Trace attempted to massage away the dull pain in her shoulder with her other hand. "Okay, okay, relax. You can put that thing down, I'm not going to hurt you or try anything. I promise." Rachel lowered the shotgun to her side but her posture remained alert. "What year is it?"
"What?" The blonde blinked, wondering what was wrong with this very handsome woman.
"Year...what year is it?"
"Eighteen hundred and seventy-nine. Why don't you know that? Did you hit your head?"
An exuberant smile crossed Trace's face. "He did it!! Yes!!" Her enthusiasm and odd behavior startled the blonde, who leveled the weapon at her again. Once again, the brunette raised her hand. "No, it's - never mind. I'm just a little fuzzy from my...um...fall."
"You fell? Is that how you got cut?" There was a hint of concern in her voice.
"Cut?"
Rachel indicated the bloodstain on Trace's wrapped chest. "There."
Looking down, the detective's hand instinctively went to her breast. "Shit." She reached inside the binding and felt around. "Yep. Damn it." Looking around her immediate area, she spied a jagged rock she must have landed on. Well, thankfully, it wasn't bleeding profusely or too terribly painful. Her entire body ached from the impact. She knew she'd have a few bruises but was pretty sure nothing was wrenched, sprained or broken.
"You curse a lot. And you still haven't answered my question."
Sighing, Trace knew she couldn't put it off, any longer. "I'm not from around here, which I'm sure you already noticed."
"Where are you from?"
"Um..." She had to make up a name...if she said Union City and that was the name of the town now, the blonde would know she was lying. "...Cottonwood?"
"I've never heard of it...where is that?"
"Far from here."
"How'd you get here?"
"Uh...my horse threw me?"
"Why do you say it like you're asking me? Did your horse throw you or not?"
"Yes. Yes. My horse threw me. You haven't seen him anywhere around have you?"
Rachel suspiciously squinted. "What did he look like?"
Think fast, Trace. "He was a...pinto with a...um...brown mane and tail. Black saddle."
"Haven't seen anything like that around here. A painted pony, huh? You Indian?"
"Me? No." Not that I know of, Trace finished to herself. "Why? Do I look Indian?"
"Looks like you could have some Indian in you. Or Gypsy. So - are you running from somebody or not?"
What to do, what to do. Maybe this woman could help her. She definitely needed a friend and maybe explaining her circumstances in terms that the smaller woman might understand would make a difference. Not only that, Trace thought, as she ran her tongue over her bottom lip, giving the blonde a more than appreciative once over, maybe she could introduce this little cutie to a little Sapphic pleasure while she was here. Trace gave herself a mental slap. Those kinds of advances would probably get her executed in this era. Damn...maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. "Well...it's like this. I'll tell you if you put that gun down and we can get out of the sun."
Not budging, Rachel said, "You'll tell me now."
Trace knew she could be on her feet and disarm the blonde in a heartbeat but she also knew that would be a mistake. This woman wasn't a killer. She was frightened, Trace could sense it, could see it in her eyes. She certainly wouldn't make any points by bullying her. Relaxing, Trace broke into her friendliest smile and shrugged in concession. "All right... may I ask your name?"
"Rachel."
"Rachel, I'm Trace. And yes, Rachel, someone is after me."
"What did you do?"
"Actually? Nothing." She surely wouldn't understand the dynamics of the vendetta, so Trace decided to keep it simple. "I made someone very angry with me and I did everything I could to fix the situation but nothing worked. So now he wants me dead."
Her eyes widened in shock. That would explain the disguise but what could a woman have possibly done that was so bad to have caused a posse to be after her? "Why?"
"Because...well...where I come from, Rachel, things are more, um, advanced. Women are allowed to be cops -"
"What's a cop?"
"Police...uh...peace officers..."
"Peace officers?" The expression of confusion on Rachel's face told Trace she didn't understand the vernacular.
"Marshals and sheriffs and deputies and jailers."
At first she nodded in comprehension but then she raised an eyebrow, as though she felt the brunette was pulling her leg. She almost laughed. "You must think I'm a fool. Women can't be the law. I've never heard of such a thing!"
"I'm serious. I am not lying to you. I was what was called a police detective in my town and -”
"Detective? Like Pinkerton?"
"No. Yes. Well, not exactly. It's sort of like that but I was more of a sheriff. I arrested some men who had friends and relatives that didn't like that very much. But they were very bad men and they needed to stay in jail. The leader of these men vowed to kill me. And I know he would, so...that's why I came here."
"Will he come here looking for you?" Rachel's voice suddenly took on a small intonation of dread.
"I doubt it. He has no idea where to even start looking for me."
"Then why must you keep dressing like a man?"
There was no way Rachel would understand the dynamics of that, either. "Because...I can't guarantee he or his gang won't eventually ride through the area hunting for me." Trace's blue eyes seemed almost pleading, which caused Rachel's cautious green ones to soften. "I know this is a lot to ask because we don't know each other but I need your help."
"What could I possibly do to help you?" Her voice was laced with skepticism. "I won't put my life in danger for someone I don't even know. Besides, I'm still not sure you're telling me the truth."
"You're right. You don't. I'm not asking you to hide me; I'm asking you to keep my cover -"
"You're what?"
"My disguise...I'm going to need to stay here a while - a long while - and I'm going to need to continue to convince everyone that I'm a man."
"Why?"
"Um...well, first...as I said, if this man and his friends ride through town looking for me, they'll be looking for a woman, not a man. Second, like I said, where I come from things are a lot more progressed. As an...uh... enforcer of the law, I am a lot more aggressive than any of your women and most of your men. I need to live here as a man. Trust me. Otherwise, men here will want to kill me, too."
"I still don't understand."
"I don't either but that's the way things are. You seem like a very kind woman, Rachel, and I am pretty sure you wouldn't do anything to intentionally send me to my death."
"No, of course not!" the blonde exclaimed, indignantly. "But I cannot have a man living in my home."
"Why? You're husband?"
"I'm not married."
"Really? A beautiful woman like you?" Trace's smile was engaging. "Why not?"
Rachel cast her eyes downward. "I'm just not." It wasn't the fact that Rachel was not married that made her break eye contact with Trace, it was an odd, not easily undefined feeling the brunette generated in her that caused a burning in her cheeks. For the second time since meeting this stranger, Rachel's heartbeat sped up.
Reading her reaction, Trace knew there was a story behind it. Now was not the time to pursue it. "Like I said, I'm not asking you to hide me, just to keep my secret."
As if Rachel had not even heard her, she continued, her gaze still on the ground. "It's just not proper. And even though I know you are not really a man, the town would not."
"It's okay, I understand."
Rachel finally lowered the gun to her side. "Were you really a sheriff?" The interest sounded genuine.
"Absolutely. If you have a bible, I'll put my left hand on it and raise the right one to God."
That must have been the right thing to say. Rachel became pensive. "Well...if anyone asks, I could say that I found you hurt and that I'm nursing you back to health..."
"Yeah, that would work," Trace added, hopefully. "Then the town could gradually get to know me."
"And I really could use some help with the land..."
Trace cocked her head and shrugged. "You'd have to show me what you need done - I haven't ever worked land at all."
"You'd have to sleep in the barn."
"With what?" An unpleasant thought crossed her mind...the odor of pig, chicken, cow and horse shit - or smelling like it - was something she didn't think she could get used to. "What else lives in the barn?"
Rachel almost laughed at the brunette's expression. "Nothing anymore. I had cows but they were all slaughtered," she said, sadly. "Now I keep equipment in there for the field. There is a small room in the back. You can stay there."
Alerting on Rachel's demeanor at mentioning the cows, Trace figured she'd save that question for another time, too. "I really appreciate it, Rachel. Uh...would it be possible to get out of the sun now?"
The blonde thought about it briefly, then lowered the rifle to her side, pointing at the ground. "Okay. I should take a look at your cut, too. Looks like it needs tending to."
Something about the thought of this tiny, adorable blonde putting her hands on her made Trace most eager to get back to her house, too. You can take the girl out of the sleaze but you can't take the sleaze out of the girl, Trace smirked to herself.
Standing up, the detective unobtrusively studied Rachel. The young woman was at least seven inches shorter than she was, nice little body from the limited amount the dress showed off and all around extremely pleasing to the eye as Trace was noticing more and more accompanying Rachel back to her property. If she was subtle, maybe she could make the most of landing a century back in time.
***********************************************
15.
Entering the quaint cabin, Trace was fascinated by its truly rustic atmosphere. It was somber, which made sense with the lack of electricity, the darkness of the log walls, the wood floor, the small windows and the obviously hand-made curtains closed over them. A quick visual sweep showed a neat and orderly provincial home with the absence of anything modern, one that should have exuded warmth but there was a hint of sadness that seemed to envelop the air and Trace sensed that there was more to this little blonde than met the eye.
"Sit over here and take your shirt off," Rachel instructed, pointing to a hard wooden chair pulled slightly away from what Trace assumed to be the kitchen table. She was not looking at Trace when she said this as she was busy pumping water into a bowl.
Raising her eyebrows, shaking her said slightly, the detective began unbuttoning her shirt as she sat. "We hardly know each other," Trace mumbled to herself, chuckling.
"Pardon?" the blonde asked, her attention now focused on pulling a small glass jar down off a shelf in an anteroom that held what looked like an iron claw foot bathtub.
"Nothing," Trace replied, removing her denim top, feeling the strain of her jarred muscles and bones. She was starting to show signs of bruising and pain was beginning to settle in. She looked down at her wrap, surprised to see the blood had absorbed into the material and spread over most of her chest. "Aw, Christ," she sighed, annoyed.
"I would appreciate it, while you are in this house, you not use the Lord's name..." Rachel stopped as she saw Trace, seated, covered in only the bloody wrap from the waist up. It wasn't the condition of the wound that rendered her speechless; it was the condition of the body the wound was on. "...in...vain."
"Sorry," Trace winced, as she stretched out her arm, attempting to pull the kink out of the muscle in her shoulder. Had she been looking at the small blonde, she would have been very amused by her expression.
Rachel had been a little shocked by Trace's height when she stood up for the first time to accompany her back to the cabin. That alone would make it a little easier to convince the town's people that she was a man, as the blonde had never seen a woman six feet tall before. She further noticed the absolute confidence with which Trace carried herself, again a trait she had only ever witnessed in men. There was a very powerful aura that surrounded this woman and it frankly had Rachel a little rattled. Suddenly it didn't seem so far-fetched that she could have been someone with authority...like a sheriff.
Now, though, Rachel could physically see the strength in this strange woman, not just sense it. She had muscles like a man, too...but not really. They were visibly defined, shifting under the tall woman's skin, but not coarse or bulky. She also had strong shoulders, Rachel observed, before her eyes traveled down to the bare skin below the bloody wrap. That was also muscular without an inch of excess skin anywhere. The small blonde forced her eyes back to the task of tending to the wound, embarrassed and confused that she had been almost gawking. At another woman. In a most un-ladylike way.
Staring specifically at the items in her hands - gauze, a canning jar with a light liquid in it, a bowl of water and a dry cloth, Rachel found her voice. "Um...we're going to have to take that off." Setting her load on the table, she purposely avoided looking at the dark haired woman
Trace glanced down. "This?"
"Yes, I need to stop the bleeding and clean that wound. You don't want it to get infected."
Alerting on her discomfort, Trace said, "Listen, if you're uncomfortable with this, I can do it..."
Suddenly indignant, the small blonde shook her head. "No, I'll do it." She placed the cloth in water and unsealed the jar, dropping the gauze in to absorb the liquid. "Doesn't that hurt?" Rachel inquired, as Trace began to unwrap her binding.
"Right now, everything hurts," the detective confessed, her body now seriously aching and stiffening up. Peeling the last two layers of her wrap off, Rachel's quickly averting eyes to the brunette's now exposed breasts did not go unnoticed by Trace. Despite her rising pain, the detective was actually charmed by Rachel's obvious modesty and couldn't stop her mouth from curling into a slight smile. Reaching over, Trace grabbed her shirt and slipped it on, leaving it unbuttoned. It covered her breasts but the open garment allowed Rachel the freedom to work, undistracted.
"You didn't have to do that," the blonde said, quietly, very grateful that she had.
"I know but I feel better," Trace lied. "So...whatcha got there?"
Pulling the gauze out of the jar and placing it directly on the oozing, bloody jagged cut next to Trace's right breast, she was prepared for the quick jolt and sudden intake of breath from her patient as she put her free hand on the detective's shoulder for support. "It's nettle tea. It will stop the bleeding." She took Trace's hand and positioned it on the gauze. "Hold that there until I tell you to remove it."
"Tea will stop my bleeding?" the detective asked, incredulously.
"Yes, nettle tea will." Rachel wrung out the wet cloth and began cleaning the area around the wound. This required her to step between the detective's legs for better access to the stained skin, a natural position under the circumstances and something that should not have left the blonde's insides shaking. Yet it did. What was it about this woman that was so nerve-racking? Trying not to think about it, Rachel concentrated on washing all the blood off the detective's chest and abdomen, the proximity of their bodies difficult to completely ignore.
Trace, on the other hand, was completely at ease with this small, adorable blonde so close to her. It was almost worth the pain she was in. Her face reflected her amusement as she watched Rachel studiously clean all the blood off her, gently but with enough pressure to get the job done.
Leaning to the side to wring out the cloth in the bowl of water, Rachel caught Trace's eyes in her peripheral vision. She continued until water from the cloth was running light pink instead of deep red. "Why are you staring at me?" she asked quietly.
Why indeed. "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was. You're just so efficient. Are you a nurse?"
"A nurse? No. I work here on the ranch. I grow vegetables and herbs and sell them to Luther Foster for his grocery store. Sometimes my neighbors come here to buy some herbs and I sell them or I barter."
"For what?"
Engaging her in conversation appeared to have rendered the blonde a little more secure around Trace. "For necessities." Rachel submerged the bloody cloth once more, wrung it out and began one final cleansing of the area. "You can give that to me now," she instructed, taking the gauze from Trace. The detective, whose psyche was still in the twenty-first century, almost asked the blonde how she dared to handle blood without gloves...and then she remembered...these were the days where bodily fluids weren't contaminated or potentially lethal.
Kneeling down to get a better look at the wound, Rachel inspected it, thoroughly, oblivious to the position she was in. Trace didn't ignore it, though, and subtly studied the blonde as her warm hands felt around the detective's sore, open flesh. A rather lewd smile attacked Trace's face, and she thought, 'heh, while you're down there...' but her fantasizing was interrupted.
"Hmmm..."
"Hmmm? Hmmm what?" Looking down, she was surprised to see that the bleeding had stopped. "How'd you do that?"
"I didn't, the nettle tea did it. It has healing components in it, it will make your blood coagulate. It was used a lot in the war."
"What war?" This question was greeted with two very large green eyes, staring at her in pure astonishment. Uh oh. Trace tried frantically to remember her American history. Shit. The Civil War, you dolt. "Oh, oh right, the war. War Between the States. Right."
Not looking convinced that Trace wasn't just guessing, she shook her head and returned to inspecting the cut. "You been living in a cave?" Rachel asked, a hint of sarcasm entering her tone. She stood up, placing the gauze into the bowl, moving it aside.
As the blonde returned to the anteroom, Trace watched her, not being able to hide her grin. This was really going to be interesting - she now realized another big reason why she would not have been Mark's first choice for this experiment. She failed American history. Twice. "Can I button back up now?"
"No. I want to put something on that," Her arm extended out toward Trace while she searched her shelves. "Ah. There you are." She reached up and plucked off another jar.
"What are you going to put on me this time? Coffee?" There was sarcasm in Trace's voice as well, as the blonde walked back over to her.
"No. Honey."
Smirking, Trace said, "Wow, we've known each other less than an hour and you're already calling me honey?" Off the befuddled, then impatient look she received from Rachel, she was about to do some major back peddling when the blonde held up the jar in her hand.
"Honey. I'm going to put honey on you."
Shut up, Trace, just...shut up. In another setting, a hundred years from now you'd be in your glory, she thought to herself. "And what will that do...other than get me sticky?"
"Don't you know anything?" Rachel was smiling at her, in spite of herself. She removed the lid from the jar, dipped her fingers in, pulled a glob out and paused before she applied it to Trace's wound. "Honey attracts water. Germs cannot live without water and they die. Which means no infection and quicker healing."
Impressed, Trace watched while Rachel rubbed some honey off her fingers with her thumb and tenderly applied the gooey substance along the jagged cut. Then she did something that made the detective's jaw drop and prompted her to tightly cross her legs when Rachel, finished, stepped back. She stuck the fingers that never touched Trace's skin in her mouth and sucked the rest of the honey off them. Trace could not believe the rush that seized her loins at seeing the blonde do that and immediately knew Rachel had no clue as to how erotic that came across.
"Let me get you something to keep that cov - what?" Seeing Trace's expression startled her. Not being very worldly, she mistook the stricken look of lust on the detective's face for discomfort. "Is that hurting? It shouldn't cause it to hurt more..."
"No," Trace rasped, putting her hand up to stop her from coming as close as she had been before. "It's fine. Really. Thank you. Yes, something to cover it would be nice."
Rachel searched her face, concerned. "Oh. Okay." Skeptically, she returned to the anteroom, found another patch of gauze and brought it back to the detective. "Would you like me to -?"
"No," Trace answered so quickly it made Rachel jump. Holding her hand out for the gauze, she said, "I'll do it, thanks." She forced her voice to be calm. "You've been very kind, Rachel. Thank you." She placed the material over the honey and slowly stood up, beginning to feel like one big bruise. Reaching over to the table she picked up her blood-soaked binding. "Where do I wash this? And, I suppose you wouldn't happen to have anything in your little bag of tricks to get the blood stain out of it?"
Sighing, bowing her head, Rachel leaned against the table. "You're making fun of me," she stated, softly.
Blinking at the statement, the tall woman shook her head. "No, I'm not." She was very surprised at how the thought of hurting this beautiful young woman's feelings affected her. In the past, she would not have cared but, for some reason, Trace felt almost protective of her. Where the hell was that coming from? She stretched her arm out, touching the blonde on her shoulder, a gesture which made Rachel look up into Trace's mesmerizing eyes. "I'm not. I apologize if that's how it sounded," the brunette told her in a quiet voice. "I'm just a little...um...disturbed...about the events of today and the past few days...and my body aches so please forgive me if I sound, uh, grumpy or...difficult. I don't mean to. Okay?"
Rachel nodded her head and, with great effort, broke eye contact with the detective, "Okay." She tugged at the wrap in Trace's hand. "Let me do that for you. I'll wash it best I can. I don't think I'll be able to get all the blood out but it will be clean and with the sun hot as it is today, it'll dry in not time."
"Really, you don't have to -"
"No, I want to. You should really rest. You're looking mighty worn out. And you should give that cut a chance to heal."
Trace couldn't argue with her that she felt very tired and every tendon and joint was starting to scream their protest at her. "If you're sure..."
"I am."
"Then I would really appreciate it if you showed me to where I'll be sleeping and I'll get out of your way."
"You're not in my way," Rachel admitted, almost shyly, "But I'll show you to the barn, anyway."
************************************************
16.
It really wasn't a bad little room. Other than being dim, dusty, stark and depressing. A small, cot-sized bed occupied one side, up against a wall and an old bureau stood up against the opposite wall with a kerosene lantern sitting on top. Well...it was a place to lay her head, she had to be thankful for that.
Rachel had provided her with a linen sheet, a clean woven horse blanket and a feather pillow, one of the two from the bed she slept on. She had also given Trace an old nightshirt of her father's so that she could wash and repair the hole in the detective's denim one. Trace protested but her words apparently fell on deaf ears. She didn't understand that Rachel was grateful to actually have someone to fuss over again. Even the blonde had not realized how very much she had missed that.
The long, white nightshirt had fit better than she thought it would which made her wonder what else of her father's clothes Rachel had saved that might be suitable for her to wear.
Lying there stretched out, her legs almost too long for the bed, her hands folded behind her head, Trace stared at the gloomy ceiling, her body actually starting to relax and settle to an acceptable throb. What the hell had she gotten herself into? She had not thought this out thoroughly. Of course, it wasn't like she really had much of a choice. Vincent would not have stopped until she was dead. At least here, she was alive...but could she stay that way?
She had forgotten that toilets were a luxury in this era and was not thrilled about having to utilize a stinky, spider-and-God-knew-what-else infested outhouse or find a tree marked "W." Laundry was done with a washboard, bar soap and good, old-fashioned elbow grease and her baths would, no doubt, have to be taken in the nearby river. Until it got too cold and, hopefully by then, Rachel would feel comfortable with letting her use the indoor tub.
Fortunately, she had just gotten over her period and wouldn't have to worry about that for a few weeks. Shit. She wasn't looking forward to dealing with that little fact of life, pretty sure tampons had not been invented yet and almost afraid to ask the small blonde what she did every month. Therein lay another problem. How could she cleverly find out what Rachel used to absorb the menstrual flow? If she came right out and asked her, how would she explain not knowing? And the cramps. Damn it. Some months those annoying little pains were so intense they could drop a moose. She wondered if Rachel had a natural remedy for that, too.
She certainly was handy, Trace thought, not being able to stop the indecent smile that crept onto her face. Cute little thing, too. Not to mention a little bossy. Not that being bossy was necessarily bad, it meant she had some spunk. Shamelessly, a visual floated through the detective's mind, involving her, the blonde and that feather bed in the room Rachel had retrieved her father's nightshirt from. "Stop it, Trace," she chastised herself, "keep your head where it needs to be." Reining in her hearty libido would be difficult but anything else would be counterproductive to her survival there. And, Rachel was opening up her home to her, a stranger, an act of kindness for which Trace should be eternally grateful. To fuck that up in an attempt to satisfy her carnal urges, which she was sure would backfire, would be idiocy personified. But that thing with the honey... Jesus, that was...unexpected...as was the physical reaction it elicited from the detective.
But...as attracted to her as the detective was, she also needed to decipher that immensely alien feeling to protect her. Where was that coming from? Other than the desire to shelter her mother as much as possible (and usually from Zelda herself), Trace had never once experienced that particular need, except for in the line of duty but that was different, that was professional as opposed to personal. What was it about this...waif...that was poking into a previously untapped side of Trace? That was something she would have to investigate further as she was not sure she liked it. Feeling professionally responsible for someone else's safety was a lot different than feeling personally responsible and, being a woman who demanded to be in total control of all her emotions, she resented this new one that had suddenly reared its strange head. Or did she? Maybe this shouldn't be analyzed and should just 'be.' Yeah, right, Trace sighed, as if she ever just let anything be.
Her next curiosity revolved around the mentioning of Rachel's father. Obviously she lived on this property alone and she had used past tense when speaking of him so it wasn't hard to figure out her father was dead. But this darling, smart, skilled blonde who possessed what looked to be a very nice body was also not married. Dare she selfishly hope there was an alternative reason behind Rachel being unwed? Well, she could hope all she wanted but chances were there was a perfectly good explanation for that.
And what happened to the cows? When Rachel said they had all been slaughtered, there was a hint of anger in her voice, which indicated to Trace the cows had probably not been intentionally killed for meat. Something was going on here that gave the detective an uncomfortably insidious feeling. Her inquisitive nature would not permit her to let any of these subjects idle for too long. Later, when she knew Rachel a little better...
There was a soft knocking on the door.
"Come in," Trace called, moving with the intention of sitting up. The pain which racked her body advised her staying supine would be a much better idea.
The blonde entered, almost timidly, carrying a tray which held a bowl of something, a hunk of what was probably homemade bread and a steaming cup of some mildly aromatic liquid. "Hi," Rachel said, quietly. "I thought you might be hungry, so..." She let her words trail off, knowing the proffered tray would speak for itself.
As Rachel neared the bed, Trace pushed herself up slightly, her back resting against the wall. She couldn't help but take in a sharp breath when she moved.
"That's what I thought, so I made you something to help with that." She set the tray down on the detective's thighs.
Observing the contents of the bowl and cup, she looked up at the blonde. "Soup and tea?"
"And charoset bread to dip in the soup," Rachel added. She pointed to the cup. "That's peppermint tea with rue and wood betony. It will help with the pain."
"And the soup?"
Rachel smiled, charmingly. "That will help with the hunger."
Trace had to smile with her at that obvious conclusion. She picked up her spoon and sampled the chowder-like substance. Her face lit up. "Mmm. Potato soup." Her absolute favorite soup in the whole world...how odd this would be the first meal the blonde would bring her. She took another spoonful. Then a bite of the deliciously sweet bread. "This is really very good." She glanced up at the beaming blonde. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. How are your injuries?"
"Let's just say they are there and leave it at that. I've had bruises before. They will go away."
"Should I take a look at your cut?"
Trace stopped mid-taste and removed the spoon. "No...um...I'm pretty sure that's fine also. But I appreciate it, anyway." She resumed inhaling the contents of her bowl and her bread. She had not realized how hungry she was.
Standing there silently for a few minutes, Rachel was encouraged by the tall woman's enthusiasm for the small supper she had prepared. "Your binding and shirt are washed and hanging on the line right now. They should be dry before nightfall. I also fixed the tear in your shirt."
"Thank you again. You're very kind." Trace told her, sincerely.
Bowing her head, stepping back, the blonde shrugged slightly. "It's nothing really. I enjoy it. Helping people."
Trace studied her, finding her shyness irresistibly endearing. "Well, you're obviously good at it."
Nodding her thanks, Rachel indicated the tray. "I'll be back for that later. Drink your tea. It will also help you sleep."
Watching her leave, the detective shook her head, knowing there had to be a good reason why no man had snatched this exceptional woman up and made her his wife.
A little over two hours later, at dusk, Rachel returned to the little room she had allowed Trace to occupy, bringing with her the detective's clothing items. She was pleased to see the dark haired woman sound asleep, a soft snore emanating from her sprawled out form. She had not told the detective that charoset was a combination of apples, walnuts, cinnamon, honey and a few other ingredients - mainly the walnuts - that added up to a more than mild sedative. She had wisely assumed that Trace would have refused the calmant, not wanting to appear less than the tough facade she exuded, another more male than female characteristic of hers that puzzled the blonde.
She picked up the tray from the floor and set it on the bureau. Stepping back over to the bed, she looked down at this strong, however vulnerable at this point, woman and folded her arms. What was really her story? What had really brought this very handsome woman pretending to be a man to edge of Sagebrush and into Rachel's life? The pale blonde figured whatever the reason, it would reveal itself soon enough. Knowing the night would get chilly, she pulled the blanket over Trace's long body, retrieved the tray and left the room.
************************************************
17
A hideous noise attacked Trace's dreamless sleep state and jolted her into sudden consciousness. The sound assaulted her ears again and she flew out of bed, regretting it the minute her feet hit the floor, having forgot about the huge contusion that was now her body. The piercingly shrill racket echoed again and in her fuzzyheaded state, she immediately thought someone was being murdered. Or worse. Forgetting where she was, she danced around the room in search of her Glock, confused at not being able to find it, and then realization hit her. And her first thought was of Rachel, that she needed help.
Racing out of the barn, toward the house, she nearly plowed the petite blonde over, having to grab her before she knocked her to the ground. An amused expression adorned Rachel's face finding herself being held up and steadied by a very wild-eyed Amazon. "Morning," she addressed Trace, calmly.
Holding her out at arms length for inspection, the detective frantically asked, "Are you all right??!!"
"I'm fine." She scrutinized Trace, eyeballing the unruly bed head, the rather demented expression and, the piece de resistance, the unlikely armor of a gooey, disheveled nightshirt and cowboy boots. "Are you all right?"
"I'm...fine...what the hell was that noise?" she dropped her arms to her side and looked around, bewildered.
Rachel stepped back, cautiously, observing this addled woman in front of her. "What noise?"
As if on cue, the strange, horrendous sound cut through the air again, penetrating Trace's eardrums, setting her teeth on edge, literally making her cringe. "That noise! What the hell is that?!"
It took every ounce of self-control she had not to burst into fits of hysterical laughter. Clearing her throat, holding onto as much of her composure as she could, Rachel said, "That is a rooster."
"What the hell is wrong with it??!!" Trace demanded to know, her breathing now slowing down.
"Nothing. Roosters always crow at first light."
"Why?"
Cocking her head, staring at Trace in disbelief, Rachel said, "For coming from a town that's supposed to be ahead of the times, you sure are reactionary." Off the irritated look on the tall woman's face, the blonde hastily added, "but maybe you don't have roosters there."
Not moving, Trace folded her arms. "Is it going to do that every morning?"
"Of course, silly. That's what roosters do."
Her expression didn't change. "Why?"
Yikes. She was obviously not a person who took a liking to awaking early, Rachel thought. Nervously fiddling with the fresh eggs in her basket, the blonde focused on checking each shell for breaks. "Well...the bible says the rooster crowing at dawn is a symbol of daily victory of light over darkness, good over evil." She looked up at the detective who rolled her eyes. "What?"
"The bible. Uh huh." She squeezed her eyes shut tightly as the rooster crowed one last time. "How do you feel about chicken for dinner?"
*******************************************************
Okay, so she shouldn't have made the crack about killing the rooster. But getting up every morning at before the sun was even up was going to be hell. She had adjusted her body clock to a swing shift schedule for the last five years. And what a temper that little blonde had, Trace thought, while putting on her freshly laundered denim shirt, buttoning up. It was just a question. She was used to working in the dark, why couldn't she start her 'chores' in the afternoon and work late into the evening?
Damn, that wrap really hurt. She stretched her sore muscles as much as she could, pretty sure it was the injuries her body sustained from that fall to the ground yesterday and not the binding itself. God, she hoped not, knowing she was going to have to live with being wrapped every day regardless. She also needed a full bath. She cleaned up the honey that had smeared all over her chest during a night of obvious restless movement with a cloth and bowl of water Rachel had put in her room sometime before she awoke. But she still felt sticky. And just plain icky, in general.
And now she felt obligated to have breakfast, a meal she hated and usually skipped altogether in favor of sleeping, with her madder-than-a-wet-hen hostess.
Sighing heavily, she walked to the cabin with a slight apprehension that suddenly made her smirk. She had gone up against some of the most notoriously vicious criminals the streets had to offer and now she was nervous about facing an itty bitty farm girl? Well, Trace pondered, Rachel was quite irate when she stormed into the house after the dinner suggestion and the sleeping late question and then the detective had only poured gasoline onto the fire after Rachel quoted the bible to her again, something about laziness and Trace, being the up-at-the-crack-of-noon person she was, telling her what she could do with the 'Good Book.'
Knocking on the open door, Trace leaned against the thick frame, watching Rachel putter, determined, around the wood stove, evidently still angry. Why the hell she wanted to feed Trace after she obviously insulted her faith in spouting bible verses was beyond her. God, Trace hated apologizing, it implied making mistakes and mistakes showed weakness. But she needed this woman's help and she couldn't get that by pissing her off the first day. And, for strange reasons unknown to her, she really did not want Rachel upset with her. At least, not this early in their alliance.
Clearing her throat, Trace stepped inside the cabin. "Uh, Rachel? I, uh, I apologize for my words earlier," her voice was low and modulated. She wanted to get across that she was, indeed, sorry for being thoughtless and offensive but not for having, what would be around there, an unpopular opinion. That was something the blonde would have to live with if she wanted the detective to continue to keep her company and help her out with the land. "I was just a little unnerved by that bird and tired and hurting and..."
"And crabby. Don't forget that one," Rachel snapped at her. She was still facing the range, her hands on her hips.
"Okay. Crabby. Yes, I was certainly that," Trace conceded, thinking she would have to make a conscious effort to be more congenial in the mornings, especially since there wasn't going to be a way to get out of rising with that damn rooster.
"And surly..." The blonde's tone had not lightened any, as she slid the contents of the skillet onto a plate with bread on it. There was also what looked like a cup of coffee next to the plate, which made Trace's eyes light up. She took a small step toward the table as Rachel placed the pan back onto the stove.
"Surly, right, I thought we established that..." She so wanted to grab for that cup but was pretty sure Rachel wasn't done verbally pouting yet. Well...maybe if she reached for it very slowly...
"And blasphemous!" Rachel whirled to face her, prompting Trace to pull her hand back so fast, she struck herself on the shoulder. The blonde pointed a finger at the detective, threatening impalement. "If you live here, you will have respect for the Lord's word and the book that it is written in!"
Trace hadn't realized it while it was happening but this little spitfire had just backed her up against a wall. She was beginning to wonder if it was safe to even eat the eggs the blonde scrambled for her. "Okay, okay..." She put her hands in front of her, gesturing a surrender. Rachel's eyes flashed indignantly at her, as if daring her to dispute her behavior. "Okay. I'm sorry." Trace reiterated, softly.
The blonde started to turn back toward the table when she heard Trace draw in a breath. Thinking the detective was going to start protesting or arguing, Rachel spun back toward her and held up her index finger again in warning.
"Okay, all right, I've got it. No bashing the bible."
"And no taking the Lord's name in vain."
That was going to be a tough one...but Trace wasn't going to admit it at that particular moment. "Got it." She stayed put while Rachel walked back to the table and sat.
The blonde looked over at her. "Well, are you going to come eat or not?"
Prudently, she kept her mouth shut, walked to the table, joining her fiery little hostess. Picking up her coffee cup, she had it halfway to her lips when she noticed two very annoyed green eyes looking at her. Slowly, wisely, she silently set the mug back down, allowing Rachel to take her hand.
Bowing her head, Rachel closed her eyes. "Lord, we humbly thank you for your offering of this food. Amen." She let go of Trace's hand and began to eat.
Looking at the blonde for signs of anything else that might come between her and her caffeine, when Rachel said nothing and continued to eat, Trace finally got her first swallow of coffee. It was horrible. But when the blonde looked at her for her approval of the meal, the detective smiled, convincingly. "It's wonderful. Thank you, Rachel."
Oh, boy.
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18.
One of the good things about Rachel, Trace discovered, was that she only simmered briefly before boiling over, and then it was done. She said her piece about Trace's attitude and before breakfast was finished, she was fine. The breakfast - with the exception of that sludge she called coffee - was actually quite tasty, too. Once she felt safe to actually dig in and eat it.
She was going to ask the blonde about washing up when Rachel told her the first thing she would like her to do. Bathing seemed futile if she was going to spend the morning on a sweaty horse, checking the perimeter fence for holes or breaks. Other than that, it sounded simple enough.
Until she walked into the stable. And realized that she would have to saddle up this suddenly mammoth-sized creature and actually sit on top of him, guiding him to where ever she needed him to go. She knew she would not be able to manipulate this animal as easily as she normally could human males. Her arms fell to her sides in defeat. The closest she had ever been to a horse was the carousel in the amusement park outside of town. And she couldn't exactly ask Rachel, being that she was supposed to have been thrown from a horse resulting in her now mildly aching injuries.
Suck it up, Trace, she thought, how hard can it be?
An hour later, if she could have picked up the damn horse and thrown him, she would have. She was positive the beast was laughing at her, not that she blamed him. She was grateful Rachel had occupied herself with housework and cleaning the chicken coop and had not come to check on her.
In the previous sixty minutes she had attempted to saddle the horse. She had studied the leather seat intently, as if it was going to speak to her and give her implicit instructions. When it didn't, she glanced at the horse, who was just as suspiciously eyeballing her in return, then grabbed the saddle by the horn and the cantle, pulling it off the post it was resting on, expecting to hoist it on the horse's back just like John Wayne used to do in the movies. It never occurred to her that the damn thing would weigh almost thirty-five pounds.
Tugging it backward, freeing it of its support, momentum caused her to lose her balance and unintentionally thump down on her behind, finding the saddle unexpectedly on her lap. "Shit!' As if her body needed any more bruising. Her sudden action prompted the horse to prance to the side a little and snort at her. "Shaaaadduuuup," she told him, almost snickering at herself.
Standing up, brushing the straw off her jeans, she bent down and picked up the saddle, holding it, getting used to its weight. Feeling confident, she slowly closed in on the horse, a beautiful Palomino steed, and stood next to the animal's left side. At least she remembered that mounting a horse was always done on the left, so it was natural to assume, any other kind of approach should probably be done on the left, also. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the saddle with concentrated strength, threw it up toward the horse's back only to have it smack the animal on his right flank as it sailed over him and onto the stall floor on the other side. Which caused the horse to protest indignantly and dance, quite spiritedly, around her a few times, stopping directly in front of the door to his stall. Trapping her inside. She was positive she saw a 'fuck you' look in the animal's big brown eyes. She and the horse repeated this strange ritual from several angles.
She stood there, making faces in contemplation, her hands resting on her hips, frustrated. "Look, buddy, work with me here, okay?" she addressed the horse, who had not moved from his stance between her and doorway. "All I want to do is take you out for a nice ride...with me on your back. If I knew how to ride bareback, I would. But I don't, so it will be a lot easier if you just give me a break, okay?" She picked up the saddle once again. As fit as she was, her biceps were twanging from the continuous lifting of this awkwardly balanced item. "I don't see why we can't be friends."
Her impatiently fake smile was rewarded by another snort and the clever animal quickly sidled over to her and trapped her up against the stall wall with his right flank. It happened so fast, Trace had no time to react, other than dropping the saddle, but suddenly there she was, unable to move with the side of the steed's belly tight to her. "God, this is worse than a Laurel and Hardy movie," she laughed, incredulously. Pushing the animal only resulted in his moving closer, if that was even possible.
"Very funny, very cute. Okay, you've showed me who's the boss. You can move now." He didn't budge, other than shaking his head up and down several times. "Don't piss me off, you future glue factory aspirant!" When pushing and raising her voice obviously didn't impress him, Trace started to get angry. "Listen, Mr. Ed, I'm not fucking around here! Move!!" Which he did. Closer to her, really starting to restrict her movement. Maybe she shouldn't be pissing him off.
Walking back to the cabin from the chicken coop, Rachel heard what she thought was an angry voice emanating from the stable. Stopping, she listened cautiously before reacting. Was that Trace? She should have been long gone checking the fences by now. Curiosity overtaking her, the blonde quietly entered the stable and walked toward the direction of the irate low alto she heard but could not see. Reaching Chief's stall, Rachel clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from losing control to hilarity. As Chief had her pinned at an angle, all she could see was the very top of Trace's head and her long legs next to the horse's hind quarters.
"Move, you big bag of bones!! I'm not kidding here!" There was the sound of grunting and groaning, as though great effort was being put into getting the obstinate animal to move. "You big jackass, you're not supposed to be this stubborn! Move, you son-of-a-bitch!" By this time, Trace was literally throwing her body against the horse, which seemed oblivious to this annoying creature in his space. "Augh!! God da-"
Rachel cleared her throat audibly, loud enough to interrupt the ranting brunette and get her attention. There was an abrupt silence.
"Gosh darn it," Trace tempered, banging her head against Chief's side. How was she ever going to explain her way out of this?
"Um...what are you doing?" this earnest question came from the disembodied voice of a sweet, young innocent woman who, the detective knew, was about to make a fool of her. Or, more accurately, enhance the fact that Trace was doing an excellent job of making a fool of herself. First the rooster, now the horse. Maybe working with animals was not going to be her forte.
There was no way out of this. Humility now raging through her normally arrogant persona, Trace started with a little chuckle. "Heh. Well, uh, it's like this...I was trying to saddle him up and he wouldn't cooperate."
Shaking her head, Rachel stepped forward and easily coaxed Chief away from the now brooding, embarrassed detective. Flexing her arms the tall brunette folded them. "First," the blond began, showing signs of smugness, “you have to be smarter than the horse." She scratched the big steed under his chin, then leaned in and kissed him on the bridge of his nose. She then turned to Trace. "Were you actually trying to put a saddle on him without a blanket first? No wonder he rebelled."
"Well...um...we do things differently where I'm from," she bluffed, wondering how long she was going to be able to use that as an excuse.
Rachel raised an eyebrow. "Your horses must not last too long." She lovingly ran her hand along the side of Chief's head. "Did you even try to groom him first?"
"Uh..."
Rachel shook her head and picked up the brush. "You act like you have never saddled up a horse before. You sheriffs have someone do that for you?"
Trace knew an escape route when she saw one. "Yes, That's it...we have a saddle person who does all that for us." She studied Rachel intently as the blonde began removing dirt from Chief's throatlatch, neck and then moved to his girth with a hard-bristled brush.
"Pick up that soft-bristled brush there and just do everything I do," Rachel instructed.
Lifting the item, Trace began mimicking everything the blonde did. "Now...we're doing this because..."
It took a minute for the blonde to realize she was supposed to finish the sentence. "If he's not groomed first, he could get sores in his weight-bearing area. This keeps his coat in good condition, brings the oil up, keeps his coat healthy. Always start on his left side, always make sure he sees and hears you and always talk to him soft-like when you're doing this." Rachel waited and when she heard no noise coming from the tall detective, she straightened up and looked at her, waiting. "Well...?"
"Well what?"
"Talk to him."
Trace scrunched up her face. Was the blonde kidding? She could barely hold a decent conversation with humans. She was grateful none of her co-workers were here to see this. She looked at Rachel, then at the horse and then back to the blonde like a deer caught in headlights. She opened her mouth to protest but nothing came out, so she snapped it shut. Glancing back at Chief, Trace cleared her throat. "Uh...heh...hi there, horsey...nice horsey," she started, strained. Putting her hand up to pet the animal, Chief pulled his head back, abruptly, snorting again. Stepping back, Trace protested, "See? He just doesn't like me!"
"Don't much blame him. He knows you don't like him."
"Wh -? No, I like him. I do." I just don't have any experience around the damn things, she wanted to say, and the damn horse is taking advantage of it.
"His name is Chief," the blonde supplied. "And we'll work on your charm later," she added dryly.
While both women continued to groom the cantankerous animal, Rachel advised the brunette in the etiquette of horse care, what specific equipment was for, safety tips on avoiding getting kicked, cleaning of the hooves and combing of the mane and tail.
Then, as opposed to demonstrate, Rachel instructed Trace on how to properly saddle Chief, how to fasten the cinches, how to adjust the stirrups and how to stay on the horse's 'good side' while she was doing this. While the detective was concentrating on that task, Rachel fit Chief with his bit, bridle and reins. When it was time to ride out to the property line, Trace mounted Chief and did her best cowboy imitation by making a clicking noise with her mouth and kicking her heels into his haunches. The horse did not budge. Undaunted, she tried again, knowing the petite blonde was watching. Chief stubbornly remained in place.
Rolling her eyes, Rachel shook her head, stepped up to Chief and slapped him hard on his hind quarters. The animal responded immediately, lurching into a gallop out of the stable, nearly sending Trace backward onto the stall floor. But she hung on. And did something she'd never done before. She prayed.
**************************
By sheer luck, Trace had not fallen or been thrown from horse's back and it certainly wasn't from Chief's lack of trying. She swore the animal waited until she eased up on her death grip around his neck and chose that particular time to jump over something - anything, the last object being a small shrub he could have just as easily moved around. When he landed, she thwacked down on the saddle so hard, her jaw slammed shut, nearly cracking every tooth in her head.
When Chief abruptly halted, it was about a foot away from the rail fence and it was only sheer strength that kept her from sailing over the horse's head into that wooden barrier. Infuriated, Trace fluidly slid off the saddle, marching up to the front of the animal, staring him in the eyes.
"What the fuck is wrong with you??!!" Her fists rested on her hips, staring the horse down, the rage and terror so visibly on the surface, she was actually vibrating. "Are you trying to kill me??"
Chief snorted, blandly, then bent down and began dining on the high grass beneath him. Sputtering at this animal's utter disregard for her safety and obvious lack of intimidation, she couldn't even get any words out. Pacing, screaming, hissing, Trace continued to wear a path beside Chief until she calmed down. Taking deep breaths, she stopped in front of the horse.
"Okay, look. You've had your fun. You've made your point. But we're not getting anywhere. I'm trying to help out your owner, here..." She paused as Chief actually looked up at her, accusingly. Trace rolled her eyes. "Okay! So she's helping me out. Christ, what are you, a psychic?" Stopping abruptly, she stared at Chief, then looked skyward. "I don't believe this...I'm trying to reason with a fucking horse!" Looking back at the animal, Trace slowly reached over to touch him, to hopefully signal a truce, make a connection.
Nodding his head up and down wildly, avoiding the detective's hand, Chief backed away from her, turned around and, in a very cocky manner, trotted back toward the house, leaving the frustrated detective alone in the huge field.
"Son of a bitch!" the detective wailed, stomping her foot. She watched as Chief disappeared from her view. Great. Now she was stuck here, wherever 'here' was. Well...she knew she was still on Rachel's land and maybe if she had been paying more attention to where she was going or had come from instead on concentrating on hanging on for dear life, she might have been able to find her way back. It wasn't as if the damn horse had taken a straight line. He had carried her on a high speed tour of woods, through a shallow part of the river and what seemed like miles of flat, grassy land. Hopefully, if she wasn't back by dark, the blonde would come looking for her. On a different horse.
That merry ride had done nothing to help the soreness and the aching her body was now barely tolerating. Concerned that the bouncing around may have re-opened her cut, she slipped her hand between the buttons of her shirt, feeling a minor seepage. "Shit," she swore, softly but then could not help but break into a smile at the thought of Rachel sucking the excess honey off her fingers. She wasn't too sure she could see that again and actually stay in her seat.
Trace looked around at the lush landscape that surrounded her, the range of grass, trees, shrubbery, a river and skies a deeper blue than she had ever seen before. Drawing in a deep breath, she inhaled fresh air for probably the first time in her life. She savored the moment, sighed, and then began walking along the rail fence in the direction from which she came. Common sense told her that, at some point, it had to bring her back to the house and the blonde.
In the two hours she had been walking along the fence, she had found a few minor breaks in the barrier, none of which appeared to be anything more than rotting or normal wear and tear. However, just before the river, she stopped and closely inspected a huge, probably fifty foot gap that most certainly looked as though it had been purposely created, almost as if it had been mowed down. Rails and splintered wood were everywhere, strewn about as though a herd of buffalo had trampled through it. Now that phrase finally made sense to the detective. The damage did not appear to be accidental, it looked malicious.
She was standing there, scratching her head, wondering how this may have occurred when she heard approaching horse hooves. Turning toward the sound, she was relieved to see Rachel canter up to her on Chief. Pulling up easily on the reins, the horse slowed to a stop.
"You know..." Rachel began, mildly amused, leaning her arms across the saddle horn, "one of the main reasons I need you here is so that I can get work done at the house while you do the field work. It isn't much helping me, if I have to come out here and do your work, too."
"Don't you have any other horses?" Trace asked, glaring at Chief.
"Sure do. I have four others. Chief is the best, though."
"That's not particularly reassuring," the detective commented, looking down, showing tiny signs of embarrassment.
"And he was already saddled up. So...what happened?"
"I have no idea. I got off him and he took off."
"I meant the fence," Rachel corrected her.
Trace looked up at her, while the blonde surveyed the destruction. "Oh. I don't know. I was just thinking about that. Stampede, maybe? Do you have those around here?"
"Where there are cattle, there are stampedes."
"Think that's what happened, then?"
"More than likely," she responded, her tone disgusted. "But I don't think it was an accident."
"Why?" Trace's curiosity was genuine.
"I just don't, that's all."
It was the expression on the blonde's face that made Trace hesitate. It was a combination of emotions - anger, apprehension and something that definitely did not belong - shame.
What the hell was going on here?
There was a reason this young woman was living on this big area of land by herself...no parents, no husband, slaughtered cows, destroyed property... Something was going on and it was obvious Rachel was not going to be forthcoming with the details. At least not yet.
"Come on, let's go back, have some lunch and then you can come back out here and start fixing it."
Oh, goody. Manual labor. Well, hopefully she could muddle through mending a fence better than she could saddling and riding a horse. Speaking of which, "Do I have to ride Chief?"
"Better get used to him. He's the fastest and the strongest." Rachel held her hand out to Trace. "Haul up here."
Looking at Rachel's extended arm as though it were an electric eel, Trace blanched. "You mean ride? Together?"
"Well, yes. You do want something in your belly before you start working don't you?"
Trace was hungry and Rachel obviously was a good cook. Hopefully, she hadn't made any coffee. She looked up at the blonde again. Hmmm...why was she balking? Look how close their bodies would be...Trace you are such a hound, she admonished herself, nevertheless, sticking her foot in the stirrup, grabbing Rachel's hand and swinging her tall, solid body closely behind the blonde's.
"Hang on," Rachel commanded and before Trace had time to react, the blonde kicked Chief into gear. She had no choice but to hold tight to the blonde's waist. If she hadn't been so terrified, she would have enjoyed the proximity much more.
************************************************
Name: Cheyne
Email: Whenpiggsfly55@aol.com
Title: Renegade
Disclaimers: See Part 1
****************
****************
19.
Lunch consisted of homemade bread, and a broth thick with sliced vegetables, such as potatoes, carrots, cabbage, celery, tomatoes and onions. Trace was also surprised to find the soup loaded with fresh basil and garlic, loving how those two herbs flavored just about anything to her liking.
Rachel was a chatty little thing, Trace discovered as she devoured her meal. Surprised at her ravenous appetite, she just listened and ate while the blonde rambled on about seasonal flowers coming up in her garden and then moving on to the novel she was reading, Wuthering Heights and, debating with the air the virtues of Emily Bronté's writing.
Finishing, after two hefty helpings, Trace desperately needed something with which to cleanse her mouth. Swishing fresh apple cider around just wasn't doing it. Waiting for Rachel to take a breath in between her solo conversation, the brunette finally jumped in when the blonde took a sip of her beverage.
"You wouldn't happen to have an extra toothbrush lying around anywhere, would you?"
Setting her cup back on the table, she squinted into the pale blue eyes. "Toothbrush? One of those things with a bone handle and boar's hair bristles?"
Well, that certainly did not sound like something Trace wanted to stick into her mouth. "Is that all you have?"
Standing, picking up her bowl and Trace's and carrying it to the bucket to be washed, Rachel said, "I don't have one of those. They cost a lot of money."
"What do you use to clean your teeth?" She almost dreaded the answer but she knew, whatever it was, she would have to abide by it because her teeth were feeling pretty fuzzy and her mouth was tasting like what one might remove from Chief's stall with a pitchfork.
"Depends on what I have available...baking soda or chalk."
"Chalk?" The thought of chalking her teeth was not an appealing one...but neither was never brushing her teeth again.
It was off the blonde's expression after asking about being able to immediately use either item to clean her teeth with, that Trace realized brushing three times a day was not going to be a plausible habit. Nor were regular hot showers or daily 'constitutionals' in the comfort of one's own indoor bathroom, timely shaving, douching or reaching into her refrigerator after a shift and cracking open a cold beer or two.
Oh, the challenges...
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After placing clean gauze over her slightly oozing cut, the detective reluctantly left the house to utilize the 'facilities' again. Trace was at least grateful that an old Farmer's Almanac with a hole punched in the corner was hung on a nail in the outhouse for the sole use of wiping one's self. It sure as hell beat drip dry and she didn't even want to think at how long she'd have to sit there or what she might have to use for anything more complicated than emptying her bladder. Old jokes about corn cobs suddenly sprang to mind making her shudder at the thought.
Using the outdoor pump, Trace rinsed off her hands and headed into the barn where, together, without much talking, she and Rachel lifted rails, posts and stakes onto the light, uncovered wagon which was already loaded with an axe, shovel, nails, string and a mallet. Then Rachel hitched Chief up and sent the tall stranger on her way.
Twelve half-round pine rails, eight feet long, hung over the end edge of the five foot flat bed wagon and, placed on top of them had been six posts extending only a foot longer, as Trace let the horse lead her back to the area by the river where the fence line had been destroyed. Maybe by her not trying to be in charge, she and Chief might be able to suspend their mutual hostilities. That would be nice, since the horse was getting on her last nerve.
Rachel had told her that this was all the extra, prepared rails and posts she had, that any other mending would have to be done with freshly split wood. Which meant Trace was probably going to have to find a Home Depot, she ruefully laughed to herself, a logging place that would sell her pre-cut fencing, another giggle, or chop the damn things herself, which stopped any frivolous thinking altogether. Oh, well...if she hadn't been in shape before she got here, she had no doubt that would change. Soon.
Once again, the small blonde had been somewhat vague and non-committal regarding the possible reason for the damaged barrier. What was it she said, Trace thought, as she climbed down from her perch and walked back to the strong standing fence area to inspect it? It was probably the neighbors not being very neighborly. That was understating it, she was sure, kind of like Trace saying, Vincent DeSienna just didn't like her.
Never having built or repaired one of these, Trace studied the simple structure so that she would have an idea as in how to begin. Looked easy enough, she mused, the rails inserted into holes in the posts that seemed to be held in place by their own weight. Walking the fence line - or where it should have been - she was relieved to see that only two posts had been splintered beyond repair and the rest were still intact. The ground holes that the posts set in were still there and all it would take is a little more dirt to support the standing post.
Five hours later, the sun was setting and the detective was finished and pretty darned proud of herself. Not to mention pretty darned sore and exhausted. Riding a horse had used muscles she hadn't even known existed and mixed with the lifting, hauling, dragging and balancing of the posts and rails, had taken its toll. Looking around one last time at her handy work, she nodded. Not bad for a novice. All the splintered wood cleaned up and loaded back on the wagon, she climbed into the driver's seat, yanked the reins to the right and Chief snorted and sauntered back toward the main house. Huh. She fixed the fence without incident and the horse didn't give her a hard time. Things were looking up.
She wondered what the blonde might have prepared for supper. She didn't care, as long as it was edible and plentiful. She felt so hungry she could have chewed on the reins all the way back, and convinced herself it was jerky.
Thirty minutes later, it was pitch black and she was back at the barn, barely being able to move off the wagon. Her muscles had tightened up to the point where they felt locked into place. Not one to complain about or easily show pain, Trace inhaled sharply as she landed on her feet, concerned her back was going to give out before she could unhitch Chief and get him back to his stall.
She had just hung up his tack when she heard a voice behind her say, "I was kind of expecting you back before sunset. I was getting a little worried. Everything okay?"
The inflection from the blonde was soft, concerned. Despite her discomfort and her body's demand for rest, the detective found herself smiling. She took in air, breathing from her diaphragm, hoping not to show how miserable she really felt and turned around, plastering a smile on her face. "Everything's great," she fibbed, hoping she had not missed dinner.
"How much did you get done?"
"All of it," Trace told her, indignantly. Did she think she was incapable?
"All of it?! Oh my Lord, no wonder you're moving like you're wading in a lake of molasses!" Rachel was astounded. "I never expected you to do it all, Trace, just to start it, maybe get two or three done."
"What?" the detective intoned, weakly. "I just thought..." She leaned back against the wall. "Augh!" Trace exhaled in frustration, deflating.
The blonde approached her, placing a hand on her arm. "Next time, I'll be more clear." She tugged lightly on Trace's shirt. "Come on, wash up and let's get something in your belly and then let's see if I can get you feeling better..."
For the first time, the brunette was glad that didn't have the double meaning she would have originally hoped for. She was just too damned tired.
**************************************
Trace sat at the table, barely able to hold her head up as Rachel set a bowl of stew before her, the heavenly heat rising and caressing her sense of smell. Her first bite provoked an almost indecent moan at the tasty array of vegetables, meat and gravy-thick liquid. After the famished detective had eaten most of the contents of the bowl, she finally spoke.
"Rachel, this is wonderful, thank you."
"You're welcome," the blonde beamed, "one of my specialities is rabbit stew."
Stopping mid spoonful, Trace looked up at her. "Rabbit? That's what the meat is in here?"
Rachel could not read the expression on the brunette's face. "Yes."
"This wouldn't be one of those cute little bunnies around the side of Chief's stall, would it?"
"Yes. That is what they are bred for. Food."
Trace put the spoon down and wiped her mouth with her hand. "Thanks. Think I'm done."
"But you didn't finish..."
"It's...I'm fine...too tired to eat, anyway."
"Didn't you like it?"
"It was delicious, Rachel, really." Except during her fiasco with that stubborn horse today, she had made friends with the six rabbits in that cage and even named them: Peter, Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail, Bugs and Thumper. She couldn't bear to think of which one she might have just eaten.
Rachel cleared the dinnerware in front of Trace, who put her head down and rested it on her folded arms on the table. Moments later she felt a hand on her shoulder. "I know what will make you feel better."
"A sledgehammer to the forehead?" Trace muttered.
"Heavens, no," Rachel looked horrified, not realizing the detective was joking. The twenty-first century sense of humor was not making the nineteenth century woman laugh. Yet. "I have a jar of peppermint oil that I want you to take to your room and rub it on your aching areas. You will feel better by morning."
Trace peeked up at the blonde, skeptically.
"The menthol from the peppermint leaves soothes irritation and ache."
Sitting up, the detective looked at Rachel, cocking her head. "How do you know all this stuff?"
The blonde smiled warmly at her. "The Bible."
"You learned all of this healing and nutritional stuff from reading the bible?" Trace's tone was incredulous.
"Absolutely. The use of peppermint can be traced back to Moses and the burning bush -"
Putting her hand up, Trace said, "All right, I believe you." She slowly, agonizingly stood up, turning toward her. "What I really need is a full body massage." She had said it as a thought out loud, never expecting a comment in return.
So, when Rachel responded with, "I agree but my supply of olive oil is low. Otherwise, I would have given you one," Trace nearly lost all semblance of decorum and restraint. She had to bite her lip, close her eyes and shake the X-rated thought out of her R-rated brain.
She looked the innocent blonde directly in the eyes. "You were going to massage me with olive oil?"
"Yes."
"All over?"
"Yes."
"That's in the bible??"
"Yes. Olive oil massaged into the skin has wonderful healing powers, more long-term than peppermint."
The image of Rachel's hands rubbing oil deeply into Trace's body made her shiver. A hint of a smile graced the detective's face as she passed Rachel, putting a hand on the smaller woman's shoulder. "I think we're luckier you just had this." She accepted the small jar from the perplexed blonde, thanked her and retreated to her room in the barn.
*******************************************
20.
The tall, black-haired detective barely moved a muscle once she got into bed. She had applied the peppermint to the areas of her body that hurt the most and settled down to reap the rewards of the chilling then hot sensation that followed, almost as if she had gone to the drugstore and bought a mentholated rub. Her exhaustion so overwhelming, Trace fell into unconsciousness and never even woke up when the rooster crowed at the break of dawn.
Because of all the work Trace had done yesterday and assuming how much discomfort she must have been in, Rachel decided not to disturb her. She had checked on her at least three times since gathering eggs at sunrise and the detective had not shifted from the position she had fallen asleep in the night before.
Preparing breakfast, the blonde was going to rouse the brunette to feed her before the day wasted away when sudden nausea took hold of her and she barely made it outside. The smell of eggs cooking had never bothered her before but they were sure making her pretty sick now. She didn't actually heave anything but it rose to her throat threateningly.
Halfway to the stove, the queasiness returned and Rachel raced back to the front porch not being able to control the contents of her stomach spewing forward, missing the sore, sleepy detective by mere inches.
"Yeow," Trace jumped aside. "Whatever you had for breakfast, don't make me any..." she joked, then wished she hadn't. She watched helplessly as the blonde, held her belly, lurched and trembled until finally the sensation subsided. By that time the detective was on the porch, holding the blonde's hair away from her face with one hand, her other hand on Rachel's back. "You okay?"
Nodding, gasping, eyes tearing uncontrollably, Rachel straightened up. "I don't know what's wrong. I must be coming down with something..."
"Stomach flu?" Trace offered.
The blonde looked at her alarmed. "Influenza? I hope not."
Keeping a hand on her back, Trace slowly ushered Rachel into the house and to a chair. "You look pale. Can I get you anything?"
Before Rachel could respond, bile rose in her throat again and she clamped her hand over her mouth. Recognizing the warning, Trace reached a long arm over to the bucket and grabbed a clean bowl, getting it to the blonde just in time but not before she got splashed by the smaller woman's vomit. Not exactly the bodily fluid exchange bonding moment between them Trace was hoping for.
When Rachel's stomach finally seemed a little more stable, the brunette left the bowl in her lap and retrieved a rag she had dampened under the indoor pump. As Trace wiped the blonde's face with it gently and then rested it against her forehead, Rachel was grateful for the cooling stimulation
"What can I get you to help with that upset tummy there?" Trace asked the blonde, still squatting by the chair Rachel was sitting in.
"Ginger powder. I have some in a jar over there." A shaky finger pointed toward the anteroom. "There should be hot water in the tea kettle. If you would be kind enough to get me a cup, I'll mix it together and it should help."
Trace placed the blonde's hand on the rag and guided it back up to her forehead. Standing, she retrieved everything Rachel asked for and placed it on the table in front of her. The blonde still looked a little green around the gills as Trace kneeled before her again and felt for a fever.
"You're clammy," the detective announced. "Could have been something you ate."
"I haven't eaten anything yet," Rachel stated, taking in big gulps of air. She poured some powder from the jar into the steaming cup of hot water, stirred it with a spoon and left it there as another wave of nausea overtook her.
Now racked with dry heaves, the blonde bent over at the waist, resting her head on her own lap. Trace gently placed her hand on Rachel's back and stroked up and down her backbone. "It's okay. You're okay," the detective comforted in a soothing tone of voice. Once again she surprised herself by a nurturing instinct she never thought existed in her. First she felt protective and now this? Well, she would try to sort it all out later. "Do you need to go lay down, Rachel?"
"No," came the muffled response, "I'll be okay in a moment...soon as I get some ginger in me..."
When Rachel made no attempt to raise her head, Trace took the cup off the table and stirred the contents, blowing on it to make it cool enough for the blonde to hopefully sip. When she felt it was drinkable, she smoothed Rachel's hair. "Come on, try some of this...you need to get something in you to make you feel better."
Lifting her head slightly, it was just enough for Trace to slide the cup in. Holding it to the blonde's lips, she patiently waited until the blonde took a small drink, then another, then took the cup in her own hands, sitting up slowly. A few more sips and Rachel closed her eyes. "Thank you, Trace," she told her, gratefully.
"Sure. You okay?"
"I think I will be," Rachel responded, weakly
"Good. Listen...I, um, need to bathe. Do you have anything I could use for soap? And my clothes smell of sweat. I hate to ask this but I have nothing else to wear...do you think I might be able to borrow something of your father's until I can wash my stuff?"
Nodding, the blonde said, "You know where his clothes are...you are welcome to wear anything that fits."
"Thank you." She placed her hand over Rachel's before standing up. "Anything I can do for you?"
"No...I'm...I'll be fine. The ginger is helping." Her voice and mannerisms were still somewhat frail but stronger than before.
Pausing at the door to the bedroom, Trace looked back at the blonde and studied her intently. Rachel was staring blankly toward the anteroom, holding her cup with both hands, tears streaming down her face. The look of despair on her face was heartbreaking and the detective felt compassionate and powerless at the same time. Something had happened to draw this blanket of desolation over this house and this woman. Something bad. Trace could feel it, taste it, and she was going to find out what it was.
********************************************
21.
The area of the river where Trace chose to strip and bathe, then wash her clothes appeared isolated enough. This was going to be a new experience, public exhibitionism...although, most likely, her only audience would be some wildlife and vegetation, she still felt exposed and vulnerable. She remembered reading stories or seeing movies regarding the 'old west' that had mischievous packs of boys who would spy on individuals washing themselves in rivers, streams and lakes and steal their clothes. Should that happen, this particular case would present an interesting set of circumstances and would mean Trace would have to move on, a thought that, at once, made her sad. This situation she had fallen into with Rachel was as close to perfect as she was probably going to get. She needed the petite blonde and obviously - although she didn't know why yet - the smaller woman needed her.
Cold at first but refreshing, Trace let her skin adjust to the temperature before she moved about underwater, feeling the strain of the motion literally drain from her body. Although this felt like heaven, she wisely decided not to stray too far away from her clothes, just in case.
She was grateful it was such a nice warm day as she scrubbed herself with lye soap - not quite the 'ocean breeze' scent she was used to emerging from the shower smelling like but since, before entering the water, she carried the odor of a rancid wart hog, she could deal with the thick but cleaner aroma of a smoking coal stove.
Washing her hair with soap was also something she was not used to. It was bad enough it wasn't shampoo but with no conditioner to calm down her normally unruly mop, she could only imagine the results. Thankfully she had less hair now to have to deal with and it's not like she felt she had to look particularly attractive for anyone...except maybe Rachel. Which was probably a wasted effort, anyway.
Once she had finished rinsing the minute amount of lather out of her hair, she waded back toward the rocks her belongings were piled on and began abrasively scouring her shirt, jeans, socks, wrap and boy briefs she was so fond of. Satisfied that they were as clean as she could get them, she cautiously emerged naked from the water, toweled off with a large linen cloth Rachel had provided her with and quickly dressed in a bulky flannel shirt, much too warm for the weather, and a pair of worn blue jeans that were at least one size too big. She chose those specific items to wear in case she happened to run into anyone between the river and the house, so that her rather ample chest without it's being bound down, wouldn't be quite so noticeable.
Walking barefoot back to toward the barn to hang her clothes to dry, Trace marveled once more at the crisp, fresh air and the untainted setting surrounding her. If only the world didn't have to change in a way where it ravaged Mother Nature.
Seeing the cabin come into view as she rounded a corner, she observed Rachel on the porch shaking out a small, woven rug, then watched her go back inside. Trace shook her head in disbelief. Had she only been here a little over a day? It felt like so much longer. By choice she had left her troubled existence behind and come here but by fate she had landed smack dab in the middle of Rachel Young's distraught life. She could tell herself whatever was going on was none of her business but she instinctively knew that wasn't an option. Whatever was going on here, Trace was bound and determined to find out fix it.
************************************************
Rachel robotically placed the throw rug back on the floor by the indoor pump. Knowing Trace would be returning any minute now, she knew it was time to prepare to go into Sagebrush to get some groceries. This would be the first time she would have been in town since before the...incident.
Well, at least Trace would be with her, that gave her some consolation. And then she wondered why. She felt safe in the presence of the taller, rather chivalrous woman she hoped everyone would believe was a man. She freely admitted she liked having the detective around, even if she did have some rather strange habits and was a little...spoiled. As for Sagebrush and this outsider, there would be questions...and speculation...and definitely talk. Oh, yes, the town was definitely good at that. But, she knew, there would be gossip soon enough anyway, what was a little more at this point?
A slight taste of ginger bubbled up into the blonde's throat and she swallowed it back, reliving the morning's queasiness. Just that reminder and what it meant caused tears of shame to sting her eyes again. She couldn't be carrying Ben Crane's baby, couldn't be! Yet just as sure as she knew the day was long, she knew she was with child. Her monthly curse should have come and gone eleven days ago and she was never late. And now she was sick in the morning, just like her cousin, Esther, had been eight months before she bore twin girls and her neighbor, Elizabeth Reddick, had been before she twice miscarried.
Wiping her eyes with her apron, Rachel took a deep breath and looked skyward. Why did this have to happen? She had always considered herself a faithful Christian woman, never did anything that would have embarrassed the church, the congregation, or disgraced her family, never betrayed the teachings of the bible, never turned her back on God. Why did she feel as though the Lord was turning His back on her? First her father suffered so horribly before he died, then her mother was taken from her, then Tommy and then...that night. Why did it seem like the devil himself was after her?
And who really was this Trace Sheridan and why did she feel so secure with total stranger, a woman, of all things?
Hearing footsteps on the porch, Rachel turned to see Trace enter the cabin. "Well, I feel better, cleaner," the brunette commented.
"Good," Rachel smiled, absently.
"How about you? Feeling better?" Her concern was genuine.
"Oh, yes," the blonde lied. "Much."
*****************************************
Name: Cheyne
Email: Whenpiggsfly55@aol.com
Title: Renegade
Disclaimers: See Part 1
****************
****************
22
The decision to finally go into town had not been an easy one for Rachel to make. She had no doubt that Ben Crane had made good on his promise to announce to all of Sagebrush that he had, to put it mildly, engaged in intimate relations with her. Elizabeth Reddick would not look the blonde in the eye when she returned a pie tin a week ago, her husband, Matthew, demanding she hand the plate to Rachel and they leave immediately. The expression on Matthew's face was one of disdain and disgust, Elizabeth's one of question and confusion. And when Isaac Tipping brought the last order out from his father's store, even though he was young, he looked at her differently, too - probably shocked by the not-so-nice things that were being said about her in the stockroom. They should all know better but obviously they didn't. Or didn't dare not to.
Rachel did not understand how anyone could actually believe she would willingly submit to Ben Crane, of all people. Especially after their families had been at odds for years and she had so adamantly and publicly turned down his marriage proposals. Crane's flagrant womanizing was no secret and neither was the blonde's engagement to the dashing and much more upstanding Thomas Baines. Why anyone would think she would allow the town pig into her bed when she refused that privilege to her own fiancée was beyond all reasonable thought to her.
But then what had really happened defied all reasonable thought. She had not invited Crane anywhere near her private chambers, her body, he took what he wanted all on his own, without her permission, her consent. And now look at the mess she was in... She had heard stories about this sort of thing happening to other women and always thought they must have done something to encourage such behavior. Therefore, because she wasn't that kind of girl, she never thought something like this would happen to her.
And he was a Crane. Nobody went against the Cranes, not even the sheriff, the circuit judges or even Pastor Edwards. Bad things happened when a Crane did not get what they wanted and she was living proof.
If she could stay on the ranch the rest of her life and never have to go into town again, she would. If only that were a rational and plausible solution. However, it was not, and she steeled herself to face the stares, the whispers, the treatment and everything else that now went with her sullied reputation.
And now she was going to show up in town with a total stranger sitting by her side. Complicated by the fact that the man everyone would see was really a woman, pretending to be a man and hopefully no one would catch on and be the wiser. Rachel wasn't sure why they needed to perpetuate this charade as she believed her life would be so much easier right now if her companion dropped the facade, but she gave Trace her word that she would, indeed, go along with it and maybe it would work out for the best. Trace, as a woman, could have been easily explained away as a distant relative come to visit but the brunette, as a man, would create a little more stir...as if she needed anything more to add to the pot.
A month earlier, it would not have caused as much talk, cowboys wandered through town constantly, looking for work and there was no question Rachel needed the help. Her father had hired saddlestiffs all the time, especially during harvest, to work the land with him, to repair things that needed fixing, to help transport the modest head of cattle to auction, to do whatever needed to be done that required an extra pair of hands. But with the systematic destruction of the ranch's resources and Rachel's livelihood, and the bragging of Ben Crane, the townspeople would surmise that there would be only one thing the blonde could be paying the stranger with...herself.
It was humiliating that she would now be thought of like that, devastating that a place where her ancestors were some of its original settlers, where she was born, raised, schooled and almost married in, could turn on her so suddenly. The best she could do would be to bravely face down her detractors and deny everything and hope the knowledge that it was a blowhard, windbag Crane running her name into the ground would make the glimmer of difference in what people really believed deep down inside.
Regardless of the consequences, they were now on their way, the wagon being pulled leisurely by Moses, an old workhorse Rachel normally only used to go to town and back. He wasn't good for much else anymore at his advanced age but the blonde didn't have the heart to sell him and knew she couldn't shoot him.
As they ambled along, the ranch woman stole a glance at the detective. She looked pretty convincing in Rachel's father's pin-striped, cotton, collarless work shirt and blue denim trousers that needed to be held up by suspenders. Trace's binding had dried quickly in the sun so she was wearing it underneath the jersey and Rachel had fixed her up with a neckerkerchief to help disguise the fact she had no Adam's apple, and her father's black straw cowboy hatwith a 3 1/2" shapeable brim that pulled down over the detective's baby blues in a persuasively menacing dip. It was a little big for her but she wore it well and it added to the illusion of the detective being male. If only Trace didn't feel like Charles and Carolyn Ingalls from Little House On The Prairie.
The blonde had properly covered her head with a pale green bonnet that tied under her chin. It closely matched her green and white gingham 'going to town' dress that Trace thought looked absolutely adorable on her. Anyone riding upon them would assume they were the perfect couple and suddenly, unexpectedly, the brunette wished they were. That revelation struck her like ice water thrown in her face and she quickly looked around her, then skyward. Where the hell were all these outlandish instincts coming from? First protective, then nurturing and now commitment? She shook her head, as if that would result in clearing away these recent epiphanies.
"What's wrong?" Rachel asked, her voice bringing Trace back to reality.
"What?"
"What's wrong? You look...I don't know...startled."
"No, I'm fine. So, what are we getting in town?"
"Well, I need flour, bacon, rice, coffee, tea, sugar, dried beans, dried fruit, hardtack -"
"Hardtack? What's that?"
"It's pilot bread...um...like a cracker...you've never had hardtack?"
"Well, if I had, would I have asked you what it was?"
Rachel narrowed her eyes. "Sometimes your tone leaves a lot to be desired."
Trace was about to argue that point when she realized the blonde was right. Smiling, she said, "I'll try to be more aware of that."
"Try hard," the blonde threw out before continuing the list. "Salt, corn meal, corn - parched and ground, saleratus -"
"Saleratus?"
"Baking soda," Rachel amended, "and one small keg of vinegar."
"A keg?"
"I use it for a lot of things, it doesn't last long."
"I think of keg, I think of beer," The detective commented, wishing she had one at that moment. "The town got a saloon?"
"Yes, Wilbur's, but you don't want to go there, do you?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Because that's where the men go -" she stopped and looked at the tall woman seated next to her. "Maybe you going into Wilbur's wouldn't be a bad idea."
Yeah...a damned bar! Woo hoo! Now they were talking. And if they had a pool table...had pool tables been invented then? Trace was pretty sure they had. All she needed to do was play a game or two of eight ball and that alone would be convincing enough...they never would have believed a woman could play pool like that. Maybe she could even hustle some money.
As if Rachel had been reading her mind, she piped up and said, "Or maybe it's not such a good idea..."
Trace noticed that the closer they got to the outskirts of Sagebrush, the more the blonde began to fidget. "You okay?"
Nodding apprehensively, Rachel said, "People are going to talk, just don't pay them any mind."
"You mean about me?"
"Well...yes. They might say other things, too. I live alone and people like to gossip."
"Would it be easier for you if I just stayed back on the ranch?" Trace inquired, trying to read the true meaning of Rachel's words.
"Easier? Yes. But then if anyone rode by or came out and saw you, it would seem as if I was ashamed of something and trying to hide you - or what you appear to be - a man - and that would only make things worse."
They rode a few more minutes in awkward silence until Trace decided that she needed to know. "Rachel, why are you alone on that big place? I gather your father died but since I've been here, I get the feeling something's going on. Mind telling me what it is?"
Looking away from the detective, the blonde inhaled deeply, holding the breath in for a long moment before expelling it, cautiously. "I just had a run of bad luck the past year, that's all. It's still hard to talk about it. All I'm trying to say is people are guessing about a lot of things and don't know, so just bear that in mind when you hear things."
Not the answer she wanted but it would have to do. For now. "Okay. Is there a pawn shop in town?"
"Yes. Right next to the bank. Joseph Turner owns it. Why do you need to go there?"
"Because I don't have any money. I had to leave in a hurry so I couldn't take any with me. But I have a few items of jewelry I would like to pawn." Looking over at Rachel, the brunette observed an expression of concern on the younger woman's face. "What?"
"It's just that Joseph Turner is a very nosy man, thinks he knows everything and wants to know everything that he doesn't already think he knows."
"So what you're saying is don't tell him anything and don't listen to anything he tells me."
"Yes. Please."
"Want to give me a hint as to what I might be hearing?"
"How would I know that?" the blonde snapped, unreasonably defensive.
"I just thought you might have an idea, that's all." Trace responded, more composed than she normally would have been at anyone jumping down her throat like that for no apparent reason.
After another several seconds of silence, Trace felt Rachel's hand on her arm. "I apologize, Trace. I haven't been in town for a while and I know there will be questions about you..."
As the blonde's voice trailed off, Trace could not ignore her body's reaction to the light touch of Rachel's fingers on her bicep, even if it was through fabric. Goosebumps rose everywhere and she was grateful for the binding that covered her traitorous telltale nipples. She briefly covered the smaller hand with her own. "Don't worry about it, okay? I'll handle anyone who decides to be...disrespectful."
And Rachel instinctively knew Trace meant it as an unexpected and unusual rush of calm settled over her.
************************************************
23
Main Street Sagebrush was right out of the movies, Trace marveled while Moses lumbered his way into town. As they rounded the corner, there was a boardwalk connecting the general store, mercantile, saloon, blacksmith shop and livery stable with the butcher shop. Across the street was a three story hotel, a shorter bank edifice, the three balls suspended over the next building which indicated a pawn shop, the barred windows which obviously marked the sheriff's office and jail and several other merchant shops not as easily identifiable - with a small chapel separated from the rest of the buildings by a good two blocks.
The blatant staring began as soon as they passed the first couple of people. The blonde nodded politely but received no such courtesy in return. Trace couldn't tell why the reception was so hostile but she simmered at the thought that Rachel might be treated so poorly and rudely because of her presence. She realized she had only lived there two and a half days but all she experienced was unconditional kindness from the woman seated next to her (well...maybe a few ecclesiastical conditions, but other than that...) and, regardless of the era she now lived in, the assumption was just wrong. Little did she know that was just the tip of the iceberg.
Stopping Moses in front of Foster's Grocery, Trace stepped down first and in a very gentlemanly manner, assisted the blonde from the wagon to the ground. Thanking her, demurely, Rachel walked to the back of the wagon and assessed the bounty she had brought to sell as Trace tied the horse's reins to the hitching post.
Luther Foster, the grocer, stepped out onto the wooden sidewalk in front of his store, wiping his hands on his apron. He glanced briefly at the blonde then eyed Trace suspiciously.
"Afternoon, Mr. Foster. I brought you your usual order," Rachel told him, indicating the baskets of vegetables. The blonde's tone was pleasant, devoid of the disgrace she felt at the hands of Ben Crane. Maybe if she pretended everything was fine, it would be.
Or not. "Rachel," he acknowledged her with an absent nod, as he scrutinized the tall stranger who glared back at him. "I'm not sure I'm gonna to be able to take your vegetables anymore."
"Why not?" the question came from the strong but modulated voice of the cowboy.
Who's this?"
"This is Trace Sheridan, Mr. Foster. He is helping me out on the ranch for a bit." She had to consciously remind herself to refer to Trace as 'he.'
Foster frowned, shaking his head and returned his attention to Rachel, ignoring the outstretched hand of the unusual looking young man. "He staying out at the place with you?" The question was asked with obvious disapproval in his voice.
"Yes, but he's -"
"Sleeping in the barn," Trace supplied, interrupting the blonde and stepping forward. "And I am right here, Mr. Foster, you can speak to me directly."
The grocer was quickly angered by the insolence of this stranger but retreated a few paces when Trace stepped up on the boardwalk in front of him, towering over Foster by several inches. "O...Okay..." He now avoided looking the brunette directly in the eyes. "How is she paying you?"
"Paying me? She's feeding me and giving me a place to lay my head, that's how she's paying me. I'm sure you don't have a problem with that." The fierce blue eyes bore a hole through him.
Rachel was taken aback by how Trace could go from accommodating to intimidating in no time at all and was temporarily speechless at this woman so easily standing up to a man. She was beginning to understand why the brunette thought the men here would want to kill her. Maybe it wasn't quite that dramatic but no woman stood up to a man like that, challenged one like that. If Luther Foster had any idea Trace was female, he never would have backed down, especially since he had a tendency to be a bit of a browbeater, specifically toward women.
Despite that, the blonde liked Foster, was grateful that he continued to purchase her crop after everything that had happened on the ranch. She knew the Cranes had started to threatened him and he was running the risk of his home and business burning down if he didn't comply. But Foster had been her father's best friend and if Rachel didn't provide him with produce, he would have to get his vegetables from a grower in Jefferson, a town twenty miles east of Sagebrush. Also, if he lost his store, everyone in Sagebrush, including the Crane's would be affected so she was pretty sure at least half of that threat was empty. However, she wasn't quite so optimistic about the future of her own commerce.
"No. No problem with that." Foster was beginning to regain some of his composure. He cleared his throat. A small crowd had started to gather, watching this exchange.
"Now, why don't we try this again?" Trace stuck out her hand.
Looking at it, then back up into the unyielding expression on the flawless face, knowing it really wasn't a request, Foster accepted the handshake this time, the stranger's grip strong and steady.
"Trace Sheridan," the brunette offered.
"Luther Foster." He was a slightly rotund man, prone to sweating with no apparent provocation. Now he was perspiring profusely. He liked being the center of attention when he was on the upside of the situation but never when he appeared to be on the losing end. Wisely, he allowed the cowboy drop the handshake first. "Where you from, Mr. Sheridan?"
"Cottonwood."
"Never heard of it. Where is that?"
"Far from here," Trace and Rachel chorused. Surprised by the blonde's joining her in her answer and on the boardwalk, Trace couldn't help but noticed the look of relief on the grocer's face.
"Trace, why don't you go tend to your errands and Mr. Foster and I will work out the problem, hmmm?" Again, the blonde laid a gentle hand on the detective's forearm, eliciting the same reaction as before.
Not taking her eyes off Foster, the brunette nodded. "Only if you're sure..."
"These people are my friends, Trace," Rachel continued, hoping to make a point not so much to the detective but to Foster and all the others who had stopped to watch. "I'm sure."
She looked at the blonde, searched her face for any hint that she should really stay. There was none. She patted Rachel's hand, nodded to Foster and left the boardwalk, heading toward the pawn shop.
***********************************************
24
"What's going on, Rachel?" Foster asked, after the wagon had been emptied and they were now in the privacy of the grocer's small office. He sat down, opening his cash box and counted out the few coins he owed the blonde minus the amount for the goods she would be taking away from his store.
"What do you mean, Mr. Foster?"
Shaking his head, grimly, the grocer said, "First, Ben Crane comes into town just before the drive to Dodge City and tells anyone who will listen at Wilbur's that you and he...well," he lowered his eyes, "you know." Flushed, he handed her the payment for the produce, "and then you bring a total stranger to town with you, surly as a grizzly, looks to be at least half-injun...people are talking, Rachel..." Foster marked the exchange in his grocer's book, then stood up as Rachel put the money in her purse.
"It isn't true. What Ben Crane said, Mr. Foster. You know why he is saying those things."
"Even if it ain't true, Rachel, he's a Crane and no one's gonna call him a liar."
"Not to his face, anyway," Rachel finished for him.
"Precisely. But he's got the town talking, anyway. And now this? What would your daddy say if he knew you had what looks to be a half-breed living out at your place? Don't matter where he claims to be sleeping, it don't look right, a man out at your place..."
"I need the help, Mr. Foster. I can't do it by myself anymore. Daddy used to hire drifters to help out certain times of the year, you know that. If he couldn't do it alone, no one should expect me to!" Her voice rose defensively with each word.
"I know, Rachel, but it just ain't proper!" He wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. "If you'd just sell that place to the Cranes, you wouldn't have to worry -"
"Mr. Foster, I should slap you for suggesting such a thing," Rachel said, boldly. "If my daddy heard you say that..."
Foster put his hand up. "I know. I know what your daddy went through to keep that spread away from them. But it's time to be reasonable, Rachel. They are going after you a little bit at a time. You can't win. It would be different if you could, but you can't."
"We'll see about that, Mr. Foster," the blonde stated in a tone more bitter than he had ever heard from her.
As he watched her exit his store, he shook his head in despair. Frank Young's little girl had indeed inherited his stubbornness, his tenacity and, unfortunately, his propensity for trouble.
*************************************
Trace recognized the three spherical gilt balls, glittering in the light so they could be seen from all sides and attract customers to the building above which they were suspended. Seemed that symbol of yore hadn't changed over the past century.
The tall, dark stranger entered the pawn shop through an open doorway and was immediately hit with a thick, musty odor that nearly made her sneeze. Blinking a few times, rubbing her nose, Trace took in her surroundings peripherally. This wasn't like any of the places she had seen in her lifetime. This shop actually had some semblance of order, decency and credibility.
Browsing the items that had most likely been placed on deposit in exchange for cash were various styles and sizes of shawls, bonnets, undergarments, dresses, suits and shoes. There was also bedding, musical instruments, clocks, tools, guns (which she would look at later if she had the time or another time, if she didn't) and furniture. The jewelry area was on a display case in front of the proprietor, a tall, skinny, jowled, thinly-haired man who looked like he was straight out of a Washington Irving novel. This must be Joseph Turner. He stood when Trace approached the counter. He still had a pen in his hand and at his modest desk, there was an open book which Trace assumed to be his ledger.
"Afternoon," the man said, in a twangy voice that was immediately grating. "What can I do for you..." They stood there assessing each other and, for a brief second, the detective thought he might not buy into her act. "...Son?"
Trace took a breath and purposely lowered her voice register. She didn't want it to sound fake but she sure as hell didn't want it sounding feminine, either. It was different with the grocer. He had pissed her off and her voice always dropped an octave or two when she was angry. Reaching in her shirt breast pocket, she took out the two gold wedding bands Mark had given her. She placed them on the counter. "I'd like to pawn these."
Turner looked the items over, then picked them up and felt the weight, the substance. "Might be able to do something for you. Where'd you get them?"
"They were my...mother's. She's gone now and I need the money." Trace had a sudden, unexpected pang of guilt for saying that. Zelda wasn't deceased but the detective wondered how long her mother would last, thinking her daughter was dead. It was best that way. Zelda's confidence, sanity and sobriety was shaky, at best, and if she knew anything about Trace, the brunette knew the DeSiennas could get it out of her.
He performed a cursory authenticity examination of the rings, including biting down on the jewelry. "Don't think I've seen you around here before."
"You haven't. I'm from Cottonwood."
"Cottonwood? That's a full month's ride from here, isn't it?"
The question stopped Trace for a minute. Had this man really heard of a Cottonwood or was he already living up to Rachel's description of a know-it-all? "About that, yeah."
"What are you doing in this neck of the woods? Just passing through?"
He'd find out sooner or later, might as well be now. "I'm staying out at the Young place, helping out with land for a while," she tossed out, nonchalantly.
Turner responded with a raised eyebrow. "Is that so? Out there with Miss Rachel? Just the two of you?"
"For the time being. I got hurt, Miss Rachel found me and kindly fixed me up. I need a place to stay for a while and she needs some work done. It's the least I can do." Trace made sure her intention was clear. Pinning Joseph Turner with eyes like blue steel, she said, "And that's all. You understand?"
Shrugging, not even attempting to hide a lascivious grin, he said, "Whatever you say."
Holding her temper, she quietly seethed. "How much can you give me for the rings?"
"You need a loan for these or do you want to get paid outright? I mean these would be excellent collateral for -"
"No. Thank you. Just the money." Trace was sure his interest rates were quite high, even in this time period. He wouldn't make any profit, otherwise. As the pieces weren't sentimental to her, there was no need for her to hang on to them.
"I think I can give you, hmmm, fifty dollars each for them."
"What!? Just fifty dollars?" The look in the man's eyes at the outburst told her that it had been an honest offer. She then remembered where she was. She quickly calmed down. "I'm sorry...my mama said they were worth more. Fifty dollars a piece is fine."
Turner nodded, slightly ruffled by Trace's little flare-up. He took a step backward toward his small, open safe and set the rings on his desk. Sizing up the 'young man' in his shop, he made an immediate assumption. "Got some redskin in you, son?" He bent over and pulled a cash drawer from the knee-high iron vault.
"Not that I know of," Trace answered, wearily. "No gypsy, either. Maybe a little Greek."
"Oh, Greek, yeah...I would've guessed that eventually." Removing the correct amount in bills from the drawer, Turner stepped back up to the display case and held them out to the brunette.
Mark was right, money looked very different. "Could you count it out for me, please?" She needed to pay close attention as he did, insuring he was giving her every cent she was entitled to.
The pawn shop proprietor grinned. "Ah, can't add, huh? No problem..."
"No," Trace responded, trying to keep her annoyance in check, "I can add just fine. I can count and spell and read, too. It's just...we're strangers and I'm protecting my interests."
Turner was impressed by that admission. Not everyone would have the guts to say that to him and expect him to continue the transaction as it was tantamount to accusing him of being a cheat. The almost ghastly thin man proceeded to count out the total of the money, handing it to the brunette. "There you go. All there."
"Thank you." Hesitating, she looked back at the pawnbroker. After her mini-tirade regarding her scholastic abilities, she didn't want to appear to be contradictory or stupid. "I'd like to have a beer at the saloon, could you give me one of these in smaller change?"
"Yep. That I can do." Turner exchanged one of the bills for coins.
"How much you charge for a beer in this town?"
"Five cents for a cream ale...how much do they charge in Cottonwood?"
Trace shrugged nonchalantly. "The same. I was just making sure." Folding the paper money in half, the detective shoved that and the coins in her pocket. "Well, thank you, it's been nice doing business with you."
"So...how long you think you'll be staying...out at the Young place?"
She immediately saw the question for what it was, the pawnbroker being a busybody. "Don't know. Got thrown from my horse, sustained a puncture wound," Trace indicated the area on her chest. "Have to make sure that's all healed up before I...move on. Plus, Ra...Miss Rachel needs a hand out there. Since she helped me, it's only fitting that I help her."
"So you expect to be moving on? Not going back to Cottonwood?"
"No. No need to go back there. My family is gone now." She smiled, graciously, at him. "Who knows? Maybe I will take up residence here in Sagebrush."
For some unknown reason, Turner grinned back. "What's your name, son?"
"Sheridan. Trace Sheridan."
"Joseph Turner. Nice doing business with you, too, Trace Sheridan," the pawnbroker stated, extending a long, bony hand, which the detective briefly accepted. "Always good to welcome a hardworking cowboy to town."
"Thanks." He seemed sincere but Trace didn't trust him completely. There was something about him she didn't like and she couldn't put her finger on it just yet. She nodded in polite departure and left for the saloon.
******************************************
25
Her order would be waiting for her when she returned to Foster's and then she would find Trace to help her load it onto the wagon. Needing to walk off some anger, Rachel bypassed the butcher shop where she was to purchase some bacon and ventured to Molly Ledbetter's dress shop to look at the new fabrics and styles. Molly was a gray-haired grandmotherly-type who had been very close with Rachel's mother. She knew, regardless of the rumors and gossip, Molly would welcome her, offer her a cup of tea and probably give her some excess material she always just happened to have hanging around so that Rachel could make herself something pretty.
The bell on the door clanged when the blonde entered. Looking up from hanging a woven waist jacket on a rack, Molly Ledbetter's eyes twinkled as she smiled warmly at the daughter of her much missed friend. The reaction of the two shop patrons weren't quite as congenial, however. Glaring at Rachel in condemnation, Rosalie Beauregard, turned to her daughter, Suzanne, and said, "We might have to leave."
The timid, mousy, brown haired Suzanne knew Rachel well. They had grown up singing in the church choir together. The blonde had always thought they were close until, because of pressure from her golddigging mother, Suzanne became engaged to Seth Carver, Ben Crane's cousin. That made it extremely difficult for the blonde to maintain a civil conversation with the brunette or anyone in her family.
Catching Rachel in town one day, about a week before Ben Crane's fateful visit to the ranch, Suzanne confided through tears that this was not her idea and begged the blonde not to hate her. Knowing how domineering Rosalie was and how accommodating the brunette's father would be by being associated with the Cranes, Rachel knew Suzanne didn't stand a chance.
"Good afternoon, Suzanne," Rachel addressed her, knowing the young woman probably would not dare to respond. "Mrs. Beauregard."
Sticking her nose in the air with an emphatic 'harumph!' Rosalie nearly wrenched Suzanne's arm backward, pulling her toward the door. The skittish brunette blinked apologetically at Rachel but stayed silent. "Molly? Are you going to allow this kind of person into your store?"
Molly Ledbetter gave the blonde a patient look and then turned to Mrs. Beauregard. "What kind of person is that, Rosalie? Certainly you wouldn't be referring to my very best, dear departed friend's daughter?"
"Well, honestly, Molly, she's out there on that ranch, all alone, entertaining men...sullying her mother and father's good name. It's disgusting."
"Unlike your daughter who is being whored out to Seth Carver just so you can get your talons into the Crane fortune?"
The look of shock on Rosalie's face was predictable and the look of near amusement on Suzanne's face was priceless. "Well! I never...!"
Looking pointedly at Suzanne, Molly responded with, "Well, you did at least once..."
"Molly Ledbetter! See if I ever shop here again!!" Rosalie spit out, quite vehemently.
"Suit yourself, Rosalie. If you're going to be more judgmental than the Lord concerning my other customers and people dear to me, then I would prefer that you go to Jefferson for your dresses from now on."
"You'll regret this," Rosalie warned, as she pulled Suzanne to the entrance. The younger woman mouthed the words, 'Bye, Rachel' before being yanked out the door by her mother.
Watching the activity then looking back at Molly, Rachel said, "I'm sorry, Miz Ledbetter, I didn't mean to cause trouble."
"Oh, honey, you didn't cause that..." Molly waved her hand at the vacant space left by Rosalie and Suzanne. "I've never had much use for John or Rosalie Beauregard, both of them always thought they were more high and mighty than anyone else in this town. Even before they got involved with the Crane clan."
"Yes. Poor Suzanne. She's the one coming out on the short end of all this."
"Girl needs to get a backbone. Needs some of that Young stock in her," Molly smiled, winking at the blonde. "Now, come have some tea with me and tell me what you've been up to because I surely don't believe what I've been hearing..."
*************************************
Walking into Wilbur's Saloon was surreal, pushing through the hinged, swinging doors like cowboys did in so many of the westerns Trace had watched as a kid. She took in her surroundings, the dirty, dusty wooden floor, the four large round tables obviously used for card playing, several smaller tables just for sitting and drinking, a long and well-stocked bar up against the wall, a piano against a staircase that led upstairs to what Trace assumed were rooms occupied by a prostitute or two. But, sadly, no pool table.
Strolling purposefully up to the bar, the detective was aware that she was collecting a few stares along the way. So what else was new? The barkeep, a bear of a man probably Trace's age, with stringy dark hair and a thick brush of a mustache smiled at the tall stranger. He was always grateful for a new customer, especially if he turned into a regular and a good tipper. He wiped off the space in front of the brunette with a damp rag.
"Howdy," the man said to Trace in a voice that betrayed his build. It was adolescent in nature, as if he was a teenage boy still going through puberty. She couldn't help but smirk. Not because of his unusual tone or that, if he sounded like that, she could now relax and not worry about her own timbre but because he actually said, 'howdy.'
"Hi," Trace responded, noncommittally.
"What can I get ya?"
Shrugging, Trace remembered what the pawnbroker called it..."A cream ale would be good."
"What kind?"
Well that stumped her. She didn't think she would actually have a choice. Any experienced beer drinker would know his ale, so she said, "First time here, give me your most popular."
"That would be Handel's. Good choice. Coming right up." The big man behind the bar pulled out a mug and poured a pint of foam. Trace wanted to tell him to tip the glass and aim the stream against the opposite side but she felt that might be overstepping a little bit. Miraculously, when it was set in front of her, the head was barely a quarter of an inch.
"Thanks. How much?"
"Five cents."
Trace laughed. A nickle for a pint of beer. Maybe she really had died in Mark's time machine and gone to heaven...well, except for the no indoor plumbing thing. She removed a handful of coins out of her breast pocket and set down a silver dollar. "Keep the brew flowing, my friend, and what I don't drink you can have for a tip."
The barkeep's face lit up and he let out a hoarse laugh. "Stranger, you're welcome in this bar any time." He extended his big, beefy hand. "Silas Boone."
Accepting his hand with her own firm grip, sizing this big ape of a man up, she immediately thought, 'What's your mama's name? Bab?' She then wanted to ask him if he was any relation to Daniel Boone but as she couldn't exactly remember if that character really existed or was just folk lore and, if he really was an actual person, had he been born yet - why didn't she pay attention in history class? She wisely decided to keep the conversation short and to the point. "Trace Sheridan."
"Where you from, Trace Sheridan?"
"Cottonwood." And then, before he could ask, she added, "It's far from here." She released his hand and took a sip of her beer. It wasn't bad, it was different. A little thicker than she was used to, no doubt from less filtering and dilution than in modern times. It could have been colder but she wasn't complaining. It was beer.
"How 'bout a shot of bug juice to go with that ale?"
Bug juice? Trace could only imagine what kind of bug. "Uh, no thanks, I think I'll pass."
"So what brings you to this neck of the woods, Trace?"
"Well...I was just passing through but my horse threw me and took off and I got hurt, so I'm staying out at the Young ranch, recovering and working off my debt to Ra - Miss Rachel for fixing me up. Plus, I need to earn enough money to get another horse so that I can move on." Perish the thought, she suddenly mused.
A strange look clouded Silas' face. "You out there at Frank Young's place? Alone...?
This was getting tedious already. Looking the bartender square in the eye, Trace said, "Yes. I am. Look, Silas, I intend to be around for a while and I am just staying at the Young place, sleeping in the barn - alone - there is nothing going on between Miss Rachel and me. But if there's something I should know about, I'd like to hear it."
"No, no..." the big man shrugged, looking down. "I just heard she's had some trouble out there, that's all..."
"What kind of trouble?"
Glancing back up at her, the bartender shrugged again. "Well, if she didn't tell you then I supposed it ain't my place to." Wait until Ben Crane found out Rachel had a man living out there with her. A young, strangely appealing man who looked like he could be a half-breed. This would not be well received.
Studying him, Trace knew Silas wanted to say something to her about it. But then the detective stiffened as she felt somebody move up next to her. Never taking her eyes off the barkeep, she observed, with more than mild interest, that Silas slowly walked away.
"That's right, Silas, you don't want to be tellin' tales out of school."
Aware that she was being scrutinized by whoever the man was standing to her left, Trace relaxed her body, psychologically preparing herself for a fight. The vibe she got from this man was extremely confrontational. 'Go ahead, fuckwad,' she thought to herself, 'start something I can finish.' She stared straight ahead and took a long drink of beer. Never physically acknowledging the man, Trace said, "Something I can do for you?"
"Yeah, you can tell me what you're doing at Frank Young's place."
Not moving a muscle, Trace took another sip of beer. She kept her voice steady and even. "First, Frank Young is dead, so I believe that would make it Rachel Young's place now and second, what business is it of yours?" It was then she turned toward the man and regarded him with a defiant, cold, blue glare. Her eyes fell on the star stuck to the man's rawhide vest. Unimpressed, she looked back up at his craggy face.
Even though he stayed put, the look in Trace's eyes made him take a mental step backward. He was more than a little surprised that this young buck didn't seem at all intimidated by the fact that he was The Law. Then the man squinted at her. "My business is Frank was a good friend of mine and he wouldn't like no gypsy man living out there with his daughter."
"Well, Sheriff, I am not a gypsy and before you ask or assume, I have no Indian blood in me, either. What my heritage is doesn't concern you." Trace noticed the dead silence that now engulfed the saloon where only seconds before there had been the sounds of conversation, glasses clinking, laughter and poker chips flying across tables. "What should concern you is - especially since Frank was such a good friend of yours - is the condition that property is in and that poor girl has nobody out there to help her. When was the last time you or anyone else checked on good old Frank's daughter?" She knew she was being facetious but she couldn't help herself.
The sheriff at least had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. "It's...uh...been a while. But Isaac Tipping delivers feed out there once a week and he would have told someone if she needed help," he countered, defensively. Not to mention, he thought to himself, the Cranes would literally kill anyone who attempted to help her. And since they were paying him handsomely to look the other way, he certainly wasn't going to set foot on the land, friend or no friend of Frank's. "It would be worth your while, son, to move on. Quickly."
Trace didn't like him. She had interacted with many snakes in her time and this man had viper written all over him. "Is that advice, Sheriff, or a threat?"
"Right now, it's advice. Don't let it become a threat."
Now that she pegged this man for what he was, she calmly smirked and took another swallow of beer. "I don't take kindly to threats, Sheriff." Where was this dialogue coming from? Trace never talked like that...'take kindly'? What was next? She wasn't going to 'cotton' to things? She had to consciously stop herself from laughing. "I'll move on when I am damned well ready to move on and not before." She neither raised her voice nor changed her expression. She certainly didn't want to end up behind bars her first visit to town but she also needed to establish some rules of her own - and being threatened and bullied just wasn't going to fly.
The sheriff was more than flustered. He wasn't used to people not cowering in his presence. Not only was this stranger not even flinching, he wasn't even breaking a sweat. The lawman, himself, reacted more nervously than this baby-faced, dark-haired drifter. The most frustrating part was he couldn't arrest the young man for anything to prove his power because the cowboy had been nothing if not polite and respectful, even if not very agreeable. The Cranes would not be happy about this at all when they got back. "Suit yourself," the sheriff commented, turning away from Trace and to the bar. "Silas, gimme a shot of bourbon."
The detective watched with interest as the bartender, frowning, grabbed a bottle with a deep amber colored liquid in at and poured it into a small glass. He then walked over and placed it in front of the lawman, who tossed it back with practiced ease. Pushing the glass forward, he cleared the liquor residue out of his throat. "Well...better get back to it," he announced to no one.
"Drinking on the job?" Trace commented, in amused observance, knowing she was close to stepping over a line. If nothing else, she liked life on the edge. It kept her juices flowing.
"You're a brazen fella, aren't ya?" the sheriff asked.
"I've been known to be," Trace answered, almost pleasantly, turning to lean against the bar and study the faces of the customers in the saloon.
Shaking his head, smiling, the sheriff responded with, "Just keep buildin' that big ol' chip on your shoulder, boy, it's gonna give me great pleasure to knock it off."
"It's going to give me greater pleasure to see you try," Trace countered, congenially. She and the lawman locked stares. He was not happy at all with her but she made sure her expression told him she was not backing down.
Standing up, rigidly, he scanned the interior of Wilbur's, daring anyone to look back at him. No one did. Then he panned back to the icy blue eyes of the bold cowboy. "You watch your step, son. Ain't smart what you're doin'. I have no doubt I'll be seeing you in my jail before you leave Sagebrush. That's if you leave Sagebrush." And with that, he strolled through the doors.
All eyes followed the sheriff until he was gone and then focused on Trace. Oblivious, her eyes still on the door, she said, "He's kind of an asshole, isn't he?"
***************************************
Name: Cheyne
Email: Whenpiggsfly55@aol.com
Title: Renegade
Disclaimers: See Part 1
****************
****************
26.
The stillness nearly swallowed Trace up. When she finally looked around the room, she noticed everyone had been struck mute by her statement and they were all staring at her, dumbfounded. "What?" she asked, bewildered. Surely they had all noticed that the sheriff was an asshole...
"You got some sand, boy!" Silas said, breaking the silence as Trace turned back to face him. "Nobody talks to Ed like that. 'Specially not nobody ain't even wearing a six gun on his hip."
She shrugged slightly and took another few swallows of her beer. Who would have thought she would have needed to be armed just to come to town to get groceries? She guessed she needed to go back to the pawn shop at some point and buy a gun. Unless Rachel had some back at her place. "He doesn't scare me. He's a bully with a badge."
"Which is the worst kind. He's got the law to back him up."
"Only if he makes up the laws as he sees fit," the detective commented. Slowly the din of the saloon began to rise again as the patrons went back to what they had been doing before the exchange between Trace and the sheriff. Drinking down the rest of the pint, Trace signaled Silas for a refill, which the bartender did gladly.
She had not realized until that point how hazy with cigarette, cigar and pipe smoke the saloon had been. It burned her throat a little and she remembered that these were the days when no one knew how hazardous tobacco was to one's health and if she couldn't explain that to them, there was no way she was going to convince them that breathing secondhand smoke was just as bad. Smoking was a nasty little habit she was glad she had never picked up. She had tried it a few times, each attempt making her a little more nauseated than the last and after one final lightheaded, overly queasy moment, she decided cigarettes were not for her and she never touched them again.
Zelda, on the other hand, smoked as though she was on fire. Trace never remembered seeing her mother without a cigarette between her fingers, dangling out of her mouth or, usually, a beer in her hand. Trace obviously had no such problem adjusting to alcohol the way she did to nicotine. Nope. That could have been a gene passed down by both her parents, for all she knew.
She wondered about her mother and if Zelda had been told yet that Trace was missing. She wondered about Mark and how crazy with worry he must be, never knowing that she made it here alive and in one piece. She wondered, sadly, if Sandy's family had identified her and buried her yet. She wondered how Bobby and the rest of her co-workers were taking her sudden, mysterious disappearance. She wondered if DeSienna was tearing his hair out trying to find her. She wondered if she'd ever have a hot shower again as long as she lived.
Suddenly feeling very melancholy, she thanked Silas for the refill and drained half the glass.
***********************************
Rachel and Molly Ledbetter sat opposite each other in the small back room of the dress shop. They were sharing a cup of hot tea and a corn meal muffin.
"Now, Rachel, I've known you since you were in pinafores and pigtails and you've never lied to me. Least not that I've known of. Don't think you're going to start now. What's all this I've heard about you and that turd with lips, Ben Crane?"
Rachel couldn't help but snicker. Molly was nothing if not colorful. "What has that serpent been saying?" She was trying to sound aloof but she knew the moment she heard the words, it would hurt deep in her bones.
"He's saying that he showed you the pain and glory of consummation and that you warmed that bed like a cold night's fire." The older woman watched the blonde for a reaction and her heart sank when she saw Rachel bite her lip and bow her head. "Oh, Rachel Frances Young, you did not give yourself to that touch hole...!"
Shaking her head, the tears flowed without pretense or warning. "No, Miz Ledbetter, I certainly did not," she choked out.
"Then why in heaven's name are you crying like you did?" When the blonde could not answer her, Molly reached over and gently lifted Rachel's chin and waited until the emerald green eyes met her weary hazel ones. The look of shame was not guilt but mortification. The anguish in Rachel's eyes caused Molly's breath to catch and a lump to form in her throat. "Oh, my Lord, child, what did he do?"
Staccato words came out in between gasps and sobs. "He hurt me real bad, Miz Ledbetter..."
Without hesitation, the dressmaker enfolded the distraught blonde in her arms and began to rock her, comfortingly. "Why that no good son of a snake! What happened?" She was trying to hold her fury back not wanting this lovely albeit destroyed young woman to think she was angry at or judging her. If she had Ben Crane in front of her right now, she would have killed him with her bare hands. "Isaac Tipping told everybody that you looked terrible bruised when he was delivering out there last month, said you told him you fell off that new mustang of yours...was that really Crane what did that to you?"
"Yes, Ma'am. He...he...well, Rosie had just foaled and I was going back to the house from the stable and he came up behind me and...he grabbed me...and brought me back inside and... took me... like a wild animal..." She was now hysterical. First at the memory and second at the relief of finally being able to tell someone.
Molly's arms stiffened. "Are you telling me that Ben Crane knocked you about and had his way with you?" The small blonde she was holding, nodded her head against the older woman's shoulder. Squeezing Rachel more emphatically, she said, "Lord, help me, those damned Cranes! They're never going to stop. And that damned Ed Jackson, he'll never do one thing to any of them. My word, child, if I'd had any idea, I'd have been out there to see you!"
"Mr. Ledbetter needs you here," Rachel managed to get out and she knew it was true. The dress shop was connected to the Ledbetter residence, which made it easy for Molly to frequently check on her husband, who was confined to their bed or a chair by the bed.
Three years earlier, a strapping Harvey Ledbetter was shot in an attempt to assist Rachel's father in a territorial dispute with the Cranes. The bullet hit his spinal cord, paralyzing him from the waist down. Sheriff Jackson said since no one could prove who fired the shot, he couldn't arrest anyone and since it was a property issue, he really should keep his nose out of it. Since then, with Harvey being nearly as helpless as a baby, Molly Ledbetter didn't stray too far from her home.
"Please don't tell anyone, Miz Ledbetter, please!!" the blonde pleaded. "I'll be disgraced and no one will believe me...!"
"Shhh, shhh, Rachel, the problem is everybody will believe you, they all know what those Cranes are capable of, just no one will speak out against them. But now that Ben has spread what he has about you -"
"But that I can deny because it's true, I did not give myself to him in that manner and because everyone knows Ben's reputation, there's a chance they might think it's just him boasting. If it gets around that he truly did...have me...it won't matter how it happened and you know that. People'll feel sorry for me but it won't stop them from talking. And being thought of just like one of those pleasure girls at the sporting house over Wilbur's."
Shaking her head in frustration, she knew the younger woman was correct in her assessment of the situation. "It isn't right, you having to live out there all alone, having to deal with all this hell on earth! Why'd the Lord see fit to take Tommy from you? They wouldn't be doing this if Tommy had made it back and married you."
Yes, Thomas Baines would have put a legal damper on the Crane's brutish behavior, no doubt about that, Rachel thought. But it obviously wasn't meant to be. If the bullet on the train hadn't killed him, no doubt he still would have met his maker at the hands of one of the Cranes. Leaning back away from Molly, wiping her tears away with a delicate handkerchief, she took a deep breath. "I'm not alone anymore. At least not presently."
"You take on a hand?" Molly looked surprised.
"Yes. Well kind of." Again, she had to consciously remind herself to refer to Trace as male. "Rosie got out a couple days ago. Guess she thought she needed a vacation from nursing her baby. I went looking for her and came on this drifter got thrown from his horse. He was hurt so I brought him back to the house and fixed him up and he's going to stay and help me out with the land."
"What do you know about this stranger?" the older woman asked, cautiously.
"Only that he's not from around here and that he's willing to stay around, hole up in the barn and help me out for a while."
"How you paying him?" Off Rachel's weary look, she said, "I know, you're not like that, child, but everyone else will be wondering, 'specially after Ben running off at the mouth like he did."
"Just feeding him and giving him a place to lay his head seems to be enough. Lost his horse and wasn't wearing any guns when I found him, laying there, hurt."
"Sure he's telling you the truth?"
"He's been here almost three days and he hasn't tried anything yet. He's already fixed the break in the south fence for me. I really don't think he has any dishonorable intentions," Rachel responded, thinking, if Molly only knew...
"Well, hopefully, he'll still be around when the Cranes come back from their drive. A man out at your place won't exactly be popular with them. 'specially not Ben, but it might make them think twice before they try anything again. Young buck, is he?"
Rachel shrugged, then nodded. "Young enough."
"Young enough for you?" There was almost a twinkle in the older woman's eye.
"Molly Ledbetter! The last thing that will happen between me and this man is that!"
**********************************
27.
Trace knew she should be getting back to the wagon to help Rachel load it but the beer had started tasting very good and, despite the setting, she was starting to feel like herself again.
After the initial shock of her standing up to the sheriff, Silas returned to being his talkative self and before she knew it, she had the lowdown on just about everyone in town. Curiously, though, any subject even bordering on the Young family and their land was deftly avoided.
She was about to finish her final swallow of beer when the sound of running footsteps above them drew everyone's attention to the staircase. There appeared a half-clad, quite voluptuous redhead, shouting frantically, "Someone come quick! It's Jed, I think he's chokin' to death!!"
Several people ran for the stairs but Trace beat them all. Her training and instinct kicked in without a second thought and she followed the redhead to a room at the end of the hall. Flying through the open doorway, nearly skidding on the slick wooden floor, the detective observed an older man, sitting on an obviously just used bed, his face beet red, eyes popping, his mouth open, not a sound coming out of it. Yep, Trace thought, he's definitely choking. The prostitute began smacking him roughly on his back.
"No!" Trace yelled, "You'll just lodge it further!" Rushing over to the distinguished looking, silver-haired man, Trace pulled him to his feet and moved behind him, putting her arms around him, finding the right spot and performing the Heimlich maneuver.
As the onlookers watched in horror and fascination, the piece of steak the man had been dining on left his mouth and flew halfway across the room. Weak and gasping for breath, the half-naked man began coughing. Trace removed her arms but kept one hand on his back, should he need continued support.
"What the hell you doin', son?" a voice bellowed from the doorway, as another older, white-haired man moved through the crowd and into the room. He looked like pictures of Mark Twain Trace had remembered seeing. "What were you trying to do? Break the mayor's ribs?"
Looking at the man she had just saved and then at the prostitute, she shook her head. The Mayor. It figured. "No, I was saving his life," Trace stated, calmly.
"Squeezin' him like a bear's savin' his life?" the man continued, outraged.
"Shut up, Amos, you jackass!" the once choking man sputtered at the other man. "Jesus H. Kee-rist, whatever this young man did was the only thing got that darned piece of meat out of my gullet." He then indicated the redhead. "Cassandra pounding on my back like that was only making it worse."
Trace glanced at the prostitute, who shrunk back against the wall. "Hey, she tried." That elicited a smile from the redhead, holding her short, silky robe closed in the front.
Silas stepped into the room, hands raised in the air. "Okay, show's over, let the mayor have his privacy." Minimal grumbling followed the bartender's command and the room cleared out, Silas closing the door behind him. This left Trace, the prostitute, the mayor and the other older man in the room.
"What's you name, son?" The mayor asked, sitting back down on the bed, now breathing normally.
"Trace Sheridan."
Extending his hand, the mayor said, "Jedediah Turner."
"Turner?" Trace questioned, accepting the rather limp handshake. "Any relation to the pawnbroker?"
"Ah, you've met my baby brother, Joseph." The mayor ran his hand through an unruly shock of white hair. "I know what you're thinking, everybody does...we couldn't look any more different if we were strangers." It was the truth, Trace thought, other than a slight resemblance around the eyes, they did not look related in the least. "He and me had different mamas." He looked back in the general direction of the prostitute. "Cassandra, bring me that bottle."
The redhead obeyed and handed the unmarked bottle to the mayor.
"Now, Jed, take it easy on that stuff..." the other man began and was immediately cut off by Jed Turner.
"Amos, will you shut thee hell up?! Your mouth flaps more'n a duck's ass." The mayor looked at Trace for the first time. "Why, you're a handsome feller, aren't ya? Bet you got the ladies after you like bees to honey..."
You have no idea, Trace thought.
"...unlike me who has to get me arms willin' but only if they're bought." He stated this matter-of-fact, no shame to his voice. "Have a shot of this bug juice with me."
What's with the freaking bug juice, Trace thought. "No, thanks, I'll pass."
"Suit yourself." And with that, he took a hearty swallow of the bottle's contents, making a long, satisfied rasping noise as the liquid burned its way down his throat. "Trace, you met Doc Smith, yet?"
Looking over at the other man in the room, the detective shook her head. "Not officially, no." She went to extend her hand but the doctor brushed by her to sit on the bed next to the mayor.
"Jed, let me check you out now -"
Slapping his hand away, the ornery mayor took another swig from the bottle in his hand. "Damn it, Amos, get away from me before I bean you with this! Now shake this boy's hand before I tell your wife you were in here playing poker."
Looking at Trace, the doctor now had an even more sour expression. "Don't need to make his acquaintance, he won't be staying around long enough for any of us to get to know."
"Why is that?" The mayor looked up at Trace then over at Amos Smith.
"Yeah," Trace folded her arms, complacently, also looking at the doctor. "Why is that?"
"You were given some good advice by the sheriff," Smith said, "I suggest you take it."
Confused, Jed Turner briefly studied both Trace and Smith, then refocused on the detective. "What's going on?"
Squinting at the doctor with unmistakable suspicion in her eyes, Trace directed her conversation toward the mayor before actually looking his way. "Your sheriff has suggested I move on, out of town."
"Really? Huh. Do you want to move on, son?" The mayor sounded sincere.
"It's growing on me. If I move on, I'd like to do it when I choose and not because someone suggests it."
"Then I think you should stay," the mayor declared.
"But, Jed, he's living out at -"
"Amos! I don't give a good Goddamn where he's livin', if he wants to stay then he should stay. This is still my town, ain't it?!"
"Well...yes, but Ed..."
"But, nothin'! Ed Jackson's as much of a horse's ass as you are!" Turner looked up at Trace. "You wanted by the law, son?"
"No, sir."
The mayor looked back at the doctor. "Then you tell Sheriff Jackson he can go plum to hell, he won't be running anyone out of my town, and surely not anyone who just saved my life!" With that, the mayor stood up and reached for his pants. "Guess I won't be finishin' my dinner here. Kinda lost my appetite." Stepping into his trousers, Turner began muttering, "Goddamned Ed Jackson! Nothin' but a big bag of wind. If those Cranes weren't behind him, he'd be runnin' out of town the other way with a stripe down his backside!"
Trace let the mayor continue mumbling, while the unfriendly doctor tried to fuss over him. She looked over at Cassandra and nodded. "You okay?"
Startled not only by the question being directed at her but by the sincerity the voice that was asking, the redhead lifted her wide green eyes to engage Trace curiously.
Before she could answer, the mayor piped up, "Of course, she's fine, why wouldn't she be fine? I'm the one who damn near choked to death!" He snapped his fingers toward his shirt and the prostitute picked it up without hesitation and helped him put it on.
Trying not to look too disgusted at this display of false gender superiority, Trace quietly chewed the inside of her cheek to stay quiet. After all, the mayor was on her side...but just exactly what that meant remained to be seen.
"How's it you came to learn that little bear hug trick, anyway?" It was the doctor speaking to her this time in a tone of voice that was a little more friendly than before but not much. "You got some doctor training?"
"Um...no, nothing like that. Just some little thing I picked up in my travels."
"How's it work?"
"Well...here," Trace went to assume the position on the doctor and he flailed and pushed her away.
"I don't want you bear hugging me! Show me on Cassandra."
An eyebrow shot up into Trace's hairline as she assessed the redhead with the hourglass figure. Hmmmm... this might not be so bad. And the way the prostitute was eyeballing her back, it was obvious Cassandra was more than agreeable to the request. She practically leapt toward the detective with a predatory grin on her face.
Stopping her at arms length, Trace turned the redhead around, instructing as she slowly demonstrated, beginning with wrapping her arms around the prostitute's waist. Making a fist and placing the thumb side of her fist against the redhead's upper abdomen, below her ribcage and above her navel, the detective tried not to think about the heavy breasts that were almost touching her forearms. Focusing back on her task, Trace grasped her right fist with her left hand and pressed into Cassandra's upper abdomen with a quick upward thrust, which made the prostitute gasp with surprise. Of course, the detective minimized the effort, as not to do any harm. "You don't actually squeeze the ribcage," Trace explained. "You confine the force of the thrust to your hands and then you repeat until the object is expelled."
Cassandra could have cooperated a little better and not constantly tried to lean her body back into Trace's but the detective was able to get her lesson across without molesting the nearly nude body of the prostitute in her arms. Although embracing this woman, regardless of the circumstances, did make the detective's mouth water a little. Snapping out of it, she gently let go of the redhead, smiled politely and stepped back. "Understand?" she asked the doctor.
"Makes no sense to me," Smith spat back.
"Don't have to make no sense if it worked," the mayor countered, putting his jacket on. He walked up to Trace and clapped her on the shoulder. "Thank you, son, for letting me live to see another day."
"You're welcome, Mr. Mayor," Trace responded.
"Mr. Mayor!" Jed Turner repeated, cackling. "Polite feller, too."
"He wasn't so polite to Ed," Doc Smith muttered, following the mayor out the door.
"Nobody should be polite to Ed, he don't deserve it, the damned fool!" Jed Turner yammered out into the hallway.
Suddenly Trace and Cassandra were alone in the room. The detective was about to ask a few questions about the mayor and the doctor when the prostitute let the robe slide off her body and she posed seductively in front of the brunette. Trace couldn't help but stare at the natural - she noticed now - redhead while her brain adjusted to the situation. Cassandra was not an unattractive woman by any means and although she was a bit more plump than Trace was used to, her body certainly wasn't unpleasing to the eye. Her first attempt to speak produced no words, so she cleared her throat and tried again.
But not before Cassandra purred, "How 'bout one on the house? Seein' as you just saved my best customer and all."
Taking one last look at breasts that begged to be fondled and lips that looked like they could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, Trace nodded her head toward the doorway, somewhat reluctantly. "I'm...uh...really flattered, Cassandra, and maybe some other time but right now, I should get back to the store." But her feet seemed glued to that spot on the floor. It was only when the redhead took a step toward her and reached out to cup a part of anatomy she didn't have that she shook herself out of her mini-fantasy and ducked out the door. "Thanks anyway," Trace tossed back in, removed her hat, wiped her brow and headed back downstairs. It was a close call and one that the detective put in her mental archives to be cautious of in the future.
Cassandra, initially surprised that anyone - especially such a young, healthy man like Trace Sheridan obviously was - would turn down a freebie, found herself smiling. She had never encountered a challenge before and definitely not one as good looking. Why, he was almost pretty, he was so handsome. She suddenly decided to make it her mission to get this cowboy into her bed before he was run out of town.
A quick round of 'goodbyes' and 'good jobs' and exiting the saloon didn't mean the detective wasn't mildly turned on. Yes. She would definitely have to purchase a gun. If, for nothing else, to use the bullets to bite on in situations like this. Added to all the other things, she also wondered if she'd ever have sex again as long as she lived...
************************
28.
Trace found Rachel waiting impatiently in front of Foster's Grocery. She suppressed a smile. It was amazing how they already seemed to have fallen into a rhythm with each other. The brunette felt a sense of relief at seeing the smaller blonde and when Rachel finally saw Trace, the same look of relief crossed her face, also. That mollifying sensation stopped abruptly when Trace got close enough to see that Rachel had been crying.
Her defensive nature provoked her temper to flare immediately and she reached out and touched the blonde's arm. "What's wrong? Did that grocer make you cry?!"
Before the detective went off half-cocked to evidently give Luther Foster a piece of her mind, Rachel clamped on to Trace's arm, circling her back around to face her. "No, Mr. Foster did not make me cry. I visited with a dear friend of my mama's and it was just...sad...that's all." She watched the brunette's eyes soften.
"Oh. Okay. I just thought...he was being such a jerk to you and all..." She instinctively wanted to pull the blonde into her arms and comfort her but common sense stopped her. First, they were in public view of the whole town and second, Rachel probably wouldn't be very receptive to it. Unfortunately. After the offer she had just had over at Wilbur's, she would have welcomed this particular woman in her arms.
Trace's automatic protectiveness flattered Rachel and she felt a warmth surge through her that should not have stirred her blood the way it did. She was confused by the alien emotion and disturbed because this was not the first time she had experienced it around the mysterious woman. The blonde reasoned that it was more than likely because she had to think of Trace as a man...still, it didn't make it any less troubling that she wished Trace would take her in her arms and make it all go away.
They loaded the wagon and headed out of town back to the ranch. Trace couldn't stop the smirk when she lifted the two gallons of olive oil onto the back. In fact, she was visualizing the blonde's skilled hands massaging her when her thoughts were interrupted by the sound Rachel's voice.
"Trace?"
"Yeah?"
"You want to pay attention to guiding Moses? Otherwise we're going to end up down by the river. I swear that horse would live there if I ever set him loose."
"Oh...sure..." She forced herself back to reality and noticed that they were about twenty feet off the dirt road, heading to the left. She pulled the reins slightly to the right and the horse wandered back to the path.
"What were you thinking about?" Rachel asked, curiously.
"Nothing...just, um, daydreams."
"Daydreams?"
Change the subject, Trace, the sooner the better, she thought. "Rachel, do you own any guns?"
"Yes. My father left me with two Colt Peacemakers, a Sharps, a Winchester and a Carbine...why?"
"Until I buy my own, can I use one of those?"
Cautiously, Rachel said, "Of course. But why? Did something happen in town?"
"No, no..." Oh hell, with that grapevine, she'd find out soon enough. "Well, sort of..."
"Sort of?" She was staring directly at Trace, alarmed.
Shrugging, the detective was looking for a way to minimize the detail, when she did a double take at Rachel's expression. "No, Rachel, everything's fine, really. I just kind of had a run in with the sheriff..."
"Oh, no..." The blonde closed her eyes in dread. "Not Sheriff Jackson..." Shaking her head, she let her chin drop. "I just left you on your own for a few hours...and the one person I would have preferred you not run into is that vile excuse for a man..."
"Aha! So you know he's an asshole!" Trace declared, triumphantly, as Rachel briefly reacted to the vulgarity by glaring at the brunette, wide-eyed. "He threatened me, told me to move on if I knew what was good for me," the detective told her, incredulously.
"Because he found out you were staying with me?"
"Yes." She searched the blonde's face for a clue. "Why is that?"
"I told you how people would react -"
"No, it was more than that. Because when I was saving the mayor's life, the doctor -"
She grabbed Trace's arm. "Wait - what? You saved Jed Turner's life? What in heaven's name went on over at the saloon?" As the detective laid out the story for her, the blonde absorbed it all, amazed at how the circumstances just kept evolving, curious about this technique the brunette described and, also, grateful for the diversion.
"So, how is it that no one is surprised that your mayor is choking on his lunch upstairs in a prostitute's room?" Trace asked, pointedly.
"Oh, Jed eats his lunch every day up in that redheaded harlot's room, everybody knows it. He's a crusty old bird...he's a widower and never remarried. Not that any of the widow women in this county would ever hitch up with him. Everybody just looks the other way and he wouldn't care if they didn't."
"How did somebody like that get to be mayor?"
"He inherited the job from his daddy. Got elected after he'd already had it for a month because no one else wanted it." Because no one else wanted to deal with the Cranes, she finished, silently.
"And who are the Cranes?" Trace did not expect the intake of breath and the deathly quiet that came from the woman sitting next to her. Looking at the blonde, the detective found her pale and staring straight ahead. "Rachel...who are the Cranes?"
Finally, Rachel found her voice. "I really would rather not speak of them..."
"Just saying their name seems to strike terror in the heart of everyone and since they were referred to in the sheriff's warning to me, I'd kind of like to know." Watching the blonde's expression, Trace knew the name struck terror in her heart, too. Softly, she said, "I would really appreciate knowing what I might be facing with these Cranes..."
"They...they are not nice people."
"I gathered that. Are they responsible for the destruction of the fence I fixed yesterday?"
"I believe so, yes."
"Why?" Even though Trace was trying to be gentle in her questioning, her adrenalin was pumping pure rage through her veins.
Sighing, the blonde knew that Trace was right, she had been threatened, she needed to know at least the basics. But just the basics. "Jacob Crane is a cattle baron. He owns most all the land west of Sagebrush. Everyone has sold their land to him. Except me."
"And the reason you haven't sold?"
The blonde's eyes flashed in indignant anger before she spoke, the words coming out in stiff bites. "My great-grandfather bought this land when the first settlement came to town. Everything I have today was built on the sweat of my ancestor's brow. Jacob Crane moved his family and his cattle business here just a little over a decade ago. They've been forcing everyone off their lands ever since."
"Forcing or buying people out?" Trace could tell by the tone of the blonde's voice and the expression on her face that this was delicate territory, so she tried to tread lightly.
"Oh, they're offering money but if you say no, things happen."
"What kind of things?" But even before the words left her mouth, she knew. The empty barn, the vandalized property...the loss of her parents, perhaps?
Avoiding the obvious, Rachel confirmed Trace's speculation. Great. She left one turf war only to step into another one. Different stakes, same principle. In response to the query regarding her parents, the blonde unfolded the tale of sickness that claimed both her mother and father, then onto the untimely death of her fiancée. The longer the blonde went on, the more Trace's heart ached for her. This poor woman had been through enough, the detective decided.
"And they have been after you ever since?" The detective watched Moses clop through the entrance of the Triple Y ranch and looked around at the deceivingly serene setting.
"Yes," Rachel responded, with a rebellious lilt.
"What did they offer you?"
"Their most recent is fifty thousand dollars for just the land, plus a twelve percent profit on the house and improvements."
Thinking back to the era they were in and that Rachel might be able to start a nice little life on that amount, Trace said, "That's a nice little chunk of change, you -"
"I am not selling to them!" Rachel's bellow overrode anything Trace was going to say. Folding her arms stubbornly across her chest, they endured the next few minutes in awkward silence.
"Why is it so important for them to have your land?"
"Because it runs right smack dab in the middle of their cattle drive route."
"Can't they go around?"
"Sure. But every mile runs that much more beef off the steers."
Thinking about this ignited the fire in Trace's belly. It had been a long time since she had stood up for the underdog and she loved a good fight. These Crane people were probably not going to stop until Rachel gave in. Looking over, seeing the fierce set in the blonde's jaw, Trace knew she now had another reason, other than personal obstinacy, to stay put. "When are these Cranes due back?"
"Shouldn't be for another two months, more or less."
As the wagon stopped in front of the house, Trace smiled at Rachel with more self-confidence than the blonde had ever seen in any man. "Then it looks like we have our work cut out for us, huh?"
********************************
Name: Cheyne
Email: Whenpiggsfly55@aol.com
Title: Renegade
Disclaimers: See Part 1
****************
****************
29.
While Rachel busied herself making dinner, Trace put the items that were brought back from town away in their proper places. Finding out where everything went occupied most of the conversation between the two women and when the detective was done, she left the blonde alone in the kitchen, while she made her way to her room in the barn to remove her wrap.
Her cut was mending itself nicely but she was not used to being bound down for so many hours and her injuries, though also healing quickly, were still healing, nonetheless, and parts of her skin cinched into the binding remained tender. She was pretty sure no one would be out to the ranch so she was unconcerned about going braless. If, by chance, someone did show up, she would deal with it but right now...it would be pure bliss to free her poor corralled breasts.
Each woman separately contemplated the events of their day. Rachel was not surprised that her fear regarding Ben Crane making good on his promise to taint her virtuous name had been realized. However, being right about it didn't make it hurt any less that people actually believed it. Maybe if she kept denying it, the talk would go away. Yeah, and maybe babies really were found in cabbage patches...
She further considered the strange woman who was now living there. Just the knowledge of the existence of another person on the property - especially one thought to be a man - would stir up a hornet's nest. Trace had made a rather conspicuous entrance into the Sagebrush community by saving Jed Turner's life, an act that would be hailed by some and cursed by others. And, by ruffling the feathers of the sheriff, she was positive the tall brunette had unintentionally poked at that hornet's nest with a very big stick.
She didn't know why...but regardless of the gravity of the situation, something about that made her chuckle.
Trace reflected on the tone of the town as she had seen it, felt it. A lot tamer than what she was used to but still unsettling. The bartender liked her, as did the pawnbroker and, of course, his half-brother, The Mayor. The whore named Cassandra really liked her. But the doctor and the sheriff did not. On the other hand, His Honor and Rachel did not have good things to say about the obnoxious man wearing the badge. And everyone in the saloon seemed afraid of him.
Ed Jackson was a bad cop. If anyone could readily recognize one, it was Trace. Her lip curled into a predatory smile. She was a better bad cop. Jackson was obviously in the back pocket of the Cranes. She knew what that was like and no matter how ruthless these Cranes were, they couldn't be as abominable as the DeSiennas. If she was going to stay in Sagebrush, she wasn't going to allow herself to be restricted by anyone or anything. She glanced toward the house and sighed. Oh, yes...she definitely wanted to stay here.
She had a chance to redeem herself. Right now. Even though she wasn't in her own time where the people she hurt could benefit from it, she had the opportunity to make up for the sins of her past. If this town's above-the-law family wanted to hold the county hostage, she could deal with that. She was used to it. Except this time she would be the negotiator on the right side of the law.
As she walked back to the house, she vowed to herself that Rachel would never again have to worry about the Cranes. Talk was cheap, so she would have to prove it as she was quite sure the nineteenth century woman would never believe a female would be able to hold such an overly dominant, mighty clan at bay. But to be successful, Trace would have to get herself back in shape while learning a whole new way of life. God, she loved a challenge.
**************
After a dinner of hearty, thick corn chowder with bacon and biscuits, which was delicious, Rachel did the dishes while Trace went to the stable to make sure the horses had enough food and water. The supper conversation was slightly strained but not in a way that represented anger or awkwardness. Both women were lost in their own individual thoughts and neither really seemed to notice the other one was not talking much.
When the detective was finished filling up the trough, she strolled outside the stable and stretched the lameness out of her bones. Movement caught her eye and she saw Rachel disappear behind the east corner of the house. Curiosity getting the better of her, Trace followed the blonde up to a knoll. Joining her on the other side of the slanted hill, the detective saw three small tombstones. Roughly etched on the stones were the names of Rachel's mother and father and Thomas Baines. Kneeling down, the blonde silently began clearing away grass growing wildly around the base of the granite markers.
"Your fiancée is buried here, too?" Trace stated the obvious with a question in her voice.
"He had no family left but mine. Not that we were any relation, of course. He was sixteen when his folks were killed coming back here on the stage. They had been in Kansas, at a service for Tommy's grandmother."
"How were they killed?" The brunette bent down and began brushing dust and dirt off the tops of the stones with her hand.
"Well, word got back to town that they were ambushed by Indians but I don't believe it. There hasn't been an Indian uprising since the plains nations got together at Little Big Horn. Least not around these parts anyway." She looked over at Trace. "That's why people aren't trying to run you out of town 'cause you look like you could have some Indian in you. Any tribes left around here are all friendly."
"So why would someone lie about how they died?"
"Because everything was slaughtered - including the horses. Even if it was a savage bunch, Indians wouldn't have done that, they would have taken the horses with them."
"Where are his parents buried?"
"They aren't. Stagecoach was set on fire, wasn't enough of them left to bury. What made everybody suspicious was it was Seth Carver came to town with the news."
Trace straightened up, rubbing the side of her neck. "Who is Seth Carver?"
"He's Jacob Crane's nephew." The blonde went back to pulling weeds. "Mr. and Mrs. Baines were also holding on to their land and didn't want to give it up. Tommy couldn't keep up with it and was forced to sell and used the money to go to law school. He was on his way back here to marry me and hang out his shingle and go into private practice. He was going to fight the Cranes, all legally, and try to stop them."
"And how would he have been able to do that with a crooked sheriff so obviously siding with the Cranes?"
Rachel looked up at the brunette. "He would have found a way. Because he had to do what was right...nobody else had the guts to."
Tears glistened the corners of the blonde's eyes and Trace could not decide if it was due to her love for and grief over the loss of her fiancée or her determination to not become another casualty of the immoral Cranes. This made Trace even more resolved to take them down.
One at a time if she had to.
****************************
30.
The next morning showed Rachel an entirely different Trace. The detective was up with the rooster, dressed and grooming the horses before the blonde had to resort to guilting her out of bed with numerous wake-up visits, each one usually a little less friendly than the last.
In fact, Rachel was so surprised at this unexpected behavior that she nearly dropped all the eggs she had gathered when she passed the stable and heard whistling. Cautiously, she stepped inside and observed the tall brunette brushing Chief with an enthusiasm that she had not previously seen the detective display before. Consequently, the way the horse glanced over at his owner, he looked a tad nonplussed, too.
"Uh...morning...?" Rachel squinted to make sure it wasn't actually her eyes playing tricks on her.
"Good morning!" Trace responded, brightly.
Nope. Not an apparition. "Um...you all right?"
Trace smiled at the hesitancy in the blonde's tone. "Couldn't be better. Thought I'd get Chief ready and then after breakfast, I'd ride him around the perimeter and see what else needs fixing."
"You want to ride Chief?"
"Didn't you say he was the fastest and the strongest?"
"Yes, but..."
"Then he and I need to get used to each other because we're going to be spending a lot of time together." Then she lightly slapped Chief's muscular flank. "Aren't we, you handsome creature?"
The blonde literally shook her head in speechless confusion. She could have swore the look in Chief's eyes said, "Help me!"
"I didn't go into the other section where your mustang is, he seemed pretty restless but I've already brushed Moses and I was going to groom Rosie but she's pretty protective of that precious little colt she's got in there. Have you named her yet?"
"No, I was waiting to see..." ...if I needed to sell her to keep the place going, she finished to herself.
"How about Zelda?"
"Zelda...I've never heard that name before."
"It's my mother's name."
"You want to name a horse after your mother?"
"Sure, why not?"
Rachel couldn't think of a reason, so she shrugged. "Um...okay, we'll call her Zelda."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Cool. Thanks." Trace continued to run the bristles over Chief vigorously.
"Cool?" Rachel repeated, cocking her head. "It's hotter than a whipped boy's behind this morning."
"No - cool...it means, uh...it's an expression of approval where I come from. When something is cool, it means it's -" she nodded her head for emphasis, "okay."
"Then why don't you just say it's okay? You talk strange sometimes, Trace Sheridan." Smiling, she turned around, heading back toward the entrance. "Don't saddle him up before breakfast," she called back.
"Okay."
Rachel stopped and looked back at the brunette, flustered. "You mean 'cool'?"
"No, I mean okay, I won't saddle him up until after breakfast." Now it was the detective's turn to smile as she watched the blonde shake her head while exiting through the stable entrance.
*************************
After Trace had washed up at the outdoor pump, she walked into the house to find a very pale Rachel at the stove, holding onto her stomach.
"Still feeling a bit ill, huh?" the brunette asked, as she approached the table which held only one full plate of bacon, eggs and pancakes dripping with butter and honey and a cup of, what Trace's was sure, was criminally horrible coffee. Maybe she could use some of that honey to make a difference in the taste. Although she doubted it. She returned her attention to the greasy compilation of food that smelled unbelievably delicious and despite the amount of bad cholesterol she knew she would ingest, she couldn't wait to start shoveling it in. "I can feel my arteries harden as we speak," she mumbled, pulling out the chair. "You're not eating?" Trace asked the blonde, acknowledging the absence of a second plate on the table.
"I'm not hungry," Rachel said, weakly and ran for the door where Trace heard her retching violently off the porch.
Looking down at her breakfast with the blonde's regurgitating sound effects in the background, the brunette muttered, "Neither am I anymore."
Walking to the pantry, the detective located the container of powdered ginger and brought it back out to the table. She set the kettle onto the stove to get the water heated, then she walked out to the porch. Rachel was bent over at the waist with her hands resting on her knees. "I'm okay, Trace," the blonde rasped, not looking at her. "Go back inside and eat."
Placing her hand on Rachel's back, once again pulling the long blonde hair back away from the smaller woman's face, Trace said, "I've got the ginger out and the water boiling for you."
Managing to look up at the brunette, Rachel wiped her eyes with her apron, then ran it over her mouth. "Thank you. But I'm not so sure I can go back in there right away. The aroma is warring with my belly."
Nodding, Trace helped her straighten up and over to a wooden porch chair. "No worries. I'll bring it out to you."
"You don't have to do that..." the blonde told her, very grateful that she was going to.
Smiling at her, Trace said, "I don't have to do anything except eat, shit, pay taxes and die."
"Lord, Trace, your language..." Rachel sighed, as the detective left her to go into the house. The blonde couldn't remember the last time anyone had been this kind to her and the brunette had never met anyone she had wanted to be this kind to before.
Preparing the calming solution the way she had seen Rachel do it the day before, Trace brought a steaming cup back out to the porch and handed it to the blonde who was still looking quite peaked.
"Please go back inside and eat," the sickly woman asked of the brunette. "It's not as tasty when it's cold."
Now that there were no vomiting sounds, Trace found she was hungry again. "If you're sure you are going to be all right..."
Nodding in concession, Rachel said, "I'll be fine in a bit...soon as I get this down."
"If you keep feeling like this, maybe you should go to the doctor's."
"No," Rachel answered, quickly. "I'm sure I'm fine." Except she knew this was only the beginning and she would be anything but fine.
**************************************
31.
Following a breakfast that, despite it having cooled, was still quite palatable, Trace ate every bite, knowing she would need the energy. While Rachel, feeling better, cleaned up the kitchen, Trace perused Frank Young's closet for something less encumbering to wear than her denim shirt. It was going to be a muggy day and surely the blonde's father had something appropriate for this kind of weather.
After a cursory search she found a few dirt-stained, worn, faded cotton shirts that she pulled out and draped over her arm. If Rachel was agreeable, she would cut the sleeves off and use them to work in. She also looked over the pants hanging there. She was probably going to have to sacrifice comfort for decorum, as she was pretty certain men did not alter blue jeans to wear as shorts back then. Not that she had to worry about her legs...if she didn't see a razor soon, they would be hairy enough to look like a man's. Returning her focus to the jeans, she knew they were at least one size too big for her and she didn't think she would get any points for being trendy by holding up cut-offs with suspenders. Their next visit to town, she was going to have to buy clothes that fit.
As if Rachel had been reading her mind, the blonde addressed her from the doorway. "Those dungarees might be more suitable if I took them in a bit."
Looking up, Trace saw that she had a little more color in her face and that she was holding a rifle, the barrel pointed at the floor. Rachel gingerly ran her thumb over the Sharps' hand oiled forestock.
"You might want to take this with you. Needs to be cleaned but it was the last one I used and that was only a week ago, so it still shoots good." Rachel then jerked back the brass slide-hammer to be sure Trace would have bullets at her disposal. The blonde fingered the metal button embedded near the handle before turning it over to the detective.
"Am I going to need this?"
Rachel shrugged. "You never know. Irritating Ed Jackson probably wasn't the wisest idea. Can't have you riding into a heap of hot lead."
"No, we can't have that," Trace agreed, sarcastically. The detective examined the eight pound weapon. The .54 caliber cartridge rifle had a thirty-inch round blued barrel attached to a one-piece walnut-finished stock with three-metal bands. She noticed it had a fixed front sight and an adjustable rear sight. The overall length was about three and a half feet long. Interesting little trinket. Did she dare admit she had no idea how to shoot it? Well, it couldn't be that difficult if a little slip of a farm girl could do it. She'd take it with her and practice. "What about handguns?"
"What?"
"You know...um...a revolver, a, uh, a six-shooter..."
"Oh, the Colts. Sure but I thought you might want something that could reach past six-gun range."
"Good idea...but I am more used to using a handgun, a six-gun, than I am a rifle." She drew a deep breath. "Actually, I'm a little rusty at both. I've been traveling a while and I could use some practice."
"Oh. I don't have a lot of extra bullets but you're welcome to what I have."
Setting the Sharps across the bed, Trace thanked the blonde with a nod. "You said I could help myself to anything of your father's that fit. I found these shirts and - "
"Oh, I meant to take them out of there, cut 'em up and use them for rags."
"Can I have them?" Off Rachel's addled expression, Trace explained her plans for the shirts and why. With the blonde's blessing (and her shears), a half hour later, the detective had some sleeveless garments to work in.
Unconsciously, the blonde's eyes were glued to the muscular arms of the brunette as she watched Trace saddle up Chief with very few mistakes. The detective was quite a breathtaking specimen of womanhood and someone the blonde should not have felt so infatuated with. Rachel automatically blamed these disquieting feelings on messed up hormones. It certainly couldn't be anything else.
Rachel watched, amazed, as the brunette heeled the big horse to a canter, as though she had been doing it all her life. When Trace and Chief were out of sight, she went back inside the house to start her chores. Maybe she'd bake a damson pie today, wondering if Trace liked plums.
Despite the trouble she had growing inside her, why did she suddenly feel like she had a life again?
*******************
The detective was pleased at Chief's cooperation. Maybe just like any other male she had dealt with in her life, she had to show him who was in charge by letting him think he was the boss. Chuckling at that, Trace headed back to the house after discovering three minor wear and tear breaks in definite need of immediate repair before they became worse.
Fortunately, she had not needed to use the rifle but because of Rachel's 'light' warning, practicing until she became proficient with the Sharps and the other firearms was no longer a choice. However, she held off on target practice because she did not want to waste ammunition when she might actually need to defend herself. She would take a trip into town, using some of the money she got from the rings and either buy bullets or the materials she needed to load her own.
In the meantime, this afternoon, she would learn the joys of splitting rails
**************
32.
Under Rachel's direction, Trace found the tools she needed in the barn - an axe, an eight-pound sledgehammer, and three four-pound wedges. Carrying the implements to the gathering of logs behind the house, near the wooded area close to the river, Trace had figured out she needed fourteen rails to fit into holes in the still standing posts. She was going to use Moses to help her move the logs from the pile onto the ground where she had access.
After Moses had pulled four logs free of the stack, Rachel took him back to the stable while Trace assessed the amount of work ahead of her. She needed to split the wood into four sections as even as she could get them. Returning to observe, the blonde stood back, crossing her arms, anticipating the worst. She knew Trace had never done this before and was praying the detective would sport the same number of fingers and toes when she was done that she did when she started.
The tall brunette followed the blonde's instruction and looked over the unsplit timber for knots so as not to drive her wedge through one, Rachel telling her that hitting a knot tended to split the wood crooked. Trace placed the wedge vertically in the exact center of the butt end of the log and tapped it in with the mall until it stuck. Lifting the sledgehammer over her head, the detective brought it down in a straight square blow that jolted her from her toes to her teeth. Recovering from the shock of that, Trace saw where the log had cracked a good two feet from the end.
"Hey - look at that! Not bad, huh?"
Rachel couldn't help but smile at Trace's undisguised thrill at what she had done. When the brunette leaned down, reaching for the wedge, the blonde said, "Use another one. That one's stuck."
"Stuck? Did I hit it too hard?"
"No," Rachel laughed, "you did just fine. Put a second one there." She pointed to the end of the crack. "Hit it again like you did the first one and you should open that original split another two or three feet. That should free that wedge there," she pointed to the first one, "so that you can leapfrog it to keep splitting it until the trunk breaks into two halves. Then you just split the halves."
Doing as she was told, Trace split the trunk into four nearly equal rails. Two hours later, panting like a work horse, she had cut sixteen rails, had blisters that stung like they were on fire and an upper body ache that rivaled her first week at the police academy.
Wiping her brow with the back of her arm, she set the mall down, admiring her work. Yes, her arms and her back were killing her but looking at what she had just accomplished made her quite proud of herself.
An ice cold beer would have tasted great tight now...
After Rachel had placed her pie on the porch to cool, she thought it might be a good idea to check on the detective, to see how she was doing. Again, she was a bit startled at the fact that Trace was on her last rail and she admonished herself because it should not have surprised her. The brunette had already proven she was as robust as any man and had muscles as taut as her rotund grandmother's corset laces. It was watching those firm, nicely defined muscles shift beneath Trace's skin as she wielded the sledgehammer that provoked another accelerated heart rate in the blonde.
Approaching the detective, Rachel held out the cup of water she had brought out for her. Nodding her thanks, Trace took the small tin container and tried not to gulp the cool liquid down too fast, regardless of how dry she felt. As Rachel took a step closer, Trace smiled. "I wouldn't get too close if I were you...or at least stay upwind of me."
"Nothing wrong with a good earned sweat," the blonde commented as she inspected the rails. "I do think you just may have a calling for this kind of work."
"Thank you...but," the brunette responded, scrutinizing her own hands, blistered and bleeding, "I don't think I want to do this too often. Haven't you ever heard of plywood?"
"Of course, I have. Plywood's been around since the days of the Pharaohs. But why pay money for what we already have?" She gestured to a forest full of trees behind her. "You should notch those rails a little so that the fence will fit tight."
"I think I'll wait until tomorrow...my hands are a little raw now..."
Stepping closer, Rachel took Trace's hands in her own and examined them carefully. "I thought you were wearing those gloves of my father's?"
Regardless of the burning soreness, she enjoyed the small blonde touching her in any manner. "I was but they were too big and kept slipping. That's what started the blisters in the first place."
Sighing, Rachel shook her head. "You're awfully tender-fleshed." Looking up at a raised eyebrow of the taller brunette, the blonde added, "for someone who's supposed to fight outlaws."
"Yeah? Well, give me a couple weeks and I'll amaze you with these hands," Trace commented, innocently, then stopped. She closed her eyes, mentally kicking herself. Hopefully the blonde wouldn't take that out of context.
"I'm sure you will," Rachel answered her in a tone of voice that came out much huskier than she had intended, absently running her thumbs lightly over the brunette's fingers. Locking gazes with the detective, the blonde audibly swallowed and abruptly dropped the Trace's hands. Slowly pulling her eyes away from the much too engaging blue ones, Rachel bowed her head and stared at the ground. "It'd be better to notch 'em now. Tomorrow your hands will hurt too bad." She began walking away and then called over her shoulder, "When you're finished, come on to the house, I'll fix you up."
"Thanks." She watched the blonde leave. Well that was interesting, Trace thought. What the hell was that about? She didn't think the smaller woman had been flirting - at least not consciously. But when the moment was realized, what did she see in Rachel's jade eyes? Definitely not disgust. It could have been fear. It was indeed shock but at what? She easily read uncertainty in the blonde's expression. Yet it was difficult for Trace to decide if Rachel was offended, bewildered or, dare she hope, curious, by her own behavior.
She would have to gauge her interaction with the smaller blonde carefully. She in no way wanted to overstep any boundaries and she breathed a sigh of relief that she had not resorted to being her often obnoxiously bold self. That worked fine for her in her time but it would not bode well here.
Trace shook it off. Of course Rachel wasn't interested, it was dehydration mixed with wishful thinking. The poor woman had been through so much and Trace's sudden appearance in her life and the unusual circumstances under which they were sharing space had to be confusing, at the very least. You need to keep your damned libido on a short leash, Trace! Her sudden surge of frustration motivated her through scoring both ends of each rail until fourteen out of sixteen were done.
Rachel could not have gotten inside the house fast enough. When she knew she was completely out of the detective's sight, she braced herself by holding onto the back of a chair and let out the breath she had been holding since she dropped the brunette's hands. What in heaven's name had just happened out there? Had she just made a subtle overture toward the detective? No. No, she couldn't have, she wasn't like that, she did not think about women like that. She had heard about women like that and no, she definitely was not one of them. She couldn't be. She had been engaged to be married, she was in love with her fiancée. She liked kissing him, being in his arms and had dreamed of...other things...they might do together. No, it was settled. She was not that kind of woman. It must be her innards being all messed up that made her feel all crazy inside.
Yes, that must be it...hormones must have been making her belly flutter and heart clench whenever the tall woman entered her vision. It must be knowing deep inside that Trace was a protector that made her feel so safe in the detective's presence. Had to be that baby growing inside her discombobulating everything in her body and head, making her feel a kind of kinship, like she had known this woman her entire life. That and her desperate loneliness. Trace had unknowingly filled a gap in her life she hadn't even admitted was missing until she realized that if the detective moved on, everything would be twice as empty as it had been before. How odd when she had only met this woman days ago.
Embarrassment burned in the blonde's cheeks. Good Lord, what must Trace have thought? Well, obviously the detective wouldn't think anything peculiar about her, she reasoned, the brunette knew she had been engaged. She comforted herself with that information and smiled. She moved to the stove and put the water on to boil before gathering what she would need to address Trace's blisters.
**********
33.
When Trace walked into the house, she smelled two distinctly different aromas other than herself. One was the freshly baked sweetness of a fruit pie with brown sugar and the other was the rather overpowering scent of garlic.
The blonde was busy at the table using a granite mortar and pestle to crush fresh cloves of garlic and was heating olive oil in a small iron pan.
"Let me guess...pasta Italiano for supper and apple pie for desert." the detective cracked. In response she received a blank stare from the blonde.
"I didn't think you would want supper after the late lunch just a couple of hours ago."
Although it was true, Rachel had prepared them a very filling meal just before Trace split the rails, the detective had worked up an appetite and was a little disappointed, especially with the smell of garlic in the air. She suddenly longed for a huge dish of shrimp fettucini alfredo.
"Would you do me a favor and take the kettle off the fire? I thought we might have some tea with our pie...and it's not apples, it's damson plums."
Doing as Rachel had asked, Trace said, "I've never had a plum pie before but it smells delicious." Both were secretly grateful that what had happened in the yard was obviously not going to be mentioned. "And the garlic...?"
"...is for your blisters."
"For my -?" She stopped herself before finishing. In the short time she had been there, she had learned to not question the blonde's methods of healing.
"I'm going to make an oil to rub onto the blisters and I have a comfrey salve to put on the open sores. If you don't rub it all off before or during sleep, you hands should feel better by morning. We'll see how they look tomorrow."
Trace poured and steeped two cups of tea while Rachel cooked the garlic and olive oil concoction for five minutes, let it cool and then strained it into a small jar, letting it sit before cutting two slices of pie for herself and the brunette.
"Mmmm, Rachel, this is wonderful," the detective complimented, with a mouthful of pie still not swallowed. "You really are an excellent cook. And baker."
"Thank you," the blonde blushed. "I thought you'd like it."
Nodding, Trace took another bite and was glad they were having tea instead of coffee. Sooner than later, she needed to ask Rachel to please allow her to make the coffee...so far, it was the only thing the adorable blonde didn't do obviously well.
***
Because of what had occurred between the two women that afternoon, Rachel advised Trace of how to treat her blisters instead of doing it for her. It was difficult to keep her hands to herself, however, as she had always been quite demonstrative. And for some reason, she was compelled to touch this woman, to the point where she almost had to sit on her hands.
It was dusk before the solution had seeped in and started drying. As the sun set, Trace watched as Rachel lit candles in every window, lit the parlor lamp and took up her sewing. She began mending one of her dresses when she noticed the detective had found an old deck of cards and started to play solitaire at the table.
"How do your hands feel?"
"They burn a little but," Trace smiled, turning a card over, "I'll live." She looked up at the blonde. "Tell me about Sheriff Jackson."
"Ed? Other than him being an insufferable know-it-all, more crooked than the letter S, pretty adept at manure-spreadin' and having an abundantly abysmal personality, what would you like to know about him?"
Chuckling, the detective turned over another card. She didn't know why she bothered to play solitaire, she never won. "What's he like when he's backed into a corner?"
"That doesn't happen very often. Only strangers who don't know him think they can do that and they don't stay in town too long. Billy the Kid rode through one day. Went to Wilbur's for a couple of shots of whiskey before moving on. Seems Ed didn't know who he was and behaving like he normally does, thinking he can bully anybody he wants because he's working for the Cranes, made the mistake of sticking his finger in the Kid's face."
Billy the Kid. Wow. Trace thought he was just a folk legend. "So what happened?"
Obviously tickled by this story, Rachel almost giggled. "Billy grabbed him by the finger and, um, shall I say 'escorted' him out to his horse, shoved the barrel of his six-gun practically up Ed's nose, demanded he mount up and some of the boys the Kid was riding with accompanied Ed out of town, acting like they were going to kill him. Well, obviously they didn't but I don't think Ed's saddle dried out for months." Shaking her head, Rachel tied off her thread. "Ed don't know what to do when he runs up against men who aren't scared of the Cranes. And nobody - especially not the Cranes - are going to go up against Billy The Kid, so Ed was on his own." The blonde looked over to see Trace move a card to be able to lay another one on top of it. "Trace Sheridan! Did you just cheat at solitaire?!"
Looking up into the surprised green eyes, Trace half smiled. "Why, yes, I believe I did."
"Doesn't that hurt your conscience?"
The detective mulled it over for a half-second and shrugged. "Nope." Of all the things that should have bothered Trace's conscience, cheating at any card game was not even in the top one hundred.
******************
34
Although Rachel seemed perfectly fine at breakfast, Trace awoke to the sounds of the young woman intensely heaving in the middle of the night. When the detective sat opposite her at the breakfast table, other than being a little pale, she seemed fine. Whatever Rachel had, it was a strange kind of bug.
The brunette had also awakened to her blisters having drained and dried and her cuts were closing up. Her hands were sore but not like they would have been without Rachel's natural remedies. The blonde's advice to notch those rails yesterday was wise. She wasn't too sure she would even be able to hold a hammer today much less swing one. Which also meant she wouldn't be able to grip a gun so target practice was also out. But she still might be able to look them over and clean them.
Laying the two Colts, the Winchester and the Carbine on an old tattered cloth on the table, Trace studied them before dismantling each weapon as best she could while Rachel brought her the cleaning equipment she would need to complete the task. She was used to much more advanced paraphernalia but even as archaic as the materials were, they were still basic enough to get the job done. Plus this would help her to get to know these guns before she actually had to shoot them.
Even though she did not normally shoot a revolver, she had been required to familiarize with them at the academy and, along with her automatic service weapon, she had been timed in taking them apart and putting them back together in working firing condition.
Basically, Trace found the guns to be in pretty good shape but with exception of the Sharps, they were all quite dirty and dusty. While the detective was cleaning and oiling the Carbine, Rachel tended to the household chores.
It almost felt blissfully domestic, Trace thought as she ran a long brush resembling a pipe cleaner with a thyroid condition, a tiny, well oiled patch of cloth affixed to the end, through the individual chambers of the cylinder of one of the Peacemakers. She did all the "butch" things while the blonde prepared the meals, washed dishes, pots and pans, did the mending, darning, sweeping, dusting, making the bed, washing, ironing, refilling the lamps and building fires in the evening. She smiled at the thought of Rachel being her "wife." Then immediately choked on saliva that went down the wrong pipe.
"Are you okay?" the blonde asked, quickly getting out of her chair, grabbing a cup and stepping over to the pump to fill it with water.
Putting a hand up to indicate she was all right, Trace nodded, coughing, finally getting control of her automatic body functions of breathing and swallowing. "I'm fine...really..." She accepted the water and took a few sips. Where the fuck were these ruminations coming from? Wife? Just the word make her choke again, provoking the blonde to pound her on the back. While Trace was recovering, she widened her eyes at Rachel, surprised that such small hands could pack such a painful wallop.
Moments later, when it was clear the detective was going to live, after Rachel had reseated herself and Trace had gone back to her weapon cleaning, the brunette revisited the thoughts that caused such a reaction in her. What was going on? She had never entertained any desire to get attached to or settle down with anyone. Ever. It just wasn't in her make up. Sneaking a glance at the lovely yet troubled blonde, two words crept into her head: until now. She was suddenly dizzy and needed some air.
Her standing made Rachel look up at her, once again a concerned expression crossing her innocent features. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Nodding, feeling a little awkward, Trace said, "Uh...yeah. I think the fumes of the bore oil are getting to me." She pointed toward the door. "I'm just going to step outside for a little bit."
Watching her leave, the blonde just stared after her. Trace was awfully pale, like she had just seen a ghost. If Rachel hadn't known any better, she would have thought her morning sickness was contagious. She shook her head and went back to sewing.
Outside, Trace took several gulps of air. She had not even known Rachel a week, she could not have possibly developed feelings this deep for her. And yet...the thought of the blonde not being there provoked a numbing emptiness inside her that was beyond explanation. 'No, no, no,' Trace thought, 'this isn't happening, I am not falling in love, I am not falling in love...' Yet when she closed her eyes, her only images were of Rachel and the different things the blonde did, different expressions she wore in reaction to different situations and a fond smile appeared on the detective's face and a warmth surged through her she had never felt in the past. 'Fuck me to tears,' the brunette thought, sighing helplessly, 'I'm falling in love.'
Great. Now what? Talk about closeted...she was living in an era where she was pretty sure there had to be jail sentences for homosexuality and if there wasn't, whatever punishment the town took into its own hands had to be severe, if not deadly. Fortunately, no one had a clue that she was a female, so that particular issue was not a problem. No one but Rachel. The only one who really mattered to her.
She began to pace, chewing on her lip. What was she going to do? It was different when it was just lust, that was old hat to her, it was emotionless...but love? She'd never been in love before but she somehow knew that there was a point of no return in that phase which is why she always fought against it. She couldn't be in love with this woman. Rachel was straight and naive and sweet good, not at all the type of woman the detective was used to hooking up with and the very idea of Trace having these kind of feelings for her would, no doubt, horrify and terrify the poor girl. In reality, it terrified Trace. She thought she had gotten past having 'things' for heterosexual women years ago...although, she never had much of a problem with curious, straight women... But the blonde was different. Regardless of what happened yesterday.
The detective realized that she had a powerful presence, that she could be intimidating and she could pour on the charm without even trying. Trace had always been a very successful flirt, especially when it came to attractive women. It was second nature to her. But she was always in control. Always. Now she felt anything but in control as far as Rachel was concerned. This had never happened before. Which brought up another reason for the brunette's panic.
"This was such a mistake," she reflected, quietly to herself, "I should have stayed and took my chances with the DeSiennas." Even though she knew, had she made that decision, she would probably be dead by now. Maybe she should just leave. She had enough money to buy a gun and a horse, hell, she could even steal one or two of Rachel's guns and one of the horses. She leaned against a post, crossing her arms over her chest, looking down at the weathered wood of the porch floor. Of course she wouldn't do anything to bring this wonderfully kind and noble woman any more pain and strife.
And what would be the consequences of her moving on? The benefit being that somewhere she might be able to find a place to settle down where her sexual proclivities would be welcomed by a woman or two. The problem, however, was that they wouldn't be Rachel.
The harm of moving on heavily outweighed that measly personal advantage. The blonde would be alone again and defenseless. What was left of her livestock and crops would probably be destroyed. She would be forced to give up her home. And Trace would appear as though she was kowtowing to the sheriff's 'request' and falling in line behind the rest of Sagebrush and allowing the Cranes to run her life. She inhaled deeply. If she did not permit that with a much more powerful twenty-first century crime family, she would be damned if she would allow it with a group of nineteenth century rubes.
"Trace?" The voice interrupted her train of thought and she looked up to meet innocently inquiring green eyes. She wondered how long the blonde had been there, watching her. "Are you all right?"
Christ, she was beautiful, the brunette mused, committing Rachel's face to memory. Trace smirked. "Yeah. I'm fine. Thanks." And when the blonde returned a relieved smile, the detective knew right then and there she would never leave this woman.
**************************************
Name: Cheyne
Email: Whenpiggsfly55@aol.com
Title: Renegade
Disclaimers: See Part 1
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35.
When the small arsenal of four weapons had been cleaned, reassembled and put away, Trace kept out one of the revolvers so that she could look it over. Hand guns with cylinders fascinated her. She always wondered why people chose to buy and use them when, at least in her opinion, automatics were so much quicker, more accurate, packed so much more firepower and, with the higher caliber, definitely more potent. Or maybe she had convinced herself of that because she had been lazy...by being able to slap in a clip, she could pop off more rounds faster and not have to worry about counting to six and stopping to use a speed loader. Now that she was in a situation where she would have no choice but to use this magnificently authentic Colt Peacemaker in her hand, she knew she needed to get comfortable with it and become more than competent at firing it.
The detective decided that tomorrow, if the cuts and slices on her hands were better, she would take the new rails out and repair the fence and then, if she was up to it (and definitely after a bath), she would ride into town and buy ammunition, a gun belt and look over what else might come in handy for her. She glanced over at Rachel, who had dozed off in her chair. Poor kid was obviously exhausted and she didn't wonder with trying to keep this place up and running all by herself. She must have literally made herself sick and tired.
Studying the blonde, Trace's expression softened. Rachel appeared so unguarded, so unblighted, so powerless...yet she had endured, so far, against these brutal and, obviously merciless Cranes. But it was clearly taking it's toll. She sighed and shook her head...well, no more if Trace had anything to do with it. The detective vowed to herself that she would move a mountain - one shovel at a time - if it finally meant peace for the blonde. As she passed Rachel, she reached down and pulled the knitted shawl up around the younger woman's shoulders and stepped out onto the porch, sitting down on one of the old but solid wooden chairs.
Kicking her feet up and resting them on the railing, Trace inspected the clean Colt cavalry single action .45 Peacemaker in her hand. She felt the weight with an empty chamber. Even without bullets the revolver wasn't exactly heavy but it was sturdy, something she attributed to the nickel plating and the walnut grips, which were a little worn but certainly not in need of replacing. The barrel, cylinder and frame were very strong and when she was putting it back together she noticed that the mechanics seemed as close to perfect as she would probably ever see in a gun like this...cocking, indexing, firing...was all very smooth. She pointed the Colt at a slender tree opposite her in the distance and looked down the six-inch barrel, lining up the sights. Hmmm...she might just be able to get used to this. As soon as it stopped hurting to close her fingers around the handle.
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With Rachel busy preparing and baking a chicken pot pie for supper, Trace was too bored with just hanging around, waiting for her injuries to heal. Using what was left of the garlic concoction from yesterday, the detective rubbed the oil into her skin then wrapped her hands with cloth, slipping the suede work gloves on she had started to use the day before. She then donned nasty-looking, heavily stained overshoes several sizes too big as she began mucking out the stable.
All the horses, except the mustang, had been out in the pasture, so the detective did not have to be concerned about being trapped again, like that first day with Chief. By the time she reached the final stall, the one occupied by the feisty Spanish horse, she had poked quite a few eye-watering, nose hair burning pockets of fecal ammonia with her pitchfork, making her hate her life every time she came across one of the steaming, moldy, rotting matted clumps.
Entering the stall of the horse that had tentatively been named Rio because he had been found by the river, the two stubborn mammals stared each other down. "Don't even think of starting with me," Trace advised the wary animal in a low, serious, whiskey-burnt alto. "I like being in here even less than you do."
It must have been her unyielding attitude that made Rio ignore her and go back to chewing on hay. Known for their survival instincts, mustangs were highly intelligent creatures with innate senses of self-preservation and not prone to place themselves in any situation which might be perilous or destructive. Something in the brunette's tone told him crossing this human with the pitchfork in her hands was not conducive to his welfare. He was very cooperative in moving when she needed to get around him and when she was finished, she pushed the wheelbarrow to just outside the stable entrance and went back into the stall to replenish Rio's food staples. Once she was done with that, she would round up the other horses and get them back inside for the night.
Trace couldn't help but notice that Rio was a beautiful animal. Standing fourteen hands high, he was a smoothly muscled, deeply girthed, narrow chested, roan-colored horse with a well crested neck. The detective smiled at him, still respecting his space, feeling they were a lot alike. She instantaneously decided she wanted Rio to be her horse...maybe she could eventually talk Rachel into that little notion. Suddenly sensing another presence, Trace spun around to see her favorite little blonde standing at the entrance, hands on her hips, surveying the stall.
"Gosh, Trace, this looks right tidy. You did a fine job!" Rachel was starting to wonder if Trace had been telling the truth about never having done any of these kind of chores before, she always seemed to do such a complete and nearly error-free job.
"Thank you," the detective grinned. Amazing how even a little praise from the blonde could make her heart swell. Rio barely acknowledged his owner and went back to eating.
"How are your blisters feeling?"
"A little sore but not bad."
"You probably should have given them a little more time to get better."
"Yep, probably. But I couldn't sit still. Idle hands and all that..."
Rachel folded her arms and nodded her head toward Rio. "Looks like he doesn't mind you."
"Yeah...speaking of that -" Trace was interrupted by the sound of an explosive, rolling flatulence and looked up to see Rachel staring at her with eyes as big as pie tins. Defensively, she said, "It was the horse!"
And then the odor to match the sound encircled them both and bile immediately scalded Trace's throat as both women made a mad dash for untainted oxygen. Outside the stable, the brunette breathed in mouthfuls of fresh air.
"Okay, that was just wrong..." Trace commented, wiping the sting away from her eyes.
"I think he's still getting used to the oats," Rachel offered.
So am I, Trace thought, remembering the oatmeal for breakfast, but I don't smell like that. At least she hoped she didn't. "I think I'll wait a bit before I bring the other horses back to their stalls," the brunette stated.
"Well, I came to get you to tell you that supper was ready." Off Trace's expression, she then added, "but since I've seen pallbearers look happier than that, it won't hurt it to cool a bit until you get your appetite back."
"No, no, I'll be fine. Just let me get these clothes off and washed up and I'll be right in. You worked too hard to let it sit and get cold." Reaching over and patting the blonde's arm, reassuringly, Trace then headed off in the direction of the barn.
Watching the brunette's retreating form, Rachel ran her fingers lightly over the area of skin the brunette had just touched, feeling goosebumps. She realized she was smiling. She had never experienced anything like that before. The blonde could not explain her reaction and then thought it was best not to try. She walked back to the house to set the table, suddenly feeling as though she wanted to start skipping.
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36.
Right after dinner, Trace offered to do the dishes but Rachel wouldn't hear of it. Instead she suggested the detective 'mosey' out to the corralled pasture and bring the horses in. Sure, Trace thought, so they can start immediately messing up those nice clean stalls.
The tall brunette led a lazily trudging Moses into the stable, followed by Rosie and her shy baby, who seemed determined to play 'peekaboo' with Trace from behind her mama and then a surprisingly cooperative Chief brought up the rear. The detective secured them all into their stalls and stopped long enough to talk softly to Zelda, who still hid behind Rosie but seemed as fascinated with the human as she was with the colt.
Once, out of the stable, Trace knew she could not go to bed smelling the way she did. She didn't know how Rachel managed to sit opposite her all through the meal and not start throwing up again. She no further got that thought out than she heard the sounds of vomiting. Picking up her pace, she rounded the corner to find the blonde bent over at the waist, depositing her supper in the bushes by the out house. By the time Trace reached her, Rachel was finishing up with a few dry heaves.
"Rachel, I don't like this..." the detective began as she watched the pale, drawn face focus on her.
"I'm all right."
"No, you're not. You're obviously very stressed."
The blonde cocked her head. "Stressed?"
"Yeah...um...out of sorts, upset, agitated."
Rachel nodded. "Well, that is the truth." If only the brunette understood the enormity of her 'stress.' Well, she would soon enough and then she would move on, certainly not wanting to have any association with an unwed mother. Suddenly the notion of Trace leaving her made her very emotional and before she could stop herself, she started to cry.
Without delay, the detective pulled the blonde into her arms and held her securely, smoothing her hair with her palm as Rachel wept silently against her shoulder. "Shhhh, shhhh, it's okay," Trace soothed. "I don't want you to worry. I'm going to help you fight these Cranes, to keep your land." Once again the detective was experiencing a new aspect of herself. She had never been a demonstrative person yet she did not hesitate for one second to physically comfort the blonde. Normally, she considered herself as having all the gentility of a NASCAR wreck. Rachel was pulling out a side of her she never knew she had.
As for Rachel, there was also no indecision regarding immediately accepting this act of kind reassurance. Being held by Trace seemed the most natural thing in the world for her. She might have pondered it further but she was hit by another wave of nausea and she pushed herself away from the detective before she risked spraying the brunette with the contents of her stomach...if there was anything left in there.
Later that evening, after Trace had taken a discreet, naked plunge in the creek, preferring the strong smell of lye soap over the more pungent odor of manure, she sat on the porch with Rachel, listening to the crickets, the frogs, the river and the occasional howl of an animal or two. They discussed Trace's plans for the next day by the light of a full moon. Under different circumstances, it could have been very romantic, which is exactly what Ed Jackson must have thought when he rode up to the house.
Hearing the sound of slow hoofbeats approaching, both women stood, Trace immediately alerting on Rachel's stiffening posture. When the glint of the sheriff's badge became distinct, it made the blonde visibly disturbed.
"Now, what could he want?" Rachel mumbled in a voice just loud enough for her companion to hear.
When Jackson got close enough that his features could be recognized, he spoke, his tone arrogant and condescending. "Rachel," he nodded to the blonde. "Mr. Sheridan," he regarded Trace with a sneer. He looked at both women pointedly and after neither barely acknowledged him with a word or gesture, he said, "Am I interruptin' something?"
It was the disrespectfully blatant leering at the blonde, that caused Trace's hand down by her side to curl into a fist. Rachel must have sensed the detective's barely contained wrath and stepped forward. "Nothing but an evening's discussion about tomorrow's chores."
Jackson did not hide his disbelief. "Right," he smirked.
"What is it we can do for you, Sheriff?" Trace responded, her vocal inflection even less friendly than the lawman's.
"I just thought, as a courtesy, I'd tell Miss Rachel, here, that her fence is busted over by the south end of her property."
"Yes, I know that," the blonde spoke up. "That's old news, Sheriff. If that's all you came for..."
"Now, there ain't no need to be inhospitable," Jackson admonished her. "With all the mysterious things happenin' out here, I would think you'd want to be just a little more sociable to -"
"Mysterious? There is nothing mysterious about anything that has happened here, Sheriff," Rachel spit out unable to hold onto her forced composure any longer. "You know very well who's responsible for slaughtering my herd and crippling my horses, for burning most of my crops, for..." she stopped herself before she revealed the rest of it. "And you know, despite how sociable, I became to you, you wouldn't lift a finger to stop them. You disgrace that badge!" Literally vibrating from her own rage, she felt a gentle hand at the back of her elbow which brought her back to some semblance of calm.
Jackson didn't seem fazed in the least by her outburst. "Why, Rachel, your respect for the law is right heartwarmin'."
"She has respect for the law, Sheriff. That doesn't mean she has to respect the man badly representing it. That respect is not automatic. It has to be earned and it sure looks to me like you're a long way from doing that."
Trace's words got Jackson's attention and he narrowed his eyes. "You know, Sheridan," he began. "I don't like you. Didn't like you from the moment I laid eyes on ya."
Imitating Ed's drawl, Trace almost smirked. "Well, Ed, that just plum hurts my feelings."
Rachel had to turn her head away and bite the inside of her cheek to keep from snorting in laughter. Sheriff Jackson probably hadn't been defied like this since that incident with Billy The Kid. When she was able to sneak a look at him, she couldn't help but comment. "Why, Sheriff, you look madder than a centipede with bunions."
Trace was sure if the sheriff could have had steam come out of his ears, plumes would have been sending smoke signals by now. Somehow, he managed to rein in his temper and was able to raise a simper. "Ain't no way some half-breed, gypsy-lookin' drifter's gonna get my back up," he lied. The truth was if Rachel hadn't been there as a witness, he would have cut Trace down where she stood. He still could, no one would dispute him on it, except the courtly blonde and no one would believe her. Well, they might but it wouldn't matter. Jackson decided it would be smarter to wait for Jacob and the boys to get back. They would decide on a suitable course of action for this insolent cowboy who was way too big for his breeches. The sheriff wondered how big a talker this stranger would be up against the youngest, most virile Crane...especially when it involved Rachel Young, a woman Ben hated and desired at the same time. Nope, it would be too much fun to watch the volatile Crane boy deal with it. In the mean time, maybe a little lesson in manners wouldn't hurt.
"Say, Rachel, I just come from a nice dinner of roast cur at the Reddicks and I'm a might thirsty. Why don't you fancy ol' Ed with a nice big shot of bug juice and I'll be on my way."
Looking at the ground, Rachel sighed and turned to walk inside when she was quietly stopped by Trace's arm in front of her. In a voice loud enough for Jackson to hear, the detective asked, "Do you want to wait on him? Because he can be on his way without the bug juice."
They both heard the squeaking leather of the sheriff shifting in his saddle. In a tone barely above a whisper, the blonde said, "I just want him out of here with no trouble. I know this will do it." She gently pushed Trace's arm down and passed her, entering the house.
"Now, you listen to me, boy," Jackson started, once Rachel was out of their sight. Trace slowly looked back up at this ugly man on his tired horse. "That pretty little thing may be warmin' your bed for now and you might be feeling like a stud 'cause of it, hell, I would be -"
Words became strangled in the detective's throat, she was so furious at the implication. It was okay if she thought that but for some scrote like this crooked lawman to just assume it turned her damned near homicidal. It took a great deal of self-control not to pick up the chair she had been sitting in and slam Jackson upside the head with it.
"...but if I was you? Enjoy it while you can because when those boys get back from Dodge and find you here? I guaran-damn-tee you'll be like a field mouse with a cat at his tail. And...well, let's just say you keep shootin' off your mouth like that to those boys and you might wind up on the end of a rope over a cottonwood branch. Now, ain't that just befittin' seein' as how that's where you say you're from," he continued, oblivious to the rage that radiated from the brunette.
Trace was about to annihilate him with a tirade that would have made his head spin when Rachel stepped back out onto the porch and over to the first step, handing the glass to the sheriff. Jackson drained the glass in one huge gulp, belched loudly and tossed the glass unexpectedly to Trace who caught it effortlessly. Her quick, smooth reaction provoked a raised eyebrow from the sheriff and that was all.
Touching his index finger to the brim of his hat, he smiled and nodded once again at Rachel. "You have a good night. And don't forget about your south fence, there." He then guided his horse away from the house and trotted into the shadows of the trees in the distance.
Both women silently watched him go. The first one to speak was the blonde. "Man's got a grin like a rabid dog."
Through clenched teeth, Trace then said, "I don't like that man. I don't like the way he talks to you, I don't like the way he looks at you and I don't like the way he threatens you."
Rachel was a little taken aback at but also flattered by the detective's protective and almost possessive tone. She returned her attention to the dark woods the sheriff rode into. "They say when a snake rattles, you ought to kill it. Unfortunately, if you cut the head off that particular snake, several more will grow back. I'd shoot him for trespassing but that would only get me a cross planted above my brow." She sighed and swatted away a black fly who, with its many relatives, had begun to annoy her within the past ten minutes. She watched while Trace also attempted to bat one away. "Blessed things are as big as buzzards. Let's go inside. I'll make some tea."
"Rachel, what the fu- heck is bug juice?"
"Whiskey."
"Whiskey...?" She followed the blonde inside. closing the door. "Why don't they just call it whiskey?"
Rachel shrugged. "Why don't you just say 'okay' instead of 'cool'?"
Good question, Trace thought. The blonde's simplistic approach to things was always enlightening in its own way and she had a feeling that seeing life through Rachel's eyes would force her to re-evaluate quite a bit in the days to come.
**********************************
37
Trace spent another forty-five minutes having a cup of tea with Rachel and then headed for her room in the barn. Still unnerved by the sheriff's unexpected visit, she was only now starting to calm down. She was tired and should have been sleepy but something just did not feel right and she laid awake, staring at the ceiling, for several hours until the normal night sounds faded into the recesses of her subconscious.
A little after midnight, one noise stood out from the rest and the detective immediately reacted to it. Like a phantom, she silently slid out of bed, donned her clothes and boots and crept out to the barn door, which was ajar. Slipping into a defensive mode of every nerve in her body feeling totally aware and ready for anything, she automatically monitored her own breathing, went on peripheral alert, scanning the limited area of her vision for the source of the noise. It was then she saw two shadows in close proximity to where she was standing and heard voices.
"Ed said just to scare 'em. Maybe drag the gyspy out of bed and wail the bejesus out of him in front of her."
"What about Miss Rachel?" the second male inquired. He sounded young and a little unsure.
With a lascivious little snicker, the first man said, "As much as I'd like to have a little piece of that for myself, Ed said to leave her alone. But if she gets a little too rambunctious, she may have to be taught a lesson as well."
That was all Trace needed to hear. She stepped forward on her left leg, shifted her weight and let loose with a front jump kick, snapping her right leg up at the knee and striking the door with the ball of her foot with such force, the door lurched outward with a splintering crack, stopping only when it slammed against two bodies, knocking them to the ground. Moving quickly outside, she faced the dazed men, who both wore black hoods with eye holes cut out.
"Come on, boys," Trace teased, beckoning them. "I'm ready for my lesson now."
Both men staggered to their feet. "He was supposed to be in the house," the shorter one whined.
"Never assume," the detective advised, in an almost playful tone of voice.
The taller, obviously older of the two men barreled toward the brunette, fist raised. Trace simply stepped aside, letting him pass where, under his own momentum, he tripped and fell face first into the dirt.
"Too bad that cowardly mask doesn't have a hole cut out where your mouth should be. You deserve to be spitting out Mother Earth right now," the detective told him. She watched as he jumped back on his feet pretty quickly, angry and embarrassed.
"What the hell's the matter with you, boy?" He was addressing his companion who was just standing there, unmoving. "Get him!"
Glancing at the smaller of the two, Trace sensed he would not be a problem. Almost timidly, the shorter man advanced at the detective from one side as the other man charged at her from the other. A deceptively fast roundhouse kick caught the older man on his right cheek, sending him flying backward, stunned, as he once again hit the ground. While he was shaking it off, the younger one drew back, propelling his fist forward with the intention of punching the brunette and the hope of knocking her down.
Catching his fist in mid-thrust, Trace abruptly stopped the action by counter grabbing his hand and twisting it in a direction nature never designed it to move. As she brought him to his knees, he began yelling for mercy. He knew with a little more effort, his whole arm could be broken.
Seeing the brunette occupied with his companion, the taller intruder mistakenly believed he could gain control of the situation now. When he was about two feet away from the detective, she back kicked him away from her and once again he found himself on his ass in the dirt. Pounding the ground in frustration, he stood up and drew his gun.
Hearing the click of the trigger being cocked back, Trace shook her head and spun her prisoner around so that he was now in front of her, wrenching his now badly sprained arm into a choke hold against him. She found herself looking up into the muzzle of a nicked and worn pistol. Regardless, she was sure, at that range, the bullet fired from it would still be just as deadly.
"If you shoot me, he dies," Trace stated, matter-of-fact.
"And the second shot will be you joining him in Hell."
Surprised, all three looked up to see Rachel, in her nightshirt covered by an unbelted cotton robe, on the porch with the carbine trained on the taller man. Her voice had been steady, angry and there was no doubt she meant what she said.
Trace couldn't help but smile. She had no qualms that she could have handled the situation just fine on her own but the blonde coming to her 'rescue' nearly made her chest burst with pride. The man holding the gun lowered it to his side.
"Good boy," Trace commented, smugly. "Now lay it down and kick it toward Rachel." When he hesitated, Trace tightened her hold on his partner, who howled in pain. "Do it."
He reluctantly obeyed and the detective was about to pull off the hood of the intruder in her grasp when they heard a rustling from the woods and the sheriff appeared, riding his weary horse. Jackson's expression was a cross between fascination and disappointment. One hand was on the reins and the other resting on his gun belt near the holster. "Put the gun down, Rachel." He then looked directly at Trace. "There'll be no killin' here tonight."
Not letting her prisoner go, Trace's eyes became slits as she addressed the sheriff in a deadly tone of voice. "You son-of-a-bitch. You sent them here."
"Why, I don't know you're talking about, son." But his complacent expression betrayed him.
Once more, tightening her hold on the younger intruder, making him cry out again, the detective continued. "Really? I heard these two say that this was what you wanted. But if they're lying, just what are you doing out here in the middle of the night?"
Jackson shrugged. "Been reports of coyotes around, attacking the hen houses after dark. I heard the commotion. Noise travels far this time of night."
"How convenient," Trace scoffed. "I think these men were here to do your dirty work for you. If you've got a problem with me, Sheriff, then get down off that horse and take it up with me." Then she hastily added, "man to man," nearly gagging on the words as they left her mouth.
"I don't mind sayin' you got some imagination there, Sheridan."
"I don't mind saying you're a consummate liar there, Jackson," Trace countered, unflinchingly.
This made him stiffen and his hand then rested on the handle of his Colt, still holstered but the threat was there, nonetheless. He looked back up at Rachel. "Thought I told you to put that gun down."
"You're on my property without an invitation," the blonde told him, firmly. "I'll lower my rifle when you leave."
In a flash, Jackson's revolver was out and aimed at the blonde. Glancing quickly at Trace, he said, "One move from you and I'll shoot her."
The action had surprised Rachel who hadn't had time to load the shotgun before running out to the porch. She was hoping just the sight of it would have calmed everything down. It further shocked the detective that the sheriff took such a chance. And then she remembered the chauvinistic time she was in, a realization that was just punctuated by Jackson's next words.
"Don't ever threaten me, missy. When I tell you to do something, you do it. Now put the gun down."
"Don't do it, Rachel," Trace advised.
"Don't listen to him. He ain't on the business end of my Colt. I ain't gonna tell you again, Rachel."
"He won't shoot you, Rachel," the detective said.
"You sure about that, son?" Jackson asked. "She's got that carbine lookin' right at me. I need to defend myself. Especially when all I'm doing here is trying to protect her fowl from gettin' ate up."
"You are so full of crap, Sheriff, I'm surprised your eyes aren't brown."
Jackson smiled, "Gotta tell ya, Sheridan. You got some sand. I don't like ya. Not one iota. But you don't scare easy. I 'spect that'll change in a month or two but for now, I am damned impressed." He turned back to the blonde. "Rachel?"
Slowly, to Trace's dismay, she lowered the gun. Squeezing her eyes shut, the detective let her head drop.
"Sheridan, let him go." He cocked the pistol, extending his arm in the blonde's direction. "Now."
"Stop aiming that at her and I will."
"You ain't in no position to be givin' ultimatums here."
When Trace did not move, a shot rang out and the bullet seared into the porch at Rachel's feet, just missing her. The blonde jumped back with a frightened yelp, immediately covering her mouth with one hand to stifle a scream. "Rachel!" Pushing her prisoner to the ground, releasing him, the detective started toward the porch. Jackson then turned his revolver to face her, which made the brunette stop in her tracks.
"I didn't touch her. She won't be so lucky next time if she doesn't do as she's told." He smirked at Trace. "And neither will you." Jackson then turned his attention to the two hooded men. "You fellas get movin'. Don't be caught out here again. You may not be so lucky, either." The sheriff's tone was completely insincere. "Git! Go on, now!"
As both men ran until they were out of sight, Trace turned back to Jackson. "They attacked me on private property! They had malevolent intent! Why didn't you arrest them?"
"Malevolent intent? Looked to me like you was gettin' the best of 'em."
Trace looked over at Rachel, whose hand was still covering her mouth, tears brimming at her eyes. The detective could have killed Ed Jackson without a second thought at that moment. "I want to press charges against them. I want you to arrest them."
"And just who am I supposed to arrest? They were masked, they can't be identified."
Seething, the detective pinned him with a murderous glare that made his back hairs rise. "You fucking bastard," Trace said through clenched teeth, "If I ever catch you on this land again without permission, I'll hurt you."
No one had ever looked at him like that, not even any of the Cranes in their most hostile moments and he was also a little taken aback by the potency in the cuss words. He could not hide the bit of tremor in his voice when he said, "That a threat?"
"No. That's a promise."
He aimed his gun at the brunette. "Maybe I ought to kill you right now, save the Cranes the trouble."
"You do and Rachel will shoot you right off that flea-bitten thing you call a horse. Is killing me worth losing your life over?"
"She'd go to jail."
"And you'd still be dead."
Lowering the Colt, Jackson holstered the sidearm and jerked the reins, causing his horse to start a slow pace. As he passed the detective, he said, "Let this be a warning not to cross me, son. Things can get out of hand right quick. As I said...you got lucky tonight. You both did. I think you need to reconsider movin' on."
"And I told you I'd move on when I was ready and not before."
"We'll see about that." With that, he heeled his horse to a trot and rode in the direction the two men had run.
Scrambling onto the porch, Trace enveloped Rachel into a tight embrace. "Are you all right?"
She felt the blonde nod against her. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, tearfully into the brunette's chest. "So very sorry."
Leaning back, the detective tried to look into those jade eyes that said everything but Rachel wouldn't look at her. "Sorry for what?"
"For getting you into this."
"You didn't get me into anything. I'm choosing to stay here. I'm choosing to do this, to fight this battle with you. How you've been doing this all by yourself is amazing to me. At first I thought you were just being stubborn. Now I see that you're being very brave and very strong."
"You really think so?" Green eyes finally blinked up at her.
"Absolutely...but I have to ask you - why did you put your gun down?"
"It wasn't loaded. I woke up and heard the ruckus out here, looked out the window and saw what was going on and I grabbed the first rifle I could get my hands on. I remembered it wasn't loaded after I was already pointing it at that man."
Pulling the blonde into another hug, the detective closed her eyes, grateful that Rachel wasn't hurt. Releasing her, Trace bent to pick up the carbine. "Well, we'll make sure everything's loaded from now on. I don't think we can take the chance that this won't happen again." She looked back at the blonde, she said, "Did you happen to recognize anything about either of those men?"
"No. But I'm positive they were from Crane's spread. About a dozen cowboys stay behind during the drive to tend to the ranch and make sure nobody brings the property or the Crane women any harm." She crossed her arms, studying the detective briefly. "Trace?"
"Yeah?"
"Where'd you learn to fight like that? I've never seen a woman whup the tarnation out of any man before, much less two men at the same time..."
Shrugging, the brunette said, "Some of it's instinct, some of it's training. I needed to learn to defend myself for my job." She reached over and rested her hand on Rachel's shoulder. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes. I'm..." She almost smiled, glancing shyly up at Trace through light eyelashes, "...cool."
Shaking her head, grinning unexpectedly, the detective ruffled her hair, affectionately. "Yes, you are. You are very cool, indeed."
Holding the carbine out to Rachel, the blonde accepted it and then said, "Trace?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." Exchanging a meaningful look, Rachel was the first to look away.
"Trace?"
"Yeah?"
"Would you, um, stay in the house the rest of the night? In case they come back?"
Brushing her hair out of her eyes with one lazy stroke of her hand, she thought about what that would have indicated to her just a week ago and how she would have taken advantage of the circumstances. Now? Hell, yeah, she was still desperately attracted to the blonde but she was, at this particular moment, more concerned for Rachel's welfare and safety. "Sure. I'll bunk down on the sofa."
"There's a bed in the loft."
"I know. But if they come back, I want to meet them head on."
"Oh. Okay. Thank you. Again."
Nodding, Trace closed the door behind her, thinking, 'You can thank me when they are no longer bothering you.' Instead, she smiled reassuringly at the blonde and went to retrieve all four guns so she could load them.
********************************
38
Trace awoke to the smell of something burning on the stove. Flying up off the couch, knocking the carbine, which had been resting upon her chest, to the floor, she grabbed a linen napkin, folded it over several times and removed all three pans from the heat. She waved the smoke away and looked around for the blonde.
"Rachel?" There was no answer. "Rachel?"
"Out here," came a weak response.
Walking out to the porch, the brunette found the blonde seated in one of the chairs, bent forward at the waist with her head on her lap. Her pasty, clammy exterior revealed the details of her nauseated, unpredictable interior. "Glad I like my breakfast well done," the detective cracked.
Rachel raised her head high enough to rest it on her hand. "Sorry. I was going to surprise you with corn meal, fried potatoes and fried apples and the aroma just soured my stomach."
Trace knelt by the blonde's chair. "Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor?"
"No." Debating with herself as to whether or not she should confide in the brunette, something told her now was not the time.
"Can I do anything for you?"
"Ginger tea would be nice."
Standing, the detective smiled kindly at the blonde. "Coming right up."
*****************
After Rachel's nausea went away, she helped Trace hitch Moses up to the wagon. With the assurance that the invertebrate sheriff and his band of not-so-merry chickens would not return to do their bullying in the light of day and that Rachel would be fine with a loaded shotgun and pistol within reach at any given time (and the promise that she would use it), the detective headed for town.
On her ride into Sagebrush, Trace pondered Rachel's nausea. It wasn't constant but it was daily. Odors seem to trigger it but she was also getting sick at night, apparently waking from a sound sleep when there were no smells to provoke the vomiting. Although Rachel was clearly a hard worker, she seemed exhausted during the day, abnormally so for someone in the physical shape the blonde seemed to be in. And she was making frequent trips to the outhouse. She balked at seeing a doctor, which meant she was either afraid or knew what was wrong. Since Rachel did not seem to be fearful of much, the detective figured it was the latter.
The blonde was reluctant to talk about her chronic stomach distress and Trace had not pushed. The idea of Rachel possibly being persistently ill was not something Trace wanted to think about as she was already too attached to the young woman. Then another thought crossed Trace's mind.
Could Rachel be pregnant? No. She shook her head at the speculation. There was no man in the picture. The blonde's fiancée had been gone too long for her to have had reproductive sexual contact with him. And Rachel did not seem like the type of woman to have indiscriminately slept with anyone else who was not a constant in her life. No, it had to be something else. Well, when the blonde was ready to talk about it, Trace was sure she would let her know what was wrong.
As Moses sauntered along, the detective checked the position of the Colt and the Sharps, ready for anything at this point. Fortunately, she made it to town without incident, not sure what might happen once she got there.
Her first visit was to a shop next to the livery called Nathan's Saddlery where, after several try-ons, she purchased a black cowhide prairie cartridge belt, which had twenty-four loops to hold extra .45 Colt ammunition. With it, she bought a floral carved skirted holster with a retaining strap and a matching hand-stitched Bowie sheath with simple tooling that was fitted onto the rig. From the second she buckled the gunbelt on, it felt natural, as though it had always belonged there. She recalled her first week as a cop on patrol, how the other rookies complained about the awkwardness and getting used to the weight of wearing a rig and she felt as though that gun on her hip, attached to the Sam Brown utility belt, had grown there.
Following that little excursion, she hit the gunsmith's where she bought several boxes of .45 caliber rounds for the revolver and cartridges for the Sharps and then bronze shell casings, fine black powder, primer, propellant and wads so that she could load her own bullets.
Trace then went to Joseph Turner's pawn shop, where the detective bought an eight-inch Bowie knife, the blade three fingers wide, a couple pair of well-worn, softened suede work gloves, a few assorted items that caught her fancy and a guitar. She didn't know why she felt compelled to get it because she had not played one in years but once she had the hand-crafted rosewood instrument in her possession, it was clear to her that the reason did not matter.
Her next stop was to Tippings Feed and Grain to pick up Rachel's standing order. She introduced herself to Caleb, the proprietor, who seemed very friendly and accommodating. Trace advised him that, from now on, she would be retrieving the food for the animals so deliveries would no longer need to be made out to the ranch. When Caleb directed his son to assist with loading the order onto the wagon, a troubled-looking Isaac refused, telling his father he had other tasks to attend to first. Embarrassed, older Tipping apologized for his son's uncharacteristic rudeness and offered to help. Thanking him but declining, Trace paid for the feed and led Moses and the wagon around to the back of the store, where she began lifting the sixty pound sacks by herself.
Halfway through the loading, Isaac Tipping stepped into the supply area, unaware of the detective's presence. Taking a break, Trace observed the teenager with more than a casual interest. He had the same voice, was of similar height, had the approximate build of one of the hooded trespassers and, the most curious of all, his right arm was in a sling.
"How'd you hurt your arm?" Trace's voice may have startled the boy but the person it belonged to terrified him even more.
He wanted to run, to get far away from this cowboy. He had seen what he could do without a gun in his hand and now he was wearing a sidearm. Head bowed, eyes scanning the floor, Isaac said, "Got thrown from a horse yesterday." Well, although it was a lie, he certainly felt as though he'd been dragged behind a fast stallion.
Yep, the detective thought, that's one of the sheriff's henchmen from the night before. The young man's timbre was identical to that of the intruder she had in a choke hold.
"Did you now?" Trace made sure she sounded as though she did not believe him. "If I go back in there and ask your father, is that what he's going to tell me?"
Isaac did not respond. It was obvious the cowboy knew what caused his injury. The teenager could still not look Trace in the eyes.
"Was your father the man with you?" The detective knew he wasn't, as the physical and vocal characteristics did not match but she was pretty sure the boy would react to this. If the kid had a conscience, he would protest his father's innocence by inadvertently admitting his own guilt at the same time.
"No!" The boy denied, defensively, and then looked skyward, realizing his mistake.
"You feel good about what you did last night?" the brunette inquired with more calm than she really felt.
"No, Sir," Isaac answered. "I like Miss Rachel. Please don't tell her it was me."
"Then why?"
He lowered his head again. "Crane's are trying to get a cut of my pa's store. Sheriff Jackson said if I did this, he'd hold 'em off."
Unconsciously gritting her teeth, Trace was both angry and sympathetic. Sighing, the detective returned to loading the rest of the order onto the wagon.
"Are you telling me the truth?"
"Yes, Sir!" Isaac answered, enthusiastically.
"Who was the man with you?"
"John Carver." Responding to the blank stare of the detective, he offered more information. "Mrs. Crane's younger brother."
Trace nodded, absorbing the information. "If the sheriff ever asks you to do anything like that again? I want you to come tell me. Okay?"
"Yes, Sir. But what good is that going to do?"
"You let me worry about that." Lifting the last burlap bag, Trace looked over at the mortified teenager. "And Isaac?"
"Yes, Sir?"
"Don't worry about your father's store." Off the boy's disbelieving, questioning stare, she wanted to say, 'there's a new sheriff in town,' but instead she actually found a smile for him. "Just...don't worry..."
Skeptically, the teenager acknowledged the brunette's words without expression. He was obviously still terribly embarrassed by the whole incident. Instinctively, though, Trace knew she had an ally if she needed it. One down, the rest of the town to go.
And, finally, Trace stopped by Wilbur's to have a drink. This was a calculated visit to not only have a beer before she returned to The Triple Y Ranch but to take in the atmosphere of the town once again, to get the latest gossip from Silas and anyone else who might have loose lips while they imbibed.
Because of the huge tip Trace had left at her last visit to the saloon, Silas gave her a shot of whiskey on the house. Not one to be ungrateful, the detective accepted it, graciously and slammed the small glass of liquor back, swallowing the nasty substance that felt as though it was searing the flesh all the way down her throat. She could not stop her eyes from watering, when she set the empty glass back down on the bar.
"Blaze a trail clear to your gullet, did it?" Silas laughed.
"So that's what you call bug juice, huh?"
"No, the bug juice is over there with the red-eye. What you just had was what we like to call rotgut."
"I can see why," Trace rasped, chasing the burn with a few gulps of ale.
"It'll put hair on your chest."
"Yeah. Just what I need." Draining her beer mug, the brunette tossed the affable saloon keeper twenty-five cents and headed out the swinging doors. On her way out, she passed the sheriff on his way in. Jackson immediately alerted on the fact that Trace was now armed. He could only hope the cowboy did not handle a gun as well as he wielded his fists and feet.
The detective and the sheriff glared at each other but neither spoke to the other one. However, Trace did notice that the jovial mood in the bar immediately became solemn at Jackson's dour presence. It did not take a rocket scientist to see that the sheriff was not a popular man. She would use that to her advantage.
Checking to make sure everything was secure, the detective climbed into the driver's seat and directed Moses back to her new home.
***********************
39
Trace decided not to tell Rachel about Isaac Tipping's involvement in the event of the night before. Not just because the boy asked her not to or she felt it would accomplish nothing other than hard feelings but she understood the position the teenager had been put in. Twelve years earlier, she had been in a similar situation. No, the detective would keep that information to herself for now.
She needed to figure out a plan, think of something to use the sheriff's own game against him and, ultimately, against the Cranes. She needed to find a way for Rachel to keep what was rightly hers with no more problems and help the people of Sagebrush get their town back.
Once again, she shook her head at her abrupt personality change. A little over a week ago, she was on the side of the bad guys and thought nothing about her unscrupulous behavior or her underhanded and corrupt acts. She felt little concern about the consequences of her actions against others, about how her decisions might trickle down and affect the helpless people...like Rachel. When Trace got into her life of crime, she did so with noble intentions. Greed and power kept her there. And now, suddenly, twelve years of shame burned white hot within her causing her, again, to almost choke with rage at her own ignorance and voraciousness.
Continuing to beat herself up for things she could not change was futile and a huge waste of her time and energy. Realizing and acknowledging the error of her ways and moving on and improving was the only way to earn her self-respect back and to, hopefully, help save this town. She needed to use the knowledge and experience she had gained from surviving on the wrong side of the law and put it to use on the righteous, ethical and moral side. Trace realized that this may mean she would still have to fracture an ordinances or two in order to make things right but if it all led in the direction of the greater good and she could redeem her prior bad acts, it would be worth it.
*******************
After she unloaded the purchases she had made in town, Trace piled the rails she had split two days earlier onto the back of the wagon and headed out to the south fence to repair it.
Two hours later, the tall brunette was back in the barn, unhitching Moses and leading him to the stable. Before she returned to the house, she ensured all the horses were in their stalls and they had enough food and water and checked the tack to see what was in need of conditioning and cleaning. Making a mental note that some of the equipment looked a little worn and, worse yet, dry, she would ask Rachel where she kept the saddlesoap and make it a point to work on that within the next day or two. Even though she was new at being around horses and their equipment, she was not a novice at caring for leather as her gunbelts, holsters, sheaths and boots needed attention from time to time, usually determined by how often they were used.
Following dinner, Trace and Rachel were seated out on the porch again. The blonde was ripping the seams out of her father's pants and taking them in so that they would fit the detective better and the brunette was tuning her guitar.
"Do you hunt, Trace?" The blonde inquired, breaking the cozy silence between them.
"Hunt what?"
"Game...you know...food."
"No. Do you?"
"I've had my share of dinners on the hoof." She glanced over at the detective picking the scale on her new toy. "I don't like to but sometimes I've had to. Do you fish?"
"Nope."
"Do you want to learn?"
"Nope." Trace looked back at the blonde, meeting her eyes and smiling. "But something tells me I am going to whether I want to or not."
Nodding, Rachel returned the brunette's grin. "There are a couple willow poles in the barn. Tomorrow we'll go fishing."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not if you want to continue to eat here." The blonde was still smiling as she returned to her sewing.
Trace chuckled. This just felt so...comfortable. She finally had the guitar tuned and strummed a G chord. "Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys...," she sang out, her voice clear and strong. Warbling a few more verses, she stopped to retune an E string. She again looked over at Rachel, who appeared a little stunned. "What?"
"You have a very nice voice."
"Why, thank you, Ma'am."
"I've never heard that song before."
That's because it hasn't been written yet, Trace mused. "It's a standard where I come from," she told the blonde.
"What's a trucks?"
"What?"
"A trucks. In your song. 'don't let 'em pick guitars and drive them ol' trucks.' What does that mean?"
"Oh. Truck. It's like a strong wagon that moves with the power of a couple of plow horses."
The blonde tried to picture it and shook her head. "Don't think I've ever seen one of them."
"No, I would guess you haven't. They're very rare right now." In fact, downright non-existent, she thought.
Nodding, Rachel then said, "Well, it's nice to hear music around here again. My mama used to play piano in church and sing."
"Do you sing?"
"Only on Sundays in front of Pastor Edwards." The blonde did not volunteer that she had not been to church in a month. She set her sewing aside. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Yes, I would. That would be very nice, thank you." She watched Rachel stand and enter the house. The blonde had asked Trace to spend the night on the sofa again as it made her feel very protected the night before. The detective agreed without hesitation. She was pretty sure there wasn't much Rachel would request of her that she would or could refuse. She sighed. This was all so very...domestic. Shaking her head, she went back to plucking out notes on her guitar.
Inside, the water was almost to a boil as Rachel filled the metal tea ball. Feeling a pang of cramps and a wave of nausea, she held her belly tightly until the feelings passed. Listening to the detective singing right outside the window, the blonde silently argued with herself again about whether or not to tell Trace about the baby. And once more, she talked herself out of it. Placing the steeping teacups on a tray, Rachel returned to the porch.
"...and she's buy-eye-ing a sta-air-way...to...heaven..."
"That was a beautiful song, Trace. I've never heard that one, either."
"Another classic where I come from."
"Sounds like you have a lot of fond memories from where you come from."
"Some."
"If you felt like it wasn't dangerous anymore to go back there, would you?"
Would she? Good question. Would she return to the Twenty-First century if she had the option to? She took a deep breath, inhaling clean, fresh air and looked over to her left at an unspoiled sunset. Then she looked over to her right, into the emerald gaze of a woman she would never want to expose to the modern world. She stared into the trusting eyes of a woman she suddenly felt she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Right here. Forever.
"No," Trace answered, softly. "I like it right where I am."
"Good," Rachel smiled, almost shyly. "I like you right where you are, too."
"Really?" The detective tried to gauge the intent behind the words - she knew what she wanted them to mean but she was sure it was just that the blonde was grateful for her presence, thankful to have someone, anyone finally on her side, who felt no misgivings about getting involved in this mess. Trace knew she made Rachel feel safe...if the blonde felt any more than that, chances were she had not realized the full implications of it.
"You're good company. And you work hard. And you're not afraid of anything. I am very appreciative of the first two." She shook her head. "But I don't know how foolish that last one may be."
Chuckling softly, Trace sipped her peppermint tea and went back playing her guitar. Without warning, she felt her loins clench and a current of sexual stimulus galvanized her center and then radiated outward through every nerve of her body. The detective broke out into an unexpected sweat and knew she needed to excuse herself to take care of this urge, somewhere privately and quickly. Putting the instrument aside, she took another sip of tea and stood up. "I...uh...need to use the outhouse and, uh, then I'm going to get washed up at the river and be back in for the night." She began edging away.
"Right now?"
"Uh...yeah..." She stretched and faked a yawn. "It just hit me how tired I am."
As the detective descended the steps, she knew Rachel didn't quite believe her but she was positive the blonde didn't have a clue as to the real reason for her hasty departure, either. Skipping the trip to the outhouse, she headed for her room in the barn. Leaning against the closed door, just in case Rachel had chosen to follow her, it would ensure she would not get walked in on, she unbuttoned her jeans and slipped her hand inside her underwear. Closing her eyes, envisioning the blonde, it took her no time at all to relieve the pleasurable yet almost painful pressure. Feeling incredibly less tense now, she waited for her breathing to regulate and she grabbed her night clothes, heading for the bathing hole.
***********************
40.
The next morning, Trace was up and about and had even made some coffee before Rachel was out of bed. She noticed that the blonde seemed tired, sluggish and, again, pale but the smaller woman arose and dressed quickly, cooking some oatmeal for both of them without showing signs of or admitting to any nausea.
Following breakfast, the detective set up temporary targets of firewood, rusted out tin cans of various sizes, old pieces of furniture which had been broken or had fallen apart, and chipped dinnerware at different intervals and decided on which tree stumps and other fixed objects were sturdy enough to be standing marks. She further made sure that whatever she was going to shoot at was in a direction away from the house, barn, stable, pasture and path that connected the road from town to the house. That way, if she missed, the only element in danger of getting shot would be assorted vegetation.
Observing Trace from the porch, Rachel was mesmerized by how confident and methodical the detective was. She also couldn't keep her eyes off the nicely defined bulging muscles on the brunette's arms every time she lifted anything off the ground that required a little effort. Realizing she was darned near ogling the detective again, she blushed furiously and returned to her chores inside.
Oblivious to her confused admirer, Trace continued to set up and readjust marks before and after shooting at them. It seemed to take her no time at all to get used to the weapons that would now be her lifeline if her unarmed self-defense tactics failed her.
After several hours of gunfire, the blonde returned to the porch to call Trace in for lunch and watched as the detective gripped the Colt in a manner she had never seen anyone clutch a pistol before. The brunette had the revolver in front of her at arm's length, holding the .45 with her right hand, her left arm bent and clasping her right wrist, supporting the weight for, what Rachel could only assume was, a more smooth and precise shot. The blonde knew that one aimed with a rifle but had only seen pistol shooting either from the hip or with an extended arm, the gun positioned somewhere between the waist and shoulders. Trace's form and style was obviously working because her accuracy was downright impressive.
Firing off all six bullets in rapid succession, Rachel saw as debris from the targets splintered out when the slugs hit their mark dead in the center. The blonde could not help but smile. Was there anything this woman couldn't do?
That afternoon, while the blonde engaged in cleaning out the chicken coop, Trace busied herself with rigging up a makeshift boxing bag. She took several empty burlap feed sacks, threading them together with leather straps and stuffed them with dirt and hay. She kept testing the weight, adding or removing contents until she was satisfied with the heaviness and resistance and then, having already tied a thick hemp rope tightly around it and up over a solid barn beam, she pulled the rope toward her, hoisting the approximate two hundred pound, four feet high bag until it was about a good eighteen inches off the ground. She secured the rope on a wall hook and then looked at her invention. It wasn't great but it would have to do.
Protectively wrapping her hands with material she ripped up from an old discarded linen sheet and then fitting Rachel's father's oversized suede gloves over them, the detective then began to work out, using the hanging sack as a sparring opponent. Trace felt good again to be moving, throwing punches, snapping kicks, practicing doing what she felt she had been born to do - fight. Ironically, the brunette never felt more at peace than she did when she was fighting.
****************************
Rachel making the two of them tea every night as they sat down on the porch during sunset became a welcomed ritual, as did Trace breaking out the guitar and plucking out a few tunes on it. Most of the songs the blonde had never heard before and the meaning of quite a few of the lyrics were alien to her as well. However, she got to the point where she stopped asking questions regarding what Trace was singing about and just enjoyed the private concert.
What also became routine was the detective sleeping in the house. Within a week, she switched from the barn to the couch to the loft. She was not without one revolver or one rifle within reach and made sure that Rachel was equally prepared. Just in case.
She had yet to start bathing in the house and would continue to use the river until the blonde invited her to use the clawfoot tub in the anteroom. She had bought a straight razor in town and after a few nasty nicks and cuts finally got her legs and underarms shaved but it was a grooming habit she would practice sparingly from now on...she certainly couldn't help Rachel do much of anything if she were sidelined by massive blood loss...
Trace proceeded to get up every morning when the rooster crowed and ran on a path that she had created with the help of Moses and a rake, which took her approximately one-half mile around the house, the barn, the stable and the perimeter of one of the corralled pastures. Rain or shine, the detective jogged on that path, circling it at least ten times. She knew she needed to be in her best shape if there was to be a confrontation - and she had no doubt there would be one, if not many. Trace also worked out with her suspended punching bag after her jog and before beginning her chores.
Every third day, the detective reluctantly but faithfully mucked out the stalls, also checking tack and equipment for needed upkeep, becoming friendlier with all the horses, gaining Rio's trust, and provoking Zelda to become less shy around her. Every day, she saddled up Chief and rode around the boundaries of the property checking all the fence lines. Every five days, she target practiced, getting better and better with Colts and both rifles, until it was more unusual for her to miss than to hit. Every sixth day, she hitched Moses up to the wagon, directed him into town, picked up whatever supplies, groceries and necessities were required for the next week, had a beer or two at Wilbur's and slowly became more sociable with the townspeople, slowly integrating herself into the quirky, rural, Sagebrush groove, deftly avoiding the sheriff - or maybe it was the other way around.
In the meantime, Trace and Rachel became much more comfortable with each other, as though they had always lived together, shared space. Their interaction was always respectful, mutually esoteric and even though it borderlined on flirtatious, it never crossed that line into anything more. Rachel was afraid of what that would really mean and Trace was afraid her feelings would be too overpowering for the already overwhelmed blonde. For the first time in her life, Trace Sheridan thought about the impact of her actions on someone other than herself.
Every day for two weeks, the blonde suffered from some form of nausea and then went on about her day as though nothing was wrong. Every day, the brunette became more and more suspicious of the reasons behind Rachel's sickness.
*****************************************
41
Shaking off the excess water from the torrential rainstorm, Trace entered the house with the intention of advising Rachel about the break in the north fence. She was sure it was nothing but wind damage but would need to be fixed, just the same. She was about to call out the blonde's name when she heard the sound of a soft snore emanating from the area of the hearth. Removing her soaked overshirt, Trace quietly stepped closer, observing Rachel asleep in her mother's rocking chair. A small flame was flickering in the fireplace and Trace's breath literally caught at the vision before her. Rachel's natural beauty and innocence were only enhanced by the blazing light and all Trace wanted to do was reach down and take this woman into her arms. Oh, if only they were in another time.
Kneeling by the chair, Trace gently placed her hand over the blonde's which was resting in her lap. Squeezing it gently, the detective tried not to startle her. "Hey...Rach?" Her voice was soft but firm enough to stir the slumbering woman before her.
Slowly shifting her in chair, the green eyes fluttered open, pure and unguarded, slowly focusing on Trace, capturing the brunette with a warmth to match the logs burning in the fireplace. Rachel smiled easily at Trace and with a voice hoarse from having dozed off and her most recent dry heave session, she said, "I fell asleep."
"I see," the brunette responded, empathetically. "You've been doing that a lot lately. You okay?"
Unconsciously, Rachel's free arm moved across her belly, protectively. "I'm...I'm fine...why?"
The reaction did not go unnoticed by the detective. Trace's voice was tender, compassionate, "Rachel, are you...preg...with child?"
It was the kindness and lack of judgment in Trace's expression that immediately brought water brimming to the blonde's eyes. "How...how did you know?" She looked away, humiliation now flowing through every fiber of her being.
Pulling up a foot stool and sitting on it, Trace firmly took Rachel's hand in her own. The blonde did not pull away. "Well..." The detective's tone of voice was still soothing and benevolent, "...you've been tired a lot, you've had morning sickness, backaches, frequent trips to the outhouse. I have endured many of my various partners' wives pregnancies, I recognize the symptoms." Not being able to ignore the tears streaming down the pale face, Trace reached up and brushed a few drops away from the delicate cheek, cupping her jaw. "You don't have a husband, you don't have a boyfriend...a beau...no man in your life that I've seen any evidence of...yet you're going to have a baby. How does that happen?"
Turning her face away from Trace's touch, Rachel cried even harder. "I can't talk about it. I'm so ashamed."
"Ashamed? Why? What do you have to be ashamed of?" Trace pressed gently. "What did you do?"
"I don't know," she was beginning to get hysterical, "but I must have done something because he came here and took me and -"
"What? Wait - who 'took' you? When? What happened?" This was not what Trace expected to hear and the thought of it instantly brought pain to her heart and an angry knot in her chest that seemed to hold her lungs hostage.
"I can't talk about it, Trace, I can't."
"Yes, you can. You can talk to me."
Rachel shook her head, biting her lip, unable to speak.
Trace's eyes were now as dark and stormy as a raging sea. "You were raped, weren't you? You did not willingly have relations with the father of your child, did you?" The only audible response to this was a soft whimper from the obviously deeply wounded blonde. Furious, but not at Rachel, Trace had to, once again, visibly swallow her rage. She laid her head on the blonde's hand, counting to ten and then she looked up at the distraught woman, who was looking down at her. "Rachel, you have no reason to feel ashamed, do you understand? You didn't do anything wrong. You were raped. You are not pregnant by choice. It's not your fault, you didn't do anything to deserve it."
"How could you know that? You weren't there."
"Okay, let me guess what happened - you were somewhere, probably here, minding your own business, going about your day, when this man came out of nowhere and forced himself on you. You did not invite it, you did not ask for it, you did not want it...but it didn't matter. He took what he wanted anyway. You fought him, you screamed 'no' and 'stop' and he ignored you. And he hurt you. He violated you against your will."
Stunned, Rachel stared at her, wide-eyed, her voice barely audible. "How...how did you know that?"
"Because I used to have to arrest guys like the one who did that to you. It's always the same story. I know all about how they work."
"No one is ever going to believe me."
Trace took both of Rachel's hands and held them to her. "I believe you. I know what happened."
Silence enveloped them, the only noise in the room being the crackling of the fire. Both women looked at each other for a long time, eyes locked in a strange battle of emotions. Feeling her stomach flutter and heart flip, which generated those odd but pleasurable sensations throughout her body that seemed to gather in her groin, Rachel was the first to break visual contact and look down. Trace was sure she was blushing but in the dim glow of that wavering light, it was difficult to tell. Then the blonde spoke in such a hushed tone, Trace almost didn't hear her. "You are so wonderful to me...why can't you really be a man?"
"Why? What good would that do?"
Suddenly shy, Rachel turned away, squeezing Trace's hand tightly. "I would marry you."
Swallowing hard, stunned, Trace felt nearly strangled by her overwhelming want for this woman possibly within reach. "Y...you would?"
Nodding, the blonde still couldn't look at Trace. "Does that shock you? It does me."
Answering her in a voice thick with desire, trying to keep the circumstances of the confession in perspective, Trace needed to clear her throat just to be able to vocalize sound. "Um...no, it doesn't shock me." Shifting her position, Trace knelt once again by Rachel's feet, placing her forearms across the blond's lap, interlacing their fingers. She could hear Rachel's breath stop but the blonde did not resist the position. "Rachel, where I come from, it doesn't matter if a couple is a man and a woman, a man and a man or a woman and a woman. All that matters is who your heart tells you to fall in love with."
Rachel looked inquisitively at the detective, not being able to tear her eyes away from the magnetic pull of Trace's gaze. "I'm not sure I understand..."
The connection between them was now undeniable. "I think you do." When that was greeted with placid, yet complicated quiet, Trace continued. "Just don't limit yourself. That's all I'm saying. You can't make yourself love someone if the feeling isn't there and you can't always control who you fall in love with. The people in my town understand that."
"Where you come from two women or two men can get married?"
Hmmm...no way to explain the civil union as opposed to marriage in terms a nineteenth century woman would understand - frankly, she was more than a hundred years progressed and why there had to be a difference still confused the hell out of her, so she just simply said, "Yes."
"Two women or two men are allowed to publicly love each other as man and wife do?"
"Yes." Okay...so it was a lie and it wasn't. Again, much too complicated a subject to get into at this particular point and time and because Trace was masquerading as a male, it now all seemed somewhat incidental.
"Are...are you one of those women?"
"I have never been married to a woman but, yes, I have had love affairs with women."
Rachel suddenly looked like she wanted to bolt from the room. Trace felt a slight tug, as though the blonde might yank her hands away but then another expression took over - curiosity.
"Rachel, please understand. I would never hurt you. I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable, never do anything to make you ask me to leave."
Relaxing, the blonde pressed her hands more securely into the brunette's. "I know that. I know you would never hurt me." Awkwardly, Rachel cleared her throat. "Do, um, you think about me like that?"
Sighing, Trace again rested her forehead on their joined hands, then looked back up. "Would it frighten you if I said yes?"
The detective could tell that the blonde was immediately flushed, obviously never having been confronted with this particular issue before. "No," she responded, in a whisper.
Nodding, Trace couldn't keep the smile off her face. "So...what are we going to do?"
"Um...about what?"
"You're delicate condition? You're not going to be able to hide it very much longer."
Hanging her head again, the blonde's voice took on a tone of shame again. "I don't know. I don't want this child. It's a part of someone horrible. But the good lord gave me this child to carry, so I will do what I have to do."
"You know what?" Trace began, gently, "I was born from a similar situation. My mother was a prostitute, a whore, just like the women on the second floor at Wilbur's. She got pregnant with me and she never knew which man out of a possible hundred - or more - was my father. There are legal ways where I come from to ...uh...get rid of the baby before it's born but she chose to keep me. And...here I am." The brunette's smile was sincere.
The love and admiration in Rachel's eyes could not have been more clear. "It will be hard to raise a child alone here. It will just bear out everybody's inclinations that I'm wayward."
Lightly massaging the blonde's fingers with her thumb, Trace said, "You don't have to raise the child alone." Off Rachel's questioning stare, the brunette said, "Let me make a suggestion and hear me out before you say No."
"Okay."
"Everybody in town thinks I'm a man. God help me but they do. And they already suspect we've more than likely been intimate. Let me marry you and give you and the baby a name and respectability."
"Me marry you? How could that be respectable? You're a woman..."
"Yes but only you and I know that. And then, when you do meet a man who you would like to spend your life with - if you do - I will leave," Trace told her, instinctively knowing that would be a lot easier said than done. The palpable stillness suddenly seemed deafening. "Well, you think about it." Slowing sliding her hand out from Rachel's grasp, Trace stood up and stretched. "Would you like some coffee?"
"It's okay, I can make it," the blonde told her.
"No," Trace responded, a little too quickly. "No, I'll do it. You sit still."
"There is nothing wrong with my coffee," Rachel argued, playfully.
Trace made a hideous face. "No, not if it's your last request before the hanging," she quipped, "Your coffee would kill you first."
"Fine, then you make it," the blonde said, trying to sound indignant. It didn't work. With Trace staring at her, amused, with a raised eyebrow, Rachel broke into a grin.
"By the way, there is a small split in the north fence. I don't think it was anything other than wind. I put a temporary barrier there but I'll have to go back and repair it tomorrow."
Rising from her chair, Rachel nodded. "Thank you."
"Sure." As the blonde stepped by her, Trace gently fastened her hand to Rachel's elbow. "Are you going to tell me who did this to you?" the brunette inquired, non-confrontationally.
"No," Rachel responded, crossing her arms and continuing through to the kitchen.
That's okay, Trace thought to herself, I'll find out anyway. She had no doubt it was someone associated with the Cranes.
*****************
Name: Cheyne
Email: Whenpiggsfly55@aol.com
Title: Renegade
Disclaimers: See Part 1
****************
****************
42.
Had Trace really suggested marriage to the blonde? The severity and weight of that idea hit her like an anvil dropped from the top of a ten story building. Marriage? In the past, despite a few disastrous attempts, Trace's longevity (and faithfulness) in a relationship barely lasted much beyond foreplay. And now she wanted to actually marry someone? Well...as a matter of fact, yes, she did. And not just 'someone,' she wanted to marry Rachel Young. The more she contemplated this, the more elated she became.
Trace had never felt like this before, as though her heart was trying to burst through her chest, every extremity tingling, all nerve endings standing at attention. Whenever she looked at or thought about the blonde, her pulse raced, her blood pounded through her veins and her body reacted to Rachel's presence in spite of itself.
It was, to put it mildly and bluntly, the most wonderfully fulfilling and exhilarating feeling the brunette had ever experienced and she had experienced a lot. No one who knew her, from her own time, would believe this. A fact that made her smile and deeply blush at the same time.
"What are you thinking about?" Rachel inquired, bringing the brunette back to the present. Seeing the detective smile was not unusual. Seeing Trace turn red was. Fleetingly, the blonde hoped the taller woman's thoughts had been of her which, in turn, caused Rachel to become a telling shade of crimson herself.
Shrugging, not missing the blonde's reaction, Trace still held onto the tail end of a smirk. "Just thinking about how good supper was and what a good cook you are."
This, of course, made Rachel pinker and threw her off. Stammering, she finally was able to get out a shy 'thank you.'
There had been a significant change in their relationship just in the past hour. Trace's suggestion of and willingness to marry the mother-to-be had displayed a selflessness neither of them expected. Rachel presumed when the detective discovered she was with child, Trace would pack up and move on, disgusted, and it would not have mattered how the baby was conceived. She never even considered the brunette would unquestionably stand by her. The detective had once more surprised her with her kindness, compassion and understanding.
Her entire body flushed when she thought about the other momentous change between the two of them. This extremely handsome, capable and noble woman was in love with her. Trace didn't have to say it for Rachel to be able to feel it. And the main reason the blonde felt it, was that she was in love with Trace. In love. On the one hand, this scared her witless. What if anyone ever found out Trace was not a man? Two women loving each other the way a husband and wife did just wasn't right, it wasn't natural. Yet it felt like the most natural thing in the world. On the other hand, it thoroughly and almost insatiably excited her. Not even Tommy had conjured up the sexual feelings within her that Trace had, now that she had finally recognized and acknowledged them for what they were.
Rehashing their conversation before dinner prompted the blonde's knees to weaken and she reached out to hold onto the table to maintain her balance. Sneaking a look at the brunette, Rachel was relieved Trace had not noticed. She was not ready to openly confront her feelings for the detective yet or the possible meaning behind them.
Just then a deep roll of thunder growled over the house. "Storm's getting bad. Are all of the horses in?" The blonde's voice was shaky. She hoped the brunette thought it was nervousness due to the worsening weather.
"In and fed and tucked in and read a bedtime story for the night. Zelda kept wanting a drink of water but I knew it was only because she didn't want to stay in bed. But Rio seemed quite snug."
She favored Trace with a mock reprimanding glare and then she broke into a small chuckle, a sound that made the hard-ass detective's heart melt. "Well, don't be so sure. That mustang is not fond of the wind when it howls like that and I'm sure the added noise just makes him more restless."
"Will he get destructive? Should I go out there and stay with him until the storm calms down?" Trace was sincere about her offer but hoped Rachel would say no.
"If I thought it would do any good, yes, but this might go on all night. We can't baby him or we'll be out there all the time."
"I like that horse, Rachel. I'd like to make him my horse...if that's cool...okay...with you."
The blonde crossed her arms, studying the brunette. "He's cantankerous. He's not really wild but he's not tame, either. If you can break him, he's yours." She sighed. "I'm certainly in no position to do it." She looked toward the window as a bolt of lightening lit up the sky.
About four seconds later, more thunder cracked and rumbled and the rain could be heard heavily beating on the roof. Trace was sure if there had been electricity in the house, it would have been out. She placed three more logs over the two already aflame, stoking the embers, so that the wood easily caught fire.
"Tomorrow, I thought we could have rabbit stew again. Or maybe we could spit-cook it."
Trace's expression revealed that this idea was not agreeable to her. "Do we have to? I mean, it was delicious, Rachel, it's not that but...they're just so damned...I mean, darned cute..." She still had not gotten over eating Flopsy without knowing it until it was too late.
This made Rachel smile. "Why, Trace Sheridan, you big baby," she playfully taunted. "You can beat up men without a second thought, probably kill them if you had to, but you can't stand the thought of hurting a little bitty bunny?"
The detective did not like being challenged and hated being teased. But the irony of Rachel's words were true and forced a frustrated, embarrassed smile from the brunette.
"We never did go fishing like I wanted to. We are going to need something other than vegetables to eat, Trace. You don't hunt but even if you were able to kill it, something tells me you have never cut out a steer. I need the chickens for the eggs. We can't afford to keep buying our meat and soon there won't be enough food in the pantry for even the field mice to trouble themselves."
"I have money..." the detective began to protest.
"For how long? You don't make any money helping me out here and once it is gone, it's gone."
"Rachel...what happened to your cattle?"
"We had five cows, two calves and one steer. They were grazing on the south pasture one day. Went out to herd them in and they were all dead. Not rustled. Slaughtered. It was awful." She shuddered at the memory. "That night I got a visit from Gideon Crane and two of his cousins. Told me if I had sold my land to his daddy this never would have happened. I reported it to Ed Jackson and he told me I couldn't prove who did it and even with Gideon saying what he did, he didn't admit to anything."
Trace nodded. "And your crops?"
"Everything in the north sweep, which was most of the vegetables plus a field of corn was burned to the ground. Now I tend to what I can only keep an eye on from the house. Which doesn't leave me much to sell to Mr. Foster anymore. And before you ask, I had four other horses but they were spitefully crippled and they had to be destroyed."
"All because of the Cranes wanting your land?"
"Yes."
"It stops here and now, Rachel. I promise you. It's done." The conviction in Trace's oath was impenetrable. And it sent a shiver down the blonde's spine both for the intensity of the pledge behind the words and the passion with which they were said. She could only shake her head. The detective couldn't possibly have any idea what she was up against.
Tonight before bed, she would pray for Trace.
***********************
43.
The subject of marriage did not come up again the following week, nor did the internal admission regarding the discovery of being in love with each other. The conversation the night of the terrible storm had been soul baring, to say the least but, because it was also new and unchartered territory for both Trace and Rachel, for entirely different reasons, the topic was deftly avoided as each woman was not exactly sure how to broach it again.
Both desperately wanted to openly analyze their feelings but neither dared to bring it up just in case the exchange had been a scenario really born of sympathy or misplaced chivalry. Trace knew it was not, her feelings were as genuine and valid as she had ever felt in her life but the depth was just as frightening to her as it was to the blonde, who was still trying to come to terms with the fact that she was actually in love with a woman.
Rachel would start out every morning arguing with herself about the moral implications of that and how it had to be something else. She would go to bed every night after spending concentrated time with the detective during the day, believing it could not be anything else but love, regardless of Trace's gender.
Their interaction was friendly yet it remained infuriatingly neutral and any subject coming close to touching upon what they talked about the night of the storm was cautiously danced around. Still, it was constantly, individually, thought about as was Rachel's pregnancy but other issues needed to be attended to that diverted them away from the obvious.
The most pressing for Trace was that she got her period. This was utterly unwelcome, not just because it was a figurative pain but a literal one, as well. The detective had always had a rough time with first day cramping, her female organs contracting as though trying to eject one or both ovaries. Rachel, of course, had a remedy for this: peppermint herb boiled in milk and drunk hot. It worked...until it wore off. The blonde made sure this concoction was in abundant supply as the brunette's menstrual distress appeared to debilitate her immensely and make her very grumpy, indeed.
As for what was used to deal with the blood...well, this was something Trace was definitely going to have to improve on. The menstrual belt and cup Rachel had, as uncomfortably antique as it was, was all fine and dandy - if one wore a dress - however, with the detective having to wear trousers, the device would just not work. Instead, Trace made the best of rags she wrapped around small beds of cotton, washing the materials out nightly and discarding the batting that could not be cleaned, dried and re-used. She constructed ten of these little pads so that she would always have one to change into and fastened them in place with safety pins.
It was spartan but it absorbed the flow and, for the most part, stopped the blood from leaking through to her jeans. Accustomed to wearing tampons, this made her feel like she was walking with a king-sized pillow between her legs. It took some adjusting but, putting it in perspective, it was a minor cog in this new wheel of life Trace had incorporated herself into.
In the interim, the detective was very industrious with her time. She efficiently completed her daily chores, each one getting easier with practice, not to mention patience. Every morning, after grooming the horses and inspecting the tack for deterioration of any kind, Trace saddled up Chief and checked the perimeter fence of the Triple Y Ranch, dutifully noting and fixing any weakness or damage in the property line. Returning, she then mucked out the stables when they needed it, cleaned the rabbit cage, noting that Mopsy and Cottontail seemed to be getting a little heavier every day and ensured that the horses had enough to eat and drink. Then she would assist Rachel in anything the blonde needed done around the exterior of the house, barn, stable and open grounds.
Every afternoon, she followed Rachel's direction and worked with Rio to gain his trust. She had plenty of carrots and apples to offer him, treats he began to look forward to whenever he sensed Trace anywhere near him. Conditioning of living in the wild since birth predicted that the mustang learned to listen for predators on the attack and his ears would go up as soon as anything approached him. He adapted quickly to the detective's scent and the sound of her gait and reacted accordingly when she came into his line of vision.
Slowly, letting the tall brunette know he was beginning to feel confident with her, Rio allowed Trace to gently run her hands all around his head and neck but only after he got his treats. He then associated the tasty delicacies and relaxing massage with the tall detective, who was showing him he had no reason to fear her. This became a ritual with Trace speaking to him soothingly and lovingly, to the point where if the brunette wasn't with him by a certain time every afternoon, he would poke his head over the stall door and look for her.
On the fourth day, Trace hung a halter and lead on a hook by the stall door and left it there, letting Rio get used to its presence and learn it was nothing that would hurt him. Rachel advised her that in a couple days, Trace could attempt to loosely place the rope around the mustang's neck and if he did not put up any kind of a struggle or react negatively in any way, she could try leading him around. If Rio got spooked, which was always a possibility, Trace could quickly and easily remove the rope. The detective began to look forward to any time she spent with the mustang as she seemed to find a spiritual buoyancy in her connection with this horse.
By late afternoon, every other day, the detective would work an hour of target practice in with the four weapons she was easily familiarizing herself with. She was altogether proud of how efficient she was becoming with such different guns than what she was used to. She checked her ammunition and made a mental note that she was going to have to start loading her own bullets and be a little more frugal with her supply.
On the days she was not honing her proficiency with firearms, Trace was working out her self-defense skills in the barn with her hanging punching bag. She imagined the heavy, dangling dirt and hay-filled burlap container as the scum who raped Rachel. The poor, unsuspecting sack didn't stand a chance.
Then Trace spent her time busily working on and perfecting a coarse prototype shower out of a wooden beer keg with holes in it, suspended by a hemp cord over the limb of an oak tree. Connected to the barrel was a crude version of an elevated sluice where water from an offshoot of the river about twenty yards from the house could be pumped through and then held by a valve to stop or regulate its flow. When the small floodgate was lifted by yanking on a string accessible to the person standing underneath the cask, a stream of pent up water would rush into the keg and drain out through the several tiny openings Trace had created with a large nail. For privacy, the detective built a wooden stall that would enclose the showering individual, covering their modesty from shins to shoulders.
Her reward for this innovative contraption was Rachel's reaction when it was done and Trace demonstrated how it worked. The blonde clasped her hands together and nearly squealed in delight, not so much at the idea of being able to bathe this way but at the excitement and enthusiasm the detective couldn't hold back at exhibiting her 'invention.' Rachel's appreciative, complimentary and almost childlike behavior caused Trace to mentally reinforce her sudden, intense love for this young woman and her substantially inherent need to protect her.
Every evening, after supper, Trace and Rachel would sit on the porch and drink tea while the detective serenaded the blonde with some strange songs she had never heard before. Sometimes the younger woman would request a repeat of something she found catchy and worth listening to again but most of the time she just let Trace play and enjoyed the music. She had never heard a voice like Trace's before, so clear and deeply soulful, impressively always on key, with a range of several octaves.
Suggesting that maybe Trace should sing in the church choir brought about a raised eyebrow and a look that needed no commentary to accompany it. That was obviously a bad idea. Someday she would have to ask the tall detective why she appeared to carry such a disagreeable opinion of anything religious.
****************
44.
In the next couple of days, Trace continued to work with Rio. After he got used to seeing the halter hanging in his stall, the detective brought the device over to him and let him examine it, smell it, see it up close. Still speaking gently and encouragingly to him, she slowly slipped the noseband on him, to which he snorted and moved his head slightly. Under Rachel's guidance, the detective did not remove it, she just stopped what she was doing and let the mustang settle down while she used comforting words to calm him.
Delicately, she helped the halter over his sensitive ears, leaving the chin strap loose. Although he didn't appear to like it very much, he consented to keeping it on when Trace plied him with more carrots and apples. Never known for her patience, even the brunette was surprised at her equanimity with this animal. She certainly did not have it with Chief, nor did he express it with her. They had reached a state of mutual tolerance and that's how it stayed. There was no doubt, he was Rachel's horse and very loyal to her.
Once Rio was used to the sensation of wearing the halter, the detective began to lightly tug on the strap, leading him around his stall, then the stable, a little bit at a time. Rachel told Trace the most important thing was not to rush him and, instead of being anxious about this, both human and horse were finding great solace in each other's company.
The detective had never bonded with an animal before and could only now understand how rewarding it could be. The repugnant thought of anyone doing harm to the mustang - or Rosie, Moses, Chief and the precious little Zelda - horrified and infuriated her and then recalling Rachel telling her that her other horses had to be killed because of intentional maiming by the Crane clan made her even more determined to 'get even' with these brutes.
*********************
When it was time to go into town again, Trace had made a list of personal errands she needed to attend to, added to the usual business that took her to Sagebrush. First she intended to see Joseph Turner at the pawn shop. Then, depending on what transpired from there, she would open an account at the bank, talk with a few businessmen in town and after that, get what she needed for the ranch, buying a few extras like a buttery soft, French-milled soap that was lightly perfumed with lavender as a gift for Rachel. The anticipated look on the blonde's face would be worth the small extravagance. She wondered when the last time was that Rachel received or bought herself something nice.
With Isaac Tipping nowhere in site, which the detective found a bit unusual, Trace finished loading the feed and mercantile supplies on the wagon and looked over at the saloon. She was hot, tired and a beer would taste very good right about now. Rachel was not going to start dinner until dusk, so one mug shouldn't do any harm. Securing her load, she left Moses tied up to the post, patting his neck affectionately and strolled across the street to Wilbur's.
Pushing through the swinging doors, it was still hard to believe that she was actually living in the real old west. Staying on the ranch was definitely a reminder but coming into town was the clincher. She stepped up to the bar and Silas grinned at her and poured her an ale. It had only taken her a few visits to main street Sagebrush before she was known and, it seemed, pretty well liked.
Her 'male' facade was working, no doubt about that, she was automatically being taken for a tall but gangly young man and, no matter how much she protested, one of possible Native American descent or of gypsy heritage. Not that it mattered, she certainly would not be ashamed of or be offended by being either. It was the attitude of prejudice with which it was always stated that bothered her more than anything. Besides, for all she knew, she could be part anything as her father's ancestry was a mystery. She knew her mother was of Greek descent and that's what she attributed her darker features and complexion to but the piercing azure eyes must be a paternal trait as her mother's lifeless orbs were chocolate brown with gold flecks.
Well, whatever they thought she was, she knew her appearance was deceiving and anyone who confused her tall but lithe (lanky for a man, anyway) frame for inexperience and weakness would be making a deadly mistake. Hopefully, the scumbag who had raped Rachel would fall victim to that bias of thinking 'youth' and weight mattered. She had already proven to two men and the sheriff that it didn't.
Just the thought of that ugly incident and how horribly violated and destroyed the blonde must have been, set Trace's teeth on edge, nearly making her quake with rage, after her first swallow of the contents of her glass.
"Why, hell, Trace, you look as ornery as an undertaker in a ghost town. What's that expression for?" Silas cracked, pouring a shot of whiskey for himself. He held the bottle up to the detective.
Snapping herself back to reality, Trace shook her head, declining the offer, remembering her last encounter with that nasty stuff. "Nothing that this can't cure," she smiled, slightly raising her glass.
"Or that..." Silas nodded toward the staircase.
Following the direction of his gaze, Trace noticed Cassandra bounding down the stairs, making a beeline for her. The brunette couldn't help but smile at the redhead's blatant attraction for her and unbridled enthusiasm every time she saw her. Cassandra was not a bad looking woman, light-skinned, hazel-eyed and full rosy lips that Trace could, once again, only imagine what they could accomplish. It would be nice to take some comfort and ease some sexual tension that had built up to nearly volcanic proportions but there were two problems involved: the first being, if Trace allowed this prostitute to 'service' her, her secret wouldn't be a secret for very long and second, she wasn't Rachel.
Cassandra stopped her gallop and sashayed the last five or six feet to Trace's side, making an obvious show of her arrival. Leaning her elbow on the bar, Cassandra pursed her lips at the brunette and said, "Buy a lady a drink?"
Smiling, Trace bowed her head, shaking it in mild disbelief, looked back up into clearly interested eyes that today were taking on the color of her dark green dress and said, "I guess if I see a lady anywhere around, I'll be sure to do that."
The five male saloon patrons and Silas laughed uproariously at that and Cassandra pretended to sulk until Trace reached over squeezed her upper arm briefly. "You know I'm just kidding, right? What'll you have?"
"You." Her expression was sultry and practiced. She stepped so close to Trace, the brunette could feel the redhead's breath against her neck.
Taking a subtle step away from Cassandra, Trace tried to be gracious. "You can't drink me."
"Wanna bet?"
That drew a round of 'Oooooh's from the boys in the bar but Trace didn't blink. She slowly, appreciatively, gave the redhead a once over and smiled again. "Cassandra, I am sure you could make my toes curl if I gave you a chance."
"Well?"
"Sorry...although I'm sure your charms exceed most men's wildest dreams, I'm not going to give you that chance."
"Why? Don't you like me?" She pouted.
"It ain't that, Cass," Joseph Turner, standing by the staircase, jumped in, "Trace, here, is getting his toes curled by Rachel Young."
Pinning him with a glare, the force of which should have knocked him clear across the room, in a voice even and definite, Trace said, "Mind your manners, Joseph. Miss Rachel is a lady. I won't have anyone talking about her like that."
"Come on, you're telling me you're living out there on that big spread, just the two of you, and you two have never - "
"Never what, Joseph?" Trace interrupted, not believing this idiot didn't get the hint to shut up.
"You know..." Grinning lewdly, he gestured obscenely with his hands.
"I told you no, Joseph. Miss Rachel is a lady. She has nursed me back to health and given me a place to stay and that is all," Trace replied, crisply.
"Well, you're probably better off," Cassandra shrugged. "Word has it she's no virgin."
"Word has it?" Trace snapped. "Whose word?" The look in the brunette's captivating eyes turned ice blue and she was no longer playful.
"Well," Joseph said, "Ben Crane, for one. He said he's had her and she's real...uh...spirited in the bedroom."
"Who the fuck is Ben Crane and why would he say something like that?"
None of them really knew this cowboy, Trace Sheridan, that well but somehow each and every one of them realized they had just stepped over a line. Cassandra mistakenly thought she could sooth the savage beast in Trace. Reaching out for the brunette, she said, "You don't want to mess with Ben Crane, Trace."
Swatting the redhead's hand away, a motion which startled everyone, most of all the prostitute, Trace glared at Joseph. "I said: who the fuck is Ben Crane?"
No one in the saloon could believe that someone actually existed who hadn't heard of Ben Crane. They all exchanged glances. Silas cleared his throat. "Uh...the Cranes are cattle barons, Trace. They run this town. When they're here."
"That much I know." Trace stated, still not impressed. "And the Cranes, including Ben, are away, heading up their cattle drive to Kansas, right?"
"Right," Joseph offered. "They get fifty dollars a head delivering them to Dodge City. They round 'em up and drive 'em twice a year and this is one of them times. They own most of the property that surrounds the town. All except for the Young spread."
"And that spread - which Rachel won't sell - is right in the middle of their drive route, which adds an extra half-day to their trip east," Silas added, reiterating again what Trace was already aware of and then he said something the detective did not know. "Ben asked Rachel for her hand a few times, hoping it would solve the problem but she turned him down every time. Guess he finally gave up."
Gave up, my ass, Trace thought. An idea started forming in Trace's mind, putting some missing pieces of the jigsaw puzzle together that was Rachel's life before she entered it. "So why would this Crane dickhead say what he is saying?"
It was obvious the normally amiable Trace was not receptive to this particular subject at all and the atmosphere in the room had changed. The tension in the air was thick and suddenly everyone in the saloon wished they had somewhere else to be. Including Cassandra, who was still a little stung by Trace's action.
"Look, Trace, Crane told us he's had Rachel...that's all I'm telling you," Joseph told her.
"And you believe him?"
"Why would he lie?"
"You tell me." Trace glanced from face to face, her eyes challenging every one of them. No one said a word. "Okay...just for shits and giggles, let's say he had her. What's the problem?"
They all exchanged looks with one another, then back at Trace, almost embarrassed. It was Silas who finally spoke. "Well...come on, Trace...you wouldn't want a woman who's already been -"
"Don't even think about finishing that sentence, Silas," Trace warned. "First, that's an insult to Cassandra and second, if what this Crane asshole said is true, why does that make her undesirable and not him?"
Even the three men playing poker at the table against the stairs looked up at that one but no one responded to the ridiculous question.
Laughing, caustically, Trace said, "Let me get this straight, he beds her and he's a big stud and she's a whore? How come he's not considered a whore?"
"You're kidding, right, Trace?" Silas asked, a nervous little laugh getting caught in his throat.
"No, I'm not," she began, agitated. "Women are sexual beings. They have urges, wants, needs, desires just like men. But, no, we can't allow women to express that, to behave just like us because then we lose that control over them." Trace noticed, out of the corner of her eye, Cassandra smirk and look down at the floor. "Men come in here and pay for the pleasure of Cassandra's services and that's okay, we all just look the other way because that's what men do. But women...the minute they show any inkling of enjoying the sex act like a man does, deriving any pleasure from it at all, she's a whore, a hussy. Ain't right, guys," Trace told them.
Joseph, Silas and the other men all snickered. "Damn, Trace! How you talk sometimes," Silas shook his head.
"Yeah, yeah, but let's just look at this for a second...say this prick, Crane, is telling the truth and he and Miss Rachel got romantic and frisky one night and they had...relations. Who are you going to respect more? Rachel, who most of you have known since she were born - she's a good, kind, law-abiding woman who's had some pretty horrible things happen in the past year, who may have made a mistake with Crane? Or him, who slept with her and bragged about it to everyone, knowing it would ruin her good name? I don't see where there's even a choice here, boys."
Amazingly, her words sunk in and they all considered this.
"But," Trace added, employing what Bobby Montesano used to tell her was one of her most annoying traits - rubbing salt into an open wound, "I still think either he's lying or he took her against her will."
Matthew Reddick, one of the younger men playing poker, put his cards down and said, "Uh...Trace...are you accusing Ben Crane of rape? Because that could be real dangerous around here."
Knowing she had hit a nerve, Trace almost smiled at the reaction. "I'm just throwing out the scenario...you draw the conclusion yourself. Somehow, just hearing how you talk about this Crane pig tells me that Miss Rachel wouldn't willingly give him the time of day, much less give him anything else - if you understand me. And," she said, her voice steady and stern, "make no mistake, the threat of a Crane being pissed off at me doesn't scare me. Bullies never scared me."
"If the Cranes don't scare you, then you're a fool, Trace," Cassandra stated, shaking her head.
"Yeah...maybe, but I don't want to hear any more of that talk about Rachel Young. She is a good, decent woman and she has been a saint to me," Trace advised them.
Silas smiled. "Kind of sweet on her, ain't ya, Trace?"
Knowing she was blushing, Trace broke into a smile. "Well...yeah...I mean, shouldn't I be? Look at her. She's beautiful."
Matthew Reddick folded to a bobtailed flush, cleared the three dollars he had won previously off the table and stood up, putting the money in his pocket. He passed the detective with a smile. "Ya know, Trace? She deserves to finally have something good in her life again. Rachel is a good woman." He clapped the brunette on the shoulder and left the saloon.
***************************************
45
One beer had turned into four and it was just past dusk when Trace steered Moses to the hitching post outside the front door. She could smell dinner, as she hopped down off the wagon and decided to unload the supplies afterward. Unhooking the old horse, Trace led him to the barn, took the reins and harness off, placing them in the tack room and made sure the he and the other horses had enough oats and water. Then she strolled back to the main house.
"Hey," she greeted the blonde as she walked in.
Smiling more brightly at her than she ever had before, Rachel had just finished setting the table. "Hi. Go get washed up. I thought you were going to be late."
"Yeah, me too, for a minute," Trace moved to the pump and basin. "Kind of lost track of time at Wilbur's."
Concealing a wider, rib-busting proud smile, Rachel said, "Yes, I heard you defended my honor there today."
Stunned, Trace looked over at her. "How did you find that out?"
"Elizabeth Reddick came over to visit. Brought us an apple pie. Matthew hasn't allowed Elizabeth to come over here in almost a month. She said Matthew got home from playing cards and told her that Joseph Turner was saying some things about me that weren't very nice and you almost hit him."
"I didn't almost hit him. I felt like it...but I restrained myself. Good Lord, people have big mouths around here."
"So...did you defend my honor?"
Trace looked over at the glowing blonde who was grinning radiantly at her. It was contagious. "And if I did?" She was about to wipe her hands on the towel when Rachel's smile turned to a stern smirk. "What?"
"Wash your hands again, Trace Sheridan, and this time use soap!" she pointed at the basin. "Those hands are not clean!"
Trace held them up, displaying both palms and then knuckles. "No, but they match," she said in a playfully defensive tone. Shrugging in defeat, the brunette returned to the pump. "You didn't answer my question," she continued, scrubbing her hands in an exaggerated manner with a powdered, gritty borax. She anxiously looked forward to Rachel's reaction when she gave her the perfumed soap she bought her.
"If you did, I just wanted to say thank you." She said it almost timidly, after she placed a bowl of steaming hot potatoes on the table.
Wiping her hands - again - Trace studied the beautiful woman next to her. "You're welcome," she replied, sincerely, her tone almost loving. "Rachel, did Ben Crane rape you?" she questioned, gently.
It came out of nowhere, like a hard slap. Closing her eyes, Rachel stopped in her tracks. "Leave it alone, Trace," the blonde said, quietly, her now open eyes pleading and fixed on the brunette. "Ben Crane is a dangerous man."
Approaching her slowly, non-threateningly, Trace said, "Ben Crane doesn't scare me, Rachel. I've dealt with hundreds of Ben Cranes. He's an overgrown bully and bullies never scared me." Her tone was still gentle, caring.
Rachel's voice, however, was panicky. "You have no idea what he's capable of. He's a very powerful man, he and his father and brothers. You don't want to make a Crane angry. They run this town, they keep money flowing into this town. No one in Sagebrush, no matter how much they hate the Cranes, will back you up if you cross a Crane -"
"Hey, hey..." Trace's voice was loud enough to override Rachel's rising hysteria but soothing enough to let her know she wasn't arguing with her. "The town is afraid of them, I get it. They're not nice people, I get that, too. And they own Sagebrush so, in a way, they are holding the town hostage, I understand. But that does not give them the right to browbeat, antagonize, intimidate or rape anyone."
Approaching the brunette quickly, frantically, Rachel took her by the shoulders. She was crying. "Please, Trace, I'm begging you, don't go up against the Cranes!! They will kill you," she was practically sobbing, then her voice broke into a desperate whisper. "And I can't lose you."
The impact of that hushed confession stunned Trace into momentary silence. She pulled the frantic blonde into her comforting arms, and rubbed her back with one hand while tightly holding Rachel against her with another. The response from the frightened woman in her embrace simultaneously surprised and excited her. Rachel held her back, almost intimately, like a lover, burrowing into her uninhibitedly as though releasing her would have caused her to vanish into thin air. "Shhh, shhh, it's okay...I'm not going anywhere... I promise," Trace consoled her, quietly, lightly pressing her lips several times to the top of the blonde's head, absently, an action that seemed to come naturally.
She suddenly felt Rachel's body stiffen and Trace closed her eyes, mentally cursing herself for stepping over that line. She knew - whatever Rachel may have been feeling - was all new and bewildering and complicated and she was trying not to force her rapidly growing love and libidinous feelings on the blonde. As strong as Rachel was, she was still very fragile. Holding her breath, Trace decided to let Rachel make the next move.
An immediate reaction or response did not appear to be forthcoming from the blonde but neither did moving out of the brunette's embrace. Allowing the moment to play itself out, she finally heard Rachel nervously clear her throat. "Trace?"
"Yeah?" A thousand thoughts invaded her brain at once. But one seemed stronger than all the rest. She would ask Trace to leave, regardless of her not wanting to "lose" the detective. Trace was disgusted with herself for not having more self control. In modern times, her gesture would have meant nothing - right here, right now, it said much more than she felt Rachel was ready to handle.
"Did you mean what you mentioned last week?" Rachel's voice was somewhat muffled but her question came out clearly.
"I said a lot last week...what specifically?"
"About...getting married..."
Now it was Trace's turn to freeze. More from confusion than anything else. Never in a million years would she have ever expected this from the traditional, moral blonde. She stepped back putting herself at arm's length from Rachel. Reaching over, Trace gently placed her finger under Rachel's chin and lifted, forcing their eyes to meet. "What about it?"
"I want to get married...if you still want to." There it was out. Rachel had been thinking about the offer since the brunette brought it up that night of the storm. It had been difficult to think about anything else. She tried to look away from the detective but she couldn't. The expression on Trace's face was too priceless.
"If I - of course, I still want to. Why do you want to?"
"I've been thinking about what you said and...I know you would be good to me, protect me, take care of me. I know I won't find a husband, especially not being...with child. And nobody has to know the truth except you and me."
Trace's hand was now caressing her face and the blonde closed her eyes and unconsciously leaned into the touch. "I will never hurt you, Rachel. And I will make sure no one else ever hurts you again." She stepped closer and lightly massaged the blonde's belly. "I will raise this child as my own flesh and blood."
Falling into the brunette's arms again, Rachel hugged her fiercely. "I feel so safe with you. I don't care if you're a woman."
Looking skyward, Trace mouthed the words, 'Thank you.' The two women's eyes captured each other's again and Trace said, "I know you mean it."
"I do mean it. I don't care. I just never want you to leave me."
"Sweetheart, I will be here as long as you want me here, need me here." Trace didn't know when things had changed but she wasn't about to question or try to analyze it.
"I think I will always need you..." the blonde admitted, looking down, "...will always want you."
A surge of solid rapture washed through Trace's body, coursing through her veins like water through a firehose, jolting her between the legs like nothing ever had before. Heat radiated outward, igniting ever nerve in her body. She could not tear her eyes away from the flawlessly beautiful face, now staring directly at her once more.
"Would...you..." the blonde's voice was shaking, "...kiss me? Like a man kisses a woman?"
"You mean, like, romantically? Like lovers?" The detective's voice was hoarse, desire for this woman almost incapacitating her.
Blushing, Rachel smiled. "Yes...like that."
"Then let me kiss you like a woman kisses a woman. Romantically. Like lovers."
Receiving permission from the blonde's intensely willing emerald eyes, Trace leaned in and met Rachel's lips tentatively but tenderly. She let the blonde get used to the sensation, get comfortable with the idea before she attempted to deepen the gesture. Her lips were so soft, so wanting. When Rachel's arms snaked around Trace's neck, pulling their bodies even closer, the detective took that as a cue to move forward with the kiss.
Returning Trace's passion, Rachel kept up her part of the kiss as though it were normal for her to be standing in her kitchen wrapped in the arms of the female detective, as if she had been kissing women her entire life.
Trace opened her mouth, licking gently over Rachel's bottom lip. Startled, the blonde stilled for no more than a second, deciding she really liked that feeling and mimicked Trace's action. Not being able to contain a smile, Trace moaned into Rachel's mouth and fervently pursued the inexperienced woman's tongue, her own dancing with it. The blonde must have liked that, too, because she began to match Trace move for move with as much, if not more, enthusiasm.
It took every ounce of self-control the 21st century woman possessed not to let her hands roam over every inch of the 19th century woman's body, not to even remotely act aggressively with her, as she would a modern conquest. That would, no doubt, frighten the blonde, something she instinctively knew she would die before doing, die before allowing Rachel to equate the act of lovemaking with violence, which was the only experience Rachel had ever had. As she felt the blonde's body melt into hers, she continued to explore every fraction of Rachel's mouth, stopping occasionally to lightly suck on the blonde's tongue - a gesture which more than obviously made Rachel's knees grow weak.
At the same time Rachel pushed back from Trace, extricating their lips from each other, she also grabbed on to the brunette's denim shirt for support and nearness. They touched foreheads, panting, almost gasping for air.
"Oh my Lord," Rachel breathed, not completely understanding the signals her loins were sending her body.
"Are you okay?" Trace rasped, sure she should be asking herself the same question.
"I...I've never been kissed like that before. It was as wonderful as I thought it would be," she smiled, flushed, caught between feeling chagrined and aroused at the sensations Trace had stirred up within her.
"You've thought about kissing me?" Trace blinked back the astonishment.
Turning even more crimson, Rachel nodded, shyly. "Yes. A lot."
Taking the blonde's hand and pressing it to her heart hammering in her chest, Trace said, "Feel that? That's what your kiss just did to me. Anticipating kissing you has been almost as bad. Why didn't you say anything before now?"
"I didn't know what to say, how to bring it up. I was embarrassed. I've never known about women like you before. But when you told me about you, it made me think...and...I think, um, I think I might be like you..."
Leading Rachel to the table where supper had already grown cold, she gestured for Rachel to sit, while Trace squatted by the blonde's legs. "You're telling me you think - romantically - you like women better than men?"
"I don't have much to compare it to, some courting, some kissing and, well, except for -" she bowed her head almost regretfully, "you know... but nothing has ever made me feel the way that just did."
Trace reached up and cupped Rachel's chin, provoking another shiver in the blonde as their eyes met. Bringing the younger woman's fingers to her lips, Trace kissed every one. "Rachel Young, will you marry me?"
The blonde tumbled into her arms, knocking them both back onto the wood floor, Trace cushioning the fall with her own body. Both women were laughing, Rachel practically fusing herself to her new 'fiancée.'
"I take it that's a yes?" Trace asked, knowing if her smile was any wider, her face would split.
"Yes! Yes, I will marry you, Trace Sheridan!!" The small blonde spread short kisses all over the brunette's face before their lips met, inflaming both their desires once again.
Getting lost in everything that had just taken place, added with the touch of Rachel's mouth sealed to hers, Trace knew she had to stop them now, or she wouldn't be able to. She simply sat up, carefully bringing Rachel with her, so that the blonde was sitting on her lap. "So..." she inhaled, then exhaled to regain her equilibrium, "when do you want to get married? And how do we do that here?"
"We need to talk to Pastor Edwards, there shouldn't be a problem."
"That easy, huh?"
"Well, yes... and we have to see the circuit clerk and recorder at the county courthouse. Did you think getting married would be difficult?"
"Believe me when I tell you that me marrying anyone was the last thing on my mind."
"You never wanted to get married?" The look of amazement on Rachel's face was precious.
"Not until now," Trace smiled at her, giving her a playful squeeze. "How soon can we do this?"
"Someone's eager," the blonde kidded her, demurely, running a hand through the detective's thick, dark mane.
Caught off guard, Trace laughed. "Well, yeah...for a lot of reasons," she admitted, pinning Rachel with an undeniably lusty gaze. Without realizing it, the blonde crossed her legs, as though damming up the pool gathering there, not quite understanding her body's reaction. Trace noticed it and her mouth went dry as all the moisture in her body headed south, also. She gingerly lifted Rachel off her, stood up and assisted the blonde to her feet. "You're going to start showing soon," Trace laid her hand across Rachel's abdomen, "and I would like everyone to think that this is my baby."
"I would like everyone to think that, too." She stood on her tip toes and kissed Trace on the cheek. "I will make you believe this is your child. I love you so much, Trace Sheridan, I think I'm going to burst. You've made me the happiest woman alive today!"
Maybe the second happiest, Trace thought, as she lovingly embraced the warmth of the small blonde.
********************************
Name: Cheyne
Email: Whenpiggsfly55@aol.com
Title: Renegade
Disclaimers: See Part 1
****************
****************
46.
It was difficult through supper to keep their eyes off each other, to refrain from holding hands so that they could consume their food, to hold back from clearing the table by crawling over it to kiss each other. Again. Sexual impulses were new to Rachel and not acting on them was new to Trace. The much more pure blonde could not stop thinking about the brunette's lips touching hers. Trace, on the other hand, was more focused on what would happen next even though she knew she could not, would not rush Rachel into anything.
Regardless of the individual motivation provoking these impulses, both women could not stop smiling. Unfortunately, neither ended up doing much damage to the very nice dinner Rachel had prepared because they were both too excited about everything that had just transpired between them.
This was, indeed, a revelation for Rachel. The blonde had never felt like this before, not even with Tommy. His kisses were pleasant, if not a little anxious and sloppy. But even in his eagerness, as charming as he was, his overtures were comparatively boring to what she just had a taste of. And she couldn't think of the brutal and violent way Ben Crane had kissed her...she shuddered and bile rose in her throat just at the thought of being touched by him. Shaking that nightmare from her consciousness as much as possible, Rachel successfully focused back on the woman sitting across from her.
The blonde understood she did not have the sexual sophistication the brunette most likely had, but as she sat opposite the dark beauty, Rachel knew that was to her advantage. The very idea of Trace teaching her, well, everything brought a deep, anticipating, satisfying blush to her cheeks and an almost urgent heat to the lower half of her body. Enlightenment, indeed.
Trace, on the other hand, had not experienced this kind of spontaneous euphoria since her senior year in high school when she boldly kissed her androgynously cute P.E teacher, a woman she had a wicked crush on, right in the middle of being reprimanding by her for hogging the basketball during practice.
Everyone else had gone to take showers or left and Ms. Weaver, who everyone suspected was a lesbian anyway, furiously hauled the six foot tall teenager into her office and gave her the 'there's no I in team' speech. Young Trace, of course, was sassy and mouthy, protesting that nobody was working the ball and she was, without fail, the highest scorer out there so what was the big fucking deal?
The language and disrespect angered the coach but the attitude, confident bearing and feral intensity of the beautiful student took control of her better judgment, hypnotically drawing her in. Regardless of how unethical, to suggest she was not deeply attracted to the cocky eighteen-year-old would have been a lie and when, in mid-argument, Ms. Weaver found herself in the strong arms of Trace Sheridan, pushing their bodies together against her office wall and kissing her...passionately, frantically, irrationally...stupidly, she did not resist in the least.
Immediately, after the kiss was broken, the coach realized her mistake, despite how much she enjoyed it, and apologized profusely to the young girl who was stunned at her success and smiling, Trace's teenage hormonal circuits on obvious overload. Then Ms. Weaver begged and pleaded with the tall brunette not to say anything to anyone, knowing she would not only lose her job but most likely be brought up on charges, as well, even though she didn't initiate it.
Seeing only benefit in the awkward situation, the hotshot high school basketball player recognized an opportunity of emotional extortion when she saw it. Knowing she now had the upper hand, Trace worked out a deal with the mortified and reluctant coach where Trace could get away with anything on the court and never be yelled at, pulled out of or suspended from the games personally by Ms. Weaver. This 'agreement' lasted two weeks before the teacher, barely avoiding a nervous breakdown, resigned and transferred out of state. Trace never thought about that unexpected kiss though, without getting butterflies in her stomach and a foolish, shit-eating grin on her face...kind of like the one she was sporting right now, as she got up from the table.
Their supper had been relatively quiet. They ate a tepid meal almost mechanically, each women preoccupied with her own thoughts about what the immediate future might bring them together and individually. Helping Rachel clear the table, Trace affectionately kissed the blonde on top of the head, squeezing her shoulders as she went outside and unload the wagon.
Now that she had proposed - an act she would have previously not believed she was capable of either suggesting or accepting - she never thought she would be so thrilled about getting married. Hadn't she always said that marriage was another word for 'ownership?' Was that what this was about? Did she want to possess Rachel, claim her as her private property by right of conquest? No, she detested that kind of behavior. And yet, she knew as sure as she was standing there that she did not want anyone else to have Rachel, just the thought of that caused pain to claw at her heart. This may have been all new to the blonde but it was all pretty foreign to Trace, as well.
Before Rachel Young had entered her life, the idea of spending twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week with anyone was ludicrous and unacceptable. Now, the thought of spending one minute away from her seemed unbearable. Shaking her head at how she could change so completely because of one person and in such a short period of time, the detective finished stocking the pantry shelves with her trademark raised eyebrowed smirk.
When Trace had finished, she stepped back out into the kitchen with her hands behind her back, approaching the blonde who was putting the dishes away. With uncharacteristic reserve, the brunette cleared her throat to get Rachel's attention. Turning around, the blonde beamed at the detective, then tilted her head, questioningly at Trace's body language.
"I brought something back from town for you," the brunette told her, watching an expression of near cherubic wonder appear on the blonde's face.
"You...? Did you buy me a present?" Rachel asked, with childlike enthusiasm.
"Mmm hmm," the brunette nodded, inching closer.
"What is it? Let me see!" She attempted to dance around Trace's back but the brunette simply moved with her. "No fair, Trace...! It isn't nice to tease me...!"
Highly amused at the blonde's eagerness, the brunette said, "I'll give it to you for a kiss."
Stopping before her, Rachel got goosebumps at the thought of Trace's lips against hers again. Grinning, the blonde crossed her arms. "How about you give it to me and if I like it, then I'll give you a kiss..."
"Oh? You feel you're in a position to barter?" the detective intoned with a grin.
Knowing Trace wanted to kiss her just as much as she wanted to be kissed, she said, "Uh huh."
Shrugging, the detective then nodded, knowing that, either way, she was going to get her wish. "Put your hands out and close your eyes," Trace requested.
After Rachel did as she was told, the detective then brought her arms around to her front and placed the tissue enfolded gift in the blonde's palms. Opening her more than appreciative emerald eyes, they widened in surprise and gratitude, as she immediately recognized the wrapping. "Oh...Trace," she breathed, holding the soap up to her nose and appreciatively inhaling its fragrance. Her eyes blinked back up at the incredible blue ones that looked into her soul. "You are so sweet I could eat you with a spoon."
She had to stop saying stuff like that, the brunette thought, knowing the blonde had no clue of the double entendres she so frequently and innocently spouted. "Now...where's my kiss?"
Eyes brimming with tears at Trace's thoughtful gesture, Rachel almost jumped into her arms. "Thank you," she whispered, lifting her face to meet the brunette's.
Trace's lips lightly brushed the blonde's, tauntingly, then claimed them for a slow, sweet, lusciously deep kiss that left Rachel quivering and eager for more. And the only reason Trace didn't comply was that the response from the blonde left her breathless and almost too light-headed to stand.
When the detective pulled back slightly, she saw Rachel's eyes glistening for an entirely different reason now, fully aware of the fire she kindled in the blonde. "My body hungers for you, Trace," Rachel confessed, in a hushed tone, as though she were embarrassed by her own desires. "You have awakened something way down inside me and I have never known a need so blind and demanding and unreasoning..."
As this came from someone quite inexperienced with being in touch with her own sexual feelings, Trace found this declaration enticingly erotic. She was about to suggest the possibility of taking this to the next level when the blonde then said something that caused her carnal urges to put on the brakes.
"...But I want to wait until we can be together in our, um, marriage bed..."
Trying desperately not to act out the disappointment she felt, knowing that this request was extremely important to the blonde, Trace exhaled and nodded. She caressed Rachel's face and kissed her forehead. "Can we get married tonight?"
Hugging her fiercely, Rachel chuckled into Trace's shoulder. "Don't think it's not killing me, too, 'cause it is."
Smiling lovingly and indulgently, the detective knew it was going to be an impossibly long night.
******************************************
47.
Trace awoke to the sounds of her bride-to-be retching downstairs. Getting out of bed, slipping into some clothes, the detective descended the loft and found the blonde outside on the porch, once again bent over at the waist and dry heaving into the bushes.
The sun had at least one more hour before debuting another day and the morning was dawning clear and cold, a fact that was contradicted by Rachel's profuse sweating. She sensed Trace behind her before she actually saw her or felt the detective's hands on her back. The brunette gently pulled the blonde's hair away from her face and held it while Rachel experienced another round of convulsive nausea. When she was finished, she turned slightly and sat on a porch chair, holding her belly, looking up pathetically at Trace.
The detective's expression was helpless, sympathetic. "Oh, sweetheart, I wish there was something I could do to make you feel better..."
"Just your being here makes me feel better," Rachel managed to get out.
"Why don't you sit here and take in the fresh air and I'll go heat up some water and get the ginger," Trace suggested. Receiving a weak nod in response, the detective disappeared into the house. Returning to the porch a few moments later, the brunette sat down in the chair opposite the blonde. "So, Rachel, what else is going on with you? What else are you feeling?" Trace reached over and gently massaged the blonde's shoulder. "Craving anything special or different to eat?"
Looking up into caring blue eyes, the startled blonde answered, "Yes. Something, anything soaked in salted vinegar. How could you know that?"
Trace smiled, patiently. "It's a well known symptom of being pregnant. Just like you starting to take more and more trips to the outhouse, you being tired all the time, I bet your back is starting to ache..."
Rachel's expression confirmed Trace's list of subtle physical changes.
"What about headaches?"
"Yes."
"Are your breasts tender and swollen?"
"A little. I...I get cramping, too and I don't know if that's normal. I don't want there to be anything wrong with the baby."
"Are you constipated?" Trace's voice was not intrusive, instead, it was laced with concern and compassion.
"Yes," the blonde admitted, shyly. She wasn't used to talking about her bodily functions with anyone except Doc Smith and her mother.
The detective recognized Rachel's discomfort and chuckled lightly. "It's okay, sweetheart. All of that sounds very typical. And your cramping is most likely due to your being constipated and that, and your more frequently having to pee means the baby is growing and beginning to press against your bowel and your bladder. Unfortunately, it's only going to get worse. I'm sure the baby is fine. But it's getting bigger, Rachel, and we need to get married before that baby begins to show."
Flattening her nightshirt across her tummy, she displayed what she thought was a slight bump. "I'm already starting."
Focusing on the blonde's lower abdomen, Trace couldn't really see any obvious bulge but Rachel must know her own body. Even if it was just bloat, the detective could not help but grin excitedly. Moving off the chair, she knelt down to the side of Rachel's legs and looked up into sparkling jade eyes. "May I?" the detective asked, her hand hovering a few inches above the blonde's belly.
"Yes, of course," Rachel answered, breathless by Trace's reaction.
The brunette slowly laid her palm across the material covering the area indicated on the blonde's stomach. Knowing the baby was probably only slightly larger than a walnut at this stage, Trace didn't expect to feel any movement but it didn't matter. It almost felt like her son or daughter was growing inside this beautiful woman she now knew she was desperately in love with. Leaning in, Trace lovingly planted a kiss on Rachel's tummy before looking up into the reverent eyes of the blonde. "I love you," she stated, simply.
"I love you, too," Rachel answered, in an intense whisper. "What ever did I do to deserve you, Trace Sheridan?"
"Oh, no," the detective, shook her head, smiling, as she stood up. "I'm sure it is much more 'what did I do to deserve you'." Not being able to stop herself, she leaned down and kissed the blonde tenderly on the lips. Rachel did not resist.
"How could you want to do that after what I was just doing?" the blonde wondered out loud.
"For better or for worse," the brunette responded, caressing Rachel's face. Trace then went back inside the house to take the boiling water off the stove. When she walked back out onto the porch, the blonde was standing. Handing Rachel the steaming cup of liquid that smelled strongly of ginger, Trace stood behind the blonde, encircling her arms around the still slender waist and Rachel leaned back into the strong, comforting body. Together, with an intimate silence surrounding them, they watched the sunrise.
********************
Three days later, Trace and Rachel were once more on their way to town. Rachel needed to stop into Molly Ledbetter's Dress Shop and ask her about possible alterations on the wedding gown she was bringing to her. But first, since she wanted to start going to church again on Sunday, the blonde did not want to put off talking to Pastor Edwards about performing the marriage ceremony too much longer.
Trace was not as enthusiastic about going to meet the preacher, as she was sure getting the cleric's blessing would involve a promise to join his congregation. Looking over at her bride-to-be who was seated quietly next to her, obviously lost in thoughts of her own, the detective could not keep the smile off her face. If it paved a smoother path to the altar, that is what she would do - whatever it took to make Rachel happy.
The past couple days had been extremely productive. Trace's breaking of the mustang was coming along just fine and her afternoon workout with the punching bag dangling from the barn beam was getting her back in not only physical fighting shape but it was also helping to discipline her psychologically, as well. Then she and Chief would take a scouting ride around the perimeter of the ranch, making mental note of anything that looked broken or suspiciously out of place.
During the detective's last visit to Sagebrush, she had pawned two more items that Mark had given her. She still had plenty of cash left over from her previous visit to Joseph Turner's shop but her plans for the Triple Y required quite a bit of money - if she was going to become the 'man of the house,' so to speak, securing the property was going to be done her way.
After speaking to Pastor Edwards, with Rachel most likely spending a good portion of the afternoon being fitted for her wedding dress, Trace would check to see if her order came in to the mercantile yet. It only had to be brought in from Jefferson, which was a five hour wagon ride, and the request went out the next day by horseback. Then it would be off Wilbur's to throw back a few ales, maybe play a hand or two of poker and check on the progress of her 'under-the-table' deal with Silas. She had not said anything about her plans yet to her future wife, knowing that Rachel would fret unnecessarily at the tauntingly insolent challenge it would present to the Cranes.
With the exception of kissing, now that the physical boundaries of the engagement had been set, with Trace literally sitting on her hands at times to keep them from inappropriately touching her betrothed, the detective and the blonde discussed plans for their wedding in practical terms. The brunette would absolutely defer to Rachel concerning any matter of the ceremony because Trace had no idea how any of this went. Even in modern times, Trace had never been a part of a wedding, other than being a guest, so she would have to follow the blonde's lead in this matter.
The detective expressed a desire to get Rachel an engagement ring but the blonde felt money shelled out on something so frivolous could be better spent in more necessary and realistic areas...like food and supplies. It was the blonde's desire to wear her grandmother's wedding band, which had been passed down to her mother and now sat in a small, red velvet-lined jewelry box in the bedroom Rachel now occupied. Fortunately, she and her mother were the identical ring size and the thin, rose gold band fit nicely on her small, delicate hands.
Frank Young's wedding band did not fit Trace however, the larger version of what Rachel would wear being at least two sizes larger than the brunette's left hand ring finger. So, as it was the blonde's wish for the brunette to wear the matching band, Trace would have to have it resized, hoping the goldsmith in town would be able to accomplish that with little problem.
Also in the wagon, folded neatly between two shawls, was Rachel's mother's wedding dress. She was taking it to Molly Ledbetter's to be altered so she could wear it. Fortunately, Minnie Young had been a smidgen taller and a little thicker around the waist than Rachel, so when the blonde tried it on two days earlier, the saffron taffeta oval-printed gown fit almost perfectly, good enough to where she didn't want it taken in anywhere. Rachel was lucky to have a figure that didn't have to be cinched into a corset, although a bone bodice underneath would certainly make the dress look nicer. However, with a baby now growing inside her, she would sacrifice style for comfort. What she hoped Molly would be able to do was provide crinoline petticoats and turn the high collared gown into one with a moderate sweetheart neckline. If she couldn't, that was okay, too, just the satin, lacy underskirt would be fine.
Nearing the outer edge of Sagebrush, Rachel boldly reached over and slipped her hand in Trace's, interlacing their fingers and squeezing. The detective brought the blonde's fingers to her lips and kissed every one, only letting go of Rachel's hand when she absolutely had to.
********************************************
48
Trace glanced around at the repetitive scenery as she guided Moses through Main Street. Passing the barber shop, the detective observed the same four older gentlemen she always saw, sitting outside, gossiping. If she didn't know it had not been invented yet, she would have believed they were human-looking animatronics, as the old boys, who sat in the same order, in the same relaxed, lazy positions, always seemed to stop speaking when she passed and all nodded their heads simultaneously, the only part of their body which seemed to move at all. It happened precisely in the same sequence every time she came to town.
Noticing what the detective was looking at, Rachel smirked, reaching up and ruffling the shaggy locks that hung below Trace's cowboy hat. "Obviously, your hair has not seen a barber's shears in a while. You may need to stop in there before the wedding."
"Spare me. You can trim up my hair."
"Well...I used to cut my father's, I suppose I could cut yours."
"No supposing about it, I'm not setting foot in there."
Moses slowly continued by the bustling entrance of the hotel where at least three people were having their luggage loaded onto the stagecoach. Trace shook her head...a real, live stagecoach with gilt lettering on the side...it was unbelievable. She further observed a few cowboys standing around talking, rolling cigarettes or disgustingly spitting out long streams of tobacco juice into the street in front of Wilbur's. Above them, leaning over the second floor railing, shouting down teasingly at the young, virile men, were at least three 'pleasure women' from the bordello over the saloon. Cassandra wasn't among them, Trace noticed, and she guessed that the voluptuous redhead must be entertaining the mayor since it was a round lunch time.
The old horse then moseyed past the deserted telegraph office, heading straight toward the small, quaint, wood-constructed, white-washed church. Rachel quietly studied her 'husband'-to-be. She had the sudden urge to lean over and kiss the stunning detective, her heart rate picking up at the mere thought of it. But taking such public liberties, especially before they were married, would only add to mounting rumors that Rachel and the drifter had probably shared a bed already. Suddenly without warning, a blush crawled up the blonde's face, her imagination supplying her with impure visions. And then she became annoyed with herself for feeling as giddy as a schoolgirl.
There had been a mild argument before they left the house, as she insisted Trace trade her sleeveless cotton workshirt and dungarees for 'go-to-meeting' clothes. The brunette was stubborn but finally compromised by donning one of Rachel's father's not-so-freshly boiled, button-down, white shirts and a clean pair of denim trousers that the blonde had taken in so that Trace no longer needed suspenders. The blonde sighed deciding that the brunette looked mighty handsome. And somewhat jittery, Rachel gathered, watching the detective remove her hat and wipe some perspiration off her brow with a faded red bandana that had also belonged to Frank Young.
"Why, Trace, you're sweating like a whore going to election. There's no need to be nervous. Pastor Edwards is a very nice man."
"I am not nervous," Trace said, nervously, as Moses slowed in front of the church.
**************************
Stepping into the apparently unoccupied house of worship behind Rachel, Trace looked around at the antiquated setting. It had an unexpected charm and character and a warmth she was very surprised to actually be able to feel. She hoped the atmosphere reflected the attitude of the minister in charge of this multi-denominational church.
"Pastor Edwards?" Rachel called out, her voice reverberating around the empty chapel. "Trace, remove your hat," the blonde advised, in a low voice.
The detective took the hat off and twirled it in her hands. Reaching out, the blonde snatched the hat and held onto it, glancing up, rather impatiently at the tall brunette. Trace just grinned sheepishly.
Rachel took another couple steps forward into the main aisle that divided the ten rows of pews. "Hello? Pastor Edwards? It's Rachel Young."
There was still no answer as Trace moved up behind the blonde, suddenly getting the urge to whistle. So she did. Until she looked down into the very exasperated green eyes of her fiancée. "What?"
"Good Lord, Trace, you act like you've never been in a church before!" Rachel mildly reprimanded.
She was about to say she was surprised the sky didn't fall the second she stepped over the threshold, when a middle-aged man appeared in a doorway off to the right. "Got his attention, didn't it?" Trace countered, her voice hushed.
"Hello?" He squinted, then recognizing the blonde, he smiled affectionately. "Rachel. I'm so happy to see you. It's been a while." Reaching her, halfway down the aisle, he stopped, taking the blonde's hands in his own, in a gentle, fatherly manner.
"Yes, Sir, I know. I really have no excuse, other than it has been a bad couple months at the ranch."
"I know The Lord forgives you, Rachel," Peter Edwards told her, his tone appeasing, which immediately sandpapered Trace, who was caught rolling her eyes by her irritated bride-to-be.
Shrugging defensively, the detective began conspicuously focusing on other objects in the church, like the pulpit, the crucifix on the wall behind it and the one small stained glass window above the cross...and, wow, nice use of exposed beams in the ceiling. Which was obviously more necessity than fashion statement. A sudden poke in the ribs brought her attention back to a pair of curious and, as much as she hated to admit it, wise brown eyes.
"Pastor Edwards, I would like you to meet Trace Sheridan...the man I am going to marry."
A hand had begun to extend toward the detective and it was quickly pulled back. "Marry?" Edwards tried his best not to glare at Trace before fastening his gaze at the blonde. "This is...abrupt...why, I didn't even know anyone was courting you since Thomas passed on."
Rachel tried her best to stay upbeat and not be put off by the reverend's less than enthusiastic reaction. She had anticipated it. "Yes, I am sure it does seem quite sudden but Trace has been courting me for a month now and, well, I don't want to wait. We're in love and we would like to be joined in holy matrimony as soon as you can arrange to do that."
Again, Edwards gave Trace a once over, then looked back at the blonde with the determined set to her chin. "But, Rachel, I have never seen this man before, we don't know him...Does he understand - do you understand that him marrying you might get him an audience with the Lord?"
"Uh, hello...I'm right here..." It annoyed the detective enormously when people talked about her like she was not even in the same room with them.
Linking her arm with Trace's, Rachel ignored the obvious and then stated, "I know him, Pastor Edwards. And I do not think that I could find anyone better suited to me." She winked, reassuringly, at the detective, a gesture that instantly calmed Trace down.
"I don't know, Rachel..." He shook his head and studied Trace who suddenly felt like a specimen in biology class. "How long have you been in Sagebrush, Mr. Sheridan?
"About a month now."
"You got here a month ago and you've been courting her for a month? You don't waste any time, do you? Where are you from?"
"Cottonwood."
"Never heard of it. Must be far from here."
"It is."
"Is Trace your full Christian name?"
"Trace is my name, yes." She knew how ministers liked to use the complete name of the individual they were addressing or speaking about and she would be damned if anyone would call her Tracey except her mother. Her middle name, Lee, was both masculine and feminine, so that wouldn't have been a problem but she wasn't going to volunteer that, either. Someone calling her Tracey Lee would bring her back to being seven years old and flushing her mother's cigarettes down the toilet and having Zelda repeat it over and over as her little behind got whaled on. Whenever she heard, "TRACEY LEE!" she knew she was in trouble. She did not need that reminder here.
"Where is your family?"
"All I had was my mother and she's gone now." A tiny line of pain seared through her heart as that might very well be the truth. "I left there because I had no more reason to stay and I ended up here."
"What is it that you do?"
"Currently? Or as a trade?"
"Both."
"I am a ranch hand, as of the last month, but before that I was a...well...kind of like a deputy sheriff."
Edwards eyes widened. "A sheriff?" He was clearly shocked. "A sheriff..." He said it again, as though trying to digest the idea of it. "Like Ed Jackson?"
"I was nothing like Ed Jackson," Trace responded, evenly. But that was a lie. She had been exactly like Sheriff Jackson...only more corrupt.
Immediately, a broad smile adorned the preacher's face. He then proceeded to let loose a big, boisterous guffaw that startled both the blonde and the brunette. "Rachel, you have made my day! You're going to marry someone who used to be the law! That will certainly ruffle a few Crane feathers. I cannot wait to see the look on Benjamin's face when he returns from Dodge City and you are no longer available to him."
"I was never available to him, Sir," the blonde replied, respectfully but indignantly.
"I know that, Rachel," Edwards said, kindly. "Diabolic intent runs through the blood of those Cranes, especially Benjamin. Don't think for one second I ever believed any of those sinful stories Benjamin was spreading about you. But he is going to be madder than a flea without a dog when he gets back here and finds you married." His tone of voice was quite tickled as he looked at Trace. "And to someone he cannot immediately get a rise out of, I would suspect."
"No, Sir, I am not easily intimidated."
"That's good, son. You're going to need a backbone to face down this man - and I use that word loosely. You're also going to need eyes in the back of your head because these Cranes are sneaky and not honorable. You sure you're up to that?"
"Yes, Sir. I want to marry Rachel and take on all the responsibility that goes with it," Trace told him, sincerely.
Smiling at the detective, eyes twinkling in a mischievous manner, the reverend clamped a big hand on Trace's shoulder. "And all the glory, too, I suspect," he chuckled, winking at the blonde.
"Pastor Edwards!" Rachel said, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
Joining the minister in laughter, Trace decided she liked this man. His slightly off-color insinuation was not accompanied by any kind of leer or lascivious intention. It was more like he was just stating an obvious fact. Even as aghast as Rachel was at the pastor's implication, she could not stop herself from smiling through her moral indignation, even if she still held a mortifying blush. "It's a guy thing," the detective appeased, hoping she'd never have to say that again.
"Well, come on back to the parsonage and let's talk about getting you two hitched. Mrs. Edwards was just baking some raisin bread when I left, we can at least enjoy that and some tea while we go over the details. I'll let Henry know, over at the court house that you two will be stopping by later."
"Who's Henry?" Trace wondered.
"He's the county circuit clerk," Rachel supplied, as they followed Edwards out of the church.
"And the town crier. I don't know who you have or haven't told but once Henry knows, everybody will know." Shaking his head in amusement, the minister was thinking out loud. "If you know what you're up against and still want to marry this woman, you've got a spine, boy. My hat is off to you. Maybe there's hope for this town yet."
****************************
48
Following a nice visit with Pastor and Mrs. Edwards who offered a snack of dry-as-a-bone raisin bread that Trace had to literally choke down every bite with several gulps (requiring several refills) of tea, the detective could not wait to get to Wilbur's Saloon for a mug of ale.
They had agreed on a small wedding to be performed on the upcoming Wednesday evening, which was only three days away. In private, Trace had to convince the amiable reverend that she had not yet had 'relations' with Rachel, therefore had not caused Rachel to be in a 'family way' and the reason for the hasty ceremony was that Rachel wanted to be married and settled before the Cranes returned from their drive and Trace wanted to get married quickly because, well, you know, wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Edwards bought it.
The detective had not lied and hopefully this baby would not be born early because it was going to be suspicious enough that Rachel would deliver well before nine months after Wednesday night (and she knew people always counted) and them persuading everyone that the full-term, full-size infant was really "premature."
Walking Rachel to Ledbetter's Dress Shop, Trace handed the wedding gown to her betrothed, wanting desperately to lean over and kiss her senseless. The blonde's expression revealed that the feeling was mutual. They stood still on the boardwalk letting life pass them by unnoticed, until a customer emerged from the store and snapped them out of their connected daydream. Sighing, Rachel stepped back, turned and disappeared inside the shop.
Trace moved on to the goldsmith's, where he measured her finger and promised to have the ring ready in approximately two hours. He put a rush on it, as the detective allowed him to keep the gold extracted from the band and paid him a twenty-five cent piece as a good faith tip.
She then strolled to the mercantile to find only half of her order had come in and if she wanted the rest, she would have to go to Jefferson to get it herself. Problem seemed to be that the man who drove the wagon with supplies once a week had two lame mules. The detective knew it was useless to get angry, a man certainly couldn't do much about lame mules, other than let them heal. She debated as to how soon she would need the other half of her order and if she could wait. She decided she would rather have it all before she began the project she had in mind.
It looked like she would be taking a trip to Jefferson. She wondered if her bride would like to go with her, spend the night and then come back. The idea of Rachel being alone at the ranch all night long did not sit well with the detective. Especially with the shitstorm this marriage was going to create. The newlyweds-to-be were upping the stakes and they would have to be extra vigilant now.
Loading the merchandise carefully onto the wagon, Trace noticed a pair of dungarees and boots standing a few feet away from her. Looking up, she met the curious eyes of Isaac Tipping.
"What can I do for you, Isaac?" Trace asked, much more politely than she felt.
"Need some help loading that?"
The detective stopped and studied him. He appeared straightforward. "Sure. But don't get cut. Those edges there will draw blood if you're not careful."
Nodding, the teenager cautiously picked up a coiled batch and placed it onto the back of the wagon. "What is this stuff?"
"Barbed wire."
"What do you do with it?"
Again, Trace scrutinized the young man. Was he really asking out of curiosity or was he scouting again, doing dirty work for the Cranes? His arm had obviously mended, as he had no problem lifting and moving. Had she really changed his mind about a life of crime or did he just agree with her to pacify her? She might as well tell him, it would probably be all over town by the time they got back to the Triple Y anyway. "It's a fence."
"A fence?" He stopped loading and looked intently at the mass of spiky wire curled in circles and tied with strings of hemp. "Miss Rachel already has a fence on the property."
"Yes, she does...a fence that doesn't seem to mean diddly to a certain cattle family."
Isaac cracked a smile. "Diddly." He shook his head. He'd never heard that word before but he liked it. He continued loading. "So you gonna put this up to stop them?"
"Well...it sure as hell will surprise them. At the very least, slow them down."
"Uh...Mr. Sheridan?"
"Yes?"
"I was inside when Mr. Taylor told you that only half your fence was here. I
have to go into Jefferson on Thursday to pick up a some staples and supplies for my father. If you'd like, I could pick up the rest of your fence and bring it back for you. I could even bring it out to the ranch, if you want."
"Why would you want to do that?" Trace inquired, curiously.
He hung his head. "I did a bad thing. And I will do anything to make up for it. Now, maybe I ain't right in the head, but I think I would rather be on your side than do anything again for them awful Cranes." Slowly, he looked back up at the brunette. "So, if you'll let me, I want to help you fight them."
Even though he seemed sincere, Trace was hesitant. "That will be dangerous, Isaac. I don't think your father would approve."
"I'm all growed up and haired over, Mr. Sheridan, I been a man for almost a year now, even had myself a painted lady on my last birthday, did her up right nice, too" he protested, indignantly.
"That's a little too much information, Isaac," Trace smiled.
"I don't need my father's permission to do anything. I'm trying to save my father and my mama and the store. You're the only one willing to help me do that. So, you tell me what you need done and I'll do it."
The detective looked him over again. He was shorter than she was, hadn't really filled out yet but...she could work with him, get him in shape. An army gets built one person at a time. "Okay, Isaac. Tell you what...I'd appreciate it very much if you picked up my order in Jefferson. When you get back, we'll talk about how we're going to fight these Cranes, okay?"
"Really?" His voice cracked, causing him to curse under his breath but he recovered quickly.
"Really. Wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."
"Thank you, Mr. Sheridan!" Isaac said, gratefully. He thrust his hand forward and Trace shook it, almost laughing at his enthusiasm. He returned to loading the barbed wire with a fervent energy he hadn't displayed before.
"Call me Trace, okay? I mean if we're going to work together, you can't be calling me Mr. Sheridan all the time."
He nodded. "All right, Trace."
"And Isaac?"
"Yes, Trace?"
"Have you ever been a best man before?"
**************************************
"Married?!" Molly Ledbetter bellowed. "Who are you marrying? That drifter ranch hand you said this was the last thing that would happen between the two of you?"
"That would be the one," Rachel beamed.
Molly held the blonde out at arms length and looked her over from head to heels. "Rachel Frances Young...you are radiant. I do believe you have fallen in love."
"Yes, Ma'am, I do believe I have. I have never felt like this before, not even with Tommy, and I cannot wait to marry him," the blonde admitted, wistfully.
"When's the wedding?"
"Wednesday evening. Pastor Edwards will be presiding."
The middle-aged store proprietor dropped her hands by her sides. She looked skeptical, almost disappointed. She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to her next question. "That's right quick, Rachel...any reason for that?"
"I know what you're asking, Miz Ledbetter, and I have not had Trace Sheridan in my bed. He has been nothing if not a gentleman. We are waiting for the wedding night."
Molly nodded, sighing, relieved. "I believe you, girl, I just had to ask. Why so soon then?"
"Just want to be all settled in as a wife before the Cranes get back."
"You know Ben's heart will be black with jealousy."
"Then that is just something Ben is going to have to find peace with," Rachel responded, unrealistically.
"That young man you're marrying, does he have a notion as to what he's getting himself into?"
"Yes, Ma'am, he is aware and he will be ready for it all."
"Just think about it. You already lost one man to an untimely bullet, you don't need to be a widow on top of it."
Rachel followed Molly to her counter, knowing the older woman was fretting about her like her mama would have. "I deserve to be happy, Miz Ledbetter. I deserve more choices than Ben Crane or spinsterhood. Trace Sheridan is the only one to come along who isn't afraid of them."
"He crazy?"
"No. He's just sure of himself."
Molly laughed, ruefully. "Being too sure of yourself can be deadly in Crane territory. Let's hope he won't be joining the other ones who were too sure of themselves in the Almighty's Kingdom." She turned around to see the blonde pouting. "Now, Rachel, I am not trying to be downtrodden but I just don't want to see you go through this again."
Quietly, the blonde said, "I don't want it to happen, either, surely I do not and with Trace, I don't think it will. No disrespect, Miz Ledbetter, but I would like you to help fit me into something I can get married in, so could we not talk about me choosing a mourning dress before you alter my wedding dress?"
Suddenly feeling quite maternal toward the young woman, Molly pulled her into a warm hug. "You're right. I am sorry. Here, you come to me with this wonderful news and all I can do is be discouraging. I do apologize Rachel. You are all I have left of your mama and I just want what's best for you." Taking the blonde's hand, she tugged her toward a fitting room. "Now, let's see what we can find you."
************************************
49.
Finally, Trace was able to get to Wilbur's. She was beginning to really like the place, the atmosphere being a combination of unpretentious raunch and folly. She was happy that she had been accepted into the fold, for the most part, held in rather high, if not silent, esteem for standing up to Sheriff Jackson and becoming known for her generosity with gratuities for the bartender.
There was a method to her madness on that last one. Bartenders always had their fingers on the pulse of life that circulated through their realm. Trace learned quickly that Silas was the 'go-to' guy in town for information and deals. The more benevolent she was with the affable barkeep, the more she could count on his feeling obligated to help her out. And, she knew, he genuinely liked her, so that helped. She also knew that he had to trust her implicitly to assist her in doing anything that would defy the great Crane empire. She smiled to herself. Yep. An army one person at a time.
Stepping through the hinged half-doors, Trace scanned the saloon for familiar faces, friendly and hostile alike, and unfamiliar individuals who might be up to no good. As she did not know who was 'owned' by the Cranes and who wasn't, she had to depend on Silas and her own sixth sense to tell her when someone might have a desire to cause her some problems. It's not that Trace didn't expect it but she did not like to be blindsided.
Moving over to the bar and a grinning Silas Boone, who already had a full mug of ale waiting for her, Trace noticed a table full of Native Americans in the corner by the staircase. She wasn't sure if that was unusual or not but no one in the bar seemed to pay any extra attention to the four men dressed in pullover shirts that looked to be made of deer skin, leggings bordered with (what she hoped was) horsehair and knee-high rawhide-soled moccasins. Three of the Indians wore their long jet-black hair tied back away from their noble, proud, weather-beaten faces and one, who appeared to be considerably younger than the others, let his silken dark mane flow freely. They were all watching Trace with more interest than menace and that intrigued her. Did they think she shared a partial heritage with them?
Trace slapped a couple dollars on the bar. "Silas, a drink for everyone on me. I'm getting married," Trace announced, which caused a sudden stillness to envelope the saloon. The detective wondered if that had more to do with her impending nuptials or free booze.
"Married? You and Rachel?" The palpable silence seemed to be balancing on Trace's response.
"Yes, Sir, and I consider myself a lucky man." The brunette turned around to face the other bar patrons. "Anybody have a problem with that?" Her tone wasn't so much defiance as it was clarification of who was okay with the news and who wasn't. Trace wanted to know just what she was up against and wanted to memorize the faces of the men who did not seem agreeable to this union.
"Trace," Matthew Reddick spoke up, shattering the tangible quiet, "as long as you keep the bug juice flowing, you can marry anyone you want."
Sincere laughter filled the interior of Wilbur's and as the detective studied each and every man carefully, she saw no one who appeared to outwardly object, even by expression. Nodding, somewhat triumphantly, Trace turned to face Silas. In a hushed voice, she asked, "Whatcha got for me?"
Leaning in, the bartender slanted his head toward the table of four who had caught Trace's attention when she walked in. "I don't know how you feel about dealing with injuns..."
"I have no problem dealing with anyone as long as they won't cheat me."
"These boys won't do that. I've dealt with them before. Injuns are notional. They see and act on the moment. And these boys don't want no trouble with the white man if they can help it. Treat them fairly and they'll respect you. Do them dirty and they will get revenge one way or another. They may be peaceful now but I don't think it would take but the weight of a pup's turd to turn them back into savages."
"No one likes to be taken advantage of, Silas. And I am sure they have had their fill of it. If they did get barbaric, I am sure they would have every right to do so."
Silas shook his head. "They're gonna like doing business with you."
"I hope so." She took a sip of her beer. "What do they think of the Crane's?"
"They think the whole bunch is lower than a snake's belly, beneath contempt."
Trace's grin was sly. "Oh, really?" She raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Very good to know."
After the quartet finished their second shot of fire water, compliments of the detective, they rose from the table and left the saloon, nodding to Silas on their way out.
"Where are they going?" Trace asked, a little surprised that they had not even acknowledged her.
"Settle down there, cowboy. They just wanted to get a good look at you. Buying them whiskey was a good idea, too. It'll make them much more willing to barter with you." Looking into questioning blue eyes, the bartender said, "Don't worry. Your deal is as good as set. They'll find you."
******************************
Rachel pushed back the curtain of the dressing room and stepped out into the store and to the anticipating gaze of Molly Ledbetter. The admiring, adoring look on the older woman's face told the blonde that the dress was perfect. In fact, she was sure she saw a tear roll down Molly's cheek. The blonde cocked her head inquisitively. "What?"
"Oh, Rachel," she gasped, folding her hands together, "you will be the most exquisite bride. If only your mama and daddy could be here to see you."
"Does it really look good?" The blonde slowly spun around. Molly had pinned a lacy, satin ecru petticoat beneath the dress and strips of pale beige velvet that she would sew into the cuffs and collar. She had tried to talk Rachel into wearing a fitted bone bodice but the blonde declined. The dressmaker had persuaded the younger woman not to go with the sweetheart neckline and opted to remove just the high collar so as to leave it respectable. After all, people would be talking enough about the abrupt ceremony, Rachel did not need to give them anything more to go speculating about.
"Just a full crinoline underskirt and it should be all you need to make it befitting of the beautiful woman you have become." She smiled warmly at the blonde standing before her. "But, Rachel, I declare you could wear a sackcloth and make it look pretty. Now you go take that off before your intended bursts through that door and sees you. That's bad luck, you know."
"Yes, Ma'am, I know." Rachel looked at herself in the full-length mirror before stepping back into the dressing room to change into her underwear, camisole, shirtwaist and chemise. She was glowing and happy and in love. Just the way a bride and expectant mother should be.
"I hope this young man is worthy of you, child," Molly commented as the blonde was gingerly removing the garment. Rachel did not want to disrupt the pinning or get poked by one of the sharp little varmints, either.
"The way this town talks and you haven't heard anything about him?" Rachel inquired, carefully hanging the gown up.
"Oh, I've heard things...I just wasn't sure whether or not I should listen to them."
"Like what?" Rachel's curiosity was getting the better of her.
"That he is a restless soul with a gambler's appetite for trouble. It scares me a little, Rachel, because you really don't know anything about him."
"I know he would hammer down the gates of hell for me. I know he will love me and protect me and do his best to keep the Cranes away from my...our land."
"That's another thing. He marries you and inherits your entire dowry. You sure that's not all he's after?"
"I couldn't be more positive." Rachel emerged from the dressing room and handed the garment to Molly. "Are you sure that's not expecting too much work from you to have that done by Wednesday?"
"Child, I will make the time to finish this. Why, you're like my own flesh and blood getting married. I am invited to the wedding, aren't I?"
Shyly, the blonde clasped her hands in front of her and swung slightly back and forth. "I need a witness, Miz Ledbetter, would you be my matron of honor?"
Molly stopped dead in her tracks. "You don't want an old thing like me to stand up for you, girl, I'm sure Elizabeth Reddick would be pleased to do it."
"But I don't want Elizabeth, I want you."
Tears stung the eyes of Molly Ledbetter for the second time that afternoon. She reached out, taking Rachel's hands in her own. In a quiet, reverent voice, she said, "I would be honored to stand up for you."
*********************************
By the time Trace came to pick up Rachel, she had won three dollars in stud poker, arranged a 'bachelor' party Tuesday night at Wilbur's, had bought a couple more rounds of drinks, picked up the wedding band at the goldsmith's and met with the Native American men in the alley next to the livery.
Through them, she could purchase a herd of cattle. They were the only available resource that wasn't controlled by the Cranes. She could get fifteen prime cows and steers for fifty dollars a head. Although she could afford the full $750, that would deplete her finances, so instead she gave them one hundred ninety dollars in cash, the rest to be handed over when the cattle arrived and bartered the rest of the cost.
The Indians would be allowed to hunt on the Young property and have access to wood from the dense forest. Trace also promised them a quarter of the yield from the corn field she intended to plant next week. The land the tribe inhabited was mostly dirt and rock and not good for growing much of anything. The solemn foursome considered this a good deal. They shook hands on it and Trace walked away hoping if she ever needed them as warriors and allies, they would be there for her. If they despised the Cranes as much as most of the town did, their skills would come in very handy indeed if the rebellion she could see slowly growing became a reality.
Passing a customer exiting the shop, the detective walked into Molly's to collect her fiancée and was not surprised to find Rachel and the kindly proprietor sitting down, having tea. Trace's heart swelled at the absolute adoring and enamored expression on Rachel's face when the blonde spotted her. Jumping up, her bride-to-be flew into her arms and hugged her fiercely, then led her back to the small table where she had been seated.
"Molly, I would like you to meet the man I am going to marry, Trace Sheridan. Trace, Molly Ledbetter, my mama's best friend in the whole wide world."
As they shook hands, Molly no longer had any questions about whether or not these two young people loved each other. They could have heated the whole store with their obvious affection. Neither could keep their eyes off each other and the middle-aged shopkeeper suddenly longed for the days when she and Harvey had shared that rapturous feeling.
"Why, my goodness, you are a handsome devil, aren't you?" Molly remarked, scrutinizing every inch of Trace's face. There was an animal strength about this young man, she thought, yet an almost feline grace in the way he moved. She stood up, her full height coming up to Trace's shoulder. "Just promise me one thing..."
"What's that?"
"That little gal in your arms is very special to me. She's had a lot of awful things happen to her the past year or so. Don't you become one of them."
"No, Ma'am, I do not intend to." Her gaze was steady, unrepentant. "I will promise you right here, right now that I will die before I let anything bad happen to her again. And I don't have any plans to die any time soon." She gave Rachel's shoulder an extra squeeze.
"Amen," the blonde responded.
Molly Ledbetter's eyes softened. "You have my blessing. Not that you asked for it or need it but I do approve. And, Rachel, I think your mama and daddy would have, too. Looks like you got yourself one hell of a stallion here."
Blushing, as images of just exactly what that meant filtered through her brain, Rachel smiled, coyly. "Me, too." She looked up into Trace's eyes. "Guess I'll be finding out soon enough."
Now it was Trace's turn to be embarrassed. She had no doubt she could make good on the description but it was a tad uncomfortable mulling it over in the presence of a woman old enough to be her mother. Clearing her throat, the brunette said, "We need to get going before - what's his name, Henry - before he goes home for the day."
"Oh, that's right, you have to register with Henry," Molly shook her head. "Hope you weren't expecting to keep this quiet. That weasely garter-sleeved clerk just has to put his eagle-beaked nose into everybody's business. He is just damned unpleasant. Why, he is so ugly, he'll hurt your feelings just to look at him."
"Miz Lebetter, that's not very nice," Rachel told her and then mildly slapped Trace in the arm for laughing. "Henry can't help his looks, he has to make do with what the good Lord gave him."
"Well, the good Lord must've had it out for that boy because his personality matches his face and there just ain't no quit in ugly." Molly picked up the tea cups from the table and put them on the counter. "You two get going, get your registering done. Don't hold that hedgehog up or you'll never hear the end of it."
Rachel left Trace's side long enough to embrace her mother's best friend. "Thank you, Miz Ledbetter. I'll be back Tuesday night for the dress."
"Now don't you worry, girl, that dress will be perfect. Just like you are."
"How much do you think you will want for your services so I will know what I need to bring with me?"
"The only thing I want from you, Rachel, is to give me some babies to spoil."
The detective and the blonde exchanged a knowing glance. "We'll start working on that Wednesday night."
********************************
Name: Cheyne
Email: Whenpiggsfly55@aol.com
Title: Renegade
Disclaimers: See Part 1
****************
****************
50
It had almost been a perfect day. Almost. As Trace settled Rachel on the wagon seat, she was approached by Sheriff Ed Jackson and Mayor Jed Turner. Jackson looked smug. His Honor looked uneasy. They stopped a few feet in front of the detective.
"Well, well, well, I hear congratulations are in order," Jackson said, his tone conveying that the last thing he felt was benevolence.
"If you are referring to my upcoming marriage, then yes," Trace responded, not friendly at all. After the trouble Jackson had already caused, she didn't feel the need to be 'right neighborly' toward him. She nodded to Turner. "Afternoon, Mayor."
"Trace," Jed acknowledged, looking as though he wished he were anywhere but there.
"Actually, I was more referrin' to knowin' that you'll be in my jail before you have a chance to walk down that aisle."
Handing the reins to Rachel, Trace turned and nonchalantly leaned against the wagon, studying the sheriff. "And why would that be?"
"Trace," Mayor Turner spoke up, clearing his throat uncomfortably, "Ed here got a telegram from Cottonwood. Said there's a five thousand dollar price on your head."
"What?!" Rachel looked at Trace, stunned.
Trace shook her head calmly at her bride-to-be, putting her hand up to stop any further frantic reaction. "He's lying."
Jackson sneered. "Is that so?"
"Yeah, that's so," Trace shot back, trying to keep her cool. She wanted to tell this bastard that if there even was a Cottonwood, she wasn't from there, had never been there, so there was no way there could be a bounty on her. "I'd like to see this telegram."
"You don't need to see it. Who do you think you are challenging me? I'm the law around here, son, and if I say it's so then it's so and you just need to take my word for it!" Jackson yelled, thinking the elevation in his voice would emphasize his authority.
The detective burst out laughing, riling the sheriff to the point of veins bulging in his neck. "You can't be serious. Take your word for it? Does anyone actually fall for that?"
"Damn you, Sheridan, I'm the sheriff and if I say it's so, then it's so!!"
"Mayor? Have you seen this alleged telegram?" The detective focused on Jed.
"Well, no, Ed just came and got me and told me about it and said we needed to go arrest you before you left town."
Trace beckoned the mayor over to the side, out of hearing range from Jackson, who appeared to be close to hyperventilating, and addressed Turner in a hushed voice. "Mayor, you know the sheriff has it out for me. You know the sheriff is stuck up the Cranes' asses and is pissing his pants to think that Ben is going to come back to town and find Rachel married and he couldn't do anything to stop it. There is no telegram, there is no price on my head and I give you my word that I will not leave town. When that moron produces a legitimate telegram from -" she had to think up a name, quickly. Looking up she saw the silver gilted spheres of the pawn shop, "Marshal Silvers saying that there is, then and only then will I surrender to that piece of crap wearing a badge."
Nodding, Jed turned to Jackson. "Ed?"
"Yeah?"
"Who sent you that telegram from Cottonwood?"
"What?" This question obviously surprised him, if the tone of his voice was any indication.
"You hard of hearin'? I said, who sent you that telegram? What's the damned sheriff's name?"
Too much hesitancy confirmed the mayor's suspicion, cleared Trace and infuriated the devious and caught sheriff. "Uh..." Jackson had obviously not expected to be questioned as, usually, no one wanted to deal with the wrath of the Cranes and whoever Ed was picking on always suffered the consequences of his coercion.
"Thank you," Trace smiled, triumphantly, hauling herself up to the seat beside her intended. "You boys have a nice day." With that, she snapped the reins and Moses slowly started clomping forward. Rachel proudly linked her arm with her fiancée's and smiled sweetly at both men.
They weren't even a wagon's length away when they heard the mayor turn on the sheriff. "Why, you horse's ass! What thee hell ails you? Maybe you want to make a blasted idjit out of yerself in front of that Sheridan feller but I sure as hell do not!"
"B-but Jed...you know what will happen when Jacob and his boys come back and Rachel is married...I'm trying to do that boy a favor!"
"You're trying to save your own crooked hide, you imbecile! Next time, don't bother me, 'less you got proof! I am fed up to here with your horseshit!"
***************
"Trace? I know how you knew that Ed was lying because you would obviously know if there was or wasn't a bounty out for you...but how did you know how to trap Ed like that?" They were well beyond the outskirts of the main street.
"Because he thinks he is smarter than everyone else and those he isn't smarter than are intimidated by his connection to the Cranes."
"You do know that he will probably show up at the wedding and object."
"On what grounds?"
"He won't need any. He's Ed Jackson."
"Oh? Well, we'll just see about that."
Wondering what Trace had up her sleeve, Rachel decided not to question it. The detective had not steered her wrong yet and the blonde fully believed that Trace would not let anything disrupt their special day. Leaning her head against Trace's shoulder, Rachel closed her eyes, dreaming about Wednesday night.
"Rach?"
"Uh huh?"
"I asked Isaac Tipping to be my best man."
Opening her eyes, Rachel looked over at the brunette. "Really?"
"Well...I don't really know anyone that well and Isaac seems to be a good kid. Plus, he wants to help around the ranch a little bit."
"Doing what?"
Trace chewed on her lip. Why was it she had no problem going toe-to-toe with the sheriff yet the thought of the petite blonde being upset with her caused her to pause. "Helping me fix up the fence..." she said, almost demurely.
"I thought the fence was all fixed."
"It is...we're going to reinforce it." Off Rachel's confused expression, Trace explained, "I bought barbed wire."
"Barbed wire? Wh -?"
"Half of the order is in the back," Trace said, as Rachel turned around to look, "and Isaac is going to pick up the other half on Thursday then help me put it up."
Rachel looked at the detective, her expression more inquisitive than suspicious. "When did you decide this?"
"A little over two weeks ago. Rachel, the land needs protection and we can't be everywhere at once. With barbed wire wrapped around the fence, no one will just be able to crash through, not without causing damage to their herd or their horses. And if they want to physically knock it down then that will make them extra work and a project they will not be able to complete without me noticing."
"You thought a lot about this." Again, it was a statement of acknowledgement instead of a question.
"Yes. If we are going to take a stand, we need to start now, before the Cranes get back. I want everyone to know we mean business. And Rachel...I think I can turn people in this town around, I really do."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean...it sounds like everybody is damned tired of being run by the Cranes. I think all they need is a little incentive to make it stop."
"And you think you can be that incentive?"
She looked at her bride-to-be and smiled, reassuringly, at her. "I know I can."
Rachel wanted to believe that was true but since Trace had not even dealt with the Cranes yet, the blonde felt she had a reason to be afraid and skeptical. Time would definitely tell.
*********************
51
The next day was Tuesday and both women had a full day ahead of them. The morning began with a kiss, a loving embrace and a big breakfast. Rachel could not contain her building excitement at her approaching wedding day. So much to be done, so little time to do it in.
The first order of business, which Trace impatiently indulged the blonde by doing, was to fit the detective into Frank Young's wedding trousers. The brunette stood there, fidgeting, while Rachel pinned the black cotton slacks with a satin pinstripe running the length of the outer seams at the waist and an inch at each inseam. Once Trace stepped out of them, she could get to her daily chores and then start on that fence before returning to the house, taking a shower and going into town for her 'bachelor' party.
At approximately noon, Trace came back to the house to announce to Rachel that they were the proud grandparents of five little baby bunnies. The blonde could not help but smile at the big, tough detective's soft heart when it came to the rabbits and it prompted her not to reiterate, at this time, that Trace should not get too attached to the tiny critters for, at some point, they would be on her plate.
The detective also arrived just in time to try on the pants that had been taken in. They weren't perfect but they fit well enough to compliment the tall stance of the brunette. Thanking Rachel with a kiss that neither wanted to end, Trace then hitched up Moses, loaded tools onto the back of the wagon and headed out to the area of the property that seemed to be the hardest hit by the cattle drive.
Carefully, she began to affix the barbed wire to the wooden rails in a manner that immediately looked ominous and threatening. Trace had completed about fifty feet of fence when she heard the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats closing in. Turning, she smiled, recognizing Isaac Tipping as the boy rode up and dismounted a big, gorgeous palomino stallion, strong and well-muscled.
"Hey, Trace," Isaac greeted.
"Hey, yourself, Isaac."
Admiring the detective's handiwork, the teenager grinned. "So this is how you do it, huh?"
"Yep." Trace sighed, glad to be able to take a break. "When you come back and bring me the rest of my order, I'll put you to work. But you'll need some good strong gloves and tools like these," the detective indicated the implements by her feet.
"I can get them from the store. Trace?"
"Yes?"
"I'm invited to your gatherin' tonight at Wilbur's, ain't I? I mean, bein' you best man and all."
"You allowed to be in Wilbur's?"
"Hell, yeah," he stated, indignantly.
"Then I would be proud to have you there, best man," the detective smiled. Looking up at the position of the sun, Trace decided she might as well be done for the day and loaded everything back onto the wagon. "Isaac...I have a favor to ask of you."
"Anythin', Trace, you just name it."
"Well...don't be so quick to agree because it will involve you not going to my party."
The teenager's shoulder's sagged a little. "What is it?"
"Matthew is going to bring Mrs. Reddick by here this evening to keep Rachel company while we're in town. Now, you know the sheriff doesn't like me and I don't trust him and, since he is not invited to the celebration tonight, I want to make sure he doesn't come poking around here, bothering the ladies. Now...when I go to town I will have a five gallon can of eggnog spiked with two quarts of whiskey. If you meet me by the gate, I'll make sure you have some of that if you find a place to keep yourself hidden and keep an eye on the women."
"Okay...what do you want me to do, just watch the house?"
"Yes. And, if Ed Jackson, or anyone you recognize to be representing the Crane clan comes anywhere near the house, I want you to ride into town as fast as you can and get me. Think you could do that for me?"
He shrugged. Eggnog and whiskey? That beat the flat ale he knew Silas would serve him any day. So what if he might not see Cassandra do a harlot dance for Trace, there would be other opportunities for that, he was sure. What Trace was asking of him was a very grown-up responsibility and he suddenly felt very honored and proud that Trace would trust him to do this. It would give him the chance to start proving himself to the cowboy. His chest suddenly puffed out. "Yup. I could do that for ya."
"Great, thanks, I appreciate it."
They agreed on a time, shook on it and Trace climbed on the wagon, heading back to the house.
************
Before Trace took her shower, Rachel insisted on 'trimming up' her hair. The detective was initially apprehensive about this but then she knew the blonde could not do a worse job than Mark had done. However, she relaxed, when Rachel stood in front of her, concentrating on the top of her head and had to stand between the detective's open legs for proper access.
The part of Trace's hound-dog nature that controlled her libido from her past, reared its head as the detective's face was eye level with Rachel's breasts. Thankfully, the blonde could not see the lascivious grin the brunette displayed as she gazed longingly, just imagining what she would do to them. Just one more day, Trace, she kept telling herself, just one more day...
After a cold shower, something she was getting used to - her next invention would be to figure out how to heat the water - she dried off and dressed in brown denim trousers and a beige button-down shirt with dark brown stripes. Brushing her hair, she decided she liked the trim Rachel had given her, still longish and shaggy but not unkempt. She had gotten used to herself with shorter hair, just like she had started to get used to her body hair growing wild. After all, she was pretending to be a man and men did not shave legs and underarms. She had to admit it was a little awkward at first, especially wearing sleeveless shirts but it certainly helped with the illusion. Although, tomorrow, she would be clean-shaven, smooth for her bride, for her wedding night. Just thinking about that made Trace give herself another splash of cold water.
While Trace had been showering and dressing, Rachel had been preparing the eggnog/whiskey concoction which would be the detective's contribution to the gathering at Wilbur's. Since Silas couldn't close the saloon and Trace didn't want to be paying for drinks for cowboys who weren't a part of the celebration, they agreed on the spiked beverage as a compromise. If the small group of men wanted anything else, they could buy it themselves. It was the best they could do with an event planned on such short notice.
Descending from the loft, the detective approached her bride-to-be, whose eyes roved over Trace more than appreciatively. "My...don't you look...just good enough to eat," Rachel breathed.
Stopping, looking skyward, Trace chuckled. "You have got to stop saying stuff like that..." She stepped closer to Rachel and took her in her arms.
"Why? You want me to admire you, don't you?"
"Oh, absolutely...it's just...you don't realize the meaning of your words sometimes..."
Rachel cocked her head. "My meaning or how you interpret them?"
Good point, Trace thought, although she knew the blonde would not comprehend the vulgarity of the brunette's interpretation and she was not about to introduce her to that aspect of her personality...at least not yet. She preferred Rachel in her pristine state of mind. The idea of the blonde knowing what she did about the vile side of human nature was enough and for her to still maintain her inviolate outlook after everything that had happened to her showed Trace just what kind of woman she was dealing with and one she did not want to change. She enveloped the blonde in her arms, lovingly, and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips, lingering there, not pressing for anything more intense.
Breaking the kiss, Trace smiled at Rachel, who kept her lips pursed, eyes closed and face angled up waiting, expecting another kiss. When Trace obliged with only a peck, the blonde blinked at her. "That's it?"
"For now. Elizabeth and Matthew are due here any minute and I'm not about to start something I can't finish."
"Big talker," Rachel teased. "You better be able to back those words up tomorrow night..."
"Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, Miz Rachel," Trace countered with a knowing smirk, making the blonde shiver. "I don't think you'll have any complaints."
"Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"
Shrugging, the detective released the blonde and shoved her hands into her pockets, rocking back and forth from her heels to the balls of her feet. "Guess you'll just have to wait and see..."
The sound of a creaking wagon and the jingling of reins pulling up to the house interrupted their conversation. Reluctantly taking her eyes off the detective, Rachel stepped out onto the porch to greet the Reddicks.
Matthew Reddick, a strapping young man in his late twenties, entered the house and saw Trace lift the can of whiskey-laced eggnog. "Here, let me help you with that."
"No, I've got it, just make sure my way is clear to the back of the wagon." And with that, they flew by the two women who backed away from the door to let them through.
"Oh, my..." Elizabeth mused, watching Trace. "Got yourself a strong one, don't you? And good looking, too..."
Rachel smiled at the compliment, the adoration on her face and in her body language more than apparent. "Yes, I think I got mighty lucky."
The women walked inside the house while Trace and Matthew situated the can on the wagon. "Sure you want to do this, Trace?" Matthew asked.
"Do what? Go to town and have a good time?"
"No, get married," Matthew grinned. "Your life won't ever be the same."
Looking toward the doorway, Trace sighed, "I hope that's true, Matthew, I hope that's true."
*********************
52
Matthew was surprised to meet up with Isaac Tipping as they were leaving the Triple Y property line. Trace filled the boy's pint flask, like she promised she would and then they parted ways.
"How come Isaac won't be at your stag session?" Matthew wondered.
"He's doing me a little favor."
"Keeping an eye on the house for you?"
"Yep."
"I thought of suggesting that myself but I was hoping it was just me being spooked."
"Ed Jackson is a coward, Matt. And right now he is desperate. I wouldn't put anything past him."
"You think it's wise to leave the ladies? I mean, we could bring them into town and take them to visit with Mrs. Ledbetter..." Matthew suggested.
"We could...but then, that opens a different can of worms. Jackson is a snake but I don't think he would burn the house, barn or stable down with Rachel and Elizabeth there. He doesn't want to kill Rachel, he just wants to save her for Ben Crane. But I don't think he would have any qualms about torching the place while no one is there."
"What do you think he'll do if he finds Rachel and my wife there?"
"You've been dealing with him a lot longer than I have, what do you think he'll do?" Trace wondered.
"Just try to scare them, threaten Rachel, try to warn her off getting married."
"Yes, that's what I think. And Rachel can handle that, Jackson doesn't intimidate her anymore," Trace stated.
"So, what do you think Isaac can do?"
"He's got a fast horse. He can get to town and get us."
Reddick nodded. "You sure you aren't biting off more than you can chew here, Trace? I mean, Ed Jackson's one thing. The Cranes are entirely another."
Looking over at the man seated next to her, Trace said, "You want your town back, Matt? Your freedom? The chance to live your own life and raise your kids not to be afraid?"
"That's a nice dream, Trace...but it's just that - a dream. You don't know what it's like. But you will. And, unfortunately, by marrying the one and only woman Ben Crane really wants, you'll see it a lot clearer than any of the rest of us."
Nodding, acknowledging Matthew's words, Trace sighed. "I think I can turn things around, Matt. But I can't do it alone."
Absorbing that, Matthew cocked his head. "Not that I think you have an ice block's chance in hell but I'd be interested to hear how you think you can do that. And no one's ever called me Matt before." He locked looked over and Trace and grinned. "I like it."
***************************
"You have got the whole town talking, Rachel," Elizabeth told the blonde as they sat out on the porch with cups of tea. "This mysterious drifter comes to town, shakes everything up, makes Ed Jackson face every day like he's got a bee in his bonnet and then claims you as his bride? What's going on?"
"I love him, Elizabeth. I think I fell in love with him the moment I laid eyes on him, I just didn't know it," Rachel gushed. "He's strong and loving and protective and fearless, everything a..." she stopped and thought about her words. "Everything a spouse should be."
"It's that fearless part that concerns me and it should full well concern you, too." It sounded as though she were reprimanding the blonde. The her tone softened. "But I can certainly see why you fell for him."
**************
The sun had set maybe two hours earlier and there was a chill in the air that was unusual for that time of year. Pulling his collar up around his neck, Isaac was debating dismounting and sitting down by one of the bigger trees to shield himself from the strong breeze that had just come up. He had positioned himself two rows of trees thick in the forest on the north side of the house. He could see the porch from his viewpoint and was pretty sure no one from the house had seen him or could see him now. The teenager was three-quarters through the contents of his flask and feeling cocky and unconquerable when he heard a voice behind him.
"Whatcha doin' here, Isaac? Gettin' an eyeful or planning on gettin' a piece of that pretty little blonde before she gets taken?"
Reining his horse around, the boy's eyes narrowed when he saw the sheriff. "Don't talk about Miss Rachel like that."
"Funny...just a few weeks ago, you were thinking about her like that," Jackson reminded him.
"No, I was just goin' along with you because you threatened my father's store."
"Well, just remember, son, I can still put your father out of business. Now..why don't you run along back into town and let me do what I have to do. You're missing the festivities. After all, aren't you the best man? How you ever got yourself mixed up in that, I will never know. There's still time to get smart, boy. Now get out of here."
"No." Isaac sat tall in his saddle. "Leave Miss Rachel and Miz Reddick be, Sheriff."
Jackson was startled by his defiance and then he laughed. "And just what do you think a scrawny little thing like you is gonna do to stop me?"
"Ride to town and get Trace and Mr. Reddick."
Jackson considered this. "You know, I could shoot you right here, boy, and no one'd be the wiser."
"You could. But you won't."
The sheriff unholstered his six shooter and pointed it at the teenager. "And what makes you think I won't?"
Holding his head high, the teenager feigned composure he did not really have. He pressed on, not wanting Jackson to see his fear. "Because you're afraid of Trace Sheridan and you know he'd kill you in your sleep if anythin' happens to Miss Rachel."
"Why, you little snot-faced...!" He sputtered, angrily. "I ain't afraid of nobody, 'specially not that half-breed lookin' cowboy. All I'd have to say is that I caught you out here gettin' ready to do somethin' to Rachel and I had to shoot you to stop you."
"Nobody would believe you, Sheriff," Isaac continued, not sure at this point if it was courage or idiocy propelling him forward. "Miz Reddick is in there with Miss Rachel and Mr. Reddick was with Trace when they left and Mr. Reddick knows I'm here and why and it ain't to give either of them ladies trouble. But they was expectin' you would. I ain't tryin' to show you disrespect, Sheriff, but I was asked to make sure you or nobody else went anywhere near them ladies and that's just what I aim to do."
Locking stares, Jackson shook his head and reholstered his gun. "You just bought yourself a whole heap a trouble, boy, you know that, don't ya?"
"I 'spect so, Sheriff." And trouble for his father, too, he was sure. But he did not back down. He believed what Trace promised him about not letting the Cranes take his father's store. "It's up to you, 'course, but if I was you, I'd ride outta here and save yourself a heap a trouble."
"Well, you ain't me, now are ya, boy?" Jackson spit out.
Amen to that, Isaac thought. "No, sir. Just sayin' s'all."
Gritting his teeth, Jackson glared at the teenager, ugly distaste showing in his eyes. "You'll regret this, boy," the sheriff uttered through clenched teeth.
"Yes, sir." The teenager knew there was probably truth to that, as he swallowed hard. No one was more surprised than young Isaac Tipping when Ed Jackson turned his horse around and rode away.
It was only after he could no longer hear the horse's hooves trotting over dried twigs that he let out his breath in a sigh of relief. It was then he realized that his saddle was wet.
*************************
53
The party at Wilbur's was winding down. All of Trace's new friends had been in attendance - Jed and Joseph Turner, Caleb Tipping, Luther Foster, the goldsmith, the banker, the usual men who played cards with Matthew every time Trace was there and even two of the Indians she was doing business with stopped in for a couple shots of whiskey. Trace was surprised but actually pleased when the four old gentlemen who sat in front of the barbershop dropped by and they didn't turn out to be bad company at all.
As the evening wore on, more and more men joined the festivities, deciding they liked this Trace person very much and seemed sincerely happy that Miss Rachel had found someone who seemed honest and would be good to her. When the subject finally got around to the contemptible things Ben Crane had said about the bride-to-be, everyone discreetly admitted they did not believe it and had never believed it.
Everybody only had kind things to say about Rachel and the more the group imbibed, the more the conversation leaned toward grumbling about the Crane reign and how it individually affected them all, not just as business owners but as citizens of Sagebrush, as well. Normally, the fact that John Carver and his son, Seth, were drinking at the bar, listening to every word, would have put a damper on any grousing out loud but, for some reason, Trace's presence was empowering and seemed to make everyone just a bit bolder. The Carvers were not there to listen in as much as they were there to keep an eye on Trace while they knew the sheriff was making a little visit to the Triple Y. The two men allowed the celebration to continue without incident as they were quite sure there would be no wedding the following night.
The highlight of the evening turned out to be Cassandra's very seductive dance, ending it by plunking herself down abruptly Trace's lap. This delighted the mayor, who was willing to buy Trace an hour with the prostitute as a wedding gift. If Jed hadn't offered, Cassandra would have given Trace one on the house anyway. The detective respectfully declined and found herself very uncomfortable with the redhead's constant attempts to cuddle her. She must be in love if she wasn't even taking advantage of the invitation to cop a feel whenever she wanted.
All too soon for some (but not soon enough for Trace), the party was over and Silas was amiably kicking everyone out. All of the attendees promised that they would, indeed, be present at the chapel to witness the marriage of Trace Sheridan and Rachel Young, which pleased Trace because she knew it would be a nice surprise for her bride.
Singing 'Buffalo Gals', loud and off key, Trace and Matthew shushed each other as Isaac Tipping rode up to them. He had heard them long before they reached the entrance to the property. They weren't really drunk...but neither were they sober.
"Hey, Isaac," Trace grinned. "Quiet night?"
"Well, the sheriff did come by just as you 'spected he would."
"What! Why didn't you come and get us?"
The teenager took a deep breath, his damp saddle and britches now starting to chafe. "I told him to leave."
"And he left?" Matthew blinked, shocked.
"Well, not right away. But I told him that you wouldn't take kindly to anything happenin' to Miss Rachel, Miz Reddick or me and he saw my way and rode out."
Trace was impressed. "Why, thank you, Isaac. Obviously, I picked the right man for the job. You are the best man."
Grinning proudly at the compliment, Isaac could feel his chest expand. "Thank you, Trace."
"No, thank you, Isaac." The brunette smiled then started sniffing the air as she was sure she detected the distinct odor of urine and wet leather. "What's that smell?"
"Well, I gotta get goin'," the teenager said, quickly. "I'll see you tomorrow at the church, okay, Trace?"
"Sure. Thanks again, Isaac, I appreciate it."
"Me, too," Matthew shouted at the retreating Palomino.
They looked at each other, shrugged and continued to the house, resuming their horrendous rendition of 'Buffalo Gals.'
*********************
54
"Ooooh, my head," Trace wailed, from the sofa. She had never made it to the loft and Rachel was so annoyed that she didn't even try to assist her. The detective awoke fully dressed, including her boots. "Oh, God, oh, shit," the detective moaned, her head hammering, stomach lurching and the room spinning. Trace remembered that sometimes it helped with 'the whirlies' if she put one foot on the floor. First, she had to find the floor...
"Trace, your language..." Rachel reminded.
"I think I'm going to be really sick," the detective whined, face first into the cushion.
"Then you better get yourself outside to throw up."
"I can't move, my head hurts too bad."
"And whose fault is that?" Rachel was not amused.
"Oh, God, God, please, if you get me through this, I'll never drink again, I swear..."
"That's a hangover talking." Rachel shook her head. "Funny how you're calling for the Lord now..."
"Rachel, don't you have anything to get me through this?" Trace still didn't dare to move.
"I am making you some cabbage soup." The blonde heard the detective make a noise that closely resembled gagging. "It will work." And then she looked pointedly at the brunette prone on her sofa and said, "It better work."
*********************
Two hours later, the detective's head had stopped pounding and ginger tea was starting to soothe her nausea. Puking a few times into the bushes hadn't hurt, either. And Rachel's comment of "I've seen more life in a corpse," was said with a little more sting than it should have had. The last thing she wanted was the blonde to be mad at her, especially not with what was at stake following the wedding.
If Trace hadn't looked so pathetic, Rachel might have been able to stay perturbed with her but now that the brunette was beginning to become human again, all the blonde wanted was for the detective to feel better so that their special day would go as smoothly as possible.
*************
Taking her shower, Trace angled the straight razor carefully, running the freshly sharpened blade over her underarms and legs, fortunately only acquiring a few minor nicks. She had never used such an archaic implement as the ivory-handled razor before and respected it immensely, knowing the edge could probably cut a limb off if need be. Oh, how she longed for the gels of the modern world, which softened and moisturized the skin and made shaving a much more tolerable event. However, the matching ivory shaving cup and brush with badger bristles that belonged to Rachel's father, came in handy as she was able to work up a decent lather with the borax soap. The water had been warmed by the sun, which made it a bit more enjoyable and a little easier to remove all the body hair she had accumulated by not having to shave over goosebumps.
Rachel had already been picked up by Matthew and Elizabeth Reddick, who had taken her to Molly Ledbetter's, where she would bathe, address any last minute alteration issues and then get dressed for the wedding. Trace had another half hour before she had to saddle up Chief and head to town. It was her fondest wish to ride in on Rio but the mustang just wasn't ready for his public debut yet.
After binding herself down, the detective put on white button-down shirt that Rachel had boiled clean the day before, her wedding slacks, a grey satin vest and a string tie. Her swallowtail coat with satin lapels that matched her trousers was waiting at the church. Rachel had brought it in on the wagon with her so it would not get all wrinkled. She asked Trace to wear different clothes in and change at the chapel but the detective did not want to take the chance of anyone seeing her undressed.
Taking one last look around the cabin, Trace closed the door behind her knowing that when she returned, she would carry the love of her life over the threshold and they would start a new journey together, beginning it with a much anticipated consummation. At that thought, a rush of heat captured her body and then left as quickly as it had come. Shaking the sensation out of her system, Trace walked down the steps and to Chief, who she had saddled up prior to her shower.
"You have a good wedding. Do not worry about here."
Trace turned to smile at Little Hawk, one of the four Indians who were going to deliver cattle to the ranch. "Thank you. I am grateful to you and Black Feather for watching over the house while we are in town. I will make sure you will not go unrewarded for this."
"You standing against Crane is reward enough." Little Hawk was anything but little. He was burly and barrel-chested and almost as tall as Trace. He had weathered skin and a wrinkled face but he had kind eyes. Trace had not asked the two warriors to come and guard the house. They decided on their own that it would be done. Trace could not have left the homestead in more capable hands.
*****************
At Five o'clock, Trace took her place at the alter, with Isaac standing next to her, dressed in his Sunday best. The small church was packed with faces of men Trace had mingled with at her party and women she had never seen before and assumed they must be 'the wives.'
The detective was not accustomed to feeling anxious. She wasn't scared of getting married to Rachel or regretting her decision in any way, yet she was suddenly cold and her insides were shaking. She drew in several deep breaths to steady her nerves.
"Stop fidgeting." The firm yet melodic voice of Pastor Edwards snapped Trace out of it and, as the organ music pealed forth Mendelssohn's Wedding March, startling Trace and Isaac nearly out of their respective skins, she suddenly stood very straight and tall, accepting and acknowledging the full responsibility of this moment.
Everyone turned and looked toward the entranceway as Molly Ledbetter, attired in a dusty rose-colored velvet dress proceeded down the aisle, beaming as though it were her own wedding. When she reached the chancel rail directly in front of the altar, she winked at Trace, who smiled in reflex.
Then Rachel stood in the doorway and began her walk down the aisle. Trace's heart stopped at the sight of the gorgeous women floating toward her, radiantly beautiful in her mother's wedding gown, altered just enough to personalize it as Rachel's. Her hair was braided and held back by sapphire-studded silver combs and she carried a shower bouquet of white asters.
Reaching the altar, Rachel handed her flowers to Molly and Trace took a step forward, standing next to this stunning apparition who, within a matter of minutes was to be her wife. Even though they faced Reverend Edwards, neither woman could take their eyes off each other. When Trace mouthed the words, "I love you," Rachel was sure she was going to pass out from sheer euphoria.
*************
Hearing the organ music was the cue for Ed Jackson and the Carvers to enter the church. Their plan was to stand in the back and wait for the preacher to ask if anyone had reason to object to the union and they would all object...for different made up reasons. And being that Pastor Edwards was never one to cross the sheriff, the marriage ceremony would not be completed.
So, it was with great surprise when Jackson and his sidekicks ascended the steps of the church, their entry was blocked by two fully armed members of the neighboring Indian tribe. The were carrying Remington rifles, Bowie knives, a bow slung across their backs and a full quiver of arrows. The looked like they meant business and they were foolishly brushed by.
"Out of my way, Injun, we got business in the church." It was John Carver who spoke. Then he made the mistake of trying to push the Native American out of his way. The next thing he remembered he was flat on his back, five feet away from the doorway.
"Big mistake, son," Jackson told the young warrior.
"I am not your son. You have no business here," the young man responded.
"I'll throw you in jail, savage!" Jackson yelled at him.
"White man's laws do not mean me. You lock me up, you answer to my father."
Jackson and the Carvers blanched. Could this young warrior blocking their way indeed be the son of Moving Elk, one of the best known and bravest warriors in the plains nations? It had been rumored that he migrated his tribe to a stretch of land a couple miles from Sagebrush. Yes, things may be friendly now but there were horror stories about how the tribal chief had single-handedly cut down platoons of cavalries who dared to attack his family. Did they want to take that chance? John Carver decided for them by getting back up, dusting himself off and keeping his distance. Extremely peeved, he crooked his finger at Jackson.
"Now what, Ed?" Carver glared at the sheriff. "This cowboy isn't turning out to be quite the little pantywaist you thought he'd be. Jacob is not going to be happy with you."
Standing in the middle of the street, stewing, Jackson said, "Maybe it's time we paid a little visit to the Triple Y...if everybody's here, no one will be out there."
With that, the three men ran in the direction of the sheriff's office to find their horses. The two warriors just smiled.
****************
Immediately after the ceremony, where for the first time in the history of Sagebrush, people actually cheered when Pastor Edwards said,'I now pronounce you man and wife,' the invited guests assembled at the home of the minister, where a sumptuous wedding supper was served. The house was very attractively decorated in green and white festoons, tastefully arranged with ferns and asters.
While everyone ate and drank and had a merry time, all the bride and groom could think of was how soon would be an appropriate time to leave. After the dinner, Trace and Rachel were driven by Isaac in a double horse-drawn coach, courtesy of grocer Luther Foster, to the photo gallery, where they had their wedding picture taken.
Returning to the pastor's house, they thanked everyone, bid them goodnight, hitched Chief up to the Reddicks wagon and were taken back to the Triple Y.
*********************
55
Reaching the front door of the house, Trace easily picked Rachel up in her arms, a compelling action that was very typical of the tall detective, which shouldn't have surprised the blonde but it did. It also made Rachel giggle in response to the feeling of being lifted and the chivalrous manner in which her spouse was behaving, obviously taking her role as 'husband' very seriously.
"What are you doing?"
"Indulging in a tradition," Trace responded as she pushed the door open with her foot and carried her bride over the threshold. Kissing the woman in her arms with loving abandon, Trace set her down and bolted the door shut behind them. She turned and admired her 'wife,' who seemed to be glowing, even in the dim light of twilight, enhanced only minimally by a kerosene lamp Rachel lit. "Hi, Mrs. Sheridan," Trace said, unable to disguise the unbridled affection in her voice.
"Hi, Mr. Sheridan," Rachel threw back, her voice just as thick with allure. "It was a nice ceremony, wasn't it?"
Removing her suit jacket, hastily undoing her tie and shedding her vest, she said, "The reception was nice, too. You have a lot of people who love you in this town, Rachel."
"Thanks to you. You brought them all back to me."
Grinning, Trace put on her best old west accent and said, "Why, t'wernt nothin', Miz Rachel. I jes' set 'em straight, s'all." She touched the blonde on her perfectly proportioned nose. "Now what do you want to do?" Her body was almost vibrating with anticipation.
Rachel blushed, slowly peering up at her through honey-hued eyelashes. "How about another tradition?"
Studying her for any hint of trepidation, her taller companion said, "Are you sure? I mean, really sure?"
Not releasing Trace's eyes for a second, her intent clear, Rachel exhaled a shaky breath. "I'm absolutely sure. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
Enclosing Rachel's hands in her own, Trace said, "Then let's go up there." She nodded her head toward the loft.
"Why up there?" the blonde asked, still not losing eye contact with the tall, striking woman in front of her.
"Total privacy. I overheard a few drunken whispers at the reception about peeking in our windows. Going up there will guarantee our privacy. And I don't want to have to think about any interruptions. I want to be free to be me making love to you, Rachel, not the Trace Sheridan everyone in town knows."
"Me, too," she said, her voice a low quiver. The arc of emotion passing between them was jarring and Rachel was enchanted by it and by the woman standing before her.
"Are you ready?"
"I've been ready," she admitted as she doused the kerosene lantern.
"Well, you were the one who insisted on waiting until the wedding night," Trace nudged the smaller woman as they headed to the stairs.
"That's the proper and traditional thing to do."
"Sweetheart," Trace chuckled, following her bride up the steps, "there isn't anything traditional about this relationship."
****************************************
"I haven't been in this bed since my Mama died," Rachel told Trace, staring at the quilt her mother had made when the blonde was a little girl.
"Is it okay that we're up here? If it's too painful, we can go back downstairs."
"No. This was my bed. I just started sleeping downstairs because that room smelled like my folks and it made me feel close to them. But you've been sleeping up here and now the pillows will smell like you."
Stepping up behind the smaller woman, her bride, Trace wrapped her arms around Rachel's waist, lacing her fingers together, kissing her on the top of the head. Leaning back into the embrace, the blonde covered Trace's hands with her own. "I love you Rachel Young," the brunette whispered.
"Rachel Sheridan," the blonde corrected, smiling, slapping one of Trace's hands lightly.
"Right, right...best I don't forget that, huh?" Trace grinned, swaying, slowly moving Rachel with her, toward the bed.
"Not if you don't want my wifely duties withheld," the petite blonde teased.
Turning her around, Trace fully focused on her, the look so mesmerizing, Rachel forgot to expel any air from her lungs. "What we're about to do? I guarantee you won't ever consider it a 'duty'."
Breathlessly, the newlywed said, "Show me?"
"Exhale, sweetheart," Trace smiled, "I don't want you passing out...at least not from this." Dipping her head, she placed a gentle kiss on Rachel's lips, intensifying the motion as the blonde urged her on, following her lead. One thing Trace had learned was that Rachel was an extremely quick study, a thought now that made the brunette's body almost tremble with expectation.
Rachel dissolved into the kiss, the sensation of her taller companion's tongue swirling around the inside of her mouth, sensually pillaging everything it touched. Rachel wasn't sure how all this was supposed to go, all she knew was the room was sweltering and spinning and she wanted nothing more than to be laying on the bed with Trace holding her, kissing her, doing things to her that made her cheeks burn deeply.
Removing her lips from Trace's, Rachel gasped for air, sitting on the bed.
Proud of the spell she could cast on this young woman, Trace smiled. "Are you all right? I'll go slow, okay?"
"This can't hurt the baby, can it?" the green eyes almost begged her to say no.
"Nothing that we do tonight, or any night for that matter, will harm the baby, I promise." Trace removed the white shirt she had worn for the ceremony and began to take off the binding, when Rachel stopped her.
"Let me...please?"
*************************
The detective nodded silently and handed the blonde the end of her wrap. She slowly spun while the material was unraveled. Before she turned around to reveal her naked breasts, Trace drew a deep breath. It was not that she was suddenly shy and the word 'inhibited' could certainly never be used to describe the detective, but she knew that anything that happened between her and her 'bride' tonight would deeply impact the blonde and how Rachel would react or respond to the thought of their making love from here on.
To her knowledge, Trace had never been with a 'virgin' before. Nor had she ever been with a woman whose only experience with sex had been a horrific, intensely degrading one. The responsibility of showing this lovely and pure-of-heart woman how wonderful making love could and would be was immensely intimidating in its own right but the detective felt almost...blessed...that it would be she who would be Rachel's teacher, lover.
The detective had never before been concerned about what she did in bed or what her 'conquest' may or may not have been feeling, emotionally, although her ego predicted that she also performed to provoke a highly vocal and sexual response from whomever was the recipient of her lust. Actually caring about whatever nameless, faceless woman happened to be in her embrace was just never an issue before. Trace was out for Trace and would have said and done whatever it took to get her prey into bed. But this...being in love thing...was now having a very profound effect on her. Their first time would be an awakening for both of them.
Trace stood there, before her new bride, feeling more exposed than she ever had before. It wasn't that she was naked from the waist up, fully displaying her breasts for the first time to Rachel, it was the way the blonde's appreciative eyes took in every inch of her skin, the reverence in which Rachel regarded her and how time seemed to stand still as the blonde reached up to touch her. Fingertips chilled from excitement and fear caused instant goosebumps on Trace's flesh as Rachel lightly circled the brunette's areola. The dark ring on the detective's breast got smaller as Trace's nipple became impossibly erect. It was torture and they hadn't even begun yet.
Rachel could not stop herself from staring at the womanly physique in front of her. She had been so used to seeing Trace bound down that she had almost forgot the brunette even had breasts, much less the magnificent pair she was now touching. The blonde only had her own body to compare them to and had no idea seeing another woman's would provoke such a beguiling feeling deep inside her.
The brunette exhaled, panting slightly, not even realizing she had been holding her breath. She covered Rachel's hand with her own, pressing the blonde's fingers against her. Trace knew Rachel did not, would not have a clue as to what she needed to do to make love to the detective and it was up to Trace to set the pace, to create the atmosphere in which this night would be one neither of them would soon forget.
Trace watched Rachel as she looked up expectantly into the detective's baby blues, now darkened with desire. The blonde was obviously overwhelmed and a little unnerved by what was happening between them and within her own body.
"I...I...don't...." Rachel could not get the words to come out of her mouth, could barely raise her voice above a whisper.
Reaching over, Trace put a finger to the blonde's lips. "Shhhh...I know," she soothed. Her eyes sparkled as they held the emerald gaze, conveying a deep love and compassion for the woman behind them. Almost imperceptibly shaking her head, just awed by the vision about to give herself to the detective, Trace raised Rachel's hand and kissed her palm, then the inside of her wrist.
Letting go of the blonde's arm momentarily, the brunette sat on the edge of the bed and removed her shoes and socks, then her trousers. She wasn't wearing any underwear. Standing up, she turned to face Rachel again, silently, letting the blonde absorb her toned, muscular, desirable body. Rachel's eyes automatically fell to the dark triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs. It made Trace chuckle, slightly.
"Like what you see?"
Blushing furiously, Rachel closed her eyes and turned her head away. "I'm sorry. I feel so bold. I've never seen another woman bare before."
Leaning in, Trace gently guided the blonde's face straightforward. "Sweetheart, please open your eyes." When the blonde slowly obeyed, the detective said, "I want you to look at me. I want you to get comfortable looking at me like this. You have no need to feel embarrassed or bold, no need to apologize. I intend to make love with you every chance I get and I refuse to do it with my clothes on. Okay?"
"Okay," Rachel responded but did not drop her gaze from the detective's face.
Nodding, the detective sat back down on the bed. "And I want you to get comfortable with me looking at you with no clothes on. Because I intend to do that a lot."
"Even when my belly gets big?"
"Especially when your belly gets big."
"Oh my Lord, Trace, whatever you are going to do, would you hurry up and get started? My blood is starting to stir something awful," Rachel admitted, breathlessly.
If the blonde hadn't been so serious about it, Trace would have laughed at the tension breaker. She could not suppress her smile at Rachel's admission to getting ready to burst. "Stand up. I want to undress you."
Complying, Rachel helped only when she had to as the naked detective removed all of the blonde's clothes. In no time at all, Rachel was standing nude before her 'husband.' Ranching and farming were certainly a workout and Rachel's body showed it. Except for a very slight, almost unnoticeable bulge in the blonde's abdomen, there was not once ounce of excess skin anywhere. Rachel's creamy white complexion was all muscle, femininely defined. Her breasts were in perfect symmetry with the rest of her figure, tantalizingly round and firm and just begging to be caressed. Trace could not stop herself from licking her lips. Suddenly the aroma of arousal was everywhere.
"Oh my God, Rachel. You are so beautiful," Trace commented in a tone of near worship.
"Like what you see?" Rachel asked, not feeling half as shy as she expected to.
Stepping forward, the detective took the blonde in her arms and kissed her feverishly, pressing their bodies together, both women craving the full contact. At first, Rachel was stiff but within seconds, she relaxed, molding her form to Trace's warm contours.
Knowing they both needed to lay down before they fell down, the tall detective masterfully took the weight of the smaller woman and eased her back onto the bed, breaking the contact only once, to position the blonde and climb on top of her. Resting the length of herself over her wife, Trace kissed Rachel's lips until she was sure they must be swollen and bruised. Moving to her forehead, nose and cheek, the detective then nibbled on the blonde's earlobe, causing Rachel's entire body to tremble. From there she blazed a trail down the blonde's neck and shoulder.
"Oh, my, Trace, I have never felt like this before. I never knew the places you are kissing could feel like this."
"You ain't seen nothin' yet," Trace promised. She kissed to the base of the blonde's throat and then rested her face there. "Rachel...I know what I want to do to fulfill your desires. But if I do anything that hurts you or makes you uncomfortable, I want you to tell me, all right?"
"Must we discuss this now?" she asked, a little impatiently, between breaths coming in spurts.
"Yes. I'm just making sure you know that you do not have to do anything you don't want to do."
"Trace?"
"Yes?"
"Please hush up and make love to me."
That did prompt Trace to laugh. "As you wish, my lady." She rose up and kissed the blonde again, more passionately than she ever had before. If Rachel had the ability to melt, she would have been a puddle in the brunette's arms. The blonde watched, as Trace kissed down her chest, fascinated as the detective hovered over her breast. The brunette knew, because of Rachel being pregnant, the hormonal changes would make her erogenous areas much more sensitive. She would have to remind herself not to stimulate her partner to the point of being irritated. After all, it was all about giving Rachel pleasure and hopefully replacing the painful experience of her first time, not reminding her of it.
The detective placed her mouth on Rachel's nipple and began flicking it with her tongue. Hearing a sharp intake of breath and a hiss, Trace knew the blonde was experiencing a new, positive sensation. When Trace started to lightly suck on the rock hard bud, Rachel grabbed a handful of the detective's hair and squeezed with the same amount of intensity she was feeling. Lingering on her left breast until such a time where Rachel's chest was rapidly rising and falling, Trace then moved over to give equal time to the blonde's right breast, while still rolling and slightly pinching Rachel's nipple between her thumb and forefinger.
"Oh, lord in heaven, Trace..." Rachel sighed, holding onto the detective's head.
"You like this?" Trace's voice was low, husky, thickly laced with desire. The brunette only lifted her face long enough formulate words, her warm breath on the blonde's wet nipple sending another shiver through Rachel.
"It...it feels wonderful. Please don't stop," she breathed to her partner. If this was all Trace did to her, it would surely be enough. But she knew there was more to being made love to than this. She had figured out since the detective didn't have the proper equipment to penetrate her and her loins were begging for it, that Trace would no doubt use her fingers. That was exciting enough but when the brunette began kissing down her ribcage, taking special care to lavish extra affection on her belly and then went further down...well, this certainly had never occurred to her...Where was she going? What was she going to do? What - oh, Jesus, Jesus, that felt...oh good God...!
The detective nuzzled the soft blonde curls that smelled like a mixture of sex and lavender soap, then kissed the line that, when parted, would reveal the secrets of Rachel's very being and make her feel born again. Running her tongue the full length, Trace pushed through, feeling Rachel jump, then settle as she let an involuntary moan escape her. Slowly, gently, the detective located that little bundle of nerves, the only spot in the human body solely put there for pleasure and served no other purpose, and ravished it in a desperately tender manner, gauging Rachel's reaction as she did, taking cues when to go faster, when to slow down, when to add pressure and when to back off. Tasting this woman beneath her, remembering that this was all new to the blonde, knowing what she was doing to her brought Trace to the edge herself, the tingling warmth between her own legs building to its own crescendo.
Rachel had never felt anything like this before and wasn't quite sure how to respond. She had no idea another human being could make her feel this way, could make her feel like her entire body was ready to explode in a sensation of such ecstasy she didn't think she was going to survive it. She didn't even realize she was rocking to a rhythm Trace had set with every stroke and thrust of her tongue. Suddenly, an indescribable, wonderful feeling ignited right in the area the detective was concentrating on and radiated outward to every nerve in her body and then just intensified to a glorious white heat that continued to grow until she lost her breath. Her lower body spontaneously convulsed, racked with pleasurable waves and as Trace sucked every last drop of orgasm from her soul, she thought she was going to lose her mind from sheer bliss.
And then, so overpowered by what she had just experienced, Rachel began to weep.
Crawling quickly up the blonde's torso, Trace embraced Rachel securely. "Shhh, shhh, it's okay..." The detective soothed, kissing the blonde's forehead.
Holding onto the detective as though her life depended on it, Rachel cried into Trace's neck. "I...I have never felt anything like that before...it...you..."
Giving her an extra squeeze, Trace cuddled the blonde, smiling. "It's okay, baby, I understand." Although this wasn't quite the reaction she expected, she found it touching and endearing. The fact that the detective could produce that kind of emotion from Rachel made her heart pound in her chest. She had never brought anyone to tears before.
***********
Following several soft words of love and reassuring kisses, Trace lightly ran her fingers in wide, lazy circles over Rachel's stomach, once again moving toward and targeting the blonde's lower body.
The blonde quivered everywhere the brunette's hand brushed. "Oh, lord, you're going to touch me there again..."
"Mmm hmmm," Trace intoned. "Unless you would rather I didn't..."
Green eyes snapped open and glared at her. "Don't you dare stop now, Trace Sheridan, why, that would just be cruel."
The detective erupted into a deep, throaty chuckle as she fondled damp curls that now appeared almost auburn. She began to gently stroke the area that had just taken the blonde over the edge, causing Rachel to cling to Trace's shoulders as once again, thrilling, titillating sensations seized her brain, holding her body hostage, releasing itself only when she no longer had the strength to grip the detective or even form a fist to grasp a handful of sheet.
Not waiting until Rachel was completely recovered, Trace gathered some moisture and inserted a finger very slowly, drawing it out and pushing it in a little further with each thrust. The detective locked eyes with the blonde, who could still not formulate thought at this point, much less speak, as Trace watched for any signs of emotional or physical discomfort. She saw nothing but want and desperate need in Rachel's expression and while the detective steadily and leisurely drove her finger into the blonde, Trace gently kissed her, silently conveying the love and desire that she inherently felt for her receptive lover.
"Baby," Trace whispered in Rachel's ear, "does this feel good?"
"Oh, yes," The blonde could barely get out.
"I'm going to add a second finger...I think I can make it more enjoyable for you. But if it is too much, you tell me, okay?"
"Okay," Rachel agreed. She trusted Trace implicitly and if the brunette thought it would make it better then she would believe her. Yet, when the detective removed the one finger, Rachel grabbed Trace's wrist. "No..."
"Shhh, it's all right." Trace's comforting tone and kiss on the forehead calmed the blonde as the detective ran her fingertips around Rachel's opening, gathering more wetness from the abundance pooled there and then delicately, easily slid inside, once more increasing her depth slowly with each push.
Rachel didn't think she could feel rapture beyond anything that she had already experienced. Any more would certainly drive her to madness. Yet what Trace was doing and the way Trace wouldn't take her eyes off her enticed the blonde to near frenzy and as close to heaven as she was sure she would ever get without actually dying. The sensation of Trace's strong fingers thrusting inside her in a blissful cadence was exhilarating enough but when she curled them and began massaging a certain spot, Rachel couldn't stop her eyes from rolling back in her head and uttering moans of ecstasy with each expelled breath. She was quickly approaching orgasm but this one felt different, this one felt almost ecumenical in its origin and when her insides exploded, the climax shook her to her core, sizzling out to her extremities then back through to her groin.
The blonde laid there, thoroughly winded, chest heaving, not at all sure she was even going to survive, not having the strength to fight it if the Lord wanted to take her at that very minute. When she was able to focus, she looked up into the most loving, caring eyes she had ever seen.
"How're you doing?" Trace asked, unnecessarily. She had wanted to make this experience memorable for the blonde. She was pretty sure she succeeded. And she almost had a sympathetic orgasm with Rachel on that last one.
When Rachel regained the capability to vocalize sound, she said, "I love you, Trace Sheridan. I never knew my body had the ability to do that."
"So...you've never..."
"Never what?" Her voice was cautious.
"Never...um...done that to yourself?"
"What? Oh, heavens, no!" Since her whole body was already flushed, it was hard to tell if she was blushing. "Do you...do that?"
"All the time."
Rachel's eyes grew wide. "You do?" Off Trace's nod, the blonde said, "Is that because you don't have anyone to do that for you?"
"Partly..."
"Well, now you have me." Rachel's smile was so sincere and her words were stated in such a decisive manner, that Trace couldn't help but fall in love with her all over again. "In fact," she reached up, taking the detective's face in her hands and pulled Trace toward her, "let me do it for you now..." The blonde kissed the brunette with such wantonness, Trace was at the point where all Rachel would have to do was touch her and it would be over.
*************
Late into the night, an hour after both women had finally fallen asleep, Trace's arm circled around Rachel's waist, the blonde snuggled tight against her solid frame, the detective awoke to kisses on her eyelids. The soft lips moved to Trace's cheek and then mouth, an insistent tongue finding its way inside, provoking the detective to respond regardless of being oblivious in slumber. Without too much coaxing, Trace climbed into full consciousness to find Rachel half on top of her, lips fused to her own and the blonde's hand stroking her with such precision, it was as though she had been doing it all her life.
With very little guidance and direction, Rachel found the exact spot that incited a rush of arousal, a sharp, electrifying passion that enveloped Trace and overtook her in a way that was new, freeing and more exciting than she had ever known.
Growling, the detective flipped the blonde onto her back and wasted no time, spreading Rachel's legs, putting them over her shoulders and diving in. She was a little less gentle this time, a little less patient as Rachel seemed almost greedy for the sensory overload she knew was deliciously inevitable. The blonde came quickly, riding out every ripple as it surged around her like a whirlpool creating a vortex she never wanted to stop. When she descended from nirvana, Trace took her again, encouraging her not to hold back, to let it all out vocally and sexually, which Rachel did, surprised to discover how much it enhanced the experience. She hadn't even noticed that the detective had pleasured herself while bringing Rachel to climax, coming about thirty seconds behind her. Settling the blonde contentedly back in her arms, both women fell asleep, spent, exhausted, sated.
Two hours later, Rachel's kissing the back of Trace's neck and fondling the detective's breast, stirred her awake again. Smiling, the brunette said, "I think I've created a monster..."
********************
Name: Cheyne
Email: Whenpiggsfly55@aol.com
Title: Renegade
Disclaimers: See Part 1
****************
Renegade
****************
56
The newlyweds did not get out of bed until later that afternoon. Some of that time had even been spent sleeping.
As much as Trace was used to the muscle aches that occurred after vigorous marathon sex, even she was mildly surprised at the stiffness and the soreness she was experiencing. She looked over at the petite blonde who was baking an apple pie and humming. Humming. Trace had never heard Rachel hum. There was also a bounce in her step that had not been there previously. The detective knew the blonde had to be feeling some physical discomfort but if she was, she certainly wasn't showing it.
Chuckling, a sound that was deep, throaty and, most of all, content, Trace drained her coffee cup and approached her bride from behind. "I think married life suits you, my love." She ensnared Rachel around her waist, catching the blonde off-guard, causing the smaller woman to blush and grin.
"Being in your bed suits me much better," the blonde commented, shyly. She spun in the brunette's embrace and lovingly looked up into sparkling blue eyes.
"How are you feeling? Does anything hurt?"
"Everything hurts," Rachel smiled, shrugging. "That's the pain and glory of consummation, isn't it?"
That caught the detective off guard. Thinking about it, she shrugged and said, "As long as it was more glory than pain."
'It was...wonderful, Trace," the blonde breathed, her expression very sultry and satisfied. "I just never...had any notion...that it could be like that."
"Well, then," Trace grinned, proudly, "glad I could be of service." She leaned in and kissed waiting, luscious lips, a kiss so heated that Trace's stomach clenched and Rachel actually moaned into the detective's mouth. Reluctantly breaking the contact, Trace held the blonde closely against her. "And you, my love, were amazing."
"I pleased you, then?" Her tone reflected genuine curiosity mixed with the need to be encouraged.
"Oh, yes. You couldn't tell?"
"I figured I did but not having anything to liken it to..."
"Oh my God, Rachel, you did just fine." Trace held the blonde at arms length and gazed directly into her eyes. "I have never been more in love or in lust in my life. And disappointed would be the last word I would use to describe last night...and this morning. Your instincts are, well, impressive." And the detective wasn't just being kind. The fact that Rachel had never participated in anything like that before and was able to bring Trace to the heights of sexual satisfaction that she did, galvanized the brunette. And the blonde could only get better as she became accustomed to and more relaxed with her role as a lesbian lover.
Complimented by her spouse's praise, Rachel stood on her tiptoes and initiated another long, sensual kiss, which Trace finally ended, short of breath. "Sweetheart, I would like nothing better than to carry you right back up to that loft and make love to you again, but I need to check on the animals."
Rachel smiled at her, complacently. "We'll have time tonight."
"Oh, that we will," the detective needlessly reassured her. The thought of the blonde writhing beneath her even from the simplest of ministrations set her loins on fire.
******************
Trace had just finished painfully riding Rio bareback around the corral and was leading him back to the stable when she saw Matthew Reddick approach her. His buckskin had entered her field of vision at a gallop but then slowed to a trot and when Rio began to react to the scent of an unfamiliar animal, Trace put her hand up to Matthew, who reined his mount to a halt.
Matthew's horse sensed the wariness of Rio and snorted, nodded his head repeatedly and pranced sideways before stopping. The buckskin was a distant relative of the mustang, his superior genetic heritage a mix of Spanish and Scandinavian, and a breed so old that his actual origin was thought to have been lost somewhere between legend and antiquity. Handsome and proud, the buckskin had more determination, stronger feet, better bones, more stamina and, because of that, was one of the toughest breeds of horses.
"Let me just put him in and I'll be right with you, Matt," Trace explained, admiring the steed her neighbor was sitting on. The detective was learning that a man's horse was akin to the type of car he drove in modern times. It was a status symbol and a representative of his personality.
Nodding, Matthew dismounted, tying his spirited horse to the hitching post in front of the house. He met Trace exiting the stable. He appeared troubled. "I apologize for interrupting your special time, Trace, but...have you seen Sheriff Jackson?"
"Why would I have seen that useless waste of oxygen?"
"Well...the last anyone knew, he was supposed to have been heading out this way with the Carvers who, by the way, are also missing." They strolled back toward the porch.
"When was this?"
"They had a confrontation with one of the Pawnee guarding the door of the church yesterday. When they couldn't get in, they were overheard saying they were coming out here."
Trace couldn't help but smile. Little Hawk and Black Feather were not around when the Reddicks dropped Trace and Rachel off last night. The detective had automatically assumed they were still present, just making themselves inconspicuous. Maybe they had found something better to do.
"All three horses showed up at the Crane spread later this morning but with no riders. Hannah Burnett came to town looking for the sheriff to ask him where John and Seth were."
"Who is Hannah Burnett?"
"The only Crane daughter."
Trace wondered just exactly how many Cranes there were. The family must breed like bunnies. "I haven't seen them, Matt. But...maybe we should take a look around the ranch, make sure they didn't get lost anywhere on the property."
"Yep, that's what I was thinking."
"Let me tell Rachel where I'm going and I'll be right with you."
************
Trace had decided not to take Rio back out and saddled up Chief instead. It wasn't that the mustang wasn't used to her or cooperative, she didn't want to push it with the temperamental horse. Besides, not knowing exactly what they would find, the detective figured Rio was better off in his stall. At least he was somewhat predictable in his own familiar environment.
As their mounts ambled along, Trace concentrated on her entire peripheral vision while Matthew kept his attention pretty much straight ahead of them. "So...Trace...how was your wedding night?"
Looking over at her neighbor and new friend, the detective chuckled at the smirk Matthew wore, which bordered on lewd. "It was just as it should have been and that's all you need to know," Trace playfully admonished.
"Think there might be a little Sheridan running around come winter?"
Grinning proudly, as if she had actually made a baby with Rachel the night before, the brunette said, "I have no doubt."
"Good. I can't tell you enough how pleased Elizabeth and I are that Rachel has found happiness."
"Matt...when I got here, she was alone. It looked to me like everyone had abandoned her, seeming not to care. She told me that you wouldn't allow Elizabeth to even come visit her. That hurt her immensely."
Hanging his head, showing the shame he should have felt, he said, "I know. You don't understand what it's like, Trace. These Cranes...they want Rachel's land bad and have stopped only short of burning her place down and maybe even killing her to get it. If it wasn't for Ben's being sweet on her, I can't even think of what could have happened before you came along. We were all warned off from going near her and cautioned that if we didn't stay away things might start happening to us and our lands. I have to be honest with you, Trace, none of us could understand why Rachel just didn't sell. It would have been easier on her. Hell, would've been easier on everybody."
"I know why she didn't and I'm proud of her for not knuckling under. It's all she has left of her family, her heritage. Yes, she has paid dearly for her defiance. But if they take this land, they take her soul with it. And nobody is worth selling your soul to. I don't care how much money it is." Trace was startled by her own words. Only months ago, she would have sold hers to the highest bidder. Who was this person inhabiting her body? Just when had this momentous change taken place, anyway? The detective was reflecting on all this when Matthew's voice brought her back to the present.
"Well, I apologize, Trace. Things looked pretty hopeless. You've kind of showed us all that we have a choice. No one's ever stood up to Ed before so they never knew that he would back down so easily when he doesn't have one of the Crane brothers standing behind him."
"Matt, I guess I can understand that it's been easier for everyone else to go along with things the way they've been but it hasn't been easier on my wife."
Trace actually liked the sound of that...'my wife.' She realized that, in the era she was living in, it implied Rachel was her property, but she liked the message the word sent to others - especially the one it would send to Ben Crane - Rachel was now off limits. "Whether you stand with us or we stand alone is your choice. But that family terrorizing Rachel is over. I may go down protecting what's now mine but if I do, I'm taking as many of them as I can with me."
Matthew thought that over. "I don't know if that's being courageous or downright crazy, Trace...but I've got to admire your determination."
"If everybody in town decided to do that, the Cranes would have the fear factor taken out of their threat. Once that's gone, it's more of an even fight. If they suddenly realize that people have had enough and not only are they willing to go down fighting but take out the family bullies along with them, you might see a big difference in how things happen around here."
"You'd be willing to kill a Crane?"
"The Cranes won't think twice about killing me," the detective responded. "And now that Rachel is no longer available to Ben, I don't think they'll think twice about killing her, either."
"I think you might be right."
They rode in silence for a few more minutes when they both heard something in the distance that faintly sounded like two or more people calling for help. Heeling their horses into a canter, they headed in the direction of the voices and stopped their mounts abruptly when they reached a scene that made Trace wish she'd had a camera.
Sliding off Chief, joined by a more than amused Matthew, the detective surveyed the setting before her. There, tied naked to three separate trees, were Ed Jackson, John Carver and his son, Seth. The expression on the sheriff's face at not only being found this way by Trace but also probably having to be rescued by her was a mixture of fury, embarrassment and humility. However, his attitude was purely indignant.
"You know how much trouble you're in, Sheridan?" He spit out.
"Me? Looks to me like you're the one who has a little problem here." She let her eyes fall to the sheriff's lower anatomy. "And I do mean little."
Matthew couldn't help but laugh at Trace's insolent but obviously delighted tone of voice.
Looking down at his manhood, then back up into the twinkling eyes of the brunette, Jackson's face was beet red. "I don't get no complaints!"
"Yeah but your hand doesn't count." Smirking, the detective continued, "Gee, Ed, other than yourself, who you gonna satisfy with that shriveled up little talliwacker?"
Despite their unfortunate situation, snickers could be heard from the other two men strapped to the trees. "Damn it, Sheridan, untie me this minute or I'll -"
"Or you'll what? Doesn't look to me like your in the position to do much of anything, least of all, give orders, Ed."
"You...you...you're behind this, Sheridan, I know it," he sputtered. "Now untie us right now."
"When did you boys get tied up, anyway?" Matthew asked, standing next to Trace, taking his cue from her.
"Yesterday evening," Seth offered.
Trace shrugged. "Then you know it wasn't me, I was getting married and you know I have plenty of witnesses."
"Then you had them injuns do it."
"You mean you didn't see who did this to you?"
"No, we was attacked from behind and knocked out. Next thing we knew, we was here...like this."
"Sheriff, those two at the church never left and everyone who had been at the wedding and after at the preacher's saw them," Matthew volunteered.
"Well, I see it like this, Ed," Trace began, "You and your friends here, entered our property - and yes, it is our property now - mine and Rachel's - as marriage gives me that claim of co-ownership, without permission or probable cause. That's trespassing and you were previously warned about trespassing. That gives me the right to designate anyone I damn well please to act as an agent of the owner, while I am away, to protect my home and my land. The way I see it, Ed, you should be the one whose incarcerated in your own jail." She absorbed Jackson's speechlessness with a sense of triumph. She knew she was using legalese that may have been confounding to the three sets of captive ears but she also knew it made sense that she, in reality, was the wronged party. "And, hmmm, let me recall as to how you put it to me a while back, you didn't see who did this to you so they can't be identified...just who are you supposed to arrest?"
"Hey, Sheridan," John Carver said, his tone more defeated than angry, "we get your point, we really do. But do you think you could show us a little mercy and untie us? I can't feel my arms or legs no more."
"Show you mercy? Show you mercy?" Trace repeated, incredulously. "I should leave you all tied there and for scavengers to pick over just for saying that. When was the last time you boys showed anyone in this town - most specifically my wife - any mercy?" Now the detective was mad. Trace turned and walked back toward Chief, as though she was actually going to leave them there.
"Wait! Wait." It was the younger Carver speaking up this time. "What do you want? What will make you free us from these trees?"
Trace spun and walked back to the three pathetic looking men. "Do you think I am foolish enough to believe anything any one of you would promise me? You guys are at an extreme disadvantage right now and I know you would do or say anything get free. I've been dealing with criminals like you -" She looked pointedly at Jackson, "especially like you - all my life. I know how you think. You will be agreeable until you get your clothes and your horses back and then you'll hate me twice as much and come after me with a double vengeance."
No one said a word as Trace pulled her knife from it's sheath and walked toward the younger Carver, whose eyes grew wide with fear. Matthew held his breath, wondering what the brunette was going to do. Raising the blade menacingly, she swung it down in a blindingly fast arc that sliced the rope freeing's Seth's hands and stepped back. "That's all I'm going to do. You want out of this situation, you do the rest yourself."
Trace then returned to Chief and mounted him, waiting for Matthew to follow suit with his horse.
"Reddick, you ain't gonna leave us here like this, are you?" Jackson asked, sourly.
Stepping into the stirrup and swinging his leg over the saddle, Matthew settled in. "It's not my property, Sheriff, so it's not my call. But to tell you the truth, I wouldn't have even freed Seth's hands. You boys deserve anything you get. And my sentiment is that it is about damned time."
"Why, you ungrateful, no good -"
"Shut up, Ed!" John and Seth Carver chorused. They were not thrilled with the situation either but at least now, with Seth's hands free, they had a chance.
"This is your final warning, Ed," Trace told him, evenly. "I see you on this property again without official business and I will kill you."
Wisely, the sheriff stayed quiet while Seth tried to figure out how to untie his legs.
*********************************
57
That night, lying in bed with Rachel in her arms, basking in the afterglow of more passionate, inventive and exhausting lovemaking, Trace asked about the tribe of Native Americans who had saved their wedding day and possibly their house, barn, stable, animals and whatever crops they had left.
The detective had advised her bride about the events of her afternoon and her warning to Ed Jackson. Instead of being frightened, as she normally would have been involving anything to do with Jackson which ultimately meant The Cranes, Rachel just beamed with pride and felt very safe in the embrace of her lover.
The blonde understood that Trace was only one person and therefore outnumbered by the cattle baron's entourage, yet she felt no sense of impending doom like she always had in the past. In a flash of melancholy, Rachel told her spouse that if it all ended tomorrow, Trace had still made her the happiest person on earth and she would never regret any of the last couple months of her life.
After the brunette related what she suspected was the work of Black Feather and Little Hawk which resulted in the situation with the three naked men tied to the trees, she finally told Rachel about the deal she had made with the four tribal members regarding the cattle. Overwhelmed and deeply touched by Trace's actions and generosity, the detective once again held and comforted the blonde while she cried her appreciation. The emotional release then led to more steamy sex depleting any energy reserve of either woman for a while, so they relaxed and just talked.
Rachel explained what she knew about the Native Americans who came to town infrequently. Matthew Reddick had referred to them as Pawnee but to Rachel's knowledge, that was a generalization as, from everything she had been told, this band was a mixture of Chaui, Skidi and the most rare, Quiveras, three smaller groups of The Pawnee.
As the story went, Moving Elk, depending on who you believed, was either a charmingly persuasive leader or a savage of barbaric proportions. After a majority of his large tribe was systematically slaughtered by particularly violent groups of plains Apaches, British-armed Sioux and Osage Indians, he took what was left of his family from a burned Platte River village in Nebraska and migrated southwest, picking up other stray Pawnee along the way.
The other warriors had survived raids that killed many of the men, and resulted in their women and children being sold into slavery to the Spanish and Pueblo Indians. Those who weren't murdered outright were lost to white men's diseases like small pox and cholera. The original purpose of the direction of the migration was to hopefully find and rescue lost family members. It turned out to be a fruitless mission as none were located.
This assorted band of Pawnee finally settled in an area not more than five miles from Sagebrush about fifteen years earlier. Even though they had always seemed to be a peaceful tribe, Moving Elk's legend just continued to grow and Rachel was quite sure that certain tribal members enhanced that lore with each shot of whiskey at Wilbur's, knowing it would make the white men think twice about treating them badly.
"Matt said something about the male members of the tribe offering female captives as a sacrifice to ensure good crops..." Trace brought up, running her fingers lightly up and down Rachel's back. "Do you know anything about that?"
Feeling the blonde's body shake against her in laughter, Rachel said, "I've heard that, too, but I've never seen anything to make it so. I mean, unless they are taking women from Jefferson, which wouldn't make sense because it's a lot farther away, no one has come up missing from here. Besides, why do you think they took up your offer of corn so quick? They don't have hardly any fertile land to grow on. My daddy used to tell me that the Pawnee were known for their bountiful maize crops and skill at hunting buffalo. The buffalo aren't a problem but seems though they don't do so well with the corn growing. At least not around here."
Traditionally, in Pawnee settlements with better farming land, corn was plentiful and considered a sacred gift, one which they called 'mother.' The Pawnee linked various spiritual rites to its planting, hoeing, and harvesting and their lifestyle alternated between hunting buffalo and planting or harvesting crops. After planting and hoeing, the men left their villages in the summer for the buffalo hunt and then returned to harvest crops in the fall. Following storage of their bounty, they would leave in late autumn for their winter buffalo hunt and return to their villages in early spring to plant their crops and begin the cycle all over again.
Trace smiled. "No wonder they were so eager and appreciative of the corn deal. Maybe with our new friendship and business arrangement, I'll be able to go visit their village. I can't recall ever seeing a real tepee before."
"You won't see one in their village, either," Rachel told her. "They live in an earth lodge. They only build tepees when they are out on the buffalo hunt." The blonde then went on to explain about the circular, dirt-roofed, dome-shaped dwelling which housed all fifty some-odd tribal members.
"You mean they all live together - like a commune?"
"Well...I guess...I don't really know," Rachel admitted. As Trace's hands lightly caressed the cheeks of Rachel's firm rear end, the blonde swatted at the brunette playfully. "Maybe you can find out on your visit to the village." Trace's seemingly unconscious finger activity was stirring Rachel slowly to arousal again...not that she minded but she was beginning to wonder if she was becoming some kind of sex fiend. The more the detective touched her, the more she craved the physical intimacy.
"Maybe I will," the detective agreed, fascinated by what the blonde was telling her.
Rachel rose up and leaned on her elbow, looking into Trace's eyes. "How come you don't know anything about Indians? Weren't there any around Cottonwood?"
How unfortunate that the brunette would have to keep lying to the blonde concerning her 'hometown' but Trace knew that the truth was too unbelievable and her relationship with Rachel was too fragile to try to tell her anything different now. The detective vowed that she would be the last person to ever betray the blonde again but this was one facade she would have to keep up. "Where I come from, they are called Native Americans and they live on a reservation, which is now sovereign land. The closest tribe was well over sixty miles away and they ran a cas- a gambling house called the Mystic Sun."
The blonde looked completely bewildered by what Trace was telling her. She blinked at the detective. "Indians run gambling houses?"
"Yes. And quite successfully, too. Cottonwood is very different from here..."
"So you keep saying. Too bad you don't want to ever go back there," Rachel sighed, settling back into the comfortable position of her head on Trace's shoulder and one leg slung over Trace's abdomen, "because I would love to see it someday."
"Unfortunately, sweetheart, I can never return. I would be killed if those men ever found me."
"Then we will never go there," Rachel stated, simply. "My goodness. Gambling houses..."
"Tell me more about my silent business partners," Trace requested, enjoying what she was learning. While one hand had returned to massaging the blonde's backside, the detective's other hand began to circle Rachel's breast. Even though it appeared to be a movement Trace wasn't even aware she was doing, the blonde could feel the heat start liquefying her lower body.
"Well, again, this tribe of Pawnee has always been kind of mysterious. It isn't that they aren't friendly, they just mostly keep to themselves...until now. They come to town to -" Rachel closed her eyes when Trace's fingers brushed over her nipple. She took a breath and continued. "They come to town to barter and do business and to drink and Lord knows what else at Wilbur's."
"What about Moving Elk? Does he ever come to town?" The detective had suddenly realized what she had been doing with her hands and the effect it was having on her responsive companion. She could not keep the smirk from forming as she assessed her own body's rising readiness and could feel the wetness of her lover whose center had just ground into her hip.
"I don't know as anyone has ever seen him. Maybe he doesn't even exist." Rachel was finding it difficult to concentrate. "Maybe on your visit to their village, you can...see...if..." Not being able to stand it anymore, the blonde turned Trace's face to hers and seized the brunette's lips hungrily.
Breaking the sizzling kiss, Trace carefully positioned Rachel fully on top of her. She cupped Rachel's behind and pulled her up the length of her body to a sitting position. The blonde straddled her rib cage and looked down at the brunette questioningly. "Trust me?" Trace asked, needlessly, an anticipating smile on her lips.
"Of course," the blonde answered, her voice hoarse from want. She allowed the detective to slide underneath her as Trace guided her down. "Wh -?" Then the sensation of the detective's tongue inside her hit her full force. She grabbed onto the headboard and threw her head back, "Ohhh, sweet Lord in heaven..."
*****************
Trace had not expected to see Isaac bringing her the rest of the fence order until Saturday, as it was a one day trip to Jefferson and a one day trip back. Toward early morning, the detective had been up with Rachel, who had experienced a rather prolonged bout of nausea, so Trace was tired from that and the lack of sleep resulting from her extremely active sex life with her new partner.
The brunette was grateful and felt fortunate that Rachel enjoyed all aspects of lovemaking as much as Trace did but if they were going to keep up their current pace, they were going to have to start going to bed a lot earlier.
Trace's original plans for the day was to work some more on reinforcing the fence or begin marking off an acre of land in which to start plowing. Rachel so enjoyed growing herbs and vegetables to use in her natural remedies and now that the town was embracing her again, Trace was sure they would start calling on the blonde for her concoctions once more. That and selling her vegetables to Luther Foster had been lucrative for her in the past and the detective was going to make sure it was profitable for her again.
But, today, the brunette could barely put one foot in front of the other one. There just did not seem to be enough energy in her entire reserve. Rachel's stamina, however, appeared intact, which surprised Trace considering they were up half the night indulging each other's desires and then a good portion of the morning with the blonde's vomiting. Shaking her head at the irony of a smaller, younger, inexperienced, pregnant woman having more vigor than she, Trace smiled to herself. "God, I must be getting old," she mumbled to no one in particular.
While Rachel heated water and began to wash clothes, the detective made up her mind to do something hopefully productive that wouldn't be too taxing and decided to try her hand, finally, at fishing. Locating the pole and a pail in the barn, the detective headed down to the river, equipment in hand, sleeves and pant legs rolled up, ready for business. If she'd been wearing a straw hat, she would have felt like Tom Sawyer.
Stopping approximately five feet from the river bed where the ground was softer, the brunette dug for worms. It didn't take her long to find a handful of big, fat juicy ones, which she stuck in the pail with a clump of pliant dirt. The big, tough detective made a terrible face at handling these slimy little creatures and when she speared one through a hook, she looked even more distressed.
However, settling in on a comfortable patch of ground, leaning her back against a smooth boulder, Trace leisurely tossed her line in, noticing for the first time, the beauty of the shimmer from the sun on the river. Looking up at cottony white, billowy clouds, she marveled once again at how clear, vivid and vibrant the bright blue sky was. Her eyes then focused on how those same clouds cast shadows on the green crown of the mountains in the distance. The rustling of the water, along with the faint stirring of the leaves from a small, warm breeze prompted Trace to, again, not regret her decision to come back in time. Never in her world would she have ever noticed these things, much less taken the time to appreciate them.
Two hours later, she had forgotten all about her admiration of nature. She had caught no fish but lost plenty of worms to their hungry, conniving little mouths. Frustrated could not even begin to describe how Trace felt at her inability to catch the cold blooded creatures with a brain far inferior to her own. Of course, she realized she had never tried it before but how difficult could it be? Obviously it was a lot harder than the cocky detective had originally anticipated. She had one more worm left, which she skewered several times - in an exaggerated manner - onto the rather ordinary hook that was still sharp enough to poke her and draw blood. Tossing the line back in the water, telling the worm, 'bon voyage,' Trace tried one last time.
Rachel had taken a break from doing the laundry and thought it might be a good idea to see what Trace was up to. The brunette had not told her where she was going or what she was going to do but the blonde knew she couldn't be too far, especially after checking the corral and finding all of the horses grazing and accounted for. She grinned at Zelda, who was getting big and starting to feel her oats as she jumped and bounced around the pasture for no particular reason. It was then she heard yelling coming from the direction of the river.
Approaching Trace from behind, Rachel stopped a few feet behind the detective and just observed, crossing her arms in amusement.
"Augh! I can't believe this! Son-of-a-bitch!" The frustration in her voice was clear as she held the pole in one hand and the empty hook in the other. She looked directly into the water. "All I want is one little fish, just one...okay maybe not so little but that's not the freakin' point here! Can't one of you give me a break?" Exasperated, she threw the pole to the ground and turned around, coming face to face with Rachel.
"You tryin' to catch a fish or scare it to death?" The blonde inquired, taking in Trace's surprise at her presence.
"Well, I thought I could bring home dinner but the fish have other ideas...and don't say I need to be smarter than the fish," Trace warned.
"Well..." Rachel drew the word out as though she was contemplating just that. "You gotta admit it when your licked."
A smirk crossed the detective's face and she wanted to come back with, 'No, that was last night.' Knowing that was crude and would embarrass the blonde, Trace said, "I will not concede defeat to a fish."
"There's a fish trap in the barn. It would be easier to set it up and just let the current of the river guide them in."
The detective blinked at her. "You have fish traps? Why aren't they already set up?"
"Well, I just have one but it needs to be fixed. A section of wire rotted out a few months back. Wasn't very useful. The fish could swim right through."
"I can fix it. In fact, maybe I can get to that tonight after supper. In the meantime, I'm not coming back to the house until I catch a fish."
"You going to will it onto your hook?" The blonde asked, nodding toward the empty pail.
"No, I'm going to dig up some more worms," Trace told her, almost defensively, unconsciously making a face at the mere thought.
Rachel briefly stared at the ground, shaking her head at the detective's stubbornness. "Okay." Turning and walking back to the house, the blonde bit her lip to keep herself from responding with something sarcastic. She felt she must show her faith in the brunette, at the very least, by remaining silent and not undermining her determination. However, that didn't stop Rachel from thinking about preparing something else to eat, just in case.
Trace smiled fondly as she watched the blonde disappear through the trees on her way back to the house. Not wanting to disappoint her spouse, the brunette fell to her knees and began digging through the soil again.
**************************
The detective had just finished baiting the hook with a very long worm, when she felt a presence before she saw one. Tensing, she mentally prepared herself for anything.
"You want to catch fish, Tsápaat?"
Trace relaxed as she recognized the voice of Little Hawk, who stepped up to stand beside her. "You move like a damned ghost," the detective told him, unnecessarily. She paid no attention to the name in which he addressed her, figuring it was some kind of nickname in his own language.
The solid-framed man took the comment in stride. "You found the sheriff." It wasn't a question. His English was broken but comprehensible.
"Kind of took a big chance with that one, didn't you?" the detective couldn't keep the smile out of her voice. Neither looked at each other when they spoke, both preferring to glance out over the sparkling water.
"No. We knew you would find them."
Trace was about to throw her line in when Little Hawk raised his hand, indicating that he wanted her to stop. "Yeah, I'm not having much luck at this," the brunette chuckled. If nothing else had come of this journey, she had learned to stop taking herself so seriously.
Little Hawk stuck his hand into a pouch on his cloth tunicle and pulled out a fistful of something, took a step closer to the edge of the river and let chunks of the substance fall into the water. "Now we wait," he advised her.
"What's that you dropped in there?" Trace wondered.
"Walnuts." Off the detective's questioning expression, he said, "You will see."
Nodding, Trace set her pole down. "I really appreciate your help two days ago, Little Hawk. The day would have been a disaster had it not been for you and the others."
"Crane's time has come, Tsápaat. It only needed the right leader. We knew you would come. We just did not know when."
Trace should have been rattled by that but curiously enough, she was not. When Little Hawk began walking downstream along the bank, the detective automatically followed. "I'm going to be planting the corn hopefully at the end of next week," she told him, just for small talk.
"We will make sure you have some help and we will bring you seeds to plant squash. We have very little earth now that is not barren." Little Hawk stopped about twenty feet from where they previously stood and walked into the river until he was submerged to his waist. He looked at Trace. "Come. You must learn."
As Trace joined him, the water not being as cold as she expected it to be, she watched, astounded as one fish, then two, then four more floated to the surface. She grabbed three and Little Hawk plucked out the rest. "Are they dead?" the detective inquired as they made their way back to where Trace had left her equipment.
"No. Just sleeping," Little Hawk told her as they dumped their catch into the pail.
"Walnuts put fish to sleep?" The brunette asked, incredulously.
The Pawnee hunter just nodded, not knowing how to explain that the meat from the walnut held a powerful sedative. He pointed to the fish."Bring them home to your wife, Tsápaat. She needs to eat well. She has another growing inside her."
Stunned, Trace attempted to speak but nothing came out. How could he possibly know that? "How could you possibly know that?" She watched his face which remained impassive.
"It does not matter how. I do not question knowledge when it comes to me. And you should not. I also know you are not the father, Tsápaat." The sage, brown eyes captured astonished blue ones.
Trace felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her. It was one thing to sense someone was pregnant, that could possibly be explained away. She knew Indians were very spiritual people and had insight to so much more than, well, white people, but to know the baby was not hers was another matter entirely. Did she dare ask him how he knew? And what was this name he kept calling her? "Why do you keep calling me Tsápaat? What does that mean?"
For the first time, Little Hawk cracked a hint of a smile. "Woman."
Oh. That's how he knew, the speechless, wide-eyed brunette absorbed.
*******************
58
Walking up the steps, pail full of fish in hand, Trace couldn't stop laughing to herself. All, mysticism aside, Little Hawk admitted that he had been on the other side of the river, tracking a deer two months earlier, when he saw her bathing in the water. It must have been right after she had arrived there and was a little less cautious. He also told her that he would have known anyway after their actual meeting. There was a different scent to a woman than there was to a man.
She did not have to ask him not to tell anyone. It went without saying that he would respect her secret, as The Pawnee were very altruistic people. Besides, he had been aware of it for some time now and never said a word to anyone, other than his own tribe.
He also told her that he knew Rachel was with child by the way she walked. Little Hawk advised her that he had three wives and a total of eleven children with them. He was sensitive to many things that indicated when he would become a father again, and how a woman carried herself, even in the earliest stages of pregnancy was one of them. He then reassured Trace that he knew Rachel was a woman pure of heart and chaste and he sensed the circumstances that resulted in the blonde being with child were not. Little Hawk put his hand on the detective's arm and told her that what she was doing was noble and selfless and he was proud to know such an honorable woman.
His honesty touched Trace deeply, to the point where she had to choke back tears. No one had ever said - nor had she ever given anyone any reason to say - words like that to her before. She asked him if it bothered him that she was a woman disguising herself as a man. Little Hawk answered by telling her that his people measured worth by deed and dignity not by wealth or gender. He then clapped her on the shoulder and said, "You are more man than most white men, Tsápaat. You will make a great leader someday. Perhaps someday soon." And then as swiftly as he had arrived, he was gone.
Entering the cabin, Trace set the pail on the table and approached Rachel who was peeling vegetables.
"You're back soon. Did you give up?" the blonde asked, her tone fully expecting the detective to say yes.
"Ha! Ye of little faith," Trace replied, gently taking her bride by the elbow and leading her to the table.
Seeing the contents of the pail, Rachel looked back up at Trace, stunned. "You did it."
"Of course I did it," the detective was almost preening.
Setting two carrots down on the table, Rachel grabbed the pail and walked out to the porch with the detective right behind her. Sitting on the top step, the blonde removed the first fish. "You never stop confounding me, Trace," Rachel told her spouse who joined her on the step. "I am so proud of you, you never give up."
The detective flashed her a dazzling smile and was about to lean over and kiss her when Rachel unceremoniously lopped off the head of the fish, an action that caused Trace's stomach to lurch, repulsed.
After a delicious supper of trout cooked over an open flame, Trace repaired the fish trap, replacing one entire side with new wire while Rachel boiled the trout heads, bones and skins for stock. Having not told the detective what she was doing came back to bite her when, in another bout of nausea, she ran to the edge of the porch and deposited most of her supper. After making sure the blonde was okay, Trace returned inside - at Rachel's request - to check that the pot on the stove was not boiling over. Whatever was in there smelled damned good. Taking a towel to lift the lid, Trace stirred the substance with a spoon and stopped dead when at least three sets of eyes attached to three very ugly heads were suddenly staring at her from the steaming water. In a matter of a minute, the detective joined her wife, heaving up her trout consumption also.
Trace wondered when her stomach got so weak. Or maybe it was sympathetic morning sickness. Or maybe it was those damned fish heads. The thought then reminded the brunette of Rachel beheading and gutting the trout earlier and her insides turned once more.
Later, when the mood had returned to tranquil, both women sat on the porch and watched the sunset. Rachel quietly remarked that she liked the effect it had on the leaves just before the sun went to sleep for the night behind the mountains. Then Trace got her guitar out and sang a few songs while Rachel started sewing the detective a new binding from a remnant of stretchy material she got from Molly. The brunette never thought being so domestic would have ever made her so happy.
By the time they went to bed that night, Trace had confessed about Little Hawk and the walnuts. Rachel was a little disappointed that the detective had not caught the fish the traditional way but she was not surprised at the effect of the nuts. The blonde told Trace that the sweet fragrance of walnut shell shavings had a relaxing and soothing effect because it was a natural tranquilizer.
Trace would have to remember that after the baby was born.
****************
Isaac brought a wagon load of barbed wire the next morning and he and Trace got to work on the fence right away. Within an hour, Black Feather and two other Pawnee showed up and began to silently help affix the dangerous wire to the wooden rails. Approximately ninety minutes later, a few men from town arrived with their own tools and began on another section. Soon after that, Matthew Reddick and his card playing buddies were there to complete the last fifty feet of reinforcement for the fence. A project that should have taken three to four days was suddenly done in one.
When Trace made the rounds and thanked everyone for their help, they further surprised her by telling her that, as repayment, she could return the favor as all of them except The Pawnee had decided to copy her idea with their own land. When the detective, Isaac and the others reached the house, Trace saw a buzzing of activity hovering around the cabin, too. While the 'men' had been out toiling, the women had converged on the homestead with food, plates, cups and utensils and created a feast to feed the tired, hungry workers.
Washing up before supper, Trace was able to catch her wife on her way out of the house. They smiled, inspecting each other appreciatively and stood very close together, the urge to be physical nearly overwhelming them both.
Nodding her head in the direction of the crowd, Trace said, "Did you arrange this and not tell me?"
"No. This is as much a surprise to me, Trace." The genuine bewildered but pleased look on her face backed up Rachel's words.
Reaching over and subtly rubbing the blonde's shoulder, the detective stood there as Rachel returned to their guests. Trace took a minute to observe the blonde mingle with their neighbors, obviously thrilled to have these people back in her life again. Watching Rachel's glowing demeanor, adoration completely inhabiting every inch of her body for the smaller woman, the detective shook her head and took a deep breath, focusing on the horizon.
As Trace witnessed light bathe the summit of the purple mountains in the distance, the reality of what was happening washed over her as surely and as richly as the inevitability of the sunset. Although, conversation was predominantly loud and different timbred voices surrounded her, it filtered through her head as a chorus behind the echoing of Little Hawk's words: You will make a great leader someday. Perhaps someday soon. It was indeed happening. An Army one person at a time.
*********************
A repeat of the same community generosity occurred that next week when Trace began plowing and harrowing the ground. A few tribal members and several residents of Sagebrush showed up at different intervals to help till the deep, black soil, uproot weeds, break up crop residue, then plant and cover seeds.
A task that should have taken seven days at the least, took three and instead of one acre for corn, Trace now had two and Rachel's current vegetable and herb garden was stretched out another half-acre. If they could keep the 'varmints' away - animals and humans, they might actually be able to reap a good harvest.
Over the next six weeks, with the new property barrier in place and the contents of the garden and cornfield beginning to break through the earth, Trace and Rachel then concentrated on helping their neighbors toughen up their boundaries and reinforce their rights, as limited as they were. Time was of the essence if they were going to finally take a stand and do what they needed to do to get their town and their liberties back.
The Reddicks would come by every Sunday morning and pick Rachel up for worship services while Trace and assorted members of the Pawnee would police the property, ensuring everything remained alive and intact. Then they would go back to the river, fish with walnuts and imbibe in one hundred ninety proof grain alcohol, a double distilled spirit derived from the fermentation of different grains.
Rachel would always return from church and find them all the same way - splitting their britches laughing over nothing obvious and she would have to break up the party and send them all on their way. Then she would assist her 'drunk as a lord' spouse into the house and Trace would spend the night on the couch. It wasn't that Rachel was punishing her for indulging in the weekly ritual, which never failed to take its toll on the tall brunette but the blonde had learned it was easier when Trace got sick. Less steps to the bushes outside.
The newlyweds settled into married life, responding to and interacting with each other as though their partnership was meant to be, as though they had always been together. Anyone who spent any time around Trace and Rachel could not picture one without the other, Matthew Reddick even joking that the brunette without the blonde would be like having half of a yo-yo.
Their union was loving, respectful, productive and familiar and easily became the envy of anyone in and around Sagebrush. That didn't mean there wasn't occasional discord in the marriage. Although Trace was happier than she had ever been, she still was not used to sharing every aspect of her life with someone and sometimes her self-sufficient, stubborn, solitary ways got on Rachel's nerves. However, with the blonde's hormones fluctuating to opposite ends of the spectrum at lightning speed, it didn't take that much to perturb her and the brunette would find herself temporarily in the doghouse at least once a day. The best thing about that was making up afterward, which never ceased to be passionate and fulfilling, and each silently wore that satisfaction proudly. So, it surprised no one when Rachel revealed she was pregnant, especially not Molly Ledbetter who loftily appraised Trace and commented, "I knew that boy was fertile from the minute I laid eyes on him."
None of this activity went unnoticed by Sheriff Ed Jackson. With every passing day, the obnoxious and devious lawman grew angrier and more nervous. It wasn't just this strangely charismatic cowboy that made him jittery, it was the unmistakable change in the townspeople that also made him pause. For the first time, since the Cranes established their rule over Sagebrush and ensured Jackson's continued election into office, the sheriff was losing his control by proxy and the very idea of doing something/anything to provoke the Cranes' wrath no longer seemed to have the terrifying impact it used to.
To make matters worse, he had to stand by and watch it happen because ever since that humiliating incident in the woods, John and Seth Carver wanted no part of anything having to do with Trace Sheridan...at least until all the Cranes were back and a family meeting decided just exactly what strategies would be put into place to deal with this issue. If Sheridan had the Indians on his side, which he obviously did, this put a whole different twist on how Jackson - and the Cranes - normally handled dissident behavior.
Even the sheriff thought that the Cranes may have gotten a little overly confident when it came to the normally passive Pawnee. Jackson had noticed that the tribe tended to make alliances when and as it suited them. At their will, they could be the consummate diplomats even with people they did not like, agree with or, sometimes, even openly get along with. They certainly were not afraid of conflict or war but if it could be avoided, the tribe went out of their way to keep the peace, without losing their dignity. The Pawnee had, no doubt, learned to be masters at unity within diversity as they had already lost too much to put themselves in the position of being victimized again. But even they had their limits and, as the Cranes had severely hampered their trade habits with Sagebrush and Jefferson, Jackson knew an uprising of some sort was imminent and regardless of how mild, it would mark a serious shift in power - especially if the legendary Moving Elk led the rebellion.
Jackson was not happy that Sagebrush seemed to be coming alive again under the guidance and leadership of Sheridan and that he was incapable of stopping it. The sheriff would threaten his 'subjects' with arrest and/or retribution and that damned Cottonwood cowboy would advise them of how they could lawfully avoid it. And every day that passed just seemed to empower the townspeople more and more. Jackson knew it was reaching a critical point when he went around to collect the monthly 'tax' from the store proprietors and homeowners - the one that insured they be allowed to stay in business and keep their houses and properties from getting burned to the ground - and they refused.
Then fifteen head of prime cattle suddenly showed up at the Triple Y. Jackson nearly bit his cigar in half when he performed his daily patrol of the exterior of the ranch and heard before he saw the strong, healthy bovines grazing beyond the new barbed wire fence. Nobody except the Cranes were allowed to own cows and steers. How and when the animals had got there as well as where they could have come from was a mystery to Jackson. One day they weren't there, then next day they were. The sheriff's rising suspicion that there was more to this Sheridan character than met the eye grew with every mounting incident.
But the last straw came when the news reached him that Rachel was now with child and he actually broke out with flop sweat when he sent the telegram to Webb City where he knew it would reach the Cranes who should have been on their way back to Sagebrush. Sheriff Ed Jackson was no longer complacent about his position in town or his worth to Jacob Crane and he began having nightmares about being at the serious end of a hemp rope wrapped around the Crane's barn's center beam. The bet that they would not react to his inability to control this anarchy were not the sort of odds even a desperate gambler would have wanted to draw to.
In four short months, he had gone from feared tyrant to town laughing stock. The Cranes weren't going to care how it happened, just that it had happened and he had not been able to prevent it and keep order in the jurisdiction they had been so successfully terrorizing and controlling for the past ten years.
And the one thing he had never thought twice about - ever - was that anyone would have the balls to take Rachel Young away from Ben Crane. Who was this Trace Sheridan, anyway? How could a total stranger just waltz into Sagebrush, rile up the townspeople, steal the object of Ben's misguided affection without a second thought, befriend the Indians to the point of blind loyalty and cut him down to size with so little obvious effort?
There was only one thing Ed Jackson could do to rectify this situation before the Cranes got back. Trace Sheridan would have to die.
****************
Name: Cheyne
Email: Whenpiggsfly55@aol.com
Title: Renegade
Disclaimers: See Part 1
****************
****************
59
******************
Plumes of dust billowed up as the dirt was kicked back underneath thundering hooves. The animal's ears were pinned, his nostrils were flaring, he was snorting and almost to the point of gasping, sweat slick on his forequarters, his passenger riding belly down and hell bent for leather, crouched low over the horse's withers and pushing the animal hard.
Ben Crane had received Sheriff Jackson's telegram. He had left his father and brothers and the drive's other cowboys behind in Webb City and traded their leisurely ride back for a quicker path, one that would take him three weeks as opposed to another month and a half. Crane didn't know who this son-of-a-bitch was who had taken his woman but when he got back to Sagebrush, this man would be one dead son-of-a-bitch.
******************
Rachel was now in her fifth month of pregnancy and could not have been more beautiful or happier. Even though she knew it was biologically impossible, she had almost convinced herself that the child she was carrying belonged to her and Trace.
When her morning sickness had dwindled to only rare occasions, she had other symptoms that were just as annoying and she was glad she had the understanding, compassionate companion she did and did not have to suffer any more abuse and humiliation at the hands of Ben Crane. Had Trace not come along, Rachel was positive the cattle barons would have taken over her life, knowing another Crane offspring was on the way and even as adamant as she had been about never surrendering to that horrible family, her being with child may have gravely altered that decision for her. So she was endlessly grateful for the detective's showing up when she did, for her presence in the blonde's life, for her guiding Rachel down a path of enlightenment and unconditional love and she would be eternally beholden to the Lord that it was her partner and it was not, thank heaven, the baby's father who ministered to her fluctuating and unusual moods and needs, not that he would have even if they had been married, God forbid.
No, it was the tall, striking brunette that massaged her head, neck and back when her daily chores caused everything to ache unmercifully. It was Trace who applied a bruised fresh peppermint leaf to her forehead, rubbing the oil of it in what attempted to become migraine territory, soothing the pain. And it was her dearly beloved who tolerated her hormonal tantrums and then tears, who told her she was stunning and glowing with a face spotted by temporary blemishes and held the smaller woman against her when she felt bloated and frustrated and calmed her by bestowing gentle kisses to her growing belly, constantly reassuring Rachel she was going to be a wonderful mother.
When leg cramps would startle her out of a sound sleep, it was her lover who pushed the ball of her foot back to stretch the muscles and ligaments so the pain stopped. It was the detective who suggested they start sleeping downstairs when Rachel's numerous nightly trips to the outhouse became more urgent and her foraging in the pantry for a snack became more frequent. And it was Trace, not Ben Crane, who was working her firm, tantalizing butt off to get the Triple Y back into a running, prosperous ranch again so as to provide the family with a comfortable living.
It was also Trace who enthusiastically, regardless of how tired she was, satisfied every amorous whim the blonde was now having due to intensified sexual arousal. Sometimes it would be in the middle of the day when Rachel would get frisky and the brunette always obliged her, always ensured that Rachel was satiated, that every carnal need was lovingly indulged.
One day in the early afternoon, when Matthew Reddick stopped by to excitedly give Trace and Rachel the news that Elizabeth was now expecting, he couldn't understand where the couple could be. He had hollered their names several times and knew they had to be about because Rio had been tethered to the front hitching post. Becoming concerned, he ascended the steps, about to enter the house to make sure everything was okay, when a very mussed, tousled and flushed Rachel met him at the door in her housecoat.
As inconvenient as it was, especially since Trace had gotten her right there, the blonde had to prevent Reddick from making it inside the cabin so that he did not catch them doing what they were doing, but more specifically, so he didn't catch Trace naked. It was much easier for Rachel to throw on clothes in a pinch than it was for the brunette. Observing her appearance, she really didn't need to explain to Matthew that she and Trace had been 'better occupied.'
It was an embarrassing, if not defining, moment for Rachel and her neighbor, but Matthew left with a healthier respect for Trace that 'he' could get 'his' wife into bed in the middle of the afternoon and that the blonde, more than obviously, had no complaints. At that time, he never would have believed Rachel was the initiator, however, in a few months, if Elizabeth experienced the same hormonal changes, he was in for a big, hopefully pleasant, surprise.
Then there was the first time the baby kicked. Rachel wasn't quite sure what had just happened to her but Trace did and was more excited than the mother-to-be was. The blonde had been sitting on the porch, sewing another maternity dress, when she experienced a feeling similar to a large swarm of butterflies in her stomach. Trace had just returned to the house for a cup of water and was about to take Rio out for a perimeter check, when she noticed the strange look on Rachel's face.
"What's wrong?" the detective asked, more curious by her wife's expression than alarmed.
"I don't know...something's fluttering in my belly."
With one leap, Trace cleared the steps and was on her knees at Rachel's side with her hand on the blonde's abdomen. "It's the baby kicking, I bet!" However, even when Rachel had the sensations again, the baby was still too small for Trace to feel the movement on the outside. That still didn't stop the detective from nuzzling the area and speaking softly to the child within, an act that made Rachel's heart swell with overwhelming love for this woman.
So, it was easy to convince herself that this baby was not fathered by Ben Crane and that Trace Sheridan was this child's other parent. Even if the idiot figured it out, Rachel would make sure that Ben Crane would lay no rights to the little boy or girl growing inside her. Now if she could just persuade the townspeople that when this baby was ready to come out, it was two months early.
*********************
Trace had been bugging Rachel about names for the baby but the blonde thought it was too soon. However, Rachel's one request was that the child's middle name either be Frank or Minnie, depending on its gender. The brunette didn't have a problem with that and wished there was a way to tell the sex of the baby before it was born. The detective then remembered that the Pawnee were intuitive...maybe the medicine man would be able to help with that.
Little Hawk and his fellow tribal members became daily visitors to the ranch. They helped with the fields and the stock, and, as the cows were there strictly for dairy purposes, they further made sure that the expectant parents had fresh meat. This was fine with Trace as the thought of hunting was not something she really wanted to do but the blonde put her foot down and was insistent that the Pawnee take the brunette with them when they went in search of game the next time. As Rachel's wrath was nothing to be trifled with - especially lately - Trace appeased her and accompanied Black Feather and two more Sunday drinking buddies, brothers Rising Moon and Red Sky, the next time they went hunting.
The detective rode along, quietly at first, really hoping they did not see anything she would have to kill. Then she decided to start telling jokes, which, unfortunately, went right over her companions' heads, until she told the only Indian-related joke she knew. "...so then the boy goes to the Chief and says, 'how do we get our names?' and the Chief says, 'when you are born, you are named after the first thing I see, like a blowing leaf or a howling wind. Why do you ask, Two Dogs Fucking?"
Her Pawnee friends were silent at first and then laughed uproariously at this joke, which pleased her on two levels. The first being the noise would probably warn away any game in the area and the second, she loved to make her new friends laugh and sometimes that wasn't easy unless they were all rip-roaring drunk. One thing she had learned, from her first visit to Wilbur's, was that the word 'fuck' was just as alive and well in the old west as it was in her era.
"You do not like to hunt, Tsápaat?" The question was coming from Red Sky.
"I've never done it before. I don't like to kill animals, unless they are sick, gravely injured or about to kill me."
"Out here we just kill what we need to live," Black Feather interjected.
"I could live on fish and vegetables," Trace smiled.
"Caskí Custíra'u needs the meat for the young one growing inside her," Black Feather stated. The Pawnee now always referred to Trace as Tsápaat and Rachel by a name which, loosely translated in their native language, meant 'little mother.' Suddenly things got very still and Black Feather reined up, raising his hand for the others to do likewise. He sniffed the air. "We need to find gamesoon. Rain is coming. Not a good time for hunting. Rahúrahki holes up when it rains," he advised, using a Pawnee word for wild animals.
Not more than ten minutes later, Red Sky, who obviously had ears like a cat, directed the party to the right of the path, spotting a few antelope grazing in an open area located in the upper most quadrant of the north side of the Triple Y property. They all stopped and looked at Trace, who returned their stares skeptically. "You're going to make me kill one of them, aren't you?"
Rising Moon didn't understand Trace's reticence. "You must be the one. You must learn to do this. For Caskí Custíra'u. For the little one who will learn how to hunt from you."
The detective did not want to do it. Every fiber of her being silently protested having to execute an innocent animal just to fill her and Rachel's belly, when she knew they could survive on fish, rabbit (which Rachel killed), eggs and vegetables and it would be just as good for the baby. But she also knew that her refusal would not be met with humanitarian understanding, it would be looked upon as a flaw and would definitely bring her credibility as a leader and 'warrior' down a few notches. Right now, it was critical that she continue to do everything to show her mettle so that the town would follow her lead and believe in her abilities.
Trace knew it was hypocritical that she gladly devoured meat the Pawnee brought them but eating it was one thing, killing it was quite another. She did not have to look the target in the eye and shoot it, watch it drop to the ground and die. Somehow, when a cut of meat came to her she could blur the idea of how it got to that point, block out any possible gruesome details of its demise. Today, right now, she could no longer do that. She had to prove her 'manliness.' She knew if she did not kill this antelope, it would go no further than the four of them in that group. She also knew if she did kill the animal, the word, 'hunter' would be added to her already growing reputation and would spread quickly.
Come on, Trace, buck up, she told herself. How hard can it be? Just aim and pull the trigger and it will be over quickly, you'll have proven yourself. Hell, you can kill a man and not think twice about it, this should not be such a dilemma.
But it was. She emerged from her thoughts and stared into the expectant eyes of the three Pawnee with her. They dismounted to find concealment behind tall shrubbery as Trace reluctantly removed her Winchester from its sheath on the saddle and she joined her companions. She watched the antelope peacefully grazing and drew a deep breath. Sensing slight movement to her left, Trace glanced over to see a waterskin offered to her from Black Feather.
"Kiiráhkata," he told her, which Trace knew could be whiskey, bourbon or generally anything alcoholic. Accepting the deer hide container, the detective removed the small stopper and took a long swig of the spirit that burned all the way down her throat. The light amber liquid did make her eyes water a bit and there was a small part of her that wondered what she just drank and a bigger part of her that didn't want to know. She was about to raise her rifle when Black Feather nudged her again, indicating she take another swig. "Raahikuuc. Courage."
Trace shook her head. She wanted to get this over with. It wasn't courage she lacked, it was desire. She raised the Winchester once more and took careful aim, catching the exquisite, unsuspecting animal precisely in her sights. After a small wave of sheer panic, her nerves steadied, she took a breath, relaxed her stance and squeezed the trigger. As Trace was a dead shot with any kind of weapon, she did not miss and when the antelope fell, so did her tears.
It was the first indication the Pawnee had, other than her scent, that Tsápaat was indeed a woman, with emotions accordingly. She stoically, robotically participated in the skinning and gutting and rode back to the cabin, sad and angry. When they reached the house, the Pawnee gave her the best cuts of meat and took the rest and the hide and headed back to their village as it began to sprinkle.
**********
The minute the detective stepped through the door, Rachel knew something was wrong. She could see it on Trace's face and in her demeanor, feel the chill in the air when the brunette handed her the meat and then walked by her.
"Trace?" The bewilderment in her voice was apparent.
The detective spun on her heel and stalked back to her lover. "Don't you ever ask me to do that again, Rachel. Not ever!" Trace was almost spitting out every word. "I hate killing animals unless I absolutely have to and it is something I will not do again unless I am faced with those circumstances. I don't mind doing anything else around here but if you want fresh meat from now on, you can do it yourself or we can barter with the Pawnee, but I will not do that again!"
At first, the rage in her spouse's voice frightened her a little but when she realized Trace was not as irate as she was regretful and heavyhearted, it became easier to understand what motivated this outburst. "Trace...I'm sorry...I had no notion hunting would affect you like this, I..."
"Well, it did! And I will forever have the memory of that innocent creature falling to the ground, dying, because of something I did, the memory of those beautiful eyes staring at me while we cut it out." The fact was Trace had nailed the antelope almost directly between the eyes and it was most likely dead before it even dropped, therefore causing it an instantaneous, painless death. Somehow that didn't seem to make her feel any better.
"But, Trace, we need red meat, I need it for -"
"Then you kill it next time. I don't need it, I can live on whatever we have been surviving on without it." She then walked to the bedroom and pulled out clean clothes. "I'm going to take a shower and wash this blood off me."
As the detective moved toward the front door, Rachel followed. "Trace, at least let me -"
The brunette stopped and looked at her. "Don't...don't come near me for a while."
The flash of anger in those expressive blue eyes caused Rachel to stop in her tracks. Tears welled as she watched Trace disappear from her view. She had never seen that side of the brunette before and wasn't sure she liked it, as her emotions fluctuated from hurt to indignation back to hurt. The blonde began to prepare the meat for storage and one cut for supper, as she wiped away tears with her sleeve.
She had practically demanded that Trace go hunting with the Pawnee, even over the brunette's rather strong protestations. She honestly believed this was something the detective needed to learn, to get used to, as the winters had a tendency to be rough and food became scarce. Killing an animal for food never bothered her, she had been doing it since the first time her father took her hunting at seven years old. It was not a matter of liking it or not liking it, it was a necessity and it served a purpose. Well, if she had to be the hunter of the family, then so be it. Trace was a good provider in everything else and this was the first time the detective ever balked at one of Rachel's requests. If hunting was the only thing Trace wouldn't do, she was still pretty fortunate.
After the blonde stored the haunch of meat for later meals, she cleaned up her mess and readied the thick portion of flank she had put aside for supper, spicing it with herbs, skewering it with metal rod and setting it to broil slowly over a small flame. As she began to peel potatoes, Trace re-entered the house, taking in the aroma of dinner starting to cook.
"I don't want any," the detective stated flatly as she crossed to the bedroom, running her fingers through her hair to help it dry faster. Her tone of voice still showed signs of upset.
"You have to eat," Rachel told her softly, as she continued to fix the potatoes.
"I don't have to eat that," the brunette pointed at the fireplace.
Putting her knife down, the blonde wiped her hands on her apron and went to their bedroom, where she sat on the bed, watching the detective search for a pair of socks. "Trace...I won't ever ask you to do that again, all right?"
"It wouldn't matter if you did because I won't," she responded, her defiance clear.
"Please don't be mad at me, honey, I can't bear it," the blonde pleaded. The thought of Trace really being angry with her tore her apart and once again she began to cry, burying her face in her hands.
"Now, don't start that, Rachel," Trace said, exasperated, knowing that tears from the blonde always got to her, "I'm not done being pissed off yet and I'm not backing down on this..."
"I don't want you to," Rachel sobbed, forlorn. "I was wrong and I'm sorry. I should not have made you go..."
Emitting a huge sigh, Trace said, "No, you shouldn't have, you shouldn't have made me feel like less of a person because I had not put meat on the table that I had killed, myself. Who cares how it gets there, Rachel? If the Pawnee don't mind bartering for it, then what is the problem?"
"There isn't one."
"No, there isn't. So...we will never have this discussion again, all right?"
"All right," the blonde agreed, trying to regain her composure.
Calming down, the detective looked over at her wife who was obviously distraught, most of the emotion, no doubt, fueled by raging hormones. When Rachel could not stop bawling, Trace moved over on the bed and enveloped the blonde in a secure embrace. "Shhhh, it's okay, baby. Shhhhh," the brunette spoke softly, soothingly. "I know you didn't really understand my feelings about this, I should have made myself more clear."
She kissed the top of Rachel's head, reassuringly, feeling the blonde settle down in her arms. Lightly stroking the smaller woman's back and arms, Trace held her for a while, until it smelled like the meat was beginning to burn in the other room. It was then she heard a soft snore emanate from the expectant mother, which triggered a smile in the brunette. She gently laid Rachel back on the bed, positioned her as comfortably as possible and went to tend to dinner.
*****************
60
A few days later, Little Hawk rode over to where Trace and Isaac were working on repairing a trough that had been kicked in by one of the steers. When the Pawnee dismounted, it was apparent he was carrying something in his hand as he approached.
"Ráwa," Little Hawk greeted the hard workers.
"Hey, Little Hawk," Trace smiled, always happy to see the hunter. "Whatcha got there?"
Both the detective and Isaac walked to meet the Pawnee, who held his hand out to the brunette. On his palm was a tiny, sleeping puppy. "For you and Caskí Custíra'u, Tsápaat. And for your little one."
Deeply touched by this gesture and automatically in love with this precious little gift, Trace took the puppy from the Pawnee and cradled him up by her neck. He was gray and off-white and had an area of black on his head that made him look like he was wearing a World War II flying ace's cap with goggles. "He's beautiful, thank you, Little Hawk. He's so tiny. How old is he?"
"Old enough to be away from his mother. He is special, Tsápaat. He is mostly wolf. He will be loyal to you and to your family. He will be calm but he will be fierce in his loyalty."
Isaac was also smitten and reached over to scratch the little dog behind his ears. The puppy yawned, making a small whining noise and then went back to sleep.
"I have to show Rachel. Come with me?" The offer was made to Little Hawk, as Trace knew Isaac would follow her, regardless.
"No, I am needed back in my village."
"Anything wrong?"
Little Hawk shrugged. "One of my wives is giving birth," he said nonchalantly.
"What?" Trace was incredulous and then shooed him back to his horse. "Then, yes, you should be there."
"I have seen it before," he replied, not exactly disinterested but not enthusiastic, either. "This will make twelve."
"I know, but Little Hawk, you should still be there," Trace reprimanded, softly.
Mounting his horse, Little Hawk grinned. "She is not ready. It takes time. You will see, Tsápaat."
"Why do you call him that - Tsápaat?" Isaac asked, curiously. "What does that mean?"
Exchanging glances with the Pawnee hunter, Trace said, "Uh...cowboy," at the exact same time Little Hawk said, "Warrior." Looking at each other again, the detective then said, "Warrior," as the tribal hunter said, "Cowboy."
Isaac appeared confounded and Trace spoke up and said, "It means Cowboy Warrior. Let's go show this little guy to Rachel." The teenager seemed okay with that and beat the detective to the steps. Turning to Little Hawk, she rolled her eyes in mild relief, and patted the Pawnee's horse on his side. "Thank you again."
Putting his hand up in response, the Little Hawk heeled his stallion into a trot and rode away.
When presented with the puppy, the blonde gushed her approval and appreciation and Trace did not get to see him or hold him again until sometime after midnight when he began whine and cry for his mother. The detective knew it was wrong but both she and Rachel were exhausted and the only thing that would shut the puppy up so that they could get any rest was to bring him into their bed, where he promptly curled up between them and immediately went back to sleep. As the blonde smiled fondly at the dog, rubbing his warm little tummy, Trace shook her head, laughing and said, "This will not happen with the baby."
Leaning over the dog and kissing Trace on the forehead, Rachel smiled and said, "We'll see..."
****************
They named the dog Ramiro, after a neighbor's German Shepherd Trace had adopted while growing up, who had that same name. The neighbor, a Basque woman who was very kind to the detective, feeding her meals when her mother was too 'busy' to do so, told Trace that the name Ramiro meant Great Judge. That animal became her best friend and when the dog died of old age, she grieved as though she had lost someone very dear to her (which, in fact, she had) and she could think of no better honor to bestow on this puppy than to name him after someone so very special. Rachel agreed.
Another couple weeks went by with Ed Jackson making his appearances uncharacteristically rare and that made Trace suspicious. Even when she went to town either with or without Rachel, the sheriff was not out and about, performing his usual routine of making himself abundantly and annoyingly present where he was not wanted...which was pretty much everywhere. Silas, who was always a fountain of information, advised the detective that, for some reason, Jackson had been sticking close to his office, apparently, not even going home at night, preferring instead to sleep in a little room behind the office of the jail. While everybody else seemed okay with the sudden scarcity of Ed Jackson, Trace didn't like it. A warning bell tolled in her gut and she had learned a long time ago never to ignore that feeling. He was up to something, she was sure of it and she was even more sure that whatever it was, she was going to be the target.
******
Ben Crane was one-quarter of the way home. His rage was so complete that he felt he could have walked the rest of the way to Sagebrush and still made it in the same amount of time as it would take him and his horse to get there. He wouldn't have stopped now if it hadn't been that his horse was too exhausted to travel any further tonight. After both he and his mount got a drink by a stream, he hobbled his pure ebony Friesian to a grassy lair by some rather large boulders and a few trees, where he decided to bed down for the night.
He stripped the saddle from the shiny, black horse and watched as the sweaty animal rolled on the ground. Crane rubbed him down with handfuls of dried grass, then hitched the stallion to a low branch where the horse began to dine on the lush vegetation at his feet. Crane also needed to think about dinner, something substantial, as he had been living on whatever he had in his pack since he had left Webb City. Within the last half mile at least, he had seen the tracks and droppings of both deer and elk, so he was pretty sure he would eat well before he went to sleep that night.
Getting his things settled around where he would later build a campfire, he then took up his rifle and wiped it down, removing any dampness and exterior dirt from it. His backhair continued to bristle at the thought of Rachel being with anybody else, at the visual of some other man having her every night and getting it lovingly, willingly and, he had no doubt, eagerly. Crane could not bear the thought of that pretty little face and body that just begged to be touched again and again, warming the bed of anyone else. Well, if it was one thing he could tuck up under his belt, it was the knowledge that he'd had her first. He grinned, sadistically, at the memory and wondered if the blonde's husband knew that he hadn't married a virgin. Of course he knew, Crane then thought, all men know. And the son-of-a-bitch obviously stayed married to her anyway, which immediately put him right back into another sour mood.
No man had ever gone up against him or his family and the ones who tried, lived to regret it, if they lived at all. What could possibly be so different about this man where Jackson, his uncle John and cousin Seth couldn't keep him in line? Why the man had to be downright crazy in the head and, for that matter, so did Rachel, to think that someone, anyone, would keep him away from her, keep him from taking her whenever he damn well pleased. However, if the man was a touch insane, it would make the confrontation a little more interesting because crazy people weren't afraid of anything. Crazy didn't scare him...but he learned to never underestimate it. Regardless, he could not stop thinking of Rachel and what it felt like to have her and then after he killed her husband, what it would be like to have her again.
Without realizing it until it became almost painful, he'd sprouted an erection that began straining the fabric of his trousers. Looking down, he wasted no time unbuttoning his pants and immediately went to work on taking care of that little problem, fantasizing about a certain feisty blonde while he did.
*******************
Life had been evolving smoothly. Too smoothly for Trace's liking. The fence was in place and strong, the cattle were healthy and productive, the crops were starting to thrive, Ramiro was growing like a little weed and Rachel was really showing now. The reality that there would soon be an infant in their lives was becoming more and more clear and the detective began preparing the house for the arrival of a baby. She had found some items packed away in the barn that had been Rachel's when she was a newborn and the brunette pulled out all the clothes and set to work at reinforcing a lovely cradle with intricate hand carvings on all sides.
Trace was so settled into her new life that memories of her past were really beginning to fade into obscurity. She could not think of anywhere else she would rather be, anyone else she would rather be with, regardless of the impending threat by, return of and inevitable showdown with the Cranes. The brunette truly believed she had been given a second chance and she was not going to screw this up. Redemption was a funny thing. She had never felt she needed redeeming and now that she had been, she didn't know how she could have existed the other way. But, back then, she selfishly lived for nothing other than more money and cheap thrills. Now, she knew, beyond a reasonable doubt, that she would die for Rachel and this unborn child and that was a revelation to someone who never would have believed she'd had that kind of selflessness inside her.
She had grown up always being cast aside, always having to fight for whatever little crumb of life was tossed her way, always thinking that taking was the key to survival, that 'honor' and 'integrity' and 'truth' and 'benevolence' were for suckers. The meek would never inherit the Earth, they would inherit nothing but insurmountable bruises from always turning the other cheek. A part of her still believed this. Trace was far from being meek but she was learning that compromise could be life's saving grace.
Before ending up here, in 1879, the detective would have never settled on anything. Compromise meant weakness in her eyes and Trace hadn't known weakness or dependability since right around the time she was potty trained. She knew the Cranes would never concede in any situation, either. However, her advantage was knowing how they thought and knowing she could use it against them. Hopefully she could eventually accomplish a peaceful, agreeable arrangement with no one getting killed but she sincerely doubted it. Too much was at stake. For everyone.
All these thoughts passed through the detective's head while digesting a hearty supper of steak and sliced potatoes all fried in bacon grease. As delicious as that was, she was going to have to expound on the dangers of high cholesterol to the normally health conscious blonde. After cleaning up the dishes from the table, Trace stepped out onto the porch about to pick up her guitar when she sensed that something was amiss. Focusing on the herd that had come into the barn to eat, she immediately saw that one was missing.
"Sweetheart, I don't see all of the cows," she told Rachel, who joined her on the porch. Both women searched the immediate area surrounding the house, stable and barn and the errant heifer was nowhere to be found. "It will be dark in an hour or two, so I'm going to take Rio out now and look around the property. I'm sure she just wandered off. I'll find her and get her back here as soon as I can. Will you be okay here by yourself?"
The Pawnee were having a celebration that night and since Trace had intended on being home, their absence had not been a big deal. Usually there were one or two tribal members close by to keep an eye on not only their own interests in the growing corn and squash but on the ranch buildings as well. They trusted the Cranes and anyone affiliated with them less than the detective and the blonde did.
"I'll be fine." Rachel was grateful for the protectiveness of the brunette but Trace had drilled armed self-defense into her and she felt confident if she had to use the Winchester or the carbine, she would. Or would she? She had never shot a human being before. She had used the rifle on plenty of animals but never on a person. When it came down to it, could she, would she really pull that trigger? She guessed it depended on the circumstances and she hoped she would never have to find out. "Go round up our cow. I'll just sit here on the porch and get some fresh air." She looked down at the happy puppy dancing around her feet. "Ramiro will protect me," she smiled, reaching down to pick up the dog.
Trace kissed the blonde goodbye, patted Rachel's belly, ruffled the fur on Ramiro's head and went to the stable to saddle up the mustang.
*********************
She sat atop Rio, gazing out over the landscape, sweeping her periphery with a more than appreciative study of what Mother Nature was offering her. Sunlight suddenly poked through the clouds and dropped through the trees, eliciting a shattered radiance from the overcast sky, the oaks and pines poised in almost regal beauty. She could hear the river babbling to her left, as a soft breeze whispered through her and she looked down at the moss on the nearby rocks that was of the deepest shade of kelly green. No artist could recreate this majesty on canvas and no photographer would ever be able to capture this dazzling display on film.
Trace heeled her mustang into an ambling walk and came out over a small rock landing. Before her was a lovely meadow and beyond that loomed the northern wall of the mountains, cut by deep ridges and furrowed by shallow folds. Scanning the area completely, she neither could see nor hear any signs of the lone, runaway cow. Neither could she kick the feeling that Ed Jackson was somehow behind this.
As the sun was beginning to quickly set and the sky was starting to darken into night, Trace decided to turn Rio around and head back to the house. As it was, she would be leaving Rachel alone in the cabin longer than she cared to. Trace knew Rachel could handle herself with a gun and that, sacred celebration or not, one or two Pawnee were never very far away but she would never forgive herself if something were to happen and she was not right there to help deal with it. Hopefully the cow would be fine until morning when she would again start looking for her at first light. If she found the bovine in any other condition than safe, there would be hell to pay.
**************
61
It had been dark for nearly thirty minutes when a noise alerted the man lying in wait that the time had come to take care of business before his bosses got back to town.
Sheriff Ed Jackson brought his rifle to bear, trying to estimate the height and distance of Trace Sheridan, sitting tall on that mustang, then aimed where he believed the bane of his existence's body would be. He put a careful bead on her silhouette with his Winchester and then squeezed the trigger, the sound of the shot splitting the night. The noise echoed to the mountains and back and a cruel smile crossed the sheriff's face, knowing Rachel had to have heard it and just imagined the terror and dread that filled the traitorous blonde's heart.
Hearing the rifle bark, the stab of flame struck her eyes before the bullet slapped her like a whiplash, feeling the jarring impact of the slug as it entered her shoulder, tumbling her from her saddle. It took her a moment to realize what had happened and instinct told Trace to get the hell out of there. Rio had already retreated to some place safe at a thundering pace and now it was his rider's turn to do the same.
The wound was on her left side which was fortunate as she was right-handed. Drawing one of her Colts from its holster, she knew she had to move behind something that would provide her with some semblance of cover or at least concealment. Trace started to rise but another shot slammed her back onto the ground as she felt a stab of agony in her side. She inhaled in the coppery smell of blood and knew she was in trouble.
The detective used her legs to slide herself behind a clump of bushes, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, staying as still as she could, drawing in shallow, careful breaths and listening for the slightest movement, the remotest of sounds. She heard nothing.
Suddenly a wild barrage of gunfire flew inches over her head, into the trees behind her, the flash from the barrel coming from the south band of forest to her right and then there was silence. The detective knew it was searching fire, that her attacker was shooting blindly, either hoping to hit her again or provoke her to fire back, so that he could see the direction from which the barrel flame was coming. Trace counted six shots and figured whoever it was must be reloading. Her shoulder was throbbing and she knew that with every beat of her heart, blood was pumping out of her body. Quickly checking out the wound on her side, she assessed it to be a graze, even though it stung like an entire swarm of hornets and oozed red like a stuck pig.
She knew this had to be the work of Ed Jackson. The Carvers made it clear that they were staying out of this vendetta the sheriff had for Trace. When the Cranes got back, that would be a different matter but until then, Ed was on his own. It did not surprise her in the least, he would ambush her like this and she quietly cursed herself for letting her guard down. While she waited, she used her right hand to remove the revolver from her left holster and laid it on her lap. Her entire left side was starting to feel as though it was weighted down with cement. Propping her back up against a stump, the detective heard dry twigs snapping and dead leaves crunching and she knew the sheriff was closing in on her.
"Hey, Ed..." Trace acknowledged, as the sheriff came into view. Her Colt was trained on him, her hand very steady. "I knew you'd pull a sneak attack and you didn't disappoint me." Her voice was strained, regardless of how calm she was trying to be, as her pain was evident. "You're a dirty fighter, Ed, no way around it. No code of the west with you," Trace stated, her wavering voice reflecting her weakened state. She referred to the unspoken decalogue between honorable gunfighters of not drawing and firing first and especially not bushwhacking someone.
"Say what ya gotta, Sheridan, but it ends here." He had put his pistol away and was aiming his rifle at her.
"You do realize that if you shoot me, reflex will make me shoot you back, right?"
"That's if you can even hit me. You look in pretty bad shape. I know I can kill you with one shot...I don't think you can do the same." He snickered, salaciously. "I'm gonna love taking your head off, son. Then you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna bring your lifeless corpse back to your wife and drop it at her doorstep. And then, I'm gonna take advantage of her grief and get me a little piece of that. And since we don't need no more little Sheridans running around, I'm gonna -"
His eyes popped open in wide disbelief as the bullet struck him in the midsection. Dropping his Winchester, he just simply sat down, staring at the hole in his shirt, the ring of blood surrounding it rapidly getting larger. Jackson, for all his bullying, had never been shot before and in his cocky ignorance, never thought he would be. As his body washed over in shock, he looked up at Trace, who was focused behind her.
There stood Rachel, holding the carbine, smoke emanating from the barrel. Trace had never seen that look in the blonde's eyes before. She hoped she'd never see it again - at least not directed toward her. The brunette then returned her attention to the wounded sheriff, as the blonde took a step closer, looking down at her injured spouse.
"How bad are you hurt?" Rachel asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I'll live." Trace responded, her breath now coming out in gasps. She hoped that was true.
The blonde never dropped her rifle and looked back at Jackson, her eyes narrow slits, her voice even and deliberate. "You know, Sheriff, you got away with tormenting and threatening my parents, you got away with killing my fiancée's folks and bullying me ever since they have been gone. You stood by knowing that Ben Crane raped me and now you tried to take the most precious thing I have in my life right now...You're right, Sheriff...it ends here. Say hello to Satan for me." Squeezing off another shot, Rachel did not react when Jackson's head snapped back and the sheriff slumped to the ground.
Then she passed out.
*******************
When Rachel awoke, she was lying on her own sofa, her forehead covered by a cool, damp cloth. Standing over her was Little Hawk and another Pawnee she did not recognize.
"Trace?" It was the first thought she had, the only thing she could ask.
The other Indian placed his hand gently on Rachel's shoulder to stop her from rising too quickly. "She is strong, like a horse. The bullet did not stop in her body. Her wounds will heal quickly."
Rachel looked up at Little Hawk, who nodded. "She is resting. She lost much blood. Not enough to stop her. She said you saved her life."
"I...I guess I did. What about the sheriff?"
"The sheriff no longer walks this earth. He will not be missed."
She supposed she should have felt something - remorse, guilt, shame...but all she felt was relief. The fact that she had killed a man, taken a life, did not affect her in a manner that she would have previously expected. At least not yet as she was sure most of her indifference was due to shock. Her hand then went to her belly. "My baby?"
"The child is strong like Tsápaat," Little Hawk assured her. When Rachel looked back over at the man standing next to the hunter, questioningly, Little Hawk said, "this is Fire Arrow. He is a medicine man."
Sitting up slowly, she glanced toward the other room, seeing a figure on the bed, in the darkness, covered by the thick quilt. Standing, gaining her equilibrium, Rachel extended her hand to Fire Arrow, who took it warmly in his own. "Thank you, Fire Arrow."
"We are never far away, Caskí Custíra'u."
Rachel found a smile for the medicine man. Even though they had never met before this moment, he referred to her by the pet name his other tribal members had been calling her. It made her feel like she had known him a long time.
Still a little unsteady on her feet, she slowly walked into the bedroom and sat down on the bed, taking one of Trace's hands in her own. She watched the detective sleeping, worried about the clamminess of the brunette's palm and her ghostly white pallor, wondering exactly how much blood Trace had lost. Fire Arrow had cooked pine resin to fashion a poultice for inflammation and pain but the area around her wounds still looked angry and were seeping. Before daybreak, she would replace the medicated covering with nettle tea and honey - the thought of which elicited a memory that made Rachel smile and sad at the same time, as it reminded her of the first time she ever patched the brunette up, the day they met. The blonde had never seen the detective look so helpless and debilitated and, regardless of what the medicine man had told her, she was frightened of losing the one and only thing in her life that made her feel whole. Trying to be brave, Rachel still could not stop a single tear that rolled down her cheek.
"I was hoping the lead had not been molded yet that had your name on it," the blonde told her quietly. With Ramiro curled up by Trace's side, Rachel and the puppy held a vigil while various members of the Pawnee and her neighbors stood guard of the house and property and made sure that the blonde ate and slept.
The first time Trace moved, she groaned softly and the sound went through Rachel like a chill. But it was the most beautiful noise the blonde had ever heard. After the bleeding had stopped, the blonde continued to attend to the detective's wounds with a poultice of chamomile flowers for the swelling and honey to draw the infection out.
Within the next few days, the detective was awake more than she was asleep and started to get her strength back. Rachel fed her broth made from venison, with healing ingredients of cabbage and garlic and only left her side to make trips to the outhouse.
************
"You're tougher than post oak, Trace," Rachel smiled, looking into precious blue eyes. It was a week after the incident and life had once again begun to settle down for them. They were together, in bed, alone in the house, this being the first night that a Pawnee or someone from town had not been with them. With Ed Jackson gone and the Carvers' idle, the need to stand guard seemed less urgent.
"I love you, Rachel. Slap me if I don't say that to you every day, at least once a day," Trace told her, gratefully. The mark on her side from the graze had already scabbed over and looked a hell of a lot worse than it felt. The wound through her shoulder was still mending and with Rachel's natural remedies and devoted nursing abilities, it felt much better than Trace thought it should have under the circumstances. Her mobility was limited but she was getting more movement back every day and as soon as she could, she would begin working her left arm out with the punching bag still hanging in the barn.
"Jed Turner stopped by today while you were napping," the blonde said, as she leaned over and lightly kissed the detective's bandaged shoulder several times.
"What would bring him all the way out here?" It was odd, the detective thought, that the mayor made a trip to the Triple Y, as according to everyone else, he seemed very disturbed about being left with making all the funeral arrangements for the sheriff. "He wasn't nasty to you or anything, was he?"
"Jed? Oh, no, he was fine. He told me he was upset that there was no one to do all that stuff for Ed, seeing as he had no family anywhere and Mrs. Crane refused to, denying that Ed Jackson was ever on any Crane payroll."
"That's bullshit."
"Trace...your language..." the blonde quietly reprimanded. "Anyway, everybody knows it's a lie but his griping about that was not why he was here." Rachel gingerly ran her fingers in wide circles around the brunette's contusion. Now that Trace was going to be fine, Rachel shamelessly admitted to herself that if it was one thing she missed the most while her spouse was infirmed, it was their daily and/or nightly lovemaking. As she could feel her pulse in her loins, she was wondering just how she could manage to give both her and the brunette pleasure without harming Trace any further.
"So why was he here?" Trace could not ignore that the blonde's touch was starting to stir her up, sexually. And as much as everything ached and pulled and was generally uncomfortable, her brain engaged in strategical maneuvering at just exactly how she could position herself so that they could both get off with a minimal amount of pain. And if Rachel did not stop touching her like that, to hell with the pain...
"He said that the town needed a new lawman. Elections were held this morning." The blonde's fingers were now lightly rubbing the detective's taut abdomen, making the brunette's stomach muscles quiver at her touch. Smirking, not making eye contact with Trace, Rachel was enjoying the effect she was having.
"So...now who's the sorry sucker in that thankless position?" Trace's breath caught as Rachel's hand began to float lower. There was no mistaking her wife's intention now. "Don't start something you can't finish here, Blondie."
Rachel dipped her head down, nuzzling Trace's neck, nipping at her earlobe. "Who says I can't finish it...Sheriff."
The brunette's eyes closed as the blonde began leaving a trail of kisses and nibbles along the detective's throat and jawline. She was about to give in to the signals her body was sending to her and respond when Rachel's words sunk in and her eyes snapped open. "WHAT?" Sitting up, quickly, she stupidly forgot her injuries and nearly tore the stitching in her shoulder open. "Ow! Fuck!"
"TRACE!!"
Ramiro hopped around the bed, yapping.
"Don't you 'Trace' me, Rachel Sheridan! Why did you just call me sheriff?" The look in those blue eyes was not pleased and the blonde was quite sure it was not from nearly wrenching all her body parts again and re-injuring herself.
"You won the election," she stated simply.
"I wasn't running!"
"Seems the people of Sagebrush didn't care about that. Your name came up at an emergency town hall meeting and it was unanimous. No one associated with the Cranes showed up to vote."
"No! No way in hell, Rachel, I am not going to be this town's sheriff."
The blonde began her featherlight touches again, concentrating on bringing the brunette back to a heightened state of arousal. "The people have spoken, Trace. They look up to you. You give them hope." She leaned in again and kissed the detective under her jaw. "You give them an unspoken promise of fairness." Rachel pushed Trace's hair aside with her free hand and kissed a very sensitive spot behind the brunette's ear. Fingers had found their way to damp curls covering a bundle of nerves that now seemed to have a mind of their own as the detective's mound raised up for stronger contact. "And you give them an expectation of finally getting their freedom back. They need you, Trace." Burying her fingers into hot, wet folds and stroking, the blonde's mouth hovered over the brunette's. "I need you, too. Right now."
The detective reached up, placing her hand on the back of Rachel's neck and drew her down, roughly, so their lips met, grinding together in passion. Trace pulled the blonde on top of her, to give Rachel better access and to also allow herself a gateway to her wife's intimate areas as well.
The pressure of Rachel's body on her hurt like a motherfucker but she was not about to stop the encounter when she was ready to explode - in a good way - and the blonde was obviously not too far behind her. Even though it had not been that long since they'd had sex, she had missed this, had missed how Rachel always readily and gratefully responded to her, had missed how much the blonde so thoroughly enjoyed all the new things she had learned (and taken to it like a fish to water) in the bedroom.
Their complete sexual compatibility still amazed the detective and right now, she did not care how much agony her body was in or that she had just been sacrificed to the Crane family by becoming the town cop. She would deal with all that in the morning. Right now, she wanted to watch her beautiful, pregnant wife come all over her hand, cry out her name repeatedly in ecstasy and then she wanted to take her again, sinking her tongue where her fingers had just been. It was going to be a long, glorious night.
******************************
Name: Cheyne
Email: Whenpiggsfly55@aol.com
Title: Renegade
Disclaimers: See Part 1
****************
****************
62
Sheriff Trace Sheridan. After saying it to herself for two days, it started to sound not so bad after all. Sure, it was a huge obligation but, actually, it was a lot less commitment than she'd had before she ended up in 1879, that's for sure. The brunette had basically been slowly taking on the responsibilities without the badge, anyway, at least now she would have the authority to back up what some might have passed off as bravado.
The Cranes were going to be a problem, there was no way around that, but if anyone in Sagebrush was ready for the sneaky, pompous, above-the-law family, it was the 21st Century detective. The more she got used to the idea of her new job, the more she realized it was meant for her to do this.
The hardest part was going to be leaving Rachel alone on the property while she did business in town. Jed Turner had visited the ranch once again and told Trace she would be making a whopping sixty dollars a month and that was as high as he could go and with that extra money, she could hire someone to not so much work the land and do what she normally did on a daily basis but to, more or less, act as a lookout. Just in case.
"But Ed Jackson's gone," Rachel argued, mildly at Trace's suggestion. "The Pawnee are out here every day...and usually most nights...helping out...it should be fine."
"The Cranes are coming back, sweetheart," Trace reminded her, carefully easing herself down into the porch chair, enjoying the cool breeze that came with the sunset. She was feeling incredibly better and was much more mobile, her shoulder now free of its sling. Rachel had been lovingly administering to the brunette's wounds with her natural remedies and feeding her a lot of protein to try and ward off any anemia the detective may have developed due to blood loss.
Trace picked up her guitar with her right hand, laid it over her lap and wiggled her fingers deftly around the neck, holding down notes to see if the instrument needed tuning. Once she tightened that stubborn E string again, she plucked out a chord progression that sounded like she was going to play 'Stairway To Heaven.'
"Yes, I know. But they aren't due back for a while..." Rachel had got so she just loved that song. That and "How Do I Live?" which, although that tune spoke about the possibility of breaking up, she still thought it was one of the most beautiful songs she had ever heard, the message so clear and the way Trace sang it gave the blonde goosebumps and brought tears to her eyes. She adored Trace's voice and would drop just about anything to listen to the brunette sing.
"There are still the Carvers and whatever assorted ranch hands were left behind to keep the place running. I don't trust any of them and you shouldn't, either," the brunette stated softly as she picked out notes on individual strings. Suddenly she stopped playing and an impish grin crossed her face. "Oooh, Rachel, I have just the song for you." She strummed the chord of G. "I shot the sheriff... but I swear it was in self-defense..." she crooned.
The blonde's eyes widened then narrowed while she listened to the rest of the lyrics. At first, she was shocked that Trace would treat her murdering someone so lightly. But then the blonde realized that her spouse was trying to get her to not take on any unnecessary and unwarranted guilt. They both knew that Rachel had undoubtedly saved Trace's life that night...and maybe her own and her baby's as well. The moment of feeling sinful had passed and was replaced by overwhelming relief that her family was safe and the threat of Ed Jackson was gone forever.
The memory of that night was still surreal. Rachel recalled sitting on the porch for quite a while as sunset became dusk, then evolving fully into night and she was getting a little concerned that Trace was not back yet. Had the detective found the cow and in what condition had she found her? She was sure if the brunette had located a dead or injured cow, Trace would have already been back. And if she had found nothing by sunset, she would have turned around and returned to the house. A sudden, unexplained chill went through the blonde and she fully remembered wondering out loud, "Is this a trick?"
Of course it could have been. It was no secret that The Pawnee would not be doing their usual idling on the property because of their celebration. What if Ed Jackson decided to make some kind of a move? He could have very easily sneaked up to the corral gate while they ate supper and lured one of the herd away, knowing Trace would go looking.
Then she heard the shot that shattered the peaceful night, echoing through her soul and her heart stopped. Oh, no, not again. She had already lost one love to a sheriff's bullet...could the Lord really be this cruel? Instinct caused her to reach for the carbine. The sound came from the woods behind the house and that is the route on which she took off.
At that point, Rachel was not thinking as pure adrenaline was pushing her forward and while she had just been mildly cursing the starless night only minutes earlier, she was now grateful for it. It was the pitch blackness that allowed her to see the glow of the muzzle flashes when six shots rang out in rapid succession and led her in the direction of where she was sure she would find Trace. The closer she got, fear and dread seized her gut. What would she see there? What if Trace was dead and she was walking into a trap, too? Well, if Trace was dead, she did not want to live, either.
When she heard Ed Jackson's voice, she stopped running and slowed to a standstill to get her bearings, positive he must have heard her heartbeat from where she was standing. It was pounding so forcefully in her ears, she could barely make out the sheriff's words. But then she heard the weak but impossibly welcomed voice of her lover and knew Trace was still alive.
Stepping quietly up to the scene, she saw Jackson facing her but focused on the ground just in front of a clump of bushes before her. His Winchester was aimed at what she assumed must have been Trace. When she heard the horrible things the sheriff was saying, the carbine fired as if from its own volition. She didn't remember raising the rifle or aiming. However, the second shot would stay with her forever and she would never forget Jackson's head jerking back before she passed out.
Red Sky had told Rachel the next day that he found the missing cow lazily grazing in a lush area of grass not too far from the river just outside the barbed wire fence. Matthew Reddick, who had stopped by to see how the detective was doing, figured Jackson had probably thought he would come back for the cow later after Trace, and most likely Rachel too, was dead. Hell, Matthew had said, knowing Jackson, he was probably planning on taking the whole herd to the Crane spread as a gift after eliminating anyone with a rightful claim to the Triple Y.
Rachel snapped out of it and absorbed the moment as the brunette ended the song, only too grateful that Trace was still there and able to finish anything at that point. As if in agreement, the baby seemed to kick her a few times, emphasizing the sentiment.
"Where'd you go?" The detective was smiling fondly at Rachel and the fact that, totally lost in thought, the blonde's hand appeared to be unconsciously and affectionately massaging her bulging belly.
"Huh? Oh," she grinned, looking down at her stomach, "just thinking about how you make every day worth rising and especially every night worth retiring." She glanced up at the brunette with an unmistakable twinkle in her green eyes. "And about how much I love you and how much in love with you I am. And about how our baby is so lucky to have you for a father - well...you know what I mean."
It was the way Rachel just came out with these things, so open, honest and unpretentious that always took the detective by surprise and caused her to nearly dissolve into a puddle each time. Trace let the meaning of her wife's words sink in and the put the guitar aside. Her voice was low and seductive. "What do you say we retire right now and I'll definitely make it worth your while."
That particular tone always sent a jolt of heat right through Rachel and settled like a brewing volcano between her thighs. It still amazed her how the detective could so completely mesmerize her, making her feel weak in the knees just from a certain vocal inflection or a look in those baby blues that reflected pure want, meant for her and only her. "But...you have your monthly..."
Trace recognized the hesitation in Rachel's voice and reached over, intertwining her fingers with the blonde's. Even as far as Rachel had progressed in anything and everything to do with lesbian love and sex, there were still a few things that tested her comfort zone. Touching the detective anywhere 'down there' while she was bleeding was one of them. Bringing the blonde's hand to her mouth, Trace kissed the strong fingers that brought her so much pleasure. "Yes but you don't..."
From the flush barely visible yet still noticeable on the smaller woman's face, Trace knew her wife was already too aroused to say no. Besides, the detective wanted to please Rachel, to get her off so totally and completely that the blonde quivered for days afterward and, knowing how responsive Rachel would be to that, it was enough for Trace to sympathetically climax with her. If that didn't happen, she had no qualms about satisfying herself while doing the same to her lover.
Anticipating the rest of the evening, a rush of unmitigated lust surged through the tall woman. Standing, the detective eased Rachel up with her, where they kissed passionately and walked arm-in-arm inside the house, closing the door behind them.
*************************
Seven days after her election, the new sheriff rode into town and started her first day as the one and only lawman in Sagebrush. It felt odd to be wearing a badge again, especially so openly on her rawhide vest. She was used to wearing a flat shield clipped to her belt, which only needed to be visible when she chose to show it. Now, she sported a bright, shiny, brass star ending in five points with the words 'Sheriff' engraved across the center, 'Sagebrush' in a half-circle above the middle and 'Jefferson County' in a semi-circle below it. Whereas in her former career, she kept a low profile while working, her new life would not permit it.
She looked around the damp, filthy, musty smelling building - the only one in the small community made mostly of brick - and her first official decision was to clean the place up and personalize it, exorcising the spirit of Ed Jackson and removing any physical reminders of him as well. Not knowing who Jackson may have provided with keys to the cells, Trace had also arranged to have the locks changed sometime during the week. If, by chance, she did get a Crane behind bars, it wouldn't be very effective if he could just reach in his pocket, produce a key and simply unlock the door, freeing himself.
Isaac Tipping dropped in, bringing with him a young woman who looked to be about his own age. He introduced her to Trace as Lydia Canfield, his sweetheart. With a smirk and a raised eyebrow, an expression that made both teenagers blush, Trace said, "And when did this happen?"
The last time Isaac had worked on the ranch with her, he spoke of no one in particular, much less a girlfriend. The young woman was a little slip of a thing, strawberry blonde, big green-hazel eyes and freckles. Trace suddenly wondered what Rachel looked like at Lydia's age which triggered a tender smile.
"Well...we always kinda liked each other but two weeks ago at the dance at the schoolhouse, we promised ourselves to each other."
"Promised? Is that like being engaged to marry?" the new sheriff inquired.
"It's kind of like promising to get betrothed," Lydia shyly volunteered.
"Well, then. That's a big commitment." Trace reached over and extended her hand to Isaac, who shook it enthusiastically. "Congratulations." The detective then took Lydia's hand and kissed the back of it. "And congratulations to you, too." Flushed for a different reason now, Isaac's girlfriend was charmed.
Seeing the expression on Lydia's face, Isaac reached over and politely but firmly removed his girlfriend's hand from Trace's grasp and held onto it tightly. "So, we thought we'd stop by and see if you needed any help. Sheriff Jackson never put much effort into keeping the place clean..."
Amused by the boy's insecure, possessive action, the brunette shook her head and cleared her throat. Looking around, disgusted, Trace said, "He was a pig. But then, I guess we all knew that. Well, kids, if you really want to get your hands dirty, be my guest. I'll go sterilize the jail cells as best I can and Lydia, if you want to start in the office and Isaac, you take the room in the back, that would be great."
"Anything you don't want us to throw away?" Lydia asked, untying her bonnet.
"Whatever looks official, I guess. I'll need to look over the paperwork and see if there is any unfinished business that might be sneaking around to haunt me. So if you could just put it all into a neat pile, it would be much appreciated."
As the two teenagers rolled up their sleeves, Trace stepped over to the detention area and took a deep breath. The holding cells smelled like urine and vomit. Some things never changed.
********************
Before the day was over, it seemed that everyone in town had stopped by to congratulate Trace, wish her well and bring her some kind of gift, mostly homemade food dishes or dessert. Since she had ridden in on Rio and had no way to transport any of it back home, what she, Isaac, Lydia and the visitors to her new office did not eat, she would bring over to Wilbur's at the end of the day.
After the teenagers left, having done a fine job of tidying the place up, Trace sat down behind the desk and began looking over the paperwork Lydia had put in neat piles. Nothing out of the ordinary jumped out at her, which she was grateful for, but with Jackson having been her predecessor, she still wasn't completely comfortable that everything associated with that particular office was on the up and up. Until she completely claimed the position as her own, she would err on the side of caution.
Around mid-day, Trace had walked over to the lumber mill and purchased three wooden crates to use as file boxes. She organized her paperwork to divide the official blank and filled-out documents of annual reports, civil dockets, prisoners' dockets, cell room ledger, prisoner records, transferring prisoners to state or county institutions ledger, execution fee dockets, common pleas court files, time book, expense book and daily account book.
Scanning over what Jackson had entered in his daily account/incident log book disgusted and disturbed Trace deeply. It was a memoir in engaging in the exact type of behavior he should have been arresting criminals for - extortion, fraud, deception, forgery, perjury and shaking down the very people he had sworn to protect and defend. She shuddered, thinking that's exactly what she used to do. The brunette put that book aside, to take home with her when she left the office for the day. She wanted to keep it somewhere safe as evidence against the Cranes, should whatever was to happen in their future battle, went to trial.
Mayor Turner had also made a visit to the office on his way back from his nooner with Cassandra. Trace had sent word over to the saloon that she would like to speak with Jed when he was available. The detective wanted to know exactly what the town expected from her now that she had this responsibility and there was no one better to explain it to her than the mayor.
Settling in the uncomfortable chair opposite Trace, the mayor more than enjoyed a couple of slices of Mrs. Edwards' peach pie, as he rattled off some of the duties of the town sheriff.
"Lesse here, well...enforcin' the law and arrestin' people, surely, that's the big ones," he began, shoveling an enormous forkful of pastry into his mouth. "When the circuit judge comes to town, transportin' and escortin' prisoners, if ya got any, to and from the courtroom - which, here, is usually the school house on a Saturday. Then there's...uh...servin' and executin' writs and warrants, enforcin' injunctions..." He paused to take another few bites, then wash them down with coffee. "Then there's conductin' property sales and collectin' fees and funds, related to that...that's where ol' Ed seemed to go astray..."
"Your Honor, 'ol' Ed' went astray long before that became an issue, trust me." Trace could have expounded more on what she had read earlier but she had no doubt she would not have been telling Jed Turner something he did not already know.
Trace's title of respect for the mayor just tickled him. Not many people referred to him by His Honor, and he had always liked that expression. "Nope, guess you'd be right about that, son." He held out his coffee cup toward the brunette, indicating that he would like more. As Trace reached for the graniteware pot, Jed shook his head. "Ain't ya got something a little bit...stronger...than that layin' around? My mouth is dry as a cactus."
How anyone could be dry after what seemed like a whole gallon of coffee was beyond her, but she knew what he meant and smirked, returning the pot to the nicely purring, small iron stove to her left. Standing up, Trace walked over to a pile of junk that was to be thrown out before she closed the office for the night. From it she plucked a half-empty bottle of light orange-colored liquid. Sniffing of it earlier, she knew it was alcohol, some kind of rotgut, but whatever kind it was escaped her. She had opted to toss it out as she was not particularly fond of the assumed potency of the mystery liquor and anything that had touched Ed Jackson's lips would never knowingly touch hers. Bringing it back to the desk, she saw Turner's eyes light up. "Is this what you mean?"
"That'll do. Can always use a little whiskey to keep that fire in my belly stoked." Taking the bottle from the detective, the mayor filled his cup to half and continued. "A snootful in the afternoon never hurt nobody," he declared, throwing the cup back, swallowing the contents with minimal reaction. "Now...where was I? Oh, yeah...if there's a trial, which there ain't been one in near ten years - Jacob Crane seen to that with his havin' to have everythin' his way, but now that you're sheriff, I reckon things'll change a might..."
"Count on it."
"Yep, I figgered as much. Anyways," he poured another shot into his coffee cup, "if there's a trial, you and me, we get to select a jury. Not that we've had any for a long while but if there is any kind of unlawful assembly or disturbances, you'd be the one to break that up and arrest anyone who don't mind ya respectful and proper. If you need deputies, you can call on the powers of the county to deputize anyone or pick yerself a posse."
"Ever been the need for a posse around here?" Trace asked, pouring herself one more cup, feeling the unusual need for the caffeine in the afternoon. Her weariness was probably due to her not having all her strength back yet.
"Oh, hell, no...the only posse that's ever been needed here was one that shoulda gone over to the Crane spread...but any sheriff try that, they'd be a dead sheriff." Turner's eyes then met Trace's. "No offense, son. If anybody can do it without gettin' hisself killed, I'd bet a month's pay, it'd be you."
"Why, thank you, Mayor. I appreciate your confidence in me."
"Whether or not you can actually round up enough men to ride with you will be another thing. As it is, if you don't get Sagebrush back to an orderly town and, Lord help us, Jacob and his boys get the best of you - well, let's just say that might lead to some unpleasantness like scaffolding and ropes and none of us want to see that."
Especially not Trace. "How can Crane legally do that to anyone without a trial?"
"Without a sheriff to testify against him, no judge will ever lock him or his boys up. And there are some circuit judges who pass through here who, it won't matter if you do testify against them anyways, they still won't lock him up...Jacob has too much money and them judges are too greedy." As Turner reached for a piece of apple pie, which had been sent over by Molly Ledbetter, Trace absorbed all that he was telling her.
"So, tell me, Mayor, why did the town elect me? Especially since I had no interest in running."
"'Cause you got sand, boy. Ain't no one else in this town ever stood up to Ed Jackson. Not only did you stand up to him, you killed him, gettin' him out of our hair!"
Only the Pawnee knew that Rachel had been the one who shot Jackson. They all agreed it would bode much better with the town for them to think Trace did it. Regardless of the circumstances, no one looked too kindly upon ladies who killed anyone. And, although the detective very much wanted to give credit where credit was due, she went along with it because Rachel asked her to.
"I gotta tell ya, Trace, even them snooty ol' gals who only leave home to go to Sunday meetin' ran into town here to vote for you. They never come to town. Too damn scared they'll get dirt in their dimples." Finishing up the pie, Turner held out his cup. "Any more of that coffee left?"
The detective picked up the pot and swirled the contents around, feeling the weight. "Just about one more cup. If you're going to want more, I'll have to make another pot." She poured him the last cup.
"Gotta tell ya, boy...even before Ed Jackson got hisself planted, you had him shakin' like a congressman at a revival meetin'. Damned worthless, pickle puss of a man, he was. It was always my fondest wish to knock Ed Jackson colder'n a wagon tire, he caused so much trouble in this town..."
"Why couldn't you stop him?" Trace asked, pointedly.
"The Cranes. Plain and simple. You'll understand when they get back. Although I do think you'll make a difference, I don't believe you can perform miracles."
The detective smiled inwardly. No, miracles were not within her capacity but insight into a modern world of strategy and self-defense were. Maybe Jed Turner was still afraid of the Cranes. Trace Sheridan was not.
***************
63.
A few weeks after Trace's election, she and Rachel were asked to attend a celebration at the Pawnee settlement five miles almost directly west of Sagebrush. It was a high honor which both women recognized and acknowledged as such. No one from the town, since the tribe took claim to that area and inhabited it fifteen years earlier, had ever been invited into the fold or asked to witness or participate in any festivity, much less one that celebrated the hopeful preservation of their heritage. Trace and Rachel were not about to refuse the privilege of being the first.
When the couple arrived at the village, they were welcomed as though they had always belonged there. Rachel was assisted down from the wagon by Black Feather and a gaggle of women, mostly around Rachel's age, who surrounded her, laying hands on her belly, as though consecrating the baby. The blonde was then cloaked in a colorful poncho, placed over her shoulders by one of the older females in the group and escorted away from Trace to an area primarily designated for the wives. The food smelled delicious and the blonde was fascinated by the flatbreads and cornmeal creations that were being put together, her stomach immediately rumbling from a hunger she didn't realize she'd had. As a guest, the mother-to-be was not expected to help prepare the meal but Rachel being Rachel, she pitched in, anyway.
Watching her pale, blonde wife so easily blend in with the dark-haired, dark-skinned Pawnee women, caused the tall brunette to smile appreciatively and proudly. Momentarily studying her beautiful, glowing lover, Trace never once regretted her decision to stay in Sagebrush and commit herself and her life to this riveting, impressive woman. Rachel being eight months pregnant now just added to her appeal and made her that much more adorable. Despite her unpredictable mood swings.
Little Hawk greeted Trace, shaking her hand and offering her a pipe, a ceramic calumet with a long stem which connected the wide mouthpiece to a tall, deep bowl. Dare she even venture to guess what it could be stuffed with?
"Thanks, Little Hawk, but I don't smoke," the new sheriff told him, firmly but politely.
"I do not smoke, either. Only when we have raahisii." He extended the pipe once more. "It is custom, Tsápaat, to take haaktuu'at when it is offered."
With an eyebrow raised in skepticism and by now, very used to Little Hawk's droll but productive sense of humor, Trace hesitantly accepted the long device. "What's in it?" She fully expected him to say peyote. She had heard all kinds of legends and horror stories about the effects of the cactus plant, the least of which was that hallucinations from ingesting it lasted twenty-four hours. Well...maybe if she only took a cursory hit, she could escape the normal side effects. It's not that she opposed getting high but she in no way wanted to lose control for possibly a day.
"Cannabis."
Trace's eyes popped open, looking at the pipe and then back at Little Hawk. Why hadn't she smelled it? Was the aroma of meat roasting and bread frying and other vegetable cooking so strong that she completely overlooked the odor of burning leaves? Bringing the bowl of the pipe closer to her nose, she inhaled. Ah, yes. There it was. Cannabis, huh? Well, this certainly was a welcomed surprise. Taking a quick draw off the pipe, she let the psychoactive relaxant slowly burn down her throat and sear into her lungs with a pleasant familiarity and a forbidden sensation she had, suddenly, very much missed. And this was some damned good shit.
"You have smoked cannabis before?" There was a disappointment in Little Hawk's tone of voice. He had been expecting to see the brunette cough her head off and was looking forward to teaching her how to properly enjoy this herb.
"Oh, yeah..." Trace took another hit, holding her breath, savoring the prompt placidity that settled over her body before handing the pipe back to the Pawnee hunter.
The detective was pretty sure marijuana was not illegal yet, something she had not even considered until now. She smiled. It was a habit she had picked up in high school and one she continued after she graduated from the police academy. She had been a hypocrite and arrested people for selling, buying and possessing pot and then, after her shift, going home and getting high. It wasn't a constant in her life but she did not hesitate to partake in smoking it following a very stressful day.
She got her quarter bags from the same man who supplied Andy DeSienna with his. Having that connection always got her the best grade for minimal price. This dealer's stash came directly from Columbia but it wasn't half as good as what she had just inhaled.
"Where did you get this - the cannabis?"
Little Hawk made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Hemp. It grows everywhere."
Hemp. Of course. It was probably flourishing, wild all over the Triple Y. Hmmmm...this was certainly a dilemma. Even though hemp wasn't against any laws yet, she did not want to get back into the routine of relying on pot again to get her through her tough situations. Before, it hadn't mattered, her life had become pretty meaningless so it made no difference whether she got high or not. Now she had a responsibility - to her wife, to the child she would raise as her own and, most importantly, to herself to not return to being the kind of ruthless, indifferent, uncaring person she had been before she got there. Pot had a tendency to neutralize all her emotions, dulling her senses and making her unobserving and sometimes downright negligent. She could not afford to be that way here and now. However, there was no reason she could not get together with her new friends occasionally and enjoy herself, recreationally, when her accountability was not as front and center, when Rachel was safely ensconced in a secure environment. Like tonight.
"I thought you guys all sat around smoking peyote," Trace smiled, feeling much looser already.
Little Hawk shrugged. "Peyote is not as strong through the pipe. We take peyote by mouth, whole. We suck on it slowly and then chew it and swallow. We will share some later, if you wish."
"No, no, thanks. I'm fine with this right here. But I am curious - what's the difference?"
Little Hawk thought a moment before responding. "When we smoke cannabis, we feel the same. If I eat peyote and you eat peyote, we will not feel the same. It is personal...how would you say...individual. My visions would not be like your visions. If I am ill, I can ask the Great Spirit why I am ill and what I have to do to make it better. I can ask the Great Spirit if I will heal or if I will meet Him. If you are ill, you would have to ask about you and the answers would not be the same. It is the Great Spirit's message to me. For you? It would be His message to you."
"So Peyote allows you to have a religious experience?"
Again, Little Hawk tapped his own chest. "Spiritual. Between you and The Creator." He then held up the pipe. "This - between you and everyone. We all feel the same."
"But what about hallucinations - seeing things that aren't there? Nausea? The amount of time it takes for it to wear off?"
The Pawnee hunter shrugged. "It is a choice, Tsápaat. Sometimes the reward of wisdom for yourself is worth the bad things that happen to gain that knowledge."
Trace stared at him, intently. Wasn't that the truth.
**************
Before the beginning of the festivities, Little Hawk, joined by Howling Wolf, took Trace on a tour of their earth lodge, a large dome-shaped, circular structure, perhaps fifteen or sixteen feet high in the center with a hole left open at the top for a combined chimney and skylight. The floor was semi-subterranean, approximately three feet below ground level, the framework of the building covered with layers of willow branches, grass, dried mud and dirt.
Howling Wolf explained that the earth lodge was divided into northern and southern sectors and each sector was further divided into three stations where the tribal women were separated. The mature women who performed most of the labor occupied one section, another station housed the older female tribal members who cared for the children and tended to household matters and the final section was for young, single women who were being taught their obligations and responsibilities to their tribe.
Trace was surprised to learn that after the semi-annual buffalo hunt, when the men returned to the village, they sometimes did not settle into the same sectors as when they left. The younger Pawnee males being the more transient and moving fluidly from household to household, certainly made it sound like the communal environment Trace first guessed it was. That and the fact that Little Hawk had twelve children by different wives was also a big clue.
When they returned outside, Trace joined Rachel and they were seated to start the meal. Even though the brunette and blonde were both females, they were also guests of honor, and were not required to help serve the food. Under normal circumstances, Rachel would have protested this and insisted on doing what the other women did but she did not want to insult their culture and, now heavy with child, she was grateful to get off her feet.
She was, however, a little taken aback at Trace's unusually ravenous appetite and the detective's sudden propensity to think everything was just absolutely hilarious. Her spouse seemed abnormally relaxed and it wasn't that she was not happy to witness this, she just didn't understand it. She had not seen the detective partaking in any imbibing and, besides, Trace didn't act like she regularly did when she had been drinking. And where were her irises? Those gorgeous eyes were now nothing but black pupils with blue rims.
The brunette was also extremely horny, her public restraint seemingly absent. When her fingers weren't grabbing at whatever was edible that passed by her, her hands were pawing at Rachel uninhibitedly, which caused the blonde to blush and playfully swat her lover's advances away for most of the evening, even though no one else seemed to notice or care. What had gotten into her beloved Trace? And how soon before they could leave and finish this amorous behavior at home, if they even made it that far?
After the meal was done and the food remnants had been cleared away, just as Trace was about to whisk Rachel behind a tree somewhere, the atmosphere stilled and the happy couple heard the sound of a softly beating drum. This was accompanied by a vocable, a sound to replace words in a song, and then from inside the earth lodge, emerged a procession.
Leading this regal group was the tribal chief, a prominent, elderly man with an eagle feathered headdress that not only reached the ground but continued to trail a good two feet behind him as he moved to a distinct rhythm. He had a fiercely proud nobility about him and a leathery, weathered skin that advertised his approximate age, which the couple guessed later was maybe his eighth decade. They also correctly assumed that this was Moving Elk. Although he was frail, he had an undeniable presence and bearing that almost made Trace and Rachel feel like they should have bowed when he passed by them.
Behind Moving Elk walked the tribal princes and princesses, elders, the warriors and the hunters, then the women. Once they were all gathered into a circle, the drumming and the song ended. The Pawnee Chief recited a prayer in Skiri, akin to blessing the celebration which was followed by a full tribal dance.
As Moving Elk stood tall in the middle of the circle, the dance stopped and Little Hawk stepped next to his leader. Moving Elk nodded and the Pawnee hunter looked directly at Trace. "Tsápaat. Come." He gestured her forward.
Confused, she released her hold around Rachel's waist and entered the sacred circle. She stood before Moving Elk who sang what sounded like a hymn in his native tongue. When he was finished, he raised his hand and said another prayer, waving it over the detective's head then moving his arm in a circle three times. Then he spoke two words: "Ckíri" and "Awataarihur."
The entire tribe broke into a raucous cheer and then a lively song and dance. Moving Elk placed his palm flat against Trace's breastbone and bowed his head. Then he took two steps backward and quietly returned to the earth lodge. Rachel joined her spouse and appeared to be just as confounded as Trace.
"What was that about?" the detective asked a grinning Little Hawk.
"You are now an honorary member of our tribe."
Speechless, Trace was rescued by her lover. "Wait - do you mean this whole ceremony was really for Trace? To induct her into the tribe?"
The Pawnee hunter nodded and looked at the detective. "We knew if we told you that, you would find reasons not to come."
"I'm...I'm...I'm honored," the detective stammered. "Thank you."
"Does she have a tribal name?" Rachel inquired, beyond curious.
"Yes. Awataarihur. Raging Fire."
Now it was Rachel's turn to laugh. "My goodness, he certainly got that one right." Immediately after she said it, the remark made both her and the brunette turn crimson.
***
By the time Moses had them halfway home, Rachel had control of the reins, the rifle across her lap and Raging Fire was snoring up a storm in the back of the wagon. So much for the romantic plans she had for their bed time. Raging Fire, my butt, Rachel thought, shaking her head. More like Fading Ember.
****************
The next morning had started out badly and the day gave no indication of getting any better. For some reason Trace had awakened with a pounding headache which put her in a horrendous mood. But to Rachel, especially since she had not seen the detective drink any kind of potable the night before, it seemed provoked by nothing obvious and even in their short, impromptu lovemaking - a session initiated by Trace who roused Rachel out of a sound sleep - the brunette was a little rougher, more brusque than she had ever been. It was not that it wasn't still enjoyable, just...different.
Her surly disposition just intensified when the tall detective got out of bed, tripped over a stick Ramiro had dragged in the night before and, to keep her balance, grabbed onto the bedroom door. This was not a well thought out move as the momentum of Trace's solid body propelled the door to shut, causing her to slam into it, stubbing both big toes and pinching her fingers in the process.
Rachel had never heard such a string of obscenities in her life. Every day, something proved to the blonde that Trace had made the right decision to pretend she was a man. Although her mannerisms seemed neutral, her strength, skills and confidence were like nothing she had ever seen in a woman before and ladies just did not have the rather earthy and extensively naughty vocabulary the brunette did.
Yet despite Trace annoying her greatly that morning, she would not trade her 'husband' for anything in the world. And 'annoying' was most definitely an understatement. The detective cursed Ramiro for leaving the damned stick where he did, even though she knew the dog had not done it on purpose, cursed not being able to get the lamp lit on the first, second or third try, cursed the damned stubborn cattle for not getting out into the corral exactly when she wanted them to and even clipped off her words to her new three Pawnee brothers who showed up to help with the crops. The taller woman explained this behavior to the blonde once, calling it pee em ess or some such thing, but those incidents of temperament never reached the level of Trace's unexplainable current irritation.
The normally amiable detective even complained about breakfast, which she never did, even after the smaller woman had cured Trace's throbbing head with a spoonful of honey and Rachel was about ready to reconsider the thought about trading her spouse, almost relieved when the brunette went out and saddled up Rio to go to town. When she came in to kiss Rachel goodbye, Trace still appeared to be out of sorts.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" the blonde inquired, loosely hanging on to the detective's waist.
"Nothing. Well, nothing I can put my finger on, exactly," the brunette sighed, hugging the smaller woman very close to her. Trace was pretty sure it was the lingering after-effects of the marijuana, as she almost always ended up with a mild headache at some point. Why did she smoke the stuff again? Oh, yeah, right. Because it made her feel better. However, the agitation that was accompanying the headache was not something she was used to and that bothered her. "I should head out, I have that meeting this morning with Caleb Tipping. He's filing a complaint to get the money back that the Cranes have extorted from him." She kissed Rachel again. "I think Caleb is a brave man to start the ball rolling like that. Once he does it, I think everyone else will follow suit."
Reluctantly, letting Trace go, Rachel said, "Please try to have a better day than you have had so far..."
The detective wiggled her mildly bruised fingers, glared at the dog and pouted. "Don't remind me..."
It wasn't two minutes later and Rachel heard her beloved yelling, outside. Wiping her hands on her apron, she stepped out on the porch to see Trace on Rio, shouting at Ramiro, who was bouncing around and barking. "No! Go back to the house right now!" Ramiro sat. "I mean it!" As she reined the mustang back around in an attempt to leave the area, the wolf hybrid puppy trotted after her, which made her stop again. "Goddamn it, Ramiro!"
Rachel knew better than to remark about Trace's language when she was in moods like this. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Trace, take him with you! What harm can it do??
"I want him here to protect you," Trace shot back.
"Good Lord, Trace, he's just a puppy...the only thing he could do right now would be gnaw at whoever's ankle bones!"
"That's not the point! He needs to learn to -"
The blonde pointed toward the field, exasperated. "Little Hawk, Red Sky and Thundercloud are here. I will be fine. Let him go to town with you. He literally pines until you come home, anyway." Rachel heard a growl and wasn't sure if it came from the dog or her lover. Without another word, Trace turned around again, riding away with Ramiro happily following.
Returning inside, the mother-to-be shook her head, blowing out a deep breath. Hopefully that proverbial bee that had flown into Trace's bonnet would fly out before she came home for lunch.
******************
The morning went by quickly for the new sheriff, the paperwork for Caleb Tipping easy to fill out and most of their meeting became a bitch session about how the Cranes had been taking advantage of the town for so long. When Trace ran out of coffee, Tipping decided it was time to go back to work.
After that, the brunette visited Emmet Hallack, Esquire, a private defense attorney who had stayed out of the Cranes' hair as much as possible, which allowed him an acceptable amount of success in all minor legaln matters that did not involve the cattle baron or his family. Trace had heard that Hallack was a decent man and was constantly looking for a bigger case that would allow him to do better than break even for once and maybe even make a name for himself. With Ed Jackson gone and the not-so-easily intimidated Trace Sheridan now in the job, maybe Hallack could actually start practicing law and be backed up like he always should have been.
Having been told that Hallack was one of the good guys and that his hands had been tied by politics, Trace decided to make an appointment to meet the man and judge for herself. Showing the rotund lawyer the complaint and assuring him there would, no doubt, be more, Hallack advised the sheriff to write an official letter to the governor requesting an impartial circuit magistrate to come to Sagebrush or Jefferson City if Sagebrush wasn't convenient and try all five Crane men on whatever charges they could file against them. Hallack's enthusiasm at helping Trace nail these bastards was reassuring.
Trace was ready to leave her office and head back to the ranch for a quick lunch when John and Seth Carter, surprisingly cordial, walked in, wanting to put in a claim for a couple more acres of land southwest of the Crane spread. Great...that land touched the Triple Y...just what they needed...closer proximity to the devil. And her day had actually started to go well...
************
64
Rachel had just chopped some vegetables Thundercloud had brought to her from the field and dropped them into her beef stock, which was now boiling on the stove. She was about to enter the pantry to retrieve some spices and herbs to flavor her soup when she heard a noise behind her.
"Howdy Rachel."
The blonde froze. She did not have to turn around to know who that voice belonged to. Panic seized her heart. The carbine was across the room and Trace was in town. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to rein in her fear and not let him know she was terrified by his presence but all that kept replaying in her mind was that night...that horrible, violent night and she started to involuntarily shake.
Her hand automatically went to her growing belly, protectively, and her other hand held onto a chair for support. She thought her knees were going to buckle and she felt faint and she knew that couldn't happen. Calling up all the strength she ever possessed, she somehow got her voice to lose its quiver when she said, "You have no business here, Ben. And you need to leave before my husband gets back."
Crane smiled, arrogantly. He was very much aware of the effect he had on her, regardless of how she tried to disguise it. He loved that women were afraid of him. The better to control them with.
He was leaning against the doorway. "Nope. Don't think so. Seth and Uncle John are keeping the new sheriff busy in town. And those Injuns you got watching the place? They're putting out a small fire in that nice corn crop right now. So, looks like I got you all to myself." He took a few steps inside. "You goin' and marryin' someone else just wasn't right, Rachel. He know I had you first?"
"He knows all about you, Ben. He knows what kind of vile vermin you are."
"Aw, now that just ain't nice. Maybe you and me need to get reacquainted. No man with any respect for hisself would stay married to a woman who cheated on him, especially with her very first."
She knew she could no longer keep her back to him, she had to know where he was, watch exactly what he was doing. She nonchalantly reached over and grabbed her broom. If nothing else, she might be able to wield the handle defensively if Crane decided to attack her again, at least hit him in a sensitive area, like Trace taught her, to debilitate him until she could get to the loaded rifle by the bedroom door. "You were only my first because you took me against my will."
"Don't matter none how it happened, now does it? I'm still -" Crane stopped dead when Rachel fully faced him and his steel gray eyes fell to her bulging stomach. "Well, well, well...lookie what we got here...don't that just beat all now."
"That's right, Ben. I'm with child. Trace's child. Sure you don't want to think again about touching a man's expectant wife? I think even you might take exception with that."
The veins in Crane's neck were pulsating and he was trying to not only control his temper but his disappointment as well. He had no doubt now he was going to kill this Trace son-of-a-bitch. Why hadn't anyone warned him that Rachel was in the family way? Had they been afraid he would go berserk? Well, he probably would have, knowing his obsession with the blonde. He eyeballed her uncomfortably, noting that she was still so beautiful it literally made his insides ache. "Damn, Rachel, you are still the prettiest creature that ever drawed a breath. I bet you still got a smile that could melt snow caps."
"You'll never see it again." She was gripping the broom handle so tight, her fingers were getting numb. "You really need to go, Ben. Trace won't be happy when he finds out you've been here."
Crane fingered the hammer of his shiny new Smith & Wesson six-gun, hanging low on his side. "Well, you know, I'd kinda like to stick around and meet this Trace fella. Been hearin' a lot about him. Kinda expectin' him to walk on water or somethin'. Wonder if he can stop bullets...oh, that's right. He can't. Didn't Ed plug him a few times? Yep. Sorry to hear about ol' Ed becomin' worm bait. Hope your Trace don't follow in his footsteps."
"I swear, Ben Crane, you touch one hair on Trace Sheridan's head and I will kill you myself." The look in the green eyes was pure venom, enough to literally make Crane take a small step back. What the hell had happened to his sweet Rachel? It left him a little unsettled.
"Now don't go gettin' yourself all riled up, I never said I was gonna kill 'im. Just that bein' sheriff is a dangerous job."
"Especially when the sheriff isn't working for you," Rachel spat at him.
Crane just smiled. "Why, I have no idea what you might mean by that Miss Young," he said, too sweetly.
"Mrs. Sheridan," the blonde corrected, stiffly.
"Right. My apologies, Mrs. Sheridan," he amended, with a sarcastic half-bow. He had been intently studying her since walking through the door and especially since he had discovered she was pregnant. Something was bothering him, something wasn't right. Then a thought hit him. "How long you been married?"
"Six months."
"Huh. Belly's mighty big for six months, ain't it? He musta nailed you on the first night. Unless you and he got right friendly before that."
"I am sure I conceived on my wedding night," she threw back, defensively. Uh oh. Where was he going with this?
"Alls I'm sayin' is my sister, Hannah, and my brothers' wives were all about your size just shortly before they birthed them babies. Now, if that follows, then that would mean you're lyin' and that baby was conceived maybe a little over eight months ago? When your husband was nowhere around...but I was. You carryin' a Crane baby in there, Rachel?"
"I would cut any child out of me before I spawned another Crane! Fire Arrow says this is just a very big baby."
"Fire Arrow? Who the hell is that? What does Doc Smith say?"
"Doc Smith will never get his hands on this baby or me. He's as far into your back pocket as Ed Jackson was." She was trying not to sound panicky and hoping it was coming out more like indignation.
"So who's this Fire Arrow? One of them crazy Pawnee?"
"I am done talking to you. I want you to leave my house this instant."
He laughed. "You ordering me off your property, Rachel?"
"Yes. You are trespassing, Ben. I'll have my husband arrest you."
"Oh, I don't think that would be a good idea at all." He could not stop staring at her and could not believe how drawn he still was to her. He would bet real big money that he had planted the seed that was growing inside her. So much so that he didn't care if some other man had been with her, he just had to touch her, kiss her, have her again right now. He didn't want to hurt his baby, so he'd trap her against the wall and get her standing up, from behind...
When he leapt for her, Rachel was prepared but her body did not move fast enough. By the time she raised the broom handle, Crane had knocked it out of her grip and sent it flying across the room, the force of his body suddenly against her, pushing her helplessly backward. Getting one hand free, she slapped him so hard across the face, her palm stung. This action was answered by the back of his hand, which she was able to deflect but that hurt her forearms and threw her slightly off balance. Unfortunately, this was enough for him to regain the advantage and he grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her against the wall.
"No, Ben, Stop it!! Stop!!" She was screaming but was pretty sure no one was around, no one could hear her. Oh, dear Lord, this can't be happening again... Trying to kiss her was not working as she would not keep her head still. "Please, Ben, don't - you'll hurt the baby." Her pleas were met with silence as he powerfully spun her around, pushing her face against the rough logs, attempting to still her flailing arms with one hand and pull up her dress with the other. She was hysterical now, her sobs loud and coming out in gasps and when his feet moved apart in an attempt to pin her legs open, she saw her opportunity and brought her heel up as hard as she could.
Everything suddenly stopped as she heard him suck in air unexpectedly and a strangled noise emitted from his throat. He was no longer touching her or even focused on her as he crumpled to the floor behind her in a fetal position, his hands buried deeply in his crotch. Enraged, Rachel kicked him several more times, in the face, in the back and in his sides and reached down, removing his revolver from its holster. She emptied the cylinder of all six bullets, dropping them into the pocket of her apron and threw the pistol out the front door. Then she ran and picked up her rifle. Raising the carbine, she cocked the hammer back and took aim. She was breathing hard and fast and shaking like a leaf but she pointed the rifle in the general area of the writhing, groaning lump on the floor.
Trying to regulate her breathing, Rachel was also unreasonably wrestling with her conscience. What was happening to her? Was she capable of taking another man's life? Ed Jackson was barely cold in his grave and here she was ready to kill someone else. But this wasn't just anyone, this was Ben Crane and if anyone deserved to die, he did.
The injured man rose slowly to his knees. "Son-of-a-fucking-bitch, Rachel..." His voice was raspy and he was still holding onto his damaged manhood. His face was bruised and bloody from the blonde kicking him and it startled Rachel momentarily to see the results of her violence. But it did not last as her eyes narrowed once again in fury, knowing he would have raped her again.
The blonde brought the carbine to bear once more when, despite all the emotional turmoil, she felt a gentle presence beside her and a hand wrapped around the barrel of the gun, pushing it downward. She looked over into the kind, wise gaze of Little Hawk. He shook his head gently at her. Letting go of the carbine, she allowed him to take possession of the weapon.
He held the rifle loosely in his grasp, the muzzle pointed toward the floor. He looked over at Red Sky who was standing in the doorway and instructed him, in Pawnee, to go to town and get Trace, as he calmly, quietly guided Rachel behind him. When Red Sky left quickly, Little Hawk spoke, his voice strong and commanding. "You will go, Crane. And you will thank whatever spirit you pray to for letting you live."
Slowly, Crane rose to his feet. Bending at the waist, he rested his palms just above his knees, still grimacing. He raised his angry eyes to glare at the blonde, the expression he wore no longer filled with lust or want for this woman. "You just made the biggest mistake of your life, Rachel. You should have killed me while you had the chance." He let his gaze fall to Rachel's stomach again and then met her eyes. "Tell you what...that baby comes out of you in another month instead of two and looks anythin' like me? I'm comin' to get it."
"Over my dead body!"
"Careful what you wish for...Mrs. Sheridan." He pointed at her.
"You come back here, you die." The words from Little Hawk were simple but potent. There was no mistaking the Pawnee's tone or intent and his eyes burned holes through Crane as he left.
When she heard his horse ride away, Rachel sank to the floor and broke down, weeping uncontrollably, her face in her hands.
*************
Rachel heard Rio splashing through the river and the rapid click of his hooves on stone as he crossed the wide base of rocks that covered part of the stream bed. Trace must be pushing him hard, the blonde thought, listening to the staccato hoofbeats on the ground from the river to the house. Plus it only took the detective ten minutes to get there from Sagebrush, instead of the usual half hour.
'Rachel!" Trace yelled as she jumped off Rio and up the steps.
Almost flying through the door, Trace searched for her wife, spotting Little Hawk first. "Rachel?" When the Pawnee cast his eyes downward, the brunette saw the top of Rachel's head and nearly upturned the table to get to her.
Trace dropped to her knees, not missing the bruise on the side of Rachel's face where she had been pushed into the wall. She held Rachel's chin with her thumb and forefinger and inspected her for any other marks. The frightened, wounded look in those green eyes, wet and swollen, clutched at Trace's heart, attempting to rip it out. She took the blonde into her arms, not even daring to breathe until Rachel spoke to her. The detective gently rocked her lover as the blonde began to cry again. Through clenched teeth, the detective asked, "Did he touch you?"
Rachel could not seem to find the breath to answer so she nodded her head against Trace's shoulder. The very idea of Ben Crane laying one finger on Rachel again made the detective's heart beat like a triphammer and rage seethe through every pore of her body, the desire to rip his eyes out for even looking in the blonde's direction again was so strong it was hard to contain it. She positioned herself on the floor so that she could look in Rachel's eyes, see her face.
"What...did...he...do?" The brunette could barely get the question out, her body shaking with rage.
"He...he...tried...to...have...his...way...with...me...again..." Every word was divided by an inhaling of breath, as she was trying to get her tears under control.
Trace slowly stood, helping Rachel up with her, pulling her into a full body hug, too incensed to think clearly at the moment. It did not slip by her that Rachel clung to her as though she were hanging on for dear life. "What did he do to you? How did he touch you? Did he hit you across the face?"
"No. He pushed my face into the wall and tried to keep me there while he was trying to lift up my dress and - and I kept begging him not to hurt the baby and -"
"Wait - he was trying to rape you from behind?"
Again, the movement of Rachel's head against her spouse's shoulder indicated Trace had guessed correctly.
The detective really believed at that moment that she was going to explode from hatred and anger building up within her for this man. "But he didn't succeed..." She could not even phrase it in the form of a question, instead opting to say it as a statement, as if willing Rachel to say No. Trace really did not think she would be able to control her homicidal tendencies if the blonde told her yes, he did succeed or even partially succeed. As it was, it took every ounce of self-discipline not to leave her wife in the safety of Little Hawk and track this monster down and tear him limb from limb with her bare hands.
"No."
"How did you get away from him?" This manner of mild interrogation was working well. If Rachel did not have to look at her, she seemed to have more strength to talk about it, without breaking down. Trace adjusted her embrace, fully supporting the blonde's weight against her.
"I lifted my heel up and caught him between the legs. He let me go when he fell to the floor. Then I kicked him and took his gun and emptied it. Then I got the carbine and I swear I would have shot him but Little Hawk stopped me."
Trace cut a sharp glare to the Pawnee hunter, who met her eyes and then casually looked away, eventually focusing on something out the door. She returned her attention to the shattered blonde in her arms. "You did great, baby, you did everything you should have. You beat him, Rachel, you stopped it from happening again - you took your power back, sweetheart."
The detective kissed the top of her head several times and then led her into the bedroom where she encouraged her to lie down. "I really think you should rest, honey. It's been a very rough morning for you." She helped Rachel position herself as the blonde laid her head back on the pillow, covering her up with a shawl that had been folded at the foot of the bed. "It's going to be all right now. Okay? I'm not going to let anything happen to you or the baby." Trace lightly rubbed the back of her hand up and down over her wife's nasty looking contusion adorning her cheekbone. "You're going to be okay..."
When the detective went to remove her hand, Rachel grabbed it. "Trace...it's not going to be okay. He knows."
Seeing the blonde getting visibly upset again, Trace tried to calm her. "Shhhh, shhhh...everything is going to be fine. I won't let anything happen to you, I promise. What does he know?" Her gentle tone of voice contradicted the detonations going off inside her.
"He knows the baby is his."
Trace could see hysteria slowly rising in Rachel's expression. She once more began lovingly stroking her face. "Sweetheart, you have to calm down. This is not good for the baby. Now - tell me exactly what he said that makes you think he knows the baby is his."
**************
After Rachel's recollection of Ben Crane's words and Trace promising that she was not going anywhere but out into the kitchen to get her a cup of water and to speak with Little Hawk, the blonde finally, if not reluctantly released the detective to leave her side.
Stalking by her Pawnee brother, Trace plucked a cup from the cupboard and pumped water into it. She approached Little Hawk, trying to keep her voice quiet enough as to not disturb her wife any further. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" she whispered, harshly. "Why didn't you let her kill the bastard?"
Gazing intently at her, perceptive brown eyes capturing blue, he said, "It is not meant for Caskí Custíra'u to kill Crane. It is your destiny to do this."
Trace returned a startled look. "Why? Why is it my destiny? Why does it matter who takes this prick out, as long as he is gone?"
"You will understand when the time comes." Little Hawk patted her on the shoulder and walked to the door, setting the carbine by the arch.
"Wait! Then you stay here with Rachel and I'll go after him now!"
The Pawnee hunter turned and walked back toward her. "No. You ride after Crane and you will die. He will be waiting for you. Your wife needs you here tonight. Tomorrow, we will find him. Tomorrow, you will send him back to his Creator."
Could she trust herself to wait until tomorrow? "All right," she conceded, "but if he comes back here before tomorrow, he is a dead man."
"Yes. He has been warned."
***************
When Little Hawk left the house, before he rode back to his settlement, he instructed Red Sky to keep a vigil on the property, close to all inhabited buildings. When he reached Pawnee ground, he sent back two young warriors to assist in standing guard. They were further instructed not to kill Ben Crane if he returned, that they were to restrain him until Tsápaat could get to him and then they should follow her lead.
Trace thought she would let Rachel nap, after she cried herself to sleep, but the distraught blonde slept only as long as it took for the detective to heat a kettle for tea. So infuriated she thought her head would implode, the detective did not notice Rachel at the bedroom door until, she heard the blonde sniff back some tears.
Standing, then walking to her, Trace said, "Baby, what are you doing up? You should be resting."
"I feel so dirty..." It came out in a desperate whisper. Rachel appeared dazed and tormented and, most of all, lost. Even when Trace pulled her into a hug, the smaller woman's arms remained folded across her chest.
Resting her chin on the top of Rachel's head, Trace knew what she had to do, needed to do, even if it was just symbolic. She led the blonde to the pantry area where the tub was. "I'm going to heat some more water," the detective told her wife, gently. "Then I'll help you get your clothes off."
*******
Rachel sat, semi-submerged, in the warm water. Trace made sure not to make it too hot as she remembered reading somewhere about the dangers of raising the body temperature while pregnant. Trace began lightly scrubbing the blonde's back with a cloth as Rachel's arms were encircling her knees, hugging them as close to her body as she could get them, considering the size of her tummy.
Even though the smaller woman was not saying a word, trying not to make a sound, tears were still streaming down her face, her body still slightly shaking with every drawn breath. Trace's heart was breaking and, as she was bathing her once again violated wife, her own eyes misted over.
"Rachel...I am so sorry..." the detective's voice wavered from soft to repentant to barely controlled rage. "I should have been here. I should have known better than to have started working in town before that bastard got back."
She soaked the washcloth and drained the water on Rachel's shoulder, then repeated the action on the other shoulder. Gently, she pushed the smaller woman back and she began to wash her neck and chest.
"I should have known when those Carvers showed up wanting to claim land - land that's been there all along - and they were being so damned nice that something wasn't right. I should have known -"
"Trace? It's all right. Really. You couldn't have known." Moist green eyes connected with deep blue ones. A single tear fell from Trace's left eye. Rachel reached up and wiped it away with her thumb, caressing her spouse's cheek and chin. The love conveyed with that one look, that one gesture caused Trace to break down. Rachel reached out and brought the brunette closer in a tight embrace. "You can't be everywhere at once."
"You needed me here, Rachel, and I wasn't. God, baby, I love you so much and I failed you." The detective went back to tenderly scrubbing the blonde. "I will never do that again, I promise you. Anyone ever comes near you again, meaning you harm and I will kill them with my bare hands. You are the best thing that has ever happened in my life and if anything ever happened to you, I...just couldn't go on, I know it." And she meant it. How Rachel had changed her so completely in just mere months, had made her want to be a good person, want to be responsible for another's happiness, want to spend the rest of her life just pleasing this incredible young woman and living up to her expectations amazed her, and the thought of all that being taken away from her devastated her in a way that defied description.
Numb, and trying but failing miserably at holding back her own tears, Rachel pulled Trace to her and kissed her, a gesture that communicated the adoration, devotion and necessity of her love for her sable-haired spouse. "I never want to find out what that's like, either, Trace." In silence that was now more comfortable, the brunette went back to lovingly, compassionately and protectively cleansing her wife.
Funny...but the detective bathing her did make her soul feel cleaner.
****************
65
It was a sleepless night for Trace. Knowing she would be killing Ben Crane the next day had very little to do with it. Rachel's recurring nightmares were what kept her fully conscious. Each time the vulnerable blonde awoke, it was with a frightened yelp or agonizing sob, accompanied by sweating and shaking. The fact that - regardless of whether or not Rachel forgave her - Trace had not been there to protect her as she had promised to do was only the half of it. That the detective was not going to be able to stop this round of horrific dreams left the normally fearless brunette feeling helpless, an emotion so alien to her, she wasn't even sure that's what she was experiencing at first. Trace hated Ben Crane for what he did to Rachel, what he tried to do again and now what he had done to her...make her feel weak and psychologically impotent.
Every time her wife woke up, Trace would calm her and kiss her reassuringly, hoping that Rachel would believe again that Trace could keep her safe. The blonde brought out an odd sense of chivalry in the brunette, an attribute that had obviously remained well hidden until Rachel came into her life. Trace liked being Rachel's protector, her 'knight in shining armor.' It was the one pure thing, other than her love, that she could offer the smaller woman and now...now this monster had destroyed that. Sure, Rachel would probably get it back but it would never be the same.
When Rachel would settle down from the previous nightmare, the detective just held onto her more securely than the last time, hoping she wasn't squeezing her too tightly or suffocating her. Toward morning, Trace wasn't sure who needed the body contact more and the taller woman was torn between staying and holding her wife, knowing her presence would give her comfort and stability and leaving to eliminate Ben Crane from their lives once and for all, which would also result in the same effect. She, of course, opted for the latter.
She never wanted to see a man so dead in her life...not even Vincent DeSienna. She was sure revenge would never taste so powerfully sweet.
Trace would have preferred to have left Rachel with another familiar female, like Elizabeth Reddick or brought her into town to stay with Molly Ledbetter for the day - or until this was over. But the fewer people who knew about yesterday or were in on what Trace was about to do, the better.
Little Hawk, Fire Arrow and Dancing Leaf, one of the mature women of the tribe who performed duties similar to a midwife, stayed with Rachel inside the cabin. The Pawnee medicine man was there in case the blonde went into a premature labor. Yesterday had been profoundly upsetting to Caskí Custíra'u so, as a precaution, Fire Arrow thought it was best to be there, just in case. The detective agreed.
Warriors Howling Wolf and Black Feather, who was also a scout, rode with Trace to get Ben Crane. They arrived in the woods just outside the Crane property line and waited there for the right opportunity to present itself. From their perch on the side of a hill overlooking the main ranch house and several other structures, they could easily see when Crane saddled up and left the property. The detective knew she really didn't need her Pawnee brother's there, that she could certainly handle an overgrown punk like Ben Crane. However, on the off chance Trace could not 'fulfill her destiny' like Little Hawk had predicted, their presence, if nothing else, would ensure that Crane would never lay his hands - or anything else - on Rachel again.
While they waited, Black Feather offered a suggestion to the detective regarding the fate of the cattle baron's youngest son. Although Trace really did feel the desire to rip this man apart all by herself, after listening to the reasoning of the scout, she concurred that, following a well deserved and severe ass-kicking, a prolonged, painful death was in order.
After an hour, Howling Wolf saw movement in the bunkhouse as a few ranch hands emerged and then ambled into the cookhouse. Not too long after that, the cowboys moved out into the fields to start their respective days. It took another two hours before the object of their attention showed himself, walking out onto the porch and stretching what Trace assumed to be very stiff and sore muscles.
**********
Feeling as though she were ready to crawl out of her skin, Rachel needed to occupy herself with something as a diversion. Housework, baking a pie or tending to the garden just wasn't going to do it. She had already knitted enough booties to warm the feet of every infant in Jefferson County and taking Chief out for a nice leisurely ride was out of the question.
A barking Ramiro caught her attention and she went out onto the porch to see what the commotion was. She was greeted with a very dirty, dusty puppy who began happily jumping around at her feet.
"My goodness, boy, where have you been?" Rachel wrinkled her nose. At least he didn't smell like he'd been in the pasture, rolling in something one of the cows left behind like he did last week. Well, it certainly solved the problem of what she could do to busy herself. But someone else was going to have to catch him, she thought as she went back inside to ask Dancing Leaf if she would help her get the ten gallon bucket ready.
***************
Her Pawnee brethren had remounted and stayed concealed, assuring Trace they would only show themselves when it became necessary. Trace had tied Rio to a low branch, leaving the horse to contentedly munch on various vegetation while she waited for Crane to pass. She had also removed her gunbelt as she did not want to do battle with him that way - she wanted to feel her hands on him when she hurt him.
Ben had been surprised that the new sheriff had not come to the house to try and get even with him for touching his wife. What kind of man must this Sheridan fellow be, not to want to defend his woman's honor? He wondered, with amusement, if the new lawman of Sagebrush was all bluster and now that he was actually faced with a Crane, he wasn't really so tough after all.
The next thing he remembered was lying on the ground, having been knocked off his horse. Something came flying at him from the right, something big...and quick. Picking his face up from the dirt, he saw a pair of boots.
"Hello, Crane." Trace's voice was shaking - not from anything remotely having to do with fear - and she found it difficult to restrain herself until the man got to his feet. She was in a defensive stance, ready for anything from this bully.
"Sheriff Sheridan, I reckon?" Ben rolled onto his knees.
Trace's heart went up in her throat...that voice...where had she heard that voice before? And then he stood up and lifted his face, steel gray eyes meeting her ice blue ones. The detective had to take a step back, nearly losing her balance, reeling from the shock. Ben Crane was the spitting image of Vincent DeSienna.
Crane silently appraised her. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Sheriff."
She felt as though she had. Everything about him was identical to DeSienna - vocal inflection, physical characteristics, height, build and most of all, arrogance. Trace was still reacting from the jolt of that cruel surprise, the ramifications of the likeness not lost on her. Could this possibly mean that Rachel was carrying an ancestor of yet another horrendous family? Was she going to help raise a distant relative of the man she hated most in the world?
On the verge of hyperventilating, she forced her focus back to the situation at hand and thought of how much better it would feel now, it would be as though she were killing Ben Crane and Vincent DeSienna at the same time. Oh, how she wished that were true. Trace abruptly relaxed and steadied herself, suddenly feeling very much in control. Now she knew what Little Hawk meant, that it was her destiny to kill Ben Crane...but how did he know? A question obviously for another time.
She blatantly stared at his bruises and regarded him with a cocky smirk. "My wife do that to you? She did a nice job. Too bad she didn't kick your nuts off in the process."
His eyes constricted in contempt. "You gotta lot of nerve, Sheridan, comin' to this town and takin' over, takin' my woman..."
"She was never your woman, Crane. I think she proved that yesterday. And now, you're going to answer to me. Let's see how big of a man you are by picking on someone your own size...messing with someone who's not afraid of you."
She watched his hand move to his hip and hover around his holster. "Then fill your hand, Sheridan!"
Trace gestured to her lower body, no sign of a gun in sight. "No. We are going to settle this without weapons. Shooting you would be way too easy, way too quick."
"There's just one thing wrong with that...you ain't running this show." He was able to release his pistol from his holster but that was all.
Her lightening-fast front roundhouse kick disarmed him with an accuracy that startled him speechless. "You fucking ball-less, gutless, piece-of-shit coward." She punctuated that with a wicked backhand blow that sent him sprawling. "Get up, you son-of-a-bitch, we're going to do this right." She planted her feet and beckoned him forward with her hands. "What's the matter, Crane? You can only beat up on girls?"
Furious now, Crane hopped to his feet and charged her, a move she anticipated, stepping aside and sweeping his feet out from under him, sending him bouncing on his backside. "Where do they teach you boys how to fight?"
He didn't know what infuriated him more...the fact that he had yet to get a punch in or that the new sheriff was laughing at him. Nobody laughed at a Crane...and lived to tell about it. Scrambling to his feet, he took a boxer's stance, hopping around a bit, one fist extended in front of his face, the other curled about six inches from his chest. "Take your best shot, Sheridan, 'cause it'll be your last."
Trace shook her head at him. "Silly boy," she commented before winding up and jumping. While in the air, her right leg shot out as if she were going to perform a side kick and, instead, her other leg launched to the left in a ball kick, executing a scissor kick after her rotation, striking him with the back of her heel, which caused his own fist to smack him hard in the face, resulting in his taking a few off-balanced steps backwards, dazed. The eye that Rachel hadn't blackened, immediately started to swell.
"You don't fight like no man I ever seen," Crane spat out, getting madder and more frustrated.
"Neither do you," Trace commented. Gifted with dexterity, that natural hand and eye coordination permitted her to have exceptionally precise fighting skills. She was good at what she did and she was not used to losing in hand-to-hand combat. Ben Crane was no match for her and she knew it.
There was a huge part of her that just wanted to grab him in a head lock and break his neck. But he deserved to be brutalized and if Trace had been a different type of individual, she would have done it in the exact same manner in which he had brutalized Rachel, so he could know exactly what it felt like - not just physically but the loss of control, security, self and, most of all, she wanted him to feel humiliation as he had never felt it before.
However, Trace was many things but a rapist was not one of them and even as tempting as it was in this situation, she was not ready to add it to her resume. No, she could degrade, demean and emasculate him by not letting him get one hit in and then when he was well weakened, she would hand him over to Black Feather and Howling Wolf.
It would be enough for both her and Crane to possess the knowledge that she was not only capable of killing him but would have, if she had chosen to do so. But until then, she had some serious ass kicking to do. Crane had resumed his previous fighting stance, at first doing his best imitation of a banty rooster and then advanced toward Trace in a menacing posture.
"Obviously, you don't learn from your mistakes, asswipe." The detective made sure her center of gravity was low and moved out of Crane's path, executing a stepping side kick, thrusting her leg out and connecting severely with Crane's hip, stopping him dead in his tracks before moving her foot in a crescent motion and literally kicking him in the posterior, planting him once again in the dirt, face first.
Not waiting for him to recover this time, Trace walked over to Crane and picked him up by the back of his shirt, using her anger and adrenaline as momentum and swung him around, releasing him so that he ran headlong into a tree. Bouncing back from contact with the unyielding fixed object, the cattle baron's son staggered backward before he, once again, fell on his butt.
"Get up, you sorry fucking excuse for a man!" When Trace approached him, he promptly scooted away from her. "What's the matter, Benjy? You afraid of me? Huh?" She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. Letting him go, she stomped her foot as though she were going to let loose with another side kick and he backed away, almost whimpering.
Relaxing her body language, Trace baited Crane into thinking she was letting her guard down. He did not disappoint her when he raised his fist, sending it forward with all the strength he had. She simply raised her hand in an upward motion, obstructing his attempt. Since she blocked him wrist-to-wrist, he took most of the impact. Crane tried again with his other hand but Trace deflected his movement once again, never taking her eyes off his. He repeated this action several times, becoming more overcome with exasperation with every swing.
Having backed him up against a large oak tree, Trace was ready to do some serious damage. Seeing the look in her eye, Crane's blood ran cold. All semblance of color drained from his face. This Sheridan character was really beginning to scare him. He had yet to make intentional contact with the lawman and he was exhausted and his injuries were seriously smarting and that damned sheriff wasn't even winded. He visibly flinched when Trace slowly, deliberately, raised her arm, bending it at the elbow, close to her body, her fingers fully extended and joined, palm downward. She let it hover in front of him, threateningly.
"What are you going to do to me?" He asked, his eyes going back and forth from Trace's face to her hand.
"Exactly what you did to my wife..." she growled at him.
His eyes grew wide with shock and fear. The sheriff couldn't mean what he thought...
"Is your asshole puckering, Crane? It should be. No, I'm not going to do that, although nothing would give me greater pleasure to see you suffer that way. No, I'm not going to rape you because that would make me just like you...and I realize I may have been as bad as Ed Jackson at one point in my life, but I was never anything like you and I will never be anything like you. Make no mistake though, Benjy, I am going to hurt you. Bad. And then you are going to die."
His heart started to pound because he knew, as sure as he was standing there, that Sheridan meant it. Or at least he thought he did. Well...not if he had any say in the matter. He drove his head forward in a failed attempt to smash it against hers. With the hand that was not in position, she caught him by the forehead and slammed the back of his skull against the tree.
Having him pinned, she then effected a move she had learned years ago from a Shaolin sensei, a remarkable woman who personified the word 'self-control.' Trace's teacher called it a penetrating power punch, a move that required a lot of concentration and discipline to develop and perfect. The theory of this move was that, with just a touch, energy was used to penetrate the body of her opponent. Following the strike, the surface of the body looked untouched but a bruise appeared on the opposite side, destroying whatever internal organs were in that specific area.
She had only used it once before and the man had eventually died from internal injuries. The individual in question had been a henchman of the DeSienna's and was trying to kill her. She had disarmed him but he was huge and starting to get the better of her and she had exhausted all of her other fighting skills and tricks, to no avail. After having practiced this move on a heavy punching bag for years, she felt she had nothing to lose by using it then. The guy got a few more hits in and then he slowed down, losing his energy quickly before he passed out.
Now, she could not think of a better subject to repeat this scenario on. Staring into the strangely familiar wide eyes of Ben Crane, Trace felt a sudden vindication. He wasn't Vincent DeSienna but he was the next best thing. "That was for me," she told him, without remorse. "What happens next will be for my wife."
Letting Crane go, he fell to his knees. He was aware the sheriff had just done something to him, something terrible, but he wasn't sure what and a small ache in his gut was starting to rapidly grow into a throbbing, searing pain.
Once Trace was satisfied that Crane was terrified and suffering, she dragged him over to Black Feather and Howling Wolf who picked him up and tied him between two smaller trees, one arm and one leg was tied to each tree so that he was spread eagle. Normally, this kind of death would have even been a little too gruesome for her but not when it came to this subterranean piece of shit.
She had known whatever 'justice' was going to happen to this man, she would have to inflict as there was no law, other than herself, to turn him over to and no jail that would hold a Crane for very long. A territorial prison perhaps, where an unbiased warden could keep him behind bars might work but who knew when Crane would be able to be transported. By that time all hell could and would break loose. Anyway, that might be fine for the rest of the Crane clan but Ben didn't deserve the courtesy of an impartial trial. He didn't deserve any consideration as would someone who might actually be innocent of the crimes she knew for a fact he had committed.
The Pawnee warriors had picked two trees that would be easy to chop through but also be heavy enough so that when they fell in opposite directions, they would take Cranes limbs with them. It would be an agonizingly slow and painful death and when his body was found, it would very much look like he had been torn apart by a wild animal. It wasn't that Trace wasn't willing to take responsibility for Ben Crane's demise but she wanted to play by the Crane's rules. Ben would be found right outside his own property, in pieces, the circumstances surrounding the incident, an unprovable mystery. It would also be a warning to the rest of the Cranes. They weren't invincible after all.
****************
Trace glared at the evil apparition staring back at her, his eyes now as fixed and dull as a dead man's. "Any last words?"
He was going to be defiant and arrogant to the end. "Yeah, I found fulfillment in the arms of your pretty little wife, Sheridan, and she was more than eager and willin'."
"You raped my wife, Crane. You came up behind her, drunk, and like the coward you are, ambushed her and you beat her into submission and then you took her against her will. You violated her. You humiliated her. You degraded her. You stole her virginity. You took away her security. But as much as you wanted to, you never took her dignity. You couldn't take no for an answer. No, she didn't want to sell her land. No, she didn't want to be courted by you. No, she didn't want to marry you and the biggest no of all, she did not want to have sex with you. But being the vicious, vile creature you are, you took her anyway. And then, you disgusting bastard, you tried to do it again."
"You don't know what happened in that cabin, Sheridan. All you got is that little bitch's lies and the word of these Injuns, which ain't much better."
"My wife doesn't lie, Crane. And neither do my brothers."
"She doesn't lie, you say? You think that baby inside her is yours? She lie to you about that? 'Cause it don't matter what she told you, she knows and I know that kid is mine!"
Trace stepped up to Crane, almost nose to nose. "You may have injected the seed, you fucking piece of shit, but that child will never be yours. My wife - yes, MY wife, not yours - would have never let you be a part of that baby's life. Whine, piss and moan all you want but Rachel would have convinced the town that the baby is biologically mine. And, you know what? Since everybody hates your guts and your family's guts, it wouldn't take much for everyone to believe her. As much as it would kill you, my wife would finally get the best of you."
"No woman is ever gonna get the best of me, Sheridan.," he spat out.
"Oh, really?" Even as enraged as she was, a smirk crossed her face and she stepped back, raising an eyebrow. Looking up at Black Feather, who smiled back at her and nodded, she returned her attention to Ben Crane.
As the Pawnee began to chop, Trace unbuttoned her shirt, removing the garment, revealing a chest wrapped in a stretchy, binding cloth. Slowly, she unwound the material until it also fell to the ground. Crane's eyes popped open at the vision presented before him. "What in the hell...?"
The last thing he saw before the trees fell and ended his life were the breasts of the woman who got the best of him.
**************
66
Ben Crane's body was discovered that afternoon by Seth Carver, who threw up several times before he could even get back on his horse and return to the Crane spread to report what he had found. He advised his father first, who called for three ranch hands to saddle up and accompany him back to the place where the mangled and ripped apart corpse of his cousin lay.
"What do you think happened, Pa? Looks to me like he got tore up by an animal of some sort...a wolf maybe?" Seth asked his father from afar. He could not bear to look at that grisly scene again. Just the recollection of it made his stomach roll. Scavengers had been feeding on the body when he rode up on Ben the first time.
John shook his head. This was going to be hard on Jacob but it was absolutely going to kill Priscilla, Ben's mother. "A pack of wolves, maybe. Aw, Ben..." John sighed. "You really did it this time..." The older Carver was pretty sure the only animal who got to Ben Crane was a man named Trace Sheridan. He didn't have any proof but the timing was just too coincidental.
Ben had come home yesterday and bragged about paying a little visit to Rachel the day before, swore up and down that the baby she was carrying was his, not the sheriff's, and further boasted that he'd taken Rachel again right there in her own parlor. If that was true, the sheriff had every right to come after Ben. Regardless of how willing Rachel may have been, you just didn't go messing with another man's woman, especially when that woman was in the family way.
But John knew better. Rachel Young never wanted his nephew. If she had, they would have been married by now, would have been starting their own family. Ben was the only one who considered himself a ladies' man and suitable for the likes of Frank Young's daughter. John had been around when complaints filtered back to Jacob about Ben's abusive behavior toward the painted doves over Wilbur's Saloon and, even more telling, when his brother-in-law paid off a few of the hands to keep them still about Ben's unwanted, uninvited advances towards their wives and sweethearts. Although John was loyal to Priscilla and Jacob, he considered Ben a mean, spoiled, unruly swine and if he did have Rachel, John made a good guess that it was by force. If his nephew hadn't been planning something insidious two days ago, why did he instruct them to 'keep the sheriff occupied' for a while so he could let Rachel know he was back?
Looking at the horrific setting before him though, John thought this may have been a little too brutal an ending, even for Ben, despite how or why the sheriff may have managed to get the body in the ghastly condition it was. No, Jacob wasn't going to be happy about this at all.
"You boys go back to the ranch and get a box out here and pick him up. I'll go back and tell his mama," John instructed.
*************
Rachel had been napping when Trace and the warriors got back to the Triple Y. Once the trees had done their job, as disturbingly bloody and repulsive as the process was, Trace felt a satisfaction that almost alarmed her in the fact that she experienced no guilt or remorse for causing the death of this man. The scream that ripped from deep within his very being echoed in her ears for barely a second and, as he fell quickly into shock, the guttural, pleading moan that rose up from his throat, died quicker than he did. Trace did not even flinch, watching Ben Crane's limbs separate from his body as he bled out before her eyes.
They had removed the ropes, covered their tracks, dug up the tree stumps and replaced the holes with dirt, leaves and other assorted vegetation, making the area look like nothing or no one had been there. As they left the scene of Ben Crane's death, carting the trees back with them to chop for firewood, Trace was sure she would immediately fall under suspicion, that she would be held responsible, even if not accountable, for what the detective considered this justified act of reprisal. She shrugged it off. The biggest threat to Rachel was now gone, forever, and with that knowledge, she felt no qualms about taking on the rest of the family.
Walking into the house, she was greeted by Little Hawk. "It is done?"
Trace nodded. "Yep. He won't be bothering Rachel - or anyone else - ever again. How is she?"
"She is resting."
"Good." Untying and removing her fingerless, rawhide gloves, she looked directly at him. "How did you know?"
She did not have to clarify, he knew exactly what she was asking him. "I cannot explain this, Tsápaat. There are things I just know. Do you know why?"
"Why it had to be me and not Rachel who caused his death? Yeah. It was very clear to me once I saw him." And boy, had that been a shock. The face and voice of Vincent DeSienna not only suddenly haunting but taunting her as well her through the body of Ben Crane. The irony was not lost on her, having felt almost mentally sucker punched by the shock. Had she not reacted purely on instinct, Rachel's rapist could have very easily got the best of her, too.
She could only hope through wishful synchronicity that, while she was killing Ben Crane, Vincent DeSienna was also experiencing a death of similarly torturous proportions. And, because she was sure she would never know, it gave her great, sadistic pleasure to assume that he had. The recollection of Crane's well deserved, agonizing scream echoed in her ears one more time, sending a shiver of satisfaction down her spine. Trace closed her eyes to still her sanguine nature that had risen from it's dormancy, awakened when Ben Crane laid his filthy hands on Rachel again. She took several deep breaths, consciously swallowing her rage at that single thought. If only she could have got to him before, if only...
"You killed him? Ben is dead?"
They turned to see Rachel walking toward them, her expression a mixture of curiosity, incredulity and relief.
"Yes, sweetheart. Ben Crane will never bother you again."
Rachel threw herself into her spouse's arms, not unexpectedly, but with a fervor Trace had not anticipated. The detective embraced her wife comfortingly and securely.
"I will leave you two alone now." Little Hawk moved toward the door, sensing the couple's need for solace and privacy.
Kissing the top of Rachel's head, Trace said, "Thank you, Little Hawk."
"I will be in the field. There is maize to harvest." It was his subtle way of letting them know he would not be too far away...just in case.
As he left the house, the full impact of the burden lifting hit her like a dam breaking and, safe in the loving and protective arms of her lover, Rachel broke down and wept.
********************
John Carver watched his sister break down and weep. She had asked how, not needing to ask why. Even though she would never say it out loud, Priscilla Crane knew that Ben had a miserable mean streak in him that her other children did not have and a pattern of behavior that eventually was going to bring him to an early grave. It was just one of those things a mother knew. She was honestly surprised that it had not happened sooner.
Ephraim, her first born, despite having Jacob's temper, was more like her, possessing a quiet strength and an almost regal bearing. Gideon was more like his father in that he was sometimes too stubborn and too proud, never admitting to making mistakes and having little patience with people who did not see things his way. Then there was Micah who was a combination of the best parts of Jacob and the worst parts of her. Although he was virile and decisive, her middle child had a tendency to be gullable and easily manipulated, traits that she hated to admit allowed her to be unwillingly matched up with the most eligible bachelor in her parents' elite circle.
Oh, it wasn't that Jacob Crane hadn't been devastatingly handsome and hadn't provided her with a secure future and a fine family, it was just that she had not been impressed with the sneaky, petty and tyrannical way Jacob's father and grandfather had done business and, most importantly, she had been in love with another young man. James Powell, the preacher's son, who had nothing to offer her but his devotion and a meager life as a minister's wife, at best, was the man she had secretly promised herself to, the man she really wanted to marry and bear children by. Her parents wouldn't hear of it. Certainly the ministry was a noble calling but it, in no way was suitable for the only daughter of Omaha's most aristocratic banker. She would learn to love Jacob, her mother had told her, just the way her mother had learned to love Priscilla's father.
And, learn to love him, she did. But that did not stop her from occasionally and wistfully thinking about what might have been with James and how, maybe, he would have helped her raise their children with different values.
Hannah, their only daughter, was beautiful and took full advantage of her privilege as a member of the most influential family in the county but had grown up to be a disagreeable and bitter woman. Priscilla could only think that was caused from being overshadowed constantly by her brothers and regardless of how subtly Hannah competed, never quite got equal amounts of attention from a father she adored. As much as Priscilla loved her husband, he made no secret that he favored his sons over his daughter and that damage was irreparable, if not unforgivable.
And then there was Benjamin whom she named after her father. He had been spoiled from the day he was born. She had nearly died giving birth to him and that pretty much guaranteed that he would be the last baby. He was six years behind Ephraim and treated like a little prince by all his siblings, including Hannah. By the time young Ben was in school, he already had the idea in his head that he could do no wrong and the opinion that anyone, who wasn't a Crane, owed him. She tried to rectify that, tried to discipline him for his bad conduct and manners but her husband always overruled her. Jacob had wanted at least ten children, preferably all boys and, it seemed, because Ben was the definite end of the Crane line, not counting whatever future grandsons there would be, punishment of any sort involving Ben was just not tolerated.
So Priscilla stood by and watched her youngest child slowly become the monster he grew up to be and was powerless to stop him. And now he was dead, something she knew was just a matter of time. She grieved for the loss of her son and she prayed for his soul, ashamed to carry the thoughts that a child of hers might be too evil to get into heaven.
John had told her that the circumstances surrounding Ben's death were too unspeakable to describe to her and he suspected that the sheriff was somehow involved. Priscilla just nodded when her brother further stated that Jacob and the boys would have to know and, no doubt, declare all out war on the rebellious town and their new, renegade lawman. She held no ill will toward Trace Sheridan...in fact, she almost respected the man for having the courage to stand up for what he believed was right, in spite of the fact that it may have very well resulted in the death of her youngest child.
It had to stop some time, somewhere. She just wasn't sure if she was ready for it to be right now.
********
John and Seth Carver paid Trace a visit that afternoon at the sheriff's office in town. The younger Carver still looked a little peaked and both men acted as though the wind had been taken out of their communal sail. Although, the older Carver continuously eyeballed Trace in a suspicious manner, he never once leveled an accusation at the sheriff during the entire time spent in the office, reporting Ben's death.
Trace knew they would be looking for her conduct and mannerisms to be questionable or leery, revealing something, anything to them that might exhibit her guilt. But the detective was too good at playing the passive game when she need to, too experienced at donning a facade that hid any real emotion, a mask no one had ever before been able to see through...except for Rachel. And, the only reason the beautiful blonde had achieved that feat was that she had unexplainably and miraculously penetrated the hardness that once surrounded Trace's heart from the very first day the detective entered this new world.
Filling out paperwork, recording all the details, Trace assured the father and son team that she would look into the possibility of wolves roaming too close to the Crane property. When Seth hinted that the Pawnee may have had a hand in his cousin's death, the brunette advised him that those were serious allegations without any kind of proof. The younger Carver was about to comment that the sheriff would, no doubt, cover the tribal members' tracks just like when they found themselves stripped naked and tied to a tree on Trace's wedding day but John wisely interrupted the boy before too many maligning words could leave his mouth.
Honestly surprised that the sheriff displayed no incriminating behavior, nothing indicative of a guilty conscience, John left the building, wondering if Trace really did have anything to do with Ben's death. The sinewy young lawman sounded almost compassionate while asking questions and discussing what Seth had found there in the woods not too far from the entrance to the Crane property. In fact, Trace remained so professionally neutral that the older Carver just stopped short of apologizing for Ben's violent actions toward the sheriff's wife. Despite the fact that the dark haired stranger had kicked the crap out of him that night outside the barn, he was beginning to conclude that Trace wasn't such a bad guy after all.
Thinking back, John had no business following any of Ed Jackson's hairbrained schemes, avenging the former sheriff's cowardice. It had been a mistake to make any kind of a move like that without Jacob's okay. The Crane patriarch really had no claim on Rachel or the Young ranch, either, but the situation definitely would have been handled face-to-face as opposed to the sneaky, underhanded manner in which Jackson decided to retaliate for a wounded ego.
After the Carvers left the jail and rode out of Sagebrush, Trace decided to head over to Wilbur's. Decorum could wait, she needed a drink. It wasn't so much that, even though the Pawnee had carried out the actual execution on Trace's behalf, she had ordered and witnessed the death of the feared and dreaded Ben Crane, it was the realization that she had more than likely just started an irreversible war, one that just might get innocent people killed. Yes, the situation had been hostile before this but everybody just went along with it, preferring to keep the peace, knowing they were no match for the family who controlled the town's purse strings.
She knew the domineering Cranes had no clue what they were really up against now that she had the entire Pawnee tribe behind her but they were a family used to getting its own way, regardless of the means they had to use or the consequences of their actions. The citizens of Sagebrush were stronger now and more aware of their own power but, in the long run, very few of them could rival the conniving dynasty that had terrorized them for the past ten years. At the very least, someone undeserving was going to get hurt, would end up a casualty of her actions and decisions and for the first time in her life, that really bothered her.
When she entered through the double doors of the saloon, even Silas stopped what he was doing and observed with tacit fascination the almost revered silence that fell over the room as all eyes watched the sheriff move to the bar. A majority of them were sitting in the exact same places they had been the day before when Isaac Tipping came running in and advised his father that one of the Pawnee just told Trace that Ben Crane was at the Triple Y. And not more than an hour ago, one of the Crane ranch hands stood by the stairway, drinking cheap rye, trying to calm his nerves and forget about what was left of Ben Crane that he had just shoveled into a box and couldn't stop shaking and talking about it.
Matthew Reddick laid down his cards and was the first to speak, asking the obvious. "Hey, Trace...did you hear about Ben?"
Stepping up to the opposite side of the counter where Silas was standing, the detective nodded. "Yep. John and Seth Carver were just by my office."
"What do you think happened?" the usual jovial bartender inquired, with genuine curiosity. He brought the sheriff a shot and an ale.
Shrugging nonchalantly, Trace downed the shot, cleared the burn out of her throat and said, "I have no clue. Sounds like wild animals got him."
"You don't sound too upset." That comment came from Joseph Turner.
"Should I be?" Trace pinned the pawnbroker with a glare. "The man came to my house and attacked my wife yesterday. I don't need to remind you that Rachel is with child, Joseph, he could have hurt her more than he did or hurt my son or daughter. If you're looking for me to be sad or upset that the son-of-a-bitch met his maker sometime this morning, then you're going to be disappointed."
"Did you have anything to do with it, Trace?" That questioned came from Cassandra, who had inconspicuously descended the stairs. She still harbored a serious attraction for the tall, shaggy-haired, sensual sheriff. Nothing would have given her greater pleasure than to know that Trace had been the one to finally call out Ben Crane because, in a town that was in the process of being rescued, killing that evil bastard would have only cemented Trace's hero status in her book.
The detective gauged the prostitute's demeanor and decided that the redhead was being straightforward. Taking a long swallow of beer from the cool mug in her grasp, Trace responded with, "Now, if I had, do you think I would actually stand here and admit it to a roomful of people?" A slight smirk crossed the sheriff's lips and everyone exhaled a collective, relieved breath. No one was sure if they were more afraid of the lawman's answer being that he was involved or that he wasn't.
Before anyone else put their foot in their mouth, Matthew spoke up. "We're with you, Trace. Whatever happened, we know Jacob will probably come after you anyway and we've all been talking and we just want you to know that we'll all stand with you."
The detective slowly turned and faced the saloon's inhabitants. Each and every one of them were nodding and agreeing with Matthew Reddick. Trace then looked at Joseph Turner, who grinned sheepishly at the tall brunette.
"Tell ya the truth, Trace, I'm not real upset by the news, either. That man gave me nothing but headaches."
Breaking out into a more relaxed smile, Trace signaled Silas for another shot. As the bartender refilled the sheriff's glass, she inclined her head toward the prostitute, who had joined her at the bar. "And give Cassandra one, too. On me."
Setting the shot glass next to Trace's, the bartender looked at the redhead expectantly. The prostitute pointed to a medium-priced bottle of scotch, which Silas retrieved. "How much of this you want, Cass?"
Just as Trace brought her glass to her lips and threw the shot back, the redhead stood impossibly close to the sheriff and purred, "I'll take three fingers."
Whiskey being expelled from the nostrils hurt like hell.
**********************
Following the sheriff's embarrassing choking incident to which after it was determined that Trace was going to live, Cassandra returned upstairs with a knowing wink and smile, the brunette sat at the table with Matthew and a few others. Her eyes were still spontaneously tearing forty-five minutes after she had involuntarily inhaled the shot of amber liquid up her nose.
"What's John Carver's story?" she asked no on in particular, as she wasn't sure who might have the most information. She should have known it would be a toss up between Joseph Turner and Silas.
"You mean other'n him not knowin' one end of the horse from t'other?" That remark came from Clay Canfield, the father of Isaac Tipping's sweetheart, Lydia.
"That's not true," Joseph corrected, sniffing. He pulled up a stool next to Matthew and sat. "John Carver causes the least amount of trouble of anyone related to the Cranes. My wife and I had him and his late wife to dinner many times. He changed a bit after Margaret died, got a little cantankerous, but I still think he may be the most honorable of any of that bunch."
"Something tells me that's not saying much," Trace commented. She distinctly recalled Carver saying he'd like a little piece of Rachel for himself that night he and Isaac set out to attack them on the Triple Y and if she didn't cooperate, she just might have to be 'taught a lesson.' That didn't make him very honorable in her estimation. "How did his wife die?"
"Nobody really knows. He told around that he accidentally shot her," Joseph offered.
"What? And that's honorable, how?" The sheriff asked, incredulously.
"Story supposedly goes like this...Seth came back early from Jefferson City and caught his mama warmin' the bed of one of the ranch hands and that boy shot her on the spot, cold as satan's breath about it. Probably would have shot the hand, too, 'cept he took off and never came back. John got back, found out about it and needed to save face. So, he told everyone that he was shootin' at targets and Margaret walked into his path, not knowin' he was there."
"And there were actually people who bought that story?" Trace asked.
"Oh, hell, nobody bought it," Clay argued, "That's cuz if you gave John Carver a gun and told him to shoot hisself, he'd miss. There was all kinds of crazy stories goin' around about that day. There was even one that Priscilla shot her for betrayin' her brother." He stared blatantly at the pawnbroker. "What's with that hair on your face, Joseph? Those whiskers tryin' to make up fer what yer losin' on top?" He dipped a big, dirty hand in a bowl of peanuts on the table.
"Winter's coming, you know Joseph always grows a beard to keep his face warm," Silas offered.
"You know, Clay, you've always been one rude sunnavabitch. I'm telling you that I knew Margaret Carver better than anyone in this town and -"
"Yeah? Just how well did you know her, Joseph?" Canfield teased.
"He didn't know her like that," Silas laughed. "Why, if Ruth ever thought he was unfaithful, she'd shoot that little dauber square off him."
"Well, I always thought your wife was right handsome, Joseph, so if worse comes to worse, I promise I'll do all your screwin' for ya."
"Gentlemen, please," Trace interrupted, "we're getting off track here." She ordered another round for everyone at the table, hoping it would give Turner a chance to get his blood pressure down. The last time she saw something that red, it was on a fireplug. After Silas delivered everyone's drinks, he collected the price out of the change Trace had left lying on the bar.
"Joseph is right," Silas began the conversation again, leaning his elbows on the counter. "John really isn't as bad as the rest of them. He always stays behind during the drives to handle everything for Jacob, makes sure everything stays running smooth, makes sure the women are all safe and protected...when none of the Crane boys are around, John is the number one man there."
"Personally, I think he shoots long range with a short gun, if you know what I mean." They turned around to see Emmet Hallack, who had strolled in, unnoticed. He removed his derby and joined the others at the table.
"You think he's not quite all there?" Her question was meant to clarify the metaphor which caused the others at the table to look up at the attorney, puzzled by his words. She'd have to remember that expression since 'one french fry short of a happy meal' wouldn't cut it in this era. "Why?"
Hallack shrugged. "Something has to be wrong with him...he's the son of Benjamin Carver, who, before he died, was one of the most influential businessmen in Omaha. Why isn't John a man of his own fortune? Francis, the older brother was...until he died from whooping cough five years ago. It was arranged for Priscilla to marry well...what happened with John? Instead of being a man of his own means, his life has been spent following his sister around like a lost little boy, marrying her best friend, making his livelihood from her husband instead of making his own way? It's not right, doesn't add up."
Hallack had a good point. "Anybody know why John Carver isn't a rich man in his own right?" Trace threw the question out there.
No one answered...but it certainly gave them all something to speculate about...which they did far into the evening, long after Trace left them and returned home to her not-so-happy wife, who became that way seeing the intoxicated condition the brunette was in when she got there. Watery, bloodshot blue eyes tried to fix their gaze on green eyes Trace could only equate with belonging to that of a pissed off grizzly bear.
It wasn't that Rachel didn't understand Trace was probably struggling to come to grips with what she had done that morning and tempering the weight of the responsibility with alcohol but the blonde didn't feel that her spouse should have gotten herself quite this stupefied.
As Trace collapsed on the bed, sideways, Rachel just left her there after pulling the detective's boots off. While loud snores resonated from the bedroom, Dancing Leaf embraced the blonde before she left, giving her advice on what would alleviate the impending hangover they all knew Trace would have the next morning. Thanking the Pawnee midwife, Rachel told her that she had her own remedies which worked extremely well but since she would really like to cure her spouse's penchant to get this drunk when she hung out at Wilbur's, she was going to opt to let Trace suffer through this one. Although, Rachel knew very well that when Trace had a hangover, they both suffered.
*********
The next morning, Trace awoke, unable to focus or to move. She was pretty sure if she did, her head was going to explode. If dental floss had been invented, she certainly could have been blindfolded with it. The brunette felt the presence of someone by the bed and knew from the scent of what smelled like fresh milk with honey in it, that it was Rachel. And, even though it was a fragrance she normally cherished, at that very moment, it was making her stomach turn.
"Morning, sweetheart!" The blonde yelled right next to the detective's ear.
"Oh, Jesus Christ..." Trace bit off, squeezing her eyes shut tighter, riding out the wave of agony that accompanied the loud voice and her pulsating skull.
"Language, dear. You promised not to take the Lord's name is vain in the house." She was sounding way too sweet, enjoying this entirely too much
"I'm not," Trace whispered, desperately, "I'm praying that he will be merciful and take me right now..."
"What's the matter? Head big as a washtub, is it? Or does it feel more like a shriveled up prune?"
"Yes. Please, baby, please stop talking and do your thing with the cabbage soup. I'm dying here..."
"Well...maybe next time you'll remember this and not drink so much."
"These were mitiga...miti...mitigat...exten..." Concentration was eluding her. Thinking hurt. "It was different this time."
"It was different last time. Now, get up and haul yourself out here so I can fix you some tea."
"Can't you bring it to me in here?"
"Trace, you have not moved, not one muscle, since you got home last night. I couldn't even move you so that I could fit on the bed. I had to sleep on the sofa."
"I'll make it up to you, I promise..." Her eyes felt crusted shut, her teeth felt like they were wearing slouch socks and her hair throbbed.
"Oh, you bet you will," the expectant mother promised. "Now, get up and I'll fix you a nice big breakfast of greasy bacon and runny eggs and -"
"Oh, Rachel, you can be a hateful woman sometimes..." Trace defied gravity and stood, abruptly, ignoring the anvil that was slamming into her head, racing outside to throw up. When she was done, she returned inside and sat at the table, awaiting more punishment from her lovely wife.
Standing there, hands on her hips, Rachel almost felt sorry for the pitiful-looking brunette. Almost. She sighed. "You know, Trace, when this child gets here, you're not going to be able to get this way, all liquored up like this. I can't have you as helpless as the baby and it shouldn't fall to the Pawnee to do your chores around the house. You understand that, right?" Her tone was on the side of reasoning and not nagging.
Trace was slumped over the table so low, she almost bumped her nose on it when she nodded.
Her voice softening, Rachel bent over and kissed the detective on the top of her head. "Your forehead's hotter than a pistol and I've seen corpses with more color."
"No matter how bad I look...I feel worse." the detective mumbled.
"I was going to really make you regret coming home lit up again but I just don't have the energy and it's just too hard to watch you like this. I think you've suffered enough. I'll make you your soup now."
Resting her cheek on the cool wood surface of the table, Trace sighed a heartfelt, "Thank you."
*****************
67
The day the Cranes rode into Sagebrush, back from their cattle drive, autumn was in full foliage. The welcomed crisp fall air, the brilliant colors of the trees that dotted the mountains and the burnished leaves painted brightly by Mother Nature that were quickly gathering on the ground were not reflective of the cutting chill the town felt now that word got around regarding the return of the feared family.
Jacob and his remaining sons had learned about Ben's death three weeks earlier by telegram. They would not find out the speculative details surrounding the youngest Crane boy's untimely ending until after they got back to their estate and spoke with John, Seth and the ranch hands who had scooped up his remains and buried him. But this was not before they ran into a surprise when they tried to cut across the Triple Y to get back into Crane territory. Not only were they blocked by nearly a mile of barbed wire fencing, there were flourishing cattle grazing on the Young land and evidence of recently harvested corn and crops on what looked like acres to the east, inside the fence line. And, had there not been nearly an entire tribe of Pawnee hunters and warriors on horseback roaming close to the inner boundaries of the Triple Y, Jacob would have ordered the fence torn down and brought his entourage through, ignoring the hand painted signs that announced it as being private property and warned against trespassing.
Jacob and his sons exchanged stunned looks. Ed Jackson had wired them about all the changes going on here but since the former sheriff had a tendency to elaborate on the exaggerated dramatic side, no one was quite expecting this sophisticated set up. This Sheridan fellow was going to be a bigger problem than they had originally anticipated. The eldest Crane did like a worthy adversary but only if he could pretty much guarantee he could defeat the opposition. Jacob was now returning home with one less son, a sheriff not under his control, and still coveting land that was now no longer owned by a frightened young woman but what appeared to be a strong, respected married couple and guarded by a group of possibly hostile Indians.
Hmmmm...maybe he could appeal to the new sheriff's financial acumen...money, after all, was almost always the great equalizer and greed was a well known human character flaw. Sure, it had not worked with Rachel but she was a woman and too stubbornly sentimental about the property. Men were much more reasonable about these things - especially if the offered monetary figure was...appropriate. Although, if the fortress this Sheridan man had set up surrounding the Triple Y was any indication, he might not be as easily swayed as Jacob's other conquests. And, if that was the case, sheriff or not, they could always burn them out.
The Crane patriarch was running out of patience and options, especially now that it may have cost him the reign over the town's judicious proceedings and, most importantly, a son. Had that little Young bitch just given in to Ben, all of this could have been avoided. So, if neither the sheriff nor his wife cooperated, then they had no one to blame but themselves for whatever death and destruction was brought onto their land, their new stock and maybe even themselves.
On the other hand, there would still be the Pawnee to deal with. Not knowing much about them, Crane deduced that if they had been a savage bunch, they would have shown that side of them and attacked the townspeople years ago. With that in mind, Jacob reasoned that the Pawnee could probably be bought, also. Everybody had a price.
Jacob had no real idea as to what he was up against until after he returned to his home and spoke with John, Seth, the hands, Priscilla and Hannah. After hearing the tale of Trace Sheridan's mysterious appearance a month after they had left for their drive, the drifter immediately taking up residence on the Young property, his defiance of Ed Jackson and the incidents which followed up to and including the former sheriff's demise and the whole town supporting and following the new sheriff like the pied piper, the eldest Crane was puzzled. Then, with the Pawnee getting involved, Ben claiming that the baby the Sheridans were expecting was really his and Ben's suspicious death, Jacob had many more questions than answers.
Whatever was going on with this clearly charismatic lawman, his luck would have to start running out at some point. Maybe it would serve Jacob and his sons well to bide their time. Meanwhile, Crane would take his oldest son into town in the morning and have a little chat with the new sheriff. He wanted to meet this Sheridan fellow face to face, get a feel for him, see what his vulnerabilities were and if he couldn't be reasoned with, plan their attack through that. Obviously a big weakness would be his wife and, no doubt, the unborn child, especially if the infant was his. However, if indeed the baby was Ben's - which made sense with what he told his mother and uncle - that would put a whole new twist on things, specifically if the sheriff was not aware that he was not the father.
Exhausted from their near six month trip, all Jacob wanted now was a good home-cooked meal, a glass of his expensive scotch and his own bed with his wife in it, performing her conjugal obligations. It wasn't that he had not entertained a 'lady of the evening' or two while they had been away, but it was Priscilla's duty to serve him, her responsibility as his wife to satisfy his needs when he told her to, when the urge was there. Even after twenty-eight years of marriage, she never once resisted him when he demanded she indulge him in the bedroom. Unless she was having her monthly and then she would still be expected to service him even though he would not touch her.
And if it was 'that time' for his wife, perhaps Ephraim's wife would be willing to...fulfill his needs. Whereas Priscilla never refused him his missionary requirements or manual stimulation, any other kind of copulation was out of the question for his 'proper' spouse. However, he knew that Julia, Ephraim's wife, secretly liked being ordered to do and engage in the sometimes degrading sexual acts he could only get from a prostitute and that excited and fascinated him.
Jacob knew his oldest son was a washout in the bedroom. The patriarch found Julia crying one evening out by the stables not too long after the couple had been married. The young minx confessed to Jacob that Ephraim could not perform and would get drunk and pass out because of it. Why, Jacob got her so hot and bothered by telling her what he was capable of that he took her right then and there in the hayloft. Since then, he knew what Priscilla wouldn't give him, Julia would.
Smiling lasciviously, he put all thoughts of the new sheriff aside until morning.
*******
Trace knew a meeting with at least one Crane, if not all of them, was inevitable. Isaac Tipping rode into town and told the sheriff that the cattle baron and his clan had just been stopped at her property by the menacing fence and the presence of the Pawnee and Jacob did not look happy.
She had really expected a visit that afternoon and, primed though she was for the confrontation, she was relieved when it did not happen. This would give her a chance to mentally steel herself for what she knew was going to be the beginning of the end. Trace had no intention of losing to these people but if things went awry, she would arrange for Little Hawk to get Rachel away from Sagebrush and somewhere free from harm, maybe even staying with the Pawnee. The blonde would be safe with them, they would protect her, and she and the baby would at least be alive.
Of course, she could not mention this little tidbit to her wife because Rachel would in no way agree to any of it. The thought of Trace getting herself killed, regardless of the nobility of the cause, was something unfathomable to the blonde. The detective and Rachel had talked about this nearly every night since Ben's death and the significant, sobering idea of retaliation was just something the expectant mother was now not willing to negotiate on. The ranch, the stock, the property, the sentiment - none of it was worth losing Trace or the baby over. Pride was all well and good but pride had already cost Rachel so much. She was now prepared to sacrifice what was lawfully and deservedly hers if it meant she, Trace and the child could walk away with their lives.
Comprehending the theory behind this, Trace knew what her wife was willing to give up for her and she was floored by it. However, they had come so far and at this point, it wasn't a matter of pride, it was more a matter of justice, respect, dignity and what was clearly right. It wasn't about glory or complacence if they won, it was about digging the town out of submission, meekness, humiliation and, for some, outright disgrace. It was about giving the citizens of Sagebrush back was rightfully theirs to begin with. If Rachel ceded, regardless of why, the town would be lost to the Cranes forever and none of them would have any peace, least of all the Sheridan family.
And, even though it was difficult for Trace, on any level, to surrender to anyone under any circumstances, she still would have consented to yield power on Rachel's behalf, if there had not been quite so much at stake. The former 21st Century police detective knew that, on principle alone, just like the DeSiennas, the Cranes would not rest until they hunted Trace down and hung her, probably killed Rachel or worse and took the baby with them. No aspects of that idea were acceptable to the brunette, especially knowing if that happened, the child would be brought up as a Crane and that would cement the beginning of the DeSienna legacy somehow. If Trace could do anything humanly possible to stop that, she would.
She was not sure how this baby Rachel was carrying would tie into the DeSienna patrimony but after being bitch-slapped into reality at the site of Ben Crane's face, she knew the link was inescapable. Was it possible to change the impending decades by rearing Vincent's great-grandparent in a healthy, law abiding, environment? Would instilling good, decent and scrupulous values in a child be enough to alter at least four generations of reprehensibly criminal behavior? There would only be one way to find out. And, in order to do that, Trace could not allow the reign of the cattle baron to continue through or even touch the life of the child she was about to raise as her own.
She found it ironic that she, with her lifelong beliefs and morals, would be responsible for instilling honorable ethics and standards into the psyche of any individual, much less one who could grow to wield enormous power, whose future offspring would have so much influence on her life and the world she grew up in. Trace was also curious as to what would have happened had she not come along. Would Rachel have given in and married Ben? She shuddered at the thought. Would the Cranes have blackmailed her wife to possess the baby or worse, yet, murdered her to get custody of the child? All of it was unthinkable and now, unnecessary, because she was very much present in this lifetime, knowing what lay ahead if she didn't do something to try and change the course of the future.
Also, since the question had been brought up at Wilbur's the afternoon of Ben's death, Trace discovered why John Carver was not the man of means everyone thought he should have been, which in a way, made her almost empathize with him. Rachel had found out through her former best friend, Suzanne Beauregard, Seth's fiancée, that John was an orphan boy that Priscilla's mother and father had taken in when he was barely two years old. Although they raised him and eventually adopted him, he was never quite made to feel like one of the family.
He and Priscilla grew up very close and his sister refused to allow John to be left behind so when she married Jacob, her younger brother went to live in the bunk house of the ranch the newlyweds inhabited outside Omaha. When John and her best friend, Margaret, met and fell in love, they wed and built a house on the corner end of the property the Carvers had given Priscilla and Jacob as a wedding gift. John had been by her side ever since.
Suzanne had told Rachel this in the strictest of confidence, as it was not something anyone wanted to get out and about in the town. Seth had wallowed in a little too much drinking and had confessed this to her in the throes of his intoxication. The younger Carver was not a nice or happy drunk, he became angry and resentful while inebriated and he was complaining about how his 'grandparents' had mistreated his father who was a good, hard-working man. Benjamin Carver did not feel that John, who wasn't a true, blood Carver, should have been allotted the same rights and opportunities as Francis and Priscilla had been given.
Trace reasoned that this must have been why John always appeared to be trying to prove himself. Maybe Joseph and Silas were right, maybe the older Carver really wasn't on the same level of thug as the rest of the family. He did, after all, opt to back off after the second time Trace got the better of him while he followed Ed Jackson's supervision so he wasn't a stupid man and obviously not ruled by his ego. Still, as Trace now knew, there were always choices and John continued to make his in the wrong direction. Maybe, like her, he was salvageable, but it was not an immediate priority of hers to find out. If he had a magnanimous side, his true colors would show themselves soon enough.
In the meantime, there were the big boys to contend with.
*************
The next morning, bright and early, Trace was in town, tinkering with a jammed lock of one of the archaic handcuff bracelets, when two men entered her office.
Without even looking at them to see the expected resemblance to Ben, she could sense that these 'gentlemen' were Cranes. That just had an aura about them that screamed pretentiously tyrannical. Highfalutin' was what Silas referred to them as. It was as good a word as any.
Glancing at them briefly, she returned her attention to her task. "Something I can help you men with?" She purposefully made her voice casual.
She had incorrectly guessed that Jacob was going to look like Vittorio DeSienna and was gratefully relieved when he didn't. Although he was a roguishly handsome older man with distinguished wisps of gray hair at the temples and widow's peak and obviously was used to people cowering in his presence, he just did not have quite the bearing Vittorio did. Trace remembered the first time she had garnered an audience with the head of the DeSienna crime family...the air seemed suddenly stifling and the atmosphere was quite unnerving, regardless of what she showed him on the outside. Jacob just did not have that kind of efficacy.
The posture of the man with him, obviously one of his three remaining sons, was infused with poise and an almost quiescent dignity, unusual under the circumstances. He was a near carbon copy of his father, with identical mustache and tempestuous, yellow-tinted brown eyes. Making a quick assessment, Trace decided that Ben must have looked like his mother.
"I'm Jacob Crane and this is my oldest boy, Ephraim."
Trace then gave them her full, undivided attention. She pushed the handcuffs aside and stood, extending her hand first to the older Crane. How they responded to that gesture would be very telling. "Trace Sheridan. My condolences regarding your son."
"I appreciate that, Sheriff." Jacob gracefully accepted the brunette's hand and shook it firmly. Ephraim's poise and dignity, however, stopped at his physical appearance. When he would not take Trace's hand, his father touched him on the shoulder. "Ephraim, you were brought up better than that."
Gripping the new lawman's hand, the oldest Crane son, then squeezed it with the intent of breaking it if he could. He had no idea that Trace had been prepared for the immature action and not only gave as good as she got but never flinched at the discomfort, something he could not manage, which infuriated him even more when he had to let go first. Damn, he thought, the new sheriff was a lot stronger than he looked.
"Well, well, well...nothing like a good cockfight," Jacob chuckled, watching the two stare each other down.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Crane?" Trace motioned for them to sit as she returned to her seat behind the desk.
"First, congratulations on your marriage and the upcoming birth of...your...child."
Trace smirked, at the emphasis Crane placed on the doubt in the word 'your.' "Thank you. I'm very lucky to have found Rachel and we are very excited about...our...baby." Two could play this game and she was frankly a little surprised that - at least so far - Crane wasn't playing it better.
"Also, I wanted to tell you that you have done a nice job on the Young property and -"
"Mr. Crane, let's cut the crap, shall we?" She almost laughed out loud at the startled expression both men wore but she swallowed it and kept her voice to a professional monotone that not without its unmistakably dangerous edge. "You didn't come in here to congratulate me on my personal good fortune nor did you come here to compliment me on my ranching skills. It's doing us all a disservice to dance around the fact that I know you've been told that I could have possibly been responsible for your son's death. So, let's just get it all out in the open right here and now...but be warned, Mr. Crane...the playground is mine now and I don't play well with others." Her enigmatic blue eyes pinned them both to their chairs, rendering them momentarily mute.
Finally Jacob cleared his throat and he nodded. "Your, uh, candor, is much appreciated, Sheriff. I respect a man who likes to get right down to business." He wasn't used to anyone so blatantly challenging him like that without so much as a quiver to his voice. "Did you kill my son?"
"No. Next question." Well, it wasn't a lie. Black Feather and Howling Wolf with the aid of two trees killed Ben.
"I don't believe you," Ephraim spit out, his eyes narrowed, accusingly.
"I don't care," Trace responded, simply. "What reason would I have had to kill your brother?"
"Because of Rachel," Ephraim replied.
"What about Rachel?"
Just as the oldest Crane son was about to respond, Jacob put his hand up to silence him. If the sheriff had no idea that Ben may have fathered the baby his wife was carrying, that could be their ace in the hole to bring this audacious, cocky, disrespectful upstart to his knees. Plus, Jacob did not want Ephraim saying anything out of anger that could implicate Ben in any obvious crime - especially against a woman who had obviously become the town 'sweetheart' in their absence.
"Sheriff, I don't think it was any secret that my son was in love with your wife," Jacob interjected, in an attempt to quell the mental chest bumping occurring between the sheriff and his son.
"No, it was not a secret but as far as I know that wasn't a crime. Unlike my predecessor, I take my job very seriously, Mr. Crane, and I am not about to abuse the power and authority of this office to avenge a petty jealousy. Besides, it's also no secret that my wife couldn't stand your son. So, that was not a worry to me."
The Crane men exchanging looks did not go unnoticed by Trace. She knew exactly what they were thinking. If they did not bring up the question of the baby's paternity, she was not about to. "I did an investigation and I filled out a report that I sent to the state attorney's office to be kept on file just in case anyone wanted to make a big deal over this. It looked to me and, I might add, to your brother-in-law, nephew and four ranch hands, that Ben had been killed by a wild animal or a pack of wild animals." She glared at Ephraim. "If you want to protest that, be my guest. But, under oath, in a court of law, your people will back up my findings. Now...what else can I do for you gentlemen today?"
*****************
They had left the office frustrated and furious. Diplomacy certainly had not worked, nor had implied intimidation. Whatever they threw at Trace Sheridan, the sheriff had a legitimate response for it. When Jacob gingerly broached the subject of the 'rent' the Cranes had been receiving from local shopkeepers to keep their businesses running, Trace not-so-gingerly informed them that the merchants of Sagebrush owed them nothing.
Ephraim tried to tell the sheriff that they owned most of the commercial land on main street and that Ed Jackson had lost the deeds in his ineptitude. They were counting on the old contingency that no one would dispute and defy them by calling them liars. The sheriff just smiled and advised them to bring in their copies of the signed covenants and she would agree to let them go back to collecting their fees. Because, the lawman added, rather sweetly, no businessman in his right mind would ever have contracts and ownership papers that important and not have had copies drawn up when the originals got lost.
Even though the suggestion was never outwardly verbalized, it was made very clear that this principled sheriff could not, would not be bought. Well...they would revisit that prospect after this baby was born. Until then, or if the child turned out to actually belong to the sheriff, they would have to come up with another plan and one that made a final statement to the lawman that he really wasn't in charge after all. After that, it would be easy to get the town back under their thumb again.
The problem would be executing it without bringing the whole damned Indian nation down on them in the process.
********************
68.
Cold weather settled in quickly in the immediate weeks to come, as though it had followed the Cranes into the county and stayed there, emulating the clan's frigidity and nastiness since their return. They had uncharacteristically kept to themselves, doing business in Sagebrush only when necessary and avoiding the sheriff and the Triple Y at all costs. Although grateful, Trace was neither arrogant nor naïve regarding their self-imposed segregation, knowing the Cranes were up to something and in order to figure out what that was, she would have to think like one of them.
The first thought that hit her was probably the correct one because it was what she would have done had she been in charge, which was wait until the upcoming annual Pawnee buffalo hunt when half the tribe was gone and then come en force and take her out. She knew that the Cranes referred to her as 'the viper' because of the way they felt she had snaked her way into the unsophisticated hearts and minds of the townspeople. Of course, it was true but not in the manner the Cranes had envisioned.
They had never encountered anyone like her before, who so easily led the people of Sagebrush in this mutiny against them. With Trace in control, backed by the Pawnee and the more stouthearted men in town, they would never get their power back. But if they cut the head off this 'serpent,' the body would shrivel up and die and the best way to do that would be when it was most vulnerable for an attack. With that in mind, the sheriff knew she only had about ten days to formulate a defense.
In the meantime, she was pretty sure that Rachel was safe puttering around the house, getting everything ready for the birth of their child. That visual of the glowing young mother-to-be brought a fond smile to the detective's face as she tried to hunker deeper into her wool winter coat, walking across the street from her office to the livery. Snow clung to her eyelashes as she made a vain attempt to tug her collar higher, she had a spare sock wrapped around her ears under her hat and sheepskin-lined gloves pulled over her hands. She didn't remember winters being quite this cold in her time but maybe the tall buildings cut the wind and kept the chill at bay.
Mounting Rio, whom she left at the town's stable during these colder days, she rode home, grumbling, muttered and cursing as she shifted from one stirrup to the other trying to keep some feeling in her feet and reach the warm embrace of her wife before anything important froze and fell off.
Halfway home, the flurries became a blinding blizzard, the intensity of which concerned her, though Rio forged ahead, undaunted. She dragged her hat lower over her eyes, bundling even deeper into her coat, which was becoming heavier by the second from the wet snow that fastened its flakes to the fibers. The sight of smoke from a chimney never looked so good as she drew a breath into lungs seared by the skin-scorching wind, which had picked up and sliced into her exposed flesh like little razors her last quarter mile to the house. By the time she walked in the door, she was just bone-deep miserable. Even Ramiro's happy bark at Trace's entrance and wiggling like he was trying to turn himself inside out didn't immediately bring a smile to her face like it normally did.
Rachel was cooking dinner at Trace's arrival and greeted her spouse with a kiss that should have melted anything frozen on the brunette. It worked. The taller woman held the blonde and kissed her again, hoping the heat would get her mouth to the point where it could actually move and form words again.
"Brrrrrrr..." Rachel commented, playfully knocking Trace's hat off and helping her remove her coat. "Take your boots off, you're dripping on the floor." Looking up at the detective's head, she laughed. "Did you know you have a sock wrapped around your head?"
"Yes and it saved my ears," Trace admitted, untying it. She took the weighty coat from her wife and hung it up on a large peg by the door. While Rachel continued getting dinner ready, Trace squatted on her heels by the fireplace and fed some logs onto the fire, rubbing her hands close to the heat, hoping to get some sensation back in them soon. "Is it always this cold here?"
"Usually it's colder this time of year. We were lucky we had a late fall and the weather stayed as pleasant as it did for so long." She tasted the stew to see how close it was to being ready. "Didn't it get cold in Cottonwood?"
"Oh, yeah, but not like this." Standing, Trace approached Rachel from behind, encircling the blonde with her arms, kissing the side of her neck. "Quiet day, I presume?"
"Not a peep from the Cranes, if that's what you're asking. How about you?"
"Nope. Nothing. But as long as the Pawnee are a visible threat, I think it will stay that way."
"But the Pawnee aren't a threat, why, they are the least threatening people I have ever known."
"Yes but the Cranes don't know that and I would like to keep it that way for as long as I can." Trace looked over Rachel's shoulder at the huge pot of stew simmering on the stove. "Wow...you expecting an army?"
"No," Rachel smiled, "just a small tribe." A few Pawnee had been hunting elk on the property that afternoon. She hadn't told Trace but they had caught a big buck and had already skinned it, gutted it, chopped it up, leaving the best cuts of meat for the expectant parents and keeping the rest for themselves.
As if on cue, the door opened and Little Hawk walked in, accompanied by Rising Moon and Red Sky, all stomping the snow off their high moccasins.
"Hey! Do that outside!" Rachel reprimanded, pointing.
They all stopped and looked at Trace's feet. "You heard her," the detective told them. Then looking down at her own wet boots, she said, "And I'll take mine off while I'm on my way out behind you."
With Rachel's fluctuating moods, Trace wasn't about to push her into a hormonal tantrum as the littlest things seemed to set her off lately. Ushering the three Pawnee outside, the detective grabbed the mop and cleaned up the excess water on the floor that had already melted from their shoes.
Watching Trace snap to like that made the blonde almost giggle. All these big, strong people scared of the temper of a tiny, very pregnant woman. She knew her disposition had been horrible at times lately and it was getting harder and harder to control the usually unreasonable outbursts but, she had to admit, she actually liked that little bit of power she exerted recently.
"Thank you!" she called out to them, hoping her appreciation helped.
Re-entering the house, shoeless, everything but the hearty meal was forgotten when they all sat down to eat. It was the last homecooked meal the Pawnee men would get before they left for their buffalo hunt in the morning.
**************
"Phoebe."
"No." That was Trace's response to Rachel's suggestion of a first name for the baby. This name game was becoming a nightly discussion since they had begun the process of elimination and so far they were not in accord on much of anything.
"Leah?"
"Leah Minnie Sheridan...ummmmm...no."
"Why?"
"Just doesn't do anything for me, sweetheart."
They had readily agreed on Minnie as a middle name for a daughter and on Frank as a middle name for a son. Trace had hoped she could sneak the name Mark in there somewhere, in honor of the man who placed her in the situation that brought her together with Rachel but regardless of what they seemed to come up with, it just didn't flow. She also knew that Rachel was adamant about biblical names but so far, everything the blonde brought up just wasn't striking Trace's fancy.
And it was driving the blonde crazy. "Bethany."
"Now, that's nice...but, like Naomi, which I also liked, it goes great with Sheridan but it doesn't go with Minnie as a middle name. Bethany Minnie. Naomi Minnie. See?" Trace was cleaning her guns, seated opposite her wife who was rocking quietly, her arms resting on her stomach, facing the moderate flame in the fireplace.
"Good Lord, Trace, I'm running out of names. What are some more of your ideas?" She almost dreaded asking the tall brunette, recalling the last session they went through like this, when discussing the possibility of boy's names, her spouse suggested names like Dylan and Hunter and Tyler and Dalton. Although those names were nice, they were just plain odd and a baby needed a good, solid Christian name.
"Well...I really like Kylie but it suffers the same fate as Bethany and Naomi, so that's out..."
"Kylie?" A blonde eyebrow rose skeptically.
"Yeah. And Lindsay. But again...not with Minnie."
"Lindsay??" A second eyebrow joined the first.
"What? I like that name. I like Chelsea, too." Off Rachel's blank, silent stare, Trace shrugged. "Okay, what about Nicole? That sounds good...Nicole Minnie Sheridan."
"It's not a name from the bible, though..."
"Does it have to be from the bible?" Trace asked, frustrated. She held one of the Colts up and looked down the barrel, checking for grit.
"Yes, I think it should be." Rachel's tone now reflected annoyance.
"Then let's keep trying until we can agree on something," Trace sighed, trying not to sound peeved at an argument that was starting to become habitual.
Picking up on the detective's mild exasperation only served to enhance the blonde's irritation. "Hopefully this child won't be married with babies of its own before that happens..."
Trying not to react to the hormonal moodiness that was still increasing with every passing day, Trace smiled patiently and as sincerely as she could muster. "I'm sure we can reach a compromise before little Travis or Brianna is born," she joked. She closed the cylinder of her pistol and set it aside with the other guns.
"Augh! Trace, you are impossible!!" Rachel was not amused. "We need to decide on this and we are running out of time and you sit there and poke fun and..."
Standing up and stretching, the brunette took a step toward her wife, addressing her in a soothing tone of voice. "Rachel, we've got time, we'll settle on something we both like and everything will be fine. In fact, let's go to bed and," she winked at the blonde, "sleep on it."
"I don't want to settle on a name! I want to decide on something we both love and will be proud to call our child and something that Pastor Edwards will approve of when he baptizes the baby!" She stood up with difficulty and when Trace went to assist her, the blonde swatted the taller woman's hands away. "Don't touch me. You...you...piss me off," Rachel declared, using an expression she had picked up from the detective. "We'll sleep on it all right but you can sleep on it either upstairs or here on the sofa. Maybe then you'll start realizing how serious this is!" And with that, the feisty blonde stomped off to bed with a startled Trace watching her, only able to blink, mildly stunned.
Hoo, boy. It was going to be a long night.
***********
"Have you decided on a name yet?" Molly Ledbetter asked Trace, who was in her shop to pick up more material for Rachel to make another maternity dress.
"God, I hope so. We've at least - finally - narrowed it down. Zachary Frank Jeremiah Mark Sheridan or Jared Frank Timothy Mark Sheridan if it's a boy and Rebecca Minnie Abigail Sheridan or Chloe Anna Minnie Sheridan if it's a girl."
Molly chuckled. "Placating all the branches of the Young family tree in one fell swoop, are ya?"
"I guess. Except for Mark, that was my suggestion, after a good friend of mine - the only name I came up with she liked."
Molly smirked at the hint of sarcasm in that statement. "Well, you still have time to change your minds...baby should have another month or two before it gets here."
"Yes, at least," Trace smiled, paying the dressmaker. Unfortunately, she couldn't tell Molly that Rachel was due any day now, just for the sake of propriety. When the dressmaker asked why Trace's wife had not been to town to visit her in so long, the detective advised Molly that Rachel had not been feeling very well these last few months and Trace did not want to take any chances with the health of the blonde or the baby. Of course Molly would know soon enough because since Minnie Young couldn't be there, Rachel wanted the next best thing present for the birth of the long awaited grandchild.
She remembered the day Rachel asked her, practically begged her, if Molly Ledbetter could come out when she went into labor. Big, green eyes blinked in desperate question, as Rachel knew Trace wanted the birth as private as possible, due to the fact of the timing and hoped to keep the inquiries to a minimum. Molly probably wouldn't be fooled for a second that this baby was early - especially once she got a look at the size of Rachel's belly. But Molly adored Rachel - would it matter if she figured out that the blonde was pregnant before she got married? The older woman already knew that Ben had raped Rachel...had she already figured everything out?
Well, Rachel wanted her there and the blonde knew the consequences of anyone finding out. It was difficult for Trace to deny Rachel anything lately and if she wanted Molly Ledbetter there then Trace would make sure the dressmaker was there, even if she had to carry her from town on her back.
"Listen, Miz Ledbetter...Rachel wanted me to be sure to ask you again if you'd be there when -"
"I wouldn't miss it for the world, Trace. I've already arranged for Ruth Turner to come over and stay with Harvey when the blessed event happens."
"Thank you. It will mean a lot to her." Great. Ruth Turner. She was a bigger town crier than her husband.
"But," Molly patted Trace's hand, in a motherly manner, reassuringly, "as I said, we have plenty of time, dear..."
*****
"Trace...Trace...Trace!!!"
When the detective raced inside, she saw Rachel, gripping her belly, slightly bent at the waist, standing in a small puddle. The mother-very-soon-to-be looking frightened and confused.
"It's okay, sweetheart, it's fine," Trace reached her and helped her to a seat. "Your water broke, have you been in labor?"
Sitting down, Rachel looked up at her spouse. "I didn't think so...my back really started hurting about two hours ago, I felt a lot of...um...pressure...but no labor pains that I know of..."
"Baby, you're probably having back labor. Let me send Isaac for Fire Arrow and Dancing Leaf -"
"And Miz Ledbetter? Please, Trace, I promised her I would let her know..."
"Okay, I'll make sure Isaac stops and tells her." As Trace sped outside to get Isaac, who had been helping the detective pile wood in a lean-to outside the barn, her heart was pumping faster and harder than she'd ever known it to. She couldn't believe how excited she was...she was about to become a father...
*******
Trace never thought sitting in for her former partner, Bobby Montesano, when his wife needed a coach for their fourth child, would be a skill she would ever use again. She had cursed not being able to say no to the puppy dog eyes of her pleading patrol partner to take his place in the Lamaze classes while he had been temporarily assigned to another shift.
But Laurie Montesano was a nice woman, not too hard on the eyes, and Trace hadn't really minded in the long run. She and her partner's wife bonded and now the detective was more than grateful for the experience. Although she could not offer Rachel soft, soothing music or privacy, she could furnish the dim lighting, warmth and semi-peaceful surroundings.
Molly Ledbetter observed in awe as Trace so lovingly touched and administered to Rachel during this long, waiting process. The older woman had never before witnessed a husband so participatory and attentive by choice during his wife's labor. Sure, she had known men who were anxious and nervous in anticipation of becoming fathers but as much as they loved their wives, she also saw them begin to grow impatient after too much time had passed - as if the mother-to-be had any control over the process. For heaven's sake, Molly thought, if women had any druthers - especially in this matter - they certainly wouldn't choose to have a rambunctious unborn infant thrashing about in their loins, stirring so violently within them, wanting to get out as much as their mothers wanted them out at that point. But not this man...he seemed more patient and understanding than Rachel did.
Watching Trace with Rachel was an amazing thing to behold. Why, he seemed almost womanly in his devotion to helping his wife through this the best he could. The older woman felt her heart fluttering a little when watching this young, almost pretty, man attend to the blonde. Where did he come from to be so strong, good-looking, chivalrous, caring, thoughtful, dedicated, loyal...she couldn't have dreamed up a more perfect husband if she'd tried. Tears stung the corners of her eyes knowing how proud and happy Minnie would have been at this moment, to see the birth of her first grandchild, to see her daughter so blessedly content, loved and in love.
And, although, Molly completely understood why Rachel would not want Doc Smith present for any of this, she was a little nervous about having the Pawnee in charge of the birth of the closest thing she would ever have to a grandbaby. Grimacing, she chastised herself for having those thoughts...after all, the Pawnee had only engaged in behavior that had helped Rachel and Trace, not hurt them and that, in turn, had helped the town start getting back to what it once was and what it needed to be again.
While Molly continued to knit a second blanket for the cradle, she observed Trace, in intervals, as the sheriff cuddled Rachel, massaging and stroking the blonde's back, adding counterpressure when the pain seemed to be at its most uncomfortable, and either placing a cloth warmed by heated water or cooled by water fresh from the indoor pump on Rachel's lower spine when unbearably strong labor pains seemed to clutch at her.
Trace had Rachel up walking and even at one point, when the blonde seemed to start getting frustrated that this baby was taking so long, held her and slowly moved her around the floor as though they were dancing. The sheriff made her wife focus on breathing in a very funny way and when Rachel would try her best not to cry out at the pain, Trace would speak to her in a very quiet, gentle, soothing voice and ask her to pretend they were somewhere else, vividly describing the ocean and white sandy beaches, warm sun and something called 'palm trees' or tried to get Rachel to pretend they were in a mountain meadow with fresh flowers and warm breezes and, my goodness, even Molly could almost feel as though she were running barefoot through soft, green grass, smelling lilacs, her face being heated by the sun.
Even Dancing Leaf and Fire Arrow were exchanging glances at this technique, knowing it wasn't something they would ever incorporate into their birth ritual but it certainly appeared as though it calmed the white woman in a manner they had never seen. Although Rachel wasn't like any white woman they had ever dealt with in the past...nor was Trace. This young couple had returned their faith in the Taka' piíta. Or at least the white man in Sagebrush. Not that the Pawnee had ever really been bothered by anyone in Jefferson County but neither had anyone extended an invitation to become a part of the community, either. Not until Trace Sheridan.
****
"Shouldn't she be lying down?" Molly asked Trace, as she wiped sweaty tendrils of hair away from the small woman's forehead with a cool cloth.
"Honestly, I have heard that it's better if she doesn't have to," Trace stated, seated snugly behind Rachel, supporting the blonde who was in a squatting position, leaning back against her spouse. "Gravity will help the baby descend the birth canal easier and -" she looked up to see the startled faces of the four other people in the room, including her wife in last stages of labor who, through very heavy breathing, glanced back at the woman who had changed her life, with curious, astonished eyes. "What?"
"How do you know all this without no doctor trainin'?" The older woman asked. "I mean, I admit it makes sense and all, but..."
"Uh...well...when I was back in Cottonwood, uh, I..."
"Oh, Lord, Trace, I think the baby's coming out!" Rachel interrupted, parting her legs even wider, feeling the need to squat lower. Both Dancing Leaf and Fire Arrow got into position. Whew...saved by the blessed event itself.
"Yes, piirakíripahki is here," Dancing Leaf announced, as the baby crowned.
Sixteen and a half hours after Rachel's water broke, the baby drew it's first breath. "Is piíraski - you have a son," Fire Arrow told the waiting parents, as both Rachel and Trace broke into tears. Easing the new mother back into the chair as Trace slid out from behind her, Molly handed a sharp pair of scissors that had been boiled clean to the detective. Trace cut the cord and helped Fire Arrow check out and clean up the baby while Molly and Dancing Leaf awaited the delivery of the placenta.
He was perfect. He a shadow of strawberry blonde hair on his tiny head, ten fingers and toes and Trace guessed he weighed about six pounds and some change. He also possessed a healthy set of lungs. She then lovingly bathed him, put a diaper on him and brought him to his mother, who saw him for the first time.
"Oh, sweet Lord, Trace, he's beautiful," Rachel gasped and then could not stop the tears of joy that came again and again as she held this infant close to her heart.
"Yes he is. And he's hungry." Trace helped the waiting little mouth find its way to Rachel's exposed nipple and watched the baby suck greedily at her breast. "Yep," she smiled, " just like a man." She leaned in and kissed the baby on the top of the head and then gently, reverently, kissed her wife. "You did great, sweetheart."
"I couldn't have done it without you."
"Of course you could have," Trace reassured her. "You're the strongest woman I've ever known, Rachel."
Looking at her adoring spouse, tears flowed freely again from the blonde. She then focused on her new son. "Trace...you name him. Whatever you want," Rachel said, overwhelmed with emotion, overcome with an unconditional love she never knew existed. His paternity now not even an issue, she instantaneously fell totally and hopelessly in love with her baby.
Molly approached the new parents and spoke in a hushed tone. "Everybody has gathered...they have been keeping warm in the barn but they are waiting on an announcement from you, Trace."
"Really? How many people are out there?"
"If I were to guess, I would say the only ones left in town would be Ruth Turner and my husband."
Shocked but pleased that so many people cared, Trace nodded. "Give me a minute with my family and tell them I'll be right there."
Nodding, smiling, Molly walked away, throwing on a shawl and stepping outside.
When Rachel finally dozed off from exhaustion about twenty minutes later and the baby had seemed to have it's temporary fill of milk, Trace bundled him up and took him outside. Taking his fragility into consideration and making sure she supported his neck, she held him up to the waiting crowd like Mufasa did to Simba in 'The Lion King.' Of course, the significance was lost on them but Trace loved doing it.
"May I present Mr. Wyatt Frank Sheridan!"
*******
69
The new parents settled in rather quickly considering neither one had ever had a child in her life before, much less an infant. Although it was Rachel's responsibility to breastfeed, Trace did not slack off on any of the baby duties, either. She changed Wyatt's diapers and washed them out every day, sponge bathed him and got up with him when he was fussy. As he ate almost every two hours, his mother didn't have time for much else, and Trace seemed only too happy to take over while her worn out wife caught up on her sleep.
The blonde would sometimes wake up to find the brunette cradling Wyatt securely against her, as she cooed or spoke softly or sang to him. He would always settle down and make little squeaking noises when the detective rocked him gently and serenaded him. When he seemed extra restless, she would get his attention with a small rattle Black Feather had made for him and as it stimulated his hearing, he quieted down, fascinated with it. Rachel would observe the doting manner in which her spouse interacted with their son and she would fall in love with Trace all over again.
Rachel was getting used to the name Wyatt. It wasn't a name Trace had previously suggested so when she came up with it, it was a surprise. Trace told her that when she looked at the baby, he just looked like a 'Wyatt.' The new mother actually liked it, thought it was a very virile name...even if it wasn't biblical.
With different Pawnee warriors coming out to the property every day, accompanied by a few of the women from the tribe, to assist with the outside chores, Trace was able to spend quite a bit more time with Rachel inside, helping out with the baby. The sheriff had temporarily deputized Matthew Reddick to keep an eye on things in town while she and Rachel adjusted to their new life. Matthew rather enjoyed his new appointment, although if the Cranes began misbehaving, he would just as happily hand the responsibilities back over to Trace.
For a couple hours every day, before Rachel made dinner and while she and Wyatt napped, Trace busied herself in the barn. With Isaac's help, the brunette made a crib and then, with leftover slivers of wood, fishing line and small cloth baby toys Molly Ledbetter had sewn for him, fashioned a mobile to hang over it. When it was completed, they placed it in the bedroom. At three weeks old, the tiny little boy was moved from a cradle to a small bed with enclosed, high-slatted sides, the mattress at eye-level from where Trace and Rachel would lay so they could just look over and check on him. When he wasn't crying, eating or sleeping, Wyatt was mesmerized by the little suspended sculpture dangling above his head.
Life seemed blissfully perfect. They knew it wouldn't last.
*********
Molly Ledbetter stopped by unexpectedly to visit with Rachel and Trace, to see her surrogate grandchild and to bring with her a baptismal gown she made for Wyatt. As the dressmaker cuddled the baby, she watched with delight as Rachel held and looked over the garment admiringly, marveling at the tiny, light blue suit with an attachable robe and square collar, lace applique cross over the front and a matching cap. "Oh, Miz Ledbetter, this is just exquisite...Trace, honey, feel this..."
The detective obligingly reached over and moved the soft, delicate cloth with the mildly rough surface between her thumb and forefinger. "Yeah. Nice."
"Nice? Well, ain't it just like a man to under appreciate such beautiful material. This is shantung silk, Trace, directly from China," Molly emphasized to a still unimpressed sheriff. It wasn't that the brunette wasn't pleased with the gift, it's just that she wasn't the kind of woman who got all gushy over fabric.
"Okay." She still didn't get the big deal. Nor was she all that enthusiastic about a baptism, either. Rachel had explained to her that the ceremony symbolized the cleansing of sins and meant that the baby would be 'saved,' but she considered it all hogwash. She knew many a ruthless killer who had been baptized and it certainly had not saved them, nor put them on any path of remorse or remission. However, the religious ritual was important to her wife so Trace would keep her mouth shut and go along with it. The blonde had precious little go right in her life until the last six months and the detective was going to ensure that - within reason, of course - whatever Rachel asked for, Rachel would get.
"Trace, don't burst my bubble now," Molly kidded. "Here I thought you weren't like most men..."
"Trace isn't like most men," Rachel smiled, blushing, glancing over at the detective, who winked back at her, causing the blonde's heart to flutter.
Just as the dressmaker was about to comment, there was a knock on the door. Not expecting anyone and, during the day, the Pawnee just walked in, Trace's relaxed body instantly went on alert. She reached for one of the Colts out of her holster which was draped over the back of a chair. "Who is it?" the brunette called through the door.
"It's Doc Smith! Open up!"
Trace's eyes flashed in anger and indignation and she swung the door back toward her with such force, it made both Molly and Rachel jump and it startled the baby into crying. Stepping outside and into the face of Amos Smith, slamming the door closed behind her, she had to take a second before she could speak. "Are you insane? You ride onto MY property, uninvited, and demand that I open my door to you? You better damned well have business here, Doc, or I could shoot you for trespassing - and don't think I'm not considering it, depending on your answer. What the hell are you doing here?"
"I want to talk to Rachel." He still sounded ornery and imposing but his original bark had lost some of its bite and his stance wasn't quite so challenging as it had first been.
"She's busy with our new son and there isn't anything you say to Rachel that you can't say to me." Leaving the barrel of the Colt pointed downward, she cocked the hammer back. "Now," she intoned, evenly, "you've got one more chance to tell me why you're here."
"I need to see that baby, Sheriff. You didn't have nobody here medically trained during the birth and him, being premature and all, he needs a doctor to check him out."
Trace quickly raised the pistol and nearly shoved the barrel up his left nostril. "Now, I know it doesn't say 'stupid' across my forehead. You go back and you tell Jacob Crane that my son is just fine. He's healthy and he's perfect and he looks just like me, not Ben - which is the real reason you're here, not that baby's welfare. As you can hear, he has a hearty little cry on him. He was delivered with no complications and Rachel is doing fine, too, thanks for asking. Now, you have ten seconds to get your sorry ass off my land and eight of those seconds are already gone. You ever try this again? I'll shoot you, Doc. Understand?"
Amos Smith nodded as much as possible with six inches of iron stuck to his nose. When Trace lowered the gun, Doc barely touched a step leaving the porch and mounted his horse. As he rode away as fast as his steed would take him, Trace looked down at Black Feather and another warrior, Wounded Dog, who were staring back at her, blandly, arms folded.
"Why didn't you stop him?" She asked, curiously.
Black Feather shrugged. "We wanted to see you cause him to make water in his trousers."
Wounded Dog nodded. "You are good at that. Little Hawk say we learn much from you."
Easing the hammer forward, Trace couldn't help but smirk. Oh, that Little Hawk. What a card. Oh, that Jacob Crane. What an infuriating idiot.
*********************
The next day, Matthew brought a letter to Trace that had arrived at the office that morning. It had an official state seal on it and was marked 'Office of the Governor.' While Deputy Reddick stood by, Trace opened the envelope and read the contents of the mail with stunned interest. Seeing the look on the sheriff's face, Matthew walked over to her.
"Everything okay, Trace?"
The brunette glanced at the letter again and then stared over at the flickering fireplace. "Yeah. Yeah, Matt, everything's fine." She folded the piece of paper back up and held it up. "Thanks for bringing me this."
"Is it bad news?"
"No. It's good news. In fact, when you go back to town, let the mayor know that the governor is planning to visit Sagebrush in about three weeks."
"Governor Armitage is coming here?" Matthew couldn't hide his excitement.
"According to this letter, yes. And stop by Emmet Hallack's office and tell him I heard from the governor. He'll know what that means."
Rachel observed Trace's demeanor and was puzzled by it and after Matthew left to return to town, she approached the brunette and gave her a hug. "What's really in that letter, Trace?"
Kissing the blonde on the top of the head, Trace sighed. "It's just the governor answering my request for an impartial circuit judge to try the Cranes once I arrest them."
"Did he say he would send one?"
"Yes," Trace responded, still a little shocked by what else she had read. "He said let him know the time and the place and he had just the judge in mind."
"Wow, I take it Governor Armitage knows of the Cranes."
"He definitely is well aware of one of them." Releasing her wife, Trace sat down at the table. "Seems that the governor has been looking for Jacob for a little over ten years."
"Jacob? Why?"
Trace handed the letter to Rachel, who unfolded it and started to read. "According to that, about ten years ago, Jacob fathered a child with his daughter. Seduced her, got her pregnant and just left her. "
"Well, looks like the rotten apple didn't fall far from the poisonous tree..."
"You seem less shocked than I am." Trace looked up at her while the blonde finished the letter.
"Nothing that man or his spawn would do would shock me. Must be that's why he uprooted and moved his whole family to Sagebrush. So what are you going to do?"
"Well..." Trace weighed the possibilities. "Definitely use it against him. Now that I have the assurance from the governor that a trial will not be a one-sided farce, I can actually put together a posse and go arrest the lot of them."
"When will you do that?"
"As soon as I can arrange for a wagon to transport them all safely to the territorial prison. Emmet Hallack said he would put it together once the governor gave his okay."
Rachel sat in Trace's lap and snuggled against the detective's neck. "Lord, Trace, I can't believe this town is finally going to be rid of the Cranes."
***************
"Trace! The barn's on fire!!" Rachel awoke to the smell of smoke, Wyatt crying and the flickering of active flames as the colors reflected through the bedroom window and onto the wall. While the blonde tried to calm the screaming baby, Trace raced out of bed, throwing on a wool shirt over her longjohns and pulling boots onto her feet, flying outside to get a better assessment of the situation, with Ramiro right on her heels. She herded all of the cows outside the barn as Howling Wolf and Black Feather were already there, throwing buckets of water on the fire to no avail.
"No, knock it down!" Trace yelled. "We don't have enough water to stop it in time." She ran inside the dark, smoky interior and removed the rabbit cages to the outside, then picked up an iron shovel and thrust it forcefully against the side of the structure that wasn't burning. She swung it like a baseball bat, weakening the beam, while the Pawnee retrieved axes and began to chop. Before the side of the structure farthest from the flames collapsed, Trace saw sparks jumping to the stable. "Black Feather, get the horses out of there!"
While the Pawnee hunter ran to the stable, Trace and Howling Wolf worked feverishly to knock the barn down and throw as much dirt on the blaze as possible to keep the fire contained. Fortunately, the few embers that had drifted to the stable had burnt out before they ignited anything. With the horses and cows safely in the fields and Ramiro sticking right to the brunette, the two Pawnee continued to hammer at the burning wood, collapsing the barn one section at a time, while Trace dug dirt and tossed it onto anything flaming.
They were so occupied that they never saw the man and the woman walk into the house.
Seeing that the fire was out, Rachel had just succeeded in getting Wyatt back to sleep, putting him down in his crib when she turned around to see Gideon Crane and Hannah Burnett standing behind her.
**********
Just when it appeared Trace and the Pawnee had the situation under control, cowboys suddenly seemed to be coming at them from all sides, out of nowhere. Thank god Trace had been keeping herself in shape because it was going to take all her fighting skills to fend off this bunch.
When Rachel stirred and roused from her position on the floor, her head hurt and everything seemed woozy. She sat up, slowly, trying to steady herself and then looked over into the crib next to her. The baby was gone.
"No....nooooo...Trace!!!" But she knew her spouse could not hear her as she was too busy protecting the homestead from the attacking Cranes and their ranch hands, in a fierce attempt to keep them from burning down the house, the stable, the chicken coop and from getting killed.
Rachel had finally reached her breaking point. As if propelled by pure rage, the blonde pulled on a pair of Trace's dungarees, rolling them up at the bottom, donned a denim shirt over her nightshirt, marched over to the carbine, checked to see if it was loaded and rushed out the door. Looking around at the chaos, not letting it distract her, she concentrated on where the horses were. Spotting Chief in the corral, she ran to him, using the bottom rail on the fence to boost herself up onto him, swinging her leg over, gaining immediate balance. With a sharp kick to his sides, and a vocal command in his ear, Chief broke into a dead run with Rachel on his bare back, holding onto his mane with one hand and the rifle with the other. She had not completely healed yet from giving birth and the pain of riding this horse quickly became excrutiating but it was nothing compared to anguish she felt right now in her heart.
Seeing this action out of the corner of her eye, Trace started to get frantic."Rachel!" Where was she going and why would she leave the baby alone in the house? Suddenly Trace's priorities shifted drastically.
As Chief disappeared into the night, Trace wasted no more time with the men fighting her. She effortlessly disarmed them, breaking a few ribs here, shattering a kneecap there, cracking someone else's skull...until she went after her wife, anyone else's health and welfare was irrelevant. Just as she was grabbed by three men and took kick to the gut, an entire tribe of Pawnee warriors rode out of the woods. It wasn't that she couldn't defeat her restrainers but she needed to get away and go after her wife. Trace was never so glad to hear a war cry in her life.
******
Amid a living room full of Crane men and their wives, Hannah Burnett brought the infant to her mother, gently handing him over to the waiting arms of Priscilla Crane. As much as she had protested and voiced her disapproval of this plan, if this baby was indeed the child of her youngest son, she wanted to at least get a good look at him. When she did, her heart melted. "He looks just like Ben did when he was a baby," Mrs. Crane remarked, admiringly, as she cuddled him close.
Just then the door splintered open, crashing against the wall. Rachel entered, her rifle trained directly at Jacob Crane's head. "GIVE. ME. MY. SON!"
The shock of this was followed by deafening silence. It was Ephraim who finally spoke. "Put the gun down, Rachel, you know you aren't going to shoot anybody."
Moving the carbine mere inches away from the Crane patriarch's head, the blonde fired off a shot, blowing a hole in the wall and making everyone in the room, either jump or duck. The noise awoke and startled the baby and he began to cry. She pointed the carbine back at Jacob. "I want my son, Crane, and I want him now."
"This is Ben's child, Rachel," Hannah told her in a challenging tone of voice. "That boy is a Crane and he rightfully belongs with us."
Through clenched teeth, she said, "This baby is mine and Trace's, he belongs to us and he is going home with me."
"An eye for an eye," Jacob spoke up, standing beside his wife who was rocking the baby to quiet him down. "Your husband took my son away from me and now we're taking your son away from you. Don't try to stop us, Rachel. You'll get hurt."
"No, I think you'll get hurt." Rachel visibly relaxed, recognizing the voice behind her, however, she did not drop the rifle or change her stance. Trace stood next to her wife. "We'll take our son now."
"You're a foolish man, Sheriff," Jacob Crane said, not taking his eyes off Rachel. "Your wife laid with Ben, got herself in the family way and you marry her anyway? Then she lets Ben take her again while you're in town? What kind of man are you to stand by a jezebel like this? I don't want this woman raising my grandson."
"Crane, you're the last one on this planet who should be talking to anyone about morals. Right now, let's focus on Ben. Your son was a rapist and you know it. He used to abuse the women at Wilbur's and no decent woman wanted him, despite how much money your family has."
"How dare you speak of Ben that way!" Hannah spat out. "He's dead and can't defend himself."
"Lady, your brother couldn't defend himself even when he was alive." She returned her attention back to Jacob. "If my wife was the kind of woman you say she is, she would have been after the Crane fortune and would have married him in a heartbeat. Your son raped my wife and then tried to rape her again, which is how he got that dandy black eye that you never saw but your wife and daughter did. Now you can believe what you want about that baby's heritage but I am going to tell you one time and one time only. That child is Rachel's and mine." Trace put her hand on Rachel's shoulder. "And you will hand him over to me now or I swear my wife will splatter your brains all over that wall behind you."
"You can't come here and threaten us like that!" Gideon interjected.
Trace cocked her head, not at all intimidated by the raised voice of the second oldest Crane son. "I can and I just did. You came to my house, on my land and stole my child. Your hands set my barn on fire and attacked me, my wife and my guests. I have every right to be here."
When Priscilla voluntarily walked forward and, in an almost loving manner, handed the infant to Trace, no one was more stunned than her own family. Rachel lowered the rifle, leaning it against Trace's leg and gently took the baby, whose wailing slowed to a slight whimpering, as the sheriff picked up the carbine.
Amid the cries of 'Mother!' and 'Priscilla!' the Crane matriarch stood with Trace. "No," she said, firmly. "Enough."
"For heaven's sake, Priscilla, what are you doing?" Jacob's surprise overpowered his normal condescension and irritation.
"I'm doing something right for a change. This child does not belong to us or with us, Jacob."
"But if Ben is the father -" Hannah began but was cut off by her mother.
"If Ben is the father, it was not because he intended to be. What the sheriff says is true...if this poor girl got in the family way because of your brother, I don't even want to think about how that happened. I am not proud that we all had a hand in raising a boy who became nearly as evil and immoral as Satan himself. He always got his way and what wasn't given to him, he took." Priscilla looked deeply into Rachel's eyes. "I'm suspecting that's how he was with you."
The blonde held her gaze for only a second before she returned her attention to her son. "Yes," was all she said. Well, this certainly was a surprise. Never in a million years would she have ever thought Ben Crane's mother would be defending her instead of her own son. And from the expressions on the faces of Priscilla's family, Rachel wasn't alone.
Mrs. Crane looked over the people standing stock still in the living room of her home for the past ten years. "I loved my son but thanks to all of you, he was a brute. Any human feelings that boy possessed only made themselves obvious when he got an ache in his loins."
"Mother!" Hannah was already shocked by her mother's perceived betrayal but to hear her talk like this made her feel faint.
"He had nothing but sheer contempt for everyone who would not kowtow to him and he allowed no room for opposition. And he was worse when he took to the drink. He did horrible things to women, Jacob. I loved him with all my heart but I am ashamed to say he was my son."
"Priscilla, stop this foolishness this instant, take that baby back and get over here!" Jacob commanded.
"Jake, you lay one finger on my son and you will live to regret it," Trace advised him. "Now shut up and listen to your wife."
"How dare you -"
"Shut up, Jacob," Priscilla reiterated, feeling empowered by Trace's authoritative presence. Yes, the sheriff may have very well killed her son but if he did, he had every reason to. She glared at her husband who was staring back at her, speechless and beet red.
Comforting the baby, hugging him to her and enveloping him inside her shirt, Rachel decided to take Wyatt outside as Trace seemed to have the Cranes right where she wanted them. She was not at all surprised when she got to the porch and saw half the town and what looked like the entire Pawnee tribe there. When had the hunters returned from the buffalo hunt? Rachel couldn't help but smile when a resounding cheer rose from the waiting crowd. Several of the men dismounted and approached the porch, Matthew Reddick being in the lead. He looked at Rachel, expectantly.
"I think he's got it under control...but you should probably stand by out here until he calls for you or comes and gets you," she told the deputy. She looked at a group of men, tied up in the back of a wagon. "Anybody get killed?"
"No but quite a few of them need a doctor. Those boys weren't hired to be gunfighters and it showed. None of us are much good at that, either. Thank the Lord for the Pawnee. Soon as they showed up everybody just kind of surrendered."
"How's my home?" She dreaded to ask but needed to know.
"Fine. We'll need to rebuild your barn." He pointed to a wagon that just pulled up. "Elizabeth's come to take you and the baby back to our place until this is over."
*****************
"What was that noise?" Gideon Crane asked, reacting to the sound of acclamation coming from outside the house.
"Oh, that? That was just the people of Sagebrush letting you know that as of tonight they have completely taken their town back. I think it's a very nice, long overdue sound, how about you?" The sheriff inquired, smugly.
"You know, Sheridan, you're a pompous, self-centered, high-handed cretin," the eldest Crane sputtered.
"Kind of like looking in a mirror, isn't it, Jacob?" Priscilla countered, once again stunning her family into silence.
"Yeah, what she said," Trace smiled, nodding toward Mrs. Crane. "Now, this is what we're going to do. I can easily and legally place you all under arrest -"
"For what?" Hannah interrupted.
"Trespassing, kidnapping, assault, arson, extortion, cruelty to animals, fraud, deception, forgery - oh, and let's not forget complicity, duplicity..."
"What are those?" Micah inquired.
"Complicity is the association or participation in or, as if in, a wrongful act and duplicity is contradictory doubleness of thought, speech, or action, especially the belying of one's true intentions by deceptive words or action," Trace recited, remembering the definitions from her police exams.
"What does that mean?" Gideon spoke for the rest who, with the obvious exception of Jacob, were still confused.
Trace rolled her eyes. "Being underhanded and then trying to cover it up through lying and trickery. You're all guilty of that and I have enough deputies waiting outside to make sure it ends here."
"My God, you are a lawman, aren't you?" Jacob stated, almost impressed.
"We're not going anywhere, Sheridan," Micah told her being ridiculously stubborn. "This is our home, our land and you can't make us leave."
"Oh, I think I can. Because if you don't, there are very angry people outside who are willing to burn you out of house and home." Trace looked around, pointedly. "You have a lot of nice, expensive things here. It would be a shame to lose them."
"You wouldn't do that," Hannah gasped.
"Yeah, I would. That's how you would do it, isn't it, Jacob? That's what your boys were going to do to me, to my family...why should you be treated any differently? You're nothing but a common criminal. The only difference between you and those boys up in the penitentiary is that they got caught and didn't have the money to get their asses out of trouble."
"Sheriff, your language," Hannah acted, offended.
"Mrs. Burnett, where you and your family are going? Language like that is the least of your worries."
"No judge who travels this circuit will ever hold charges against me or my family." Jacob stated, patronizingly.
"Don't worry. I have no intention of sending you before a judge on your payroll. You'll be going before the governor." Trace waited for the reaction and she was not disappointed as the eldest Crane blanched. "Yeah. Thought you might feel that way."
Priscilla looked at her husband, curiously. "Jacob?"
He shook his head slightly at her, as though to dismiss her.
"What's the matter, Jake? Don't want your missus, there, to know your dirty little secret?" Trace smirked.
"Jacob, what is he talking about?"
"Tell her Jake...or I will." It was so nice to have this man by the short hairs. Now, his whole family had turned to look at him with more than mild curiosity.
"Listen, Sheriff, there is no need to get into this here in front of my family...why don't we go into my study and talk. I'm sure we can come to some sort of...agreement."
"Agreement? Now I need to add attempted bribery to your charges? No. Let's share this news with everybody, shall we?" Trace scanned her rapt audience. "Ever wonder why you all moved so abruptly from the your last homestead? Seems your daddy, here, fathered a child with the governor's oldest daughter, Willa - who was only 15 at the time, didn't want the scandal, so he abandoned her and his paternal responsibilities and moved you all here to the nice, unknown little hamlet of Sagebrush. It's taken the governor this long to catch up with him."
Priscilla was white with shock and rage but not as furious as Ephraim seemed to be.
"You're all certainly not going to listen to this nonsense, are you?" If he had not been sweating profusely, his outrage would have been more convincing. "Look, she was a little tramp...she threw herself at me...!"
"Why you son-of-a-bitch!" Ephraim hauled off and punched his father, knocking him back against the wall.
Jacob looked at his oldest son, startled and wounded, wiping the blood from his lower lip. "What was that for?"
"You doing to that poor girl what you did to my wife! Tell me that my daughter is not really yours! Tell me, Father! I always suspected it but now I just know!"
Looking immediately guilty, Julia tried to unobtrusively slink back into the background. Trace just watched in amusement as this family simply fell apart before her eyes.
"You can't blame me, Ephraim, that you can't satisfy your own wife. She came to me for help and advice."
"And you helped her all right, didn't you?" He turned and looked at Julia, his voice dripping with venom. "You must be real proud of yourself. Well, if you want him, you're welcome to him."
Gideon and Micah turned to their wives, almost accusingly. "Don't you look at me like that, Gideon Crane, I wouldn't let that old coot touch me if he was the last man on earth," Esther Crane told her husband, indignantly.
Micah's wife, Emily, looked almost insulted. "He never came near me..."
Trace had seen and heard enough. "So, this is what we're going to do. You are going to pay back every single businessman and his family all the money you extorted from them, for the revenue they lost because of your shake downs. You will make it up to the farmers and ranchers whose land you ordered burned and destroyed, for the stock you crippled and killed and then you will live here on house arrest like good children until the governor and his personally appointed magistrate gets here. In the meantime, you will be guarded and monitored so that you do not destroy your land or any of your possessions and then, when you've been taken away to jail, we'll have Joe Turner preside over a public auction, put the word out to Jefferson City and some of the other surrounding cities where the more well-off can afford to bid on your things...any profit made from will be divided up equally among the townspeople who got screwed by you."
"You're making a big mistake, Sheridan." The patriarch spit out.
"Shut up, Jacob," Priscilla told him again, disgusted. "What would you like me to do to help you, Sheriff?"
*********************
A month later, all four remaining Crane men and George Burnett, Hannah's husband, were on their way to a territorial prison, being found guilty on various charges. John and Seth Carver were convicted of lesser infractions and would spend a year in Jefferson County jail. Hannah and Priscilla were both given a hefty fine for their participation in the Crane crimes. Rachel and Trace testified at Priscilla's trial and asked for leniency because of her circumstances and the fact that she helped close the case against Jacob, which left no doubt in the judge's mind of just how reprehensibly accountable this man was of everything he had been charged with.
And then, before being taken away, Jacob was led out back, unshackled and left alone with the governor for ten minutes. Trace wrote up his injuries as due to a nasty spill en route to the paddy wagon.
Nobody expected Priscilla to be invited, much less show up to Wyatt's baptism. But after all the baby's biological grandmother had done to make amends, Rachel and Trace felt is was only fair. And, since her stagecoach left that afternoon, it was her only chance to say goodbye to her grandson.
While a majority of the townspeople avoided Priscilla, Rachel brought Wyatt to her and let her hold him. "What happens now, Mrs. Crane?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'm moving back to Omaha. I'll divorce Jacob from there. I guess that means I'll be divorcing Gideon, Micah, Hannah and all the wives and grandchildren, too. How they can stand by their father and husbands after all this, I'll never know. Maybe I'll look up my one and only true love. I hear he's a widower." She gently kissed the baby on the forehead. "You and Trace have a beautiful son, Rachel. I'm grateful for the time you have let me spend with him. But it is time for me to move on, I'm not wanted here and I don't blame these people. What my family has done to this town is unforgivable. It was hard losing everything but it was worth the redemption and my freedom."
Trace approached her wife, son and Priscilla Crane. The sheriff looked very uncomfortable in the 'Sunday best' that Rachel had no doubt, insisted her spouse wear. "You'll let us know when you get settled? We could send you pictures of Wyatt when we have them taken."
The Crane matriarch smiled, ruefully. "No. I appreciate it but it will be too difficult. My son did a horrible thing and I don't deserve the privilege of being this child's grandmother. If I have pictures of him I will want to display them and if I do that, then I'll have to explain who he is and then there will be more questions and...well, I need to let go of my past when I get back to Omaha, start my life over. I can't do that with any ties to here."
"I understand," Rachel told her, sympathetically. Somewhere inside her, her heart broke for Priscilla Crane.
As the older woman handed a sleeping Wyatt back to his mother, she leaned over and kissed him one last time. "I think I should get my things to the stage." And with that, she nodded gratefully at both women, her eyes tearing up at her final look at her grandson.
Watching her walk out of the schoolhouse, where the reception for Wyatt's baptism was being held, Trace draped her arm over Rachel's shoulder. "There goes a very brave woman," Trace commented.
"And the last of the Cranes." Rachel looked up at Trace. "What do you say we finally get our life started?"
Squeezing the blonde closer to her, Trace ignored the crowd and brazenly kissed her wife passionately on the lips. Looking down at Wyatt, she said, "Oh, I think we've already got a pretty good beginning."