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.
************************************************
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.
************************************************** **********************
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...
****************************************

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."

"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.