Page 35 of Saddles

I barely feel him lift a snarled lock and snip it.

One by one, the tangled reminders fall to the floor.

Chapter 11

Ford

“I ain’t much of a hair stylist.” I stand back and appraise my hack job.

It looks fucking awful, and I feel shitty I can’t do better.

“Well, you’re the only one who has to look at it.” She turns to smile over her shoulder, but the humor doesn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you.

Her fingers run through the short blond strands. “I don’t feel any more knots. That’s all I needed. Feels so much better already.” She scoots the stool out of the way. “Do you have a broom?”

I wave her away. “I got it. I saw where it all went. One of the benefits of a tiny ass cabin is that there’s very little floor to sweep.”

“Okay, then next question.” April gathers up her soiled clothes with a grimace. “Can I burn these? I never want to see them again.”

All I do is nod towards the stove. Putting any acknowledgement of the stains they carry feels like it gives them meaning.

With a squeak, the door to the potbelly opens and she stuffs them in. When she stands, she stares at the small window flickering with flames.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” she whispers after a moment. “It was that time of the month. Not like they cared enough to give me a tampon.” Her brown eyes dart up, reflecting the shimmering light of the fire.

Sarah did look worse, and she definitely wasn’t on her period to account for all of the blood…

I’m an idiot, standing with a broom in my hand, hopelessly lost for words.

“Are you hungry?” I blurt without thinking.

Jesus, can I get any more crass?

April’s mouth thins and moves to the side so she can chew on the inside of her cheek. Tilting her chin, she takes a long inhale. “Yea, I guess the stew is wearing off.”

My limbs tingle with antsy energy. Every time she talks about what happened, I get a flash of Sarah. What would I have done if she had survived?

Would I still feel awkward and useless?

Yep. Because I know it’d have been my fault.

I dump the dustpan and put it away, then grab my coat.

“You keep the food outside?” Her face scrunches glancing at the window.

The wind is still howling, and snow is accumulating against the bottom panes.

“No, but the firewood is.” I put my palm on the handle, then click my tongue to Roscoe.

He jumps up and races out the door as soon as I open it.

God damn, the cold hits me like a mallet to the chest.

Three trips back and forth from the pile drags in enough of the blistering chill to drop the temperature inside a solid twenty degrees.

I don’t blame her for crawling under the blanket while I’m going in and out.

She has the thick comforter pulled up to her chin by the time I drop the last load into the box.

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