Page 8 of Saddles

It took all summer bringing trips up here with the pack mules to make sure there’s enough feed stashed here for her.

Once the snow hits hard, the available grass gets slim unless we’re out with the cows.

She takes a big mouthful of alfalfa and shakes her head, making most of the flake fly outside of her stall.

When I toss it back in, her ears pin and she pulls it away from me.

“Brat. I’m not the one who threw it out.” I can’t say I blame her. I get pissy about good food, too.

I made sure to bring enough of my favorites this winter.

Last year I got mighty sick of canned chili before spring. This round, I made sure to maximize the food budget so I could bring some solid MRE selections.

I had no idea how much comfort could be wrapped up in a tasty meal.

How in the hell those old pioneers lived on nothing but fat tack and flour, I’ll never understand.

Tonight I think I’ll break out a lasagna. Or chicken parm.

The thought brings a pang to my gut.

That washerfavorite from the little hole in the wall Italian restaurant in Missoula.

Not sure I’ll ever be able to go back there.

“Come on, Roscoe. I need a shot.” Maybe two.

Just something to help me sleep through the nightmares.

So I don’t have to relive the sight of her blood.

To hear her groans of pain before she died.

Or the laughter of the men who did it to her.

I hope it snows several feet. That gives me something to do during the day. I can shovel until I’m exhausted, and pass out in blissful silence.

He darts past my legs when I open the door and trots to his bed in the corner.

It’s just as cold in here as it is outside. My breath steams around my face when I squat to start the fire.

But the tiny two hundred square foot cabin heats quickly once the wood catches.

Well, if it doesn’t really dump from the storm, maybe I’ll busy myself with cutting more logs.

Can’t have too much.

Besides, there’s something therapeutic about swinging an ax. I can envision all of the motherfuckers I wish were lying in front of me with every chop.

Chapter 4

April

My mouth feels like it’s lined with an old coffee filter and my head is pounding an insane drum beat.

I haven’t felt this awful since my twenty-first birthday.

But I swore of ever drinking again after Mom died.

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