Sinéad O'Dwyer's Story

J e d
The sky rippled with the accents of a troubled sea; clouds swept up in rolls, like sand after a rushing tide and quaked with threatening downpour. The sun yielded to darkness, bleeding out the red flesh of Texas, leaving naught but black silhouettes and grey waste. The rider watched the storm clouds while still ahorse, his gaze unwavering from the distant contours of Fort Trinity. It was still such a long way... He put his heels to his mare and started her off on a trot, rising and falling from the saddle with the tempest hot on their heels. The sky - a once vibrant and hot canvas - had been smothered by black cloud-bank, pregnant with rain. The smell of damp soil and water soon wafted past his nostrils, and he set his horse off on a gallop, despite knowing it was too late. Forks of electricity split across the sky and the ceil thundered in pain, weeping with no relent. Fat tears began to pelt the crown of his Stetson, plaguing his ears with a broken percussion. Violent zephyrs joined the song and swept across the desert, whipping across all that dared to tread it. “Go, Blue, go!” he edged on his mare, nudging her side with a flash of silver spurs. The buckskin picked up her gait, releasing a fearful shrill when another crack of thunder tore through the heavens.

They breached the limits of Trinity, darting through the barren streets, kicking up mud and water with each stride and coating their limbs in silt. The rider quickly lowered his reining hand and pressed his knuckles against the base of his mount’s neck, signally her to come to a swift stop. The mare seized her gait, dug her front hooves into the mud, and came to a sliding halt with her hindquarters nearly slipping beneath her middle. When Blue finally came to a standstill, her breast heaved and her charcoal muzzle foamed at the bit. Two weeks of solid and harsh riding – it had taken its toll on her, but she was a solid creature.

Wearily, the rider walked her to a hitching post and dismounted fluidly, landing in the muddy streets below. A leather-clad hand ran down the length of the horse's neck and he grunted; her gold coat was lathered in perspire. He hitched her to the rail and she craned her neck down to drink her fill from the trough below while he quickly grabbed the majority of his necessities from a saddle-bag and paced through the saloon's entrance. The shutters yielded for his passage, and then his nostrils were bombarded with a stench of stale sweat, whiskey, whores, and other unpleasant flavors featured in a soggy backwater saloon. The stranger stepped into a haze of cigarette smoke, his face and features cowled by a brown Stetson and a wet-licked mop of blonde hair. Boots paced for the bar and then he claimed a vacant stool, placing one hand upon the wood and ordering a shot of bourbon to ward off the chill. His duster was heavy with drink when he shrugged it off his shoulders – it wouldn't be dry for days. Vexed, wet, and thoroughly exhausted, he threw the bartender a few coins when his remedy arrived, and shot it back without a second thought.

His mission at Bon Ochard would have to wait. Now was a time to drink...no one would recognize him here - or so he reckoned.

S i n é a d
“Aiden! Aiden!” The woman’s cries were too meek against the tenor of the storm. The sky boomed and a tempest tore across the pastures, reaping shrills and moans from the cattle as they thundered across the land. The earth trembled before the empyrean and the heavy stampede of frantic hooves. She heard nothing – the rain and all else drowned out her senses. In the distance, she no doubt caught a glance of her orchards scattering through the gales. But she could do nothing. Sinead clicked to her stud and sent him off to a gallop again, racing against the herd in hopes of steering them back towards the corrals. On the other side of the fray, three of her hands were following suite, whistling and hollering to rear them back towards the ranch. In any other circumstance, she had utterly no business being out there, but Charlie - her trusted friend and right-hand man - had fallen ill three days prior. They had already been short of hired help – who else did she have? Even with four riders, she was going to lose head, and her son had bolted off on his gelding without a word.

Her hat had been claimed by a mistral and her braid had lost its tether, thus releasing her wine colored locks into the wind. The long tendrils whipped against her face and adhered to her cheeks, and the rain stung her ears and caused her ears to bitterly ache. The rest of her limbs had betrayed her, her legs felt numb and her lithe knuckles had gone stiff at the reins. Fate had spat at her again – it had robbed her of her husband, her son’s affection, and torn Bon Ochard asunder. The stranger promised to her in Gavin’s will still remained an enigma and had never come to aid her – how was she supposed to manage the estate alone? Abandoned…she was abandoned on all fronts and she would just have to digest the truth.

The herd had been relatively calm when they were driving them in to the stockyard earlier, until the storm had slithered up their necks without an advocate and voraciously began to assault her domain. The cattle had grown frantic and scattered, and then entropy ensued. So there she was, barreling across the fields in trousers and dusters, feeling a pang in her heart whilst witnessing a tiny calf splinter his leg on a jutting rock. These creatures were her entire livelihood – she had nothing else save for the depleting vineyards out yonder.

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One week – a week had passed since the expected arrival of the so called ‘J.Jackson.’ Aiden pissed on the name and cursed his father and mother for their idiosyncrasies. Although he had only been alive for little over a decade, Aiden O’Dwyer was an impeccable youth as far as maturity went, despite his foul temper and his reputation as a degenerate. The teen was smart, brilliant even, but he was not well loved by any measure. He was taking shit into his own hands, as per usual. He was going to find the fool and maybe greet his fist with his face. So Aiden ran - he had given his mount a slap on the rump and bolted down towards the Fort, leaving his mother and the hands to carry on with their futile dance. He would have to find Jackson himself, and the best place to start was the saloon. He wasn't allowed in of course, he wasn’t a moron, but anyone in could hear him if he called loud enough.

For the second time that evening, horse and rider barreled down the empty streets of Trinity and came to a sliding sloshy stop. The boy jumped down from his horse and splashed into the mud, seemingly unhindered by the cold, wind, and rain. He was impossibly tall for fourteen, six feet and still growing with a voice deep and ripe. His eyes reflected the storm; green, menacing, and unpredictable. His boots sloshed through the shit and muck and he ascended the saloon steps, peering in over the shutters. “Jackson!” the boy cried, his face marred by a scowl. “J.Jackson! Get yer’ ass out here!” God only knew what he was thinking. Aiden was more likely to get his nose bashed in, or worse – a bullet in the skull by the Lucky Sevens.

Within the saloon, a blonde stranger stirred in his seat and subtly canted his head rearward towards the door. But he ignored him.