The 2nd Farmer
Copyright© 2023 by Adam.F
Chapter 9
Amber groaned softly, pushing her tangled hair back. “I thought we were done with town for a while.” She swung her legs off the makeshift bed, her boots thudding softly on the wooden floorboards. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the window as she shuffled toward the stove, drawn by the smell of coffee brewing in the old tin pot. Her fingers brushed mine when I handed her a chipped mug—warm, fleeting contact that lingered in the quiet.
Outside, the prairie stretched endlessly under a sky bleached pale by the morning sun. We ate in silence, the only sounds the scrape of forks and the distant cry of a hawk. Amber’s gaze drifted to the sagging fence line, where weathered posts leaned like tired sentinels. “Wind’s picking up,” she murmured, wiping bacon grease from her chin.
We hitched the wagon to the horses, our breath puffing white in the cold air. The snow crunched underfoot, brittle and glittering, as we guided the team out onto the trail. The wagon wheels creaked a familiar rhythm, and the horses’ harness jingled softly, the only music on that vast, silent expanse. Ahead, the Mercantile store was a smudge on the horizon, promising supplies and perhaps a thin slice of civilization.
Amber huddled deeper into her coat, her eyes scanning the treeline where the woods met the prairie. “Feels like we’re being watched,” she said, her voice low. I followed her gaze, seeing nothing but the skeletal branches clawing at the sky. Still, the unease settled between us, thick as the frost on the dead grass.
I pulled out my Colt revolving rifle and laid it across my lap, the cold metal a familiar weight. My thumb traced the checkered grip, worn smooth by years of use. The action wasn’t fear—just prairie sense. Out here, the quiet had teeth. Amber didn’t flinch; she only adjusted the reins, her knuckles white against the leather.
The rifle’s cylinder held eight .44 rounds, each a promise of consequence. I kept the hammer resting on an empty chamber Pa’s old rule against misfires. Sunlight glinted off the barrel as the wagon jolted over a frozen rut. Amber’s eyes flicked to the treeline again, where shadows pooled thick between the pines. “Could be wolves,” she muttered, though neither of us believed it.
The Mercantile’s weathered sign creaked on rusty hinges as we pulled up, the horses blowing steam. No fresh tracks marred the snow-packed yard except ours from days prior. Inside, the air hung thick with the smell of coal oil, cured leather, and dust. Old Man John Smith peered over his spectacles from behind the counter, polishing a brass scale weight with his thumb. “Back so soon?” he rasped, eyeing the rifle I’d slung over my shoulder. “Trouble?”