by D McEntire
Stretching his tired legs, he took a look around town. He knew it would not be long before the iron horse arrived here, too. The earth was changing at the hands of the white man. Not all of it good, he thought grimly.
He waited as his father stepped into the building where reading papers came in on fast horses. They were here to get papers for Brody. The thought of his white friend and the man's woman brought a sigh past his lips.
Brody had settled at the ranch with Bri. Trace could not rightly say how he felt about the man's mate -- a vampire. At first he had thought her kind something to be feared and kept within one's sight like an enemy. That was until his father had had a talk with him as they'd ridden the trail to Fort Worth, after leaving the longhorns in Kansas.
"There are more on this land than man and animal. We may not understand, and many do not believe they live, but they do. They are part of this land and are to be respected. All has a purpose, my son," his father had told him, and he could not help but agree as the man was very wise. All his life he had never known his father to have been wrong on any subject.
When he'd voiced the fact her kind lived much longer than a normal man, his father had had answer for that as well.
"Out of love he will share his blood with her and in doing so he will gain a gift from her as well. As he does this, the power within her will pass on to him."
Trace inwardly smiled and shook his head. Yep. His father had some gift of sight, he mused. Glancing at the sky, Trace sent a silent prayer to the Spirits that one day he, too, would be so wise.
Clapping his hands on his pants, dirt and trail dust flew out in every direction. Trace held his breath to keep it from his lungs. When he straightened, he glanced at the store and remembered his need to purchase a wedding gift. Brody and Bri were to join together, or marry as the white man called it, at the ranch when he and Frank returned.
Stepping onto the porch of B.C. Evans' Dry Goods, the rumbling of a wagon pulled by a team of horses rang in his ears. He turned and watched a buckboard, driven by a young boy, pull up next to the store.
The boy, who Trace thought to be no older than ten or eleven years old leapt from the bench to the ground, then quickly ran to the other side of the wagon to help the woman sitting quietly on the bench.
"You be awantin' me to go in wit' ya Miss Parker?" the boy said as he held the woman's arm lightly while escorting her up the single step to the porch.
"Thank you kindly, Thomas, but that won't be necessary. I'll only be a moment."
The boy released the woman's arm, returned to the wagon and climbed back into the seat of the buckboard.
When the woman approached where he stood, Trace took in her face -- radiant and kissed by the sun. Long, blonde hair hung down her back from beneath her bonnet. She was thin, too thin, he told himself. Her pale, yellow dress hung heavily from her shoulders.
Trace moved quickly, reaching the door before she did and opening it wide. He stood still, waiting for her to enter the store. Just as she reached the entry to the store, she stopped suddenly. The stick she carried ceased to tap the ground in front of her.
"Thank you," she said softly, turning her face in his direction. Framed behind dark brown lashes, sparkling hazel eyes stared straight ahead -- unseeing.
"Ma'am," was all Trace found he could muster.
The woman walked through the door. Trace noticed she held her head held high as if daring anyone to judge her for her malady. An air of determination and pride surrounded her, so thick he felt it as he entered the store behind her.
Remembering where he was and why, Trace went to the pile of socks heaped atop a wooden crate. Worn and threadbare, his had lost their comfort many moons ago.
As he inspected each pair for thickness and good making, he heard the woman tell the shop's owner the many things she needed. Unable to stop himself, Trace found his ears hang on every word. Her voice rang in his ears like a song. The music left him unable to concentrate on the socks.
Giving up, he grabbed two pair and made his way to the handmade quilts where he picked up an intricately woven design for a wedding gift. He carried his bundle to the counter to give the white man money for what he held in his hands.
The woman stood quietly, waiting for her items. As the white man brought them out, Trace recalled what she had asked for and silently checked over each one as if they were his own purchases. It surprised him that not only had he paid close attention to her words to know exactly what she had requested, but he cared enough to make sure she wasn't cheated. He didn't know this woman. Not even her name. Miss Parker. Well, he did know that much, he told himself.
After her goods were stacked and readied, the young boy who had driven her into town bounded in and took several packages to the buckboard.
"I sure thank you, Mr. Evans," she said with a smile, one Trace found himself wishing he himself to be on the receiving end.
As she reached out her hand and handed money to the store owner, the sleeve of her dress slid back. Trace's heart stopped. Two puncture holes. Their angry red marks marred her sand colored skin.
Vampire.
"Want me to send one of the boys out to help ya unpack these, Miss Parker?"
The woman shook her head. "No. I've taken in a guest. He's not from these parts, but he's no trouble. He and Thomas will help me put my things away."
As the woman left the store, following behind the young boy carrying the last of her packages, unease seeped into Trace, making his stomach churn. He had a bad feeling about the woman's guest, and his mind screamed the name: Trevor.
About the Author
D. McEntire calls southern Indiana home and relishes life in the peace of the country along with her husband and two children, not to mention the menagerie of animals on their small farm.
To learn more about D. McEntire please visit www.dmcentire.com. Send an email to Diane at [email protected].
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