Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Tried and True Tracks

sunday still, afternoon. with the bride-to-be.

The world's all colors and shapes, and there's a cloudiness in your head that twists and turns like a spinning top. Your balance is spilling out onto the smear of brown and gray and red what sits beneath you, and you blink your eyes and try hard to turn those smudges into something what you can recognize, but they fade in and out and pulse in unison with the ache that's pushing up against the base of your skull.

You blink a little harder and squint, and the fuzzy smudges and smears start solidifying into shapes and things, like fired clay. There's a blanket, and a...pant leg? And the side of a wagon—the bed of a wagon. You're in a wagon? Why are you in a wagon?

There's a high, ringing thought echoing in the back of your head, but it's soft, and the ache in your skull muffles it some. Something warm's pressed up against you, and you can hear a horse—two horses, running hard—and the wind's whipping your cheeks and tugging ruthlessly at your hair and dress. Mama spent all morning on your hair, and Patty was just finishing up your hemline.

Where are they?

Where are you?

There's a shoe what sits at the end of that pant leg, an old dark brown boot that's scuffed and stained by mud that's dried to dirt, and as you stare at it, it moves, and the warmth what's pressed up against you shifts in tandem. Now, you feel the arm about your waist—spy it and stare wide-eyed at it. The forearm's thick as a tree trunk, and the large, firm hand and its calloused fingers are pressing into your belly and bunching up the fabric of your dress. Suddenly, that alarm what was ringing goes off loud in your ears, and a gasp catches in your throat, or tries to. A thick wad of cloth sits in your mouth, keeps your lips and jaw open, and your hands are bound up behind your back like you're a criminal, but you've done nothing worthy of a jail cell.

Oh, God, no.

Oh, God, please don't let it be true. Please.

Fear spills cold into your veins, and you draw your muscles up so tight they ache, but your eyes are shifting, moving as quick as they can to soak up all what they spy. Fields and trees fly past you, and the wagon rattles like it might just fall to pieces, but the driver keeps the horses running, and they snort and gallop like thunder, like the beasts what carry grinning devils across the endless range. In the distance stands home, stands your mama and papa and all what you know, and you watch as it shrinks, as it turns into nothing more than an outline of shapes on the horizon.

The wagon keeps rolling, and the horses don't slow.

Someone'll come after you, won't they?

You tilt your head, shift it ever so slightly to try and steal a peek of a person what might chase after the wagon, but the moment you move, something hard and cold presses up against your temple, and in the corner of your eye, you spy a bit of dark, gleaming metal.

"You see anybody yet?" the driver calls. His is a voice what sticks like glue, what carves itself out in your head and sends unease pooling all slimy and dark in the pit of your stomach, and if Elijah's driving, then the man what's sitting next to you can't be no one but his cruel, awful giant of a brother.

Cyrus—Cryus Bailey. That's his name—his awful, wicked name.

Your eyes find his face. He's shoved on a hat as dark as his eyes, but the shadow it casts makes him look as harsh and cruel as the muzzle of a gun. His beard's thick and wild, makes him look every bit the felon he is, and after glaring hard at the fading town of Richfield, he turns his head and calls back, real low, "Ain't nobody comin' yet."