Chapter Text
Omar Rhodes’ plane taxis down the dirt runway, heavy-laden with guns and rucks and men. Three men, to be exact, and twice as many guns; a hunting trip to the mountains requires an excessive amount of testosterone and firepower.
Vic sits in her truck, heater blowing hard as the Hunting Guide to the Rich and Boring throttles up his single-engine and lifts into the cold mountain air. Everything around her is cold. It looks cold. It smells cold. Its fucking freezing. Who the hell goes on a bear-hunting trip in the middle of the freezing ass winter, anyway?
Men.
Men do this kind of shit.
Men do stupid shit like walk around in blizzards and knee-deep snow with guns and fifty pounds of survival gear and call it hunting. Whatever, if it makes him happy , she thinks with a shiver and a shrug. It was her idea, but it's still crazy as hell.
Jesus, it’s cold!
But Walt wasn't cold. None of the men were, and that kind of idiocy still baffles the crap out of her. He had practically danced his way out of the cabin with all his gear. Even after misreading the stuttering approvals and wrinkled brow that gave her the appearance of a reluctant Little Woman who really wasn’t looking forward to missing Her Man.
No poker face finally comes in handy. Ha!
Walt had smiled and said she would be surprised with how content she’d be with the cabin to herself for a week - that a break from him would be a relief; she’d see as soon as Omar’s plane was out of sight. But, she didn’t need a break. She wasn’t going to suddenly feel relieved he was gone, except that she had work to do.
Despite the effing cold ass temperature outside the cab of her truck, she is eager to get the rest of the surprise started. Well, sort of eager. And more like ‘to get it over with’ than ‘to get started’. Kind of like the anticipation and anxiety she had right before the academy. Sure, the end would be worth the effort, but her ass was gonna pay for it. That was a less-than-awesome prospect.
At least she’ll be able to limp around the cabin without an audience. By the time he’s home again, maybe she won’t be limping and sore anymore. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe she’ll nail it like she nailed qualifying, and her detective’s exam.
Maybe .
She puts the truck in gear and heads north, the clear Wyoming sky above, the frozen earth beneath and the reality of possible broken bones in front of her.
Sarah Two Feathers stands in front of the big barn at the 4-S, her hands hidden inside the burnt-umber Buffalo hair of the cape she holds closed at her breast. Black and silver braids drape across each shoulder, folds of butter-colored leather flow from beneath the cape and dark-tanned moccasin boots cover her legs, disappearing as they rise along her calves.
If the Cheyenne woman is cold, Vic can’t tell. She’s not even blinking against the crisp Wyoming wind.
“Jesus, aren’t you freezing?”
Vic is zipped inside the insulated Carhartt coveralls purchased exactly four and half hours into her first Wyoming winter, layered over sub-zero thermals and her heaviest jeans. The down-filled collar of her department coat is pulled up to her ears and she buries her nose behind the zipper.
Still shivering, she might as well be naked, dammit. Being from Philly doesn’t matter; Wyoming cold is different. She has said it to Walt a thousand times - it’s just freaking colder.
Sarah smiles without parting her lips.
“No. Soon, you won’t be either.”
“Yeah, well, unless you plan on teaching me to ride this thing in your living room, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna be freezing my ass all week.”
The woman’s smile fades slightly. Regret thickens Vic’s tongue. She hasn’t even said a proper hello to Walt’s friend’s wife and she’s already bitching.
And insulting.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I just really * really hate being cold. Look, I appreciate this. Really. So, thank you. I’m Vic Moretti.”
“Sheriff Walt is a friend. He has known much sorrow, but I see the joy has returned to his eyes. My husband and I saw it when he came to buy your horse. We are happy to be a part of something that will bring him happiness.”
Vic smiles, a tear threatening to slide down her frozen cheek; the compliment is unexpected.
“Well, um, this is probably a really bad idea.”
Sarah Two Feathers smiles again.
“Doing something that is hard, especially for the benefit of another, is never a bad idea, Miss Victoria. You will do what you need to do, for Sheriff Walt. And also for yourself.”
“Vic. Please, it’s just Vic. And I hope you’re right.”
“Hope is a very good thing, Miss Vic. I am called Sarah Two Feathers,” the woman says with a warm smile.
She extends her gloveless hand. Vic wrestles her own free from the insulated pocket of her coat and takes Sarah’s warm and gentle grasp. The Cheyenne woman’s soft smile and unbroken gaze stir an unnamable emotion inside Vic, and all she can do is blink away another tear and nod.
While Walt and Henry and Omar were at the airfield, loading and laughing and leaving, Jack Simmons drove out to Walt’s and loaded up the mare. Ruby made all the arrangements, at Vic’s request; department dispatcher and Walt’s oldest and dearest had relished the idea of being in on the plot.
Jack brought all of Baby’s tack, including the saddle Walt had taken Vic to pick out right after Christmas. As usual, she had been frustrated and short with him, snapping that she didn’t know the first thing about horses, much less saddles. Less than twenty minutes inside the shop and she had barked that she wouldn’t know ‘the right one’ if it had actually bit her in the ass.
But, he had been Classic Walt. And he was patient and spoke quietly and suggested one after another until she finally stabbed her finger at one with a sharp “ Fine, this one .”
It might have been a monkey’s saddle for the damn circus for all she knew. Except she knew it wasn’t - because Walt would never have let her pick the wrong one. Jesus, why had she made it so hard?
The whole ride home she brooded, staring out the window of The Bullet and refusing to speak. She could feel him every time he turned his eyes from the road to the back of her head. He hadn’t expected her to * know which saddle was the * right one.
What he had wanted was for her to be able to choose for herself. Something for herself. Of course he made sure they were the right size. The right type. The right * kind of saddle. All he wanted was for her to pick one * she liked the best.
Seeing it on the saddle rack in the tack up stall pulls a catch in her throat. Dammit, but she can be a real piece of work. Thank God he loves her; love breeds forgiveness and she will need a hell of a lot of it in the years to come.
If he stays with her, she thinks. He might enjoy the break…
Sarah’s voice interrupts the intrusive thought.
“She has been waiting for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your mare. She has been waiting for you.”
Vic looks at Sarah with unbridled confusion. After seven years, she still isn’t used to the way the Indians talk. The Philly-accented ‘whatever’ forms in Vic’s throat, and begins to roll across her tongue in the slow motion way hot coffee spills over the lip of a cup falling to the floor. As the word pushes against her pursed lips, thick with judgment and disregard, she’s hit with the memory of a phrase her grandfather used often - and loudly.
“If you do what you’ve always done, you’ll get the same shit you’ve always gotten,” he would say.
Sarcasm.
Bravado.
Her M.O. practically since birth.
She’s tired of the same shit. It’s been a less-than existence. Sure, there have been moments of Good - of Happy, even. But not enough. And it’s not what she wants anymore.
She wants the Dream, dammit. Swallowing the sarcasm, she drives the same ole’ shit back down her throat.
“Tell me what to do, Sarah,” she says with grit, and just a little twinge of fear.