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The dawn broke slow and scratchy, like a record caught on it’s player. The seasons should be changing now, away from the dusty heat and towards the bitter nights, although it never truly felt like winter out here in the west. Annabelle had read about snow in her books; had wondered at the idea of cold white powder across the ground. Here, there was only sand, and once the sun set, that would become as like rock. Deadly in it’s iciness, that it would sap the body heat of any poor fool who laid down on it without padding. Daddy had been always clear with her, since she was small. If you got caught out in the desert in a winter night, you keep walking, no matter how tired you are; death waited in the ground.
But that night wasn’t here yet. She could imagine the sky in her mind; streaked in pinks and golds, crackling with the static that warned of dust devils or maybe even a thunderstorm. She used to like the way they would roll in; the darkening of the skies and the inevitability of it, the rush of water over the ground, catching loose sand and turning it to mud. She had stood out under the crackling lights and felt that rain pound on her skin more than once – had delighted to splash and ruin her skirts and laugh after a particularly harsh summer when nothing had grown right and they’d lost far too many of their cattle. She’d remembered daddy objecting, and then following, and then laughing along with her as the rain slicked his hair to his face and his clothes to his body.
Her eyes drifted open, vaguely aware of the warmth of a body next to her and the darkness in the room; then she slipped back under again. This time she stirred to the emptiness, rolling over and reaching out, hands finding no body next to her, but warmth and familiarity gathered in the wrinkles in the fabric and the lingering heat. Finally, when she stirred fully for the third time, the sun was up high in the sky, a burning white circle against the curtains. She felt the sluggish slide of her brain against too much sleep, grimacing as she dragged herself upright. The room was empty apart from herself. Butch must already be hard at work underneath that blistering miasma… Annabelle sometimes felt bad that her girlfriend spent so much time at toil whilst she rested, but Butch had reassured her that she found great purpose in the work she did, and enjoyed it.
It wasn’t like Annabelle could deny she liked to watch Butch at work. The way she worked so easily with the cattle and the horses, great heavy things that could crush her with so little thought; all of them were named and she could tell every single one apart with a glance. The cows that greeted her gently and got scratches on the nose, neck or side, depending what they liked. How Butch led them. How, when the bull was stubborn, Butch’s arms flexed and showed off the wiry muscle that belied her strength. Annabelle had always found herself out in the fields with Butch, since she’d started working; although when the weather was bad, she often watched from the house, instead. How, no matter how long the day, Butch had been happy to spend the shifting evenings with Annabelle – riding their horses out, or practising her gunplay, setting up increasingly difficult targets over and over until the light was too low for another shot. She had always delighted in her skills, leaving Annabelle’s cheeks flush with pride… and then up again, with the cock crow, as she laid in, listening to the sounds of hard work outside…
Oh, now, she was a selfish soul sometimes, Annabelle mused, stretching luxuriously as she clamboured out of bed. She took a moment to pour a little water into the dry basin by her mirror from a flagon nearby, splashing it over her face and the back of her neck, and then moved to part the curtains. She had a great view over the back of the farm here, and as she watched, she picked up the motion. There she was; tall, slender and yet so very powerful. Moving with confidence from familiarity as she cleaned, pausing to pat – was that Daisy? - on her snout and scratch between her horns, and then continuing. The sun was making the ground look scorched, and she couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable Butch must be, but she was showing no sign of it. At least not from here.
The last few months had changed… everything. After what had happened with Henry, after their realisation and the kiss and… well. The lawman’s body had gone to the pigs, and daddy had dealt with anything left over. Their meat would be sold on the market; pork was a rarity on their table anyway. Daddy had told her that quietly over the table that night, that they were slated for market. Butch had seemed a touch relieved that they wouldn’t be consuming the man, even by proxy – but Annabelle wasn’t sure she would have minded. There would have been something poetic, almost, in the finality of it. How he had been so willing to devour her, she would devour him, and his hatred, and it would be gone… but it was probably for the best they would go to market.
They didn’t grow many crops on the farm, focused instead on the small herds they had. Pigs, cows, a few horses – although most of them were working animals, she and Butch had their riding animals, both – a few chickens, some beehives and a small field that changed year by year. Right now Daddy was trying to grow some corn – anything that didn’t end up on their table would end up going to feed for the animals, after all. And it was funny, because for all the things that had changed, so few things truly had. Butch, Daddy and a handful of hired hands worked on the farm; the quiet season, just Butch and Daddy and occasionally her, where she could be useful. They had market days to make their money, and her emergency bank stash, when it was needed… not that Daddy felt good about dipping his hand in there, but it certainly made things a little easier, now and again.
Only now, Butch slept in her bed in the big house instead of in that tiny room in the worker’s hut. She spent her nights snuggled against that strong back, keeping her safe from the nightmares which twisted and clawed into her throat. She would think of Henry’s hands on hers and jolt awake – only for Butch to tuck her in closer, and all would be right in the world. Butch joined them at dinner, and sat next to her at the table with her knee touching Annabelle’s, and complimented the food. Recently, she’d been spending more time with Mr Parker at the stove, learning from him; and it turned out Butch weren’t a bad cook, neither, when she had access to the equipment in the kitchen. Far as Annabelle understood it, there was a fire and a big metal pot – for both boiling water and cooking food – back at the workers cabin where Butch had been living. But now, with a stove and real pans… she had made an awful lovely loaf of hot bread the other day, although Annabelle had found herself wondering how she’d had time in the morning alongside her chores.
There were… other things.
The first few weeks had been the worst. Butch had been awful hurt by that bastard lawman; how they’d made that rough ride back to get that gun into Annabelle’s hands, well, she had no real idea. She’d never forget how her form had folded like a wheat stalk against the scythe; cut clean at the legs to meet the ground, the pallor in her skin as she’d struggled for breath, the desperate wait for the doctor to make it from town proper. She’d been damn near convinced Butch was never going to stir again. Seeing those big dark eyes sparkling up at her again… and when she’d finally been cleared for work, well. It had been a real exercise in frustration, trying to stop Butch from driving herself clean into the ground with her constant need to be helpful. Damn if she weren’t sure that the woman would never manage to stop seeing herself as needing to earn her worth, no matter how Daddy reassured her she was family now.
Resounding herself to take Butch out a nice drink, Annabelle moved away from the window, taking her time to brush up and rebraid her hair – she was going to have to lop some of it off soon, it was getting awful long – before she pulled on her dress and then her boots, heading down the stairs to find the house was empty. Daddy’d left her a note on the kitchen table, longside a covered plate; on it, a few slices of bread with fresh butter and honey. She chewed as she glanced over his words – he hadn’t been able to have school learning like she had, so it was chickenscratch, but she was used to decoding his messages by now; he had loaded up the cart to do a last run to the town market before the winter, and to get his tools sharpened ready for their cold weather butchering, so he’d probably not be back before night. She and Butch would have to fend for themselves for dinner. He reminded her to bank up the fire because the night might be colder than she expected, and to take care of themselves.
As the words sunk in, she lowered her half chewed slice of bread. The creamy butter and sweet, rich honey felt suddenly sticky, gluing her jaw shut. Daddy had gone. He hadn’t been leaving the house much, during their recovery; Annabelle had been an awful wreck herself, and whilst focusing on Butch had definitely made things a little easier, there was no denying that Henry had left his own weight on her mind. She had her gun, holstered onto her belt over her dress; she had defense. And, well, the man was dead. Dead, devoured, and long since turned into meat for others’ tables. And yet… the idea of being defenseless, without Daddy here… she thought of the two drifting workers currently in Butch’s old hut. Nice enough fellas, experienced, they’d worked the previous summer, too – they would be making their own way home soon enough now the winter was setting in and they weren’t so needed… or wherever they went, when the summer work dried up.
They wouldn’t defend her, or Butch. If someone came a callin’, she had no doubt they would hand the two over without hesitation. What if they were a danger, themselves? Mr Parker wouldn’t hire nobody who was a threat, surely, but men – they weren’t to be trusted. None of them, not really. They were unpredictable. She thought of Butch, toiling away by the cows, and her throat was so dry she could have sworn she ain’t seen a drop of water since last years rains. Abandoning her breakfast, Annabelle hiked up her skirts and swept for the back door, stepping out into the arid heat. The house was shaded, built to stay cool and aired, but the moment she was out from it’s cover, she felt every breath of the sun beating down onto her. Right now, she didn’t care. She had to check on Butch.
The dust clouded around her feet and hung in static clouds. A glance at the sky and she could see, distantly, the coppertoned edges of thick clouds that just screamed thunderstorm. It was a late one, for this year; and yet the heat was still oppressive, crushing down upon her as she swept across the grounds. The calling of the cows and their familiar earthy smell was usually a comfort, because it meant time with Butch, but they suddenly felt so very dangerous. She’d seen men gored before, working their farm; daddy had shook his head, sighed, and done everything he could for the man, but after, he’d told her, it was about respect. The man hadn’t respected the cows, not the way Butch did. It was more than treating them kind or cautious; it was about seeing them as what they were. Big, dangerous animals. No amount of gentleness in the world would protect you from a beast that didn’t know it’s own strength; the calf that learned to headbutt would be the same animal that accidentally crushed a farmhand against a fence when he was full grown.
“Butch!” Annabelle called out; the air seemed so still, it felt like her voice should fly through it smooth as silk, but instead, it clung hard to her words and dragged them down. No sign of an echo; a thick, syrupy air that was somehow still shimmering with heat haze whilst carrying the undeniable weight of the approaching storm. It settled itself onto Annabelle’s shoulders like a leather coat, clinging to her skin as she hurried. “Butch! Darlin’, where you at?” she called, louder now, and thankfully saw a head pop up from by the fence. It was slick with sweat, raising an arm to wipe her forehead, falling into an easy smile as she noticed Annabelle – which fell away a moment later as she took in the state of her girlfriend.
“Annabelle?” she called back, ducking the fence, leaving her shovel and covering the distance between them in what seemed like just a handful of strides compared to Annabelle’s movement. “Hey, now, what’s wrong?”
“We have to go in.” she said, taking Butch’s hand, not caring about the muck that was on it. “Darlin’, we gotta go in, right now.”
“I’m nearly done with the cows, what’s wrong?” but she started to come along regardless, befuddled by Annabelle dragging her along.
“Daddy’s not here, sweetheart, we gotta go in, now, it ain’t safe here.”
“Ain’t… safe?” Butch questioned, and then stilled, giving her a little squeeze. “Now, hey, hey, Annabelle. Annabelle. It’s okay. We ain’t in no danger here. We ain’t.”
“But what about the farmhands? The hired ones? What if they get a bee in their bonnet or somethin’, and they come out causin’ trouble?”
“Annabelle.” Butch said, softer now. “Hey, come here, now…” she drew Annabelle in, wrapping her long arms around, and for a moment, her heart calmed. Safe against Butch’s form, even if she smelt of sweat and muck, it was familiar and secure but…
“Now, darlin’, please.” Annabelle insisted. “I just don’t feel safe with Daddy not here.”
“I know.” Butch whispered, then cleared their throat, “Alright, darlin’, alright. Listen; let me finish with the cows so I know it’s done, and then I’ll come straight on in, and we can relax?”
“Butch,” Annabelle didn’t like how sharp her voice had become, but for the first time, it felt like Butch was fighting her for no reason. She couldn’t understand why she was refusin’! It was safe in the house, nobody to mess with them, no danger, and -
“Why d’you think Pence and Carry gonna mess with us, sweetheart?” Butch was suddenly asking. “They’re good guys, never bothered me none. Treated me nice last few years when we worked together.”
“Because you can’t trust ‘em, Butch! You can’t trust none of ‘em! You of all people should know that!” she exclaimed, jolting away, a sudden sharp sting in her eyes. “Darlin’, I just – I need you to be safe. I can’t lose you. Not again.”
Butch stilled, and then took her hand. She squeezed it, and nodded.
“Alright.” she murmured, “I’ll come in, now, if it’ll make you feel safe. Don’t cry none over it.”
“Even if it weren’t the danger,” Annabelle said, with a faint sniff, “Big storm’s rollin’ in, didn’t you see?” she gestured behind her, and Butch turned to look, and then froze. She went real stiff for a moment, swallowing hard, eyes fixed on those distant clouds.
“So ‘tis. Alright, I gotta get these ladies inside before that hits,” she said, and if Annabelle hadn’t known better, she would’ve sworn that Butch’s voice was shaking, now. Maybe she was finally taking this whole thing seriously, at last, but… “I might need your help, now, but be careful. Just need you to go open the barn door over there for me; just release the latch and slide it from the outside whilst I get ‘em all turned around. They ain’t gonna be eager to go in in this heat, but we can’t have ‘em gettin’ all cold over night, or we’re gonna have frozen cows in the morning.”
Annabelle hesitated but then nodded, taking off around the edge of the fence as Butch got to work with hollerin’ and her own way of getting the cows moving. It wasn’t too hard to lift the latch and roll the door back, although she had to brace hard and lean her whole weight back. A few moments later, lowing in annoyance, the first of the cows began to make their way back in. Butch followed at the back of the herd; and as the last few went in, grabbed and yanked the door from her side. With an almost insulting ease, she pulled it back across and latched it, dusting her hands, pausing to brace her elbow against the locked doors for a moment and panting. Annabelle looked towards the clouds then back at the house, barely noticing anything beyond scanning the horizon for any sign of someone approaching… the dustcloud from a cart or a horse or…
“You’re okay, sweetheart.” Butch said, gentle next to her, “I’m comin’, now. I’m comin’.”
And the walk back to the house was both far shorter and far longer than her urgent dash out, what, not even ten minutes prior it seemed. When they reached the back door, Annabelle locked it firm behind her, heading back into the lounge. She finally felt her shoulders start to relax. Butch came up by her, drawing Annabelle close into her arms, and she buried her face against her chest, arms clutching around Butch’s waist as the longer arms wrapped around her shoulders. It was a total embrace, and she only ever truly felt safe when she was encased in it, lately. Maybe her mad dash outside had been just a little… foolish, but…
“Will you be okay if I go get myself cleaned up? Don’t want to get none of the muck on your nice dress, now,” Butch said, “Didn’t have time to go splash at the waterin’ hole like I usually do, get myself a little nicer for the house, but…”
“Of course.” Annabelle half smiled, fidgeting with her plait. She glanced out the window; the front of the house, the sun beating down, the sky such a brilliant blue that it was more white… then moved to look out the back window, the orange hue that was casting everything to look like the mother of all dust devils was about to encase it all. Distantly, she was hearing the roar of thunder and the rattle of wind, but, now, she weren’t sure if that was her own worries more than anything in the real world.
She sat down on the sofa, but listened closely to the sounds of Butch getting clean. Hands fidgeted with her dress, straightening it over and over, trying to find something soothing in the repetitive action; but not even truly registering quite what she was doing until Butch reappeared. Her short hair was damp, and she’d gotten changed into a different set of clothes, ones that Annabelle had only seen her wear around the house. She carefully perched next to her, reaching out and taking hold of the smaller hands, settling them from what they were doing. Butch looked at her – and then swallowed hard, closing her mouth with an almost audible click before glancing away.
“Oh, now, hey,” Annabelle objected, reaching up to cup her cheek and turn her head back, “We don’t keep secrets from each other, that’s what we agreed. You tell me what’s going on in that mind of yours.”
“I…” Butch sighed, and this time Annabelle caught it – that hint of a wheeze that made her heart sink. It seemed no matter how much they fought back the damage that man had done to Butch’s chest, it always came crawling back. Yet Butch didn’t seem to have noticed it. “I’m worried for you, Annabelle. Now, listen – listen to me, please, don’t go getting angry, now. There ain’t nobody in this world better with a gun than you. Ain’t nobody I feel safer around. And your daddy, well, he’s a crack shot too, and I know you feel safe when he’s here but… the way you came tearin’ out, I thought somethin’ plum awful had happened.” she swallowed again, taking a blink longer than usual to catch her breath, “He told me he was goin’ this mornin’ and yes, I was a little nervous, just for a minute or two. Then I had to remind myself. That man is dead, ‘Belle, and he’s long gone. Ain’t nobody on this farm who’s gonna hurt us, regardless of Mr Parker being here. If I know anythin’, actually, I imagine this is the safest place in the world because you’re here.”
“Butch…” Annabelle trailed off, but, well, she did feel somewhat scolded. And yet… her eyes went down to where Butch was holding her hands, stilling them.
“It’s like the nightmares, right?” Butch murmured, features drawn. “I know you still get ‘em, I hear you whimperin’.”
“Oh.” her cheeks flushed, “Well, yeah. But I wake up, and you’re there, and everythin’ feels alright.”
“Aw, you softie.” Butch teased, and Annabelle slapped her on the arm, prompting a breathless little giggle.
“You hush.” she objected, rolling her eyes, “But… well… it’s true. And… yeah. I don’t feel safe with Daddy not here, no, I don’t. He’s… well. Men like that, they listen to Daddy even if they won’t listen to me or to you. And I don’t want no thing in this life to tear me away from you, you hear me?”
“Oh, I hear you. I don’t want that neither.” Butch shook her head. “But I… I don’t want to spend my life bein’ afraid of every little thing. I can’t. And you can’t, neither.”
A crack of thunder split the air and Butch jolted to her feet, almost pulling Annabelle off the sofa for her hands had tightened around her wrists like shackles. A breath later she let go, cheeks immediately flaring red, dark ringlets of hair sticking to her cheeks. The dry air had shifted to a wet heat, Annabelle could feel the trickle of sweat down the back of her neck, now, and she hoped Daddy at the fair was safe under cover… or, well, if the storm was just hitting here, it most likely hadn’t reached town quite yet. Maybe it would tucker itself out after the farm. She straightened proper, looking at Butch’s face.
“Are you okay?” she asked, perhaps pointlessly, because Butch had gone an awful shade of pasty white considering her tanned skin. “Sweetheart?”
“I’m fine.” Butch said, voice cracking. “It’s – I’m -”
“Come on, now, don’t lie to me,” Annabelle tried to make her voice soft even with the weight of her worry. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t like storms.” Butch admitted, voice limp. Annabelle was the worst girlfriend in the world; it hit her like a thunderbolt had come clean through the house. She had never realised before – all those times when she’d been out in the rain, laughing and dancing – those days when storms had been threatening all day or when they’d hit from nowhere – the rush of rain and cracks that rattled the house – Butch had never been there for any of them. She had vanished – and Annabelle hadn’t made the connection at all. She thought of her girlfriend, young and terrified, curled up in that tiny little hut with the tin roof and her attic room and -
“Oh, darlin’.” Annabelle whispered, “Come, now, come. Hey. The house is safe. You’re safe, now.” she drew Butch in close, sliding a hand around the back of her head into the damp curls, and Butch didn’t hesitate to bury her face into Annabelle’s chest. The other hand rested on her back, as she folded her legs to try to fit on the couch, pressing in close as she could get and sniffling faintly. The rush of water striking the roof caused her to shudder; the air was nearly dripping inside the house too, even as she considered pulling the blanket from the back and draping it over her for the comforting weight but… instead she just rubbed, able to feel the cracking in Butch’s lungs with each touch.
It must be the storm, she mused, own chest tight. Bringing all the damage to the fore.
“Have I told you much about my momma?” Annabelle found herself saying. She tried to keep her voice soft, warm, calming past the clatter of the storm beating the house. She knew it would stand sturdy, even if the shutters rattled and the porch whistled. Daddy had built most of it by his own hands, and he was an excellent builder, no matter what. “She left when I was young, but I still remember her.” she used to hate her mother, for leaving. Her dad never wanted to talk about it, but now… she understood why. He must have been hurting, of course, but she could tell now, in some distant way, he was happy for her. She was being the person she was meant to be, just like Annabelle was, no matter what other people thought. That was the wonderful thing about how Mr Parker loved; he loved the entirety of a person.
“Now momma, she was a firecracker, just like me.” she chuckled softly. “She could scare the feathers off a goose, that’s what daddy used to say, and I think he was proud of that. Couldn’t believe a lady like her could love him.” she smiled, stroking over the back of Butch’s neck. “I always felt safe in her arms. She would take me out to see the horses and the cows, and let me touch their noses, and tell me to be real gentle. She taught me how to hold a gun and how to aim it and how to be safe, too.” she paused. “She had blonde hair, like me; she was shorter than daddy, but she always looked taller, just ‘cause of how she held herself. I got my eyes from her, too.” she paused. “You came to the farm after she’d gone, ‘course. She used to take me out in the storms and we would dance around and splash in the mud.” she smiled. “And she taught me not to be afraid of the thunder. It’s just God dancin’, after all; he throws caution to the wind and dances.”
“It’s… God dancin’?” Butch mumbled, with another sniffle.
“You ain’t never heard that before?” Annabelle questioned. She might not believe in the lord above quite to the degree that many folks did – she’d seen enough practicality and enough cruelty to not fall into those teachings too much – but she still held some kind of belief, even if it was hard for her to put into terms even she could make sense of. She believed in the rain, and the seasons, and the life cycles of all their beasts; she also wanted to believe there was a great force that drove on the wonders of nature and created a gentle place for those that passed.
“My family weren’t much for things like that.” Butch mumbled, catching her breath in rough rasps.
Annabelle had heard little about Butch’s family, at least in the last few years. When she’d first arrived, young and terrified and begging for work, when Annabelle would sneak out to sit and visit with her, she had spoken more then. With so much fear, too. About her many siblings. About her parents, uncaring – they had more important children to deal with, after all. About the plans for her wedding to a boy from another village that she had never met. About her running into the night with a horse and a cow… the only things she had to her name. It didn’t surprise Annabelle, really, that her family wouldn’t have said something as… silly as this.
“So momma told me, what happens, God works hard. He works so hard! So some nights, he calls for music – all the singers and guitarists and banjos and everyone in heaven, he calls to them, and says come, come, we are going to dance. So they all come! All of them!” Butch had sat back a little, now, looking up at her face. Eyes were red rimmed, face blotchy, but she was clearly listening, even as she struggled to breathe. “And that’s what makes all the clouds, all those people all together; and they start to play, and nature responds, too, so she brings the life, the water. And the music plays, and God starts to tap his foot; and then he gets up -” Annabelle started to get up, drawing Butch by her hands, too. “And he can’t resist any more, so he gets up, and he dances! He leaps about!” she jumped into the space in the lounge, and Butch split a faint smile as Annabelle started to dance to nothing more than the rhythm of the rain on the roof.
Light flashed outside and Butch froze; the great crash and peel of thunder and they flinched but Annabelle grabbed her hands, squeezing them.
“He leaps about! He kicks his feet! He’s dancing on the clouds!” she cried out, laughing, and Butch was laughing too, stumbling awkwardly against Annabelle’s steps. “With all the music in heaven around him, and everyone cheering, and he throws caution to the wind and he dances and dances. And it travels, because all of that power can’t stay in one place, and all the world has to feel God dancin’,” she laughed, and Butch was laughing louder now, stumbling across the floor. “So you have to dance, too, in the rain, and in the mud, it doesn’t matter – because you have to dance with God.”
She was breathless herself now, coming to a stop, and it was funny – because she hadn’t ever shared that story before, thinking of her mum in the mud and the rain and how cold and shivery she was afterwards, being dried down and cuddling in a warm blanket with a hot milk in her hands and her parents either side of her, safe from the rumbles and the roars and the rain…
After a moment, she could hear Butch wheezing; she still looked so pale, even if she was smiling, and her own expression fell.
“Well, hey,” she suggested, “How ‘bout we go up to my room and lay down, huh? Let you catch your breath?” the heat at least seemed to be breaking. Butch nodded, resting her head into Annabelle’s shoulder for a moment; they carefully made their way up the stairs, and Annabelle lit the candle, that orange wash having turned the house into a strange, lurid landscape. Butch sat on the edge of the bed and awkwardly kicked off her shoes before burrowing under the thin blanket, Annabelle climbed in next to her, wrapping her arms tight around Butch, nuzzling her nose against the top of her head.
“I have you, Josie.” she whispered. “I’ve gotcha.”
“I know.” Butch whispered back, and Annabelle smiled, even with the tears burning her eyes again.