#the cowhand and the crow

[cocktailsfairytales]

𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 by @kendramorenoauthor is #NOWLIVE❕

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🖤 ᴛʜɪs ʙᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴀᴅ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴠɪᴄᴇ-ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢʀɪᴘ. ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴘᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ɪ ᴡᴀs ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇʟʏ ғɪɴɪsʜᴇᴅ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɴᴏᴡ, ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ɪ sɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪs, ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ! - ɢᴏᴏᴅʀᴇᴀᴅs ʀᴇᴠɪᴇᴡ

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✨𝑮𝑹𝑨𝑩 𝒀���𝑼𝑹𝑺: https://amzn.to/3wlUYqQ

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🫀𝑮𝑶𝑶𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑺: https://bit.ly/BarbedWireHeartsTBR

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▪️𝑩𝑳𝑼𝑹𝑩▪️

Kate has always been a city girl. The city is all she knows, and she's fine with that until an ex-boyfriend knocks on her door and destroys all her carefully made plans. Now, she has no choice but to run and get as far away from the city as possible. Head west. Move fast. She doesn't stop until she finds herself in the mountains of Wyoming.

Answering an ad looking for help on a ranch should have been a silly idea, but Kate's never been afraid of hard work and she likes animals. Besides, no one should find her out in the middle of nowhere. Steele Mountain Ranch is safe and exactly what she's looking for, or so she thinks.

Dakota Steele, the namesake of the ranch. Wiley Carter, the horse wrangler. Levi James, the lead cowhand. Each of them is as unpredictable as the Wyoming weather. But not everything is as safe as it seems out in the mountains. Kate may have run from a murder of crows only to find herself in a rattlesnake nest, and everyone knows a rattlesnake bite can be deadly.

The past is coming for Kate. She can't run forever, but Steele Mountain won't let her go without a fight. Out here, they don't call 911.

Come and take her.

Recommended 18+ Check the trigger warnings.**

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🖤𝑱𝑶𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑬𝑨𝑪𝑯𝒀 𝑭𝑨𝑴: @peachykeenas

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✨ #DarkRomance #CowboyRomance #WhyChoose #WhyChooseCowboy #GrumpySunshine #RomanceReader #DarkRH #Reader

[spider-costello]

Yeehawgust: Meowdy

[[back at it again w my cowboy plague doc and their cowhand friend. let’s see how far i get this year. also they have names now bc i was gonna use them somewhere else. (didn’t but that’s neither here nor there.)]]

--

Moss didn’t hear it, but Moss’ hearing had never been good. It was Garnet who heard the little squeaks as they brushed their horse, Garnet who paused and swatted Moss’ shoulder until they stilled and looked around, Garnet who stood listening as intently as a wolf on the prairie.

“What?” Moss asked.

“Shush, I’m listenin’. Heard somethin’.”

Moss shushed. They trusted Garnet’s ears far more than their own; the number of times Garnet had heard a rattlesnake before Moss did was into the double digits. If Garnet said they’d heard something, Moss believed them. Both stood still in the stable, Moss awkwardly holding their medical bag and saddlebags, Garnet with their head tilted so their left ear faced forward. For a long moment the only sounds were the horses shifting their weight and the faint sounds coming from the street beyond. (Moss had already forgotten the name of the town they’d blown into this time; it could have been any one of the frontier towns they passed through. This one hadn’t even asked for Moss’ help, it was simply a place to spend a night.)

Then the sound came again: a tiny voice, not much louder than a mouse, some small animal obviously distressed. Garnet immediately moved towards it, heading for a dim corner of the stables, where a pile of ropes lay coiled in an untidy mess. They crouched down and began carefully moving the rope aside. Moss watched, ready to move if Garnet wanted their help.

“There you are!” Garnet said after a moment. “Aw, ain’t you the tiniest thing.” They slowly straightened up, bent around something held close to their chest, and turned around. A wide grin had lit their dark face. “Look, Moss.”

Moss went over to examine the little ball of calico fur in Garnet’s hands. The kitten squeaked plaintively, her grass-green eyes nearly closing with it. She couldn’t have been more than a few months old, if even that. She reached up and batted at the end of Moss’ beaked mask, making Garnet laugh.

“Can we keep her?” Garnet asked. “Or, naw, I bet you reckon animals carry disease.”

“They do,” Moss said, reaching out to scratch the kitten between the ears with one gloved finger, “but I like cats. They kill rodents, and rodents spread more disease than cats do. You realize the traveling we do doesn’t lend itself to keeping a cat. And she might belong to someone already.”

“I know, but...” Garnet looked crestfallen.

Moss shrugged. “If she doesn’t belong to anyone, you can try keeping her,” they said. “She might run off some night, though. Hard to keep a cat at a campsite, and not all of the places we stay in towns tolerate cats. Might mean sleeping with the horses.”

Garnet’s grin was back like it had never left. Moss would never admit it, but they thought Garnet’s grin was the most blinding thing they’d ever seen. The inconvenience of traveling with a kitten was well worth that grin. “Chance I’m willin’ to take,” they said. “Thanks, Moss.”

The kitten, it turned out, was the last of a litter the innkeeper had been trying to give away for weeks. She was happy to let Garnet have the kitten, even sent up a bowl of cream and fish for her with Garnet and Moss’ supper. The next morning, they rode out with the kitten sitting on Garnet’s saddlehorn like she belonged there.

“What’re you going to name her?” Moss asked.

“Don’t know yet,” Garnet said. They grinned over at Moss. “Maybe I’ll name her after you, call her Winnie. She ain’t big enough for Winchester. Then again, you ain’t, either.”

Moss could only laugh.

[angelpunswriting]

The Ballad of Brooks Murphy

He didn’t know what compelled him to come here, driving for hours on a never-ending road. 

His old chevy kicked up dust as he went and he wouldn’t be surprised if the white paint looked more of a red-brown color later, the dry New Mexico dirt foreign to him.

He’d regret this, he just knew it. 

Brooks was used to the hot, dry sun but he certainly wasn’t used to driving this long on such a shitty road. It was straight, sure, but the nooks and crannies of it made him jump, scared him even. His truck was already roughed up enough, she didn’t need some shitty dirt road in the middle of nowhere to finally kill her. 

Everytime he heard her motor start to scream or see smoke come from under the hood he regretted coming out here. But then he’d stop her for a bit, let her sit and then restart her engine and she’d be fine and dandy. She wouldn’t quit on him on an important day like this. 

See, Brooks Murphy was heading West for a whole week. All to meet a potential cowhand. His first in years. He didn't trust other people to take care of his cows, to water his plants and pick his beans the way they were supposed to. But lately, he was getting’ too old and too damn tired to do it on his own anymore. He hated to admit, but he needed help. 

He’d put an ad out with the help of his sister, who waa much more technically inclined than he could ever.  A couple folks caught his attention, but they just weren't up to snuff. Finally, a young man that had just turned 16 applied, and he seemed like a pretty rounded out kid. However, he couldn’t travel the distance to make the interview, since he didn't have a car and his parents weren't willing to drive him. So, Brooks Murphy got in his truck not even a day later and began the six hour drive from Poteet, Texas to Rodeo, New Mexico. Well, somewhere a little outside Rodeo, actually. There was practically nothing for miles, the sight of the desert mind-numbing at this point. By the time he finally got tp Rodeo it was dark, the exhaustion quickly setting in with the onset of a chilly night. 

The stars were a comfort, at least. They were beautiful, keeping him awake just long enough to get to the address the kid had given him.

It was pretty much the middle of nowhere, their neighbors had to be a few good miles away. The house itself looked a mess, much like something abandoned. It was an old trailer, with ivy growing’ up the sides and trash littering the yard. The little front porch looked just about as weathered as could be, like it’d fall apart at any second. He was apprehensive to even get out of the truck, worrying that this wasn’t the address he was lookin;’ for. Figuring he was wasting’ time, Brooks finally just decided to knock and hope for the best. 

The salt and pepper red haired man strode wearily up to the door, dusting his pants off a little before he knocked. He wanted to try and be at least a little porefessional. 

He knocked sharply on the door, hoping someone was still awake to answer the door. He didn't want to have to wait till morning, he had to get back and tend his farm. 

The animals would be restless without hime, after all. 

It was quiet for a bit, the desert uncomfortably silent, even with the chilly wind nipping at the back of his neck. 

He knocked again, this time hearing the floor creak from inside. 

The lock turned, and the door slowly opened, a youthful face looking’ out at him. 

He looked scared for a moment, then recognition washed over his features. 

“ you must be Mr. Juan Martin Garcia-” 

“Quiet!”

 The boy whispered, stepping outside and slowly, silently shutting the door behind him. 

“ Now listen here, young man, I’m fixin’ to be your new boss, I don-” Brooks started, only to be shushed again. 

“ Please, sir, keep your voice down!” The boy whispered, glancing back at the trailer, listening for that same creak of the floor, “ my parents, they’re sleeping. They might hear you..”

Brooks stopped for a moment, observing the boy fully. He didn't look quite old enough to be sixteen, and he certainly didn't look strong. He was scrawny, his baggy clothes practically swallowing him up. He didn't look like he could lift a heavy pillow, much less a hay bale. 

He wasn't at all what Books had imagined him to be, the older male realizing that this kid had lied. 

And then when that kid suddenly turned his head and Brooks Murphy caught a glimpse of that black eye, he forgave him. 

“ Sir, please let me work for you. I’ll-I’ll do anything..” The raven before him begged, illiciating a sigh from Brooks. 

“ i don’t see why not. You just takin’ the clothes on your back or do ya got a suitcase or somethin’?” he asked, running a hand back through his hair. This would certainly catch up to him in the future, but he figured it’d be better to just go with the flow of it. He needed a cowhand, and young Juan Martin needed somewhere to go. 

“ no sir, thank you sir” the kid practically bowed, Brooks simply shaking his head and heading for his chevy. At this point he just wanted to get home and get some sleep, he’d worry about the repercussions later. 

The drive back to El Paso was near silent, Brooks hardly noticing the boy was even there for most of the ride. Juan Martin only spoke when they finally stopped at a hotel in downtown El Paso.

“ I thought you lived in Poteet, sir” the boy murmured, hesitantly unbuckling his seatbelt as Brooks got out, “ We stoppin’ for the night?”

The older man nodded, “ I’ve been driving since yesterday, I figure this is a good place to stop for the night. Pretty damn cheap, too”

The two got a room, Brooks taking the bed and Juan Martin settling with the fold out couch. The rest of the journey back to Brooks’ home was similar to the night before. Silent, reserved. Neither of them wanted to speak, Juan Martin out of fear and Brooks...just because he was Brooks. 

It was night again by the time they got back to his farm, a hell of a lot warmer than a night in New Mexico. He’d asked his neighbor to take care of his animal for the day, and he was discouraged to see that old coot hadn’t done it right, It was just as he expected. But it could wait til morning, at least they were all fed and sleeping’. 

He led Juan Martin inside his old ranch house, leading him up to a guest bedroom that would be his while he worked here. It had a neat little bed, a dresser and a nice desk. Brooks liked to keep it clean for when his sister came down from New York. 

“Alright boy I want you up bright and early. Dawn, before the rooster crows, got it? Change out of them clothes, too, there’s some work boots and jeans in the dresser” he explained, already starting back downstairs, “Meet me in the barn, alright?”

Juan Martin just nodded, watching the door shut behind Brooks with a sigh. 

Brooks was quick to get to bed, knowing he’d have to get up early and undo the damage of his next door neighbor  before he tried to teach Juan Martin anything. 

The next day went just like that, Brooks having to teach Juan Martin the ropes as well as clean up the mess his neighbor made of his farm. The cows certainly weren’t happy and probably wouldn’t produce as much milk as they usually did. The chicken’s eggs hadn’t been gathered properly and they were already squawking up a storm before he and Juan Martin even reached the coop. 

By the time the day was over, Juan Martin had proved he was a quick learner, even if he didn’t really have the strength to do the work, he still did his best. And Brooks Murphy admired that. As the days passed, Brooks awaited the news of a stolen boy, or maybe even the police showing up at his door. But it never happened. As the dry, Texan summer ended and fall began, Brooks offered to enroll Juan Martin into school. 

Without realizing it, Brooks had become Juan Martin’s adopted father and the two of them wouldn’t have it any other way. 

[gravelish]

Afton WY to Montpelier ID (Day 13)

6 July 2022

My afternoon in Afton allowed me some downtime to figure out my route to Salt Lake City, although it generally followed a scheme I’d planned months ago before visions of ending in Colorado started tempting me away from Utah. While the distance could probably be covered in three days, my itinerary will do it in five. This not only is a more relaxed pace and and better capitalizes on the unevenly spaced towns and camp spots, but it’s now cemented by new train reservations from SLC on the night of the 11th.

Today I could have stuck to the shoulder of US 89 all the way to Montpelier, but chose instead to follow Crow Creek Road, which covered roughly the same number of miles but did so on gravel and without fast -moving traffic (or any traffic at all). From the big arch of antlers in downtown Afton, I headed west across the Salt River Valley, passing ranches and sprinklers and sheep. The road reaches the hills in Fairview and begins its long gradual climb up Crow Creek. Somewhere the pavement turned into gravel and Wyoming turned into Idaho. The well-graded gravel eventually petered out, but the narrower, winding dirt that followed was perfectly nice riding, albeit steeper and more forested and the cows were on the road rather than on the other side of the fences.

I crested Beaver Divide and started down the southwest side, dipping into the valley of Preuss Creek, where I waited for half an hour watching a dozen cowhands trying to flush a couple hundred head of cattle from the brush and the beaver ponds in the stream bottom and move them up the canyon. I had a great view from the road above, well out of their way, but within earshot of the yelling and the whip snapping (I had been hearing the cows themselves for a couple of miles before I actually saw them). When things began to calm down, I approached slowly until I got the nod to pass, trying not to alarm the horses and being occasionally surprised by a cow or a calf bolting across the road. For the next few miles (uphill again) I was clearly retracing the morning’s cattle drive - the gravel was nothing but hoof prints and cowpies and the flies were pretty thick.

It was a long rolling descent to Montpelier Reservoir, at the lower end of which I rejoined the pavement of route 89 and rode the last ten miles into Montpelier.

[realretroroger]

QRKY Radio Playlist For 03/11/20

QRKY – Quirky Radio Playlist For 03/11/20

Listen Free.  Blues, Swing, Rockabilly, Old Time Radio Shows & More.

Click on the individual song titles in BOLD below.  They’re linked to music videos or to online audio files of the old time radio shows.  Or, if you’d prefer to autoplay the music video playlist, just click HERE.  It;s all for fun and for free, so enjoy.

Taylor’s Rock -- Sonny Landreth

Voodoo Woman -- Koko Taylor

Honky Tonk Train Blues -- Meade “Lux” Lewis

Swing Low, Sweet Chariot -- Ebony Three Vocal Trio

Monkey’s Paradise -- Tommy Castro

Saturday Night Fish Fry -- Louis Jordan

One Note Samba -- Sergio Mendes & Brasil 66

Prell Shampoo (Retro Commercial)

See See Rider/Burning Love -- Elvis Presley

Dixie Dawn -- Dorsey Brothers

T-Bone Intentions -- Long John Hunter

Blue Bloomer Blues -- Whistlin’ Alex Moore

It’s Your Voodoo Working -- Samantha Fish

You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere -- Bob Dylan

Is That Clear -- Nick Waterhouse

Winchester Cigars (Retro Commercial)

Honey Don’t -- Carl Perkins

Sewanee Mountain Catfight -- Old Crow Medicine Show

Coyote -- Joni Mitchell

Good-Bye Old Paint -- Wylie & the Wild West

Ding Dong Daddy -- Deanna Bogart

Love My Baby -- Little Junior Parker

Tiger Rag (Part 2) -- Duke Ellington & the Jungle Band

Hush Puppies (Retro Commercial)

Lady Marmalade -- Labelle

Patricia -- Perez Prado

Mistreatin’ Mama Blues -- Big Bill Broonzy

Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans -- Lavay Smith & Her Red Hot Skillet Lickers

Harlem Nocturne -- Viscounts

I Wanna Know -- Golden Gate Quartet

JUBILEE Radio Show (11/20/44) with Jack Benny -- Armed Forces Radio Service

Country Cornflakes (Retro Commercial)

Yama Yama Pretty Mama -- Richard Berry

Thunder and Lightning -- Chi Coltrane

Bad News -- Whitey Morgan & the 78′s

Wayfaring Stranger -- Emmylou Harris

Baggage Claim -- Delbert McClinton

You’se A Viper -- Stuff Smith & His Onyx Club Boys

Hometown New Orleans -- Champion Jack Dupree

Salhapatica Laxative (Retro Commercial)

Demon Rum -- Eight To The Bar

It’s Mighty Crazy -- Lonnie Brooks, Long John Hunter & Phillip Walker

I’m An Old Cowhand -- Roy Rogers

This Train -- Sister Rosetta Tharpe

Moondance -- Van Morrison

No Soup -- Charioteers

One Of The Nights -- Eagles

[cocktailsfairytales]

✨🫀 𝑵𝑶𝑾 𝑨𝑽𝑨𝑰𝑳𝑨𝑩𝑳𝑬 🫀✨

𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 by @kendramorenoauthor is #NOWLIVE

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🖤 ᴛʜɪs ʙᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴀᴅ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴠɪᴄᴇ-ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢʀɪᴘ. ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴘᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ɪ ᴡᴀs ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇʟʏ ғɪɴɪsʜᴇᴅ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɴᴏᴡ, ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ɪ sɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪs, ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ! - ɢᴏᴏᴅʀᴇᴀᴅs ʀᴇᴠɪᴇᴡ

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✨𝑮𝑹𝑨𝑩 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑺: https://amzn.to/3wlUYqQ

.

🫀𝑮𝑶𝑶𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑺: https://bit.ly/BarbedWireHeartsTBR

.

.

▪️𝑩𝑳𝑼𝑹𝑩▪️

Kate has always been a city girl. The city is all she knows, and she's fine with that until an ex-boyfriend knocks on her door and destroys all her carefully made plans. Now, she has no choice but to run and get as far away from the city as possible. Head west. Move fast. She doesn't stop until she finds herself in the mountains of Wyoming.

Answering an ad looking for help on a ranch should have been a silly idea, but Kate's never been afraid of hard work and she likes animals. Besides, no one should find her out in the middle of nowhere. Steele Mountain Ranch is safe and exactly what she's looking for, or so she thinks.

Dakota Steele, the namesake of the ranch. Wiley Carter, the horse wrangler. Levi James, the lead cowhand. Each of them is as unpredictable as the Wyoming weather. But not everything is as safe as it seems out in the mountains. Kate may have run from a murder of crows only to find herself in a rattlesnake nest, and everyone knows a rattlesnake bite can be deadly.

The past is coming for Kate. She can't run forever, but Steele Mountain won't let her go without a fight. Out here, they don't call 911.

Come and take her.

Recommended 18+ Check the trigger warnings.**

.

🖤𝑱𝑶𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑬𝑨𝑪𝑯𝒀 𝑭𝑨𝑴: @peachykeenas

.

✨ #DarkRomance #CowboyRomance #WhyChoose #WhyChooseCowboy #GrumpySunshine #RomanceReader #DarkRH #Reader #RomanceReads

[cocktailsfairytales]

𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 by @kendramorenoauthor

✨𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐨. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑓*𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑔𝑜…

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🖤𝑺𝑰𝑮𝑵𝑼𝑷 𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬: https://bit.ly/3JJWc2j

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✨𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑬𝑹 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑺: https://amzn.to/3wlUYqQ

.

🫀𝑮𝑶𝑶𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑺: https://bit.ly/BarbedWireHeartsTBR

.

.

▪️𝑩𝑳𝑼𝑹𝑩▪️

Kate has always been a city girl. The city is all she knows, and she's fine with that until an ex-boyfriend knocks on her door and destroys all her carefully made plans. Now, she has no choice but to run and get as far away from the city as possible. Head west. Move fast. She doesn't stop until she finds herself in the mountains of Wyoming.

Answering an ad looking for help on a ranch should have been a silly idea, but Kate's never been afraid of hard work and she likes animals. Besides, no one should find her out in the middle of nowhere. Steele Mountain Ranch is safe and exactly what she's looking for, or so she thinks.

Dakota Steele, the namesake of the ranch. Wiley Carter, the horse wrangler. Levi James, the lead cowhand. Each of them is as unpredictable as the Wyoming weather. But not everything is as safe as it seems out in the mountains. Kate may have run from a murder of crows only to find herself in a rattlesnake nest, and everyone knows a rattlesnake bite can be deadly.

The past is coming for Kate. She can't run forever, but Steele Mountain won't let her go without a fight. Out here, they don't call 911.

Come and take her.

Recommended 18+ Check the trigger warnings.**

.

🖤𝑱𝑶𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑬𝑨𝑪𝑯𝒀 𝑭𝑨𝑴: @peachykeenas

.

✨ #DarkRomance #CowboyRomance #WhyChoose #WhyChooseCowboy #GrumpySunshine #RomanceReader #DarkRH #Reader

[cocktailsfairytales]

𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 by @kendramorenoauthor

✨𝑊𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑡. 𝑅𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑤𝑏𝑜𝑦.

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🖤𝑺𝑰𝑮𝑵𝑼𝑷 𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬: https://bit.ly/3JJWc2j

.

✨𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑬𝑹 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑺: https://amzn.to/3wlUYqQ

.

🫀𝑮𝑶𝑶𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑺: https://bit.ly/BarbedWireHeartsTBR

.

.

▪️𝑩𝑳𝑼𝑹𝑩▪️

Kate has always been a city girl. The city is all she knows, and she's fine with that until an ex-boyfriend knocks on her door and destroys all her carefully made plans. Now, she has no choice but to run and get as far away from the city as possible. Head west. Move fast. She doesn't stop until she finds herself in the mountains of Wyoming.

Answering an ad looking for help on a ranch should have been a silly idea, but Kate's never been afraid of hard work and she likes animals. Besides, no one should find her out in the middle of nowhere. Steele Mountain Ranch is safe and exactly what she's looking for, or so she thinks.

Dakota Steele, the namesake of the ranch. Wiley Carter, the horse wrangler. Levi James, the lead cowhand. Each of them is as unpredictable as the Wyoming weather. But not everything is as safe as it seems out in the mountains. Kate may have run from a murder of crows only to find herself in a rattlesnake nest, and everyone knows a rattlesnake bite can be deadly.

The past is coming for Kate. She can't run forever, but Steele Mountain won't let her go without a fight. Out here, they don't call 911.

Come and take her.

Recommended 18+ Check the trigger warnings.**

.

🖤𝑱𝑶𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑬𝑨𝑪𝑯𝒀 𝑭𝑨𝑴: @peachykeenas

.

✨ #DarkRomance #CowboyRomance #WhyChoose #WhyChooseCowboy #GrumpySunshine #RomanceReader #DarkRH #Reader

[cocktailsfairytales]

✨🫀 𝑻𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑨𝑵𝑵𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑪𝑬𝑴𝑬𝑵𝑻 🫀✨

@peachykeenas is thrilled to announce the tour for 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 by @kendramorenoauthor

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🖤𝑺𝑰𝑮𝑵𝑼𝑷 𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬: https://bit.ly/3JJWc2j

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✨𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑬𝑹 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑺: https://amzn.to/3wlUYqQ

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🫀𝑮𝑶𝑶𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑺: https://bit.ly/BarbedWireHeartsTBR

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▪️𝑩𝑳𝑼𝑹𝑩▪️

Kate has always been a city girl. The city is all she knows, and she's fine with that until an ex-boyfriend knocks on her door and destroys all her carefully made plans. Now, she has no choice but to run and get as far away from the city as possible. Head west. Move fast. She doesn't stop until she finds herself in the mountains of Wyoming.

Answering an ad looking for help on a ranch should have been a silly idea, but Kate's never been afraid of hard work and she likes animals. Besides, no one should find her out in the middle of nowhere. Steele Mountain Ranch is safe and exactly what she's looking for, or so she thinks.

Dakota Steele, the namesake of the ranch. Wiley Carter, the horse wrangler. Levi James, the lead cowhand. Each of them is as unpredictable as the Wyoming weather. But not everything is as safe as it seems out in the mountains. Kate may have run from a murder of crows only to find herself in a rattlesnake nest, and everyone knows a rattlesnake bite can be deadly.

The past is coming for Kate. She can't run forever, but Steele Mountain won't let her go without a fight. Out here, they don't call 911.

Come and take her.

Recommended 18+ Check the trigger warnings.**

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🖤𝑱𝑶𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑬𝑨𝑪𝑯𝒀 𝑭𝑨𝑴: @peachykeenas

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✨ #DarkRomance #CowboyRomance #WhyChoose #WhyChooseCowboy #GrumpySunshine #RomanceReader #DarkRH #Readers #Peachykeenas

[spider-costello]

Yeehawgust: Cowboy Casanova

--

It was the slap heard across the prairie, Moss reflected idly, watching with something like pure glee as Garnet stormed across the saloon towards the bar, where Moss leaned facing the room with their elbows on the wood. Moss couldn’t help being grateful for their mask; it hid the smile and raised eyebrow on their face that Garnet would surely have taken offense at.

“I take it he wasn’t asking for directions to the inn,” they said as Garnet came to stand next to them.

“Don’t know what they’re seein’ when they’s lookin’ at me,” Garnet grumbled as they waved to the barman. “Ain’t like I look like a whore, an’ I’m travelin’ with a crow. How come they leave you alone, but not me?”

Moss had very little intention of answering that honestly; if Garnet was determined to be unaware of how attractive they were, with their full lips and the dusting of freckles like stars across their high cheeks, their big brown eyes, the way their smiles lit their whole face, Moss would leave them to it. Instead, they simply shrugged and said, “It’s the mask. No one can guess what I look like behind it and they’re afraid to catch plague if I look at them anyway.”

Garnet made an inarticulate grumbling noise into their whiskey. “They ain’t even got no sense of romance,” they said. “Might could be I’d give ‘em more’n a slap if’n they put some damn effort in, but naw, they just come on up an’ act like I oughtta be grateful they wanna go--”

“Pardon me.”

Moss and Garnet turned to Moss’ left. The man that stood there smiled crookedly, bright white teeth in a handsome sepia face, square-jawed and strong-boned. He tipped his black hat back to reveal proud black brows and eyes the same warm shade as freshly turned earth. Even Moss could see he was a well-shaped man, especially with the way his denim trousers hugged his hips and thighs and the way his waistcoat outlined the almost waspish taper of his waist.

“What, you aimin’ for a slap too? I ain’t interested!” Garnet snarled. “Piss off!”

The man blinked. “Eh?”

“What do I gotta do, wear a sign? I. Ain’t. Interested!”

“No, I...” The man looked at Moss. “I was hopin’ I could buy you a drink, Doc. Reckon we met, some years back. You helped my family through malaria.” His crooked smile came back. “Been hopin’ I’d see you again one day, want to show you my appreciation for what you did.”

Moss tilted their head. They looked at his stance, the way he stood with his hips canted forward and his thumbs tucked in his pockets and the deliberate angle of his hands. His shirt stood open at the neck, showing his collarbone and a slice of muscled chest. His smile broadened the longer Moss took to reply. It was a very calculated display. They didn’t wonder how he’d recognized them; there were no other crows that dressed like cowboys, the way Moss did and always had done.

“No, thanks,” they said. They put their back to him, ignoring his sputters, and looked at Garnet. “Let’s move on, I want to reach the Cleef homestead as soon as possible.”

Garnet, very poorly hiding a grin, set their whiskey glass down. “You got it, Doc. ‘Sides, bet Winnie’s figured out how to get the stable doors open, better make sure she ain’t makin’ trouble.”

“That cat is far too clever for her own good.” Moss tipped their hat to the cowboy, almost as an afterthought. “Good day, hope your family’s well.”

“I-I--wait, if’n you’re goin’ to the Cleef homestead, I could go with you!” The cowboy’s smile was back. “It’s a ways out of town, you ain’t likely to reach it ‘til tomorrow.” He took a step towards them. “An’ nights are cold ‘round here. Mighty lonely. Best spend ‘em with company.”

Garnet scoffed in disgust. Moss turned and looked at the cowboy, the kind of full-on stare that had made stronger, better men turn meek as new lambs. Even with the mask, its force was impossible to ignore. The cowboy flinched under its assault.

“Take no for an answer,” Moss said, “or you’ll find out exactly what kind of damage a crow is capable of. Don’t forget, medicine kills as easily as it cures.”

The cowboy went pale. Moss swept out of the saloon, duster billowing in their wake, Garnet on their heels. Once outside, Garnet let out a cackle like a coyote’s howl.

“Moss, you gotta teach me that look,” they said. “That was the funniest shit I ever seen, I thought he was gonna pass right out!”

“I’ve had to deal with one too many fools ignoring my advice, thinking they know better just because they’re local leaders.” Moss shrugged. “And it works pretty well on overconfident cowboys who think a nice smile is all it takes to charm their way into my bed, even though they’d never be welcome there. Makes them remember what I am.”

“So you’d never say yes to any of ‘em? He wasn’t bad-lookin’, could’ve done worse if’n you’d wanted to roll him.”

“My tastes don’t run to men like him. They barely run, anyway, more sort of... amble, at best.”

“Huh.”

By then, they’d reached the stable. Garnet headed in ahead of Moss, going straight for their horses and the calico cat asleep on Garnet’s saddle. Moss watched them work for a moment from the door, the easy way they had with both their own horse and Moss’ horse, who was a temperamental bastard at the best of times. To Garnet, he was as friendly as a dog. Moss hid another smile behind their mask.

No, Moss’ tastes did not run to men like the cowboy at all.

[spider-costello]

Yeehawgust: Cowpoke Couture

“So why do you dress like that?”

The doctor looked over at the cowhand. They tilted their head. “Like what?”

“Well, like me.” The cowhand gestured at their own clothing. “Like a cowhand. Ain’t you crows supposed to wear long robes and shit? I go into town, an’ all the local crows look like a bunch of monks with big hats and masks. Come to think of it, none of ‘em carry guns, they carry sticks.”

“There’s no way I’m going to spend my life wandering the wilds without a gun. The sticks are meant to be a tool to manipulate patients without getting close, and a gun barrel works just fine for that. I’m not carrying a stick and a gun, that’s just too much bother.” The doctor shrugged. “Technically all we’re supposed to wear is the mask.” They tapped the beak of their mask. “We’re supposed to be anonymous, because we don’t do the work for renown. We should be as indistinguishable in a crowd as possible. It’s a humility thing. In the robes and mask and hat, we all look the same. And  that’s fine in towns, but out here I’d rather dress for practicality. Wearing the robes out here is like trying to cross the frontier in a dress, it doesn’t work.”

“An’ you don’t get in trouble with the other crows?”

“I get sidelong glances and disapproving sniffs, but since it doesn’t interfere with my work they can’t really do anything about it.”

“Huh. It’s just sorta funny, sometimes I forget you’re a crow? Like I’ll be ridin’ alongside you, an’ I won’t see your mask and hat when I see you out the corner of my eye, an’ I’ll think you’re just another cowhand.”

The doctor laughed. “That’s part of why I dress this way, honestly,” they said. “I’ve seen it so many times--one of us in full regalia goes into town, and everyone is afraid of them. It can make it hard for us to do our work sometimes; we come in looking for patients, and since everyone knows we come for really serious illness they hide sick people. The robes are frightening, they’re alienating. I show up looking like just another cowhand, and people are less afraid of me. I look like them, and people tend to trust the familiar.”

“So why do they keep wearin’ the robes, then? Just the anonymity?”

“No, they’re practical as well. The robes are waxed to keep fluids from adhering to them. My duster’s treated that way, but my shirt, my waistcoat, none of that is. There’s a reason I button my duster all the way to my neck and knees when I’m working.”

“Seems like they’re not so practical, then.”

“Oh, I have full robes for really messy outbreaks. Cholera, for instance. My duster works well enough. Besides, the worst part of wearing the robes? You have to ride sidesaddle in them. I hate riding sidesaddle, I always fall off. We’re supposed to be dignified, you know, and it’s not very dignified to fall off your horse every five minutes because you’re wearing a glorified dress.”

The cowhand burst out laughing. “You’re shittin’ me. Wait, is that why I ain’t never seen any other crow actually ride a horse? Y’all always seem to be in ridin’ carriages an’ stagecoaches.”

“The honest truth. None of us like riding sidesaddle, but most of the others refuse to wear anything other than the robes. My mentor can actually ride sidesaddle fairly well, I don’t know how she does it.”

“Y’all know there’re special saddles for sidesaddle, right?”

“You know we get paid in actual potatoes more than money, right? Or carrots, turnips, apples, eggs... whatever someone has to spare. Out here, that’s usually produce, not coin. We don’t even require payment for our services. You know, I got paid in moonshine once.”

“All right, now I know you’re shittin’ me.”

“Not at all. I had to go to this little town to help with a minor plague outbreak, and one of the people I helped paid me with a massive jug of applejack. Two or three gallons, if I remember correctly. And that’s not even the strangest thing I’ve ever been paid with. Anyway, point is, those saddles cost money and the order would rather use what money we do have to buy medical supplies. So I dress like a cowhand and ride like a cowhand, and if my order has a problem with that, they can tell me themselves. I never hear a peep.”

As if to prove their point, the doctor flicked Terror’s reins, urging him into a gallop. The cowhand laughed and followed.

[spider-costello]

Yeehawgust: Snake Oil

[[yes i know thats not todays prompt, its yesterdays but look i forgot yesterday and im writing abt a literal dr i HAVE to do ‘snake oil’]]

“...Guaranteed to cure what ails ya! Yessirree, Abernathy’s Miracle Tincture cures coughs, sore throats, flux, skin complaints, dyspepsia, and has even been known to help with a lady’s time of the month!”

The doctor, hearing the well-practiced tone of a salesman, paused and looked around, eyes narrowed behind their mask. The cowhand, not noticing the doctor had stopped, continued walking for several feet before noticing the doctor was no longer beside them.

“Eh? Doc, where’d ya...” They turned in time to see the doctor heading down an alleyway and hurried after them. “Doc, wait up! What is it?”

“Unless my ears deceive me, I hear a Fraud occuring.”

On the other side of the alley, they found a man standing on a box alongside a covered wagon. The man beamed and waved at the small crowd standing around him, then swept a hand at the side of his wagon. The canvas cover was painted with a lurid sign proclaiming it to be the sole source of “Abernathy’s MIRACLE TINCTURE! All-Natural ingredients GUARANTEED to cure most bodily ills!” The salesman laid a hand over his heart, his expression turning mournful. His impeccably waxed mustache drooped as his mouth turned down at the corners.

“I speak from experience, gentle listeners,” he said in lugubrious tones of misery and heartache, “when I say that I owe my very life to this tonic! Oh, you should have seen me! Never a wretch more miserable walked the earth than I! Beset by the foulest humours, weaker than a newborn kitten, unable to take more than the most meager gruel and water, unable to take a breath, my skin spotted like a flea-bitten dog’s! One day, thinking I could no longer stand to live in such misery, I turned to my father’s apothecary shop and most desperately combined as many herbs as I thought would finally end my suffering.” Here he paused to wipe away a tear the doctor doubted existed. Then his expression brightened. “But lo and behold, gentle listeners! My life did not end, but my health returned! Within mere days I was growing strong and healthy! All thanks to this very elixir I hold in my hand!”

He held up a green bottle bearing the same logo as the wagon. The liquid within was thick and glutinous. The salesman, presumably the Abernathy of the sign, pressed the bottle to his chest like a mother with her infant. “I knew I could not keep such a miracle to myself. So I took to the road, and now travel from town to town, offering my humble concoction to any and all who wish to avail themselves of its wonders.”

The doctor crossed their arms. “Rubbish,” they growled. “Can’t be anything more than blackstrap molasses and water at best, the way it moves.” No one else in the crowd seemed to doubt the man, however, for they began forming a queue to buy a bottle. The doctor understood their desperation; out here, it was hard to find good medicines, and while the crows did their best to go wherever they were needed, there were only so many of them. Often as not, people had to make do with whatever they had. But for someone to take advantage of that desperation struck the doctor as more than cruel.

“You gonna do anything?” the cowhand asked. “People listen to crows. If you tell ‘em he’s fulla shit, they’ll run him outta town on a rail.”

The doctor didn’t reply, but stepped out of the alley’s shadow. “What’s in that stuff, then?” they called. “As a doctor, I’d dearly love to know what makes it so effective, so that I can begin offering it to my patients.”

A muttering went through the crowd, and the rush to join the line slowed. The cowhand was right; they wanted to hear what the crow thought. Abernathy looked somewhat nervously at the ones who’d backed away.

“Well, now, I can’t go sharing my recipe with anyone who asks,” he said. “Suppose you’re not a real crow, and I tell a competitor my secrets! After all, you don’t look like a crow, aside from your mask, which you may have acquired illicitly.”

“Oh, I’m a real crow, all right.” The doctor lifted aside their duster to show their tool-belt. “And I earned my mask the way we all do, through exhaustive training and study and work. Every one of us is an apothecary in our own right, not just those of us who choose to specialize in it. If your tincture really works, then surely you have nothing to fear from sharing the recipe with me. I will endorse it wherever I go, provided it’s legitimate.” They lowered their head slightly. “If it’s not, well. I’ll have to see that you never do business again.”

Abernathy looked very nervous now. “I’m sorry, but I shan’t take that risk. I know how doctors work, they think they have all the answers and that we laymen are mere ignorant asses grubbing in the dark!”

“Doc, heads up.” The cowhand, while Abernathy was distracted, had snuck around the crowd and gotten up to the back of the wagon. They tossed a bottle to the doctor.

Heedless of Abernathy’s indignant cries, the doctor uncorked the bottle and held it near one of their mask’s vents. An eye-watering scent of anise reached their nose. They corked the bottle and turned it around, allowing them to see the ingredients listed on the back.

“Molasses, glycerin, syrup of ipecac, cannabis sativa... oh, and laudanum for good measure. ‘Skillfully blended with other minor ingredients.’ Skillfully, hm. ‘Anise for flavor.’ Well.” The doctor looked up at Abernathy. “The most this will do is give any unfortunate person diarrhea, nausea, and a laudanum addiction. None of these will cure anything.”

“Now, now, doctor, some of the ingredients in there have been taken as remedies the world over--”

“Yes, and we used to believe that putting someone in red clothing would cure smallpox.” The doctor lobbed the bottle at Abernathy, who nearly fumbled it, his face turning crimson. The doctor then looked around at the crowd. “I understand your need for reliable medicine. I know how painful it is to see your loved ones suffer and know that help is far away, or too expensive, or otherwise out of your reach. But trust me when I say that this man is a liar and a cheat. There is nothing in here that will do any good for anyone. Trust me.” They pointed to their mask. “Trust my mask. Don’t waste your money on con men.”

The crowd looked at the doctor, then at Abernathy.

“There anything good in there?” one man asked.

“No. Drinking this won’t do a thing for you.”

Gradually, the crowd began to disperse, several casting dark looks at Abernathy, who had completely deflated. There was no arguing medicine with a  crow, he knew; their knowledge was too widely trusted. A few lingered, seemingly willing to take their chances, but they were gently pulled away by friends or family members. Eventually everyone had gone. Abernathy gave the doctor a dark look.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he snapped. “They’re all--”

“Spared from taking your foul muck.” The doctor meaningfully lowered the barrel of their rifle into their other hand, clearly ready to raise it at a moment’s notice. “If I ever catch you peddling this garbage again, I’ll cripple you. I’ve had to treat too many people poisoned by men like you. I’ll be warning the order about you, as well. We’ll see to it that you’re out of business for good.”

Abernathy looked at their rifle, then away. The doctor eyed him a moment longer, then nodded to the cowhand, who jumped out of the wagon and came over. They both turned their backs on Abernathy and headed back the way they’d come.

[spider-costello]

Yeehawgust: Dead Man’s Hand

Bill was beginning to regret leaving home that evening. He’d felt off all day, woozy and weak, unwilling to even get out of bed. He’d almost decided to forego his usual poker night with his friends from the ranch where all four worked as cowhands, but his wife had insisted he go.

“It’ll be good for you,” she’d said. “Take you out of yourself. You’ve just got the morbs, is all, and sittin’ around at home ain’t gonna help. Go on, go see your friends.”

So he’d levered himself out of bed and out the door, hoping she was right. She understood melancholia, he knew, it ran in her family and he didn’t doubt she knew the signs when she saw them. But he’d had his own spells of melancholia before, and this felt different. He almost felt like he was heading for a flu; his head ached, sick heat washing in waves through his body. His neck and legs hurt, too, sharp pains near his jaw and his groin. But he went anyway. The saloon was overloud and overwarm, the whiskey burned his throat more than usual, but still, he was glad to see the boys. Liam dealt first, Jed kicked off the betting, and they were off and running.

Bill could barely focus on the cards. Sweat ran into his eyes almost constantly, making the shapes and numbers blur and swim. Johnny noticed Bill was off after the second round, when Bill laid his hand facedown and sat with his head in his hands for a moment.

“You okay, Bill?” Johnny asked, laying a hand on Bill’s arm. “You’re burnin’ up, you sick?”

“Might be,” Bill said, wiping his forehead and then his mouth with his bandanna. “Been off all day. Would’ve have come, if Annie hadn’t made me. She said it was just the morbs, but I think I got a sickness.”

“You most certainly do, sir.”

At that muffled voice, everyone looked up to see a crow peering down at Bill’s neck. Bill shuddered; crows scared him badly. Not only did their presence mean someone was gravely ill, but their long-nosed masks with their dark lenses made them seem inhuman. There was no reassurance to be found in those masks, no hope for those they’d come to visit, in Bill’s opinion. He knew some preferred crows to regular doctors, since the crows’ reputation for excellence was well-deserved, but Bill wanted to see a human face. He didn’t trust someone whose face he couldn’t see. Reflexively he leaned away from the crow.

Their head tilted in a birdlike little gesture. “Sir, please allow me to examine your neck,” they said. “It won’t take but a moment.” This one didn’t dress like the others, he realized; they wore the same waistcoat and trousers and duster as the cowhands did. If it wasn’t for their flat-brimmed hat and long scarf (and, of course, the mask), Bill wouldn’t have realized what they really were. But they didn’t wear guns; they wore medical tools in a kind of side-holster--syringes and forceps and scalpels. Still, the fact that they looked like just another cowhand made him trust them a little more than he might have otherwise.

Bill swallowed hard, wincing unconsciously when his throat protested the action. He really was sick, he realized, and badly. He didn’t like crows, but they were the best doctors around. He tipped his head away from the crow.

“Aw, Bill,” Jed whispered in aggrieved awe.

“What?” Bill demanded. “What is it? Jed? Liam?” Neither spoke, just looked at him with something like pity. He looked at the crow, who was leaning back.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the crow said. “But there is a bubo on your neck.”

Bill felt cold, for all that he’d been burning up all evening. “No, that’s...” He swallowed again, throat and mouth suddenly dry. “How, I ain’t... I ain’t seen no rats, no prairie dogs, no... it can’t be.”

“Please come with me, sir.”

Bill started to stand, ready to argue that he didn’t have plague, he couldn’t have plague, everyone knew it came from rats and the prairie dogs and he hadn’t been near either one, all he’d come near to lately was a sick ground squirrel--but his legs wouldn’t support him. They gave out and he collapsed. He grabbed at the edge of the table, bringing it down with him, silencing the entire bar with the noise. The world started to fade around him, voices of his friends and the crow going faint, his vision going dim. He saw his cards flutter down on top of him: the queen of hearts, two black aces, and two black eights.

“Thought that squirrel didn’t taste right,” he mumbled. It was his last thought before he passed out.

[spider-costello]

Yeehawgust: Ghost Riders

The fire was banked low, just bright enough to flicker in the lenses of the doctor’s mask, not bright enough to disrupt their night vision or attract curious predators (whether four-legged or two), just hot enough to warm the doctor’s hands if they reached out. The cowhand slept on the other side, wrapped in their bedroll, occasionally twitching like a dreaming dog. Nearby, their horses rested quietly in the long grass, heads just visible. The doctor couldn’t see over the tops of the grass; it was waist-high when they stood, and sitting was well over their head. Still, there wasn’t much to watch for--the Great Grass Sea didn’t support predators large enough to bother them, and the bandits didn’t bother straying so far off the main trails. Even if something did come close enough with the intent to cause trouble, the doctor’s long rifle and bullet pouch were near at hand. The doctor wasn’t too worried.

They glanced at the cowhand, and upon seeing that not only was their back was to them, but that they were fast asleep, the doctor lifted their mask away from their face. They sighed with relief as the night breeze touched their face, cool and refreshing after the confines of their leather mask. They were honored to wear the mask, were perfectly willing to endure its discomforts for the sake of the order, but by the gods, it was hot. They laid their mask in their lap and tugged the leather cord from their hair, which they wore tied back to keep out of the mask straps and buckle, and scruffed their fingers through it to lift it from their scalp.

They leaned back on their hands to stare at the night sky. It really was a fine night, between the cloudless sky and the gentle breeze whispering through the grass. The doctor loved being a crow for nights like this, quiet and peaceful, far away from civilization. It had its uses, civilization, certainly; medicine, for one, since a settled population was able to find cures to diseases that a nomadic population didn’t always have the wherewithal to search for. But the doctor was a solitary soul and always had been, and they much preferred traveling the wilds to wherever they were needed most than staying in one place, seeing the same faces and places day after day.

They did enjoy having the cowhand at their side, though. The pair had been traveling together since the cowhand had delivered a load of medical supplies to a mining town that the doctor had been helping in. The cowhand stayed to help the doctor, despite the risk of dying from the virulent flu that was sweeping the town. They hadn’t been able to save the town; too many had died. When the miners abandoned the town, the cowhand and the doctor left together. They hadn’t separated yet. 

One of the horses snorted, and the doctor saw his head lift from the grass. It was their horse, Terror, and his ears were flicking back and forth. The doctor frowned. They picked up their rifle, checked it to be sure it was loaded, and cautiously got to their knees. They trusted Terror’s ears more than their own; if he seemed to have heard something, then the doctor didn’t doubt there was something out there to hear. From their knees they couldn’t see anything, and they slowly stood. There was still nothing immediately evident--there. A light bobbing in the darkness, no more than a mile off. The doctor went back down and pulled their mask back on, then stood back up.

In the time it had taken them to put their mask on, the single light had become three. As they watched, more lights began to appear, winking into existence like candles. It put them in mind of the spooklights they’d seen near Pulilla, when they’d watched twenty spooklights appear out of the scrub as twenty of Pulilla’s citizens died of cholera. The doctor stepped around the fire and nudged the cowhand with the butt of their rifle.

“Hm--wha--doc? What’s-what’s up?” the cowhand mumbled, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”

“Take a look.”

The cowhand got to their feet and followed the doctor’s pointing hand. Their jaw dropped.

“Holy gods,” they murmured. “What’re those?”

“No idea.”

The lights were moving, speeding along the horizon like riders on horseback. There was no discernible source; the bright moon should’ve illuminated whatever was causing the phenomenon. The lights were simply hovering above the grass.

“Horses,” the cowhand said suddenly, “hear ‘em? I can hear hoofbeats, but I can’t feel ‘em.”

The doctor could hear them too, the thunderous rumble of an entire army of riders, but the ground was still. From the sound, it was as though hundreds of horses were riding less than a mile away from them, and under so many hooves the earth ought to have trembled, and yet all was still. The doctor heard their own horse let out a frightened sound, heard the cowhand’s dun mare Lily echo it.

“See to the horses, they might bolt,” the doctor said, watching the lights.

“Right.”

A new sound was becoming audible, soft at first but growing louder and louder: the yells and whoops of a charging army, the rattle of sabers and clatter of rifles. The lights swung around and came straight for the doctor and the cowhand’s camp. Now the doctor could see the grass parting as if to horses riding towards them, could almost see the moonlight glinting off belt buckles and rifle barrels and saber blades. The doctor was frozen, transfixed by the sight of what was apparently a ghostly army charging straight for them.

“Doc, run!!”

It was too late to run. The doctor simply dropped and curled into a ball, their hands linked over the back of their head. The thunder of the phantom horses was deafening, seemingly endless, interspersed with war whoops and the shouts of the men riding them. The doctor couldn’t see anything around them, their mask cut off most of their peripheral vision, but they saw an invisible hoof clip the barrel of their rifle--it did no damage to the gun, but it struck a clear spark nonetheless. They could hear Terror and Lily both screaming in terror, and the cowhand was yelling incoherently as they tried to keep them from bolting.

And then it was over. The sounds faded in seconds, until the night was as quiet as it had been before the ghost army. The doctor stayed curled a few moments longer, heedless of the cowhand’s frightened yelling for them, and then slowly lifted their head. There was no sign of the ghost army’s passage, no trampled grass or hoofprints. The lights were gone. The campsite was undisturbed, exactly as it had been before the army came through. The doctor stood, staring all around in confusion.

“Thank the gods!” The cowhand hurried over, holding Terror and Lily by the reins. Both living horses still looked spooked, but not on the edge of bolting. “I thought you got trampled for sure!”

“Did you see anything?” the doctor asked, turning to the cowhand. “What did it look like?“

“Like wind in the grass,” the cowhand said, their face pale. “I could see the lights, an’ I could see the grass movin’ like there was horses comin’ through, an’ once or twice I thought I saw the moonlight hittin’ somethin’ shiny, but other than that, I couldn’t see shit.”

The doctor nodded. “That’s exactly what I saw as they came towards me.”

“What the hell was it, though?”

“I don’t know, but I’d be happy to find a new campsite.”

The cowhand shuddered. “Me too. It’ll be dawn soon anyway, let’s just get goin’.”

The doctor nodded their agreement, and the two quickly broke camp and mounted up. They rode off.

Some twenty feet from their campsite, the curve of a bleached skull gleamed in the moonlight. Beneath the skull were the remains of thousands of dead soldiers, killed in a war that had ended long before either the doctor or the cowhand had been born, uncollected by either side and abandoned to the wilds, unmourned and unremembered, buried only by time and weather.