ain't her rodeo, by lindsey beth goddard

Howdy, y'all!
It's been a while since I offered a free short story. And I think it's important to offer freebies every now and then. They're a great way to find new readers and reward the old ones. So, I got to thinking...
Lindsey, I thought to myself, Wouldn't Ain't Her First Rodeo make the perfect short story to post for free on your website?
It sure would, I agreed with myself, and so, here we are:
FREE SHORT STORY TIME!

Ain't Her First Rodeo has never been published anywhere, online or in print. This is guaranteed to be your first time reading it, whether you are an old reader or a new one. Incidentally, it has been accepted for publication in an anthology forthcoming from Dark Moon Rising Publications, but the editor gave me the "okay" to post it here.

So, please, sit back and enjoy my quirky story about the Old West and one fed-up lady of the wild frontier who's sick and tired of strange men and their bullshit!
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​Lottie listened to the clunk, clunk, clunk of the killer’s boots, drawing closer. His spurs rattled as he stepped into the kitchen. She tensed, fingers squeezed tight around the handle of her knife.

This is your own fault, she thought, for falling in love with a cowboy. Emery was off ridin’ fences. Always herdin’ them cows. And oh, how Lottie needed him now!

She peered at the intruder through the slats of the pantry door, her breath shallow. This man had to be the Fort Worth Fugitive. He matched the description perfectly. Tall, built like an ox, a black bandana over his face. And what Lottie had walked into at the Harlow place had been pure and utter carnage.

He had turned that family into mincemeat, hacked them into so many pieces, Lottie no longer recognized them. But he hadn’t started slicing his victims right away. Lottie saw Mr. Hawlow’s brain matter splattered on the wall of the family room and knew he’d been shot. Killed first, no doubt, since he was the only threat. The other victims were a woman and two children. Worst of all, the killer had been smiling at his unnecessary bloodbath when Lottie had entered the house.

She had managed to bite her lips and suppress the scream that began to form there, but in spite of her good wits, her fingers quaked so badly from terror that she dropped the oil lamp she’d been holding. Lottie had borrowed the lamp from the Harlow family for her walk home from their estate that past eve, on a moonless night, and now, it went crashing from her grasp onto the wooden floor. The sound of shattering glass hit her eardrums like a trainwreck.

That’s when the Fort Worth Fugitive had looked up with his steely black eyes, straight into Lottie’s eyes.

She turned and ran.

It had been strange seeing the sun blazing, big and orange in the sky, as she fled through the front door of the Harlow house, the stifled scream now escaping her lips. Nightmares like this should only happen at night.

“Help!” Lottie screamed. But nobody heard. Weren’t no one around in this patch of the desert but Lottie, the Harlows’ trusty stallion in his stable, another horse tied to a post that must have belonged to the killer, and the killer, not far behind.

She glanced back to see him smile at her and wipe the blade of his knife on his pants, leaving a bright red streak on the faded denim. In a flurry of dust, Lottie made a dash for her home.

Now, she watched The Fort Worth Fugitive from the pantry and frowned. Why couldn’t her ornery heart have fallen in love with a nice millworker or a shopkeeper? She’d give anything to have her husband here. So that she wasn’t alone with a monster. But, no, it had been a cowboy who had lassoed her heart and rode off with it into the sunset, leaving her to fend for herself.

Yet, Lottie had survived too much in life to let a varmint like The Fort Worth Fugitive get the best of her. She had known he would follow her, and she suspected it was less about getting rid of the witness and more about having some fun. Even with most of his face hidden, he looked like a mean, nasty brute.

Floorboards creaked as he stepped farther into the kitchen, and it felt like the whole house shifted under his weight. A yellow onion somersaulted its way across the pantry shelf, nearly tumbling off the edge. Lottie grew stiff with rage. This grass-bellied intruder had grown fat on the spoils of his victims, and now, he was shaking the very foundation of her cozy little home! Emery had built this house, with his own two hands, just for the two of them. The only man who ever gave one hoot about Lottie.

And I ain't lettin' my cowboy come home to a slaughtered wife! she thought.

The intruder spoke to Lottie for the first time, calling to her as if highly amused. “Come on out, you pretty little thing,” he said in a playful tone. “I know who you are. I recognize that face, sure enough.” His tone was playful, sing-song, as if luring a frightened cat out of hiding. “I know exactly who you are, hot stuff. Enough to know you ain’t exactly shy...” He licked his lips, and Lottie could hear the drool slicking them. “Why…you must be the most famous painted lady this side of the Pecos Trail! So come on out! I’ll let you live if you show me a good time, and that’s a promise. I wouldn’t dim the lights of the one and only Madame Divine.”

Son of a bitch! Lottie held back a grunt of emphatic irritation. Not this Madame Divine hogwash again! Lottie was so sick and tired of it!

She understood what the killer’s words meant, but he was dead wrong.

Lottie had learned, years ago, that she bore a striking resemblance to Madame Divine, a lady of the night who ran a successful brothel one state away. This Madame had garnered some fame and fortune, mostly because she lacked the rugged appearance of the average working girl, and instead possessed a soft beauty that was better suited for a theater, or a stage. This was the wild frontier, however. Acting in plays didn’t keep a roof over your head and food in your belly.

So, Madame Divine had entertained many men.

And many men had confused Lottie for Madame Divine.

Sweat collected in Lottie’s coal black hair, which was pulled into a bun, several strands dangling loose from her frantic escape from the killer. The sweat began to drip down her forehead. But she didn’t wipe it. She didn’t move at all. She was preparing for the attack.

She could feel it in her gut, that angry fire that formed every time she was forced to envision some sweaty stranger grunting atop her. Lottie heard him lick his lips again, and she knew he was picturing all the vile things he’d like to do to her.

Weren’t none of 'em gonna happen, though!

“Come on, darlin’. Just show me a good time, and I won’t do you like I done that family over yonder. Cross my heart.” Peering from between the slats in the closet door, Lottie watched him drag an index finger in an X shape over his heart. She rolled her eyes.

She swallowed the lump of fear in her throat and felt it melt when it hit that fire in her gut. She was ready.

Sure, this brute had a revolver, a knife, and a trail of murder victims in his wake longer than the Missouri River, but there was one thing he didn't have: a clue who Lottie really was, or what she was made of.

Madame Divine might surrender herself to this heathen's desires, hoping to be spared if she pleased him well enough, but Lottie? She was armed to the teeth and god damn fed up with men!

Lottie charged from the pantry like a bullet at high noon, her knuckles white around the knife. The sneer on her face and the force with which she hurled her petite body toward him in an absolute rage must have come as some surprise to the man, because she saw his steely black eyes widen above the bandana.

The Fort Worth Fugitive drew his gun in a flash, but Lottie was already diving out of range. Toward the floor, her knife held out to catch his leg.

One thing Lottie had noticed about this loathsome son-of-a-bitch was that he didn’t wear no chaps. Probably ‘cause he weren’t no real cowboy. Just a dirtbag on the lamb, with only a thin layer of denim to protect his legs. Big mistake. Now, as Lottie dove toward the floor, bracing the brunt of her weight onto her right shoulder with a painful thud, she sliced cleanly through that denim and watched the intruder’s blood start to flow.

He howled in pain, but the pain didn’t distract him from Lottie. He stared down at her, gritted his teeth, then grabbed a fistful of her hair before she could scramble away. He pulled her to her feet by her hair and swatted the knife from her grip with his huge bear paw. Then, he put his face less than an inch from hers. His breath smelled like horse shit and vomited booze. She winced, nearly gagging. “I’m gonna make you pay for that,” he said.

Lottie reached for the knife she kept in her dress, in a hidden pocket she’d sewn there especially for a knife. The Fort Worth Fugitive, thinking he had disarmed his prey, wasn’t expecting Lottie to produce a second weapon. He gasped and took a step back as Lottie unsheathed it and plunged the blade directly into his belly.

Blood exploded from the stab wound, a warm geyser that sprayed Lottie’s dress and dripped onto the floor. The intruder shrieked like a wounded gorilla. Then, he raised a hand and delivered a blow to the side of Lottie’s head that sent her sprawling across the floor. Her vision wavered in and out of blackness for a moment, but she kept hold of her consciousness. She was going to survive this. For Emery.

In the early days of their courtship, Emery had been opposed to Lottie’s obsession with knives. He had considered it a masculine trait. But once they were married, Lottie had decided to tell Emery exactly why she had carried a knife in the first place. Dozens of men had mistaken Lottie for a famous prostitute, Madame Divine, and she’d been forced to defend herself against their unwanted advances. Once, Lottie had even taken a man’s life and left his corpse in the street.

Emery hadn’t said much in response to her confession, but after that, he brought home a knife from every cow-herding job, as a gift to Lottie.

She now had a dozen.

So, Lottie saw it as no problem that one of her knives was stuck in the gut of the Fort Worth Fugitive. She’d get it back later. Besides, she had another knife in each of her boots, one strapped to her thigh in a snug little sheath, and several more in the nearby drawers, if she could reach them.

Where it had always comforted Lottie to carry a knife for her safety before, now the knives also reminded her of Emery, and she liked to keep them close when he was gone.

The Fort Worth Fugitive stormed toward Lottie, spurting blood across her freshly scrubbed floors, and this enraged Lottie even further. She just cleaned those! She would have to scrub the floors all over again! And who knows if the wood would ever come clean! This lowlife’s blood might stain the floors of her lovely home forever!

That did it!

Lottie’s veins coursed with lava. Her skin grew redhot. All she could hear was her own heartbeat, hammering in her head, and all she could see was red. She yanked a knife from her boot and attacked the bastard before he could reach her again. She stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.

*

When Emery arrived back home, there was an extra horse in the stable. The inside of the house looked as clean and neat as always, but with the addition of reddish-brown stains on the floors. Lottie had been expecting him home any day now and donned her fine satin dress with the lace frills. Her hair was neatly pinned, and her whole face lit up when he entered.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat, then smiling.

She loved his smile. It could stop a chorus line of dancing girls mid-song. His eyes were a soft green, like the creek in spring, and they always seemed to sparkle when he looked into hers. The two of them had been together six years now, and Lottie thought he grew more handsome every time she looked at him.

She cleared the distance between them in a heartbeat, and they kissed, softly at first, but Lottie pulled him closer.

When they finished kissing, he asked, “You okay, darlin’?” He nodded at the bloodstain on the floor.

“I am now,” she said. And she meant it. Everything was better with Emery by her side. “But from now on, when you go out ridin’ fences, I’m comin’ with ya! No arguments about it! It ain’t no safer here, believe you me!”

Emery looked from his wife to the bloodstain, then gazed out the window at the new horse. He looked concerned at first, scratching thoughtfully at his short, brown beard, but then a grin spread over his lips. “Okay, fair enough. We ride together from now on. ”

He kissed her again, squeezing her hips. Lottie pulled away from his embrace with a smirk. “So, did you bring me a gift this trip, or not, cowboy?”

Emery’s grin grew wider. “I did!”

From the satchel at his side, he pulled an object wrapped in brown parchment paper and handed it to her. She unwrapped the paper to reveal the red-and-white candy stick.

“It’s a peppermint stick,” she said, feeling a bit confused.

“Yeah, I just…I figured maybe you have enough knives by now, and I wanted to surprise you with somethin’ different.”

She began to laugh then. She couldn’t help herself, and she couldn't stop. She laughed so hard, she thought she might drop her peppermint stick. But she held it tight, because it did look mighty tasty.

“You know, Emery, I think you might be right. Maybe I do have enough knives by now. Thank you for my candy.” She took a lick of the peppermint stick, then popped the end of it into her mouth and savored the minty flavor.

Delicious.

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*THE END*

​Thank you for reading!