John Marston (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bornuntotrouble) wrote2012-06-21 01:08 pm
bornuntotrouble) wrote2012-06-21 01:08 pm
Obstacles in Our Path
(After this.)
The sun is peeking over the hills and scrub brush, turning the sky blue-purple-red-orange and warming the dry frigid air.
A crow hopping around the bridge over Gabbin’s Gulch looks up and caws.
And then squawks in protest and flies off because a man on a horse comes thundering over it, horseshoes clomping on the hickory.
Seconds pass.
And then a woman on another horse follows, cursing under her breath and blinking the trail dust out of her eyes and gripping the reins with white knuckles.
It turns out Mister Marston can ride.
“How’re you doin’ back there?”
Try as she might, she can’t come up with a good comeback.
So she puts her head down, mumbles a curse or four (Pappy wouldn’t approve, but dammit, this is her ranch, her land, her race), and spurs her mount on.
Nobody’s ever cleared Sidewinder Pass before her. And nobody’s ever, ever cleared it in less than a minute.
He does. And he does it in fifty seconds.
It’s times like these that she hates his guts.
“Jingle those spurs, Miss MacFarlane!”
“If you know what’s good for you, Mister Marston, you’ll stop talkin’ and start racin’!”
He doesn’t say another word.
But by the time she’s crossed the finish line, he’s already got his horse in the stable and his saddle and brindle off and he’s leaning against the white picket fence and he’s smiling.
A bit of stray bangs fall in front of her face, and she blows them away, glaring at him as he walks up, tips his hat, and offers her his hand, never losing that smirk.
“Miss MacFarlane.”
It’s the little things that really, really aggravate her.
The sun is peeking over the hills and scrub brush, turning the sky blue-purple-red-orange and warming the dry frigid air.
A crow hopping around the bridge over Gabbin’s Gulch looks up and caws.
And then squawks in protest and flies off because a man on a horse comes thundering over it, horseshoes clomping on the hickory.
Seconds pass.
And then a woman on another horse follows, cursing under her breath and blinking the trail dust out of her eyes and gripping the reins with white knuckles.
It turns out Mister Marston can ride.
“How’re you doin’ back there?”
Try as she might, she can’t come up with a good comeback.
So she puts her head down, mumbles a curse or four (Pappy wouldn’t approve, but dammit, this is her ranch, her land, her race), and spurs her mount on.
Nobody’s ever cleared Sidewinder Pass before her. And nobody’s ever, ever cleared it in less than a minute.
He does. And he does it in fifty seconds.
It’s times like these that she hates his guts.
“Jingle those spurs, Miss MacFarlane!”
“If you know what’s good for you, Mister Marston, you’ll stop talkin’ and start racin’!”
He doesn’t say another word.
But by the time she’s crossed the finish line, he’s already got his horse in the stable and his saddle and brindle off and he’s leaning against the white picket fence and he’s smiling.
A bit of stray bangs fall in front of her face, and she blows them away, glaring at him as he walks up, tips his hat, and offers her his hand, never losing that smirk.
“Miss MacFarlane.”
It’s the little things that really, really aggravate her.