Prologue #2
T he goats wouldn’t let her wallow more than a few minutes, but by the time their bleating grew insistent and Abigail finally lay Buster back on the grass, Bogie and Mitch had completed their inspection of the property and taken up their role as family.
They lay each on a side of her, their heads in her lap. When she stood, so did they.
The goat barn was destroyed, and the fence of the attached yard as well.
She’d have to put the goats in the day pasture.
That meant a long night for the dogs, and for herself; the woods held foxes, coyotes, feral hogs, even the occasional black bear.
Animals weren’t safe at night in an open pasture, especially not youngsters.
She stared at the horizon, where the sun had begun to droop toward dusk.
The sky was clear, nearly cloudless. Closing her eyes, she took a long, deep inhale through her nose, absorbing all the scents of the afternoon.
No hint of rain, at least. But blood and torn earth and fear. So much fear in the air.
There was no way she could put all this to rights alone. But who could she ask for help? Without knowing who’d done this or why, was there anyone she could trust? The notion of unknowingly asking for help from those who’d caused this harm made a clump of hot coals ignite in her belly.
One of the goats kicked the side of the trailer. That would be Satyr, twenty-three years old and king of the herd.
Well. There was nothing to it but to do it. Was she going to stand here like a garden gnome for the rest of her life? Of course not.
Dark would fall soon. There wasn’t much more she could do tonight except get the goats offloaded and prepare for a long vigil. She’d have plenty of time to figure out who she could trust and what help she needed.
Wiping the last of her tears away, she bent to collect Buster’s body, but paused before she got her hands down.
No. She didn’t know who might help her, but she wanted it known, what had been done here.
Buster was no longer on this plane, nor were the girls they’d killed.
She could leave their physical remains where they were without further harm.
She stood tall again. “Okay, boys. Let’s get the goats. We got a long night ahead of us.”
Walking to the trailer, she saw the insult scrawled like graffiti on the side of her family home, on the violet paint she’d so happily chosen a few years back. FAT FREAK.
Well, yes. Her shape had always been round and soft, certainly not like a model or starlet.
She’d been called fat often enough in her life not to be surprised that many considered her so.
And yes, she’d been called ‘freak,’ too, often enough.
It was the word closest to hand for most, to describe how they felt when they saw someone who didn’t live the way they thought people ought.
Abigail thought people ought live the way they wanted, so long as they didn’t smear their wants all over other people’s needs.
So yes. She supposed she was a fat freak. And that made those ugly orange letters not an insult at all. Just an observation. The most offensive thing about that scrawl was its ugliness—on her wall and in their hearts.
Ugliness, she could do something about.
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~oOo~
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T he night was long but uneventful. By sunrise Abigail was weary, but she’d thought things through.
Terrible as it all was, none of the property damage meant all that much.
She could replant her gardens. She could repair or remake her generations-deep collection of yard decorations.
The chickens were the truly heartbreaking part of it. Everything else was just stuff.
Well, not all of it was just stuff. She had to get the coop repaired and the goat barn rebuilt, and those tasks were far beyond her capacity to handle alone.
And not much within her ability to pay for the work to be done.
She was going to need some neighborly help—as long as neighbors hadn’t done this in the first place.
She knew where to go for help: the Night Horde MC.
It shouldn’t have taken her so long to figure that out, but she’d never had to ask for such help before.
The Horde had not been much a part of her life.
Though she considered herself, and was considered to be, a Signal Bend resident, she lived well outside the town limits, and she didn’t go into town with much regularity.
Most things she needed she either grew or made herself, or she bartered with neighbors.
The rare times she had need to go into a city, she might stop by a thrift shop or two.
Once a month she made a big run for staples and other things she either couldn’t make herself or didn’t have time for and to deliver jams and pies, or soaps, cremes, and lotions, to various individuals and to shops where she sold on consignment.
Otherwise, she went down when there was a seasonal festival, where she ran a booth and sold her wares direct.
There wasn’t too much about Signal Bend in her daily life, so it took her a while to imagine asking the Horde for help. But she knew she could have full faith that they’d been no part of this mess. Even if they’d had some kind of quarrel with her, this was not their style at all.
So she’d call the Horde and ask for help.