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Fool's Notion

By Lisa J. Flickinger

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Fool’s Notion
By Lisa Flickinger


Chapter One

Alda tucked her elbow into Bessie’s flank and jabbed. “Bessie, if you don’t get a move on soon, I’ll whoop ya until …” Until what? Until nothing. Alda and the mule both knew the threat was emptier than a rusted out tin pail. They hadn’t moved an inch in over an hour.
Pushing tawny curls up into her bonnet, Alda turned and rested her back against the mule. The relentless Kansas sun brought rivulets of sweat to her forehead in place of the curls. She slid down the mule’s back leg, landing with a soft whump on the dusty ground. Smoothing the green calico of her dress across her lap, Alda stared out across the tufts of thick, prairie grass. A small, brown lizard skittered up to her boot and then disappeared under a bleached stick.
“Fools’ notion,” mamma had said, no more than a week before. And maybe she’d been right — God rest her soul. Why would a woman Alda’s age, with no experience, attempt to drive the most stubborn animals ever created halfway across the country?
A low cough broke into her thoughts.
Alda jumped up, dusted her backside off and scrutinized the man smiling at her across Bessie’s back.
“Ma’am.” He tipped his black Stetson her direction. Dark chestnut waves dusted the top of his shoulders and a two inch scar followed the curve of his right jawbone.
Was the warm twinkle in his eyes on her account? Alda squared her shoulders and straightened her back.
“Could you use some help?” the stranger asked as he wrapped the reins of his mount around the saddle horn.
“I’ll be fine, thank you. I wouldn’t want to hold you up, sir.” Nor was she going to admit to needing assistance.
He swung a leg over and jumped to the ground. “I’m in no particular hurry.”
“Bessie here’s taking a break. We’ll be moving along shortly.” Alda slapped the mule on the hind quarter.
Bessie turned her head away from Alda, flipped her long ears, and stamped a hoof.
“If you don’t mind me saying, ma’am, I’ve been observing you for some time now.”
Heat crept up her neck at the thought of him watching how little progress they’d made. Alda scanned the rolling prairie. She hadn’t heard the cowboy or seen him until now. Pa would be madder than a hornet if he knew how careless she’d become. There was no escaping it, Pa was going to be madder than a hornet, regardless.
Alda brought her gaze back to the cowboy’s. “My mule’s fine. She’s looking out for the others and figures they need a rest.”
The lean cowboy stepped around Bessie and reached out his hand. “The name’s Cord.” His tanned, rough hand engulfed her tiny, white one. She remembered the blisters spread across her palm and withdrew it quickly. “Miss Alda Lealand, a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cord.”
“Cord will do, Miss, I’m not much into formality.”
Alda turned the corners of her mouth up into what she hoped was a polite smile but not a welcome. If the fellow went on his way, she could show Bessie who was boss and get the pack string moving. The other mules had been patient so far and only eyeing up the lush prairie grasses along the road. She could have a mutiny on her hands before long.
Alda pinched her nose with her fingers, hunched over, and coughed as the air filled with a pungent aroma. “Bessie,” she spluttered, “I swear you’re trying to put me under like momma.” As Alda backed away from the mule, she caught the smirk on Cord’s face. He could think whatever he wanted, much more of Bessie’s flatulence and Pa would be planning Alda’s funeral too — if he could find her.
Cord stepped forward and scratched Bessie between the ears. “You suffering from colic, girl?” he asked, his voice low and soft as velvet.
Bessie dropped her head and closed her eyes. Her lips nibbled at the hem of his vest.
“Was your mule feeling poorly at sunup?”
How had he known she was on the road first thing this morning? She could have ridden out from Scott Spring. “How long did you say you’d been watching my progress?” Alda took two steps and pulled Bessie’s reins from the stranger’s hands.
“I didn’t,” Cord said.
“Didn’t what?”
“Didn’t say, but I did ask if your mule was feeling poorly this morning.”
Cord crossed his arms and leaned forward, forcing Alda to tip her head up to search his dark eyes.
“At first light she was, but not since we’ve been on the trail.”
“You’ve been pushing her to mind haven’t you?”
Of course Alda had been pushing Bessie to mind, fifteen hundred miles was a long way to go. Bessie had hung her head and avoided the others at first light, and she’d been reluctant to start out on the trail. The further they’d gone the more stubborn she’d become. Alda figured the mule was upset about leaving home.
“Let’s go, Bessie. It’s time you listen.” Alda let the smooth leather slide through her hand in an attempt to pull the mule forward and force Cord to step out of the way.
He shifted his weight to the outside foot, his hand resting on Bessie’s forehead, blocking Alda’s path. “Your mule’s in pain. I suspect colic. If you have any mineral oil, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Why colic? She hasn’t been into any grain and I didn’t water the mules while they were hot.” Pa loved his mules like family. Alda had spent half her life at his side, caring for them and training them. She knew how to avoid colic.
“Sometimes the mules get too much sand when they’re grazing.”
Alda looked out over the grass along the trail. The soil had been sandy the night before when she’d hobbled the animals. They grew fields of timothy back home — no sand for miles. How could Bessie know any better? How could Alda?
She let out a slow breath. “I’ve got mineral oil. Give me a couple of minutes.” Alda wandered a few paces from the string and turned to eye the animal’s packs. The mules weren’t heaped up, as she didn’t need a whole lot when traveling alone. But leaving the way Alda did, it was hard to remember what was packed where. One quick plucking from the medicine cabinet and she’d filled a third of a flour sack. She remembered throwing something else in the sack to keep the bottles from knocking against one another and breaking, but what was it? Maybe the flour sack was in Old Joe’s pack.
Alda crossed to the fourth mule in the train and loosened the rope tying the bundle together. She reached under the canvas cover to feel for the soft bulge of the flour sack. Her fingers touched solid bags of flour, rice, and cornmeal. It looked like Old Joe carried most of the dried food stores. Maybe she’d been more organized than she thought. She shifted the canvas back over the bundles and secured the rope. Where had she put that sack?
Cord scratched Bessie’s withers. Alda couldn’t hear the words he crooned to the mule, but judging by Bessie’s relaxed hind leg and her floppy lower lip, the mule had forgot her pain.
“Sure you don’t need to be somewhere? If you tell me what to do with the oil, I’ll look after the mule myself.”
Cord lifted his head slowly; his direct stare bore right through her. “It’s no job for a girl — alone.”
Alda’s nostrils flared and her small fists clenched at her sides. “Mister, I think it’s about time you moved on.”
“Like I said, the name’s Cord, and this mule shouldn’t have to suffer because you’re too stubborn to let me help.”
Momma, I can’t help it. “Mister, if I don’t see your back riding away from here in the next ten seconds, I’m going to take my pa’s rifle and shoot a hole through your middle so big the sun will shine right through it.”
For a brief moment Cord’s eyes widened and then he laughed — deep laughter that rolled from his belly. He leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees, to catch his breath.
Bessie opened her eyes and pricked her ears.
Alda grit her teeth and opened her mouth to lambaste Cord again when she noticed her father’s rifle within Cord’s reach and tied to her saddle.
Cord stood up and wiped the tears from his eyes. “Give me a moment, I’ll have the rifle to you shortly, and then you can blast away.” Cord pulled at one of the leather thongs securing pa’s rifle.
Alda knew when to back down. Her temper had gotten the best of her, again, and she’d spoken before thinking. Ma had to remind her daily to manage herself. “Thanks, but I won’t be needing my rifle.” Alda nodded her head toward the mule string. “I’ll take another look for that mineral oil.”
“You mind if I remove her bridle and put her halter on while you’re busy?”
Alda shrugged her response.
Cord’s chuckle followed her progress as she rotated on one foot in the dirt and marched over to check another mule’s pack.
Close to twenty minutes later, Alda located the sack with the medicine cabinet’s contents in Jeremiah’s pack and plunked it on the road. She unwound the twine from the top and reached in to remove a piece of rolled cloth. Two pairs of mamma’s drawers tumbled out onto the ground — stark white against the dirt brown. Pa had asked Alda to have her mamma’s things sorted and given away before he returned from Excelsior Springs, where he’d gone three days before. When he informed her he was leaving, he said he’d been feeling poorly since her ma had died and he figured the healing waters of the springs might cure what ailed him. Apparently taking care of the farm, on her own, was supposed to cure what ailed Alda.
She had put the under things in neatly folded stacks on the bed. When the idea struck her to head out before her pa returned, she had thought the drawers made perfect wrapping for the assortment of multi-colored bottles. Right now, the idea was turning out to be a poor one. Alda snatched the drawers from the ground and stuffed them back into the worn sack.
“They’re not mine,” she said without turning to see if Cord had noticed or not.
“You fixing to open a store?”
So he had noticed. Alda didn’t think the comment deserved a reply. She stalked out across the prairie to fish through her mother’s unmentionables and find the mineral oil. A few minutes later she returned and handed the bottle over to Cord. He removed the cork and handed it back to Alda along with Bessie’s lead.
“I’ll get her into position, and then you can give her the oil.” Cord hooked a finger in the side of Bessie’s mouth and wrapped an arm around her neck anchoring his shoulder under her throat.
Bessie twisted her neck in an attempt to pull herself form Cord’s hold. Realizing it was hopeless, the mule pulled back on the lead and shifted her hind legs to find traction.
Alda tightened her grip on the rope and planted both feet in the sand to counterbalance the mule. There was no way she could keep Bessie from running off and pour the oil down her open throat at the same time.
“Pour it in slow; we don’t want her breathing it in.” Cord said.
Judging by the bulging veins along the man’s neck, Cord was having a hard time trying to keep the mule in place.
“I can’t.” Alda sucked a breath of air into her lungs. “If I relax my grip, Bessie will hightail it out of here.”
“Hold her tight then.”
Hold her tight? Alda was giving Bessie’s rope all she had.
Cord slipped his right hand from Bessie’s mouth. The mule tried to shift her head toward Alda. Alda brought her shoulder to Bessie’s jaw, coming within four inches of Cord’s face. Sweat poured from under the brim of his black Stetson and coursed down his face making clean tracks that disappeared into the collar of his checkered shirt.
His eyelashes were long and smoky, curled up at the ends, the kind a woman would die for.
“The oil,” Cord grunted.
Right. Alda shifted the amber bottle from her fingers to Cord’s while keeping a tight hold on Bessie’s rope.
As Cord poured the mineral oil down Bessie’s throat, she gurgled and gulped like a dying animal, splashing globules of the slippery liquid on both Alda and Cord.
“Let go!” he said as the bottle emptied and he stepped back quickly.
Alda released the rope and tried to move out of Bessie’s way. Not fast enough — Bessie’s shoulder clipped her and Alda fell back on her bottom.
The mule shot a few yards from Alda and Cord, shaking her head as though it might remove the foul taste of the mineral oil from her throat. When Bessie turned, she stood and eyeballed them as though insulted they would subject her to such a practice.
Cord extended his hand. “Sorry about that,” he said.
Alda reached up and took the offered hand. “No one’s sorrier than me.”
Cord pulled her to her feet like she was nothing but feathers.
“I wish I’d known Bessie was in pain. How long do you think it will be before she gets some relief?”
Cord cleared his throat.
Alda looked down and realized she was still clutching Cord’s hand. She dropped it, took a couple of steps back, and then reached up to tuck a stray curl under her bonnet. No Bonnet. She brought both hands to the top of her head in an attempt to tame the riot of red curls she preferred to keep hidden.
“Looking for this?” Cord bent over to retrieve her bonnet from the ground at her feet. He swiped at it a couple of times then shook it, the pea green ties flapped wildly in the wind.
She dropped her chin to her chest and waited for an inevitable comment like, That explains the temper, or I can see now why you’re so feisty. Neither would be the worst comment of all, Where’d all that red hair come from? You or your wife don’t have red hair. Like her ma was some woman of ill repute, or maybe her parents had found their daughter under a tree. Of course Cord wouldn’t say as much, he didn’t know pa and he would never know her ma.
“You gonna take it?”
Alda looked down at the bonnet he’d thrust in her vision and then lifted her eyes for a quick glance. That’s it? No rude comments?
Cord pushed the bonnet at her again and she reached out to take it. She popped it on her head and deftly tucked her curls from view. “So how long, do you think, before Bessie starts feeling better?”
“You’ll have to get her walking to move the oil through her system; she should be feeling a whole lot better by morning. I suggest you don’t ride her anymore today. Alcove Springs is about fifteen miles up the way. It’s a good spot to overnight, plenty of fresh water and good feed.” He turned back to meet her eye. “But I suppose that’s where you’re headed. It’s where a lot of folks on the trail spend the night.”
Alda had heard the name before, but she hadn’t paid any attention. Right now it was just one of the many small dots on her map, the map guiding her to Death Valley, California. “Yes, I plan to overnight at the springs and head out in the early morning.” He didn’t have to know she had made the plan while he was speaking, it was still a plan. “What makes you think I’m on the trail?”
Cord looked over at the string. “It doesn’t appear that you’re on a day trip. The size of your packs would indicate you either plan to get a fair ways from here or you’re in the supply business.”
He was right. Although the packs weren’t heaped, it was easy to tell she was going for more than a few days.
He gave her a lopsided grin. “So how far are you intending to go? It’s a lot of responsibility, a full mule string, for someone your age and —”
Alda put her arms on her hips. “Gender? Granted mule skinners aren’t typically woman, but don’t hold that against me. Under normal circumstances, these mules will mind.”
“Typically? I’ve never met a female mule skinner before; you’re nowhere near the type.”
“What do you mean, nowhere near the type?”
“Loners who haven’t bathed in weeks, men who can let loose with a string of language so colorful it’s like they’re painting a rainbow.”
“Then I must come as a welcome surprise.” Alda realized as soon as she said the words they sounded like she was fishing for a complement. The sooner the cowboy moved on the better. “What I mean to say is I wish you well on your travels, Mr. Cord, and I thank you kindly for your help.”
Cord arched an eyebrow and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “I’ll be taking my leave then. I have some business to attend too. If all goes well, I’ll be seeing you in the morning.”
“In the morning?” Would the man not leave her alone?

“I’d like to make sure Bessie here is all right, but I’ll be arriving late tonight. I won’t disturb you.”
Of course, the mule, Alda’s conscience jerked with the thought of the pain she’d caused the animal. “You’ll be welcome at my campfire in the morning.”
A broad smile creased Cord’s face lighting up his rugged features. “I look forward to it.”
Why did the man cause her to say such things? Mama would have been shocked. “Wh- what I meant was, I’d like to return the favor of your help with a hot breakfast if you are so inclined.”
“I still look forward to it. You have a good day.” Cord tipped his hat and walked over to his mount, waiting patiently several paces away. He put a leather boot in the stirrup and slung his leg over the saddle.
Alda’s, “You too,” was lost in the wind at his back as he galloped across the prairie.
She watered the animals from the barrels Gideon carried and shifted Moses’s, the only other mule broke to ride, pack so he could lead the others to the springs. When they were on the move again, Bessie didn’t look any worse for having to ingest the mineral oil and seemed content enough to follow the tail end of the string. Alda walked for a few miles to stretch out the tight knots in her legs and back. It might be a while before she got used to the long days in the saddle.
The wind brought little relief from the sun’s heat and her lips felt dry and chapped. Alda brushed the back of her hand across them as she thought about the handsome cowboy who’d come to her rescue. A couple of wagons had passed while she’d been fighting with Bessie, but after a polite greeting they’d moved along, most likely because she hadn’t admitted to needing help. It was a good thing Cord hadn’t taken her no thank you for an answer or Bessie might still be suffering.

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