hi guys random cowgirl!tashi blurb before i go to sleep zzZ
“What are you feedin’ that horse, Duncan?” She sighs. Your voice is a constant at every rodeo—but it seems it can’t be helped. Your father—your family’s farm, actually—is responsible for some of the best horses to ever hit the ring. Even hers. So she has to at least tolerate you and the wide set of your shoulders, slung in a buttoned flannel with your thumbs slipped easily into your jeans’ pockets.
…so she spent a little too much time observing you. She’s just applying the same scrutinization she gives all her opponents. See how their weight settles, how they carry themselves… who might be a challenge and who she can roll over like a heavy tumbleweed. And you, with your crooked smile and steady weight, are quite the challenge.
Respect, respect, respect.
“What your daddy told me to.” She murmurs, gaze averted as she readjusts her darling’s bridle. Coco’s always been an unrestrained sort of horse, well behaved even out of all the gear. So she loosens the bridle, confident in her docility, and rubs her nose when she pushes into it.
“Well.” You start, stepping up to offer your own hand to the beautiful roan mare. Irritatingly, her loyal companion doesn’t catch her animosity and has no problem pushing into your palm. It doesn’t matter that you were there at her birth, guiding her into the world. She’s the one who takes care of her. “My daddy’s a smart man when it comes to horses.”
Her irritation must reflect on her face—she’s never been one to constrain her emotions, but she’s still slightly put off that you recognize it. You chuckle and almost reach a thumb out, as if a mother instinctively cleaning a smudge of dirt off of their child’s cheek. Smartly, your hand stays out of her reach—she’s cut extremities off before, her pistol an ever-looming threat. At least to creeps.
“You don’t like me very much, do you, Miss Duncan?”
“Not necessarily.”
“At least let me buy you a drink.”
Well. How much could one drink hurt?
Inevitably, a whole lot. Especially when one drink spirals into three, five, seven. She wakes to berating sun through unfamiliar curtains, assumes it’s the ache of the hangover blooming over her collarbones and down between her thighs. Until she glances, blearily, and realizes bruises pepper darkly across quite a lot of skin, and that the ache in her head and the soreness of her thighs are unrelated—except for that singular thread of you, so deep in sleep next to her you could be mistaken for a bear.
Shit.
She bustles into her jeans and tugs on her jacket, dressing sporadically as she finds the chucked articles. You stir, yet she pays you no mind. Not until you speak.
“W-h’what?” You groan, throwing a bare arm over your eyes. Your bicep throbs with a bite mark, and she’s grateful you can’t spy her resulting flush.
“I’m leaving.” You hum, as if it’s inconsequential, peeking an eye out to gaze at her.
“Alrighty then. Bye, Duncan. See you later.”
You think you hear insufferable tease, an under-the-breath murmur that’s a bit too loud as she storms out. Chuckling, you turn towards the window—quickly distracted by the gleam of gold left on your bedside. She forgot one of her rings.
It rolls, cool and warm jointly, between your fingers. Instead of chasing her past the already-slammed door you quietly undo the clasp of your necklace, slip the ring onto it, and watch as she storms, sun-gleaming and beautiful, away from your house.
Next time, perhaps.
