Wings of Rapture: Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Taryn grimaced as her feet finally touched solid ground. Energy crackled. Tiny whimpered behind her ear hidden in the small compartment she’d built into her mini hat. She really should have left her home. The sky lit up with blue light. The hair on her neck rose with the static. They’d had to land early because of the storm. It seemed fitting with the whole trip. 

From the moment her publisher had handed her the packet with tickets and information about her destination she’d had a bad feeling. She’d had nightmares and disturbing dreams so bad she’d barely slept for more than two hours at a time. She was sure she looked horrible under all the makeup she’d slathered across her face to hide the exhaustion.

“As soon as the storm passes we can be on our way.”

Taryn glanced to the pilot as he picked up her carry-on. He had been polite enough though he clearly didn't want to be going where she was headed. Quiet a few times he’d muttered something about a curse on the town that he wanted nothing to do with. It had intrigued her.

“How far away are we?”

“Bout three hours.”

“Oh.” To long to call for a ride. She bit her lip uncertain what she should do.

“I’ll get ye set up at the B&B for the night. Storm should pass by morning.”

Tiny chittered softly against her ear. Taryn nodded. She’d at least have to call and let them know she’d been delayed. She nodded and followed him off the small runway just before the rain came. Luckily the B&B wasn't far from the little airport. She was also grateful that she packed extra clothes in her carry-on and she’d been sure to carry cash with her this trip. Hopefully this B&B had decent food.

The building would have been quaint if she hadn't felt the energy spiking into her from the moment she went near it. It was all she could do to stand next to the pilot at the welcoming front desk while he got them rooms for the night. Her fingers twitched as if she had a live current flowing through her. Even Tiny was nervously bouncing around in her little jar.

“I don’t have much room. This storm seems to have stranded many tonight.”

“Please don’t worry about me. I don’t sleep much anyways.” Taryn shifted her bag glancing around the front hall. There was no way she’d be able to sleep anyways. “I’m just going to call and let them know we've been delayed.”

The pilot nodded signing for a room. She pulled her cell phone out as she found a quiet isolated spot in a front parlor. Despite the unnerving energy she had to appreciate the Victorian decor mixed just right with the modern convinces.

“Hello?”

The deep voice startled her so that she pulled the phone away to double check the number. It was the correct number.

“Hello?”

“Oh, uh, yes. I was looking for Paul Vorrick.”

“He’s busy. Want me to give him a message?”

“Yes, please. Could you let him know that I was delayed. There’s this nasty storm and the pilot said we can’t fly through it.”

“And who are you?”

“Taryn Bowyd.” There was a pause as if her name had surprised him.

“Where are you?”

“According to the pilot about three hours away, but the storm’s supposed to be pretty bad.”

“I haven’t heard anything.”

“It’s been all over the news. They were even telling people to leave work as soon as possible. Their expecting power lines to go down and possibly flash floods.”

“Hold on.” Taryn pulled the phone away again looking at the phone as if it had grown a head.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes. I think so. I’m just letting Mr. Vorrick know we’re delayed. I’m on hold actually.”

“You there?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m still here.”

“Look, Paul really needs you here by the morning so I’m going to drive out to get you.”

“Do you think that’s safe?”

“Safe or not it’s the only way. Where are you at?”

“The Rose and Tea Bed and Breakfast Inn.”

“Perfect. I know it well. Have your things ready to go.”

“And who exactly are you?”

“Al. Paul’s twin. See you in a couple hours.”

The phone disconnected before she could ask for a description. Tiny chittered next to her and she groaned.

“I know. He does sound sexy, but that’s not why we’re here. No relationships. Besides, can you imagine his reaction to you?” She paused and glanced around the room. “To any of the others? He’d think I was insane, try to lock me up and throw away the key. No thank you. Look at Sarah. Nope. Not for me.”

The hair raised on the back of her arms as the air boomed with thunder. Out of the corner of her eyes she caught movement. She turned but nothing was there. Tiny squawked loudly in her ear making her jump.

“Enough of that.” She whispered to Tiny. Tiny shrank down pulling her energy close enough to be hidden. Chills chased over Taryn’s body. Tiny didn't usually act so frightened.

“Did you get through?”

“Yes. Do you think we could run over to your plane and get my baggage out? Mr. Vorrick is sending someone to pick me up tonight.”

The pilot frowned looking out the window at the rain pouring down. He grimaced but sighed. “I suppose we could.”

“I’d be happy to help.” A young man, a teenager really, spoke from the door to the front hall.

Taryn looked up surprised at the intrusion. The boy blushed and stuffed his large hands into his dark jean pockets. His crisp black shirt contrasted with the lime green vest. Taryn smiled. A fellow Steampunk. The energy in the room lightened just a little, enough that Tiny pressed up against the glass jar.

“Your her aren't you?”

“Who?” The pilot twisted his head between Taryn and the boy his face scrunched in confusion.

Taryn laughed standing up. “How do you do?” She held out her hand with her fingers facing the floor. His chest puffed up and he stepped into the room as if he’d just been made man of the house. She was very glad she’d kept her persona in place while traveling. Even if traveling in a corset wasn't the most comfortable.

“You are her.”

“Who?”

“Miss Bowyd. Uhm…” He blushed bright red dropping her hand as if it had burned. Taryn laughed at the pilot’s face.

“I gather you've read one of my books.”

“All of them. You’re my favorite.”

This was one of the things she loved the most about writing. Getting to meet the people who make writing a full time job gave her pleasure that would last for weeks.

“What’s your name?”

“Oh. Uh. James. James Willingham.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Willingham. I’m sure my pilot would appreciate your help.”

“Are you staying here?”

Taryn hated to disappoint the boy. “I’m on my way to Graves Hall. The storm stranded us for the night, but I have someone coming to pick me up in a couple hours.”

“Oh.” His shoulders slumped a little.

“But I wouldn't mind some company while I wait. If you’re staying here.”

“My parents own it.”

“How wonderful.”

Electrical energy zapped through the air. Taryn felt her shoulder blades twitch with unease. The house shook with the next boom of thunder. Tiny fluttered so fast the jar trembled against her hat. Taryn reached up with shaking fingers and removed the hat. Tiny would do better freed and she would feel more stable with her companion able to communicate freely.

“I think we’ll have to wait.” The pilot nodded to the window.

The rain was hitting the glass with such force Taryn thought for sure it would chip the thin covering. She swallowed.

“I think the storm hit in full force.” James spoke stepping up to the window. He looked more fascinated than scared. Although Taryn had to admit she didn't care for storms. Storms brought up a lot of energy. She glanced around the room. That excess energy was definitely stirring up stuff.

“In that case, I’m going to bed. I’ll drop your baggage off first thing in the morning.”

Taryn nodded her gaze locking onto a shadowy form in the right corner of the room. She gulped. Tiny moved behind her. That wasn't a good sign.

“So what are you doing at Graves Hall?” James spoke moving around her.

“I’m speaking at a charity event.” Taryn turned trying to put the shadow person from her mind. She wasn't sure it had sensed that she could see it, but she really didn't want to deal with it at the moment. She sat back down rearranging her skirts and bustle so that she could lean back somewhat. James frowned.

“At Graves Hall?” She nodded. “I haven’t been there since last summer, but it didn't look very nice.”

“What do you mean?”

The shadow pulled away from the corner as if it had just realized she could sense things. James turned his head toward the motion, scowled then turned back to her. He either had sensed movement or he’d seen it.

“There’s this rumor about the town.”

“Do tell. I love stories.” She smiled trying to break the tension starting to suck the air from the room. 

She wasn't sure how she’d be able to sit in the building for next couple of hours. James laughed but his gaze kept drifting to the shadow circling them as if getting a lay of the land. Tiny slipped into her hat hiding her presence.

“Well, I don’t know the exacts. It had something to do with that guy and his son who made the wings-”

“Icarus?” Taryn swung her full attention to James. He smiled nodded. 

“Icarus and his father were stuck in the Labyrinth in Crete. In order to escape his father constructed wings for them out of wax and feathers. He warned his son not to fly too close to the sun for the sun would melt the wax. Icarus didn't listen enjoying his flight too much. The sun melted the wax and he fell.”

“Yeah. That’s the story.”

Taryn frowned. Icarus had been to start of the idea from her publisher. Supposedly Greek mythology was going to be the next big thing and the house wanted her to try it. She’d figured it might have merit, but almost three months in she was starting to lose hope. But perhaps not now.

Glass shattered to the left. Taryn jumped off the couch twirling to the sound. James gasped jumping up as well. The shadow form came forward and stared at Taryn. Someone ran into the room.

“What happened Jammie?”

“I don’t know, ma. Something broke.”

Taryn couldn't pull her gaze from the figure. She swallowed. Thunder boomed again shaking the house. A child cried out in fear. She wanted to leave. Desperately. She even took a step back.

“Did one of you knock something over?”

“No, ma. Honest.”

The room lit up with blue light. Someone else screamed.

“Oh lord!”

“Do you think we should move everyone to the tv room ma?”

Another bout of thunder and this time the couch slid across the wooden floor boards knocking into Taryn’s legs. Her knees buckled and she plopped down onto the cushions. The energy changed turning darker.

“That would be a good idea.” Taryn spoke turning her back onto the shadow trying to portray that she wasn't afraid when in fact she was terrified. She hadn't had dealings with something like what was clearly trying to scare everyone in the house. The need to leave was even stronger. She glanced over her shoulder. Something white flickered behind the shadow. Taryn bit her lip. Damn!

Then all hell broke loose. Thunder slammed through the air. Lightening pulsed through the tree right outside the window. With a groan and what sounded like a scream the old oak split crashing right into the room. Something, Taryn assumed a branch, smacked her in the temple throwing her to the floor. For a brief second she thought she heard laughter.

Alarik grimaced at the thunder shouting warnings as he drew closer to the bed and breakfast. The author had been correct. Even now the radio was broadcasting reports of power outages and flash floods. It had taken him half the time to get to the town, but there had been some close calls as the rain had made the country roads slick. Sirens wailed in the distance and occasionally he caught glimpses of lights flashing but as he pulled into the city he was amazed at the amount of neighborhoods with no power.

He slowed before turning and grimaced as his shoulders began to itch again. He rubbed against the leather seat but it only seemed to make it worse.

Alarik glanced around the neighborhood as he pulled in. The once bustling area looked deserted until he rounded the last corner. Fire, ambulance and police hustled and bustled around the B&B. His stomach dropped. His mouth went dry. His shoulder blades burned.

He parked the old American Mustang behind the emergency vehicles. As he emerged from the car a young teenage boy stumbled from the old Victorian front porch looking dazed. Alarik pushed his way past onlookers as the sky opened up again. The temperature dropped while his othersenses opened. He paused for just a second. He shouldn't be able to sense anything more than the usual ghosts, which was common for an area so old.

“I’m fine. Really.”

Alarik spun towards the female voice. The woman glowed like a beacon in the dark hectic night. His othersense screamed at him to move towards her and protect her back. His gaze lifted to the windows of the second floor. Half of an old oak had crashed into the building on one side.

“Miss Bowyd-”

“Honestly. Please spend your energies on the pilot. No one seems to have seen him in a while. He mentioned going to bed.” She moved away from the ambulance worker and staggered. Alarik found himself instantly by her side steadying her before the other man could touch her. He frowned. He hadn't thought to teleport and the show of power unnerved him. So did the spike of jealousy that pulsed through him at the thought of her touching another man.

“I’m fine.” She insisted pushing away from him.

Blue light blinked from under her tangled hair. Alarik blinked thinking his eyes played a trick on him.

“You look a little unsteady.”

She spun, her blue eyes wide in surprise. He wrapped an arm around her to steady her. Light from a torch flashed over her face and he caught his breath. He understood why the paramedic had been concerned with her. Blood trailed down her face from a large gash along her right temple. Her eye was already starting to swell.

“Miss Bowyd, you look like hell.” He spoke trying to relax her. She blinked up at him.

“I feel like it. You must be Al?”

“At your service.”

“That was fast. Or did I loose more time than I thought?” She frowned then winced when the motion pulled on the wound. Fresh blood began to roll down making a new trail.

“I was fast.”

“Oh. Good.” Her knees buckled as her eyes rolled back. He gulped down the instinct to using healing energy on her. That would be dangerous not only for her but for his people.

“She should be looked at.”

“I completely agree. I’ll take her over. What happened?”

“Lightening strike hit the old oak. Split it straight into the old inn. Seems the lady here was in the front room. Took a branch to the face. It could have been worse. The lady who owns the building was hit in the chest. Broke several ribs and punctured a lung.”

Alarik whistled scooping her up into his arms. He carried her over to the ambulance.

“I can clean her up and stitch her, but she really needs to be at the hospital for observation. She very likely has a concussion. She was lucky. Another few centimeters would have killed her.” The paramedic nodded to the gurney while pulling out supplies.

“I’ll take care of her once your done.”

He shrugged but cleaned the wound. The teenager stumbled to the open doors looking less confused.

“Is she?”

“She’ll be alright. You know her?”

“She’s Miss Bowyd. American Steampunk writer. She’s the best.”

“You sound like you read her stuff.” Alarik glanced at the boy. His face flushed red in embarrassment but he pulled his lime green vest over his stomach and puffed up his chest.

“Every book.”

“Do you drive?”

“Yes sir.”

Alarik pulled out a business card. “My brother and I are hosting an event next week. If your mother can spare you for a few days you should come. I’m sure Miss Bowyd would enjoy your company.”

“Uhm, thanks.” He took the card as if it was an invitation to a royal event.

Miss Bowyd cried out returning to awareness as the paramedic stitched the wound close. Alarik turned back to her wanting to slug the guy for hurting her. A completely irrational emotion. She tried to move away from the needle still in her skin. Without thinking he set a stillness spell to her while the paramedic finished.

“You sure you want to take her in?”

“I promise to take care of her.” He let the spell up as police and firefighters raced around the ambulance grabbing equipment.

“Found the pilot. Doesn't look good. Need you now.”

The paramedic grabbed a bag and the end of the gurney as Alarik swung her up. She groaned. Electricity jolted through his hand as if he’d touched a live wire. His othersense screamed. He almost dropped her.

“Are you taking her tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“They were talking about getting her baggage from the plane before the storm really hit. She had one bag with her when they came in. I think I can go find it.”

“That would be great. Thanks.” Alarik watched as the boy weaved his way back into the building.

“He’s sweet. Remind me to send him a card and a signed copy of my books.”

Wings of Rapture Chapter One

Wings of Rapture: Chapter One

Mae Pen

Taryn glared at the screen in front of her. This wasn't going to be easy but damnit she was going to finish the stupid story even if it killed her. Hell, at this rate it just might. Who would want to read about a stupid pair of enchanted wings anyways? Stupid publisher. Stupid editors. Stupid idea. She pushed away from her desk with a huff. Maybe some fresh air would do her good. She scooped her cell phone from it’s drawer and practically jumped when it went off in her hand. With a growl she answered knowing from previous times it was more than likely her editor hounding her to finish.

“Miss Bowyd?”

Taryn paused. It wasn't her editor. Or her publisher.

“Who is it?”

“Shhh.” She waved away the tiny ghost like thing hovering over her shoulder. “Who is this?”

“Is this Miss Bowyd?”

“Depends on who this is.” Taryn countered. This cell was a private number. She’d only given it to a select few and none of them belonged to this voice. With an accent. She frowned leaning against the wall next to the front door.

“My name is Paul Vorrick. I’m calling from a good distance to speak with Miss Bowyd.”

“And what do you want Mr. Vorrick?”

“I wish to hire your services, Miss-”

“Taryn is fine. I don’t-”

“I’m hosting a large gathering for a Charity auction in a few weeks. I’d very much like you to come and give a reading. And perhaps hold an question and answer session at a tea.”
Ah. Work. She pushed away from the wall scowling at the blue orb flying erratically around the room. It was as if she was excited to go someplace.

“Miss…Taryn?”

“Oh, yes, I’m here. What sort of Charity auction? What is it for?”

“A new hospital wing for children. The building is old and needs massive amount of repairs. One of the downside of being in the countryside.”

Taryn frowned. “If your in the country-”

Mr. Vorrick laughed. The little blue glowing ball of energy she’d named Tiny, flittered in and out as if laughing as well.

“This is a high society event. People all over the world come to mingle and donate.”

“My schedule is kinda tight at the moment.” She glared at the laptop screen blinking at her in
abandonment.

“Your travel expenses will be paid for.”

“Again, I’m on deadline.”

“You’re a writer, you can write anywhere. Please.”

Taryn bit her lip to keep from growling at the man. Why did people always assume that because she was a writer that meant she could just up and move whenever it suited them? She had her rituals, her music, her incense… Her gaze flit to Tiny. And her abilities that made it almost impossible to write anywhere. She wished she could be so lucky.

“I've been trying to get ahold of you for months. A lot of my guests are huge fans of yours. I’m even thinking of putting together a small Steampunk event.”
She covered the phone with her hand and groaned. He really did his research. But, she couldn't. She couldn't afford to take time from her novel. The blasted, blasted novel.

“All travel expenses paid plus five thousand. In your account tonight.”

Taryn bit her lip sinking down into the overstuffed love seat. Five thousand was a lot of money at the moment. Her eyes burned with tears. Five thousand would see her sister well cared for. Five thousand, free travel to… wherever this event was held and a Steampunk event with fans. Whoever this man was he clearly knew her weaknesses. She sighed.

“When and where?”

Mr. Vorrick sighed. “Thank you. You won’t regret this. I’ll have everything sent over this evening.”

“Through my publisher. How long have you been trying to reach me?”

“You won’t regret this.”

The line went dead. Tiny burst from her little ball her energy practically zapping Taryn with electricity. She grimaced but didn't have the heart to scold the ghost.

“Oh Taryn! We’re going on a trip!”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “You can’t go. You know that right?”

“I am bound to you. Your guardian. Of course I’m going.”

“And what do you think people will think when they see me talking to thin air? You've seen how they treated me in high school.”

Tiny snorted shooting out sparks of blue energy. In her excitement she wasn't concerned with what she was expending. Which meant trouble for Taryn.

“The living can be so dense. Anyone could see and hear me if they only wished.”

“Tiny.” She breathed out in sudden exhaustion. The room seemed to close in on her and blacken around the edges. Great! Another one.

A woman sobbing quickly filled the room. Slowly the huddled form of a woman hunched over rocking back and forth emerged into the physical world. Her bright blond hair had dulled with death though the colors of her drenched summer dress was as bright as Taryn’s own lime green sweats. Taryn closed her eyes gathering her emotions. She really didn't want to deal with this now. She opened her eyes with determination. Whether she wanted it or not she had a job to do. The woman slowly raised her head as if only then realizing she wasn't alone.

“You know you’re dead right?”

The woman hiccuped confirming her knowledge. Well, this one would be easy. Should be. She corrected herself. Nothing was ever easy. Look at her sister. Taryn waved to Tiny who smiled gently at the woman. Taryn held out her hand bracing herself for the pain, anguish and fear.

They always felt the same. Even Tiny had felt that way when she’d attached herself to Taryn as a babe. Tiny inched the woman to Taryn’s hand. Taryn smiled with all the love she held in her heart. The sobbing stopped.

“It’ll be alright. Your loved ones are just beyond the light waiting for you. It will not hurt you. There is nothing to fear.”

The woman looked at Tiny who nodded her acceptance and with that tiny little nudge the woman grew bright. So bright that Taryn had to close her eyes or be blinded for days after. Roses wafted through the room and Taryn slouched against the cushions her entire energy now spent. So much for that walk. Tiny curled into her little blue ball conserving her energy as well.

“You know you could move on as well. I know you have ones waiting for you.”

“When you are safe.”

Taryn snorted. She’d never understood Tiny’s insistence that she wasn't safe. She was just as safe as any other person living in this world. More than most, at any rate. She closed her eyes and drifted in the haze between wakefulness and sleep.



“So now you've got-”

Paul sighed and slumped his shoulders. He glared at Alarik. “This is your fault.”

“My fault? How is this my fault?”

“You and those stupid wings.”

Alarik jumped from the wing back chair he’d watch the conversation in and glided over to the window that looked out over the deteriorated garden.

“It is just as much your problem as it is mine. Has being here addled your memory so much?”

Paul glared at him but kept silent. Alarik twitched his shoulders trying to itch something that was no longer there. At least not physically. At the moment. He sighed.

All this doubt was giving him a headache. This house, this town, had been the home of their ancestors for centuries. It had thrived for just as many until World War Two when the fabled wings had disappeared. There were some in the town who felt that the wings had been buried deep under the church to protect them from Hitler and his fanatical need for paranormal objects. Alarik had a different idea of what happened. In his research he’d heard rumors of an American author researching the fabled wings for a new novel. He’d scoured the Internet looking for her and had almost given up. Until three days ago.

“You might as well let them out. You’re twitching all over.” Paul’s words pulled Alarick’s attention back to the present. Paul chuckled.

Alarik grimaced but shook his head. They were supposed to be human. He would stay in character until otherwise notified.

“When will she arrive?”

“Her publisher will be giving her the tickets and such in a couple of hours. Her flight is two days away. And it’s a fourteen hour flight without missing connections to the little airport just outside of town.”

“Which means four days.” Alarik sighed. What would he do for four days? As if reading his mind, Paula picked up a paperback book and threw it at him. Alarik caught it nimbly as he always did.

“Research. And help me figure out how the hell to put together a Steampunk event.”

Alarik snorted. “What made you think of that anyways. What is Steampunk?”
Paul slammed his head against the back of the chair. “The hell if I know. This is all your fault actually. If you hadn't traced her down I wouldn't have to host this stupid event out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“This nowhere is our home. Do not forget where we come from brother.” Alarik snapped clenching the flimsy novel in his hand. Paul shook his head.

“I didn't mean it the way it came out Al. I do love this town, but this land… this house… there’s something here not right. It’s always bothered me.”

Alarik turned to look out over the garden. Despite their ancestry the brothers, twins, weren't the same. Paul was normal - mostly - Alerik wasn't. Far from it. His shoulder itched again and with a growl he used the corner of the book to scratch. Paul laughed breaking the tension as only he could. Once the itch was satisfied for the moment he flipped the book over. The cover was tastefully done.

“She’s actually pretty good.”

“It’s a bunch of drivel.”

“Everything is drivel to you.” Paul eased up out of the chair. “Are you going to help?”

“Oh no! This is your mess. We could have just invited her for research with the legend of the wings.”

Paul paused frowning. Alarik bit his cheek to keep from grinning. His twin hadn't thought of that. One of Paul’s many faults, one he didn't usually recognize until too late, was his inability to think simple. Or plan simple.

“Oh you’re helping. Just as soon as I figure out what the hell Steampunk is.” Paul stomped out of the parlor more than likely in search of his laptop. Alarik laughed so hard he had to clutch his sides.

“Shut-up!”

Alarik dropped the novel bending over trying to catch his breath. Tension left him for the first time in decades. This was going to be fun. Maybe.




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Iris, Goddess of Rainbows, Meets the West Wind By Diana McCollum

http://dianamccollum.weebly.com/

Copyright 1/30/2015

Iris plopped down on her white cloud bed only to find it lumpy and hard.  She stood up and waved the clouds aside to reveal her sisters the brats, uh, harpies, Aello, Celaeno, and Ocypete.  They tittered and laughed and flew up to the corner of the room out of her reach.

Iris unfolded her wings and waved them back and forth creating a breeze strong enough to blow the harpies out of her room.  Before Aello left the room she shouted over her shoulder, “Father wants to see you now, Iris.”

Summoned by her father, Thaumas, one of the sea gods, meant one of two things.  Either he had found her future husband or something was wrong in the mortal world.  It didn’t matter which it was she was screwed.  Her father and mother, Electra patron of Gilly pond in Ireland, insisted the time had come for Iris to marry.  Her mother wanted grandbabies and her father wanted her settled and living in her own household.  Father’s hands were full trying to rein in the hyper-active triplets. 

The mortal world should be in good stead.  Let’s see she had watered the appropriate clouds for rain, she had placed the proper number of rainbows, and had delivered all the messages left in her in box by the various gods.  This time she had remembered to change to mortal form when delivering the messages from the gods, so she was good there.  Nope, she couldn’t think of any reason for father to be upset with her.

The blue sea motif on the walls of the hall way and the cool tile on her bare feet sent a chill through her as she descended the length of the passage way.  One more level down and she would be at her father’s chambers.

***

“Cian Boyle is in charge of the leprechauns at Gilly pond, and the leprechauns are having problems with the fairies.  This is upsetting the balance of Harmony in the Fairland’s meadows and forests surrounding Gully pond.  Oceanic Electra, what are you going to do?”  Thaumas boomed, striking his staff on the floor for emphasis.

“I’m sending Iris with a message for dear Cian to come for an audience with us.”  She moved to his side and stroked his arm, hoping to quiet his ill temper.  “I think you and I can kill two birds with one leprechaun.”

“Speak plainly, wife.  I’ve no patience for riddles.”

“Cian needs our help.  And we need his.  He is a close friend with Zephyrus, god of the west wind.  You remember at the banquet last week, the young man who asked for our Iris’s hand in marriage?”

“The same young man that Iris said she would give her wings up rather than marry?”

“The very same one.” 

“Yes, yes, go on.”  Thaumas entwined his hand with Electra’s, pulling her closer; he kissed the back of her hand.  “Pray tell wife, what devious plan are you cooking up?”

***

Iris straightened her robes, tied the gold cord belt around her waist into a pretty bow, and knocked on her father’s door.

“Enter”, Thaumas bellowed.

“Good Eve, father.”  Iris curtsied, still perplexed as to why she was summoned.

“Iris we have an important errand for you.  We need to speak with Cian Boyle.  You must fetch him here.  The leprechauns and fairies are at odds and Fairland and, your mother’s Gilly Pond are in danger.  The balance is off and something must be done.”  His tone left no room for argument.

“Yes, father.  I’ll leave immediately”.  Iris would never disobey her father.  Even if all she wanted to do was take a nap on her cloud bed.  As she turned to leave her mother reached out and touched her sleeve.

“Leprechauns are tricksters.  Be careful dear, and bring only Cian, and bring him directly here.”  Electra smiled at her eldest daughter.

***

Iris led the short little man down the long hallway.

“I’m not liking being here.  The gods, egad, I cannot believe I’ve been summoned.  Tell me missy, where is the goddess Electra?  I know her, she is kind.  I’m not so sure about the rest of them egotistical gods and goddesses.  They might just put me on a platter, serve me up!”  Cian wrinkled his bulbous, red nose as much as was possible.  He stroked his gray beard, took his hat off and then put his hat back on.

“Really Cian!  No one is going truss you up and bake you.  Mother and father just want to talk with you.  They understand there are some problems in Fairland.”  Iris folded her wings in and patted the little man on the head.  “I promise, no harm will come to you.”

She knocked on Thaumas chamber door. 

“Enter.”

“Cian!  Dear friend!”  Electra took his small hand and led him over to Thaumas’s throne. 

“That is all daughter, we’ll see to Cian’s return to Fairland.”

Iris took her leave, closing the door behind her.

***

The next morning Iris was awaken by the harpies.  Aello tickled a feather across Iris’s nose causing her to sneeze which sent the small harpies scattering across the room.

Celaeno and Ocypete buzzed back over to where Iris lay and dove at her like oversized bees. 

“Get out!  Don’t you have some flowers to pollinate or something?”  Iris threw a pillow at Ocypete as she made a dive knocking the small robust harpie across the room.

The mad laughter of the harpies echoed down the hall as they made their escape.

Aello buzzed back, “Father wants to see you, right now Iris!”  She tittered.

What now?  Iris wondered.

“And so there you have it, daughter.  You must settle the feud between the fairies and the leprechauns, and while you are in mortal form.”  Thaumas stroked his long beard. 

Iris had never seen such a sparkle in her father’s eyes before.  Well, if it was that important to him she would do her best to solve the feud. 

Iris landed at the edge of Gilly Pond and placed her clothes and wings behind a bush.  In her mortal form she’d have no use for them.  She summoned her magic and covered herself with mortal clothes.

“Cian?”  She called. 

 “Cian?” Exasperation laced her voice.

“Ah-h, girly, I’m right here.”  Cian stepped from behind a fallen oak tree, leaves crunching under his black buckled boots.  “Do not be so loud least them treacherous fairies know ye are here.”

“So what’s the problem between the leprechauns and the fairies?”

“They are claiming we stole the gold from beneath the rainbow.”

“And did you, steal the gold?”  Iris knew how much leprechauns valued gold, and how they were known to steal or trick you out of your gold.

“It was given to us, by the head fairy himself.”  Cian brushed some dust from his coat sleeve, not making eye contact.

“Given willingly, or did you trick him?”

“I say he gave it eagerly, but if you asked him he might say he was tricked.”  He scraped his boot over the leaves.  “We leprechauns just want to be taken seriously.”

“Then you must stop tricking the fairies.  I want to give the leprechauns a very special job.  You can’t use trickery and you must guard it with your lives.  It is a very important job.  I’ve already talked with the fairies and they’ve agreed.”  She smiled at the nervous little man.

“Is it really important, will we garner some respect from it?”

“Yes.  Whenever I place a rainbow at Gilly pond, the fairies will place a pot of gold at the ends of the rainbow.” She poked him gently in the chest, “And you and your fellow leprechauns will be the security detail.  You will guard the pot of gold until the rightful owner follows the rainbow to the end and claims the pot of gold.  This is an important job that only a trusted leprechaun can do.  Are you all willing to accept this mission?”  She spoke louder so that the leprechauns hiding in the forest would hear her words.

A chorus of 'Yes!' rang from the forest.

“By Gilly, by golly I think you’ve solved our problem.”  He started to waddle towards the forest.  But stopped and turned, “Iris, I have a bit of magic me self.”  He waddled back and handed her a small round stone.  “The very next time you meet a west wind, you must place this stone on the ground before you and face the wind.  Repeat three times, ‘There is good fortune in the west wind, show me your true nature.’.  Then give this stone to the first person you encounter.  I promise you will not regret it.”

What an odd little man she thought, and slipped the stone into her pocket.  She picked her way through the meadow towards Gilly pond.  Rounding a huge boulder a gentle west wind caressed her face and gently lifted her hair.

She fingered the stone.  What the heck?  It was growing warm.  Pulling it out she lay it on the ground before her and repeated what the Leprechaun had said.

The wind picked up speed and twirled around forming a whirlwind.  The dust and leaves blew about and in the middle of the whirlwind appeared a form. 

Her heart beat faster and her throat tightened.  The figure emerged and held out his hand. 

Zephyrus!  Iris picked up the stone and when she placed it in his hand his fingers encircled her hand and the deal was sealed.

Iris belonged to the west wind, and Zephyrus belonged to her.

Once her clothes and wings were back on, she rose hand in hand with Zephyrus up to the heavens.  Iris looked back once waving her free hand and created a spectacular rainbow on Gilly pond.

(If you enjoyed my story please check out my website:       http://dianamccollum.weebly.com/

The Language of Flowers

by Christy Carlyle

For the third time in as many minutes Violet Taylor reminded herself that she had not accepted the invitation to Milly Wilcox’s garden party in the hope of seeing him. She didn’t even know for certain he would attend. It was true that he was nearly a member of the Wilcox family due to his longtime friendship with Milly’s brother. But that made no odds. He was a taciturn man whose behavior was unpredictable on the best of days.

With no thought to his attendance, she had come because Milly invited her, and it was the perfect opportunity to renew their friendship. Though, as she thought on it more, they had never truly developed a deep and meaningful friendship. Their families moved in different circles. Indeed, the Wilcoxes were the kind of family her mother called “the right sort.” The Taylors, on the other hand, were a few crucial steps behind. But that had never bothered Violet. It kept the penurious men away and allowed her a modicum of freedom to do as she pleased. Unfortunately, it also kept the quite well to do men away, and even one who was simply the best friend of a wealthy Wilcox.

He would certainly not attend a garden party. They were too spritely and colorful for such a dour, mirthless man. Of course, he would not have to spend time admiring the Wilcox’s flowers on this afternoon as the April weather had turned rainy and cool. The drawing room curtains were open so that the handful of guests could admire the gardens, but the glass obscured their colors, running them together like watercolor paints under a too damp brush.

He liked the rain, but disliked gardens. He adored the Wilcoxes, but loathed social gatherings that involved more than a couple guests. No, he would most definitely not attend. Indeed, if he did plan to attend, he was now unfashionably late. But it would be just like him to behave abominably.

“He’s here!” A chill trickled down Violet’s back as if she’d been stripped bare in a cool breeze. Her fingers gripped the delicate handle of her teacup so fiercely that she reached out to put it down before crushing the painted porcelain into dust. Watching her hand as she set the cup down, trying to steady it, she noticed that the dainty thing was painted with purple flowers. Were they violets? Not with those ruffles. Purple carnations. How apropos. They stood for capriciousness, whimsy, unreliability. Just like the man who was going to walk through the Wilcox’s drawing room door any moment.

Milly had taken her hand and leaned in close to whisper. “This is precisely why I invited you, Violet.” 

“Yes,” Violet heard herself speak but did not know how she had formed the word. Her mind was busy, racing through every memory of him: every tender moment, every sweet word spoken, and every tear shed. Milly tugged at her hand, scattering memories. The poor girl was beside herself.

“Oh, Violet, I needed you here in case he came. I cannot believe he accepted my invitation. Violet, what should I say to him? I simply have no notion what to say.” In the face of Milly’s high-pitched giddiness, the haze of memory continued to fade and Violet considered the young woman’s words. She could not mean him. He was a frequent, almost constant guest of the Wilcoxes. His presence might set her world off kilter but it would not be cause for Milly’s rapture.

The Wilcox’s elderly butler appeared, silent as a wraith, at Milly’s side. “Miss Wilcox, Lord Greville has arrived.”

The man himself followed the announcement, striding into the room as if he meant to plant a flag and claim it for England. “Do forgive me, Miss Wilcox. I am unforgivably late.” The assembled guests could not take their eyes off of him and his presence was such that it encompassed the entire room. Thomas, Lord Greville, was not only the handsomest man in the county, but also one of the wealthiest. He would be forgiven anything. In two giant strides, he stood before Milly and gallantly took up her hand to brush a kiss along her knuckles. Violet felt the girl’s shiver through her glove, where Milly still clung to her.

As Greville turned away to greet the other guests, Milly found her voice and rasped out a plea. “Violet, please go and fetch Will. He and Edmund are in the billiards room. Do tell them they must put down their silly game and make Thomas...Lord Greville, that is, feel welcome.”

Now it was Violet’s turn to shiver. He was here. Edmund Carrick. The most appealing and maddening man of her acquaintance. The man who’d held her heart, her very future, in his hands. Until he’d changed his mind. Without a word, an explanation, or even an excuse, their courtship had ended. But the questions in Violet’s mind never ceased. They all began with why or what if, and she never found satisfactory answers. Only he had the answers. And now she’d been tasked with fetching him like a nanny chasing after an errant schoolboy.

Violet wasn’t even certain where to find the billiard room. How long had it been since she’d last visited the Wilcoxes? As she exited the drawing room as inconspicuously as possible, she guessed that the faithful butler, Higgins, would surely appear and send her in the right direction. The dining room snagged her attention as she passed. Two maids and a footman circled the table, placing gleaming plates and sparkling crystal just so. They spied her and finished quickly, leaving the room to her in all its glory. Spring flowers spilled from silver bowls and a grand chandelier lit every surface with an amber glow. Even the name cards at each place setting were gilded around the edges. She couldn’t resist looking down the row for Edmund’s card. That’s when she saw it.

A single sprig of flowers lay on one of the plates. Forget-me-nots. Tiny, perfect five-petaled blooms stared up at her with their bright yellow center eyes. They were a stunning blue, as bright as a robin’s egg and lighter than periwinkle. She stepped closer and read her own name on the card in a looping, elaborate hand. Who would leave flowers on her plate? And not just any flowers. These flowers represented true love and constancy. Her pulse began to flutter and she felt suddenly breathless, as if she’d run all the way across the heath. Edmund? Could Edmund have left these flowers as a declaration?

“Miss Taylor, you’ve found my offering.” Violet jumped at the sound of Lord Greville’s smooth, deep voice. She turned, her skirts brushing against his legs. He stood shockingly near.

“Lord Greville. I...” Her voice came out as a squeak, laced with as much panic as Milly’s had been just moments before.

Greville grinned down at her with the most dazzling smile she had ever seen. “I missed my mark, Miss Taylor. You see, I meant to leave those on Miss Wilcox’s plate, but that butler of theirs is quite too efficient. He swept me into the drawing room before I knew what I was about.”

He reached around her and took up the pretty blooms, moving them to a plate near the head of the table. “There. My deed is done. Do keep my secret for now, Miss Taylor. Will you?”

“Of course, my lord.” Based on his status, Violet could deny him very little, but his blue eyes, a deeper shade of forget-me-not blue, were persuasive in their own right. Good for Milly. Now, if only the girl could manage a few coherent words to the man.

Just as Greville took her hand to drop a perfunctory kiss of gratitude, another voice rang through the dining room. Deeper than Greville’s, with a distinctive rasp and a complete absence of Greville’s easy joviality, it was a voice Violet could never mistake.

“Greville. Welcome. Tom will be along soon.” The man hadn’t changed a bit. If anything, the intervening months had brought more character to his face. His dark hair was longer, but it suited him. And for a man of such height and bulk, Violet couldn’t help but notice Edmund Carrick’s grace of movement. Nor could she stifle a tiny gasp as he moved toward her. Though he had spoken to Lord Greville, his eyes were on her, boring into her, looking beyond her plain chestnut hair and pale green eyes, into her essence. She had always felt that he, more than anyone she had ever known, saw her, Violet, for who she truly was. Who she wished to be.

He cut her off, positioning himself so that he faced Greville and was neatly situated between them. “Miss Wilcox must be missing your company in the drawing room.” He paused as if expecting Greville to jump at his command. “I will escort Miss Taylor back. We are old friends.” Old friends! Violet’s mouth fell open and she snapped it shut, stifling the urge to let out a very unladylike scream.

The moment Greville strode from the room, Edmund turned to face her. Before she could speak a word of her hurt, her anger, or her many questions, he cut her off. “I have missed you, Violet.” Instantly warm syrup filled her veins and she opened her mouth to speak words of affection that had been bottled up with her pain. He reached his hand up to touch her cheek and she turned her head slightly, pressing against his warmth, relishing his familiar scent. Then, ever changeable, he snatched his hand away. Her cheek burned where he had touched her.

“What on earth were you doing exchanging flowers with Greville?” His voice was as angry as she’d ever heard it and possessive, as he had no right to be.

“We weren’t exchanging flowers.” Her tone was meant to be dismissive, but she heard it waver and felt the sting of tears she’d stifled too long. “I thought they were from you!” She shouted the final word and the release felt glorious.

He moved closer and looked toward the door, as if he feared they would be overheard. When she looked up into his eyes, she saw that their brown depths were tender. “Why did you think they were from me, Violet?” His voice had lost all trace of anger.

He reached for her again and she moved away from him. “I have no idea. It was a silly notion considering what they symbolize.” All the anger of his abandonment began to simmer, threatening to bubble over into words she could never take back.

“Symbolize? What do they symbolize?” She watched his eyes as he turned to glimpse the lovely cluster of forget-me-nots. “I would guess their name tells the meaning.”

“Yes. They mean ‘stay true to me’ and ‘don’t forget me.’”

“I could never forget you, Violet.” His deep voice was soft now, seductive. But she would not give in.

“They also symbolize constancy. So you can see why I was foolish to think them from you.” She expected him to wince or retort in anger. She was certain her arrow would sting. Instead he moved closer, his voice still low.

“What flower would you have me give you, Violet?”

“I am long past wishing for posies from you, Mr. Carrick.” If she called him Edmund, she would break. She would melt into him and lose herself again. Her anger protected her like armor, and she could not let it slip.

“Come, my lady, you know the language of flowers. Tell me what flower I should give you to say...” He paused just when she needed him to continue. “To tell you what you must already know, Miss Taylor. I am a fool.”

Violet’s throat burned with unspoken words, all of them flooding to get out, but he gave her no time to speak. Instead, he stepped forward and clasped her hand, his long, firm fingers curving into her palm. He tugged and she followed. They crossed the room and he opened the French doors along the wall. Like the drawing room, the dining room looked out onto the Wilcox’s expansive gardens.

The rain had stopped but the grass and every shrub and flower was drenched from the day’s showers. The air smelled rain-scrubbed fresh and even in the waning afternoon light, the array of colors was breathtaking.

He left her standing on the low balcony beyond the French doors and made his way into the garden. When he was knee-deep in blooms, he called back to her. “Which one, Miss Taylor? Which would you have me give you?”

The other guests in the drawing room must have heard his call as Violet saw the window slide open out of the corner of her eye. She recognized the voice of Tom, Milly’s brother, as he shouted to his friend. “Give her a rose, Carrick. All ladies love roses.”

Edmund shot her a questioning glance. “No,” she answered. She did not want a rose. Based on its color, the meaning might be lost, and the only bud visible this early was a bright pink. A rose that shade symbolized passion and desire. She wanted more than that from Edmund Carrick.

He moved onto a lovely jonquil, it’s sunny trumpet bowed by the rain. Its message was “return my affection,” but her affection for Edmund was never in question. She shook her head and he moved away, nearly tripping over a clump of poppies. Their papery petals had been battered by the rain, but a few had recovered, the bold red cup of their bloom revealing only a glimpse of their silky black center. He leaned down toward one of the tall, brazen poppies, but Violet stopped him again. Red poppies were beautiful and exotic, but they symbolized only pleasure. She wished for pleasure with Edmund, certainly, but still more.

He began to move further into the garden and nearly overlooked a neat row of graceful tulips in a variety of colors. They had held up well in the rain and stood tall, like little sentries guarding a sharply trimmed hedge of boxwood. She called out to him. “Wait. There. The tulips.” She saw his mouth shift in a momentary grin, his full lips broadening across his handsome face.

            He reached down for a yellow one and then picked another. He stood as if to return to her and she stopped him. “One of the red, too, Mr. Carrick.” Though the Wilcox’s gardener would probably be appalled at Edmund’s raid on his fine work, the assembled guests seemed to take great pleasure in the spectacle he was making. Violet glimpsed Milly leaning out the drawing room window and the girl shot her a knowing smile.

      

      In a moment he was before her, holding out the vibrant red and yellow tulips as an offering. “Now you must tell me what they mean, Miss Taylor. I hope they mean forgiveness. Perhaps even a second chance to put things right.”
      Violet reached for the tulips, but he would not release them. Instead he covered her hand with his own. “Will you forgive me, Violet?” His voice was so lovely, deep and strong. It rumbled through her, though he spoke softly. She felt his warm breath skittering across her cheeks and realized she was breathing as heavily as he.

            She swallowed hard, sifting the sentiments bursting the seams of her heart. “The yellow tulip symbolizes hopeless love. That is what I have been since last we met. Quite hopeless.” A hot tear slid from the corner of her eye, but she could not stop the words she needed to say. “The red tulip stands for undying love. That is what I feel for you, Edmund.” On a broken whisper, she finally said, “And what I wish from you in return.”

            When he pulled her into his arms, it was an intoxicating relief. Like lead weights, the pain, anger, and hopelessness fell away and the love she’d always felt for him could lift its head once again, as vibrant and strong as the tulips she held in her grasp. She fit with him, against him, as if his body was fashioned with spaces only she could fill.

            He pulled away enough to look down at her, wiping her tears away with the pad of his thumb. “You are named after a flower, my darling Violet. Tell me what a violet symbolizes.”

            Violet took a long breath and closed her eyes, savoring the feel of him, the scent of the rain-soaked garden and the fresh cut tulips, imprinting the moment on her mind and heart. When she opened her eyes, she saw all that she hoped for and needed reflected back in his own dark eyes.

            “Faithfulness.” She spoke the word quietly, reverently.

            His jaw tensed and she saw a flash of pain in his eyes. Then he lowered his head, his lips just inches above hers. “I should have known.” The words had barely left his mouth before he pressed his lips to hers. Her whole body reacted, tautening like a tightly drawn bow, but he gave her only a taste before pulling back. “Will you still have me, Violet? Will you be my wife?” Her eyes widened at his words and he added, “We have wasted enough time, Miss Taylor.”

            Violet pulled back and offered him the red and yellow tulips. With her eyes and the wide smile on her face, she echoed their message: hopeless and undying love.

Christy Carlyle on Facebook

The language of flowers was a means of communication, particularly popular in the Victorian-era, by which individuals sent coded messages to share secret feelings or express what could not be spoken.

By Robin Weaver

    “Holy hell!”

     Baggy was yelling, but all my neural processing focused on the giant hearse headed straight at my borrowed import.  On the wrong side of Highway 62. 

     My brain went into neutral, but my body responded without me.  My arms steered frantically, guiding the vehicle as far right as possible.  We avoided the careening coffin-mobile, but landed with a thud in a ditch.

     The big Caddie swerved, ramming into the embankment behind us.  I let out a swoosh, feeling the relief one feels to be still breathing after seeing your life flash before you.   We couldn’t afford any delays but I couldn’t help thinking we’d finally gotten a bit of good luck.

    Then I looked in the rearview mirror.  Mistake.

     Because of the incline, the back doors of the hearse flew open.  I watched the coffin tip and then slide out of its Father-Death-ship.  The big steel box skipped over the pavement and crashed into our trunk.

      “Crap.”

      A Lurch-type character jumped out of the hearse.  “My brakes…”  He caught site of the overturned casket and went totally berserk.  A series of  “Oh, Gods” echoed over the countryside.

      Baggy glared at me.  I knew what he was thinking.  If I'd been driving, we wouldn't be delayed again.

     “Shut up.” I snapped before he had a chance to speak.  “If you hadn't been snoring, I might have seen the damn sarcophagus bus sooner.”

“Great.  Now traffic will be deadlocked.”  Baggy's pun was intentional.

Since there wasn’t another car in sight, we cracked up, our cackles a fitting contrast to Lurch’s caterwauling.  We shouldn’t have been laughing.  The cargo in our trunk, assuming there was anything left, had a time limit.  If we missed the delivery time, we didn’t get paid.

Lurch calmed down and called in the accident.  Valuable time ticked away as we waited. We’d been behind schedule before the accident and stood to lose twenty grand.  Baggy and I needed that money.

A half-hour later, my deodorant stopped working when the officer came over and told us to get out of the car.  “I ran a check on your plates.  This car’s been reported stolen.”

           “My cousin lent me the car.”  I pointed to the registration, fighting back tears.  “Look.  We have the same last name.  Just call him.  Here's his number.”  I quickly scribbled Lenny's digits.

“I'm sorry, Miss.”  The officer puffed out a loud breath.  I think he wanted to believe me. “As soon as we take care of the, eh, err, the remains,” he looked distastefully at the coffin, “I have to take you back to the station.”

I remained quiet because I wasn't entirely sure the item we transported for Duke was legit.  We rode in the squad car seats with the childproof doors while a police wrecker towed our car.  At the station, the cop I dubbed Officer Dibble tried to contact Lenny.  Baggy sat calmly, sipping coffee and inhaling donuts while I paced like an incarcerated hyena, jealous he could eat at a time like this.

           Two weeks had passed since Duke first offered us this job.  He said all we had to do was pick up a package in Versailles, Kentucky, and drive 520 miles to Duke's ranch.  Unfortunately, Duke's man, Lange, didn't provide the goods as planned.  For ten days, we waited.

          Every Day, Lange assured us: “I'll have it tomorrow.  For sure.” 

Baggy and I hadn't planned on sleeping in the car that long.  Our grocery fund dwindled until our cupboard was bare.  Then suddenly, the waiting ended.

Lange rushed to the car and shoved a cooler at us.  "Here.  Get this to Duke within twenty-four hours.  Got to go.”

His urgency spurred us into action.  Convinced the package hadn’t been acquired by the letter of the law, we fled.

And ended up in a police station.

As I paced, my stomach growled.  “You think it'd be all right if I took a donut for later?”

Baggy laughed.  “You want to steal donuts?  From cops?”

I was not amused.  After Dibble confirmed the car wasn't stolen, we were released.

“Guess mom’s home cooking is out of the question.”

I nodded.   Earlier, Baggy suggested we stop at his mother's house for a meal and a loan.  Since the accident had cost us six hours, we didn't have time for a detour.  Instead, Baggy made a call and we stopped at a plasma center.

Two hours later and a quart short, we gassed up and Baggy went to see a man about a horse.  I’d just finished filling the tank when I heard the alarm.  It took me a moment to realize the station was being robbed.  The guy with the ski mask and the gun gave it away.

The robber came straight at me.  “Gimme the keys, bitch!” 

Overcome with stupidity, I threw the keys in the opposite direction and ran.  I peered around the dumpster and saw Baggy crawl into the backseat just before the masked man grabbed my keys.  The car sped away and I cursed myself for throwing like a girl.

Twenty minutes later, Officer Dibble and I became reacquainted.  “I told you the car was stolen,” he joked.

I wanted to hit him.  He promised to let me know as soon as he heard anything.

Three hours passed before Dibble returned with news.  “The hoods ditched your car near Radcliff. Your partner got into the driver's seat without knowing the car’d been reported stolen again.”

He laughed.  I didn’t.  A local deputy stopped Baggy and was holding him at the sheriff's office.

“I’m driving over to straighten out the mess.  You want to ride along?”

After that, I called Officer Dibble by his real name.

While he drove, I re-calculated the time.  If we left directly from Radcliff, we could still make our delivery on schedule.  I wasn't sure what the deadline was all about, but I assumed our cargo had an expiration period. 

When we arrived in Radcliff, Baggy gave me a big hug.  I showed my relief by yelling at him.

“Don't ever pull a stunt like that again.” Baggy instinctively covered his crotch.

We left and made good time.  Until the car swerved.

Baggy somehow regained control and steered into the breakdown lane. “Shit.  The tire's flat.”

“Well change it.  That shouldn't take long.”

“Did you forget that we took the tire out to store the cooler?”

I had.  It was a gi-normous cooler.  “Shit,” I repeated.  “We can't even be late on time.”

It took forty-five minutes to hike to the nearest station only to discover we didn't have enough cash for a new tire.  Baggy threw up his hands but I had an idea.  Old WWII vets like cousin Lenny always have an auto-service.  I called him and he called roadside assistance.  Two hours later, we were once again in pursuit of the twenty grand.

After driving most of the night, we arrived at Uncle Duke's ranch with about twenty minutes to spare.  Duke's veterinarian came running toward us.  “Rowena, do you have it?”

“Nice to see you too, Sam.”

“The sperm.  I need the sperm.”

“Sperm?”

Baggy spewed our last soda all over his shirt.  I made a mental note to buy him a sippie-cup.

Feeling woozy, I pointed to the trunk.  Sam grabbed my keys and took the cooler.

Baggy mused, “Let's hope Mr. Ed wasn't shooting blanks.”

As we headed for the house, I wondered if Mr. Ed had been a willing donor.

Baggy whistled.  “Some digs.  You didn't tell me your uncle was rich.”

“He's actually my great uncle.”  Because I would never take a handout, he'd always had a job for me.  Back then, he had cattle.  I looked at the pastures surrounding his mansion and saw nothing but horses.

When the double doors opened, I barely recognized Duke's granddaughter, Sissy.  She hadn't aged well.  Behind her was a sour-faced man I presumed was her brother, Derek.  Except for Cousin Lenny, Duke and his grandchildren were my only living relatives.

“It's about time you got here.  We've been trying to get in touch with you for two weeks.”  Sissy spat as she spoke.  Her spray could have been intentional. 

I frowned at the twosome who had spent summers in the pool while I wadded knee deep in cow shit.  “Why?”

“It's bad enough you missed the funeral, but for some ridiculous reason, Spencer won't read the will without you.”

“Duke’s dead?”

When Sissy made no denials, my knees buckled.  Grief engulfed me.

My great uncle, the closest thing I’d ever had to a father, died the day after I talked to him about the delivery.  I was still crying when the lawyer arrived.

Baggy tried to protest on my behalf, but Sissy and Derek insisted Spencer read the will immediately.  They probably needed Botox money.

A half-hour later, I sat stunned.  My cousins fumed.  I’d inherited the farm and most of the money.  Me, the great niece.  Not the grandchildren.

They stormed off, threatening to sue as they climbed into matching BMWs.

            Six months later, Baggy and I had settled in the old mansion.  You might think our luck had changed, not so.  Sissy and Derek sued, but that was the least of our problems.  If we were able to sell the new foals, we might be able to pay Uncle Duke's back taxes.  Lenny was still bitching because I hadn't returned his car and a tornado damaged the barn roof.

          I worried constantly, but on the ranch, Friday was a half-day, so I headed for the pool.  I dove in and joined Baggy.  He gave me a deep kiss.  “Love you, hon.” 

Well, maybe we did have a little luck.

“Oh, Rowena.  Remember that sperm we delivered?  I just heard Lange’s been arrested  and—”

Not wanting to hear anymore, I planted another kiss on his mouth.  Maybe we didn’t have much luck, but we had each other.

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