"You need to visit more often," Beatrid's mother told her, for not the fifth time during their long goodbye exchange. Goodbyes were never easy with her, and never short; they were long and drawn out and involved much hugging and sobbing--which she was currently doing a lot of, clinging hard to her taller daughter in a bear hug. They had made it all the way to the house's doorway before her mother lost it. "And write. You never write. Would it kill you to write every now and then? Lemme know my girl's okay?"
"Mama, you can't read..." Beatrid mumbled.
"Well, I can hunt down someone who can," came the stubborn reply, and finally she let her go, with obvious reluctance. "So you send word, hear? And be careful out there. Take care of yourself."
"I know, I am..."
That brought on yet another tearful hug, but it was briefer than the others. With a quick kiss on both cheeks, her mother released her. "Now off with you, before the day gets any older. I don't want you traveling in the dark, hear?"
"I know, I won't. Don't worry," Beatrid said, trying not to laugh, and not just because there was plenty of daylight left. Her mother knew what she did, she knew that traveling in the dark was the least dangerous thing she'd done, but she guessed that mothers would always be mothers, whether their child was still a child or an adult, a farmer or a Mordecai. She leaned in and kissed her mother on the cheek. "Tell Jina I'm sorry I missed her."
And then she set off across the yard to mount her horse, Maple, already saddled and bridled earlier, and took off as a canter. And like every time she visited and left, she missed home a little more--but was even more excited to get back to her life.
The tiny village was bustling this time of day, having just woken up, but it grew calmer and quieter and lonelier as she reached the outskirts. Not many people lived out here except those that preferred solitude, like Old Lady Abigail--who had been old even twenty years ago when Beatrid was a child--who was famous for her apple dishes. And she was still at it, if the smells wafting through the air as she passed by were any indication.
Beatrid had gently urged Maple into a trot and had already passed by when the horse caught something on the wind and reacted. She let out a disturbed whinny and resisted going any farther, head tossing, eyes rolling, and nostrils flaring with loud, agitated snorts. "Whoa, girl! Whoa!" She danced in a nervous circle, kicking up dust, while Beatrid tried to rein her in and calm her down, petting her long neck and murmuring soothing words.
That was when she saw it.
A wolf, loping along toward the village.
Well, shit. That'd do it. And where there was one, there would be more--probably looking to grab some livestock, as often happened in these parts.
She'd calmed Maple down as much as she could and now the horse stood frozen in place, sides shuddering with her nervous breathing. Beatrid stroked her slender neck one more time, whispered more (hopefully) calming words, and reached for her pistol, drawing it out and rotating it to full-cock. Then she took aim.
