Happy Cow Ranch

Tennessee Whiskey

The glass in my hand is cold, cubes of stone stacked atop each other. Beth eyes me wearily as I rest a hand on the short cedar table, contemplating my next move. Straightening up, I grab a bottle of scotch, looking it over as though it were a thorough book. I'm practically transfixed by the steady flow of amber liquid from the thick bottle into the small glass when I finally decide to pour it.

"I'm pretty sure you're too young to be drinking that," Beth's voice resonates from behind me, her sharp bite back. It's as though it's my fault I got taken, and she's got to punish me for it.

"And I'm pretty sure you don't actually give a shit," I languidly reply, turning around slowly. Beth's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, then one drops as she evaluates me. "Besides this is for you."

She takes the glass from my outstretched hand. "How thoughtful." She gives me a sarcastic smile, eyes crinkled.

I lean back on my hands, chewing gently on my lip. Beth takes a long drink, never breaking eye contact.

"Who were you talking to before I was taken?"

"Rip,"

"That's it?"

"Pretty much,"

"What's 'pretty much?'"

"All you need to know,"

"Well, obviously not, or I wouldn't be asking." I push myself off of the table, and Beth shoots up to meet me. She may stand taller than I do, but I don't back down, holding her gaze.

"You know, I thought you had more brains then balls, then you pull shit like this and the thought..." She makes a motion like a tiny explosion beside her head.

"You didn't get that from me pullin' a John Wayne in the middle of the goddamn plains? Maybe I'm not the one lacking brains," I spit back, crossing my arms. Beth cocks an eyebrow, surveying me cooly.

"Go ahead, prove my fucking point," She waves at me, and I take a deep breath, stepping back.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm not pissed with you—at least, I don't think so," I'm suddenly racked with guilt and shame.

Her brows snapped together, lips twitching downward, arms folding defensively.

"What do you mean?"

Somewhere in the Dutton's lodge a door creaks open, and I can vaguely hear Mr. Dutton's disgruntled voice greeting someone. The voice that returns sends a jolt down my spine. My eyes fly open, my breathing shortens, and a cool sweat begins to form on my brow. I turn quickly to the source of the noise, peeking around the corner. Beth stands exactly where she was, staring down the hallway at the living room. She turns her gaze to me, frowning slightly.

"What's your deal?" She asks.

I shush her, creeping down the hall. She follows me trying to get my attention but failing, as I am completely latched onto the entrance of a new guest. My stomach burns intensely, the way I was moving apparently twisting my stitches in an unfavorable way. I try not to yelp, but the headache that was just a small nuisance begins to roar, pounding at my skull from just behind my eyes. I grasp at the two aching areas, sliding down the wall. My short breaths come even sparser now, and I feel like a fish out of water... that's just been set on fire.

"Hey! Maisie," Beth comes into my hazy field of vision, looking like an old school TV show, the way the static buzzes around her. "Put your arm around my... or just lay there. Okay."

Beth huffs when I don't move or follow her instructions, but it feels like my limbs are cement blocks that have just been dropped into Lake Mead. She lays a hand on my forehead and then quickly slaps my cheek.

"Ow!" I frown, scrunching up my nose.

"Oh, so you can speak. Why didn't you tell me you were burning up?" Beth demands, sitting me up straight.

"I didn't know. I'm fine, Beth, really," I grumble, trying to glance down the hall.

"Liar. Move your hand, or I'll do it for you," She commands, and I let my head loll to see my hand. I hadn't even realized that it was covering the bandage on my side, but she swiftly removes it to see a good helping of blood soaking through. I trail my eyes up to give her a nervous smile.

"Oops?"

"Are you kidding me," Her tone is emotionless, and I can't even tell what she's doing when she turns her head to the side. "Somebody, help! It's Maisie!"

"I'm gonna be fine, Beth. Just lemme sit here for a minute. I'm gonna be fine, I just need to... to close my eyes for a minute," My words trail off, my vignetting vision going fully black as the last image I see is John Dutton and my captor racing to my side.

There's that warmth again. Nothing. No fun memories this time? No more traumatic reveals? Silence. I must have been given some sort of anesthesia last time, something that induced it. I've never gone under before, except for one time when I was ten and had to have oral surgery. I have no recollection of the experience, or knowledge on how anesthesia works.

I gasp down air, whipping my head around as a dim, woodsy room comes into focus. I must still be in the Dutton's lodge, but I'm tucked into a soft, warm bed. A woman sits beside me; one I don't recognize. She's beautiful, with silky black hair, smooth olive skin, and piercing caramel eyes. I can't help but stare at her, feeling my cheeks flush as I take her in, like a breath of sweet evening air. She glances up from the book she was reading, a thick one at that, with a black-and-white picture of soldiers and Native Americans on the front. Leaning closer, I tried to make out the words, but only got a headache in return.

"You're up," The woman says in a voice like summer rain. She flashes me a brilliant smile, and I feel as though I'm melting where I lie. "How are you feeling?"

"So much better," I lie, leaning in as though she's pulling me by an invisible string.

"Hey, Mon, how's she—" Kayce enters the room, dropping an arm around the beautiful stranger's shoulders. "Oh, you're awake. That's good."

"Always gotta get the pretty girls," I groan, flopping onto my back. Why couldn't I be ridiculously ripped, with the eyes of a damn puppy dog?

Kayce chuckles, giving the woman a kiss on the side of her head.

"Maisie, this is my wife, Monica. You've actually met her before, and my son Tate, but he was just born," He tells me, to which I nod.

"Happy for ya, Kayce. I really am," I turn to look at the two. "Nice to see you again."

Monica gives me a gentle smile and looks up at Kayce, closing her book.

"Well, I'll let you take over now. Let me know if you need anything." She lets her hand settle on his shoulder then slip off like a subtle breeze.

"Wait, what do you mean 'take over'? How long was I out?" I ask, sitting up on my forearms.

"Just a couple of minutes. There's orange juice by your bed and the doctor's on his way to fix you up," He informs me, plopping down into Monica's chair.

"Where's Beth? And where's Mr. Dutton? I think they might be in danger," I sit up all the way, clutching my head as it starts to spin.

"What? Whaddyou mean?" He leans forward, forearms propped on his knees.

"I saw him... the man who took me, I saw him with them,"

"That was probably just a hallucination. You do still have a fever, y'know," He sits back, pursing his lips.

"Would you check anyway? Besides, Beth and I need to finish our conversation."

"Yeah, yeah." He stands up, heading out the door. "I'll bring back some soup and pain meds."

"You're a real one." I lift my can of orange juice to him, downing a long, abrasive sip.

God, what a day it's been.