The Sowing

1. Braying

The far-off howl of a coyote struck the inky black silence of an otherwise still night. The quiet was a sharp juxtaposition to my restlessness.

Most nights,  sleep evaded me like oil evaded water.

I twisted my bedside lamp's ridged knob, illuminating the room in a warm cognac glow.

My latest novel sat facedown on the nightstand, abandoned after only two chapters. Even reading hadn't been able to get the job done.

The delicate but syncopated tapping of paws on wood floors echoed throughout the house before a snout pushed my door open.

Acute to a fault, Butter had heard me turn the lamp on. I'd bet good money he'd heard me sighing.

"You have no sense of privacy, do you?"

My Australian Shepherd rounded the bed eyeing me.

He sat on the cheery-hued runner, awaiting my next move.

I sat up, "Wanna go for a walk?"

Butter's ears perked up as he stared at me.

"Okay. Give me a second."

Searching fingers felt for the bandana that had receded on my head as I'd read. I hadn't finished retying it when Butter pulled my jeans from the chair, dropping the denim in front of me.

"Okay, okay."

I shimmied into the pants, not bothering to remove my thermals. This February had been especially frigid with its wind chill. Despite the seeping cold that leaked into the room, I'd always left the window cracked.

I needed to hear.

I shoved my feet into well-worn Ariats and shrugged on my jacket before picking up my dad's trusted 12 gauge.

My mouth twisted at the memory of him patting it as he stood next to the beast that had terrorized his flock.

He'd squatted next to the predator, "He ain't no match for Old Faithful."

I was eleven when I learned to handle Old Faithful myself.

Enshrouded by darkness, my feet shuffled down the stairs on their own volition. I knew this house like the back of my hand.

The familiar sounds of the floorboard whining under my weight made me feel less alone. So did Butter.

I nabbed the flashlight I'd left in the mudroom, stuffing it into my pocket. Plucking a beanie from a hook on the wall, I pulled it onto my head. I held the slapping screendoor open for an energetic Butter who scurried out excitedly.

Standing on the porch, I pulled the gun sling over my torso, positioning the firearm in a crossbody fashion.

Butter looked back at me expectantly.

I shook my head, smirking at the dog's impatience, "Hold your horses. I'm coming."

Butter led, trotting at a nice even pace as we began our nearly nightly midnight stroll. He headed for the stable first, no doubt to stick his nose into the business of his best bud.

A bristled head poked out above the stall door. The donkey greeted an excited Butter with a bray.

"Hey, Peanut," she nuzzled further into my outstretched hand.

Butter bolted toward the other end of the stable, scratching at the dog container that was housed on top of a shelf.

Peanut brayed some more.

I rolled my eyes.

"How am I ruled by animals? I'm such a punk."

I eyed them both before walking over to unscrew the wide lid, pausing for emphasis. "Just one, guys. I mean it."

A persistent nose and glassy eyes followed my every move.

Butter stood on his hind legs, reaching his snout into the container to procure a single carrot. The lively dog trotted back over to Peanut who stood just beyond the stall, overcome with excitement.

Butter held the bright orange produce between his teeth, waiting for me to deliver the goods. Silenced by contentment, Peanut accepted the snack.

Butter walked in a circle as we watched the donkey chew happily. Just like a toddler, snacks were her kryptonite.

Butter's head tilted sideways, ears high.

I watched him trot suspiciously toward the stable doors.

I listened.

A sound I couldn't place stilled my movement.

Butter was ahead of me, bolting toward the noise.

Locking the stable, I jogged behind him toward the property's grand sweeping gate.

The headlights of a distant car lit up the road beyond the farm. I lifted my watch to my eyes, using the moonlight to read the time.

I maneuvered the shotgun across my torso, lifting it as I slinked forward, assuming a natural combative ready stance.

The car sat idling at the gate. The driver opened the door cautiously.

"You have ten seconds to get back in your vehicle before I blow your fucking head off."

The silouhetted figure's hands shot up in the air in surrender, "Meredith! It's me – James Brunson! It's me!"