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Busy Girl

Howdy. This is Laine and I'm not in right now, ya need to get a hold of me, try the number for my office down at the barn. If I ain't there, tough shit. I'm out workin' and you probably should be too instead of screwing around on the telephone.

Mama, if that's you, I'm sorry about my mouth and I'll see ya in church on Sunday.





you can leave a message here for muse or mun. alternately, you can IM her on AIM flintcreeklaine

15. 4. Vice

"Right now, I think I'd damn near kill somebody for a cigarette."

Back in the saddle again...

"Never underestimate the power of passion."
Eve Sawyer


Jansen was fast asleep—and soundly for a change, dinner was simmering in the crock-pot on the counter, laundry had been folded and put away, the books had been balanced. Anrai sat in the bedroom reading one of his books and Laine slipped out onto the back porch before tugging on her worn in, roughed up, near-to-falling apart riding boots. She hadn’t put these particular Tony Lama’s on in months and the leather felt in dire need of stretching.

The brunette refused to consider that her feet had ended up wider as a result of having a baby. No, it was the boots’ fault entirely. It didn’t matter; the walk down to the barn would take care of the tight squeezing and slight pinch the same way that wearing the jeans that hugged her stomach a little too snug had eased up after a while. There was nothing to be done about the way her shirt pulled at the buttons across her chest, so Laine had worn a t-shirt beneath is and left the plaid cotton open. It seemed the only thing that still fit right was the Stetson felt on her head.

Horses nickered and snorted from inside their stalls when Laine entered the barn. She was familiar, her scent a welcome presence and meant the possibility of treats and affection. She offered both as she strode down the aisle, stopping to give bits of apple and carrot to the animals, rub their muzzles and stroke manes. The last stall on the left, she opened. Ruby Tuesday greeted her with a head toss and a tail swish, head-butt to Laine’s chest and a soft whinny hello. It wasn’t until Laine began to run her hands over the mare’s back and sides, down her quarters and then checked her shod hooves that Ruby got excited.

Halter and reins, blanket and saddle then finally, the weight of a human being settled on her back and Ruby turned her head as if to verify that Flint Creek’s mistress was indeed going to take her for a ride. Laine laughed and gave her a sound pat across her withers and as rider adjusted her seat, that laugh was cut off with a hiss. It was going to be a challenge, taking the horse out for a run.

Run they did, the heel of Laine’s boot pressing into Ruby’s ribs to spur the mare on as they covered the green fields of the ranch’s property. The horse was enjoying herself, stretching and exercising with the rider who trained her, the one who never pulled up short on the reins or pushed her too hard. The rider refused to back down even as her body protested. Muscles that hadn’t been used this way in so long were promising to be stiff and full of aches. Calves, thighs, glutes…she would hurt by nightfall and come morning, it would be a miracle if Laine could get out of bed on her own.

Laine didn’t care. She was doing what she loved. All the hurt in the world was worth it for the feel of Ruby’s body bunching and releasing beneath hers, the sound of hooves thundering across earth that she owned, wind blowing her hair back and the smell of pine trees and fresh cut grass mingling with horse sweat and her own perspiration. Heaven was worth a little hell.

13.4. Music

Loud, louder, loudest...there was no other way to listen to Mick and Keith.

12.1. Tired

"I ain't comin' to bed if you think you're goin' to be puttin' your hands on me," Laine groused from her spot on the sofa.

11.1. Change

She was exhausted and stretched far too thin: running a household, caring for a baby, keeping track of a business, trying to find five minutes to herself--something had to give.

TM: Weather

Lightning shot across the sky and the clap of thunder that followed fast on its heels was strong enough, loud enough to make the house shake. Laine rolled her eyes towards the ceiling and counted. One, two, three—and there it was, the baby’s displeased and frightened howl. So much for getting the wash folded.

She got up from the couch with a groan and headed for the staircase. This was only the third trip in the last forty minutes or so. Every time she managed to sooth, calm and get the baby back to sleep, the new mother had just enough time to settle herself back into her task before the weather had her daughter awake and crying.

“Mother Nature is one hell of a bitch, sugar.” She muttered the words before she reached the doorway to the nursery, telling herself that it didn’t count as swearing in front of the baby if there was a threshold between them. Besides, Anrai wasn’t in the house to hear her with his ever so sharp púca ears…

“Hush now, pretty baby. You ain’t getting’ no sleep and Mama ain’t getting’ anythin’ done around the house.” When she leaned over the crib to scoop up the infant, the light in the room flickered and the hum of the central air unit died with a slow rattle. The power was out. “And now we’re both goin’ to slow roast up here cause it is hot as Hades outside today.”

Not that Laine MacEibhir had any intention of staying up on the second floor of the house on a miserable gray summer afternoon. Mother and child wound up back in the living room, baby in nothing but a diaper and Mama with a glass of ice water. The laundry kept to itself in a wrinkling heap at one end of the sofa. When Anrai came back up to the house, soaked to the skin, she threw a towel at him along with a question.

“Is it rainin’ out there, darlin’? You look a little wet.”

Laine MacEibhir//Flint Creek Ranch//341
Well, if this ain't easy I don't know what is.

Darlin'
Sugar
Honey
Damned Fool
Irish Idiot
Jackass
That Sonovabitch
Gutter-Minded Fool
Bitch
Sweet Baby
Mama's Girl
Pumpkin
My Little Filly

Y'all can figure out what belongs to who, I got a baby to feed.

Show and Tell

December, 2030

“Mam?”

“That’s right, Marcus. There’s a picture of your mam, looking pretty as ever.”

“He still don’t understand, does he?”

“I still don’t understand, Laine. I can hardly expect the babby to grasp the concept.”

“Oh, darlin’…”

“Don’t.”

“You’re allowed to miss her, you know. You’re allowed to be mad as hell about it too. Ain’t no one here goin’ to tell you’re wrong for feelin’ it.”

“I know that, sister of mine.”

“Ain’t no one goin’ to tell you you’re wrong for findin’ moments of happiness either, Rory.”

“Laine…”

“Come on. Someone’s got to save Anrai from bein’ tackled by two little boys ramped up on sugar and excitement.”

“Why does it have to me?”

“It don’t. We can just go watch our children torture him for a while.”

“That does have a certain appeal to it.”

“Don’t it, though?” A small smile, “Besides, it ain’t like the rest of us are tall enough to get that thing up on the top of the tree.”

“I see. Just using me, is that it?”

“If you don’t get your famous ass out of this room and help me decorate for Christmas, Rory Stone, I’m goin’ to call the local network affiliate and tell them where you are hidin’ for the holidays.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re mean, Laine?”

“Tough love, darlin’. Tough love.”

Laine Anderson MacEibhir//Flint Creek//224
Rory isn’t mine, I’m just using him. Marcus is quite mine, however.
This is set fairly far in Laine’s future, Marcus’ past. Cross-posted here.