Rain

The day began as it always did for Gwyneth Harper—long before the horizon flushed with dawn.

She savored these rare, blue-grey mornings, when cool air slipped through the gaps in the old ranch house and shadows still claimed the land. As a child, Gwyneth had loved to climb out her window to watch the sun rise before her chores began. Now, grown and weary, she watched the sky out of habit more than want. There was little time for herself anymore.

With her mother and older brother gone, and her father bedridden by illness, the work had become a ceaseless blur. The cattle still needed tending, fences mending—but the help had dried up like rain in a drought. Rumors of sickness kept folks away, and the town beyond the ridge shrank by the week, businesses closing, faces vanishing without a word.

Gwyneth’s only constants were her routine and her mare, Sadie—a patient white-and-grey with soft eyes and an eager step. She braided her caramel hair tight at the nape of her neck, green eyes sharp beneath the brim of her sun-faded hat. Her chambray shirt and scuffed boots — once her brother’s — were worn with work, molded to her like another skin.

The ride to town was quiet but tense, the prairie wind whispering warnings she pretended not to hear. Soon, wooden buildings came into view: the sheriff’s office, a two-room post house, the shuttered general store. It wasn’t a city, but it was all that was left—a place clinging to life at the edge of the frontier.

At the crossroads near the livery, Gwyneth paused. Even from a distance she could see fresh wanted posters nailed to the bulletin board, edges curling in the breeze, faces staring out with inked accusation.

She nudged Sadie forward, wishing for the hundredth time that she would find good news today—for the ranch, for her father, or even just one pair of honest hands willing to stay.

Sliding from the saddle, Gwyneth led her mare to the hitching rail, looping the reins over the sun-bleached wood. She patted Sadie’s sturdy flank—a small comfort—then squared her shoulders and stepped toward the saloon.

Inside, the air was thick with sawdust and the tang of stale whiskey. A few patrons hunched at scattered tables, glassy-eyed and unmoved by the illness running roughshod through town. They seemed immune to worry, so long as their glasses stayed full.

Gwyneth let out a quiet huff and claimed a seat at the bar. She ordered a shot—sharp and clean—and tossed it back, the burn settling her nerves. She had no intentions of getting drunk, but after these past months, she needed just enough to soften the edges.

“How’s your old man?” the bartender asked, wiping down the counter and studying her with a kind eye.

She managed a faint, weary smile.

“Still the same. Can’t get out of bed, but he’s hanging on.”

He poured her another shot and slid it across.

“On the house.”

“Thank you,” Gwyneth said softly, downing it in one swallow. “Anyone new come through lately?” she asked, a thread of hope in her voice.

He shook his head.

“Not this past week.”

Her sigh was soft but heavy.

“Thanks,” she murmured, pushing off the stool.

With a final, grateful nod to the bartender, Gwyneth stepped outside, letting the harsh daylight chase away a bit of the saloon’s lingering gloom. She left Sadie tied to the hitching post, the mare flicking an ear as Gwyneth set off down the main street.

The town was little more than a broad strip of packed earth—just wide enough for wagons to pass—with crooked, makeshift homes scattered at one end and weathered storefronts hugging the other. A few townsfolk lingered near the post office or shuffled between buildings, cautious eyes seldom meeting hers for long.

A short walk brought her to the church—a modest, whitewashed structure standing slightly apart from the rest of the settlement, the bell housed above the entrance like a watchful guardian.

Outside, Father James tended to a battered window shutter, tools neatly arranged beside him. He was a man of quiet order, with dark hair—kept just long enough to curl gently over his collar but always brushed back. His collar and black coat, although well-worn, were immaculately clean, and he carried himself with gentle purpose.

Hearing footsteps, Father James glanced over his shoulder and offered Gwyneth a warm, reassuring smile.

“Good morning. How may I help you, child?” His voice, low and even, held the same kindness she remembered from childhood sermons.

Gwyneth drew in a steadying breath.

Her father’s condition was unchanged—no better, no worse—and the future weighed heavy on her mind.

“Father… You know I’m not much for churchgoing, but my father is,” she began, her words quiet.

He set down his hammer, his gaze gentle.

“I understand,” he said, smiling patiently. “Has he taken a turn?”

She shook her head, the relief and worry mingling on her face.

“No, not yet. But I...”

Father James nodded, the lines around his eyes softening.

“I’ll stop by this evening, if that suits you.”

A small, grateful smile touched Gwyneth’s lips.

“Thank you. I’ll have a bed made up for you, so you can head back in the morning.”

The priest inclined his head.

“Thank you, Miss. Harper. I’ll see you tonight.”

With their exchange settled, Gwyneth offered one last nod to Father James before turning away, the quiet promise of his visit warming her just enough to push forward.

She made her way back to Sadie, untied the reins, and swung up into the saddle. The mare shifted beneath her, sensing fatigue in her rider. Together, they left the town behind, hooves thudding softly against the packed earth road that stretched back to the ranch.

The ride felt longer than it had that morning—each mile heavier than the last. The sun had climbed, and the breeze had warmed into a dry wind that did little to cool her skin. Dust clung to her boots, her braid, her hat brim—proof of the land's hunger for moisture, mercy, or both.

Her ranch came into view at the crest of the final hill, the wooden fencing gray with age and the barn slouching slightly from years of weather. As she passed through the gate, she saw it — a shape too still in the yellow grass. Too large to be a coyote kill, too wrong to be sleeping.

Her heart sank.

She swung down from the saddle before Sadie even stopped, letting the reigns go and approaching on foot. The mare followed behind her at a slow walk, unbothered, accustomed to the routine.

The steer—young, fattened for the season—lay stiff in the grass, eyes dull and glazed over, flies already crowding its mouth and flanks. Gwyneth crouched beside it, scanning for wounds.

There were none. No blood, no goring, no signs of a predator.

Just like the others.

She pressed the back of her hand to its side. Cold. Dead longer than she would like. Her gut twisted.

"Damn it."

That made five this week—three cows, one gelding, now this steer. All without a mark. No signs of bloating, no visible wounds. Just sudden, unexplained death. She swiped sweat from her brow, jaw tensed.

Gwyneth stood and reached for the dull leather pouch tied to her saddle horn. Inside, linen cloth, salve, and bits of powdered sulfur—not that any of it was worth a damn against an illness she couldn't see.

She tied some sturdy rope to its legs and gave Sadie the command to take the carcass to the dry wash , just like her father had taught her. Then she reached down and scooped a handful of drying soil into her palm, felt its warmth, smelled it.

Too dry. Too bitter.

Maybe something in the water got the animals sick. She wasn’t sure—but something was wrong, and it was spreading.

She exhaled slowly, straightened her back, and looked out across the expanse of her land. From here, the land stretched forever. But without help — without hope — forever felt like a noose tightening around her.