Betheny has a minion!

Receiving the Flour

The road dust that blows down the center lane of the desert town cakes in the throats of those ragged cowboys who wander through. These men can live on air when meat is scarce but cannot suffer one day without the comfort of a bottle. The saloon on the corner of the street never lacks for business.

One such man wears a cowboy hat of no color, pushing through double doors which creak and swing a few times before settling back in place. He is not a remarkable man. His blue jeans are faded, his jacket torn, and his boots are nearly flat at the heels. There is only one item on his person worthy of attention. In his hand he holds a pink carnation, a lurid stranger destined to die in a few days from the heat.

His eyes skip over a trio of women in gaudy dresses that were once fit for royalty. He only has eyes for the woman in the corner. Her curly bronze hair put to shame the copper lanterns that light the glorious veins of gold deep within the distant mine. His eyes linger on the small dip in her upper lip. He does not know if the rich mauve color is natural or painted and he couldn't care less. He fumbles the hat from his head, offering a sheepish grin as gold eyes flash up to meet his gaze. Accepting the blossom without a word, she falls into the familiar pattern of the dance.

*****

Betheny turns the pink flower between her hands, staring into its heart to avoid looking at the figure that lies snoring on her bed. She overheard from the bartender that this one is yet another Clyde. Nobody extraordinary, just another fool intent on conquering the untamed frontier.

She used to play such men like finely-tuned guitars. One flash of the ankle would have them throwing gold to turn the head of a queen. A slight parting of the lips would leave them scrambling to reach the edge of the stage. They wanted only to touch the hem of her dress, to give the sensation of soft texture to their fantasies. She made the other girls jealous, always wearing dresses that were the latest fashion. Subtlety was the key to unlock the hearts and purses of men. It took a hefty purse to buy more than a dance.

Elijah had changed her.

Half a dozen red roses were tossed up on stage, littering the creaky boards at her feet and making them beautiful for the first time in years. She stopped to gather the offering, flashing him a look.

He watched the dance without pulling at his bandana or any of the other little signs that would lead to another forgettable night. When she had finished, four cheerful sunflowers joined their blushing cousins at her feet.

When she went to her room alone that night, every available surface was littered with flowers. He was waiting there, still fully dressed. He sat on the lounge, the one that had been a gift from a cowboy dressed all in black. He held up a hand when she reached for the strings at her back.

He just wanted someone to talk to, he said. Her jaw grew tired from talking. They spoke of the desert and its hidden springs of life. He told her stories from his wandering ways, always bent on moving further west until he saw the endless water of legend. She feared to bore him but he was a patient man. He drew out the stories her Gram had told when life still seemed to hold the promise of happiness. Her imitations of goblins and fair folk made him laugh.

He made her feel like a real woman. She got the usual looks when she passed through town on her way to pick up a sack of flour but she held her head high. Many of those respectable ladies willing to turn up their noses at her had never received so much as a single bouquet from their men. Who were they to judge?

He came to her late in the evening of his fourth day in town, offering a bouquet of wildflowers though he would not meet her eye.

"I've got to leave, Betheny. I'm a free spirit. I can't be tethered in place like a horse and the ocean's calling." He glanced out her window which overlooked the road and his longing was plain." I will come back this way. That's a promise, sweet girl. You just keep watching that there road."

For two years she had followed his advice. She hoped against reason, turning down good clients and letting the patches grow on the faces of the gowns she'd once discarded at the first tear. She gathered all the flowers he'd given, pressing them between the yellowed pages of a book left to her by her father. She would sit for hours, daydreaming about what he would say to her when he took her into his arms.

It was the nightmare that ended her hope. The face of Elijah's opponent differed with each telling but that shadowy figure was always the victor. Her Elijah lay bleeding in the street, hand pointing feebly in the direction of the sea. There was no word and none of the strangers that passed through town had seen a man of his description.

The rumor spread gradually of the gorgeous dancer who shunned good gold but would please the eye for the price of one freshly cut flower.

*****

Betheny watched Clyde's departure indifferently, leaning against the post outside the saloon and petting the nose of a handsome chestnut mare. The only shape visible on the road west was a tumbleweed that soon blew out of sight.

Profile template by Lea.

Story written by Pureflower.

Betheny sketch by Hateshi.

Background courtesy of Colourlovers.com