Lonesome Dove
A Storm is Brewing
At seventeen years old, Lucy Marie Graves was headed West. Her mother had died the year before, leaving behind Lucy, her father, Gregory; her fifteen-year-old sister, Miranda; and her eight-year-old brother, Timothy. The last shovel-full of dirt had hardly touched her mother’s grave before Gregory Graves announced that they to soon be headed West in a wagon train.
There had been a scrabbling of packing as the family decided what they did and didn’t want. Miranda had had her tearful good-bye’s with her friends and the farmer boy she’d hoped to marry. Lucy had had one good-bye, and it was to her one and only friend, Beth, whom she promised to write to whenever she had the chance.
A few short weeks later, the Graves were moving with a dozen other wagons on their journey West. They didn’t know where they would end up—they only hoped that it would be somewhere with richer land then their own. This led them to where they were now, a forever’s worth of time into their journey, and nowhere near Oregon. They were currently roaming through Texas, and they’d heard word of foul weather coming their way—but had seen nothing to arise suspicion.
“Good mornin’, Miss Lucy,” Said the wagon guide, Perry Oswell, tipping his hat to Lucy as he rode by. Lucy was one of the few girls in the wagon train of marriageable age. And even though she didn’t consider herself beautiful; with her thick, fly-away tangle of black hair, hands that were calloused from work, and skin that had tanned in the sun; a few of the men had tried to convince her to come with them.
But Lucy was known for being an ice queen. She didn’t often reveal her feelings, and a flash of a smile was a rare and lucky treat. So when Perry rode by, simply being hospitable, Lucy’s response was to simply tip her head. Once upon a time, she had believed in fairy tales love, but she knew now that the world was a cold, foolhardy place where the only things that would love you forever and relentlessly were animals and inanimate objects. She didn’t want to be hurt, and so she didn’t expose the softer side of herself. The men had slowly to come to realize that Lucy simply wasn’t interested.
“I smell a storm brewing,” Lucy turned, startled, to find her father standing behind her, gazing intently at the horizon. It was just dawn, and everyone had at last had their share of breakfast—it was time to move along.
“You smell it, Papa?” Lucy asked. Her father had always had intuition when it came to weather. And Lucy wasn’t about to doubt him. He nodded in reply.
“It’s to be a rough day, Lou,” He gruffly informed his eldest daughter. “Stay safe. Keep an eye on Miranda and Timothy.”
“Yes, Papa,” Lucy replied, her mouth twitching in irritation. She hated watching her siblings. She’d always considered herself a lone wolf type of person, and Lucy hated to rely on anyone for anything—they had a record of letting her down.
“We’re moving out!” Came a loud cry from Perry. All the oxen were reattached to their according wagons, young children and pregnant women climbed into the wagons for another long day’s journey, cookpots were tethered down in the wagons and fires were extinguished.
Lucy lifted her calloused hand to her forehead and looked out over the horizon. Dark clouds were gathering, quickly, and Lucy knew that her father was right—a storm was brewing, indeed.
There had been a scrabbling of packing as the family decided what they did and didn’t want. Miranda had had her tearful good-bye’s with her friends and the farmer boy she’d hoped to marry. Lucy had had one good-bye, and it was to her one and only friend, Beth, whom she promised to write to whenever she had the chance.
A few short weeks later, the Graves were moving with a dozen other wagons on their journey West. They didn’t know where they would end up—they only hoped that it would be somewhere with richer land then their own. This led them to where they were now, a forever’s worth of time into their journey, and nowhere near Oregon. They were currently roaming through Texas, and they’d heard word of foul weather coming their way—but had seen nothing to arise suspicion.
“Good mornin’, Miss Lucy,” Said the wagon guide, Perry Oswell, tipping his hat to Lucy as he rode by. Lucy was one of the few girls in the wagon train of marriageable age. And even though she didn’t consider herself beautiful; with her thick, fly-away tangle of black hair, hands that were calloused from work, and skin that had tanned in the sun; a few of the men had tried to convince her to come with them.
But Lucy was known for being an ice queen. She didn’t often reveal her feelings, and a flash of a smile was a rare and lucky treat. So when Perry rode by, simply being hospitable, Lucy’s response was to simply tip her head. Once upon a time, she had believed in fairy tales love, but she knew now that the world was a cold, foolhardy place where the only things that would love you forever and relentlessly were animals and inanimate objects. She didn’t want to be hurt, and so she didn’t expose the softer side of herself. The men had slowly to come to realize that Lucy simply wasn’t interested.
“I smell a storm brewing,” Lucy turned, startled, to find her father standing behind her, gazing intently at the horizon. It was just dawn, and everyone had at last had their share of breakfast—it was time to move along.
“You smell it, Papa?” Lucy asked. Her father had always had intuition when it came to weather. And Lucy wasn’t about to doubt him. He nodded in reply.
“It’s to be a rough day, Lou,” He gruffly informed his eldest daughter. “Stay safe. Keep an eye on Miranda and Timothy.”
“Yes, Papa,” Lucy replied, her mouth twitching in irritation. She hated watching her siblings. She’d always considered herself a lone wolf type of person, and Lucy hated to rely on anyone for anything—they had a record of letting her down.
“We’re moving out!” Came a loud cry from Perry. All the oxen were reattached to their according wagons, young children and pregnant women climbed into the wagons for another long day’s journey, cookpots were tethered down in the wagons and fires were extinguished.
Lucy lifted her calloused hand to her forehead and looked out over the horizon. Dark clouds were gathering, quickly, and Lucy knew that her father was right—a storm was brewing, indeed.