Thread: The Only Rules That Matter:  Legacy (Corsair and Madam Mim)

Now the Injun was talking about her ass, which also made her uncomfortably. Particularly the way Jackie called it naughty in that playful voice of hers while her strong hands kneaded and rubbed her. She tried not to think about those hands slipping beneath her, tried not to imagine those fingers stroking into her and exploring her, and in the end it was all she could do to manage to not grind down into the grass-stuffed mat beneath her belly. God, it was bad enough she had these unnatural urges. Did she have to be filthy enough to want to drag another woman down with her? Drag this heathen Apache down, their bodies moving together as... It came as a relief when Jackie helped her roll over. The pain of hef wounds provided a distraction. But even though the massage had been an ordeal in one sense, it had also been a blessing. She still hurt like hell, but the massage had loosened up tense muscles and eased that pain down to a dull roar. And the blanket was soft against her skin, and the steaming cup of whatever it was went down easily. Tired as she was, she didn't even mind the bitterness. Well, she mumbled sleepily, cain't let yer ma kill y'all. She yawned, hard. Not much thanks, if'n Ah did that. Another yawn, and her speech softened and slurred. Mah pa'd kill me, if'n he knew Ah still... still... liked girls. Cain't... cain't nobody... nobody know. It's... Another yawn. It's... wrong... it is... Then the only sounds she made was soft snores. There must be justice, a voice said. Sam jerked awake. She was back on the baked earth, flies buzzing and buzzards circling. The dead surrounded her still. Ah... Ah cain't... she gasped out, trying to rise. Ah'm... dyin... It had been a dream. Jackie. Help. All of it, just the fever dream if a dying woman. The dead cry out for justice, Samantha Cavendish. The dead cry out fir justice, and the living know not that they need it. She couldn't move. Justice? Ah cain't even help mahself! Justice does not exist, Samantha, save in the soul. There is no justice. There is just us. Ah... whoe'er y'all are... Ah'm dyin'. Ah... cain't... Justice. For those who have it not. Ah... Justice. For those who require it. But... Ah cain't! YOU CAN. Sam's eyes snapped open, the final words of the dream vouce still thundering in her ears. It was dark in the cabin, and dark outside. Gasping for breath, she carefully managed to sit uoright. Justice, she murmured, thinking back to how she'd once longed to be a Ranger. Justice. She'd always stoid up to bullies, and had wanted to wear a badge and protect people. Right up until reality had crushed that dream. Ah reckon, she said to herself, that y'all have been moonin' about an' feelin' sorry fer yerself a mite too much Sam Cavendish. It don't matter what th' preacher thinks, er anyone else? Never did. It matters what y'all do, an' why. That's what pa said, ain't it. An' y'gotta heal up, don'cha? Cause that Beckett fella's out there, an' it was probably his men what dry gulched ya. An' th' six good men what ain't goin' home no more. She sat in the darkness, looming at her hand. Then she loojed up, staring at the moin through the smoke hole in the roof. A slow smile spread across her lips. Justice.