Page 7 of Rough Hands on the Prairie
I sip. It’s hearty. Rich. Real.
“So you live out here alone?” I ask, casually.
He nods. “Yes, I do.”
“In the middle of nowhere?”
“There’s good trappin’ in these parts,” he says.
I wrinkle my nose. “Trapping?”
“Fur trapping,” he clarifies, giving me a look.
“Right, of course.” I scramble. “Just didn’t, uh… recognize the word in your accent.”
His brow arches. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“You could say that.”
I stare into my bowl like it holds answers.
The dress flares around my legs, heavier than I expected, but not uncomfortable. I’ll need shoes eventually. But I’ll figure that out later.
If I’m not just dreaming.
A thought strikes me. I look up.
“Why do you have a woman’s dress here? If it’s just you?”
His eyes flick away—fast.
That hits a nerve.
“Hey, no judgment,” I joke, trying to cover. “If you like throwing on a gown in the evenings, I support that.”
His gaze snaps back to me. Not amused.
“What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing! Just… kidding.”
The look he gives me shuts me up fast.
My eyes flick to the fireplace. A few rabbits hang above it. I’m not squeamish, but I’m definitely not used to seeing my dinner still wearing its fur.
“You got a problem with my trapping?” he asks.
“No, it’s just…” I fumble. “I haven’t seen anyone live off it before.”
He narrows his eyes. “How’d you manage that?”
“What?”
“Everyone in these parts lives off the land. Trapping. Hunting.”
“Well,not everyone.”
“Too good for it, huh?”
