Secret Salvations

Secret Salvations (Unedited)

Shooter Creek Ranch

Tyler, Texas 1846

Wide-open spaces loomed before him.  Alone, eighteen-year-old Seth Loflin rode the trail, one as familiar to him as his name.  Restless and hungry, but for what he couldn’t say, Seth traveled over Loflin land.  A man didn’t have to ask where he was when he headed west out of Tyler, Texas.  He passed through the Shooter Creek Ranch, the largest ranch in east Texas and one of the three largest in the state.

His eyes scanned the terrain.  As far as the eye could see belonged to his father, Earl Loflin, a man as hard and unforgiving as the ground under the hooves of Seth’s beloved horse, Sarge.  He loved this land and all the riches it held.  He’d never wanted to live anywhere else except Texas.  Shooter Creek Ranch had been his home from birth.  Glancing at the sun dipping low in the western sky, Seth ran a hand over his chest, just under his heart where a certain longing festered.  Something was missing.  Putting a name to the yearning did no good.  He’s discussed the matter with Maggie, the housekeeper and Loflin boys surrogate mom since the death of their maw some eight years back.  She’d told him in her best Irish brogue, ‘You’ll be finding the answer when the time is right, lad’.  Jake Long, Shooter Creek’s foreman and Seth’s mentor said basically the same, ‘You’ll find what you’re looking for without trying.  Give it time’.

Time!  Time to pack away the craving he couldn’t identify.  “Jake’s right.  I’ll stumble on this thing, whatever it is.”  Leaning in, he gave Sarge an affectionate pat on the neck.  “Right boy?”

In response, the bay nickered heartily.

“Besides, there’s always work to do.”  He sighed, glancing off into the trees.  Work kept the longing at bay during the daylight hours but in the wee hours of the morning when nothing stirred except the wind in the trees, he’d wake feeling empty and alone, as if he waited for someone, perhaps to share that sliver of time with before the cock crowed and a new day dawned on the world known as Shooter Creek.  Running his fingers through the thick mat of dark brown hair, a sigh escaped.  “Let’s go, boy.  No use in wallowing in it, is there?”

Sarge’s magnificent chocolate brown head rose quickly as he jerked his mane from side to side.  The horse, always responsive, always obedient, picked up the pace.  Soon they were trotting down the path leading back from the creek, the same creek the ranch was named for.  The pleasure of the ride didn’t last long.

Nerves ran along his backbone, like the tiny legs of a spider, giving him a sense of anticipation.  He couldn’t name the cause yet the feeling stirred his base needs. Behind his fly, his shaft stiffened.  The air filled with scents unfamiliar yet pleasing to his nose.  Putting pressure on the reigns, Seth maneuvered Sarge into the trees lining the creek.  His heart skidded to a halt with the sight before him.

On that cool, crisp evening at dusk, Seth Loflin came upon the most mesmerizing creature he’d ever seen.  Her jet-black hair hung to her waist and her skin, reminded him of a creamy praline, the kind sold on the street corners of New Orleans..  Water swirled against her thighs as she exited the creek with the help of several attendants.  Unaware of his presence, she trailed a long slim finger through the water, giving the lazy moving current a steady ripple upon leaving.  She looked relaxed, as if she were enjoying her bath.  Tall and regal, her stance reminded him of royalty as the other women helped her up the bank.

They covered her body with a large blanket.  Disappointment set in and drove the urge for a better view.  Seth maneuvered Sarge, in between the low-lying limbs of the Mesquite trees that lined the banks of Shooter Creek, hoping for another glimpse.  Careful not to disturb the leaves and twigs littering the ground, he worked his way closer.  Still, Sarge managed to snap a large stick beneath his hoof with a loud crack.