Prairie Justice

Prairie Justice

  By J.P. Voss

  Copyright 2011 J.P. Voss

  License Notes

  ######

  Lacy Kit Carson sat alone staring into the open-hearth fireplace of her mother’s modest three-bedroom Omaha Nebraska home. The electricity went out, and her cell phone rang. She took the call, but didn’t say a word.

  “Hello…Lacy. Are you there? It’s Booker. I hope it was okay to call. I was worried. Are you okay? Hello? Are you there?”

  “I’m sorry Booker. I’m having a really bad night. This storm really has me spooked. On top of that, all the power just went out.”

  “Here too,” he said. “It’s pitch black outside, like the earth got swallowed by a supermassive black hole.”

  Turning from the fire, Lacy gazed out the window. “The world feels so cold tonight. I can’t believe how much I still miss my father. It’s been three years since daddy died. I miss him so much. Nights like this, I miss him the most. Stormy nights were fun when my dad was alive. Mom and me would curl up by the fire, and my dad would tell lies about Kit Carson and the Old West. He swore we were related.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I don’t tell a lot of people. Honestly—I don’t think it’s true, but my dad believed it, or at least he acted like he did. If it had been up to him, my first name would have been Kit. You know…as in Kit Carson.”

  “That’s a cool name.”

  “Seriously Booker. Kit? It has to be the lamest girl’s name ever. I’m just glad Nana Carson insisted I be named Lacy, after her mother. Daddy had to settle for Kit as my middle name.”

  Headlights beamed through the front window as a car swerved in the driveway and skidded to a stop.

  “Sorry Booker. I’ve gotta go. Bye.”

  Lacy rolled up in her patchwork quilt and hopped to the window. When she saw it was her stepfather Bill, she threw off the quilt and bound through the house toward her bedroom. Pulling the door tight behind her, Lacy yanked back the covers on her neatly made single bed and burrowed under Pendleton sheets. She peaked out as a lightening strike electrified the sky blue room. Ribbons, trophies, and pictures of her horse Creed were scattered everywhere. Creed, a gift from her father, more than anything else, brought back memories of her dad. Times like her seventh birthday, Dad wouldn’t say where they were going, just that it was a surprise. When they pulled down the dirt road to Diamond Stables, Lacy thought they were just going to rent a couple of horses and go riding. Instead, her dad parked by the corral and pointed to a beautiful Black and Brown Gelding Quarter Horse. He didn’t say a word; he didn’t have to. Lacy locked eyes with Creed and their souls took root. She grabbed the biggest picture off her nightstand and held it to her heart.

  “Don’t worry love. I’ll see you tomorrow for sure.” Lacy smooched the photo goodnight. “Sleep tight sweetie.”

  Alone in the dark, she listened to the battering storm and waited for her mom to get home from work. Lacy didn’t hear her mom come in, but she knew her mom was home when her stepfather erupted.

  “I’m the man of the house,” Bill bellowed. “I make the decisions around here.”

  Tiptoeing down the hall, Lacy cautiously approached the hall passage. She got on her hands and knees and peered around the opening. She had a clear view through the living room into the dining area. Mom was sitting at the old oak dining table. Her head was bowed, and Bill was barking out the house rules.

  “When I make a decision, it’s final. Do you understand me woman? I wasn’t asking your opinion. I was telling you a fact. You open your pie hole again, and I’ll put my boot in it. We clear on that? The subject is closed you damned ignorant bitch. Now where in the hell is my dinner.”

  Lacy hated the sight of Bill. 5’6” with a gut, he had a pasty complexion, and Lacy always said he looked like that serial killer—John Wayne Gacy. A predatory charlatan, scriptures rolled off his tongue like honey off a bee’s butt. Bill talked a good game, but he had the religious convictions of a scoundrel.

  Cigar smoke blanketed the dining room, and when Lacy saw the fifth Old Forester sitting on the table, she got sick to her stomach and sunk back down the hallway.

  Fatso is getting blitzed again. I can’t believe my mother married him. He’s such a loser.

  A humiliating slap was followed by her mother’s muted sobs and the stench from Bill’s cigar.

  That’s bullshit.

  Driven beyond fear, Lacy sprung up and stood on her toes. Moving stiff limbed with stuttered steps, she wasn’t sure what she was going to do as she came up behind Bill. She thought about kicking him between the legs when Bill turned around.

  “You idiot! Don’t you hit my mother…don’t you ever hit my mother.”

  “Don’t start Little Missy. I straightened your mother out. I’ll straighten you out too.” Bill leaned over, stuck his index finger against Lacy’s breastbone, and gave her a dismissive shove. “This whole thing is your fault anyways. Look at all the pain you’ve caused your mother. I ought to whip you good. There wouldn’t be any problem if it weren’t for you and that stupid horse of yours.”

  “Don’t push me again. And don’t call my horse stupid. Creed’s not the problem. You’re the only problem around here.”

  What Bill lacked in character, he made up for with drunken arrogance. He took a hard swig off the booze, a long satisfying toke on the cigar, and then blew smoke in Lacy’s face.

  “There’s going to be one less problem around here come tomorrow morning. I’m getting rid of that old plow horse.”

  “What are you talking about? She’s my horse.” Lacy pushed past Bill and threw herself at her mother’s knees. “Mom, tell him—please. He can’t sell my horse. He can’t.”

  Lacy’s mother lowered her head and repeated the words that had been twisted to manipulate her spirit. “Ephesians 5:22, Wives, submit to your husbands as to the Lord.”

  Bill gloated, “That’s right girl. You’d be smart to listen to your mother. She’s a lot better woman since she got right with the Lord.”

  Lacy stood toe-to-toe with Bill and said, “You can’t sell my horse. I won’t let you.”

  “You don’t have a damn thing to say about it Little Missy. I pay the bills around here, and I’m not throwing away anymore of my hard earned money on that broken-down plow horse. I’m meeting a man at the stables tomorrow morning at seven. You can go back to bed and forget about that old horse.”