Oregonal Sin

Horses and floods didn't - never have, never would - mix.

That the water wasn't higher, didn't hit harder, was a good thing of course, but it didn't stop the horses from being horses. High strung, spirited, intuitive prey animals that didn't take kindly to being locked in boxes with water coming in and rising around their feet.

To make a long story short the horses, screaming and kicking and panicking, did more damage inside the stable than the water did.

The horses, screaming, kicking and panicking, sure as hell did more damage to John than the water did.

The stream that crossed her land had looked more like the river it fed into for a few brief hours. Alita counted her blessings that they hadn't moved the herd down to pasture yet -- that meadow wouldn't be usable for a long while now. She'd gotten off easy; no loss of life, no buildings maged, the herd was safe. Still, she'd constantly fought off memories of the last flash flood, of Hector, of finding his body.

Once she'd seen the ranch was secure, she'd rounded up as many hands as she could spare and led them into town. They arrived wet, muddy, and in Alita's case, with lips tightly pressed together.

There was work to be down. Memories would have to wait.