Even after ten years, Emma still had not gotten used to lush, spring mornings in New England.

After a long, dark winter the sky would open and unleash a dazzling array of golden-yellow rays, painting the ground with wide swaths of gold as grass pushed up through the damp soil. Birds returned to the trees, and the trees blossomed with white buds. The air was damp and comfortable, and the ground was slicked with fresh dew.

Emma stepped out the back door of her home, holding a ceramic mug of coffee. She took a sip, savoring the bitter flavor as she looked out at her farm. The ground beneath her feet was cool and comfortable; she rarely wore shoes when she went out to the farm in the morning. She enjoyed being close to her crops – as close as she could be, at least. She spent most mornings in the farm, sometimes pulling the thick weeds that seemed to appear overnight, other times tending to the plants that were struggling. She didn’t grow much; she had an apple tree (which had come with the property), an assortment of beets, carrots, beans, and a very small plot of corn. About a mile behind the rich farmland, out in the distance, was a small, blue river. Some mornings, a layer of mist would be hovering over the ground, and she would be able to smell the crisp waters from her back porch. Most times, she made sure to visit the river by herself, to spend a couple of minutes by its shore watching the small fish that would swirl beneath the surface.

After Emma had finished her morning routine, she returned to her house and closed the door behind her. As she entered the kitchen, she spotted Jane pouring a cup of coffee. She was still in her nightgown, and she was humming a song to herself. It sounded familiar to Emma, but she couldn’t quite place it.

Emma drained the rest of her mug and walked up to the metal pot. Jane looked over at her as she approached, and they shared a quick kiss before Emma poured herself another cup of coffee.

“How’re the crops?”

Emma shrugged. “Same as ever. Beans ‘re growing more than the weeds. It’s a beautiful morning, though. I think I’ll go into town today.”

“Feeling adventurous, huh?” Jane asked. She walked out to the dining room and sat at a scratched, square table they had pushed against the wall. Emma joined her.

“Adventurous as I could be,” Emma said. She looked out toward her back door, toward the crops and the blue river. “I think it’s gonna be a good year. Gonna get a good yield.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Jane said with a playful grin. Emma took a swallow of warm coffee.

“I expect nothing less,” she said.

Emma stared across the table at Jane, at the woman she loved, at the person she knew she was going to spend the rest of her life with. For their safety, they were just “close friends” to the rest of the town. To some extent, that was also true of their relationship, but the eyes of the law were still akin to the eyes of her uncle: antiquated and bigoted.

“You got a telegram by the way,” Jane said. She gestured back toward the kitchen. “Gentleman stopped by when you were out with the crops.”

“Who from?”

“I didn’t check. He caught me while I was boiling water, so I had to rush back quick.”

Emma stood from the table and entered the kitchen. The yellowed card was sitting on the counter. She grabbed it and returned to the living room. Jane was looking at her over the blue brim of her mug as she read it.

Emma’s heart fell to her stomach as her eyes moved left to right.

MATTHEW SHERIFF. DAD IN PRISON. PLEASE HELP. EXECUTION IN TWO WEEKS. BRECKENRIDGE. ROSE.

“Are you okay?” Jane asked.

Emma looked up from the telegram. Jane’s face was carved with concern; her eyes were glittering with curiosity.

“It’s from a friend. An old friend.” Emma paused and looked at the telegraph again.

EXECUTION IN TWO WEEKS. BRECKENRIDGE.

The telegram was dated three days prior.

Eleven days.

How far away was Breckenridge? She didn’t know off the top of her head. It couldn’t be more than two thousand miles, though. Two thousand miles over eleven days? Would that be even possible? She would be cutting it close, and her horse would be more tired than it had ever been, but maybe it was possible.

She had to try.

“Do you remember when I told you about my Uncle?”

Jane nodded gravely. “I do.”

“He’s apparently the Sheriff of this town called Breckenridge. And he’s got my friend’s father. They’re going to execute him in two weeks. I – I need to go to help.”

Emma stood and rushed to their bedroom, which was just off the living room on the right. She pulled out an old rucksack and began to pull clothes out for the journey. After she had finished, she retrieved the pocket watch on the nightstand. Inside was Jane’s picture. She stuffed it into her pants’ pockets and returned to the kitchen. As she was packing food that would last her for the journey, Jane came up behind her and placed a hand on her back.

“You make sure you come back,” she said. Her tone was soft, yet firm. “I’ll tend to the crops in the meantime.”

“Make sure to watch the beans. Weeds grow around ‘em fast and it can become hard to distinguish what you should keep and what you should pull out.”

“I’ll make sure,” Jane said.

Emma turned toward her, toward the woman who had stolen her heart, toward her future. She smiled and kissed her one more time before exiting the kitchen and moving back to the living room. She picked up the telegram and stuffed it into her pocket. Then she dropped her rucksack at the front door and turned, walking toward the back entrance.

Jane refused to have guns in the house. It was a sentiment Emma understood. When she had bought the house with the few hundred dollars she had inherited from her parents, she discovered that the house had a small basement. It couldn’t store much, but it could hold a few specific items: a revolver, a couple of rifles – one repeater and one hunting rifle – and a few different knives. She had built a makeshift armoire to hold everything.

Moving quickly, Emma grabbed one of the hunting knives and the revolver. She pulled a box of ammunition from the top shelf. She didn’t anticipate fighting, but she knew, perhaps better than most, that it was better to be overprepared.

With her holsters in place on her hips, Emma placed her revolver on her right and the knife on the left. When she returned to the house, she opened her rucksack and poured the extra shells into a small pocket. They clattered against each other and settled. Then, Emma pulled the rucksack up and slipped its straps over her shoulders. With a final smile toward Jane, she exited the house and left.

She didn’t look back as she unhitched her horse and climbed on it.

She was coming back.

Next Chapter: Emma