Nov 28, 2021 update: Just wanted to let folks know I haven't forgotten the story. My November has been crazy - my nephew's huge out-of-town wedding, my daughter had a big birthday that lasted all one weekend, and then my yearly trip to Savannah that's supposed to be a writing sabbatical, but fell rather short in that department. I did pick up literature on the city's history, walk through much amazing architecture, eat fantastic food, and visited my favorite produce stand on the outskirts of Tybee Island. As a result, I have consumed an entire box of Savannah Cheese Straw Company's cheese straws, I have a mess of fresh okra to pan-fry tonight, and a basket of soft-ball sized Meyer lemons that came from a local's tree, just gorgeous. Probably gonna make a pie. But, alas, Chapter 35 is not ready.

The main problem is I have notes everywhere, strewn over 10-15 documents, maybe more - a paragraph here, a sentence there. Today I will be gathering it all together in a hopefully cohesive manner and continue to plan out to the end of the story. I ask again for your patience, my life is cray-cray right now.

A note to BlancheScarlett - girl, my brother has built a wedding venue on his property right outside of Greenville, SC, which is where my nephew's wedding took place, and he has an ANTIQUE JOGGLING BOARD right there on the premises! I couldn't believe my eyes! He didn't even know what it was, saw it at an estate sale and bought it because it looked interesting and he needed more seating. It's small and white, needs to be repainted but otherwise excellent condition. Gonna try to get you a pic!

See you soon, dear readers :) Take care, peace, misscyn

ooooOOOOooooOOOO

Teaser for Chapter 35, don't read if you haven't read 34 yet please! Picks up in the horse stable right after Scarlett sees Leif entering and asks 'Leif? Is that you?':

"In the flesh," he said as he led his horse into the stall. "I just met your sister, who directed me here."

She regarded him, mouth still slightly agape, noting his travel attire, brown pants and wide-brimmed hat, and a cream-colored shirt and jacket, casual but most properly appointed, especially compared to herself at the moment.

"You're quite flushed," he observed as he exited the stall, his shirtsleeves rolled up past the tanned skin of his forearms, and the first button of his shirt undone, once again revealing the golden hairs at his neck. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm fine."

He examined her more closely; the raven hair down and all around her shoulders, the pink cheeks, the reddened, full lips, the sheen of her skin; and her eyes, emerald and wide and sparkling. He looked over her shoulder at the huge horse, still saddled behind her. She wasn't sure—she would never be sure—but for a moment she thought she might have caught the ghost of a smirk curving his lips.

"What have you been doing?" He leaned forward just a bit and looked directly into her large and luminous eyes. " Exactly?"

Scarlett stepped back as she made a slightly indignant sound. "I just rode rather hard over from visiting with my neighbors."

Openly smiling now, his eyes drifted down her form and widened. "Wha—what are you wearing?" His Adam's apple bobbed up and down underneath his lightly bearded chin, which mesmerized Scarlett for a second before she realized he was waiting for an answer.

'Oh," she repeated, looking down. Without thinking, she spread the skirt out with her hands, which only revealed more of her form, and she quickly let go.

"As luck would have it, my sidesaddle is broken and I had to ride astride so my neighbor loaned me a horse and saddle and gave me this," she said, feeling her cheeks redden further, if possible, as she gestured toward her lower half. Quickly she attempted to change the subject. "What are you doing here?"

He seemed to be as fascinated with the movement of her hands as she was with the movement of his throat, which he cleared before speaking.

"I had a few hours, as management and front of the house training ended today. Babette's working with the kitchen staff, and I was in the way. Tate had everything else covered." He managed to tear his eyes away from the rest of her to look Scarlett again in the eyes.

"So I thought I'd come and see your Tara and perhaps discuss the food sourcing with you while I could actually see where it originates." He recovered himself and gave her an easy grin. "And I wanted to get out of Atlanta for the afternoon."

"Oh," she said again, stupidly. "Well, welcome to Tara. Come up to the house and we'll get you introduced all around as soon as I get changed."

See you fine peeps soon ...

OOOOooooOOOOoooo

Inspirations:

What happened could have happened to anyone, but not everyone could have carried on. —Marcus Aurelius (April 26, 121–March 17, 180).

The past is never dead. It's not even past. ― William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun

Maybe there's a God above

But all I ever learned from love

Was how to shoot somebody

Who outdrew you

Leonard Cohen, Hallelujah

Disclaimer: Nada mine.

A/N Still Wednesday in the story, peeps. It may get a little maturish on Scarlett's ride home near the end of the first section, so I'm giving you a heads up if you don't care for that sort of thing.

Chapter 34

What had to be the most awkward ride in the history of Clayton County commenced as Scarlett and Will made their way down Tara's driveway in the rickety old wagon. She couldn't look at him for the first few minutes, staring off to the side and willing her face to lose its telltale heat. She didn't think he'd heard, but still. She could strangle Suellen for saying all she did, right before she knew they were going to go somewhere together.

What about all that, Scarlett thought, finally summoning the nerve to surreptitiously peek at Will from beneath her lashes. She never would have guessed. Will! And Suellen! In love and talking scandalously! Old, yet familiar feelings of jealousy and resentment rose in her belly. If only she had someone to do ungentlemanly things to her. Well, she had that, once. And she wasted it. She suddenly felt like a disappointed child on Christmas morning. One who knew she had been naughty but hoped against hope Santa would remember her anyway.

She continued to digest all her dear sister so liberally shared along the way. It had been so long, such a long time since that dark swirling night, so long since a man had touched her. She wanted—oh, how she wanted! To know, to be known. To be held and caressed by a man who wasn't hiding, who knew he loved her at the same time she knew she loved him. To feel that primal power, to feel alive in the way only that could make one feel. She lost herself in the memory of the sensations, of that dark head breathing on her neck, then bent lower, intent on pleasing her. How it felt to surrender, to give herself over, intent on pleasing him as well ….

Her face heated again and she chastised herself. Thinking that way with Will sitting right beside her, the shame!

But then the passing fields, tilled and planted, with the green shoots coming up and the scent of the raw earth changed her train of thought and she managed to shake it off and engage in farming conversation with her favorite brother-in-law along the way.

An hour or so later, after picking up her load and dropping Will off at the fields, Scarlett found herself pulling up to Fairhill with the wagon of belongings. Beatrice Tarleton immediately came out of the house followed by Hetty and Randa. Their clothes weren't new, but they weren't tattered, and they were smiling and appeared well-fed.

Nice to see people looking healthier and happier. The Tarleton matriarch appeared about the same as always, except—Scarlett did a double-take—she was wearing a split skirt instead of her usual riding habit! Oh, how the world has changed! My mother would have nearly swooned.

"What's all this?" After checking out the horse first, of course, Beatrice peered in the back of the wagon. Scarlett explained, trying not to make it sound like charity, and the girls swooped down on the wagon without hesitating, oohing and aahing over the fine fabrics and such.

"Mighty generous of you, Scarlett," Beatrice sniffed.

"Well, Tara is full up and Suellen can't use any more than what I've sent before. I wanted to ride today, haven't ridden in forever, and she broke my saddle. So I had to bring the wagon anyway, and it was loaded already." Scarlett tried to interject as much graciousness as possible.

"It was a last-minute decision to see if you could help me find a home for all this, you would be doing me a great service if you could accept it." Scarlett gave Beatrice her most sincere smile.

Beatrice returned her look ruefully. "I wish I had an extra side-saddle but I don't. The girls need the two we have to get to the schoolhouse.

"What I do have is a regular saddle and a couple of extra split skirts," she said slyly, spreading out her skirt to further reveal the split down the middle of the form-fitting garment. Scarlett's eyes widened. How did she dare?

Beatrice grew immediately defensive at her expression.

"As you well know, I used to wear a riding habit all day long so what's the difference? And who's gonna see me most of the time besides my girls and my husband? It's not good for the animals to be ridden with more weight on one side than the other and I'm not hurting my horses for some silly rule. They are all I have left.

"And I don't care what anyone says. How do you effectively control a horse with your legs on one side of it?"

Scarlett's face blanched as she thought of Bonnie, riding side-saddle in that blue velvet habit. She'd often wondered if the child had been riding on a regular saddle, could she have held on, even for a second or two more, and perhaps not died from her injuries?

Beatrice shook her head. "I've had enough. It's much more comfortable and safe in a regular saddle. Not going to damage my stock."

"You know they say it's unseemly and a girl can—"

Beatrice snorted. "Lose her maidenhead? I have eight children and you've been married three times. Those ships sailed long ago."

Did she just say 'maidenhead' out loud? And does everyone have to mention the three marriages today?

Scarlett spoke hesitantly, "I could wear one out here in the county, I suppose." She examined the garment more closely. "This is the best split skirt I've ever seen. It's—streamlined. Not so bulky."

Beatrice preened. "I combined a pattern for the pants women wear under a riding habit with a pattern for men's pants, with the button closure in the middle." She pointed to the waist and then the hem.

"So the legs are wide, but not too wide, and the waistband doesn't look like a diaper. A minimum of fabric, so as not to get tangled up. It's not safe, all those yards of fabric women wear, and I'm tired of it."

Scarlett nodded. She felt somewhat emboldened by the outlandish idea, as well as the other woman's intrepid attitude and audacious opinions. Still, though.

"It's not like I ride into Jonesboro wearing a split skirt, Scarlett, just around here. I don't want to get arrested for inciting a riot." Beatrice examined her face. "You used to be a tomboy and ride astride when you were a girl, I remember. No stuffy riding habit for you."

And sometimes no saddle. Scarlett remembered her sister's words from that morning. Yes, back when I was allowed to enjoy myself.

"Well, I'll take a couple of skirts if you're certain. I could even wear them at home in Atlanta, not in public, mind you. In my backyard for chopping wood."

Beatrice gave her a questioning look.

"To control my temper. Dilcey did a hoodoo cleanse on the hotel and said I can't get angry anymore or I'll bring back the bad spirits."

Both eyebrows raised. "I never took you for the superstitious type, Scarlett."

"I know, I just, well, I need to learn to handle my temper anyway. It's cost me a great deal over the years."

"Good that I have extra made that you're more than welcome to take with you. Get Mammy to take them in for you if you need her to, it's much easier than taking in a dress with all that fabric." Beatrice nodded her head as if it were a finished subject.

"I'll even lend you Ace," Beatrice gestured toward the barn. "He's the finest horse I've bred since before the war. Come see him."

The two women caught up on gossip and happenings as they made their way across the yard. Scarlett spoke animatedly as she relayed her new endeavors, and Beatrice took note.

They reached the first stall and Beatrice walked in and began stroking the neck of a tall, powerfully built stallion, black with a white mark in the middle of his forehead. After petting him, speaking lowly, and explaining his quirks, the older woman invited her inside for a cup of tea.

Scarlett tried not to stare at the clean, but faded interior of the Fairhill mansion, or what was left of it. Shabby gentility seemed to be the current style everywhere she went. Randa and Hetty were flitting about, tosing her donated decorative pillows on chairs and sofas, and looking for places to hang the curtains and the paintings. Beatrice watched them, a small, wistful smile on her face.

"Take the skirts and borrow the horse and saddle while you're here, it will be partial payment for all the finery you've dropped off today," the older woman used a firm tone.

Oh. Now she had to do it, for Beatrice to save face.

Scarlett tried to demur on borrowing the horse but she would have none of it.

"We'll return the wagon, it'll give my husband something to do. I'll drive it and Jim can ride beside me and then I'll ride back on his horse with him."

"Well, if you're certain. Thank you, I really want to ride."

Beatrice nodded slowly. "There are days I'm crippled by the losses of the boys, and riding is all I can do to feel better." A world of pain shone in her eyes. "Sometimes anger is easier to handle than sadness."

"How do you go on? I think about them, your boys, all the time. I think about all the county boys, but your sons were my favorites, you had to know that."

"Besides Ashley Wilkes." Beatrice lifted an eyebrow. Scarlett made an irritated sound.

"I may have thought I loved him, but I enjoyed socializing with the others more," she insisted. "So many people have died on me. After losing my Bonnie and the other baby," her voice softened. "And Melly and—" She stopped, defeated.

"It's just something you do. You don't have to ask me. You appear to be 'going on' just fine."

Scarlett shrugged. "I suppose it looks that way. Keeping busy helps." She went on to explain her plans about giving the county her business for the restaurant by using the locals for sourcing wild game and fish as well as other foodstuffs.

Beatrice nodded while Scarlett explained, her eyes lighting up and enthusiasm.

"Can't you get all that at the markets in Atlanta?"

"Well, yes," Scarlett said, looking surprised at the question. "But I wouldn't be helping the neighbors here out. This way I'll cut out the middleman and split the difference with the hunters and fishermen and gatherers here, and it will pump needed money into the economy."

"Is this how you've always done business?"

"Well, no, not when I was first starting. But I'm more established now," Scarlett said. "And we will all benefit."

Beatrice didn't say anything for a moment, but when she spoke, as always, she didn't mince her words. "I never liked you that much, Scarlett, not before the war, anyway. I thought you were sly and two-faced, and I was afraid my sons were going to shoot one another over your little green-eyed self.

"But then you came home and found your mother dead and your father—" she stopped when she saw the look on Scarlett's face, "Well, when you didn't have anyone or anything to depend on, and you rode out the very next day to check on your neighbors and started working like a mule and planting cotton, pushing yourself, pushing everyone else, I knew you would make it. We heard about what you did to your sister, but I know your sister and I know why you did it. She's better now. But I know. You were in commerce with a store and making money off the Yankees with your sawmills. I was proud of you.

"After your husband died in that cursed clan raid people blamed you. You married that obnoxious scalawag who they say stays away all the time now and won't even come out here and meet your people, not even when you were so sick," a frown marred her forehead. "All those things coupled with the other tragedies of your life—well, you have a right to be angry. As I said before, it's easier than being sad, although you often end up that way.

"I'm not excusing all you did, and even you must know a lot of it wasn't entirely ethical, but you always worked hard, and did right by your folks. I'm just saying you have a right to express your frustration and sadness."

Scarlett fell silent, not quite sure how to respond. It was almost like Mrs. Tarleton sympathized with her and even approved of at least some of her actions, and she wasn't used to sympathy and approval. Beatrice regarded her carefully.

"You're looking better than you have in a long time, Scarlett. But I think you could use a hard ride."

She nearly choked on her tea. The older woman sipped hers, oblivious. After they finished and after much urging, Scarlett changed into the split skirt, which she had to roll the waistband over to get it to fit, and an overblouse Beatrice loaned to her. She had to admit she felt lighter and free, although self-conscious in the brazen attire, as they made their way to the stable.

"One more thing," Beatrice looked thoughtful and then went into the back of the horse stalls and brought out what appeared to be two small axes.

"What are you going to do with those hatchets?"

"They're actually more akin to tomahawks. You can only chop so much wood," the matriarch reasoned. "These are lighter and easier to throw than an ax."

As they rounded the corner she pointed to a round of wood set up on what appeared to be a heavy-duty easel.

"You remember how the men used to have ax-throwing contests on Court Days?" Beatrice took a stance, legs spread somewhat apart, about twelve feet from the stand.

"Doing something physical gives you an outlet. Even I can't ride horses every minute of the day." She aimed and threw one of the hatchets. It landed near the middle.

"Now you try," she handed her the other hatchet. Scarlett mimicked her pose, aimed, and threw, landing fairly close to the center on the other side of the round. Beatrice clapped and Hetty and Randa came out of the house to join the game.

"Think about who or what you're mad at and put his face right there in the middle of that target in your mind."

"That's when it gets interesting," Hetty called out, and Randa hooted. And for a moment there, Scarlett felt like a child at play again.

The women continued the game and talked and joked for a while. Reluctantly Scarlett realized it was getting close to dinner time and so she made her goodbyes and prepared to leave.

Beatrice pointed to the edge of the woods. "That big spruce over behind the house got struck down last winter so we cut rounds from it. I'll have Jim load up a couple and a stand for you to take home."

She brought out Ace and Scarlett mounted him only a little awkwardly as the older woman smirked.

"You haven't forgotten how have you are? I'd hate to think you've grown too old and soft."

Always one for a challenge, Scarlett squared her jaw. "I'll show you soft." She grinned then, a genuine smile, and Beatrice laughed as she smoothly turned Ace around and galloped down the drive.

And oh! She was free, so free! It felt scandalous, downright sinful, to be riding astride, in a split skirt to boot. No layers of clothing to speak of, just the skirt over her short pantalets. She'd ridden as well as any boy in her youth and she took off mightily, willing herself to prove it.

She rode hard and fast, on and off, alternating with a more sedate trot from time to time. After passing Fairhill's land she headed toward Pine Bloom and made the circuit, stopping before Mimosa and letting the horse drink from the stream and eat some of the soft spring grass.

She meandered around for a bit at a trot then, reminiscing. She might have been a daughter-in-law to Beatrice Tarleton. Stuart and Brent had felt present in that visit. What would her life have been like, she mused. Before the war, the Tarletons were the richest family in the county, with more land and cotton than anyone else, as well as the horse-breeding business. What would her married life have been like with one of the twins? She shuddered lightly. My God, but those boys were hellions, from the time we were children together.

Of course, they were three years older than Scarlett and treated her as a child until she returned from finishing school. What had Stuart said that time, or perhaps it was Brent before she went to Fayetteville, still just a girl and they must have been about fifteen, bragging about calling on their first belles—oh yes, something about how a man needs a good girl to court and a bad girl to have fun with—and then the one who said it got embarrassed for saying it in front of her and the one who didn't hit him in the head—and, as usual, she hadn't paid any attention. Of course, she was the good girl. She was born to be a good girl, Mammy and her mother did everything they could to make sure she fit the bill.

She was a good girl. For all intents and purposes, and after a fashion. And yet, so was Suellen. Her pace slowed as she pondered.

Suellen 'behaved and listened to her mother'. But Suellen didn't seem to hesitate when it came to pleasure with her husband, appeared to revel in it, embrace it. That was definitely not listening to her mother, who preached on purity for ladies. Marital relations were something to be endured as a duty; children, the reward. Ladies weren't wanton or indecent, and their gentleman husbands certainly expected decorum in the bedroom. Didn't they?

Which meant that bad girls had all the fun the ladies were missing. And since gentlemen were supposed to gain experience, to be knowledgeable in that area, powerful even, they were having all the fun, too.

She stopped the horse. Is that what Rhett wanted with her? Well then, why had he acted aloof and restrained, a polite stranger in bed for that first year of marriage? Was he trying to behave as a gentleman would toward his genteelly-bred wife? He'd never thought of her as a lady, though. Was there something else she didn't understand?

Well, even if she had the nerve to bring it up on his next visit, she doubted he would be willing to discuss it with her; and even if he was, there was no doubt he would be mocking and belittling about it.

Anger, deep-seated anger arose in her chest and Dilcey nowhere around to stop it. No wonder he went back to Belle nearly instantly after the bedroom debacle. A paid woman who loved him would be uncomplicated, skillful, and completely unrepressed. With no strings other than money attached.

The anger burned bright and hot a few moments more, but then it faded and turned to melancholy, and regret. Emotions ran through haphazardly around and around in her head. All the boys, all the men who had chased her, some of whom had loved her, married her, and still, here she was. Aware, but still unknown, in a highly biblical sense of the word. Charles, clumsy but sincere, Frank, clammy and sweaty, the innocent but lustful kisses with Ashley in his youth, and then him.

She thought of Rhett's body, how powerful, muscular, and—beautiful, yes it was beautiful, in such a masculine way. And it had been hers for the taking. Oh, what she would do if she had the chance. Years! Years of pleasure she'd missed, been cheated of, merely because she unquestionably believed her mother and took her every word at face value!

Not entirely true. She broke all kinds of morality codes in other areas than the bedroom. Ironic that the one subject her mother taught that she took completely seriously, would be the one that left her undone.

And what should she do now? Married to a man who wouldn't touch her on a bet, and he a betting man? Her thoughts drifted back to divorce, which she knew would hurt her children in a myriad of ways. All her work to gain acceptance, lost. Round and round she went in her head, looking for a way out of the maze of her thoughts, and then she went back to considering matters of the flesh, in a very detailed way.

She held the reins in her left hand and swatted at her burning cheeks with her right, willing them to stop. Enough! Enough of the shame, the recriminations, enough of the not knowing, the not understanding, but most of all, enough of the not having.

She urged Ace to go faster and flew down the path, hooves pounding, dust stirring, wind in her hair. Trying to outrun all the distress her past mistakes were causing her.

The saddle horn hit rhythmically between her legs as she galloped. Wasn't long before she became aware of a tingling. The feeling startled her at first, and she thought it might be her imagination for a moment. But no; it was real. She had been just wondering if she'd ever feel that way again and wanted to cry and shout at the same time.

It had been so long. So, so long. That night of swirling darkness. The night he was with her and she was with him and they were there, together.

Oh but this, this felt wrong, it must be wrong! She tried to stop the horse, but her efforts were weak-willed at best. She finally slowed him to a trot going down the bridle path between Twelve Oaks and home, but as soon as he saw the stables of Tara, he picked up his pace, and oh Lord! She feared falling out of the saddle when it hit her, pale in comparison to that night, but similar, oh yes, similar, and so very satisfying after years of drought.

Scarlett took a moment to breathe before approaching the stable, her hair in wild and windblown disarray, her chignon gone, completely loose. Slowly she filled with shameful remorse, despite her oh-so-recent vow. Well, it's a good thing, she told herself. This is depravity and I know it.

Quickly, though, she squashed the ugly feelings. I feel bad that riding a horse delivered it, but I don't regret the gift.

She disembarked inside the stable and led Ace to a stall. Buried her face in his mane. "Good boy," she murmured. "You're a fine specimen, indeed."

A sound from the doorway made her look up. She turned to see none other than her business partner leading another dark horse into the stable.

"Leif?" She said stupidly. "Is that you?"

OOOOooooOOOOoooo

Noise from within the house awoke Rhett with a start sometime later. He blinked his eyes in the falling light. He must have slept for hours. Nearly dark outside with the wind picking up as the Atlantic storm apparently followed him inland. He could smell the coming rain in the air.

"Pork, did you eat our supper before we so much as left the house this morning?" Dicey's annoyed voice rang out from the dining room.

Mumbled words of denial drifted back in response.

"Oh, and I suppose shoe elves opened the icebox and got into it and the pickle lily too." He heard some more shuffling and the creak of a door.

"If it wasn't you then somebody has been in this kitchen pilfering," Dilcey fretted. "We have us a vagrant. Half that apple pie is gone!"

Again Pork's indiscernible reply.

Rhett shifted up in the bed, about to alert them to his presence when he caught a movement by the guest house and leaned forward, squinting his eyes in the dusk-shrouded early evening. A slight figure, little more than a girl, and another woman, both in hooded cloaks stood at the door, where they were approached by a figure he would never fail to recognize; Ashley Wilkes with his graying blonde hair, tall frame, and shoulders slightly stooped, although not quite as defeated a stance as Rhett remembered.

Something about the taller woman's height and shape seemed familiar, the carriage of her head. He leaned closer to get a better look, but Wilkes finished fumbling with the key and let them in.

Rhett narrowed his eyes again.

"Lord, Mr. Rhett," Pork stood at the double doors leading into the house. "You scared me to death. Whatcha doin' out here all by yourself? When did you get to town? Miss Scarlett didn't mention you'd be here this week when she left yesterday, but she's been plum busy, running around like a chicken with her head cut off. Me and Dilcey worked at the Robillard today 'cause of no one bein' home."

"Hello, Pork. Just got in this afternoon and I'm currently enjoying the view," Rhett gestured to the guest house. "Mind enlightening me as to why Ashley Wilkes has a key to the property? Does he live here?"

"Oh now," Pork looked discomfited, his loyalties torn. "Well, no, Mr. Rhett, he's never been to the guest house before, Miss Scarlett just loaning it to him to teach, well, he's teaching some womenfolk to read. And my Prissy," Pork puffed up. "Miss Scarlett's been instructing them but she's at Tara so she asked Mr. Ashley to take over lessons just for tonight."

Scarlett? Teaching? "Who are the womenfolk?"

"A couple gals Prissy knows," Pork replied vaguely. "You know how some people don't like black people learning to read."

Ah, well, that would explain the hooded cloaks, Rhett supposed.

"And when are you expecting Mrs. Butler to return?" He hated to ask but needed to know.

"Friday morning she's supposed to catch the 9:00 from Jonesboro, we got too much goins on at the hotel for her to stay any longer."

Friday. That would allow a full day tomorrow to prepare. He shifted in the bed and grimaced, which Pork took into account.

"I'll be better off staying down here, too tired for the stairs." Rhett took a minute to explain his injuries.

Pork listened carefully and nodded. "All the bathtubs are upstairs."

"Yes, I'll bathe in the morning. If you could just bring me some water to wash up and help me wrap my ribs I'll let you go on to your evening."

After they got him fixed up in the kitchen Rhett moved back to the bed on the now completely dark porch. Pork turned off the lights in the house and stood at the door again.

"We'll be going to our quarters now for our supper, Mr. Rhett, if it's all the same to you. Would you like me to bring you a glass of whiskey and a cigar out here? Miss Scarlett put your humidor in the dining room," he hesitated a beat. "To be more convenient in case you weren't—staying the night."

He opened his mouth to reply when another movement outside caught Rhett's eye. Down from the house a bit, away from the shadows cast by the lone street lamp. A man in an overcoat, leaning against a tree, his hat pulled down over his eyes and both hands deep in his pockets.

Watching the guest house, from what he could tell, though his eyes flitted to the big house now and then.

"I'm fine with the water. Would you mind handing me a spittoon," Rhett said in a low voice, never taking his eyes off the watcher, "and my pistol."

"You see something out there?" Pork looked out over the lawn, squinting his aging eyes as he bent to deliver the spittoon and pistol.

"A big rat. Wouldn't want Bernie to get into a tussle with it."

Pork stood there for a moment more before turning back toward the house. "You need something else to eat?"

"No thank you." The apple pie sat heavily in his stomach. When he got too full, he felt a little nauseated due to the pressure on his abdomen and he needed to remember that.

"Good night, Mr. Rhett. I'll be back to help you in the morning." He nodded, the words reminiscent of another time.

"Pork? Make sure you put out all the lights in the house."

"Yes, sir."

Rhett sat nearly motionless for two hours, only moving to spit tobacco juice or drink water, eyes fixed on the dark. As did the watcher, leaned up against that live oak, a good distance down from the single street lamp and its halo of light.

A light rain started, stopped, started again. Just as Rhett's eyes began to droop in fatigue, a creaking sounded as the guesthouse door opened and the two hooded figures emerged. Wilkes followed, locking up, and the murmurings of conversation echoed behind the three as they disappeared around the back corner toward the side street that bordered the property, out of sight.

The watchman stayed put and lit a cigarette, apparently not going anywhere. Rhett's hand tightened on the gun. The air picked up again.

A gust of wind felled a tree limb near the streetlamp and Bernie, who'd been sleeping in his doghouse, jumped up and growled. He seemed to just notice the figure in the street and loped across the grass toward him as he continued to bark.

The man threw down his cigarette and pulled a pistol out of his waistband, the long muzzle glinting in the moonlight. A Remington, if Rhett had to say. Rhett stood and walked toward the door, his sharp, dark eyes fixed, a reptilian expression on his face.

He raised the pistol. A warning shot, a few inches above the head into the live oak should do it.

Bernie barked again, getting closer to the stranger, who then pointed his weapon at the dog.

Rhett balanced his Colt revolver against the open door frame and pulled back on the hammer of the weapon with an audible click. The man turned his head and looked directly at the porch. Rhett moved back instantly into the shadows and silently with his Indian-like tread, more out of habit than alarm.

The man's eyes went to the porch, up to the darkened second floor, and to the porch again, still pointing the gun at the approaching dog. Rhett cursed. He couldn't take the shot he wanted in the poor light with Bernie so close to his target.

A single bolt of lightning illuminated the sky and the scene below. Bernie yelped and sprinted off toward the house. Before the man could react Rhett aimed and shot out the open door, exploding the muzzle of the Remington and knocking it out of the stranger's hand from 150 feet away. A clanking sound rang out as it fell to the ground in pieces.

Shock registered on the man's face before he disappeared into the shadows. Rhett fired another shot into the oak for good measure. He could hear footsteps on the side street fading into the night, and rain began to fall in earnest.

Bernie whimpered from beyond the door. "Come in the house, boy," Rhett pushed the screen door wider. "It's not fit out here for man nor beast."

OOOOooooOOOOoooo

A Plethora of Fun Facts:

Iceboxes

Invented in the 1840s, the first iceboxes were made by carpenters, designed to take advantage of the regular household delivery of large blocks of ice. They were insulated wooden boxes lined with tin or zinc and used to hold blocks of ice to keep the food cool. A drip pan collected the meltwater – and had to be emptied daily.

Streetlamps

The city of Atlanta hosted a ceremonial lighting of the fifty original gas street lamps on Christmas Day, December 25, 1855. William Helme, fully backed by the city and his investors, established the Atlanta Gas Light Company in February of 1856.

Helme's ownership was short-lived. By the Civil War, he was labeled an enemy of the Confederacy by court order, and the city of Atlanta seized the gasworks, bidding off shares to regular citizens.

But their ownership was short-lived as well. When General Sherman captured Atlanta in 1864 the gasworks was completely destroyed, and the gas street lamps didn't turn back on until 1880. By 1881 Atlanta was planning electric lights for the streets.—History Atlanta

Live oaks in Inman Park

Inman Park's founder Joel Hurt is said to have planted 180 live oaks there. He loved this species from the coastal plains of the southeastern states. It's Georgia's state tree, by the way, the pride of Low Country cities like Charleston and Savannah, and with specimens as old as 400 or even 500 years, live oaks are a living link to a lost world. Finally, Inman Park is without question the home of Atlanta's largest live oaks (Quercus virginiana)— Inman Park Tree Watch

Note on the above: If you're never seen a living oak, you have missed a thing of great and beguiling beauty, and I hope you visit the South one day and have the experience. I spent a year of my youth in a house that had one on a neighboring property, and I spent an entire summer reading period romances while reclining on a blanket spread on its widest limb. They grow wild in Southern coastal areas but are found inland where they've been planted.

Tomboy (n.)

First seen in print in the 1550s, "rude, boisterous boy," from Tom + boy; meaning "wild, romping girl, girl who acts like a spirited boy" is first recorded 1590s. It also could mean "strumpet, bold or immodest woman" (the 1570s). Compare tomrig "rude, wild girl." Related: Tomboyish.—Online Etymology Dictionary

Throwing Things

The history of ax throwing goes all the way back to the early days in America. The tomahawk was used by Native Americans in battle. Contrary to popular belief, Native Americans did not throw their ax in battle, it was one of their most valuable hand-to-hand combat weapons. Instead, early American settlers would set up tournaments in town when they would come trade and throw axes at targets. - Craft Axe Throwing

A summary of my findings on riding habits, split skirts, and the origin of bloomers

Riding habits for side-saddles—were extra long skirts worn over Turkish-style pants gathered at the ankles. The skirts were sometimes a foot longer than a normal skirt, to completely cover the legs when the woman was seated, meaning she had to hike all the heavy material up that much higher. The fabric was indeed a hazard, and accidents, even deaths were reported.

Women wore split skirts in other countries, and reportedly in the Wild West, but in the U.S. 1870s it was pretty much a no-no as far as I can tell. In the 1890s things started to loosen up.

One woman tried to change fashion earlier, doing away with corsets and long skirts. Amelia Bloomer, according to The Fairchild Books Dictionary of Fashion, written by Phyllis Tortora, designed a "knee-length dress worn over pants gathered at the ankle. The costume was modeled after clothing worn in health sanitariums, and adopted by women's rights advocates of the 1850s. Although she did not originate the style, Amelia Jenks Bloomer (1818-1894), writer and lecturer on women's rights, wrote favorably about and wore this costume for her lectures; thus, it was named after her. Although the style did gain acceptance as women's attire, suitable for exercising and athletic activities, it was not widely adopted. Since the 1850s, full pants gathered at the hem are still called bloomers." (26-27)

I have found one reference where a woman got arrested for wearing a split skirt in public in the 1870s, but not enough information for a solid statement. Since the bloomers were associated with suffragettes, I imagine canon Scarlett wouldn't be caught dead in them or a split skirt. But this is post-canon Scarlett in my story, and she is becoming more willing to try new things.

A/N Going back to the chapter and Scarlett riding home. Yes, it can happen. I know from personal experience. Ahem. Only once, about an hour or so into a two-hour ride. I think you have to be in the right 'space', shall we say, for it to take place. After years of no physical contact from a man, and after the day she'd experienced, not to mention the largely unfulfilling and uninformative marriages, and throwing in thirty years of her society's abominable constrictions, our hot-blooded Scarlett is ready IMO.

This 'awakening' scene is one I imagined a year ago and it inspired me to start this story. And I thought of it way before I ever knew Bridgerton existed, FYI.

I strongly feel Scarlett must grow. I tried to help her along as tastefully as possible, but considering the subject matter, it is what it is.

. The next few chapters are incredibly eventful and Chapter 35 is in the works. Thank you for your readership and kind words! Hope to see you soon! Peace and love, misscyn