Inspiration:

"Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire." ― Jorge Luis Borges

Disclaimer: I do not own GWTW. Sheesh.

Chapter 37

Thursday morning all the rain moved out and Scarlett cursed as the sunlight filtered through the curtains. She wanted another dark, rainy, bleary day, one in which she could hide in the bed and perhaps fake a sudden illness.

As she became fully awake she slowly slid into a black, inky pit of despair. She found herself looking back again, as much as she disliked to do so. She had to finally and completely face the fact that she'd done some reprehensible things in her life, too many to count. Killed, when killing appeared to be the only option. Stolen her own sister's betrothed. Turned a blind eye to the convicts' pain and hunger at the mill. Coveted her best friend's husband, and hurt her only other friend immeasurably when she'd done so.

Ignored her children, a big one, perhaps the biggest one; and finally, didn't try to look deeper into her own husband's feelings. Although he was much more clever and bent on thwarting her, perhaps she could have seen something if she'd cared to look.

She'd always felt the ends justified the means, for the most part. She'd been questioning at least some of those decisions, however, for nearly the last two years. Over the last couple of months, she'd tried to change a few of those leopard spots, and felt she'd been at least somewhat successful.

But now she'd kissed and cavorted with someone she thought cared for her, but only wanted payback against that former friend, the husband who didn't care a whit anymore, except for how he could use it against her.

Her stomach plummeted as she contemplated the implications of her actions once more. The shame! The shame! The mortification, oh, God, that Rhett would heap upon her, how he would laugh at her again! She didn't know if she could bear it at this point, the pain would be so great. 'You thought you were the cutest trick in shoe leather, and see how easily you were taken in,' she could hear that sneering, mocking laugh already.

He'd know her guilt, too, as soon as he saw her. She never could hide anything from him. And use it. God, would he use it.

And then there was Atlanta society, the Old Guard. What would the lions do if they got another whiff of blood from her direction? They'd crucify her, that's what, and her progeny too, likely on the same funeral pyre.

She wandered dejectedly downstairs, where she found the children still at breakfast. They chatted a bit, Wade and Beau becoming extremely envious when she said she'd seen the wolf the night before. She was grateful no one asked how, and no one mentioned Leif. Suellen's daughters and Ella helped her with the prisms and ribbons for a while, before they became restless, wanting to dress Clarice in doll clothes and wheel her down to the cabins in a doll carriage.

Scarlett let them go, after giving a lecture on the importance of being kind to animals and allowing puppies to be puppies. She felt a sick anticipation every time she thought of Leif. As the morning went on and the children scattered she put on the split skirt (why not, she reasoned, everyone at Tara knew about it now) and strolled down to the stables, trying to look casual, and saw that his horse had not returned; he wasn't coming back. Probably already on his way to Atlanta.

Disappointment and relief flooded her conscience as she sat back down on that same bench, remembering the night before, the kisses, sensations, the thrill of being touched after so very long, as if she was worth something, everything; the visceral reaction she'd had in her soul.

"It was two kisses, Leif," she said out loud, then looked around quickly, in case someone, anyone, even a stable boy was in hearing distance, but she was alone, thank God.

Two kisses. And bodacious kisses they had been! She wondered what it would have been like had they taken it further, and blushed at her own daring, even if it was just in her mind.

She pushed the pesky thoughts of his possible (aye, probable) betrayal away for a moment as she touched with a light finger her lips, and then her neck, where his lips had been, where that stubble on his chin rubbed the fleshy part of her cheek, still pinkened from it today.

He'd swung her up as if she were no heavier than an infant, and she could still feel the thick, hard muscles of his stomach against her body. Her awake, aware, aroused body.

She thought of his arms, nearly as big around as her thighs, so very muscular. She flushed all over as she wondered what her bare thighs would have felt like, draped over those bare arms. And what that scruffy chin would feel like, rubbing against them ….

Ace made a sound and she looked at him, meeting his gaze stare for stare. He shifted from foot to foot, and let out a whinny, apparently restless, as she rose from the bench and made her way to the stall.

OOOOooooOOOOoooo

Will Benteen happened to be standing at the parlor window just in time to spy Scarlett as she flew hell for leather down the driveway on the huge black horse, kicking up the red dust mightily as she passed.

"Scarlett's certainly enjoying riding Ace this trip, isn't she?" he asked completely without guile, taking a sip from his last cup of morning coffee.

"Mmm-hmm." Suellen didn't look up from her embroidery, concentrating on a particularly tricky stitch.

OOOOooooOOOOoooo

Rhett spent the rest of Wednesday and most of Thursday ensconced in the Inman Park house. He slept fairly well, considering the events of the night before. Dilcey and Pork offered to stay home when he ventured downstairs but after breakfast and a bath followed by the rewrapping of his ribs he waved both of them off.

"Appreciate it, Mr. Rhett. We all work at the hotel," Pork put on his hat as he turned to open the door for his wife. "Even the children work after school and on Saturdays and such. They enjoy it and I think Miss Scarlett enjoys having them there with her."

Scarlett did always love free labor. "I hope she's paying you well to do both jobs."

Pork gave him a measuring glance. "I know you two had a heap of trouble tryin' to live together, Mr. Rhett, but Miss Scarlett has never done me or mine wrong."

The simple statement nearly chagrined Rhett, much to his surprise. As if to demonstrate his point Pork removed Gerald's massive gold pocket watch from his vest, checked the time, and with a nod departed.

He took his coffee and paper out on the sleeping porch with Bernie. He noted the same advertisrment running about the grand opening of the hotel in the mid-week advertisement section, the biggest besides Sunday's edition. She was certainly sparing no expense.

He wanted to keep his presence in Atlanta a secret for a few more hours, so after reading the paper he found himself exploring the house further.

He had no idea why he was so curious. But he couldn't help but find Scarlett moving a curious thing; she'd loved the Peachtree monstrosity so.

He looked around for familiar hints of her tastes. He recognized a lamp here, a chair there, but the lamp had a new shade, and the chair recovered in a subdued fabric. All through the second floor, he found the same story. No mirrors, no red, no garishness. It was pleasant, and also far too plain to be Scarlett.

Try as he might, he couldn't see any of her old gaudy nature. He couldn't help but feel relieved, if perplexed. He wouldn't miss any of those furnishings, that was for certain. As he recalled the dark, heavily draped rooms, he thought of one particular piece he'd abhorred —a blood-red patterned velvet settee, loud with overly ornately carved walnut, at least seven feet long, with a huge mirror that hung above it to match. Positively ghastly, and she kept it right at the front of the upstairs drawing room like it was some kind of a prize.

He'd once reached under it for a ball Bonnie threw there in a fit; and subsequently, he'd seen where her little gray kitten had scratched the legs on the insides, deep marks that were not evident unless looking from underneath at a peculiar angle, but there all the same. He'd lain on the floor and howled with laughter. Even the kitten knew it was hideous.

His mind went back to the shooter as he pursued her office, searching for clues as to what the man might be after. The crate from Nassau he'd shipped weeks ago sat in the corner, unopened. He frowned. Was she rejecting his gifts to the children? Perhaps she thought they'd wait until he got home. It had taken a while, they must be impatient. Although from the looks of things they had all been busy without him.

And Ashley teaching the reading class on Scarlett's property rankled, why didn't he do it at his own house? Of course, Scarlett was the instructor with Ashley just filling in. He thought back to the man he scared off again, and the two female students. The taller one with the familiar carriage, followed by the shorter one walking slightly behind, like a servant. She'd sported a slight limp, as he recalled.

The closet door of the office was locked, as well as the vault inside the door. He looked out the window toward the guest house; he'd have to ask Pork for the keys when he returned.

Then there was the conversation at the train station with India and Fanny—what had Fanny been blathering about, Scarlett helping and a foundation? Something pricked in his memory—the advertisement in the Charleston paper had mentioned a foundation, something to do with bees? He shook his head and reached again for the Wednesday paper. Then thought better of it. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed to take a nap before venturing out into Atlanta.

Rhett arrived at the Painted Lady later Thursday afternoon. Belle's doorman led him into her upstairs parlor, where she entered a few minutes later, clad in a dressing gown. Her hair was dyed darker, a more natural color. It suited her better, as her aging face and the flame-red hair had been clashing for some time, though he would never mention it.

He leaned over to kiss her cheek, then pulled back almost instantly.

"Who is he, Belle?" Rhett asked casually, sitting down and pouring himself a cup of coffee from the silver service. One thing about Belle, she kept late hours and as a result, always had a fresh pot of coffee at hand.

"Who is who?" She frowned slightly.

"The man you've recently serviced." He added a generous amount of cream from the matching pitcher. He took a sip from his cup. "You're drenched in his scent."

"I don't think I am." She puffed up a bit, shaking out the lace sleeves of her wrapper as she gingerly seated herself in her favorite chair.

"I can smell him. And I'm not talking about his cologne." Blunt, but she should be used to his bluntness by now.

He stretched his legs out, crossing one over the other. "Perhaps it's not one man, perhaps several. A whore is going to be a whore, after all. Which also explains the heavy use of perfume. You're slipping, my dear. "

She sat up straighter at the slight. "You never cared much before."

"I don't care much now. It's just hard not to think about it when you reek of bodily, er, emissions. The entire building reeks somewhat. Never noticed it before, but I've recently stopped smoking and the improvement in my sense of smell is quite dramatic." He looked out the window in irritation, and the barely concealed bandage over his eye became visible.

She snorted. "Rhett, don't be ridiculous. You're gone for months at a time, when did I ever promise to dry up and blow away?"

"Oh no," he returned blandly. "I did not expect you to revert to your previous vestal virgin form."

He waved a hand at her frown. "I just thought you had aged out of taking random clients, my mistake."

She tried to change the subject. "How did you give up smoking?'' He patted his coat pocket and her eyes widened.

"You chewing or dipping?"

Most men did, but both practices seemed wildly inelegant with Rhett.

"Chewing." He grimaced. "I had to chew during the war when there were no smokes but we were in the outdoors so the spitting was relatively minor compared to, say, some of the other hygiene situations. But I refuse to spit in public. Sometimes at night I will indulge, but it is minimal, I assure you. Nasty practice."

"What happened to your head?" When her hand fluttered to his head he turned away, still miffed. Had she smelled of other men before and he hadn't noticed it? When they first met, certainly she would have. But Belle had loved him, and neither one had ever promised to be exclusive. Save that period during his marriage that he needed one woman to be faithful to him. He was fairly sure she had been then. He'd paid her enough.

"It's not random clients, Rhett." She never could stand to spar with him. "It's one man, and he doesn't—there's no money involved."

A lifted eyebrow. "Someone I know?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. He's not from around here. And I'm retiring and moving back out west."

"When were you planning to tell me?"

"When I saw you next, whenever that might be."

"Do you love him?" He had no idea why he wanted to know.

"I'm fond of him." Rhett winced and she, oblivious, went on. "You're the only man I've ever really loved."

"So why are you leaving if you don't love him?"

"You said once that I soothed you. Did you ever wonder who soothes me?"

Silence fell as they regarded one another. No, he hadn't. Of course, he hadn't.

"I still care, it's just not like it was before. "My love—" she frowned again.

"Wore out?" he supplied with a wry smile.

She took a deep breath. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I just need to stop beatin' a dead horse and get on with my life while I still can."

He could certainly relate.

"Are you happy, Belle?"

"I am, I think I am."

Then I'm happy for you, Belle, if you're happy. Even if you stink." He gave her his trademark devilish smirk.

She smacked his leg and the tension broke. They were back to their old camaraderie, catching up on gossip and news. She calmed herself inwardly. It would be alright between them, for the moment, at least.

OOOOooooOOOOoooo

Scarlett felt better for several hours, even invigorated after the ride, but as the morning went on the euphoria left and her despair began to return. She didn't know what to do about Leif; they were business partners, for the love of all that is holy, and she surely didn't know how to hide her feelings from Rhett. He'd always read her expressions so well, and he would know the minute she lied.

She found herself still in a terrific pickle, and so reclined sulkily on Suellen's favorite divan, a cool cloth over her forehead.

The children returned for dinner and they were all waiting in the parlor to be called to the table. The play practice had hit a snag and said players were bickering back and forth, as the final performance would be that evening; tomorrow morning they would be on the train to Atlanta.

"Cara," Ella, with the patience of a saint, approached her cousin and placed her tiny hands on either side of her face. "You can't look scared or angry when the Yankees first storm in." She glanced at Beau and Wade, apparently the Union soldiers for this part of the play, and also apparently, none too happy about it.

"You have to have a blank face. Think about crepe batter," Ella thought better of it when she saw Cara's confused expression, and Scarlett knew just who'd been talking to her daughter when she heard the word 'crepe'. "Pancake batter, then. The way it's smooth and beige when you pour it into the pan before it starts to bubble. That's what your face needs to look like. Smooth and blank and beige, like pancake batter."

Out of the mouth of babes. She'd never managed to achieve that cursed poker face, even after all the training Leif and Tate had tried to give her; but pancake batter, she thought she could do.

Scarlett pulled the cloth off her eyes and sat up, greatly cheered. They expected her to snap at them for disturbing her nap so when she gifted the children with a beatific smile, it confused them mightily.

The rest of the day was fairly uneventful. The children staged the play, down at the theater at dusk, complete with silks and satins and uniforms and weapons, and it was a great success, with appropriate faces abounding. Scarlett watched as Wade took such care to perform diligently with his younger sibling and cousins, even though he had to be feeling a little too old for their games. I've raised a gentleman in spite of myself, she thought, and it made her eyes water with emotion. She hugged him a little too hard at the end, but besides that, everything went off without a hitch.

Mammy came back up to the house to celebrate the after-show success with the children, which thrilled them all to no end.

After everyone, including the puppy, was packed off to bed Scarlett indulged in a celebratory glass of wine in the parlor, then another. Then she switched to brandy.

Will excused himself to check on the livestock one last time for the night, and Suellen pounced.

"What's wrong, Scarlett?" she asked, and for a moment it seemed she might actually care. "You haven't had a drop to drink all week."

"Nothing. I'm going to bed in a few minutes," she started to fill the glass again, stopped on second thought, then went ahead and filled it, gesturing for Suellen to follow her up the stairs to her room.

She closed the door softly and pointed to the bed. "Sit." Suellen did so, eyeing her warily.

"You said you weren't through talking about Frank. So let's talk about Frank," Scarlett's words slurred ever so slightly at the end.

Suellen's posture immediately stiffened and she started to rise. Scarlett impatiently gestured back toward the bed. "Sit down, it won't take that long." Reluctantly, and somewhat sullenly, her sister acquiesced, smoothing her skirts as she did so.

"The play made me think of him. That scene when the Confederate Army was sending out search parties for food, reminded me of when Frank came to Tara. When he was courting you, it made me think of it. And what I did to you after." The slurring disappeared as she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

"I told myself it was for the best and you would get over it." She raised a hand before Suellen could protest. "He wasn't that much of a prize, after all, and I thought eventually you could do better, although I never would have foreseen Will. Deep down, though, I knew it was wrong, of course, and I felt guilty,"

Suellen started to speak again but stopped her at the sternness in Scarlett's expression.

"I was raised Catholic, by the same mother and in the same house as you, I know all about guilt, though I might have learned to ignore it better than most. Between knowing I sold myself the same as any woman on the street, and knowing what marrying him would do to my family, and my reputation, I had that sickening feeling of guilt the entire time I was married to him, even though I didn't recognize it as such, and being held at least somewhat responsible for his death didn't help."

She had Suellen's full attention at this point.

"As I told you yesterday, I couldn't think of a single other thing to do. I tried to sell myself to Rhett first, by the way, and he became angry because I tried to trick him and turned me down in a most hurtful manner. That's why I hated that curtain dress so much." Suellen looked mighty intrigued at this, but Scarlett waved her away. "That's a story for another visit." The alcohol loosened her tongue too much, but she forged ahead.

"We all had to survive, and at the time, in my mind, there was no other way. But I paid for that mistake, and I paid hard," she studied the glass of brandy in her hand. "Starting with the wedding night."

"I didn't do it on purpose, but the one good turn I served you was to spare you a physical relationship with that man." She flinched slightly at her own words but went on, buoyed by the alcohol.

"Because it was awful, Suellen. Just awful. I was never, well, I was never attracted to him. He was old and smelly and non too clean in places where being clean matters a great deal," Suellen startled at this and she winced as well. "I know you cared for him, and he was a sweet old maid in britches and could be very dear at times, I know that. But still, I suffered, and suffered mightily.

"During relations—" it wasn't proper to speak of such things, but Suellen mentioned them first and she needed to tell someone in her life, who better? "He hurt me. Not intentionally, but he didn't arouse me or prepare me in any way, and it hurt. He knew nothing about giving a woman pleasure and only sought to obtain his own, no matter what it did to me.

"It hurt with Charlie too, but I was only with him a handful of times. It went on with Frank for months and months before I became pregnant, probably because my courses had stopped at Tara." A frown appeared between Suellen's eyes, and Scarlett returned it with one of her own. Surely she'd known Scarlett starved and worked herself to the bone.

"With Frank, it hurt every time, and it was mightily unpleasant to boot, him sweating and clammy and breathing his rotten breath on top of me," she could have gone one but decided to spare her sister the more earthy and infinitely more distasteful details, "to the point I started to drink, much more than I did at Tara. I would start before supper, and I'd put off going to bed for hours. I dreaded it all day on Sunday because I could put him off on other days but Sunday relations were written in stone," she stopped at the expression on her sister's face before continuing.

"Well, that was my penance, I suppose, that and everyone in Atlanta blaming me for his death and hating me that much more," she frowned again. "And I'm still not that fond of Sunday nights, all these years later." She drained her glass and set it down.

Suellen stared at her for a moment. "It doesn't excuse it, but I'm glad you explained it. And I'm glad you suffered because God knows I did.

"We loved each other. And I think it would have been better between us because of that love."

"Perhaps. But I'm telling you right now, it would never have been anything remotely close to what you have with Will."

"Probably not."

"Definitely not."

" I'll never know for sure, thanks to you."

"You didn't miss anything, I promise you. And besides, Will told me at Pa's funeral that you didn't love Frank all that much."

Suellen snorted. "Does your husband know about all the men you've loved?"

Scarlett smiled serenely. "Pretty much."

"Have all your husbands known?"

The smile disappeared. "Not quite."

They sat for a moment before Scarlett spoke again.

"There's another thing I wanted to say. I don't blame you for what you did with Pa. The way you did it was wrong, and just like with you and Frank, I think it would have been better if it had been me. I could have handled him better, you know I could have.

"But we'll never know, and I don't blame you for doing it. It was a fortune, and you were only subsiding on what I could afford to send. Why not lie to the government after what they did to us? For honor? You can't eat or ride or wear honor, God knows these people around here have tried.

'The only thing I can say is why in the name of God did you mention the Slatterys? You had to know it would set him off."

Suellen groaned, and it was a sound that came from deep within her chest.

"I know. You don't know how many times I've asked myself that. I just got excited, thinking we were going to be well off again, afford things again, and not depend on you, at all. For anything, with the money you made by marrying my betrothed.

"I've said it before, but it wasn't ever easy being your younger sister. I was thankful when you got married because it meant the endless stream of beaux coming to the house every afternoon, always for you, never for me, would stop. I had to latch onto Frank to spare myself from humiliation."

"Is that why you were such a tattletale and nagged constantly?" We won't get into the laziness. Not the time.

"I suppose. it was the only way I could get attention. You weren't only Pa's pet, Scarlett, you were Mother's too."

"No. Not Mother's."

"Yes. She worried about you constantly, from the time you were little. Scarlett Scarlett Scarlett. I was so glad when you were down after Wade came and she packed you off to Atlanta to cheer you up.

"That's one reason Frank meant so much to me. He never gave you a second glance."

He knew he didn't have a chance, Scarlett thought, but wisely, didn't say.

She patted Suellen on the arm.

"I'm glad I told you about Frank. I want you to know I didn't make him completely miserable all the time, I tried to be a good wife in my way, having his slippers ready and his paper, and seeing to his little comforts. He used to say I was a perfectly good wife as long as I got my way," she smiled a little at the memory. At least someone had thought she was a good wife, at one point in time.

"And Ella is the best of him. If you ever mention what I told you tonight to anyone and it gets back to Ella, I will cut your throat." She wasn't joking.

Suellen nodded, watching her. She started to speak, then stopped. "I want to forgive you. I do. But it's hard, Scarlett. Being your sister is hard, even without Frank, but I will try. And Will makes it all better."

"I'm glad for you that he does."

"What happened with Leif? I know something did, he left without telling you goodbye."

"I don't want to talk about it." Raised eyebrow in return. "He's not—well, he may not be— I thought he was my friend because he liked me for myself." Her voice threatened to break. She swallowed hard and sat up straighter. "That's all. I'll tell you about the rest some other time."

Suellen regarded her for a moment. "Will likes you, as a friend. I think if anything ever happened to me and you were without a husband …" her voice trailed off, and her eyes hardened. "Just know this: you ever make a play for Will while I'm still breathing and I will cut your throat."

Scarlett stared back, horrified. "For God's sake, Suellen, have you heard anything I've said tonight? I bare my soul and confess my sins and you think I'd try to go after your man again, after all the humiliating experiences I just shared with you?"

"Well, you threatened to cut my throat," Suellen retorted, exasperated. "Why can't I threaten you right back?"

They stared at each other, both completely incensed, before breaking down into hysterical laughter that threatened to wake the house. "We have to stop," Scarlett managed to choke out. "Mammy's too old to be getting out of bed to shush us."

"And with that, I think we can call it a night," Suellen rose once they calmed and turned toward the door.

"Good night Scarlett, I hope you can get some sleep. And don't hit the brandy too hard?" She almost looked concerned. Scarlett nodded, and the door closed softly.

Scarlett sank back down on the bed. It was a good conversation, and a long time coming. She considered going downstairs and getting another glass of brandy, then thought better of it. She got down on her knees and pulled out the hatbox that contained her secret stash, and helped herself to another glass from it.

She remembered the last time she drank at Tara, the night of Beau's birth, the night Rhett left her in the road; and how in the time and space of that one night she changed forever, started to harden, lost what little gentleness and tenderness she possessed, and lost it for a long time. And now this with Leif threatened to harden her as well. Could she afford to lose those things again?

More emotionally exhausted than physically, she undressed to her chemise and laid down on the bed.

For a moment, she started to drift off.

And then, just as on her first night back at Tara during the war, on that endless night after he left her at Rough and Ready, her ancestors came back, the shadowy figures of those people who never gave up, the ones whose blood ran in her veins.

She laid on her back and watched them dazedly as they drifted around the room. "Why, I would never sell Tara, because you live here," she thought aloud. "Good to see you all, where have you been?"

She felt loved and cared for, in a way she hadn't in a very long time, possibly since her mother died. Their whispers, their strength the same as that night. You must, you can, you will .. . and they faded away, not in abandonment, but to leave her to those things she must attend.

As they left she realized she would never sleep, that much was certain.

Her gaze traveled around the room and landed on the boxes of records from General Hampton that she'd brought along. Work. Work was the only thing that helped. It was the only thing she knew. And the further she got away from work, the unhappier she became. Isn't that what her spirits had been trying to tell her? Why couldn't she remember this when she was sober?

She rolled out of the bed, only slightly unsteady, and sat down right down on the floor with the boxes, where she began to pull out notebooks and receipts, statements and newspaper clippings and ledgers, spreading them all around in front of her on the varnished pine floor.

For the first hour or so, she only read through the paperwork, making notes here and there. But she was looking at it with new eyes, and patterns not apparent before, to her or anyone else, began to emerge.

Is everything in the world related, she thought tiredly, in the war, in the world?

Yes. Yes. Her pulse picked up as her eyes opened. And then she could see.

She went into a type of zone, a trance; her brain a sponge, calculating, connecting, machinelike. Mathematical and political epiphanies began to take shape; her eyes sharpened, and she sat up. The piles and tangles of seemingly unrelated words and figures stopped running into each other, straightened out, and all but saluted her with the truth.

Frightened that the fragile alchemy would end if she so much as hesitated for a fraction of a heartbeat, she worked furiously and tirelessly into the early hours of the morning, trading the brandy for water and then chicory coffee she tiptoed down to the kitchen and made herself as the sun rose.

She used to thank God for a sunny day when the cotton was growing during the war; she thanked God again now for the magic this night had bestowed, deeply and heartfelt. I will make it count, she promised. As you are my witness, I will make every bit of it that I can count.

As she heard the house stirring, she finally leaned her head back on the pillow to seize a couple of hours of rest.

And Rhett said I hadn't any religion left. The tiniest hint of a rueful smile curved her lips, and then she was out.

OOOOooooOOOOoooo

Fun facts:

bodacious (adj.)

1837 (implied in bodaciously), Southern U.S. slang, perhaps from bodyaciously "bodily, totally," or a blend of bold and audacious, which suits the earliest attested sense of the word. Popularized anew by the 1982 Hollywood film "An Officer and a Gentleman." - Online Etymology Dictionary

out of the mouths of babes

This expression is a shortening and revision of expressions in the Old and New Testaments of the Bible. In Psalms 8:2, God ordains strength out of the mouth of babes and sucklings; in Matthew 21:16, praise comes from this source. Later generations changed strength and praise to wisdom. -

Hell for leather means as fast as possible. The term was first used in print in 1889 by Rudyard Kipling, specifically referring to riding a horse at breakneck speed. The leather in this case either refers to the leather in the saddle or the leather in the crop. - Grammarist

A/N Thank you for all the lovely thoughts and comments. For those of you who have asked about Leif's son, he will be here in a couple of chapters, right on time. Thank you for your concern, and especially for paying attention! I just have another introduction I have to get out of the way first, it's kind of a doozy … see you sometime in the next 24-48 hours. Peace, misscyn