AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!
111
Daryl brought the deer from the woods with the help of the boy. As they emerged from the wooded area, they found pretty much exactly the scene that Daryl had expected to find. At the very least, nobody gathered there was currently threatening any kind of violence against anyone else—though Daryl didn't know how long they'd been there or how long that would have lasted if he and Beau had taken too much longer to emerge from the woods.
"Don't nobody draw their knives," Daryl called out. "We're handlin' this shit without weapons."
"Beau?" One of the three women standing at the porch of the house called out. They'd kept their distance, at least, from Lydia, who stood by the wagon—proof that none of them had threatened each other in any significant way.
"He's fine," Daryl said.
"It's OK," Beau agreed. "He's got people, too, and we gonna divide up this here deer to share since we both shot it."
"We don't want any kind of trouble," one of the other women said.
"Then, I'd say we all got a whole lot in common," Daryl said.
Daryl looked at the women in front of him and he recognized that he didn't have the slightest uneasy feeling in his belly. He wasn't picking up from Beau, or from any of the women, any kind of threatening vibe at all. Despite the fact he could see that the women could have knives in their hands in a moment if they chose to draw them, he didn't feel threatened. The only feeling he got from them was wariness—and that was healthy here and now.
Beau's "people" were, at least as far as Daryl could see at that moment, three women. A redhead, a blonde, and a brunette standing all clumped together at the foot of the porch steps made Daryl think of a movie he'd once seen with Merle—something about witches where there was a woman with each color of hair among the group.
All three of these women were young enough—no older than Daryl and, very likely, even a little younger than he was in some cases. It was clear that not a single one of them was the grandmother of which Beau had spoken. She was, without a doubt, the fourth woman that was currently missing from sight.
As though she'd been able to read Daryl's thoughts about her, the fourth woman that Beau had spoken of appeared. She came from around the side of the house, and her appearance drew the attention of everyone there, making it quite clear that none of her people had exactly known of her whereabouts, either.
The woman in question was about four and a half feet tall, and her diminutive size wasn't owing to being hunched over. Despite her obvious age, she appeared to be moving around rather well. Her hair was nearly white, and her skin had both the color and overall appearance of a wet brown-paper bag that someone had crumpled and then attempted to flatten out again with little success.
She was entirely unconcerned with the scene around her.
She walked right past everyone, straight to the horses and, affectionately, she leaned her head against Duchess's neck like she was hugging the draft horse that absolutely dwarfed her. Duchess seemed pleased enough with the affection, though, and nickered at the woman's presence. The woman then passed in front of Hook, reaching out to pet an inquiring nose, and came straight toward Daryl and Beau.
She examined both of them coolly, looked at the deer with the same sort of assessing gaze, and then nodded.
"Bring the deer. We'll prepare it," she said, before turning and walking back around the other side of the house to disappear again from sight.
Daryl looked at Beau. Beau was looking back at him. Now, instead of staring at Daryl like he wasn't sure if he was going to be forced to gut him, Beau had a half a grin on his face.
"That's my grandma," he said, nodding his head before he gestured toward the place where she had gone. "There's a big barn back there, and a fire pit we dug." Daryl started to move with him, accepting that they would divide the deer up around the backside of the house where, apparently, the old woman was waiting for all of them. Before they reached the house, Daryl called back to Lydia. She hesitated only half a second before following after him, her weapons still in her hand, but none of them raised in defense or threat.
111
Carol knew that Daryl's sexual experience was limited to one woman—a woman that he now claimed to have been with only because he was, in essence, trying to outrun his feelings about Carol having chosen to marry Ezekiel. Carol had explained to him that he didn't need to make it sound like a proposal from him was also on the table when she'd chosen to marry Ezekiel. He didn't need to make it sound like he'd been rejected when, in fact, he'd never admitted his feelings for her at all.
If he had, Carol would have married Daryl without hesitation—whatever that would have meant or looked like at the time—as far back as their time just outside of Atlanta. She would have married him on Hershel's farm. She would have taken her chances and, she thought, they would have been happy together.
Who was to say how both their lives would have been different if that had been the way that things had gone?
Admittedly, though Carol knew that Daryl's experience was limited to one woman, she hadn't realized how limited his experience with that one woman had truly been. She'd teased him about nipping her like Skip, but he was barely more experienced than the young stallion, and he had every bit as much enthusiasm as Skip did about his newfound abilities.
Daryl, Carol could say without a shadow of a doubt, was eager to try to make up for all his lost years in record time—and Carol was feeling more than a little tender and saddle sore thanks to his efforts and overwhelming enthusiasm. Still, she wouldn't tell him that and hurt his feelings. Nor would she want to do anything that might make him feel that she didn't appreciate his insatiable hunger for her.
Even if her body hurt for it, she'd never felt more desirable, or more adored, in the whole of her entire life, and she didn't want to trade that for anything in the world.
While Daryl and Lydia were gone looking for any supplies they might use, Carol boiled water to fill the tank that hung under the bottom of their wagon, to fill the horses' drinking trough, and to fill their own drinking and cooking containers for the rest of their time at camp. She worked on laundry, making sure to wash the things that they needed most urgently and get them hung up to dry. If they had more time, they could wash a few extra things, but some things simply couldn't wait.
When Carol had finished the laundry, she took their blankets out to air them a bit, and she cleaned up their tent.
She had shared a tent with Daryl a few times before—on runs and on the road—but never like this. In the few days since this had started, she'd actually started to feel like this tent was a home. No matter where they moved each day as the progressed toward Wyoming, her heart beat inexplicably fast to see the tent again as they unpacked it from the back of the wagon.
Nothing had ever felt as much like her home, for as long as Carol could remember, as this tent did—not even as far back as the house she'd shared with Ed.
Of course, Carol knew that the feeling of home had very little to do with the tent, and a great deal to do with the man with whom she was actively sharing the tent. The feeling was intensified, though, because their relationship had taken on so many different levels. Together, they were moving toward a future that both of them wanted—a future full of possibility where they could be exactly who they wanted to be. Together, they were caring for Lydia—and, even though the thought of that made Carol's stomach ache sometimes, she would be lying to herself if she tried to say that she didn't enjoy the role that she'd quietly slipped into with the girl.
Carol was terrified of the role of "mother" these days. The very thought of becoming "mother," again, made her mouth go dry and everything inside her ache. But she was also drawn to it. She had always wanted it, and that had never changed. It would never change. Some people, perhaps, were simply born to be mothers—even if they weren't very good at it.
Still, given what Lydia had known before as a mother, she seemed to be satisfied with the poor mothering abilities that Carol had to offer.
Together, now, Daryl and Carol were actively talking about making a home—even if that home was nothing more than a tent until they found something in Wyoming.
Daryl liked to talk about forever, and Carol liked to hear him when he did so. She liked to think about forever with Daryl. She liked to close her eyes, feel his arms around her, and sleep in the comfortable knowledge that he was the last man to which she would give herself, and that she would give herself to him more completely than she'd ever given herself to any man before with the knowledge that he cared for her—he truly cared for her—and he would not abuse her trust, her love, or her body.
True, she may be relishing his time away from camp to openly wince about the discomfort brought on by over-use of some of her more delicate body parts, comfortable with the fact that, in his absence, she wouldn't have to explain a sound or an expression, but she knew that he wouldn't even cause her that discomfort on purpose. In fact, if he knew that she was hiding it, he might try to spare her from it entirely—and that was why she shied away from telling him. This was temporary, and she didn't want to do anything that might hurt Daryl's feelings for much longer than some temporary discomfort might last.
Together, they were going to Wyoming. Neither of them would ever be ashes again. They could choose who they wanted to be. They could be who they wanted to be. They would never allow anyone to burn away any part of either of them ever again. They would hold onto what they wanted, between them, and let go of the rest. They would build the life that both of them wanted.
Together. Forever. In Wyoming.
With their tent clean, their blankets airing, the bulk of the day's chores done, and some time still before Carol needed to start something for them to eat—especially since she hoped to wait until Daryl returned to see what he brought—Carol settled on a blanket on the ground, where she could keep decent watch over the horses, and snuggled up with Dog and the book she'd been reading and, admittedly, rereading in spurts.
She lost herself, for a while, in the domestic bliss of the handsome rancher and his beautiful new wife in Wyoming—letting her thoughts drift, a little, to imagine herself and Daryl in some of the situations as she read. She only slipped her bookmark between the pages, closed the book, and returned it to their tent when she heard the sound of their wagon coming from some distance away in the peaceful quiet of the otherwise still day.
It didn't take long for the familiar sound to change slightly, though. Taking up her bow, and making sure her knife was in her belt, Carol took Dog down to the road with her. She could see their wagon, now, and she saw Daryl raise a hand and wave in greeting. She waved back. The sight of him driving the wagon with Lydia beside him didn't alarm her at all.
What alarmed her was the sight of several carts behind them—a small caravan of sorts. From what Carol could tell, it looked as though Daryl had found a small group, mostly consisting of women.
Daryl snapped the reins and put a bit more speed on the horses forward lumbering, lengthening the distance between their wagon and the smaller carts moving at a steady pace behind.
He pulled the wagon to stop as he reached the point in the road where Carol and Dog stepped out of his way.
"I can explain," he offered.
Carol glanced back toward the approaching people. Closer and clearer, she could see that there were at least three fairly attractive women, a young man, and what appeared to be an old woman.
"I'm waiting," Carol responded.
Daryl reached a hand out to her.
"Come on—ride with me to where we're unhitchin'. I oughta be able to catch you up by then."
Carol sighed, not sure how she felt or even why she would feel any of the emotions that seemed to be competing inside her. She took Daryl's hand to let him pull her up, practically into his lap, for the short ride to the clearing where they'd park the wagon and, apparently, the carts. As he pulled her up, she whistled at Dog who scrambled into the wagon before Daryl flicked the reins and, riding Carol in his lap as though it were the most normal thing in the world, started the wagon moving forward again.