u/OzVon22

This story follows the tale of Rick Turner, a high-country rancher and Eliza Harding and her daughter Grace. Due to her husbands poor decisions Eliza and Grace must spend the winter in Turners isolated cabin.

Rick is tired and just wants to sleep by the fire but instead is pulled into a brutal season, forced to deal with a jealous husband, deadly weather, dangerous animals and the weight of societal expectations.

Triggers: references implied domestic and sexual violence. Typically western style gun violence.

Feedback

Pacing and style. Does the dual pov work?

Characters: are they compelling and believable?

Historical references: is there anything I got wrong?

Is it entertaining? It's not pretending to be anything other than a fun read.

Swaps : yes under 100k

5 January 1887 

Sweetwater Meadow 

“Did you have any plans for the day?” he asked me at breakfast. “It's a grand day and I'd like to go check the fences up by Sweetwater Meadow.  But fencing’s a two-person job in the snow.” 

A day of pulling frozen wire through fence posts and the resulting cut and bleeding hands was not an appealing option but then again neither was saying no. 

“Pack plenty of food,” he told me, as he moved around the cabin making preparations to leave. "Fencing’s hungry work and we will be gone most of the day.” 

His leaving routine never changed. He checked the hunting knife at his hip, pulled on his coat, and wrapped a scarf over his ears. He brought the rifle down from the rafters, checked the load with a sharp snap, and slung his knapsack. Hat in one hand and rifle in the other, he banged out the cabin door. 

Today, he waited for me in the yard, with Grace, who had been bundled onto the tiny wooden sled, and as I came to join them, he took the sled ropes and set off down the trail beside the barn. 

“The barn is the oldest building on the ranch,” he said as we went past it.  “My grandparents built it first, then the smokehouse.  The cabin didn't come along until much later.” 

Half a mile past the barn, we paused at the bunkhouse, a long thin building half covered in snow.  It was roughly built, with no glass in the windows, only wooden shutters holding out the snow. 

“Pa and Grandpa and I built this when the ranch got too big and we realised we needed seasonal help.  It's not heated so it's pretty useless in cold weather.” 

“You built it?” I tried to admire the crude building in front of us. 

“Well, I was about Grace’s age at the time,” he admitted, with a grin, “I was probably more a hindrance than help.”

At the bunkhouse we turned up the mountain.  Mr Turner pulled the sled with ease and I followed behind in the tracks. 

He was right about one thing, it was a grand day. 

The clouds had done their trick of descending below us to cover the valley but leaving the tip of the mountain to sparkle in the weak winter sun.  The sky was a vibrant blue and the snow muffled every sound leaving us in brilliant silence. 

For a man worried about his fences, Mr Turner moved remarkably slowly. He stopped frequently to point out animal tracks in the snow or a particularly beautiful view. 

We arrived at the edge of Sweetwater Meadow mid-morning.  It was nothing more than a large open expanse on a steepish slope after our trek through the timbers.

He made camp in a sheltered spot, working his magic to build a roaring fire and fetching water from a small stream to make hot coffee and gently warm some milk for Grace. 

“Have you ever tried sledding?” he asked her. 

She shook her head. 

“Would you like to try?” 

Now Mr Turner could ask Grace if she would like to run with stampeding buffalo and she would immediately say yes, so he carried the sled up the slope of the meadow, helped her onboard and then gave it a gentle push, running beside it as it slid back down with Grace shrieking and laughing. 

Arthur ran alongside them barking madly and threatening to trip Mr Turner up.

“Again,” she said as it came to rest at the bottom of the slope.  So he hauled her back up and set her off once more. 

“Again,” she shrieked, eyes shining as it came to rest and Mr Turner was trapped into a dozen more trips up the hill. 

“You go, Mr Turner,” Grace ordered him at last.

So, he arranged his enormous frame on the tiny sled, arms and legs sticking out awkwardly, and pushed himself off down the meadow. 

His weight made him overshoot the bottom and buried him deep inside the snowdrift at the perimeter.  Arthur dived in after him and after some wrestling noises, both emerged covered in snow.  

I couldn’t help myself, I laughed. 

He emerged from the snowdrift grinning and saw me. 

“You try it then,” he challenged, holding out the sled. 

I shook my head. 

“Go on,” he urged. “It's good fun, no one can see you, it's only us.” 

He carried the sled up the hill and held it for me while I settled my skirts. Then, he gave me a gentle push and sent me careening down the hill.  It was exhilarating to go flying down the bumpy meadow, and instead of overshooting into the snowdrift, the sled turned sideways and careened to a stop hard against the meadow boundary, a great deal more elegant than Mr Turner. 

We spent the next few hours happily sledding, challenging each other who could go the fastest or the furthest. 

Hunger finally sent us back to the fire and we ravenously ate the food I had prepared, with more hot drinks. Grace and Mr Turner bickered happily over who made the winning run and I was content just to listen. 

After we ate, Grace drifted off a little, looking for sticks and pinecones.  

I laid back on the blankets and stared at the sky, it was such a stunning blue and everything just felt so peaceful.  

I heard Mr Turner say, “Hey, Gracie,” and I sat up just in time to have a snowball burst across my shoulder. 

I looked at Mr Turner, shocked. “An accident, Ma’am.”  He grinned. 

I brushed off the snow with sharp exaggerated strokes while digging into the snow under my skirts, making a small hard ball.  I hadn't expected to actually hit him so we were both surprised when white powder exploded across his face. 

“Go, Ma!” Grace cheered, flinging up handfuls of loose snow at Mr Turner. 

The fight was on and Grace and I pelted Mr Turner with such fury that he ducked behind a tree laughing and then pelted us back.   

We chased him through the trees until in one precarious moment, he slipped and went sprawling into the snow, taking advantage of his fall, we kept up our assault, throwing snow until he covered his face with his hands and begged for mercy. 

Finally, we called a truce, short of breath from laughter and exertion. 

“The shadows are getting long," he said regretfully. "Best we start for home.”

“But what about the fences?” I asked.

“Forgot to bring any tools,” he said, shrugging. “Oh well.” 

The walk back was long after our day, and I fell behind, trudging along through the evening. 

He noticed my slowness. “I’ll carry Grace,” he said, setting her up on his broad shoulders. "Take the sled and I'll pull you.” 

“I can't do that, Mr Turner, I'm too heavy.” 

“Eliza, there are rabbits up here bigger than you. Just get on the damn sled.”

So I rode the sled home and if my weight caused him any strain, he did not show it. 

5 January 1887 

Sweetwater Meadow 

“Did you have any plans for the day?” he asked me at breakfast. “It's a grand day and I'd like to go check the fences up by Sweetwater Meadow.  But fencing’s a two-person job in the snow.” 

A day of pulling frozen wire through fence posts and the resulting cut and bleeding hands was not an appealing option but then again neither was saying no. 

“Pack plenty of food,” he told me, as he moved around the cabin making preparations to leave. "Fencing’s hungry work and we will be gone most of the day.” 

His leaving routine never changed. He checked the hunting knife at his hip, pulled on his coat, and wrapped a scarf over his ears. He brought the rifle down from the rafters, checked the load with a sharp snap, and slung his knapsack. Hat in one hand and rifle in the other, he banged out the cabin door. 

Today, he waited for me in the yard, with Grace, who had been bundled onto the tiny wooden sled, and as I came to join them, he took the sled ropes and set off down the trail beside the barn. 

“The barn is the oldest building on the ranch,” he said as we went past it.  “My grandparents built it first, then the smokehouse.  The cabin didn't come along until much later.” 

Half a mile past the barn, we paused at the bunkhouse, a long thin building half covered in snow.  It was roughly built, with no glass in the windows, only wooden shutters holding out the snow. 

“Pa and Grandpa and I built this when the ranch got too big and we realised we needed seasonal help.  It's not heated so it's pretty useless in cold weather.” 

“You built it?” I tried to admire the crude building in front of us. 

“Well, I was about Grace’s age at the time,” he admitted, with a grin, “I was probably more a hindrance than help.”

At the bunkhouse we turned up the mountain.  Mr Turner pulled the sled with ease and I followed behind in the tracks. 

He was right about one thing, it was a grand day. 

The clouds had done their trick of descending below us to cover the valley but leaving the tip of the mountain to sparkle in the weak winter sun.  The sky was a vibrant blue and the snow muffled every sound leaving us in brilliant silence. 

For a man worried about his fences, Mr Turner moved remarkably slowly. He stopped frequently to point out animal tracks in the snow or a particularly beautiful view. 

We arrived at the edge of Sweetwater Meadow mid-morning.  It was nothing more than a large open expanse on a steepish slope after our trek through the timbers.

He made camp in a sheltered spot, working his magic to build a roaring fire and fetching water from a small stream to make hot coffee and gently warm some milk for Grace. 

“Have you ever tried sledding?” he asked her. 

She shook her head. 

“Would you like to try?” 

Now Mr Turner could ask Grace if she would like to run with stampeding buffalo and she would immediately say yes, so he carried the sled up the slope of the meadow, helped her onboard and then gave it a gentle push, running beside it as it slid back down with Grace shrieking and laughing. 

Arthur ran alongside them barking madly and threatening to trip Mr Turner up.

“Again,” she said as it came to rest at the bottom of the slope.  So he hauled her back up and set her off once more. 

“Again,” she shrieked, eyes shining as it came to rest and Mr Turner was trapped into a dozen more trips up the hill. 

“You go, Mr Turner,” Grace ordered him at last.

So, he arranged his enormous frame on the tiny sled, arms and legs sticking out awkwardly, and pushed himself off down the meadow. 

His weight made him overshoot the bottom and buried him deep inside the snowdrift at the perimeter.  Arthur dived in after him and after some wrestling noises, both emerged covered in snow.  

I couldn’t help myself, I laughed. 

He emerged from the snowdrift grinning and saw me. 

“You try it then,” he challenged, holding out the sled. 

I shook my head. 

“Go on,” he urged. “It's good fun, no one can see you, it's only us.” 

He carried the sled up the hill and held it for me while I settled my skirts. Then, he gave me a gentle push and sent me careening down the hill.  It was exhilarating to go flying down the bumpy meadow, and instead of overshooting into the snowdrift, the sled turned sideways and careened to a stop hard against the meadow boundary, a great deal more elegant than Mr Turner. 

We spent the next few hours happily sledding, challenging each other who could go the fastest or the furthest. 

Hunger finally sent us back to the fire and we ravenously ate the food I had prepared, with more hot drinks. Grace and Mr Turner bickered happily over who made the winning run and I was content just to listen. 

After we ate, Grace drifted off a little, looking for sticks and pinecones.  

I laid back on the blankets and stared at the sky, it was such a stunning blue and everything just felt so peaceful.  

I heard Mr Turner say, “Hey, Gracie,” and I sat up just in time to have a snowball burst across my shoulder. 

I looked at Mr Turner, shocked. “An accident, Ma’am.”  He grinned. 

I brushed off the snow with sharp exaggerated strokes while digging into the snow under my skirts, making a small hard ball.  I hadn't expected to actually hit him so we were both surprised when white powder exploded across his face. 

“Go, Ma!” Grace cheered, flinging up handfuls of loose snow at Mr Turner. 

The fight was on and Grace and I pelted Mr Turner with such fury that he ducked behind a tree laughing and then pelted us back.   

We chased him through the trees until in one precarious moment, he slipped and went sprawling into the snow, taking advantage of his fall, we kept up our assault, throwing snow until he covered his face with his hands and begged for mercy. 

Finally, we called a truce, short of breath from laughter and exertion. 

“The shadows are getting long," he said regretfully. "Best we start for home.”

“But what about the fences?” I asked.

“Forgot to bring any tools,” he said, shrugging. “Oh well.” 

The walk back was long after our day, and I fell behind, trudging along through the evening. 

He noticed my slowness. “I’ll carry Grace,” he said, setting her up on his broad shoulders. "Take the sled and I'll pull you.” 

“I can't do that, Mr Turner, I'm too heavy.” 

“Eliza, there are rabbits up here bigger than you. Just get on the damn sled.”

So I rode the sled home and if my weight caused him any strain, he did not show it. 

For the first time I am sticking with the editing process long enough to see the value in it.

I used to think my first draft had to be my best draft but this time for some reason, I was in such a rush to tell the story I just got it all out. Now 67k words later I'm going back and fixing the things I didn't get right. Protagonist too perfect, ok I'll just make him a bit meaner, the beginning timing too rushed. Add in a couple of days.

This time it feels, Im actively working to improve my story in editing, perviously I've always felt like I was fighting it.

I wish I knew why so I could tap into it on demand. Is it a mindset I need to adopt?