Chapter 10
Golden sunlight spilled through the small loft window, mingling with the rays from the skylight and ground floor windows to bathe the cabin’s interior in a diffuse morning glow. Lance stood at the stove and added the potatoes he had grated for hash browns to the diced onions already sizzling in the skillet. Another pan stood ready for his eggs. Percolating coffee filled the room with a brisk and savory aroma.
After a hearty breakfast, he would ride into town, drop off Old Reliable, and fetch his bike. When he got back, he planned to get started setting up the new solar electric fence he had purchased in Denver the previous week. As always, he would take extra care to avoid detection by what he thought of as the “Wilderness Nazis”, county agents whose job entailed monitoring the actions of homesteaders via satellite images. He was too far off-road to worry about drive-bys, but he had overheard the locals grouse about the various agencies that enforced the state’s strict water laws and building codes. The last thing Lance wanted, or needed, was attention from someone with authority. Or anyone in general, for that matter; although, if one wanted to get technical, he had permission to use the place. Use, he reminded himself, not live in year round.
In the wee hours of the morning, sometime after the rain had passed, he had heard a blood-curdling scream off in the distance. Lance always worried about coyotes, but the chilling wail he had heard in the night was almost certainly a mountain lion in estrus, a sound that made the hair on his neck stand up. Gilbert and Belinda liked their freedom, but it was about to be curtailed. He didn’t want to risk losing his goats to the big cat. In fact, the lion was going to have to be killed to ensure their safety.
Lance had been up for several hours, letting the goats and chickens out, filling their water troughs, and checking the land around the cabin. He counted himself lucky the cabin was so close to a mountain stream, making installation of his hand pumps easier. After the gully-washer last night, the waterway was swollen and the fishing would be poor. But Lance enjoyed its erratic clamoring as it rushed along.
As he wandered around, ‘the ladies’ followed him hoping for a handful of hen scratch. “Now, you go forage for yourselves,” he had admonished them. Lance had no trouble talking to his animals, preferring their companionship over human company any day. “You know the routine; I’ll feed you tonight. That’s what keeps you ladies coming back. It’s not my charming personality, that’s for sure.” He had chuckled as they continued in their hopeful pursuit. Eventually, they gave up and scattered into the trees, bobbing their heads and uttering their creaky-door sounds. The ducks forged their own path and headed for the stream, as usual. Lance planned to butcher them at first snowfall rather than feed them through winter. He enjoyed a roast duck dinner several times a year.
Later, as Lance strolled down to Old Reliable, he took note of the chill in the air, a chill that told him winter was crouching right around the corner.