Page 55 of The Cowboy and the Stray

"Close, but the emphasis is god-DAMN-shit."

"Shit on a cracker!"

"Better! But it's shit on a cracked cracker, sugar."

"Fucking fuck a duck!"

"Okay, points for creativity, but let's maybe not bring bestiality into this."

Why was this starting to feel like a deranged spelling bee?

But as we went on, something started to shift in me. At first, the words felt strange and forbidden in my mouth, but there was a weird thrill to saying them out loud. It was like speaking a secret language. Growing up, I'd been the quiet girl, the good girl, the one who never made waves. I'd bit my tongue and kept my head down, first with my mom's endless parade of shitty boyfriends, then later with Lance. Good girls didn't cuss. Ladies didn't make a scene.

But I was starting to realize that maybe I didn't want to be a good girl or a lady anymore. Maybe I wanted to be someone who knew how to stand up for herself, how to spit in the face of anything or anyone that tried to break her down. Maybe my voice had been stolen from me, bit by bit over the years, but I could take it back. And if swearing like a sailor was how I did it, well then, fuck yes.

That’s right. Fuck yes.

Ash must have seen the determination settle over my features, because her eyes gleamed and she nodded at me to go again.

I squared my shoulders, summoned every ounce of repressed rage and rebellion inside me, and let loose. "Fuck this god damn shit ass crap!"

The barnyard went dead silent for a beat. Even the animals seemed shocked.

Then Ash let out a whoop and tackle-hugged me into a pile of hay. "Fuck yes! Tess! That was fucking beautiful!"

That was just what I needed.

We collapsed together in the scratchy straw, laughing until tears streamed down our faces and I could hardly breathe. It felt so good, like something hard and heavy inside me cracking open to let the light in. I felt lit up from the inside out, buoyant and powerful and alive. Who needs therapy when you have a filthy mouth and a friend?

As our laughter finally died down into breathless giggles, Ash pulled a flask out of her vest pocket and took a swig. I held out my hand expectantly, but she shook her head and tucked it away again. "Sorry, chica. This here's for me and me alone."

I raised my eyebrows. "What is it, some kind of secret special sauce?"

She gave me a mysterious smile. "Something like that."

I wanted to press further, but something in her eyes warned me off. I shrugged it off as Ash being Ash and her keeping little secrets. After all, we all had things we held close to the vest. Lord knows I did.

Just then, Buck came ambling by, a coil of rope slung over one shoulder. Ash eyed him speculatively, zeroing in on his telltale limp. "Hey old timer, I gotta know. What's the real deal with that hitch in your step?"

Buck paused and made a show of thinking it over, rubbing his chin. "Shark attack," he said finally, with a firm nod. "Yep. Shark attack. In Nebraska."

Ash choked on the sip she'd just taken. "There ain't no sharks in Nebraska, you old coot!"

Buck just smiled serenely and tapped the side of his nose. "That's what they want you to think." Then he turned and continued on his slow mosey towards the corral.

What in the Twilight Zone was this ranch?

I looked to Ash, perplexed. "Did he just say a shark bit him? In Nebraska?"

Ash threw up her hands. "Your guess is as good as mine. That has to be the fourth different story I've heard about that damn limp of his."

I shook my head slowly. "I think I'm up to six versions now. And not a one of them seems to be the truth."

"The truth," Ash said sagely, "is a slippery sonofabitch."

Preach.

We watched Buck's retreating back in contemplative silence for a moment before Ash spoke up again. "Did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally married a Ukrainian acrobat in Reno?"