Black Iron Brandy

That first summer, darling Fred treated me like a queen and my two kids, like a prince and princess. I fell for my king. We moved into the myth of happily ever-after, a love story written in money, each chapter filled with ostentation— millionaire Fred showing off his financial success in excess.
We married. Things changed.
Fuckface spun a three-sixty, reining-horse spin, so fast and furious, I followed Alice through the looking glass and fell shattered— the black hole a never-ending spiral until rock-bottom slammed me into a zillion shards. I fell into a place impossible to put the cutting back or glue the hurt together.
Kill Fuckface. I woke to the homicidal thought.
Snug under the bedcovers, I let the idea set, get comfortable.
The pervert had violated My Girl. Nobody hurts my kids and gets away without retribution.
Could I actually kill him?... maybe I could just help Fuckface along to an accidental death.
Remembered back—
We met and Fred could do no wrong. That fall he bought me a brand new rifle, took me deer hunting and he played the dog. He walked through the thick brush to move any hidden game toward me, and a nice five-point buck jumped out. I startled and shot too fast. Missed and realized what hunters mean when they talk about buck-fever.
Fred walked out shortly after and said, ‘You saw me before you shot, didn’t you, Cat?’
...dare I tell him? naw... not then and never now...
In the West, hunting season is good camouflage for anyone with murderous intentions. Too bad I got buck-fever before I wanted to put Fred out of my misery.
Now could I kill him? ...yes... yes... maybe.
What kind of sentence did a pedophile deserve?...a death sentence might be a bit harsh... no… no, I didn’t think so, just western justice.
As the newly married wife of the rich asshole, I would be suspect. Did I need a 101 class in evading culpability?...nah…I read, go to the movies, watch TV.
I had better think hard about killing the bastard.
Ant-inspect all aspects.
***
Two years ago.
Before Fred became Fuckface.
I walked into the Lazy Y Roadhouse one Saturday night, all cowgirled up, and sat myself down on the one empty barstool. The bartender Clay walked over and I ordered a Tanqueray and tonic. He set my drink down and the guy standing behind me leaned in.
Said, ‘Here. Let me get that.’ Handed Clay a ten. ‘Keep the change.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘Name’s Fred.’
Did I give a care? Heck no. If he wanted to talk to me, let him work for it.
He did, said, ‘And yours?’
‘Caitryn.’
From the get go, I had noticed this fly-fisher dude staring at me. Hadn’t noticed if he drooled and what did he call himself? oh yeah, forgettable Fred.
He stood with three other fly-fisher dudes dressed all alike in khaki shorts, sandals, golf-Ts and floppy hats. I don’t play nice with city men. Or men shorter.
I blew him off my periphery, and scanned the room looking for cowboys. Saw possibles.
Fred tapped my shoulder. ‘Want to dance?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Why not?’ he said.
...he’s got to be kidding...
I guessed Fred to be around fifty. With his Italian-dark skin, heavy brows over black dissecting eyes and styled hair, he had no appeal, but he did have a self-assured presence, if the squatty Mafia-look attracted. One with hairy stubby fingers that probably wafted of scaly fish smell.
‘I don’t dance with outsiders,’ I said.
...and definitely off limits to the whiff of fly-fish...
‘Outsiders?’
‘Men who come to Montana and look and dress like you.’
Fred said, ‘I can’t change your mind?’
‘Nope.’
‘Can you tell me why not?’
‘I only dance with guys wearing western boots, jeans. Cowboys.’
I got up, asked a cowboy to dance. Three dances later, the band took a break and I returned to my barstool.
And so the story goes as wealthy Fred rises to the challenge to pursue Cat, his need to have her for his own.