The Trouble With Sara Jo
Kathryn Lynn Zedar

John rolled over…and immediately regretted the movement. Pain ricocheted through his head, stabbing the backs of his eyes. Somehow, a moan erupted from his dry mouth, which only sent another bolt of sheer agony searing along the same path as the first.

Evidently, last night he’d gotten filthy, stinking drunk. In fact, so drunk he couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten to his room. Likely crawling on hands and knees, he decided, as a determined throb started behind his temples.

Oh, how he wished God would let him die. Just send a thunderbolt from heaven right now and–

CRASH!

“Captain Mallory, come quick—there’s a bear on the back porch!” a feminine voice shrieked.

“Arragh, my head,” John groaned, his eyes involuntarily opening…though just barely. His bedroom door stood open and flat against the wall—obviously the source of the crash—and a wide-eyed, terrified Mrs. O’Brien stood in the doorway—obviously the source of the shrieking.

“What?” he asked, trying to make his fuzzy brain work. Had she said there was a bear on the back porch? “You said there’s a bear?” His mouth felt thick as he formed the words, as if it was lined with fur.

He struggled to push himself upright, although the wisdom of that action was questionable…especially when his stomach began to roil.

“Yes, a bear,” she cried again, her voice nearly as loud as a moment ago, a level of sound that sent another tortuous bolt tearing through his tender brain. “Hurry, you’ve got to shoot it!”

She rushed across the room at him—an act that made his vision swim—grabbed his covers and tossed them back. It took him a good two seconds to realize what she’d done and look down at himself. He was instantly relieved to see that he still wore his underwear, and nothing below the waist had risen. Evidently—fortunately, in this case—because of the drink.

Which was probably also why when he’d come to bed last night he’d failed to remove his underwear. He was just too drunk. But it was a good thing, really, else poor Mrs. O’Brien would be shrieking now for another reason. Then again, he amended as he regarded her unusually white face, maybe not. He couldn’t remember ever having seen her this frightened before and it was possible she might have overlooked any state of nudity on his part in her present condition.

Something slapped him in the chest. He looked down to see it was his trousers.

“Put them on,” Mrs. O’Brien ordered.

Determined to comply, he slid his legs over the side of the bed, but it was the rest of his body that didn’t seem to want to cooperate. His hands felt like lead weights dangling from the ends of his arms, and he couldn’t seem to coordinate their efforts with the movement of his legs. It took a bit of concentration, but somehow he finally managed to get into his trousers—amazingly each leg in a separate hole at that—but when he made to stand, his knees nearly buckled.

Mrs. O’Brien didn’t spare him time to steady himself, however. Grabbing him by the arm, she hauled him across the room, muttering about the worthlessness of hungover men and the vice of alcohol. She paused by the door only long enough to snatch his gun and holster off the wall where they hung and slam them against his belly.

He caught them with an “oof” and they were off again, Mrs. O’Brien towing him at a reckless pace down the hall. Reckless, as far as he was concerned. His head was reeling so, he was fairly sure that any minute his aggravated stomach was going to erupt, not to mention the fact he could barely stay on his feet. It was only their forward momentum that kept him from landing on the floor in a heap.

Then all at once they stopped. John swayed, struggling against blinding dizziness, his nausea and the ringing in his head. He glanced around. They were in the kitchen.

“Well, go on,” Mrs. O’Brien shoved him toward the back door. “Go shoot it before it gets away!”

Ah, yes, the bear. Right. He was supposed to be shooting a bear.

John drug his gun from its holster, staggered forward and grasped the back door knob. He had to pause a minute to steady himself again. Thank goodness he had hold of the door. He finally hauled it open…and nearly fell backward at the sight.

It WAS a bear! Just as Mrs. O’Brien had claimed.

He raised his gun.

A bear by his back door… How in the hell had it gotten into the fort without anyone seeing it?

He cocked the hammer.

A bear…wiggling around and grunting, and…wait a minute… It sure was moving around a lot, but…

He tipped his head.

It wasn’t going anywhere. It was just sitting there, in the same spot, wriggling around, looking more like an excited puppy than any wild bear he’d ever seen.

He lowered the gun.

“What are you waiting for?” Mrs. O’Brien cried. “Shoot it.”

That cry–being as close behind him as it was, and piercing his brain with another throb as it had–should have prompted him to just do as she ordered, but instead John peered closer. It looked like a bear all right, right down to the shaggy head, ears and paws, but…now that he really looked at it… He took a step forward.

“What are you doing?” Mrs. O’Brien gasped. “Don’t go out there.”

He took another step.

“Lord a’mercy, are you still drunk?”

He felt her hand tugging at the waistband of his trousers. Even so, he reached down, took hold of the “bear” by the scruff of its neck, and pulled. The skin came away in his hand, revealing a bound and gagged person underneath. A dirty, bound and gagged person, clad all in buckskins.

And the minute he gazed into the furious brown eyes glaring up at him from beneath those shaggy bangs, he knew with sick certainty who that person was. He dropped to one knee and gently tugged the gag from her mouth.

“Miss Walker, are you all right?”

“Hell no, I ain’t all right,” she snapped. “I’m trussed up like a Christmas turkey.”

“Oh, dear heavens!” Mrs. O’Brien cried. “It’s a girl.”

“Mrs. O’Brien, could you please get me a knife?”

“Yes, yes, right away.” The housekeeper disappeared back inside for only a moment, returning as quickly with a huge, gleaming kitchen blade.

John took it and began to saw on the ropes that held his unexpected guest captive. “Do you know who did this to you?”

“‘Course I know who did this,” the girl snorted. “Think I’d let just anybody hogtie me? It was Pa.”