Mending - Sister Lydia & Jeremiah
An oddity. That is what the request came as, passing through the ranks of busy tailors into her hands. Not papal robes with the odd popped seam or even a loose button of a coat. No. The clothes in a neat pile upon her smooth oak desk were western. Chaps. Like a cowboy she’d read about in books, or seen in movies, gun in holster and hat secure riding their horse through a dusty desert against the sunset. Compared to the black robes and dusty halls. She considered it an adventure in truth. Satan knew she needed it. Her back did too.
Not that Lydia did not enjoy her place here. No. She was blessed to have it for all her office looked stuck in the 1800s, with creaky furniture to match. Yet she neglected to venture much outwith it. Only her, the clothes, her needles and collection of vinyls she was steadily growing. Music was nice. But chatter would be sweeter.
Work continued long into the wee hours as it often did. When Lydia’s mind was caught on something, gripped fully by a concept, coming away was a challenge if not for the odd pricked finger. Every thread, she imagined this cowboy. If he dressed like this for practicality, or was it simply a fashion statement to shock?. She admired the confidence either way.
Sunshine crested the ministry to bathe them in light and she was off with mended garb in hand. Not without asking the odd sibling for directions. 45 minutes outwith the chapel, or ‘just keep going till you see the animals’ as one put it.
And so she walked. Heeled boots suddenly feeling ill suited on natural terrain and a path that became gravel. Maybe she shouldn’t have worn her habit. She must look like one of those cliches of city folk out of their depth.
A blend of earthiness, dusty grain and sweat met her senses not long after. It heralded what she could only assume to be the ranch.
“Well, here goes nothing.” She muttered lowly, a small gathering of courage to lead her up a small flight of steps at its porch. The odd sound from livestock broke her concentration for a moment, hand raised and knuckles primed ready to knock. “You can do this.”
Delicate knuckles meet well worn wood and for a moment there’s silence. “Hello? It-it’s Sister Lydia, I was sent to bring you these..!” She called.
Oh that was amusing to the cowboy. She really well and truly didn’t know and as the realization hit her he couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped him. Not everyone was so lucky to learn this before it became an awkward situation, or they found themselves being flirted with by a ghoul.
“Well, some yes. Depends on the ghoul, how experienced they are, how active they are and if they partaje in the season or not. I know a good few who aren’t bothered one bit by it, they have a habit of dealing with their problem. ‘Nd theres a couple who are afraid of partaking so they tend to jump into the meds or hidin away from the others.” His arms dropped from the crossed position they had taken over his chest, hands coming to rest on his belt. “I personally take meds most of the time so I don’t bother most of y’all when you come around. I know I can get pretty insufferable myself, but makes it a hell of a lot more fun when I’m breakin colts and then like.”
Anyone who stuck around during rut when he was breaking colts, or doing any sort of his heavy riding days knew he got into it more enthusiastically. His voice could be heard from across the grounds, fangs gritted and ego inflated as he held on longer than everyone else. His stamina was what made him such an issue, that and his strength. Jeremiah could sit until they bucked out themselves…