Which was insane.
If she cut across the plains, she could go to Belfield and then on to Medora, which was about twenty miles west of Belfield. Or she could go straight south from her present location toward Dickinson, probably about forty miles.
But would those towns even be there? Weren’t Belfield and Dickinson established years after her ancestors built the ranch? If so, that meant she had to go to Medora. Or she could sit right here until someone came by, and she could thumb a ride.
Right. Nobody was coming. She was on her own, without a rifle or even a knife. How would she be able to eat or protect herself?
I’m not helpless. I grew up out here.
Since she needed a knife, she’d have to make one.
She walked over to the creek, hoping for inspiration, and picked up several rocks to skip across the water. She released one with a quick snap of her wrist, spinning it as fast as she could.
Am I really skipping rocks?
Yep, she was. But if she didn’t do something, she might just burst into tears.
The stone hit the water parallel to the surface and bounced six times. A perfect throw. She tossed another one, and another, until the only one left was a black stone. She held it with her thumb and middle finger and hooked her index finger along the edge, and was about to release it when her internal voice said,
Stop! Don’t throw it. It’s obsidian—volcanic glass—sharp as a knife when fractured.
She held up her hand and stared at the stone while accessing an old file from her mental file cabinet—Improvising in the Wilderness—and snagged a memory with her father. She’d been, what? Ten, eleven? No, almost ten. It was a birthday camping trip with him. They were setting up camp when he realized he’d forgotten his steel-blade knife. At the time, she’d been afraid they’d have to go home. Instead, her dad used the experience as a lesson in how to survive in the wilderness. And she made a knife out of obsidian.
What happened to that knife? Since she rarely threw anything away, it was probably in a box in her Bismarck storage unit, along with family antiques and heirlooms.
She should have put the brooch in storage, too.
To make a knife, she needed a flat stone to use as a work surface, something hard for a hammer, a sturdy stick for a handle, and something to bind it with. Finding a flat stone was easy, but finding a hammer wasn’t.
She picked up several pieces of wood and stacked them aside for later until—“Son of a gun”—she found a piece of petrified wood that might just work.
With the obsidian rock, the flat stone, and the piece of petrified wood, she returned to where she’d been sitting under the tree. If she remembered correctly, her dad cut his finger on the obsidian, but he had a first aid kit with him to clean and wrap the wound. She didn’t.
Just be careful.
She put the obsidian on the flat stone and smacked it with the piece of petrified wood. Two good-size slivers broke off.
The stick she’d selected for a handle was already split on one end and would hold the sliver of obsidian. Once she wedged it into the end of the stick, she hunted around for something to tie the split ends together so the obsidian wouldn’t fall out.
Her dad used the piece of wire he carried for making rabbit snares. She didn’t have anything like that, but she did have a ponytail holder in her jacket pocket, along with a tube of lip balm and a mini tin of breath mints.
What more did a girl need?
She popped a mint into her mouth before carefully wrapping the hair tie around the stick several times, securing the sliver of obsidian into the wedge. Now, if she tied the knife handle to a long stick, she’d have a fishing spear.
She was so pleased she got goose bumps. You’d have thought she solved the problem of world hunger—well, maybe not world hunger, but certainly her own.
Since she didn’t have another ponytail holder, what could she use as a cord? Roots? Sinew? Plant fiber?
She straightened her legs and crossed her ankles, thinking through her dilemma while watching her feet wave side to side. After a minute or two, she shouted, “Fabric!” If she cut off a quarter-inch of the hem of her jeans, she’d have enough cordage to secure the knife to the longer stick.
Did she want to cut up her clothes? Why the hell not? Clothes wouldn’t matter if she starved to death. But they were APO Jeans with diamond-studded platinum buttons—a Christmas gift from Wyatt. Did she need fancy jeans? Hell no. She was a cowgirl, more comfortable in cheap jeans and boots than sequins and stilettos. And she was in the wilderness, for god’s sake, and until she reached civilization, taking care of her necessities—food and water—was her only priority.
That was all the justification she needed.
But wait a minute. Instead of cutting up the jeans, why not use her shirttail? That made more sense. Didn’t it?
Sure. Go for it.
She removed her shirt and cut off the half-inch hem, then put it back on. After she tucked in the shirttail, the butchered bottom wasn’t even noticeable.
Now, if she cut the half-inch hem in half, she’d have enough to make a spear with some leftover to make tiebacks for her hair until she needed them for another project.
The perfect stick to use for her spear was the hardest to find. But with patience, she eventually found one strong enough not to break, yet easy to handle.
She attached the knife to the end and was about to tie a knot when she thought ahead. It would be hard to untie a wet knot, and
