InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ The Short Straw ❯ chapter one ( Chapter 1 )

I don't own Inuyasha or any characters from it. Not that you'd get much suing me anyway. . .

The Short Straw

By Flamingwillows

Chapter one

"There's no getting around it, Koga. We need a wife." Miroku's tone was grim, befitting the serious nature of his pronouncement.

"There's got to be some other way." Koga's expression was even bleaker than his brother's.

"None that I can see." Miroku splashed a goodly measure of whiskey into his glass, then did the same for Koga. "We've put a lot of work into this place. If something happens to us, the ranch'll be sold to some stranger. Neither of us wants to see that."

Koga could have pointed out that, under those circumstances, they wouldn't actually see the ranch fall into someone else's hands, but he didn't. Miroku's logic might be slightly skewed, but there was a basic truth in what he was saying.

"A son. That's what we gotta have, Koga. One of has to have a son to take over when we're gone."

"It isn't like either one of us has a foot in the grave," Koga said with some annoyance. He was barely twenty-five. He didn't consider himself yet on a nodding aquaintance with eternity. "We've got plenty of time to think about wives and sons and who's going to take over the ranch after us."

"Maybe," Miroku's expression was solemn. "But Inuyasha was younger than both of us and Mushin wasn't even thirty-five. Look at them."

In point of fact, no one could actually look at either of them. They'd both met their demise in the past six months.

"Inuyasha was a fool to take on that shootist. Legacy from his old man or not, him and those damn pearl-handled colts of his were just looking for an excuse to die young."

"Mushin didn't have pearl handled colts," Miroku noted gloomily. He was well into his third glass of whiskey and clearly feeling the fell hand of fate on his shoulder.

"No, but he had that hammerhead roan. Meanest horse I've ever seen. It's a wonder he didn't throw Mushin into a wall years ago."

"It could have happened to either of us." Miroku said, reaching for the whiskey bottle.

"Not unless one of us is stupid enough to get on a horse that's half rattler and half just plain mean." Koga said. But the words lacked conviction.

The fact was, it didn't take a mean horse or overestimating your talent with a gun to get a man killed and they both knew it. Even a good horse could step in a prairie dog hole or get spooked by a rattlesnake. A man left alone on the prairie stood a fair chance of dying of thirst or exposure. Hell, it didn't even take anything dramatic. Their own father, as tough a man as Koga had ever known, had torn his hand open on a nail and died of blood poisoning a week later.

Koga frowned at the scarred surface of the kitchen table. If their mother were alive, she'd skin them for letting her kitchen fall into disrepair. But she'd been dead for three years now, and the once immaculate room bore evidence of its neglect since then.

The thin lamplight revealed that neglect with merciless clarity. The big iron stove was covered with a thick layer of grease, bits of food and soot. The curtains that had once hung in crisp white panels in front of the windows were gray with dirt. Not that it mattered much, since the window hadn't been washed in three years. The wooden floor his mother had been so proud of was obscured by the same layer of filth that covered everything else.

Koga stirred uneasily. He could almost see his mother's accusing eyes, feel her disapproval. Though the whole house would just about have fit into the ballroom of her father's home, Koharu had been proud of the work her husband and sons had put into building it for her.

The family might have lost almost every material possession in the war but they hadn't lost the most important things- their pride and determination. At the end they'd sold what that could, abandoned what couldn't be sold or brought with them and moved west, chasing the dream of a new life, like half the country was doing. They'd literally built their home from the land around them.

He and Miroku had broken wild horses to sell to the cavalry and used the money to buy cattle. Those first years had been tough. All four of them had worked from sunrise to sunset.

Before the war, Koharu'd never had to dirty her hands on anything outside her home, and even there she'd had servants to help her. But she'd learned to milk a cow and use a hammer. Her hands had grown callused and her pale skin burned in the hot sun but she'd never forgotten that she was a lady and she'd never let her son forget they were gentlemen. They may have been eating day old bread and beans, but there was always a linen tablecloth, even if the table was a wooded crate. And no matter how many hours she'd put in working outside, she'd still made sure her husband and sons had clean clothes, and that they were mended.

Koga frowned and picked at the three corner tear just above the knee of his jeans. When had they last been washed? he wondered uneasily.

"Thinking about Mother?" Miroku asked, reading his older brother's mind.

"Place don't look the way it when she was alive." Koga said. Miroku followed his gaze around the kitchen taking in the dirt that covered every exposed surface. The rest of the house was in slightly better shape, but only because they didn't spend much time in any other rooms.

"She'd box our ears," Miroku admitted, looking uneasily over his shoulder as if expecting to see his mother's shadow bearing down on them.

"We could hire a housekeeper," Koga suggested.

"We tried that. Twice. The first one drank ever drop of liquor in the house and damn near burned the house down. The second was more interested in finding a husband that in cooking a meal."

"As I recall, you were the husband she had in mind. She might have caught you, too, if you'd been a mite slower." Koga grinned at the memory of Miroku's panicked reaction to the housekeeper's blatant pursuit.

"You didn't think is was so funny when she turned her sights on you." Miroku observed. "Besides, a housekeeper isn't going to solve the problem of having a son to leave the ranch to."

"I wish you'd stop talking like we both had one foot in the grave. " Koga said irritably.

"We aren't getting any younger, and having a son isn't like ordering a new saddle. It can take a little time."

"Nine months last I heard."

Miroku sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. "First you've got to find a wife. Then you've got to go about making babies. It took Ginta and his wife almost five years to have their first."

"If I had a wife as pretty as Ayame, I don't think I'd mind five years of trying." Koga said with a grin.

"All we need to do is find you a pretty girl, then." Miroku said cheerfully.

Koga choked on a mouthful of whiskey. "Find me a pretty girl?" he wheezed when he regained enough breath for speech. "Since when am I in the market for wife?"

"I thought you agreed that we need a wife," Miroku's eyes widened in surprise.

"If we need a wife, why am I the one getting one?"

"You're the oldest. It's only fitting that you get to marry first."

"Get to marry first?" Koga raised one dark eyebrow, questioning the privilege his brother had just offered him. "I'm not a consumptive old maid, so there's no sense in trying to weasel me into getting hitched. Seems to me that you should be the one to find a wife. You're younger, less set in your ways."

"I'm only three years younger," Miroku protested. "Besides, I don't want to get married." The thought was enough to make him reach for his glass and down a healthy shot of whiskey.

"I don't want to get married, either," Koga noted.

There was a lengthy silence while they considered the problem. Outside, a cricket scratched plaintively, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the land.

"We could draw straws," Miroku said. "Whoever gets the short straw has to find a wife."

"Might work." Koga rolled the idea around. It wasn't ideal. Of course the only thing that would be ideal was to forget the whole thing. But Miroku was right, they did need a wife, and since neither of them wanted a wife, it was only fair to let chance decide which of them had to be sacrificed on the matrimonial alter.

He got up and crossed to where the broom leaned in a corner Frowning, he lifted it and broke two dusty straws off the bottom. He brought them back to the table and sat down again. Miroku watched as he measured the two straws and carefully broke one halfway down. There'd be no mistaking which of them had drawn the short straw.

"You sure about this?" Koga asked.

Mirkou dragged his eyes upward to meet his brother's. "I'm sure."

Without looking at what he was doing, Koga rolled the straws between his fingers, then closed his fist around them. "You first."

Both men looked down. The tops of both straws were visible above the tanned skin of Koga's hand. One straw was higher than the other, but there was no telling which was longer overall. Miroku studied the two straws as if his life depended on it, which, koga guessed, it more or less did. He reached out, his fingers hovering over Koga's hand, then quickly drew a straw, choosing the one that showed the least.

There was a moment's silence, and then Miroku drew a deep, relieved breath. His face expressionless, Koga slowly opened his had and stared at the short piece of straw lying on his palm.

Damned if he wasn't going to have to find himself a wife.

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