Montana Chosen

  
   "Montana Chosen"
   
   Robin waved back her cascade of a long, silky mane--almost blue-black, and with her amber eyes to match, such a chosen child of the NORTHWEST.  She was working on her 1968 Camaro with the small block, possibly a simple 305 and four-barrel--of course, two tail exhaust, and white-letter tires that preached the word:  GOODYEAR.
   Decker was cycling his way on smaller tires, opening up the Suzuki to around 80 mph, and there wasn't really a speed limit in this area of expansive freedom--so his throttle was cranked, burning the gas to better make swift entrance onto Robin's property, where an embrace of long lost cousins would not merely culminate, yet ignite the family pool that they were so closely linked by.  What does the Southern Man say:  "I'm so southern, I'm related to myself."
   It was more innocent and pure serendipity for these two, one diving into her own genealogy; next, contacting the son of a lady, her genetic relative, way back down yonder line, when the Five Tribes mingled kindly, some, with Pennsylvania folk from Europe.
   It's amazing what research can do, and to know that someone armed with intrinsic love for you would guard your shanty at night, when many a grizzly's curiosity drove him to devour trash cans full of garbage, and even go indoors sometimes, as if knowing what yummy a fridge contained; as a result, it was comforting to know that a brotherly soul might hold a conversation with her, and better yet--have her back in defensive fashion.
   Decker pulled upon her property, anchoring the motorcycle on the Earth's shifting foundation