romance
“The world sure looks different at 4:30 a.m.” Bill reflected as he sipped coffee from a tin cup and waited. The prairie was cool and quiet. From the northeast, a shower of meteors streaked across the pitch sky. During his boyhood years, his father would point to the sky, saying “Quick, son. Make a wish!” Decades later, he realized he only had one wish, but there were too many shooting streaks in the sky to wish upon.
Later, the desert would become a steamy, parched land under the full glare of the sun. By noon, even the desert willows would be wilting under the sun’s full wrath. But, for now at least, the desert was rather sweet.
Cherokee impatiently stomped his front hoof.
“Whoa,” Bill called softly to his horse. “I know you’re ready to work, but there are enough hours in the day.” That was the reality of it. There were too many hours in the day. By occupying his days with hard work and chores, the hours passed swiftly. Then, he could go home to Miranda at night.
Miranda. Proud and beautiful, she was as untamable as the desert wind. He closed his eyes and heard her soft sigh, brown eyes staring reproachfully as he came in at the end of the day with his mud-caked boots and his sweat-stained shirt.
The image faded. There was work to be done and he couldn’t be caught daydreaming the hours away. The list was in his front pocket: (1) take the herd to the Stafford pasture, (2) mend the fence near the south gate, (3) patch the roof on the stables and (4) pick up more hay and feed at the supply store.
Bill was satisfied that he had not neglected anything from the daily list. In fact, he was rather pleased. The hours should melt away quickly.
The cattle pushed on naturally like a steady stream across the road to the Stafford pasture. It was as if they remembered the sweet, green pastures of the alternate holding pens of last year. After closing the gate on the stragglers, Bill worked on the fence near the south gate. The barbed wire bit into his knuckles as he restrung the wire. The wounds stung as perspiration mingled with blood, but his mind remained focused on his work. It was tempting to think about her, but he pushed the thought from his mind. Miranda would wait.
After mending the fence, he drove his battered Ford truck and the farm trailer to the supply store in town. The small farmhouse building had a large steel barn adjacent to it.
“Afternoon, Ed!” he called as he walked to the counter. The small tin-roofed building housed a variety of supplies from feed sacks to medicinal aides for healing ailing and wounded animals. Bill turned his back to the shelf of tonics and vitamins.
“Good afternoon to you, Bill,” Ed answered. “What can I do for you today?”
“I need two bales of hay and fifty pounds of oats,” Bill replied.
The clerk rang up the total. “How have you been managing up at the ranch?” he asked.
“Just fine,” Bill answered lightly. He tossed cash on the counter and headed back to his loaded truck. The clerk watched sympathetically as Bill drove off in a dusty cloud of caliches.
The final chore on the list was to repair the roof on the stables. It was a small leak, but still there had been significant rain lately and the water had leaked into the horse stalls. The smell of mildewed hay was overwhelming in the four-stall stable and tack room.
“I’m going to fix your house up today,” he murmured to Cherokee.
Cherokee stood nearby, supervising the job. The task took longer than Bill expected. He finished the roof and replaced the hay in the stalls.
The sun was dropping and the skies were streaked with pinks and dark purple.
“I’ve got to go soon. She’ll be mad if I’m late again,” Bill said as he led Cherokee into the improved stall. He removed the saddle and blanket and gave his partner a good brush down. He scooped a bucket of oats from the new sack and put everything in its place.
Bill wiped the sweat off his brow and removed his straw hat. He stomped wearily up the wooden porch and pulled the screen door open. The house seemed quiet - too quiet.
He walked slowly to the record player and dropped the needle on the record, before entering the washroom to clean up. She always liked it when he shaved as soon as he came home. Pulling the razor across the stubble on his beard, he hummed softly. He felt her soft, feminine presence in the room and turned.
“Ah, there you are,” he smiled. He wiped the remnants of shaving cream from his face and dropped the towel in the sink.
Miranda smiled back, holding out her arms. He walked into them, and they began to dance - a slow waltz that immortalized their tender love for each other. Swaying to the music, he lived for that very moment in the evening, when they would cling to each other and the rest of the world would fade away.
The needle reached the end of the record, and Bill heard the soft click as the arm swung up and over to its resting place. The waltz ended.
“No,” he whispered as he dropped his head. When he looked up, she had faded away. His outstretched arms that once held her slender form ached for her familiar curves. He longed for the softness of her hair and the sweet smell of her perfume. He was alone again.
Bill slumped on the edge of the bed. “Was it madness after all?” he wondered. He dismissed the thought. It really didn’t matter. He would rise tomorrow morning before dawn and complete the tasks on another list. He would fill every waking moment with work and chores so that he would not have to think about her sudden passing. But in the evening, she will be there waiting for him. And they will dance.
Later, the desert would become a steamy, parched land under the full glare of the sun. By noon, even the desert willows would be wilting under the sun’s full wrath. But, for now at least, the desert was rather sweet.
Cherokee impatiently stomped his front hoof.
“Whoa,” Bill called softly to his horse. “I know you’re ready to work, but there are enough hours in the day.” That was the reality of it. There were too many hours in the day. By occupying his days with hard work and chores, the hours passed swiftly. Then, he could go home to Miranda at night.
Miranda. Proud and beautiful, she was as untamable as the desert wind. He closed his eyes and heard her soft sigh, brown eyes staring reproachfully as he came in at the end of the day with his mud-caked boots and his sweat-stained shirt.
The image faded. There was work to be done and he couldn’t be caught daydreaming the hours away. The list was in his front pocket: (1) take the herd to the Stafford pasture, (2) mend the fence near the south gate, (3) patch the roof on the stables and (4) pick up more hay and feed at the supply store.
Bill was satisfied that he had not neglected anything from the daily list. In fact, he was rather pleased. The hours should melt away quickly.
The cattle pushed on naturally like a steady stream across the road to the Stafford pasture. It was as if they remembered the sweet, green pastures of the alternate holding pens of last year. After closing the gate on the stragglers, Bill worked on the fence near the south gate. The barbed wire bit into his knuckles as he restrung the wire. The wounds stung as perspiration mingled with blood, but his mind remained focused on his work. It was tempting to think about her, but he pushed the thought from his mind. Miranda would wait.
After mending the fence, he drove his battered Ford truck and the farm trailer to the supply store in town. The small farmhouse building had a large steel barn adjacent to it.
“Afternoon, Ed!” he called as he walked to the counter. The small tin-roofed building housed a variety of supplies from feed sacks to medicinal aides for healing ailing and wounded animals. Bill turned his back to the shelf of tonics and vitamins.
“Good afternoon to you, Bill,” Ed answered. “What can I do for you today?”
“I need two bales of hay and fifty pounds of oats,” Bill replied.
The clerk rang up the total. “How have you been managing up at the ranch?” he asked.
“Just fine,” Bill answered lightly. He tossed cash on the counter and headed back to his loaded truck. The clerk watched sympathetically as Bill drove off in a dusty cloud of caliches.
The final chore on the list was to repair the roof on the stables. It was a small leak, but still there had been significant rain lately and the water had leaked into the horse stalls. The smell of mildewed hay was overwhelming in the four-stall stable and tack room.
“I’m going to fix your house up today,” he murmured to Cherokee.
Cherokee stood nearby, supervising the job. The task took longer than Bill expected. He finished the roof and replaced the hay in the stalls.
The sun was dropping and the skies were streaked with pinks and dark purple.
“I’ve got to go soon. She’ll be mad if I’m late again,” Bill said as he led Cherokee into the improved stall. He removed the saddle and blanket and gave his partner a good brush down. He scooped a bucket of oats from the new sack and put everything in its place.
Bill wiped the sweat off his brow and removed his straw hat. He stomped wearily up the wooden porch and pulled the screen door open. The house seemed quiet - too quiet.
He walked slowly to the record player and dropped the needle on the record, before entering the washroom to clean up. She always liked it when he shaved as soon as he came home. Pulling the razor across the stubble on his beard, he hummed softly. He felt her soft, feminine presence in the room and turned.
“Ah, there you are,” he smiled. He wiped the remnants of shaving cream from his face and dropped the towel in the sink.
Miranda smiled back, holding out her arms. He walked into them, and they began to dance - a slow waltz that immortalized their tender love for each other. Swaying to the music, he lived for that very moment in the evening, when they would cling to each other and the rest of the world would fade away.
The needle reached the end of the record, and Bill heard the soft click as the arm swung up and over to its resting place. The waltz ended.
“No,” he whispered as he dropped his head. When he looked up, she had faded away. His outstretched arms that once held her slender form ached for her familiar curves. He longed for the softness of her hair and the sweet smell of her perfume. He was alone again.
Bill slumped on the edge of the bed. “Was it madness after all?” he wondered. He dismissed the thought. It really didn’t matter. He would rise tomorrow morning before dawn and complete the tasks on another list. He would fill every waking moment with work and chores so that he would not have to think about her sudden passing. But in the evening, she will be there waiting for him. And they will dance.