Telly Talk Addict
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- North America, Michigan
- Member Since
- July 2015
You did a perfect job with how they both reflected on the great times and small things in their relationship. And I loved how Ray knew just how ridiculous the idea of a marriage to Jenna and life in another country (I don't think there was cattle or ranching in Europe! What was Ray supposed to do!?) was.Thanks for the feedback, everyone. It's not the longest thing I've ever written, but I did get to include a multitude of characters in the story
He worked like a beast, herding the cattle harder than he had in years, but the awful dream still lingered in his mind. He couldn’t, and didn’t want to, imagine a life without Donna, with another woman, other children, in another country. It all made no sense to him, and yet it seemed so vivid, so painfully real. He pushed on across the range, looking over his shoulder every now and then, hoping he might see her come across the ridge. But he hadn’t seen her on a horse in months, since before things went south for them. He longed for her touch again, to come home to find her studying commission papers or drilling reports, throwing it all aside to pull off his boots and lead him to the bedroom. He’d never known another woman just like her, and if he lived another hundred years he couldn’t imagine he’d find one. He directed the hands on down toward the river as he stopped to take a drink from his canteen. The hot sun pounded down on him—not even summer yet, but it had already begun to bake the grass—and still he pressed on, trying to concentrate on his work and not on the images that kept flashing in his head.
Donna stood, frozen, at the door of the brick house. It would be so easy to turn around and leave, but she didn’t. She opened the sliding glass door. She didn’t see him anywhere around the house or yard.
“Ray?” She called out to him, but no answer. The sunlight reflected off the door as she stepped inside.
She looked around. He was keeping the place clean, but she already knew he could take care of himself. She looked over to their wedding picture; they were so happy that day, so much in love and free of complications. She looked back over the past few years’ worth of memories: matching trophies from the Charity Rodeo, the first pressings of her two books, two disparate photos from New York City and Emporia. Material things weren’t important to either one of them—the house was simple, modest—reflective of their personalities.
She walked, somewhat aimlessly, into their bedroom. She looked around at the made bed, the belt buckle on the nightstand, the open closet door. She looked in the closet, now half-empty with all her clothes gone. She looked through his shirts, ones she’d seen him wear countless times, ones she’d taken off him in the heat of passion, ones he wore when they went for a night out in Braddock. Vests, chaps, belts—the smell of leather reminded her of him, though he was never far from her mind. She felt strange, as though she were trying to reacquaint herself with him. She left the bedroom, wondering if he’d notice anyone had been there, or would give any thought to anything being out of place. She walked back over to the kitchen, looked out the window. She didn’t see him, and she wasn’t sure where he was or when he’d be back. She still felt comfortable here, knew she could live here again, be with him again—she just wasn’t sure when, or how, they’d find their way back to the same place.