Lariat, a Western Romance

Nothing would ever be the same....

Diandra fumbled with the horse's cinch, bitterly fervent in her windswept solitude.  The moist heat of the summer day only seemed to feed her misery, the overcast sky unable to block out the intense heat.

As she paused to lift the curtain of long blond hair from her neck, a small wave of heat escaped, settling into the stillness - a stillness that had been prompted by the promise of rain.

"Featherloom, stand still," she stiffly ordered, noting his flared nostrils, his trembling flanks and his set jaw.  He was as agitated as she was - the two of them appearing to be in one accord.

Once the cinch had been tightened to her satisfaction, she anchored herself beneath the grove of giant oaks, a garrison of nesting wrens chirping overhead as she raised her head to study the ever-changing sky.

Finally, she felt as if she could think.  Putting some emotional distance between her and the commotion at the ranch house had been wise.

What had her lovesick father been thinking?  There wasn't one thing wrong with the inner-workings of their ranch, Twelve Sticks.  And in her humble opinion, she had been doing a bang-up job of managing the monstrosity since his heart condition last summer.

This was all his new bride's fault - a woman that he had only known a handful of days.  And it was her son that had become the thorn in her flesh, a foreigner by the name of Bodey Rainwater whom father had infringed upon to come and mold Twelve Sticks into shape.

Featherloom grumbled, his lips jostling around as if they'd been caught up in a cyclone, then spit out.

"Oh shut up fussing!" Diandra advised through the short distance, aware that he wasn't accustomed of being ridden in the middle of the day.  He did enjoy sluffing off in the cool stables during the hottest part of the day.  "What a spoiled horse you are," she went on to comment, Featherloom lifting his lips and flashing his white teeth at her.

"Now go on!  Eat some green grass and we'll go home in just a bit," she told him, but he didn't budge an inch.  Featherloom had the nature of a mule - the most stubborn-headed horse that she'd ever rubbed elbows with.  But she loved him.  Somebody had to.

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