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By Ann Edall-Robson
Crimson reds, smatterings of yellow, fading into the blackening sky. Standing in the open door of the log house he watched the sun set over the foothills.
It had not been many years since he'd brought her here as his wife. Hoping she would love the rolling hills and the house he had built for her. She never said it, but he knew she was unhappy.
He would stay on. This had always been his home and in his heart it would always be hers, too.
As he turned to go in, he heard her voice call his name.
It had not been many years since he'd brought her here as his wife. Hoping she would love the rolling hills and the house he had built for her. She never said it, but he knew she was unhappy.
He would stay on. This had always been his home and in his heart it would always be hers, too.
As he turned to go in, he heard her voice call his name.
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