All day he watched over her, smiling when he caught her stopping to search for a sign of him. She would not find any. Long before the sun greeted the new day, he had moved his horse to where no water stood from the rains and the grass grew thick and sweet. He snared four cottontail rabbits, waiting until the breeze freshened so that the smoke of his fire would be carried high and disappear. He skinned all four, but ate only two. He intended to bring them to her later. There was much time to think. He remembered running as a boy, his strong legs pumping hard to cover the miles while he carried a mouthful of water. He’d spit it out at the end to prove his strength, then quench his thirst. No water could quench the thirst he had now. No liquid could. His thirst was for her lips, opening beneath his own, granting him the right to plunge his tongue deep inside to imitate the joining they would share. His hands were not idle.
