Stephanie Rodriguez sat on her small front porch, a drink cradled in her hands, staring out at the pasture and the waning day. An idyllic scene: the three mares grazing, her chestnut, Molly, stopping every so often to whinny softly at her. The animal had picked up on her distress. They were amazing creatures. Sensitive. Capable of a range of emotion. Of devotion. If Stephanie would allow herself to be soothed, Molly could do it. But Stephanie wasn’t ready to feel better. Tears stung her eyes and she brought the glass to her lips and sipped. The alcohol burned, but she welcomed its sting. Uncle Henry was dead. Shot in the back by some idiot with a rifle and more than likely a belly full of beer. She took another sip, acknowledging anger. At the gun-happy, trespassing son of a bitch who did it. But also at herself. Why had she allowed him to continue to live out there alone?
