“I suppose he had to go,” she said. She was sitting on the front steps, her father beside her.
He nodded. “He was killing the chickens next door. They won’t stop once they taste blood.”
“He was so beautiful,” she said. “And he loved to be brushed and petted. And sit by me while I did my homework.”
He touched her hair. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She nodded, her eyes filling. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way,” she said. “I don’t want another dog ever again.”
He put his arm around her. He suspected that the neighbor’s dog was pregnant, probably by the male who had just gone to the vet to be put down. By the time those puppies were born, she should be ready for another dog. He pulled her closer. There was no point in saying anything about that right now, though.
From Moreno Valley Sketches II
She could be incandescently angry and Gerald’s trip to Santa Fe and back had taken a week longer than he’d told her it would, so he braced himself as he opened the cabin door. But Suzanna barely raised her head from the rocking chair by the fire. She wasn’t rocking. Her shawl was clutched to her chest, her face drawn and gray under the smooth, creamy-brown skin. She glanced at Gerald, then turned her face back to the flames, her cheeks tracked with tears.
Gerald’s stomach clenched. “What is it?” he asked. “The children?”
Suzanna shook her head without looking at him. “The children are fine,” she said dully. She moved a hand from the shawl and placed it on her belly. The tears started again and she looked up at him bleakly. “This is the fourth time,” she said. “There will—” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “There will be no third child,” she choked, and he crossed the room, knelt beside her, and wordlessly took her into his arms.
Copyright © 2016 Loretta Miles Tollefson