Truly Madly Yours

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The red glow from a space heater touched the creases and folds of Henry Shaw’s face, while the nicker of his beloved Appaloosas called to him on the warm spring breeze. He plugged an old eight-track cassette into its player, and the deep, whiskey-rough voice of Johnny Cash filled the small tack shed. Before Johnny had found religion, he’d been one kick-ass carouser. A man’s man, and Henry liked that. Then Johnny had found Jesus and June and his career had gone to hell in a hand basket. Life didn’t always go according to plan. God and women and disease had a way of interfering. Henry hated anything that interfered with his plans.

He hated not being in control.

He poured himself a bourbon and looked out the small window above his work bench. The setting sun hung just above Shaw Mountain, named after Henry’s ancestors who’d settled the rich valley below. Sharp gray shadows sliced across the valley toward Lake Mary, named for Henry’s great-great-grandmother, Mary Shaw.

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