It doesn't take her very long to write up something (http://broadsword-babe.livejournal.com/107005.html) she should've done a long time ago. It isn't that she thinks her demise is imminent, she just knows that she can be a bit... self-destructive sometimes.
With that done, she decides that maybe it's best she get out of the house for awhile so that he can have his space. That and, from what she was told, the barn needs some serious mucking out. As far as she's concerned, there's no better way to blow off steam than physical labour.
The trio of horses (a stallion, mare and yearling) are out in the pasture grazing to their hearts' content. She whistles shrilly and soon a great gray hound comes loping along the fence. Well, at least someone's glad to see her.
She pulls open the door of the barn, and it's soon apparent that the estate agent was right. The place hadn't been given a thorough cleaning in months, if not years. She blows out a breath through her lips and goes to see if there's a pair of gloves in the tack room she can use.
She quickly looses track of time. Her muscles remember the work of shovelling, scooping and then wheeling out piles of debris. Her mind wanders back to a different time and place. She can almost imagine she's back in Colorado. The kids are off visiting Wade's parents. He's up at the house working on the accounts. It's a pleasant fiction, and one she'd much rather indulge in instead of thinking about Methos.
One stall is clean and ready to be occupied. There's fresh straw for bedding, the water trough is full and there's feed in the bucket. A second stall follows, then a third and a fifth. Her long sleeve shirt lays folded over the side of one of the stalls. The barn isn't necessarily hot, but she's worked up quite a sweat. Enough so that she'd decided to forego the shirt in favour of the cotton tank top she wore underneath.
She keeps finding more things to do, even after the stalls have been cleaned. She knows she's just procrastinating going back up to the house. As long as she stays in the barn, she won't have to face the fact the house is empty. He's probably gone, and she can't exactly blame him. Of course, she can't exactly blame him for not saying goodbye, either.
She can't help it if she thinks the worst of the situation. It's not that she's a pessimist or a glass-half-empty person. She's more of a realist, and if the roles had been reversed, someone would've ended up with a broken nose, not just an empty bed.
She wipes her face off on a bit of a rag she'd found in the tack room. She opens a bottle of oil and begins to work it through one of the bridles.
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Date: 2 Jun 2009 12:29 am (UTC)With that done, she decides that maybe it's best she get out of the house for awhile so that he can have his space. That and, from what she was told, the barn needs some serious mucking out. As far as she's concerned, there's no better way to blow off steam than physical labour.
The trio of horses (a stallion, mare and yearling) are out in the pasture grazing to their hearts' content. She whistles shrilly and soon a great gray hound comes loping along the fence. Well, at least someone's glad to see her.
She pulls open the door of the barn, and it's soon apparent that the estate agent was right. The place hadn't been given a thorough cleaning in months, if not years. She blows out a breath through her lips and goes to see if there's a pair of gloves in the tack room she can use.
She quickly looses track of time. Her muscles remember the work of shovelling, scooping and then wheeling out piles of debris. Her mind wanders back to a different time and place. She can almost imagine she's back in Colorado. The kids are off visiting Wade's parents. He's up at the house working on the accounts. It's a pleasant fiction, and one she'd much rather indulge in instead of thinking about Methos.
One stall is clean and ready to be occupied. There's fresh straw for bedding, the water trough is full and there's feed in the bucket. A second stall follows, then a third and a fifth. Her long sleeve shirt lays folded over the side of one of the stalls. The barn isn't necessarily hot, but she's worked up quite a sweat. Enough so that she'd decided to forego the shirt in favour of the cotton tank top she wore underneath.
She keeps finding more things to do, even after the stalls have been cleaned. She knows she's just procrastinating going back up to the house. As long as she stays in the barn, she won't have to face the fact the house is empty. He's probably gone, and she can't exactly blame him. Of course, she can't exactly blame him for not saying goodbye, either.
She can't help it if she thinks the worst of the situation. It's not that she's a pessimist or a glass-half-empty person. She's more of a realist, and if the roles had been reversed, someone would've ended up with a broken nose, not just an empty bed.
She wipes her face off on a bit of a rag she'd found in the tack room. She opens a bottle of oil and begins to work it through one of the bridles.