Connor Galain had never been overly fond of horses. They were far too large for him to be quite comfortable standing next to one, especially with his rather miniscule stature. There was an unpleasant intelligence in their eyes as well.
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“The brown grass crunched under her tan boot, crisp from the unusually scorching autumn sun. The family tree had bawled its green out just a month ago. The old leaves were strewn haphazardly on the ground - yellowed, worn and dead - like her love’s crumpled letter on the hardwood floor in her room….”
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