Page 35 of Crazy on Daisy

When Hank brought Gypsy home the next day, Daisy was on the porch waiting, her shorn head under the familiar battered Stetson.

She stood up and waved, then made her way to the trailer. The jeans that used to hug her curves sagged loose over her hips, and remorse stabbed at him.

Her voice elated, Daisy cried, “Oh, Hank, look at her, look at Gypsy! She looks like her old self—just needs a little weight and muscle back on her, but, oh, look how good she looks!”

Hank nodded; he’d stopped by his place a half-hour ago and given Gypsy a show grooming so she’d look her best.

Daisy was at the mare’s nose cooing and chattering. “Hey, girl, you’re home! I’m so glad to see you, so glad you’re back. Gone is, too—just listen to him.”

Gone’s high pitched whinny echoed as Daisy led the mare from the trailer.

Hank had already been by that morning to feed and do stalls. He’d spread the bedding in Gypsy’s stall extra deep. It was the least he could do. He watched as Daisy led the mare into her little barn, her body weak and atrophied, her hair gone.

The difference in her would torment him forever.

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