STORY STARTER

Write a story or scene that takes place in a desert.

Your plot can be about anything, but the main setting of your story should be in a desert setting.

forever • chapter three

Plain is good. Plain is safe. Safe means people will love you for who you are. But safe is dangerous. Dangerous because you will never know when that love fades. 


I had been at the ranch at this point for five days. Three days since Aunt Clara and I… fought. And it's felt like years. Ranch life means always having responsibilities and living monsters depending on you. 


 I walked into the dining room with a cup of spearmint tea, just to find Weston.


He sat at the table, eyes fixed on the window.


His fingers traced slow, absent circles around the rim of a chipped ceramic mug, the soft scrape a quiet rhythm in the silence. The steam curled up in thin wisps, but he barely noticed — like the motion was a habit, something to keep his hands busy while his mind wrestled with whatever he wasn’t saying.

I walked over and sat in my usual dining spot, surrounding chairs unoccupied instead of the usual Bonnie and Clara. 


Weston visibly winced when I sat down, but attempted to cover it up with a cough. 

“Jumpy?”


He shook his head, but replied, “Like a frog.”

I laughed dryly. “Wow, you’re _not_ actually a robot? ”


He downed his coffee and tensed up as I waited for a response before realizing this was the end of our short conversation. I stood, pushing my hands into the table awkwardly. 

“Well, great talk West—” 


“I need you to help me paint the fence.” He spit out so quickly I had almost missed it. 


“What?”


Well, actually _had_ missed it.


“The fence needs a new coat of paint. The heat causes the gray to fade, and Clara asked and— and its a big fence.” he shrugged, then grabbed for his mug again to take another sip, just to remember he’d already finished it and put it down again. “And Clara asked me to ask you.”


“Oh!” I frown at her name. _Of course she wouldn’t ask me herself. _I clear my throat as i realize i’ve left the room silent a bit to long. “Sure.”


I mimic his shrug but fume inside as he stands.  I learned how to clean the stalls today and was not planning to even think about them until i had gotten the smell out of my nose and the taste of vomit out of my mouth. But of course, I’m stuck with _him_ for who knows how long. 


Weston splattered a giant glob of dark gray paint on the rotting fence as i took a paintbrush for myself, my nerve endings electric from the small touch and Weston and I bumped shoulders, but thankfully, he doesn’t notice. 


As I hastily followed Weston’s slow and repetitive paint job, I didn’t notice as he stopped and stared at me. When I finally do, he gives me a long blink and frowns deeply.

“How are you… So _bad_ at this?” He asked bluntly, his eyes moving from me to the paint I’d drowned the fence in.


I recoil, immediately offended. “Painting fences isn’t exactly what I do in my free time, _thanks_.” I hissed at him, crossing my arms and accidentally running a streak of paint across his blue flannel button-up.


“Dang it!” I drop the brush into the bucket of gray gloop and blot my own shirt on the paint, spreading it even more and Weston seems to just freeze up. 


“I am so sorry, I—” 


He grabs my wrist loosely and holds it out of reach from his shirt, chuckling, sending lightning through me. “I have more flannel shirts than I count, Haven, it's fine.” 


I snatched my hand back and crossed them, this time, without a paintbrush. “But—”


He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving mine. “Just be glad I don't hold grudges, alright?” 


Our eye contact lingers, almost challenging the other to look away first. He finally backs off and sighs. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”


I stare at him blankly, the cause of my outburst already out of my head. 


“About critiquing your painting skills.” He clarifies, “I just didn’t realize that a monocolor fence would be so hard to paint for you.”


Even after his apology, I hear the judgmental twang of his voice. 


“What did you even do in…” He trails off, and I realize he doesn’t even know where I’m from.


“Los Angeles.”


He nods. “_There_, anyway? For your job, I mean.”


It's my turn to wince as he mentions my job. “I worked in marketing and financials for a popular influencer there.” 


Weston quirks his head to the side, curiosity flooding his face. “Who?”


“Doesn’t matter.” I snap. Ray didn’t have the right to follow me here, almost 500 miles away. And yet I still tense up just _thinking_ about him.

Instead of backing off, Weston takes this as his sign to turn interrogator, leaning in. “Why’d you come here then?”


I followed suit and suddenly am stupid enough to ask _exactly_ what's on my mind. 

“Why do you hate me?” 


He jerked back, shocked as his brow furrowed. “What?!” His frown was getting deeper by the second. “Why would I _hate_ you?”


“Fine, not hate.” I allow, no way to take it back now. “More like you would rather get stampeded by the cattle than talk to me. 


“I don’t think its possible to hate someone that much.” He grimaced, shivering.


_Agree to disagree._ I frown at the thought. I’d rather get trampled to mush than talk to him, sure, but what i felt about Ray, somehow, didn’t feel like hate.


“I’m serious!” He practically shouted, thinking the frown is for him. 


“Then why did you glare at me at the first dinner like I just killed your family?” I accuse, and he doesn’t smile at that, instead his face goes rigid. 


“I don’t hate…  _you.” _But it sounded more like he was questioning himself than the truth.

I study him. “You don’t sound all too sure.”

“Well I am.” He thunders at me and i flinch. “We need to finish the fence. Keep painting.”

After spending the rest of the afternoon and early evening in silence, the fence was finally a nice shade of dark gray.


His eyes flick to me, just for a second, like he’s about to say something real. But instead he looks back at the fence.


“Thanks.” Weston’s voice sounds strained after not speaking for who knows home long. 

I push the corner of my mouth into an obviously forced smile. “No problem.” 


I watch him make his way out through the side gate by the house out to his car and off to  wherever he lives.I told myself I’d go to my room. Instead my feet took me to the barn. Sure, I obviously didnt want to, but it was almost like i needed to. Like i wasn’t controlling my own body and someone or something else took the wheel. 


I poke my head and find myself alone, thank _god._ Yesterday, Josephine showed me around the barn in more detail.. Most  of the animals on the ranch were left unnamed, thankfully, but the horses weren’t.


If i remembered right, 7 rabbits, 11 pigs, 2 goats, and countless chickens and cattle. 

As i neared the stable section of te barn i could already smell it. Chickens and _Daniel_ were my usual ‘most hated animal’ my whole childhood, but thats because i never had to clean out a stall. 5 horses. 


A arabian horse named something stupid like Peach, Josephines personal horse. Wyatt’s Mustang named Canyon that could only be tamed by her firm hand. A foal on the older side, Peaches’ own. Weston’s painted horse named Dusty, and a pregnant Appaloosa named Sunset.


“Sunset was Sierra’s horse before she got pregnant.” Josephine had said, patting the resting mother. “Funny story, Sunset escaped, and we could find her for an entire week. Sierra was convinced the poor girl starved. Instead she came back knocked up.” 


Josephines chuckle rings in my head as i get to the stables and hear whinnies that sounded anything but happy. Almost pained. I run to the sound and saw Sunset laying on the floor. But Sunset was red as blood.


All the color drained from my face as i saw her clearly loosing blood. Way too quickly. It must be because of her pregnancy. But i didnt know one thing about horses, much less one giving birth. And the blood was spreading, to me and i felt my lefs feel too weak to hold my weight. I run to the barn door, knowing a conscious Haven is more help to a dying horse than one out cold lying in its blood. 


I swing the door open and find Aunt Clara in the kitchen making herself a bowl of fruit salad. 


“Haven?” Concern laced her voice as she sees my pale face. “What—“


“Its Sunset— she’s bleeding out.”


-blank.page

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