Jun 052012
Arthor: Paige Lee Elliston
Maggie tugged the heavy sheepskin coat around her body as she hustled from her house to the barn. There wasn’t much wind, but what breeze did exist had cruel, arctic arrogance that numbed her face and made her gloveless fingers tingle. Her western boots made the snow squeak as she walked on it, and the cold penetrated her jeans.
In spite of the temperature and the shiver that had already started her teeth clattering against one another, Maggie stopped ten or so yards from the barn and took in a deep breath. The air was achingly cold in her throat, in her lungs, but it was so pristine and so unsullied by civilization and its contaminants that it made her think of the air eight, ten, and more miles above the earth, where Rich flew—the foothills of outer space, as he called it.
She took another breath and looked to the sky. Stars were said to be much bigger in Montana than anywhere else—they gleamed and shimmered with a pure white radiance that was almost painful to the eye—and they seemed close enough for her to reach up and touch them.