PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
‘How much fodder do we have?’
Tess stared out across the field where Samson and the other horses were gathered round the hay, hardly visible in the speckled wall of falling snow. The Shire horse’s hips were bony angles, his head low, though he didn’t eat. The sight caused a sharp pain in the centre of her chest.
Sam rubbed his stubbled chin with his thumb. ‘A week. Maybe ten days.’ He gazed up at the dense grey sky. ‘If the thaw doesn’t start soon …’
She nodded, pulling her shawl tight about her, the snow feeling heavy on her shoulders.