She didn’t want a cross. Not because she wasn’t a follower,
but because she didn’t want me to be able to find her again. She told me, as the
snakebite took her, that I was to bury her, and remember her in life, in love,
not like this, not now. She made me swear, on my soul, that I wouldn’t so much
as leave a rock overturned, that I’d just get back on the saddle and keep
riding, once I’d dug her deep enough to cover. I swore I would.
It was the only time I ever lied to her.
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