The Horseman

His bunk was damn cold. The sheets crackled with frost as he hunkered down between them. The old tin lantern cast a sputtering light, enough to read by if he squinted some. The brazen words of William Blake drew him into the poem but did not take his mind from her.

He could see the light of her bedroom window, if he leaned to the left and craned his neck just right. The ranch house was dark except for one faint gleam in her window. A single candle, he wagered, flickering around her as she stood at the foot of her bed. He felt like a criminal watching her.

No decent man peered into a lady’s bedroom window, but he looked anyway. She’d left the curtains open, and he saw the graceful curve of her back as she stooped, folding something with care. The way she bent, elegant and slender, the perfect rounding of her spine elongated her neck and accentuated the alluring curve of her full breasts.

Desire pulsed through him like a whip’s lash. Fast. Unexpected. Fierce. The snap of it surprised him. He was rock hard, his long johns straining, suddenly tight at his groin as he leaned toward the small grubby window that gave him a view of hers.

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