Daisies and Lodges

He came back with a nice bunch of daisies and a straw hat.  Well, the daisies were nice at one point.  He had been gone for a while and picked them just before the long journey home.  They were old and wilted now, but he thought they had character.  He prayed more than anything that she’d like them.  Enough to forgive.  And forget.
           
She was standing at the porch about two hundred feet in the distance.  He stopped walking, but was too nervous to keep his legs from vibrating.  He lowered his straw hat, bringing it to his side.  He looked at the daisies.  Then at the woman.  With a click of his heel on the dirt path, he proceeded to the porch.
           
Her arms were folded.  She stared into his eyes, almost past them.
           
He came up to the first step of the stoop.  He gulped and held out the daisies.  He wanted to say “I’m sorry,” but couldn’t get the words out.  He settled on a soft glaze of humility spread over his face.
           
She reached for the flowers and watched as one slowly drooped over her hand.  “Where did you get these?”
           
“Outside,” he said, trembling.  “Outside the lodge.”
           
The woman pitched the flowers onto a nearby folding chair, its sides creaking near the patches of rust.  “You were with her, weren’t you?”
           
He looked at his feet, trying to exchange ‘humility’ for ‘pity.’  “I’m sorry.”
           
The woman turned away.  “Did you ride her?”
           
He nodded.
           
“Damn it!” she said.  “Ever since Biscuit died…”
           
“I know no horse could ever replace her…” he said.
           
She turned back to glare at him.  “Then why the hell do you keep trying?”
           
With that, she turned and entered the house, slamming the door behind her.  He looked at the stoop, then at the wilted daisies in the chair, and he left with a straw hat.