The Beaver rolled the stained wine cork between his gnarled fingers and lowered himself back into the pile of old blankets and worn leather. “Quite a night,” he rasped softly. He rolled on to his side with a grunt of pain and sighed.
“Are you okay old friend?”
For the hundredth time since the Beaver had returned to the farm he smiled and congratulated himself. Best damn decision he ever made. He turned his head to smile at the most beautiful woman in the world tending a fresh batch of biscuits at the stove and shared the smile with her. Seeing his smile she gave him one back in return and continued transferring his steaming hot breakfast to the cooling rack. Yes, it was good to be back.