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afterwards that night was the standard by which all others were measured. And they always came up short. He'd taken me fast and hard the first time, as though he'd not been able to help himself, or control himself when he finally had me in his arms. The three times after that were more leisurely. His determination to taste every inch of me driving him on for hours, by the time we stopped, the sun cresting the horizon outside of his bedroom window, I was spent.
    I crawled out of bed while he slept - just as exhausted and sated as me - looked down at the ground for a moment and realised to my shock, that my heart was gone. No longer there. I knew I'd never feel the same way about someone else ever again.
    I'm not one to believe in love at first sight, and if I'm honest with Nick it was more lust at first sight that led me to his bed that night, but by the time I left it, there was no doubt I was in love. His laughter during sex, the way he said "fuck" when he came as though no one had ever made him orgasm so violently before. The way he worshipped my body with his, the soft words he murmured when we lay in each other's arms afterwards. His talk of all the places he wanted to visit, his assumption I'd be right there by his side. It was all words, designed to get me underneath him, or wrapped around him, or on top of him, again. But he'd treated me as though I was his angel, his own personal angel, that night. Someone to treasure and protect and keep forever.
    Even if I didn't believe him, he'd done enough to make me realise that was the type of man I wanted. Someone big and strong and sure of themselves. Someone with a sense of humour, a wicked laugh and a sexy grin. And ice-blue eyes. My perfect cowboy.
    I've never met a cowboy like him since and he didn't even wear a hat. But Nicholas Anscombe is cowboy through and through.
    But he's not my cowboy.
    I hated that he'd come back into my life so abruptly, right when I was down. Far from home and my support network. Suffering the last moments of an angry, hurtful man's life who despite never loving me, I loved back. I hated him for moving on to beautiful, charismatic, gorgeous Genevieve Cain. Who deserved a cowboy like Nick.
    And I hated myself for still loving him and knowing no man would ever reach the standard he had set. That beautiful night, so long ago.
    The sooner I returned the better, but despite Dad's declining appetite, despite his constant weight loss, he was still hanging on like clingfilm at a picnic.
    So I sang. The house and shed were still keeping me busy during the day, even though the garbage truck had taken a full load twice from the backyard. But the place was cleaner, there was more space and less things to do. Dad, although clearly fading, didn't require much more than cleaning up in the morning, feeding and showering during the day, and being tucked up in bed after his meds at night. It was exhausting work, but even that didn't stop me from singing.
    If I didn't have my MP3 player in my ears, singing along to a Country tune while I worked, I'd pull my guitar out and strum a few chords for Dad. Often he'd fall asleep on the couch listening to my music. I made sure to play him my original work. It's not that I was looking for his approval. But when he was gone, there'd be no other chance to show him what he'd had a part in creating. My father is a no-hoper, a skank-loving, trailer-trash of a Dad, but half of what makes me is from him. Before he dies, I want him to see what I have done with what he's given me. He may not have given me love or his time, but I did get my voice from him.
    On Wednesday afternoon, sitting in the week winter sun out in the backyard, I sang him my latest song. About a girl who left her hometown for the lights of the big smoke overseas, dreams on her mind, hope in her chest, but who inadvertently left her heart behind without even knowing it. Through the rough times of trying, the knock-backs and far few breaks, she never realised what