How excited Abigail had been as she headed west on the stagecoach that would take her to Nebraska where her husband was eagerly waiting, having built her a sod house on their new homestead. Being born and raised in the East on heavily wooded acres laced with fast-flowing streams, she had no idea that a place could be so desolate. The nearest neighbors lived eight miles away, and she rarely had the company of other womenfolk, except on Sundays when they took the horse-drawn buggy to church in town. Life was hard on the open prairie but Abigail learned to make the best of it, and as time went on four children were born. All did well except for little Emily whose tiny grave Abigail covered with bright flowers grown from seeds that her mother sent her from back home.
I'm linking up with Lillie McFerrin's Five Sentence Fiction
where the writing prompt this week is "desolate"