Tattooed Cowboy (Dirty Cowboys #15)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

MAVERYK

H eat, sound, and light are all the same language—the universe speaking love back to itself. Out here, you can almost hear it.

Most folks don’t, though. Just the wind or the buzz of a fence line. But I was born listening.

The sun’s rays strike the distant Starborn Range, and my skin hums faintly.

Martin Thunderhawk shifts in the saddle, like his ears strain to catch it. The sound of wind through electrical wires. His wizened face, topped by a thick head of long black hair threaded with gray, cocks to one side.

The saddle creaks beneath me, leather hot from the sun, reins rough in my palm. Sweat and sage dust the air—ordinary things anchoring the extraordinary.

“The Mark of Regret’s acting up,” I mutter under my breath, like an apology, button-down shirt and tan duster guarding against the secret.

The tattoos beneath my skin pulse once—faint, silver-blue, like lightning trapped under flesh. I tug my sleeve lower before Martin notices.

The mark hums hotter near the mountains—or certain people; I’ve never figured out which is worse. Last time it flared, I nearly fried a man’s thoughts clean out of him. He lived but the memories didn’t.

Most days, I don’t think about it. You can get used to anything, even the parts that don’t make sense.

My neighbor doesn’t hear my words, or if he does, no questions follow. He’s always had a way of pretending not to notice the strange—lights in the hills, the way my blood hums when the wind shifts. Maybe he remembers more than he admits.

He removes his brown Stetson, rubs the back of his hand across his forehead, beaming, “Granddaughter coming home from college today. Should be here any time now.” He eyes the distant mountains drenched in mist and velvety, emerald darkness despite the bright midday sun.

I grunt, eyes sliding like his toward the range where mysteries linger. Stories of cryptids—the Witch-Bird, Bigfoot—disembodied voices, disappearing hikers, strange sightings of light and aircraft. Have to assume at least some of it’s bullshit. Question is: How much?

The menacing red and white government signs proclaim:

RESTRICTED

STARBORN RANGE

No Trespassing Beyond This Point

Photography Is Prohibited

Use of Deadly Force Authorized

I’ve made target practice of a number of them. My way of resisting whatever the fuck the government’s got going on up there. Of laying waste to a past that needs to be buried. At all cost.

The metal sings when the bullets hit. Always has. I tell myself it’s just echo, but the sound crawls under my skin long after the smoke clears.

“Must be proud,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and glancing his direction.

He shrugs. “Journalism major. Pricy education, more than likely small payoff. But her parents are … dreamers.”

He means to say difficult. Heard a lot about them over the years, their estranged relationship, too. Why this visit from his granddaughter means so much to the old man. It’s been years. “Always money to be made with hard work, the sweat of your brow.”

“Wish she saw things that way.”

I huff like a laugh. “Maybe you’ll get lucky. The girl will settle down with some local buckaroo, become a rancher’s wife.”

He replaces his hat, chuckles like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Her grandma would be the first to tell her to stay away from cowboys.”

I nod. “Wildbloods. No good, either.”

In the distance, a thin dust line rises like a pale ribbon against the sage-lined valley, towering purple Sierra Nevada mountains rising behind.

Winnie, the compact Quarter horse I ride, snickers, shifts her weight, tail swishing. Wind picks up slightly, parching the air, putting dirt in my throat as we watch the dusty line transform from abstraction into a silver VW GTI.

“Speak of the devil. She’s home,” he says with a hearty laugh. I nudge Winnie forward.

“Where you headed?” he asks.

“Chores to do.”

“But don’t you want to see Mel again? It’s been ages.”

I grimace. “Don’t want to infringe on a family gathering.”

“We’ve been neighbors long as I can remember.” He goes silent, brow furrowing. “Though have to say you’ve held up a might better than me.”

“Good genes,” I growl, a running joke. Five generations of centenarians before me—some well beyond that. Maybe this land preserves its own. Maybe it doesn’t like letting go of what’s born from it.

“Old blood, old ways. Some folks just come from stranger stock.”

“Stranger, huh?”

“Strange not strange? Who am I to say? All I know is if you hadn’t happened upon me that afternoon when I slept against the boulder and a mountain lion snuck up, I’d have died for sure. And not in a nice way.”

I nod, jaw tightening. His words tease the unspoken rule I’ve come to count on with him. Live and let live.

“You’re invited for dinner tonight,” he calls after me as I steer Winnie away from the car closing in fast now. “Much appreciated. Likely won’t be able to make it.”

“The wife won’t forgive you.” Wouldn’t be the first time he’s told me that either. June always does.

“Up to my neck in chores,” I grumble, wheeling my mount back around.

I nod toward the distant range, the swirling mist of the peaks which somehow echo in my veins, cut deep into the marrow of my bones. Always been this way when the weather’s just right, though I can’t explain it. “Tell that granddaughter of yours to stay clear of the mountains.”

“Tell her yourself,” Martin quips, the car pulling up next to her grandfather on the other side of the fence line.

I’m ready to bolt, disappear against the noon horizon when the tinted window rolls down, and I’m stuck in my spot.

“Grandpa!” the young woman screams, enthusiasm threading her voice. It’s lower now, the voice of a woman, not a little girl. “And Maveryk,” she adds, eyes flicking to my face. Her cheeks flush.

The air doesn’t just shimmer—it sings. The same note I’ve heard in my sleep since I was a boy. The one the old Wildblood stories warned about.

Winnie steps forward, closing the distance to Martin. Not sure why, but I feel pinned to the saddle, staring at the stunning arrival.

Her hair is black enough to catch the blue of twilight. Her eyes, a rare shade of hazel-green painted with storms. A ray of sunlight illuminates a single streak of red-gold flared in the dark strands—mountain light remembering fire.

Mel, I think—then the air vibrates, her laughter catches light— no.

“Melody.” I nod, corners of my mouth dropping.

My pulse pounds as I eye her, noticing the thin silver bracelet. Family heirloom. Martin once said the pendant came from her great-grandmother, carved from elk bone mixed with meteorite. I never believed him. Now, I’m not so sure.

The scent of wild sage and honey drift as she leans forward, taking me in. Her voice carries the same timbre as the humming range beyond the fences, low, melodic, too steady for coincidence. Some frequencies echo in bone. Hers finds mine. Like an old chord finally struck true.

“It’s been forever!” She hesitates, then exclaims, “Let’s see here.” She taps a dainty finger against her chin as my throat tightens.

The smell of her, the look of her, the beat of her heart. A cinnamon smattering of freckles dusts her nose and cheeks like constellations. I long to trace them with my tongue.

My skin crackles now where it meets my mark, burns, as if the mountains and this woman conspire to torch me from the inside out. For an instant, I smell rain on iron, like truth trying to crawl back.

I tell myself it’s nothing. Just nerves, memory, sunlight on metal. But my pulse knows better.

My grandfather’s words rush back over me, so many warnings, like breathing could be dangerous. The mountain steals thoughts.

“Twelve!” she exclaims. “I was twelve the last time I saw you.”

I nod, try to keep it together. More of my grandfather’s words slam into me. Never let them know. I remove my white hat, run my hand through my hair, never meeting her gaze. “Yep, been a minute.”

She shakes her head, eyes narrowing. “But you … you haven’t changed one bit. It’s downright uncanny.”

“Now, Mel,” Martin scolds. “You know how Mav’s people are. Don’t age much, don’t talk much, but they work like the devil’s on their heels.”

My eyes find hers again. Pure electricity. Strange impressions wash over me. Like they’re not my own. A sprawling green campus, students with backpacks reclining on the lawn.

“Tell her yourself,” Martin repeats.

Melody’s forehead knits, a contagious smile on her lips. “Tell me what?”

“What you already know,” I drawl, looking off into the distance. “What I tell anyone passing through,” I emphasize the last part, reminding myself that her visit is only temporary. “Stay off the government land. Nothing good comes from going up there.”

“But I’m planning on an extended photo essay of the range. Backpacking there for at least a week.”

My jaw drops.

She giggles, waves away my words. “Just joking. This place is my home, too. I already know what to avoid.”

“Alright then," I say, pressing my knees into Winnie’s sides, urging her away.

Melody calls after me. “You are coming for dinner tonight, right, Mav?”

I shouldn’t look back. I never do. But the sound of my name on her lips drags me down like gravity itself.

My eyes lock with hers. Pricks of electricity sting the air. They sizzle against my skin, ignite the air until I gasp for a lungful. I open my mouth to refuse. But another look at her face, her warm eyes, and I’m a goner.

The sun hits her skin, waking the gold in it. Hinting at Paiute sun and something older still. Her complexion carries the color of the high desert—dust and starlight in her veins.

“Sure thing,” I say, tilting the brim of my hat. For heaven’s sake. What in the hell am I doing?

The clouds hang lower over the Starborn Range, like they’re listening. Even the wind changes key when it crosses that boundary.

This time, I ride away. From her, from the mountains, hellbent on putting distance between me and the things making my soul vibrate.

But some distances aren’t meant to hold.