Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
MELODY
T he wide, sun-bleached valley stretches to rugged mountains. Every scrap of flat land belongs to my grandparents or Maveryk. Heat curls low at thoughts of the rugged neighbor.
Never been into older men. Certainly, not that much older. Though the way he’s aged—not at all—is next level. He could pass for thirty, a really good thirty, serious zaddy material. The kind my roommates back at college would jump in a heartbeat.
Not for me, though. I’ve known him too long for thoughts like this to be anything but awkward.
I turn up the country music, singing along to Lainey Wilson’s “Wildflowers and Wild Horses.” I let the music sink in, feel it in my bones, eyes devouring the distant Starborn Range.
Always lush, pristine. Always sinister and foreboding.
The wind hums through the open window. Dust motes shimmer like static in a tempest.
Suddenly, white noise cuts through. Strange, distant sounds and crackles, like an unknown code. Then, back to the song, though more distant, hazy. Memory washes over me. Of Mom complaining, Never can get a good signal through here .
The distant dark clouds gather, menace. But they have nothing on the storm brewing inside. Haven’t seen my grandparents in nine years, thanks to my mom and stepdad. All over some stupid falling out.
For nine years, I’ve replayed that argument in my head, trying to fix it from a distance. Mom always told me Grandpa loved his land more than anything else, even family.
As much as I love her, I never saw it that way, though I stayed away to keep the peace. To me, Grandpa’s love of the land goes soul deep, an inextricable part of him. Something that should never be tested or used to strain a relationship. Because it’s a part of who he is down to his foundations.
I pass one of the RESTRICTED signs Mav referred to in his warning. It hits me like a change in air pressure, like an altitude shift. But the next second, I’m engrossed in thoughts of the neighbor again.
He warned me like I’d actually consider heading into those mountains. Like I don’t know better. Like I’m a stranger. The thought stings, but he isn’t wrong. It’s been too long.
“Mel’s coming home.” I test it as the old ranch appears in the distance, looming. Grandma stands on the porch, hands wrapped in a pastel apron covered in frills. It always smelled like cookies and felt soft as butter on my cheeks.
I pull up to the end of the drive and park.
Nothing is the same, and nothing’s changed.
Same porch, though a bit saggier. Same white paint with pale, gray-blue trim, though peeled in places now.
Woodsmoke curls from the chimney, tall lilac bushes burgeon with purple flowers, their sweet scent filling my nostrils.
The distant smell of butter and cornbread draw me up the stairs to Grandma.
I tower over her, voice thickening, as I wrap her in my arms. She looks frailer, hair more white than black these days. Back hunched, thinner, too, though her penetrating hazel eyes sparkle with the same stubborn warmth I remember from my youth. “Grandma,” I breathe, voice catching.
“Mel,” she whispers, clinging tighter, like she never plans on letting go. I don’t want her to.
The thunder of hooves makes me ease back. Grandpa dismounts slowly—muscles and bones aching and groaning. A spry man replaced by a slower version, though his build remains robust and rugged.
He joins the hug, the three of us embracing for a long time. I sniffle, bring up a hand to wipe my moist cheek. “Never knew so much time would pass after my last summer here. I’m sorry I stayed away for so long.”
Grandpa straightens tut-tuts like it’s nothing. Grandma apologizes back, the words sticking to her tongue. I can tell by the bewilderment in both of their faces they still don’t fully understand what happened. Neither do I.
My mind flashes back to sunny summers, hands trailing waist-high grass in the meadow where horses grazed. Picking sun-warmed blackberries and popping them into my mouth until my fingertips were blue and my lips purple. It almost feels like I could slip into it all over again.
Grandma still smells like her plants, lilacs and roses, Grandpa like old leather and earth. They squeeze me close as we walk through the front door, screen still squeaking, room still frozen in another time. All cowboy and Western art. No computers, cell phones, signs of digital life.
“How’s your mom?” Grandma asks kindly, but the question stings. Pissed I’m here . I keep the last part to myself, sour on my tongue.
“Fine.”
I must grimace, though, betray my thoughts in some small way because Grandma excuses, “She always had her own ways.”
Grandpa nods, the pain threading Grandma’s voice echoed in his face.
So much time lost. Lifetimes. The ache eclipses everything else, even the tap, tap of my heart against my ribs at the sight of Mav, like some cowboy hero out of a Hollywood Western.
“Well?” Grandma asks, leaning her head back to eye Grandpa.
“The usual,” he chuckles. “Had to talk Mav into it. Mel helped.”
“We’ll be prepared, then,” she says with a nod. “How about the ranch hands?”
He shakes his head. “Not on a Friday. They’ll be in town getting into trouble at the tavern more than likely.”
The words surprise me. Grandpa used to run such a tight ship as ranch foreman. Can’t imagine the men carousing in town.
“What’s the frown for, Mel?” he asks.
I shake my head, trying to put what I feel into words. “Just trying to wrap my head around all the ways this place has changed and stayed the same. It’s a lot to take in.”
Grandma nods, reaching up to take my jacket. “Martin, can you show her to her room. Make sure she’s comfortable?”
A huge smile captures my face as we climb the stairs, me carrying the lighter of the two bags.
Grandpa teeters slightly under the weight, though he hides it well.
It’s going to take a while to get used to these changes.
He breathes heavier than I remember, too. A man who never used to getting winded.
The bedroom door opens; the air shifts, transporting me back in time.
My stuffed bear slumps against the pillow like he’s been waiting. The air smells faintly of flowers and dust.
Everything exactly as I left it nine years ago. I clutch my chest, take it in for a moment, breathing through my mouth, trying to hold back tears. I resort to fanning my face to keep the water pooling in my eyes from crossing over my bottom lashes.
“You okay, girl?” Grandpa asks, half amused, half moved.
“Yeah, just remembering.”
“Hope it feels like home.”
I nod. “One hundred percent.”
He sets down my bag by the bed covered in a white, lacy bedspread. My eyes flick to the large window, gauzy, white curtains shrouding the thick, time-warped glass. Off in the distance, I catch a hint of motion. A brown and white blur. Maveryk. My core tightens, heart racing.
“I’ll leave you alone to settle in,” Grandpa says. “Towels in the bathroom. Soaps, shampoos, lotions, all the stuff your grandma likes to buy at the Dollar General.” I smile faintly. Some things never change.
He shuts the door behind me, and I cross to the window, inching back the curtains and looking out at the man darting across a burnt sienna expanse of silvery sage. More like a vibration than a sight, like I can feel him in my bones.
Must be the wildness of this place. The memories reconstructed before my eyes, with a duller sheen.
All except for the ageless, timeless neighbor.
Dusk settles in, a cool bite to the evening air as crickets chirp outside, frantic for late-fall mates. I work shoulder to shoulder next to Grandma, humming along with a CD as we relax into a slow, steady conversation. Relearning each other, finding out what really matters never changed at all.
She wants to hear everything about my journalism degree, my roommates, the boys I have or haven’t dated. I tell her fifty percent, the tables now reversed. Once she shielded me from the world, now I return the favor.
The porch door squeaks, and I brace for the sound of barking.
It takes a moment to remind myself, Buster, their Australian Shepherd, is long gone.
The table creaks beneath simple fare as we make quick work of piling it high with comfort food.
My stomach rumbles, and my eyes catch a white Stetson, large man looming in the entryway, filling it, appraising me.
My throat tightens. I forgot how broad his shoulders are, how commanding his presence. Like it vibrates through me, turquoise eyes cutting clean. His face is cleanshaven, unlike earlier when a five o’clock shadow felted his cheeks.
He stands cornstalk straight, in fitted, worn Wranglers and a black, button-down Western shirt with pearl buttons and tiny white flowers. The cotton hugs his muscles, so does the denim. The shine of a silver belt buckle catches my eye, engraved with something ancient, indecipherable.
I want to ask about it. But I look away, unwilling to be caught staring below the belt. His boots smell like oiled leather, sandalwood and pine conspiring to make my flesh simmer.
Then, I catch the floral print, drawing closer until a laugh breaks clear like a pealing bell. He eyes me awkwardly.
“Not flowers,” I say, pointing at his shirt. “Tiny UFOs.”
He nods, matter-of-fact.
“Where in the world did you get that?”
“Rachel … Nevada.”
“Should’ve guessed. Extraterrestrial Highway.”
His lips draw thin. “Something like that.”
Grandma steps closer, inspecting his shirt with a chuckle. But his eyes slide past her, settling on me. My pulse quickens, breath catching in my throat. Then, he looks away, walking toward Grandpa. “Talk outside,” he mutters.
He nods as Mav clamps a hand on his shoulder. “Call us when it’s time to eat.”
“Just a few more minutes,” Grandma says, surveying the table, cataloging what’s missing. “Pickles and jam.”
“Butter, too,” I add, trying to get my heart back under control. What in the hell’s wrong with me?