Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
MELODY
S unlight threads through gauzy curtains, golden light spilling onto the delicate white lace comforter I snuggle under. Lilacs and roses wrap around me, soft, insistent. I hear a faint hum, again, still. Like the mountains speak.
I check my phone. No bars. The radio on the nightstand only gives off short static bursts. How do Grandma and Grandpa live like this?
Downstairs, the coffee maker sputters in sync with the beat of my heart.
The dark, rich smell of roasted beans brewing fills my nostrils as Grandma smiles broadly, carrying large stoneware mugs to the dining room table.
I sit down, press my palms against the wood, testing to see if it’s still vibrating.
“Something wrong?” Grandma asks.
I shake my head, chuckling to myself. My imagination’s running wild. I shouldn’t let it.
“You sleep okay?” she asks.
I yawn, rubbing my eyes. “Not at first. Mind kept wandering … until I forgot everything. After that, I slept like a baby.”
She fills chipped mugs with the steaming liquid, heads to the fridge to pull out a small stoneware crock.
“Homemade cream,” I exclaim, licking my lips.
“There’s lots more where that came from, so don’t even think about skimping.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I pour cream into my coffee, watching the swirl form the same pattern as the mark on his skin. The smell—vanilla and rain—rise like memory.
She sets a pile of thick, steaming slices of homemade bread on the table in front of me. Warm, comforting, slightly sweet with a rich mix of yeasty overtones and earthy grains. My mouth waters as I grab a slice, dive into the butter container and jam jar, painting it yellow, then ruby red.
Maveryk last night, licking his finger . My throat tightens at the memory, strange pull in my lower core. The kind that makes me feel ashamed and alive all at once.
“Now, there’s a mischievous smile,” she says.
I straighten, forcing my mouth to behave.
“What are you thinking about?”
I shake my head, shrugging.
“If I had to bet, you’ve got a man on your mind.”
“Only boys in college,” I counter. “Big babies, most of them. More interested in beer and video games than women.”
But they’re not who I’m thinking of, mind bending around the figure of a towering man, every inch pure muscle and strength. Eyes like an alpine lake, straight nose, well-proportioned features, achingly handsome face punctuated by a cleft in his robust, square-cut chin.
Grandma takes a seat, resting her chin on her hand. “Don’t make men like they used to.” Ambivalence edges her words.
“That a good or a bad thing?” I huff a laugh.
“Depends on who you ask.”
I nod, savoring the crunchy crust and impossibly soft, spongy center, like cake. The jam is tart with a nice bite, wild as the strawberries harvested to make it.
“Air’s heavy today. Storm coming,” Grandma says, eyeing me affectionately. “Better make use of the sunlight and clear skies while you can.”
I nod, mind racing ahead to a day spent writing and reconnecting with the land.
“You know, your great-great-grandma told stories about the Starborn Range,” Grandma says, voice soft as old linen.
“Said the mountains used to sing before the storms, and that the songs weren’t just thunder—they were voices calling home.
She claimed our people—back when we were still split between the Paiute hills and the railroad camps—helped a few travelers cast down from the mountains.
Half-dead, half-fire, but human enough to love.
Nobody believed her, of course. Just a tale for long winters. ”
I wave away the silly myth. “Human enough? Maybe I’ve been asking for too much from potential boyfriends.”
She chuckles. “Better than immature boys playing computer games. Maybe?”
“I’ll let you know if a guy ever falls out of heaven for me.” I take another slice of bread, add more butter and jam.
Grandma watches with delight as I eat, like every bite makes her happy. “What are they feeding you back at the college? Anything healthy?”
“Nothing like this,” I say between mouthfuls of bread and coffee. “The cafeteria’s filled with mostly stale stuff, processed foods.”
“Like the grocery. That’s why I’d rather produce or make it myself.”
I nod, looking around the neat kitchen. Sparkling canning jars in one corner. A butter churn in another. Everything neat, clean, and simple. A part of me longs for this kind of peace, just focusing on the day-to-day.
Not thinking about college finals, student loans, whether to go on to graduate school. If any of my hard work will ever pay off? Grandma knows her hard work pays off. She tastes it every day. I lick a crumb from my thumb.
“Can I help with the dishes? Anything else?”
“Oh, my no,” she says, shaking her head. “Go enjoy the sun and warm weather while you can. Won’t last long.”
Outside, notebook in one hand, metal bucket in another, I soak in the atmosphere of this place.
Off in the distance, Mt. Whitney looms rugged, snowcapped, bare, tree-free at the top.
People climb it. I have friends who’ve made the summit.
Still can’t fathom how when the top looks dangerous as cathedral spires, sharp as dragon’s teeth.
I sit in the north pasture for a long moment. Describe a murder of crows flying overhead, a rush of inky feathers, loud squawks, and choreographed flight. In the distance, Grandpa’s horses sprint. Their feet prance, heads arch imperiously when the wind rises, distant clouds drawing closer.
I pull up the collar of my lightwash jean jacket, jotting notes, daydreaming, thinking about the one thing I shouldn’t.
A tanned, muscular man in the distance, bent over barbed wire, mending fences.
The sleeves of his gray button-down are rolled to the elbow, thick forearms straining, tattoos shadowed beneath skin.
My mind ticks back to last night. The way they glowed and pulsed beneath his shirt. Didn’t know blacklight ink could do that. Wonder what they must look like in a club.
I can’t think of any other reason he’d have them, though the thought of the grumpy cowboy rocking to the beat of a DJ makes me giggle until tears streak my cheeks.
He lifts his head, my laughter carried on the wind, jaw set, mouth somber. No DJ Guetta for this guy. He ticks his head back down, like every sound I make disturbs his silence. Like he can’t wait for me to leave.
The handle of the metal pail vibrates against my fingers as I walk, notebook tucked beneath my arm, sun warming my face. Here to recapture memories, see if they still taste as sweet.
At the ancient, sprawling blackberry bushes, I pick the large, juicy berries. Pop one into my mouth, savoring the sugary tartness. Still as good, warmed by the sun, despite the passage of time. Maybe you can fall back into some memories.
I see myself at twelve, ebony locks flying in the breeze, arms spread, fingers touching the heads of the heavy-laden grass as I ran through the pasture with the milking cows.
I used to swear I could hear it sing. Now, it’s every facet of this place, every hidden landscape and feature.
But even more than that, it’s the man who greets me with frowns and silence.
My eyes wash over his thick build again. Can’t help myself. Golden brown skin, burnished copper hair. He shouldn’t look this good in daylight. Or at all.
Suddenly, he jumps to his feet, removes his hat, and sweeps it my direction, waving me over. My throat tightens, heart stuttering. Half of me wants to run to him. The other half begs to run away.
But then, a bleating sound cracks the air. I spring into action.
“Poor baby,” I whisper, sprinting toward the sound. Maveryk vaults the fence, crossing the distance so we reach it at nearly the same moment—a calf tangled in barbed wire, panicked, crying for its mother.
“Hold him for me while I work?” he asks, turquoise eyes swirling. “Your hands are more gentle than mine.”
I nod, setting down the journal and bucket and kneeling in the sunbaked clay. He smells of cedar and smoke, the kind of scent that makes you think of danger and shelter in the same breath. My cheeks heat, breath mingling with his as he leans closer.
His hands work quickly and with precision, his voice calm as he croons gently to the baby. No matter what this big, gruff cowboy might say, he’s got a tender side. One that steals my breath and makes my heart race.
His fingers brush my forearm, electricity sparking between us. I gasp, feeling fire trails roam up and down the flesh. His jaw tightens until I can hear his teeth grinding, eyes narrow with concentration.
And that’s when it starts again, the steady pulsing of the tattoos peeking out beneath the cuffs of his sleeves.
I try not to notice, biting my bottom lip, holding my breath, noticing that the more he concentrates on the calf, the more they glow.
A low hum accompanies the pulses, like runes dancing over flesh.
Piercing through the grime—heat meeting oncoming rain-light.
Thunder rolls distant, echoed in the storm of his eyes. Our arms brush again, barbed wire singing between us as he hesitates for one brief second, then pulls back like I’ve stung him.
My stomach knots, stuck somewhere between awkwardness and rejection.
Though why I’d want the old grumpy neighbor makes about as much sense as the persistent vibration beneath the soil.
In his haste, his skin snags along a rusty barb, digging deep.
Blood spills, darkish blue mixed with red, and a strange tinge of silver shimmer that matches the iridescence of his ink.
He grunts, his other hand going to the laceration as blood spills between fingers. A moment’s hesitation. Then, back to work.
The calf doesn’t bolt when the barbed wire snaps.
It just crumples, sides heaving, one leg bleeding dark and quick.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Maveryk mutters.
He lifts it like it weighs nothing, murmuring something low that feels older than the mountains. “Thank you for your help.”