Chapter 37
The barn looms at the edge of the property, half in shadow, the doors bowed inward and chained with a rusted loop that isn’t actually locked. I pull it loose and push one side open. It groans in protest, dust spiraling through the air like the ghost inside have woken up.
The smell hits me first—old hay, oil, and the faint sweetness of leather long since dried out. The light filters through the cracks in the boards, cutting the space into strips of gold and shadow.
It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. Then I see them.
Boxes.
They are stacked in the far corner beside an old saddle stand and a broken radio, all labeled in my grandmother’s neat handwriting. Sadie.
My knees feel weak as I cross the barn, stepping over a coil of rope and the bones of a bird that didn’t find its way out. The air is thick, unmoving. I kneel, brush the fust from the top box, and pull it open.
The first thing I see is fabric—folded dresses, faded and delicate. One slips through my fingers, soft and weightless. It smells faintly of something floral and sweet. That same perfume she used to wear, the one that made her room smell like spring no matter the season.
Beneath the clothes are notebooks. I lift one out carefully. The cover is cracked, the edges soft with age. When I open it, I expect words—confessions, something to explain her. But it’s only sketches. Horses, wild and imperfect. Few faces. One man drawn over and over again.
I trace the last one with my thumb.
John.
Then I find the photographs.
Dozens of them, tossed in a shoe box, some curled at the edges.
My mother as a teenager, leaning against a fence, hair tangled, smile too wide.
In one, she’s laughing at something out of frame.
In another, she is standing beside John.
He’s. younger, sharper, his arm slung carelessly over her shoulders.
There’s something intimate in the way she is looking at him. But there is nothing like that with him. He’s staring at her like a sister. A friend.
My breath catches.
I dig deeper. Another photo—her in a pale dress, barefoot in the pasture, holding a wildflower. The same sky stretched behind her that I can see now through the barn window.
She looks happy. Whole.
This woman is a mystery to me.
A stranger.
Underneath the photos is a small tin bod, the kind used for keepsakes. It’s dented, the latch stiff with rust. I pry it open, heart pounding.
Inside: a few folded notes tied with blue ribbon, a pair of earrings, and a silver lighter engraved with initials.
J.D.
I run my thumb over the letters.
John Denver.
My throat tightens. I picture my biological father—the man who can barely look at me without flinching—and I can’t reconcile him with this. The boy in the photos who smiled like the world hadn’t broken him yet.
I take one of the letters from the tin. The paper is thin, the handwriting looping and familiar. I read the first few lines before my vision blurs.
Emma,
I said you were too young to understand, but you do.
You’ve always understood me. The way you stare at me, like I am something you should want, like you can’t fathom how much I love and you’ll hate yourself for loving me.
But I will always be with you. No one can take away what we have.
No matter who your parents are or where you are from.
You will always be mine.
John.
I drop the letter like it burns.
It lands beside a small music box. The kind with a tiny crank o the side. I wind it without thinking.
The melody is soft, fractured from age, notes stuttering in the still air. The same lullaby she used to hum when storms shook the windows.
Something cracks inside of me.
I sit there on the dirt floor surrounded by her things, the ghosts of her choices pressing in on me from every direction. The sketches. The perfume. The letter. The lighter. The proof she was more than everyone says—and maybe worse than I ever wanted to believe.
The air grows heavier, hotter. Dust clings to my skin. The music box winds down, the last note lingering in the air until it fades completely.
When I finally stand, my legs tremble. I pack the items back carefully, though my hands are shaking. The photo of her and John ends up on top. Her smile feels like a lie now. Or maybe a warning.
I close the box, something on the bottom catching my eyes.
More initials.
E.B.
Emma? The one from the letter? Why would my mother have these?
Shaking off the grim feeling settling over me, I set the box aside and look around the barn again.
A newspaper article catches my attention.
Emma Barrington, prominent wife of John Denver dies in fiery blaze.
God.
E.B.
Emma Barrington. Pace and Lee’s mother. John’s wife that died before I was born. This must have been devastating for him.
Another newspaper article is pinned to it. An obituary, detailing the funeral for her.
Why did my mother have these? Did she have something to do with Emma’s death? Is that why John won’t speak about her? Why the town hates her?
The silence is louder now.
Above me, sunlight filters through a crack in the roof, hitting a stack of saddles and an old denim jacket hanging from a peg. I walk toward it, drawn my something I can’t name. The jacket is stiff with dust, the stitching along the color faint but visible.
It carries John’s initials.
My pulse stutters. I slip my fingers under the collar and pull it down. The scent that rises is faint. Smoke, leather, the ghost of cologne. I dig into the pockets and find another photograph. This one is different from the rest.
John has his arms wrapped around a woman that looks a lot like Pace and Lee. The same dark hair and piercing eyes. The same wide smile. They look happy. In love.
I flip the photo around.
Emma and John.
Summer Field Day.
This must be the boy’s mom. John’s first wife. The one that died in the car accident.
Placing the picture back in the pocket, I left the jacket and add it to the pile.
I leave the barn slower than I came in, my body heavy, the air outside blindingly bright. The door creaks shut behind me, the chain rattling against the wood like it is sealing something in.
I can see movement on the porch, behind the curtains of the house—a flicker of someone watching. June, maybe. Or Clyde.
But they don’t come out.
They don’t need to. They know what I found.
I walk back to the truck in silence, gripping the photo and the lighter so tightly my knuckles ache. The horizon blurs under the heat, the road stretching out in front of me like a dare.
I don’t look back.
Not at the house.
Not at the barn.
Not at the ghosts that live there.
But as I drive away, dust curling up in the rearview mirror, I swear I can still hear the faint, broken hum of that lullaby following me all the way down the road.
A lullaby my mother stole.