Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
JOSEPHINE
The valley looks smaller than I remember.
Not less beautiful. Just… measurable.
I roll the window down and let the dry air push through the car. Sage. Dust. Sun-baked fence posts. The kind of place people call empty because they don’t know how to read it.
Most of Nevada is public land. Restricted land. Posted land.
The Starborn Range sits to the west, darker than it should be for midday. It’s always been like that. When I was little, I assumed it was proof of some unknown malevolence. Like the shadow under the bed or behind the closet door.
As an adult, I blame elevation shifts. Wind shear. Storm systems trapped by geography.
There are explanations for most things.
I pass one of the red-and-white government signs Ash warned me about. Deadly force authorized.
It should bother me more than it does.
But Nevada is full of that sort of signage. Cold War leftovers. Military testing zones. Area 51 mythology recycled for tourists.
Most of them are old… and theater.
People whisper about the mountains as if they’re haunted. People whisper about everything out here.
I don’t do whispers.
I do patterns.
Anomalous petroglyph clusters have been documented along the lower foothills for decades. Repeating geometric sequences that don’t align cleanly with known regional symbol systems. They aren’t decorative. They aren’t random.
They repeat.
Repetition implies intent. Intent implies language. Language implies meaning. That’s enough to anchor a dissertation.
The ranch comes into view, white paint peeling a little more than I remember, lilacs heavy with bloom.
Twelve years is a long time. Long enough to rehearse apologies.
In the distance, I see her. Grandma’s already on the porch waiting. But first, I stop in front of Grandpa and the neighbor. I barely get the car into park before I’m out, smiling like everything that happened before no longer matters.
“Grandpa.” It comes out before I mean for it to.
He’s older. Still solid. Still stubborn.
The saddle creaks, and he looks half-tempted to dismount, but barbed wire still separates us.
Time leaves fingerprints.
Not for Ash, though.
I notice him across the fence line before I consciously decide to look.
Same posture. Same shoulders. Same turquoise eyes that don’t quite fit the rest of him.
More than a decade. He should look different. But he doesn’t.
“You haven’t changed,” I say.
He gives me that infuriating half-answer about time moving differently out here.
That’s not how that works.
He studies me like I’m the anomaly. It irritates me more than it should.
The fence between us feels deliberate. He tells me to stay off the upper ridges. Not casually or neighborly. But like a command.
I bristle.
“I’m not planning on hiking into restricted territory,” I say lightly.
He doesn’t look convinced.
A faint warmth creeps up my arms—probably sun exposure. Probably nerves. Probably the long drive.
I ignore it.
He agrees to dinner. I pretend that doesn’t register. But it does.
Then, Grandpa bids me continue to the house.
I sing along to Lainey Wilson’s “Wildflowers and Wild Horses,” letting the music sink into my bones.
My eyes drift to the Starborn Range. Lush. Darker than it should be.
The wind hums through the open window. Dust motes shimmer in the light.
White noise crackles over the radio, then clears. Then, back to the song, though more distant, hazy.
Memory washes over me of Mom complaining, Never can get a good signal through here. Not much she liked about this place.
Distant clouds build over the range, but I focus on the road.
I’ve replayed that argument in my head countless times, 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 isn’t a preference. It’s structure.
Mom never got that because she doesn’t understand singular commitment—obsession. But I do, though I channel mine into finding patterns, decoding meaning, linguistics in symbol and rock.
Another part of the reason I’m here.
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 driveway and park. Nothing is the same, and nothing’s changed.
Same porch, though a bit saggier. Same white paint with pale, gray-blue trim, peeling in places now.
Wood smoke curls from the chimney. Tall lilac bushes burgeon with purple flowers, their saccharine sweetness 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 blonde 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.
“Jo,” she whispers, clinging tighter, as if she never plans on letting go. I don’t want her to.
The thunder of hooves makes me ease back. Grandpa dismounts slowly, his muscles and bones visibly 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, bringing up a hand to wipe my moist cheeks.
“I never thought 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 on both of their faces that 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.
Eating blackberries until my tongue turned blue.
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, the screen still squeaking, room still frozen in another time.
All cowboy and Western art. No computers, cell phones, or signs of digital life.
“How’s your mother?” 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, 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.
The ache eclipses everything else—even the tap of my heart when I catch sight of Ash off in the distance.
“Well?” Grandma asks, leaning her head back to eye Grandpa.
“The usual,” he chuckles. “Had to talk Ash into it. Jo helped.”
I arch an eyebrow. Did I?
“We’ll be prepared, then,” she says with a nod.
“How about the ranch hands?” I ask.
They both look puzzled, exchanging glances.
Grandma says quietly, “It’s just Martin and Ash these days.”
Concern floods me, eyes darting to Grandpa.
He shrugs. “Smaller operation, Miranda. Told you we’ve got it covered.”
“But your herd and his?” I don’t mean to question, but—
“He’s a tremendous help. Worth more than ten ranch hands. Tireless.”
I shake my head.
Grandpa raises an eyebrow.
I say, “I’m just trying to wrap my head around all the ways this place has changed and stayed the same.”
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. He breathes heavier than I remember, too. A man who never used to get winded. But when I ask to swap bags, he refuses. Stubborn as always.
The bedroom door opens. The air shifts, transporting me back in time.
My stuffed bear slumps against the pillow as if he’s been waiting. The air smells faintly of flowers and dust.
Everything exactly as I left it. I clutch my chest, taking it in for a moment. I breathe through my mouth, fighting back tears.
“You okay, girl?” Grandpa asks, half amused, half moved.
“Yeah, just remembering.”
“Hope it feels like home.”
I nod, eyes blurring.
He sets down my bag by the bed, covered in a white, lacy bedspread. My eyes go 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. Ash. 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.
I feel him before I fully see him. Must be the wildness of this place.
Ash rides across the pasture in the distance, controlled and steady. He moves like the land answers to him.
That’s not scientific.
Stop romanticizing geography, Jo.
Still, I hesitate for one breathless moment. Longer than I should.
I drop my field bag on the desk and pull out my notebook.
Focus. Foothill mapping grid. Cluster variance analysis.
If the geometric structures repeat beyond random probability thresholds, I can argue intentional syntax. Syntax implies communication. Communication implies agency.
Much better than focusing on handsome neighbors.
I work until my fingers hurt, rubbing the callus on my right hand where the pencil squeezes.
Not because I can’t do most of this on a laptop, but because I prefer old-fashioned.
Especially here.