Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
JOSEPHINE
Dusk settles in. A cool bite edges the evening air. Crickets and cicadas call, frantic for summer mates.
I peek through my curtains again, eyes taking in the sweep of the ranch—everything in view owned by my grandparents and Ash.
The sky has turned the color of old bruises. But the Starborn Range holds the light too long, as if it isn’t ready to give it back.
I head downstairs, offering a hand and working shoulder to shoulder next to Grandma, humming along to the radio as we relax into a slow, steady conversation.
Relearning each other. Testing what still holds.
She wants to hear everything about my graduation and acceptance to a PhD program, my roommates, and 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 that Buster, their Australian Shepherd, is long gone.
The table creaks beneath simple fare as we pile it with comfort food. Ribs, mashed potatoes, green beans, cornbread, corn on the cob.
My stomach rumbles.
Then I side-eye a white Stetson, a large man looming in the entryway, filling it, and appraising me.
My throat tightens. I forgot the scale of him.
The realization vibrates through me like his turquoise eyes that stare a touch too long. His face is clean-shaven, unlike earlier when a five o’clock shadow felted his cheeks.
He wears fitted Wranglers and a black, button-down Western shirt with pearl buttons and tiny white flowers.
The cotton hugs his muscles, as does the denim. The shine of a silver belt buckle catches my eye, engraved with something indecipherable.
I want to ask about it. But I look away, unwilling to be caught looking below the belt. He smells of oiled leather, sandalwood, and pine.
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 once.
“Where in the world did you get that?”
“Rachel.” Not a person, a town.
“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. I don’t know why.
“Talk outside,” he mutters—not at me. Instead, he saunters toward Grandpa.
He nods as Ash clamps a hand on his shoulder. “Call us when it’s time to eat.”
“Just a few more minutes,” Grandma says, surveying the table and cataloging what’s missing. “Pickles and jam.”
“Butter, too,” I add, trying to get my breath back under control.
What in the hell’s wrong with me?
I’ve known Ash for as long as I can remember visiting my grandparents’ house. There’s nothing new or special about him.
Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe like this land, this house, my grandparents, he feels like a comfortable thing. Maybe I’m mistaking ghosts for signposts.
Over dinner, Ash keeps his eyes averted. When I talk, he ignores me. When I ask questions, he responds stiltedly, like he can’t be bothered with answering.
And when his turquoise eyes briefly snap toward me, the warmth is gone, replaced by icy indifference.
I feel like an outsider, lost in their cordial conversation. Town gossip. Weather patterns. The small stuff that makes my absence achingly clear.
Until oddly, Ash levels his gaze on me. “How are you enjoying being back, Josephine?”
I laugh at his slow drawl and careful pronunciation.
“Just Jo now,” I correct. “Fewer syllables, less fuss.”
Grandma clears her throat, eyes sliding between us. Grandpa focuses on the food.
Ash takes another thick slice of homemade bread, slathers it in freshly churned butter and homemade strawberry jam.
My eyes linger on his fingers as he licks butter and jam away. Hands carved for work, yet with a dexterity I can only describe as graceful.
“Mind passing me the bread?” I ask, my eyes meeting his.
The air seems to stop, like my breath, as he stretches an arm. A vibration hums through the plate. Soft. Alive. My pulse jumps when his fingers brush mine.
I grab a slice of bread, then my butter knife, feeling the faint hum in the metal. It’s in the table, too, for one lingering second before it fades.
“Cattle ready to go up to the north pasture. How about yours?” Grandpa asks.
“Yep,” he murmurs, tearing his eyes from me. “Thinking about heading up early to hold up with them.”
“Fall and winter. Lonely season that’d be.”
Ash shrugs, looks everywhere but at me. “Lonely’s better.”
I half-listen to the discussion of cattle and brands, mended fences and spring inoculations. The conversation flows grumbly and male until Grandma smiles from ear-to-ear bragging, “Jo’s here to study rock art.”
“Petroglyph sequences,” I correct.
Ash’s fork pauses midair. “Sequences. What do you mean? Like language?” His tone is neutral but watchful, the question surprising even me.
“Language or proto-language,” I clarify. “Structured repetition implies communication intent.”
“Communication with who?”
There’s something guarded in the question.
Not curiosity. Concern.
I’ve seen that look before. Landowners who don’t want surveyors near property lines. Ranchers who stiffen at the word federal.
If cultural artifacts are documented on private land, there are reviews. Protections. Sometimes repatriation claims. Oversight. Regulation.
It’s clear. Ash doesn’t like the idea of academics crawling across the foothills and inviting paperwork into his life. Neither does Grandpa by the scrunch of his forehead.
The realization ignites my determination.
“Anyone,” I answer easily. “Themselves. Future generations. Us.”
He studies the table instead of me. That’s when it hits me again.
He doesn’t look older. He looks fixed.
He hasn’t aged. Not in any measurable way. Not like my grandparents and me.
Even under dining room light, his skin looks sun-worn but not time worn.
Statistically improbable.
Possible? Yes.
Probable? No.
I remind myself, there are explanations. There are always explanations.
“NAGPRA, right?” I snort to my mild mortification.
“Nag what?” he asks, brows furrowing.
Grandpa shifts in his chair.
“You’re worried about me finding something of Native origin. Something that might bring federal involvement… like remains.”
The blond cowboy runs a hand over his face as if he doesn’t get it.
Grandma blusters, “Enough talk from us girls. Hope you saved room for dessert?”
I work hard to stop my jaw from dropping. Us girls? I’ve been plopped down in the nineteen fifties.
Ash remains stiff through the rest of the meal, staring at the tablecloth.
At the first polite moment, he disappears outside with Grandpa. The voices fade, and soon all I hear is Grandpa’s snoring. I breathe a sigh of relief at the neighbor’s departure, though I can’t name why.
“Anything else I can help with?” I ask Grandma, leaning down to kiss her cheek.
“My, no. Thank you, dear…” Her eyes meet mine, face sheepish. “But I don’t know what got into you at the table. Implying Ash is hiding something or that—”
“I’m sorry,” I say, knowing she has a point. “I just get riled up when it comes to this project.”
She smiles thinly. “Always were singular minded with what you love. Now skedaddle. I can handle the rest from here.”
I nod, drawn outside to the porch. Can’t remember the last time I saw a pristine night sky.
I step off the stairs, tilting my head and hugging myself for warmth. The air has a bite, but it’s refreshing after the kitchen. Crickets and cicadas hum through the sagebrush.
The sky is enormous out here. Stars cut clean against the black.
Thunder rolls somewhere near the range, low and metallic. A localized storm cell.
Then I notice him. Ash stands near the railing. Too still.
“You planning to police the foothills all summer?” I ask.
“Planning to keep people safe.”
“I don’t need keeping.”
His eyes flick to mine. “I know.”
It almost sounds like respect. The warmth returns—faint, unsettling.
“You seemed pretty concerned about my research,” I say. “Worried I’ll stir up paperwork?”
His jaw tightens slightly. “That what you think?”
“Well.” I shrug. “Private land. Federal oversight. Happens all the time.”
He studies me in silence. Not defensive. Not guilty. Just… measuring.
“If you’re looking for trouble,” he says finally, “you won’t find it in the paperwork.”
That’s not the answer I expected.
“Then what?” I press.
His gaze shifts to the mountains. “You’ll see.”
Cryptic. Annoying.
Men who won’t answer direct questions irritate me on principle. He doesn’t say anything else. But I file it away.
Territorial rancher with a savior complex. Predictable. And safer than whatever else this could be.
That’s when my eyes snag on it. The faint glow, like moonlight hitting frost, beneath the cuff of one sleeve, where his skin is tattooed.
The breath hitches in my throat.
“What?” he asks.
“Your tattoo—”
He tugs distractedly at the sleeve. “People react different to storms.”
I grimace. What the hell? “If that’s static electricity, then I’m…” My words die on the air. I don’t know how to finish the sentence.
“Ever heard of black light ink?” he says too easily.
“Why cover it then?”
He looks away. “Because I don’t want everything I did in my twenties on full display.”
I bite my tongue, not wanting to point out he could still easily pass for his late twenties if he didn’t act so crotchety.
“Evening,” he grumbles unceremoniously, pushing off the fence post and sauntering away.
Later, I unpack my clothes, putting them in drawers and getting used to the faded wallpaper, the stuffed animals and dolls, the soft glow from the pink, flowery lamp.
I catch my reflection in the armoire’s mirror.
A black bob cut to the chin. Practical, neat, and easy to maintain.
Outside, the wind moves through electrical wires, humming a faint, familiar tone.
Lying in my childhood bed, I replay the evening.
The way he watched me when I mentioned pattern repetition. The way he avoided specifics. The way he hasn’t aged.
He probably thinks I’m another outsider with a clipboard. Another person trying to interpret land that feeds him.
That would explain the edge in his voice. And why he keeps telling me where I can and can’t go.
Territorial isn’t mysterious. It’s human nature. And human nature is manageable.
Still.
When I close my eyes, geometric sequences flicker behind my eyelids.
Repeating structures. Intentional spacing. Communication waiting to be decoded.
If something in these foothills is speaking, I’ll find its grammar.
A flash of light. Black light ink. Never would’ve guessed on him. But then, there’s very little I actually know about the neighbor.
Except this: if Ash tries to interfere with my research?
I smile faintly into the darkness.
He’s already underestimated me once today.
He won’t do it again.