Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
JOSEPHINE
Sunlight threads through the curtains, spilling gold across the lace comforter.
Lilacs and roses wrap around me, soft and insistent.
I hear the faint hum of life outside. Songbird choruses, distant horses braying, the low rumble of cattle on the move.
I check my phone. A single bar flickers in, then out, like the valley’s teasing me. The radio on the nightstand only gives off short static bursts.
So annoying. I can’t remember the last time I had to walk around searching for a signal.
Downstairs, the coffee maker sputters, announcing the dark, rich smell of roasted beans.
Grandma smiles broadly, carrying large stoneware mugs to the dining room table.
I sit down, pressing my palms against the wood, steady and timeworn. And no longer vibrating like last night.
“Been in the family for generations,” she says, handing me a mug.
“I remember you telling me that before.”
“Just scold me if I repeat myself,” she teases. But there’s a strain in her voice when she adds too softly, “It’s been so long.” She catches herself before she says more, turning away and returning with the coffeepot.
“You sleep okay?” she asks.
I yawn, rubbing my eyes. “Not at first. My mind kept wandering… until I forgot everything. After that, I slept like a baby.”
She fills two more chipped mugs with the steaming liquid, then 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 it into my coffee, watching the swirl form the same pattern as the distant storm always sitting on the Starborns.
She sets a pile of thick, steaming slices of homemade bread on the table in front of me.
I grab a slice. Warm, comforting, slightly sweet with a rich mixture of yeasty overtones and earthy grains. Then, I snag the butter container and jam jar, painting it yellow and ruby red.
Ash 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. “Besides, I have bigger plans. Petroglyphs to record and catalog, research to dive into.”
“And the museum? Martin mentioned something about you working there, too?”
“Not working there but stopping in once a week or so. They’re facilitating my research paperwork and other documentation. And I’d like to dive into their oral records and historical document archives. Hopefully, they can help with what I’m doing.”
She smiles timidly like my answer is over her head. Her cheeks glow as she adds, “I’m just so proud of you. So smart.”
“Thank you, Grandma.”
That’s when it hits me again. Something she wouldn’t be proud of—me fawning over the neighbor.
Turquoise eyes. Straight nose, well-proportioned features. Achingly handsome face punctuated by a cleft in his square-cut chin.
Grandma takes a seat, resting her chin on her hand. “The boy part and college doesn’t surprise me. Don’t mean to sound cliched, but they 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. There’s a storm coming,” Grandma says, eyeing me affectionately. But I’ve already been here long enough to remember that’s every day around here. “Better make use of the sunlight and clear skies while you can.”
I nod, mind racing ahead to a day spent hiking and surveying landscapes. Mapping out artifact locations and getting a feel for the place.
Sunday. A good day for lazy work.
“Tomorrow I’ll head into the museum to make contact.” I’ve been corresponding with Debbie, the director, for months.
“Good,” Grandma says hopefully. “You’ll feel like you’re part of Raven’s Ridge before you know it.”
Outside, notebook in one hand, I soak in the atmosphere of this place. Off in the distance, Mt. Sawtooth looms, snow-stained in the creases.
People climb it. I have friends who’ve made the summit. I still can’t fathom how when the top looks as dangerous as cathedral spires, sharp as dragon’s teeth.
I sit in the front yard for a long moment, sketching a murder of crows. 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.
The minty sagebrush breaks as I walk, its medicinal scent perfuming the air. Last year’s yellowed cheat grass crunches underfoot until I reach the first outcropping of sun-blackened stones.
A part of me wants to dart in among the rocks, start exploring and touching.
But no. This needs to be done correctly. Disciplined. Acting from organized field protocol.
I pull out my phone and snap photos of the landscape feature, then pause, leaning against a nearby fence post, to make a quick sketch.
My heart hums, eyes straining as I finally climb among the weathered iconography.
The petroglyphs greet me like old friends, though it’s been years. Grandpa brought me the last time, eye untrained, no education for these carved monoliths.
Back then, they felt like myth. Now they’re measurable.
My hands shake as I take more photos, then start sketching. No adrenaline rush beats interfacing with the past. I stretch a hand, palm touching empty stone, finger tracing where it connects with lines and stories.
I pull up the collar of my light-wash jean jacket, jotting notes.
Pecked rather than incised. The surface oxidation suggests at least several centuries of exposure. The spiral repeats at irregular intervals. Not decorative symmetry but intentional offset. Orientation faces east-southeast. Solar aligned? Or territorial marker?
Movement catches the corner of my eye, and I frown. My hand shields my eyes as I gaze across an expansive desert vista.
Just as I thought.
Of course.
My cheeks flush as I register 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 flashes back to last night. The way they glowed silver beneath his shirt cuff.
He lifts his head, and our eyes meet. He ticks his head back down, but it’s too late. Just as I suspected. He’s watching me. Like he can’t wait for me to leave.
I raise my chin in a silent challenge, returning to my work. Ash can follow me all he wants, at least as far as his land allows. This thought stabilizes me, though I know in truth he and Grandpa have never followed trespass rules when it comes to each other’s property.
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.
So, I look away.
I bend down to touch another rock, study the patina and where it breaks beneath glyphs. I pull out my cell phone. No signal.
Dammit.
I walk a distance until I get it. Then, open my astronomy app, programming in coordinates and dates. Traveling back thousands of years through code to find meaning.
I don’t have to look far.
As I guessed. The spirals could track solstices and equinoxes. Of course, I’ll need more than an app to confirm this. I send off a quick email—while I have signal—to the only archaeoastronomy member of my department.
Then, I hike out further, looking for similar patterns and checking directions.
Always the same.
Fascinating.
Hours pass, and I walk until my calves burn. Dust settles on my skin, hot and sticky. Sunset is a respite when it breathes across the land.
No matter where I go, how far I climb into the outcroppings, one thing refuses to disappear.
Ash. Always hovering just inside the boundary of my peripheral vision.
My fingers complain from sketching, and my feet ache from trekking. But when my eyes start burning and straining against the gloaming, I admit it’s time to head back.
The rancher remains ever present, though closer now than before. As if night means danger I’ll slip away unnoticed. This is going to be a long summer and even longer internship if he plans on shadowing me daily.
The yip yip yip of a coyote pierces the air. Like he’s on a scent. Then, another, excitement in their calls to one another.
The cowboy straightens, somber face scanning the horizon where gold gives way to periwinkle and indigo. He removes his hat, and sweeps it my direction, waving me over.
“Josephine!”
For heaven’s sake. Didn’t he hear me say it’s Jo? Just Jo?
My throat tightens, heart stuttering. Annoyance. That’s what this has to be.
A bleating sound cracks the air, and memory tugs. My ranch life upbringing kicks in. Baby in trouble.
I sprint toward the sound. Ash vaults the fence, crossing the distance so we reach it at nearly the same moment—a calf tangled in barbed wire—panicked and crying for its mother.
“Knew those coyotes were onto something,” he mutters, turquoise eyes darkening. “Hold him. Your hands are gentler than mine.”
I nod, setting down the journal and kneeling in the sunbaked clay. He smells of pine and oiled leather, 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.
“Sorry,” he grunts.
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.
His forearm brushes mine, something sparking between us. I press my lips into a thin line, bent on ignoring it.