Chapter 25
Chapter
Twenty-Five
JOSEPHINE
One Month Later
“You think Martin and Miranda will ever get used to you sitting on this side of the fence?” Ash drawls, leaning against the porch railing and waving.
My grandparents return the gesture from their porch, faces filled with something I still can’t read.
The big cowboy eyes me too warmly, hand clenching and unclenching at his side. I know what he’s thinking: how he wants to pull me into his lap and hold me close.
But out of respect for my family, not in front of them.
When we’re in our cabin, though, it’s like he never wants to break the physical tether, feeding me from his lap. Kissing and touching me. Even his eyes search for contact now, finding mine with too much warmth.
Desire pulses through me once. Low. Dangerous.
My heart still stutters, getting used to the many ways we communicate. I smile, gripping my coffee mug and teasing, “Your cows are going to run off. Find new homes if you keep neglecting them.”
He crosses his arms, flashing a lopsided grin. “Weren’t worried about it last night… or this morning.” He says it like a velvety growl.
“Fear doubles back. So does desire,” I remind, adjusting the collar of my lavender blouse with a careful finger, enjoying how his darkened eyes follow every movement. “This morning, I blame on you.”
“Maybe,” he says, stepping closer. “I waited for this three times as long as you. Figure I have catching up to do. And you didn’t seem to mind.”
“Not one bit.” My voice simmers.
Brzzz.
I jump.
Ash leans back against the railing, frowning.
I grab my phone from the side table, eyeing it. The museum.
Debbie greets me. “Heard anything from DHS?” I ask too quickly, still mourning all that was lost. And still kicking myself for all I may have revealed.
“Sorry to say, no.”
I look down at my coffee mug.
Ash steps toward me, leaning in to kiss my cheek. Then, he disappears down the porch stairs, headed for the barn.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.
” She pauses for a moment. “I’m giving my formal resignation.
After that debacle, I don’t need anymore stress like that.
I haven’t told anyone yet. Haven’t even turned in my resignation because I wanted to know there’s someone capable lined up to take my place.
Jo, I’d like you to consider taking the interim director position. ”
I sit back in the chair, setting my coffee on the table next to me.
“Wow,” I say, mind a swirl. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“I know. But… I’m just tired. Too tired, and let’s be honest. This place could use new blood and fresh energy. The pay’s decent, and it comes with benefits. And I can’t think of a better way for you to break into the museum system officially.”
“Thank you for considering me,” I say.
“I don’t want anyone else. Besides, you know what was taken. I’m hoping you can help secure it again.”
I huff, unconvinced. “I don’t know about that.”
“I imagine you can work on your PhD while you’re here, too. Though you may need to transfer to a closer university. Anyway, I have to go. Think about it and let me know. I’ll be submitting my resignation later this week.”
After the call, I stroll across the front yard, savoring the warmth of sunlight on my face and arms. In the distance, I see Ash riding next to Grandpa. Both horse-deep in cattle.
I decide to take a walk, grabbing my journal and a pen and heading out to the petroglyphs. I have to study and document as much as I can before the government steps in.
Hopefully, they never will.
At the first sun-blackened outcropping, I run my hand over the deep grooves, tracing the polish of weather and age. Swirls that break against thick lines. Others radiating out, then stopping.
I press my palm against the cold stone. And that’s when I understand. This place wasn’t meant to be catalogued behind glass cases. Or preserved beneath the hum of fluorescent lights and archival temperature control.
They were meant to be read by someone who feels their hum. Because the rocks aren’t artifacts.
They’re memory. Memory of the story Ash and I retold at the Silent Hollows when the whole world wanted to crash down around us.
My eyes lift, snagging on something in the distance. A petite redhead streaking across the sage like a rocket. Annie Oakley reincarnated. She pulls up in front of me, dust climbing in columns from the hooves of her white and brown American Paint.
“Mags,” I greet, stepping forward and offering a hand when she dismounts. Instead, she reaches up, pulling me into a hug. She holds me too long, too tight, exclaiming, “Figured it was about time I came out to visit. To see these rocks—and the woman—Ash can’t stop talking about.”
She lets me go then, and we walk together among the boulders. I point to an occasional sign, differentiating known native iconography from the anomalous.
She leans forward, eyes squinting in fascination. “I’ve been around these my whole life but never looked this close. What do you think they mean?”
I cross my arms over my chest, weighing my next words carefully. Ash has told her most things, but I’m still reluctant to speak about what feels like something devoid of science or data. Something I still have trouble measuring.
So, I let the stones do the talking, tracing a finger along one edge. “I’m wondering if this is a record of two people’s meeting. Of…” I wet my lips, eyeing her as I say it, “the resonance.”
I’m not sure how she’ll take it. Ash warned me against speaking to others on the council. Or even expecting their acknowledgment or kindness. It’s put a rift between some, though an unspoken one.
But he’s always said to trust her, so I do now. “These lines radiating out between minds seem to suggest that. And then these small specks… look like a swarm.”
A shiver runs down my spine. I can still hear metal clicking against stone.
She leans closer.
“I used to think they were rain. Now, I’m not as convinced.”
“Oh,” she sighs.
“And this line? It’s almost like a shield of some sort. A way of keeping something out while making space for something within.”
“A bond that nothing can break,” she says the last part reverently, even wistfully. Like perhaps she longs for it, too.
Her hand comes up, dabbing at her eyes.
I look away, pretending not to notice, because she’s a proud woman. When I sense she’s ready, I ask, “Is it true that the bond cuts one life short?”
She nods, smiling.
My heart sinks, my eyes blurring.
“Oh, darling, what’s wrong?” she asks, her lavender eyes too clear and sharp for me to fool.
“Why would he sacrifice that for me? How will I ever be enough?”
Her eyes startle at the question, then they crinkle at the edges. “Don’t you get it?” she asks. “That’s a gift, not a curse. Why would you ever wish to live past your mate?”
She says it like everyone should know this.
I can’t help but chuckle, saying too quickly, “That’s not quite how humans measure love.”
The color drains from her face, her forehead scrunching. “Is that too long?”
The question puts the dangerous sting back behind my eyes, even as I laugh again, admitting, “A whole lifetime could never be enough with Ash.” My cheeks burn, my chest tightening.
Not data. Not research. Maybe not even logical.
But true to the marrow of my bones.
“Thank goodness,” she says on a puff of air, hand going to her chest. “You had me worried for a second.”
We continue walking, wind rising in gusts now. Still hot at midday. I eye the Starborn Range, envying the cool shadows burying the mountains, though not the ever-forming thunderheads.
It hits me then. The answer to all of this. The anomalous glyphs. The museum job. Even my dissertation. “What if we don’t send our history away to be interpreted?”
She tops, shielding her eyes with a hand. “You mean we keep the secrets? Like we have been?”
I shake my head, stepping closer. “What if we build something?” My eyes dart to the stones, then back to her, thoughts forming faster now. “A Wildblood Cultural Institute.”
She stands back on her heels, hands coming to her hips. “You mean like a museum?”
“An archive. Resonance research. Living scholarship.”
Mags shakes her head, cheeks glowing. “I don’t think the world’s ready for that yet.”
“Probably not,” I say, walking the outcropping boundary. “But when it is, so will we.”
A smile cracks her face. “A history,” she whispers, delight threading the words. “Like we belong here. Like we’re a part of this place. Not just a secret.”
“Not just rebellion. Preservation. For us and for the future.”
She laughs now, the sound light and dancing across the breeze. Her eyes drop to my stomach. “The future you and Ash are working on together.”
My breath hitches in my throat. “What do you mean?”
She presses her hand to her mouth. Delight dancing in her eyes. Saying nothing. Then, she skips among the glyphs. Far too agile for her age.
I laugh to myself, suspicion confirmed. The cane she sometimes uses is all for show.
Later, in the cool of the evening breeze, sitting in Ash’s arms, leaned against the old barn, I tell him about my day.
A ring of ranch keys rests between us—for every gate, every fence line. Grandpa pressed them into Ash’s hand that afternoon without a word.
His way of saying we’re one family now.
“I don’t feel any different,” I say, my hand resting over my stomach. His covers it instantly. “But she said it.”
Ash’s smile breaks wide and boyish, something unguarded flashing across his face. It steals my breath more than anything else.
I feel it thrumming through him—not just desire. Wonder. Awe.
Hope, too.
“Don’t get too excited,” I warn softly. “I’m not sure.”
He leans in, brushing his mouth over mine, slow and careful. Almost reverent.
“Then we don’t rush it,” he murmurs against my lips. “We let it unfold.”
Heat pools low, but it’s different now. Not sharp. Not urgent. Steady.
His palm remains over my stomach, thumb stroking absentmindedly, as if already memorizing something that may or may not exist.
“You’d make the fiercest little Wildblood,” he says, voice low. “Or maybe a stubborn one. Like your mother.”
I huff a laugh, emotion catching unexpectedly in my throat.
“What if she’s wrong?” I whisper.
He rests his forehead against mine. “Then we try again. And again. Not because we need to prove anything. Because we want to.”
“Yes,” I beam at him.
He scoops me into his arms, easy strength lifting us both.
“Where are you taking me?” I protest softly.
He smiles, slow and sure. “Somewhere that remembers beginnings.”
The weathered barn waits in the amber light. The same place we once feared. The same place we once fought.
Now it feels different.
Like becoming.
The mountain hums low beneath the floorboards… not warning now. Not fear.
Recognition.