Page 2 of Tattooed Cowboy
In the distance, a thin dust line rises like a pale ribbon against the sage-lined valley, towering purple Sierra Nevada mountains rising behind.
Winnie, the compact Quarter horse I ride, snickers, shifts her weight, tail swishing. Wind picks up slightly, parching the air, putting dirt in my throat as we watch the dusty line transform from abstraction into a silver VW GTI.
“Speak of the devil. She’s home,” he says with a hearty laugh. I nudge Winnie forward.
“Where you headed?” he asks.
“Chores to do.”
“But don’t you want to see Mel again? It’s been ages.”
I grimace. “Don’t want to infringe on a family gathering.”
“We’ve been neighbors long as I can remember.” He goes silent, brow furrowing. “Though have to say you’ve held up a might better than me.”
“Good genes,” I growl, a running joke. Five generations of centenarians before me—some well beyond that. Maybe this land preserves its own. Maybe it doesn’t like letting go of what’s born from it.
“Old blood, old ways. Some folks just come from stranger stock.”
“Stranger, huh?”
“Strange not strange? Who am I to say? All I know is if you hadn’t happened upon me that afternoon when I slept against the boulder and a mountain lion snuck up, I’d have died for sure. And not in a nice way.”
I nod, jaw tightening. His words tease the unspoken rule I’ve come to count on with him.Live and let live.
“You’re invited for dinner tonight,” he calls after me as I steer Winnie away from the car closing in fast now. “Much appreciated. Likely won’t be able to make it.”
“The wife won’t forgive you.” Wouldn’t be the first time he’s told me that either.June always does.
“Up to my neck in chores,” I grumble, wheeling my mount back around.
I nod toward the distant range, the swirling mist of the peaks which somehow echo in my veins, cut deep into the marrow of my bones. Always been this way when the weather’s just right, though I can’t explain it. “Tell that granddaughter of yours to stay clear of the mountains.”
“Tell her yourself,” Martin quips, the car pulling up next to her grandfather on the other side of the fence line.
I’m ready to bolt, disappear against the noon horizon when the tinted window rolls down, and I’m stuck in my spot.
“Grandpa!” the young woman screams, enthusiasm threading her voice. It’s lower now, the voice of a woman, not a little girl. “And Maveryk,” she adds, eyes flicking to my face. Her cheeks flush.
The air doesn’t just shimmer—it sings. The same note I’ve heard in my sleep since I was a boy. The one the old Wildblood stories warned about.
Winnie steps forward, closing the distance to Martin. Not sure why, but I feel pinned to the saddle, staring at the stunning arrival.
Her hair is black enough to catch the blue of twilight. Her eyes, a rare shade of hazel-green painted with storms. A ray of sunlight illuminates a single streak of red-gold flared in the dark strands—mountain light remembering fire.
Mel,I think—then the air vibrates, her laughter catches light—no.
“Melody.” I nod, corners of my mouth dropping.
My pulse pounds as I eye her, noticing the thin silver bracelet. Family heirloom. Martin once said the pendant came from her great-grandmother, carved from elk bone mixed with meteorite. I never believed him. Now, I’m not so sure.
The scent of wild sage and honey drift as she leans forward, taking me in. Her voice carries the same timbre as the humming range beyond the fences, low, melodic, too steady for coincidence. Some frequencies echo in bone. Hers finds mine. Like an old chord finally struck true.
“It’s been forever!” She hesitates, then exclaims, “Let’s see here.” She taps a dainty finger against her chin as my throat tightens.
The smell of her, the look of her, the beat of her heart. A cinnamon smattering of freckles dusts her nose and cheeks like constellations. I long to trace them with my tongue.
My skin crackles now where it meets my mark, burns, as if the mountains and this woman conspire to torch me from the inside out. For an instant, I smell rain on iron, like truth trying to crawl back.
