Page 4 of Tattooed Cowboy
The distant dark clouds gather, menace. But they have nothing on the storm brewing inside. Haven’t seen my grandparents in nine years, thanks to my mom and stepdad. All over some stupid falling out.
For nine years, I’ve replayed that argument in my head, 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 goes soul deep, an inextricable part of him. Something that should never be tested or used to strain a relationship. Because it’s a part of who he is down to his foundations.
I pass one of the RESTRICTED signs Mav referred to in his warning. It hits me like a change in air pressure, like an altitude shift. But the next second, I’m engrossed in thoughts of the neighbor again.
He warned me like I’d actually consider heading into those mountains. Like I don’t know better. Like I’m a stranger. The thought stings, but he isn’t wrong. It’s been too long.
“Mel’s coming home.” I test it as the old ranch appears in the distance, looming. 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 drive and park. Nothing is the same, and nothing’s changed. Same porch, though a bit saggier. Same white paint with pale, gray-blue trim, though peeled in places now. Woodsmoke curls from the chimney, tall lilac bushes burgeon with purple flowers, their sweet scent 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 black these days. Back hunched, thinner, too, though her penetrating hazel eyes sparklewith the same stubborn warmth I remember from my youth. “Grandma,” I breathe, voice catching.
“Mel,” she whispers, clinging tighter, like she never plans on letting go. I don’t want her to.
The thunder of hooves makes me ease back. Grandpa dismounts slowly—muscles and bones aching and 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, bring up a hand to wipe my moist cheek. “Never knew 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 in both of their faces 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. Picking sun-warmed blackberries and popping them into my mouth until my fingertips were blue and my lips purple. It almost feels like I could slip into it all over again.
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, screen still squeaking, room still frozen in another time. All cowboy and Western art. No computers, cell phones, signs of digital life.
“How’s your mom?” 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, betray my thoughts in some small way 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. Lifetimes. The ache eclipses everything else, even the tap, tap of my heart against my ribs at the sight of Mav, like some cowboy hero out of a Hollywood Western.
“Well?” Grandma asks, leaning her head back to eye Grandpa.
“The usual,” he chuckles. “Had to talk Mav into it. Mel helped.”
“We’ll be prepared, then,” she says with a nod. “How about the ranch hands?”
He shakes his head. “Not on a Friday. They’ll be in town getting into trouble at the tavern more than likely.”
The words surprise me. Grandpa used to run such a tight ship as ranch foreman. Can’t imagine the men carousing in town.
“What’s the frown for, Mel?” he asks.
I shake my head, trying to put what I feel into words. “Just trying to wrap my head around all the ways this place has changed and stayed the same. It’s a lot to take in.”
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. It’s going to take a while to get used to these changes. He breathes heavier than I remember, too. A man who never used to getting winded.
The bedroom door opens; the air shifts, transporting me back in time.
My stuffed bear slumps against the pillow like he’s been waiting. The air smells faintly of flowers and dust.
