Page 7 of Tattooed Cowboy
He turns, face pained, like he’s hanging on by a torn thread.
“Although I’m not surprised you don’t remember,” I add, speaking of the nickname. “After all, it’s been forever since I was last here.”
“The mountains remember who belongs,” he grits out between clenched teeth, his eyes sliding over my face like a caress before he starts down the creaking stairs.
“Goodnight, Maveryk,” I whisper, almost as an afterthought.
“Goodnight, Melody.” The name thrums through me like an echo I’ll hear in my dreams.
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.
Hair straight and heavy, used to drive my mom crazy, impossible to tame. She used to say it was the kind of hair you only got if your blood carried stories older than fences.
Outside, the wind moves through the electrical wires, humming a faint, familiar tone.
I lie back into the twin bed, sinking into the perfume of roses and lilacs. Then, a rogue thought hits me.Melody. Like a song on Maveryk’s tongue.
Maybe he didn’t mean anything by calling me that. Maybe I just wanted him to.
But long after I close my eyes, I swear I can still hear him whispering my name—not Mel, but Melody—carried on the hum of the mountain. Maybe the mountains have been singing all along, and I just forgot how to listen.
Chapter
Three
MELODY
Sunlight threads through gauzy curtains, golden light spilling onto the delicate white lace comforter I snuggle under. Lilacs and roses wrap around me, soft, insistent. I hear a faint hum, again, still. Like the mountains speak.
I check my phone. No bars. The radio on the nightstand only gives off short static bursts. How do Grandma and Grandpa live like this?
Downstairs, the coffee maker sputters in sync with the beat of my heart. The dark, rich smell of roasted beans brewing fills my nostrils as Grandma smiles broadly, carrying large stoneware mugs to the dining room table. I sit down, press my palms against the wood, testing to see if it’s still vibrating.
“Something wrong?” Grandma asks.
I shake my head, chuckling to myself. My imagination’s running wild. I shouldn’t let it.
“You sleep okay?” she asks.
I yawn, rubbing my eyes. “Not at first. Mind kept wandering … until I forgot everything. After that, I slept like a baby.”
She fills chipped mugs with the steaming liquid, 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 cream into my coffee, watching the swirl form the same pattern as the mark on his skin. The smell—vanilla and rain—rise like memory.
She sets a pile of thick, steaming slices of homemade bread on the table in front of me. Warm, comforting, slightly sweet with a rich mix of yeasty overtones and earthy grains. My mouth waters as I grab a slice, dive into the butter container and jam jar, painting it yellow, then ruby red.
Maveryk 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?”
