Page 1 of Tattooed Cowboy
Chapter
One
MAVERYK
Heat, sound, and light are all the same language—the universe speaking love back to itself. Out here, you can almost hear it.
Most folks don’t, though. Just the wind or the buzz of a fence line. But I was born listening.
The sun’s rays strike the distant Starborn Range, and my skin hums faintly.
Martin Thunderhawk shifts in the saddle, like his ears strain to catch it. The sound of wind through electrical wires. His wizened face, topped by a thick head of long black hair threaded with gray, cocks to one side.
The saddle creaks beneath me, leather hot from the sun, reins rough in my palm. Sweat and sage dust the air—ordinary things anchoring the extraordinary.
“The Mark of Regret’s acting up,” I mutter under my breath, like an apology, button-down shirt and tan duster guarding against the secret.
The tattoos beneath my skin pulse once—faint, silver-blue, like lightning trapped under flesh. I tug my sleeve lower before Martin notices.
The mark hums hotter near the mountains—or certain people; I’ve never figured out which is worse. Last time it flared, I nearly fried a man’s thoughts clean out of him. He lived but the memories didn’t.
Most days, I don’t think about it. You can get used to anything, even the parts that don’t make sense.
My neighbor doesn’t hear my words, or if he does, no questions follow. He’s always had a way of pretending not to notice the strange—lights in the hills, the way my blood hums when the wind shifts. Maybe he remembers more than he admits.
He removes his brown Stetson, rubs the back of his hand across his forehead, beaming, “Granddaughter coming home from college today. Should be here any time now.” He eyes the distant mountains drenched in mist and velvety, emerald darkness despite the bright midday sun.
I grunt, eyes sliding like his toward the range where mysteries linger. Stories of cryptids—the Witch-Bird, Bigfoot—disembodied voices, disappearing hikers, strange sightings of light and aircraft. Have to assume at least some of it’s bullshit. Question is: How much?
The menacing red and white government signs proclaim:
RESTRICTED
STARBORN RANGE
No Trespassing Beyond This Point
Photography Is Prohibited
Use of Deadly Force Authorized
I’ve made target practice of a number of them. My way of resisting whatever the fuck the government’s got going on upthere. Of laying waste to a past that needs to be buried. At all cost.
The metal sings when the bullets hit. Always has. I tell myself it’s just echo, but the sound crawls under my skin long after the smoke clears.
“Must be proud,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and glancing his direction.
He shrugs. “Journalism major. Pricy education, more than likely small payoff. But her parents are … dreamers.”
He means to say difficult. Heard a lot about them over the years, their estranged relationship, too. Why this visit from his granddaughter means so much to the old man. It’s been years. “Always money to be made with hard work, the sweat of your brow.”
“Wish she saw things that way.”
I huff like a laugh. “Maybe you’ll get lucky. The girl will settle down with some local buckaroo, become a rancher’s wife.”
He replaces his hat, chuckles like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Her grandma would be the first to tell her to stay away from cowboys.”
I nod. “Wildbloods. No good, either.”
