Page 5 of Tattooed Cowboy
Everything exactly as I left it nine years ago. I clutch my chest, take it in for a moment, breathing through my mouth,trying to hold back tears. I resort to fanning my face to keep the water pooling in my eyes from crossing over my bottom lashes.
“You okay, girl?” Grandpa asks, half amused, half moved.
“Yeah, just remembering.”
“Hope it feels like home.”
I nod. “One hundred percent.”
He sets down my bag by the bed covered in a white, lacy bedspread. My eyes flick to the large window, gauzy, white curtains shrouding the thick, time-warped glass. Off in the distance, I catch a hint of motion. A brown and white blur. Maveryk. My core tightens, heart racing.
“I’ll leave you alone to settle in,” Grandpa says. “Towels in the bathroom. Soaps, shampoos, lotions, all the stuff your grandma likes to buy at the Dollar General.” I smile faintly. Some things never change.
He shuts the door behind me, and I cross to the window, inching back the curtains and looking out at the man darting across a burnt sienna expanse of silvery sage. More like a vibration than a sight, like I can feel him in my bones.
Must be the wildness of this place. The memories reconstructed before my eyes, with a duller sheen.
All except for the ageless, timeless neighbor.
Dusk settles in,a cool bite to the evening air as crickets chirp outside, frantic for late-fall mates. I work shoulder to shoulder next to Grandma, humming along with a CD as we relax into a slow, steady conversation. Relearning each other, finding out what really matters never changed at all.
She wants to hear everything about my journalism degree, my roommates, the boys I have or haven’t dated. I tell her fiftypercent, the tables now reversed. Once she shielded me from the world, now I return the favor.
The porch door squeaks, and I brace for the sound of barking. It takes a moment to remind myself, Buster, their Australian Shepherd, is long gone. The table creaks beneath simple fare as we make quick work of piling it high with comfort food. My stomach rumbles, and my eyes catch a white Stetson, large man looming in the entryway, filling it, appraising me.
My throat tightens. I forgot how broad his shoulders are, how commanding his presence. Like it vibrates through me, turquoise eyes cutting clean. His face is cleanshaven, unlike earlier when a five o’clock shadow felted his cheeks.
He stands cornstalk straight, in fitted, worn Wranglers and a black, button-down Western shirt with pearl buttons and tiny white flowers. The cotton hugs his muscles, so does the denim. The shine of a silver belt buckle catches my eye, engraved with something ancient, indecipherable.
I want to ask about it. But I look away, unwilling to be caught staring below the belt. His boots smell like oiled leather, sandalwood and pine conspiring to make my flesh simmer.
Then, I catch the floral print, drawing closer until a laugh breaks clear like a pealing bell. He eyes me awkwardly.
“Not flowers,” I say, pointing at his shirt. “Tiny UFOs.”
He nods, matter-of-fact.
“Where in the world did you get that?”
“Rachel … Nevada.”
“Should’ve guessed. Extraterrestrial Highway.”
His lips draw thin. “Something like that.”
Grandma steps closer, inspecting his shirt with a chuckle. But his eyes slide past her, settling on me. My pulse quickens, breath catching in my throat. Then, he looks away, walking toward Grandpa. “Talk outside,” he mutters.
He nods as Mav clamps a hand on his shoulder. “Call us when it’s time to eat.”
“Just a few more minutes,” Grandma says, surveying the table, cataloging what’s missing. “Pickles and jam.”
“Butter, too,” I add, trying to get my heart back under control.What in the hell’s wrong with me?
I’ve known Maveryk for as long as I can remember visiting my grandparents’ house. There’s nothing new or special about him. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe like this land, this house, my grandparents, he feels like a comfortable thing. Maybe I’m mistaking ghosts for signposts.
Over dinner, Maveryk keeps his eyes averted. When I talk, he ignores. When I ask questions, he responds stiltedly, like he can’t be bothered with answering. And when his turquoise eyes briefly snap toward me, the warmth is gone, replaced by icy indifference.
Suddenly, oddly, he levels his gaze on me. “How are you enjoying being back, Melody?”
