Page 6 of Tattooed Cowboy
I laugh at his slow drawl and careful pronunciation.
“Just Mel now,” I correct. “Fewer syllables, less fuss.”
He only half smiles. “Shame. Melody’s a good name.”
Grandma weighs in, beaming. “That name, Melody, was always perfect for our little girl. She used to sing all the time, at the top of her lungs. Never quit.”
“Not surprised.” The cowboy studies the tablecloth like it holds some great secret, burnished gold hair simmering in the dining room lights.
She proudly nods, eyeing me. “Songline in her blood. Always has been.”
He takes another thick slice of homemade bread, slathers it in freshly churned butter and homemade strawberry jam. My eyes linger on his large, strong fingers, throat tightening whenhe raises one, licks butter and jam away. Hands carved for work, yet with a dexterity I can only describe as graceful.
“Mind passing me the bread?” I ask, my eyes meeting his. The air seems to stop, like my breath, as he stretches an arm. A vibration hums through the plate—soft, alive, the way my pulse jumps when his fingers brush mine.
I grab a slice of bread, then my butter knife, feeling the faint hum in the metal. It’s in the table, too, for one lingering second before it fades.
“Cattle ready to go up to the north pasture. How about yours?” Grandpa asks.
“Yep,” he murmurs, tearing his eyes from me. “Thinking about holding up there with them.”
“Lonely winter that’d be.”
Maveryk shrugs, looks everywhere but me. “Lonely’s fine by me.”
The air feels heated, like it’s whispering something to me. Like if I could just listen hard enough, I would make it out.
“Still no woman or family plans?” Grandpa asks, and Mav’s face goes hard as granite.
“Not the settling down type.”
My eyes bob between my grandparents’ weathered skin and Mav’s ageless complexion. His gaze meets mine, disturbed and simmering. But I say nothing, swallowing hard and trying to take it all in.
After dessert, Grandma and I clear the plates while Grandpa and Mav talk in the front room. The voices fade, and soon all I hear is Grandpa’s snoring. I breathe relief at the neighbor’s departure, though I can’t name why.
“Anything else I can help with?” I ask Grandma, leaning down to kiss her cheek.
“My, no. Thank you, Dear.”
I nod, drawn outside to the porch. Can’t remember the last time I saw a pristine night sky. I step off the stairs, stare up, hugging myself for warmth. The air has a bite, but it’s refreshing after the kitchen.
Thunder rolls—low, metallic. The kind that shakes in your bones.
Then, I notice him, leaning against the railing, starlight haloing the tattoos that glow through his shirt, a shimmer beneath his Carhartt.
I freeze, eyes rounding. “Are those black light tattoos or something?” I ask. I’ve heard of them before. But never seen them on a person. Never knew they could radiate through fabric.
“Yep.” He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. But I can’t stop staring, mesmerized by their waning and waxing, like the moon, only throbbing.
“Are they supposed to do that?” I ask, scrunching my nose.
“Do what?”
“Pulse like they’re trying to talk to the mountain?” I ask, eyes widening.
Maveryk laughs as though I’m seeing things. “Old scars.” He tips his hat to walk past. “Thank you for a delicious dinner. Nice to see you again, Melody.”
“Mel.”
