Page 8 of Tattooed Cowboy
I shake my head, shrugging.
“If I had to bet, you’ve got a man on your mind.”
“Only boys in college,” I counter. “Big babies, most of them. More interested in beer and video games than women.”
But they’re not who I’m thinking of, mind bending around the figure of a towering man, every inch pure muscle and strength. Eyes like an alpine lake, straight nose, well-proportioned features, achingly handsome face punctuated by a cleft in his robust, square-cut chin.
Grandma takes a seat, resting her chin on her hand. “Don’t make men like they used to.” Ambivalence edges her words.
“That a good or a bad thing?” I huff a laugh.
“Depends on who you ask.”
I nod, savoring the crunchy crust and impossibly soft, spongy center, like cake. The jam is tart with a nice bite, wild as the strawberries harvested to make it.
“Air’s heavy today. Storm coming,” Grandma says, eyeing me affectionately. “Better make use of the sunlight and clear skies while you can.”
I nod, mind racing ahead to a day spent writing and reconnecting with the land.
“You know, your great-great-grandma told stories about the Starborn Range,” Grandma says, voice soft as old linen. “Said the mountains used to sing before the storms, and that the songs weren’t just thunder—they were voices calling home. She claimed our people—back when we were still split between the Paiute hills and the railroad camps—helped a few travelers cast down from the mountains. Half-dead, half-fire, but human enough to love. Nobody believed her, of course. Just a tale for long winters.”
I wave away the silly myth. “Human enough? Maybe I’ve been asking for too much from potential boyfriends.”
She chuckles. “Better than immature boys playing computer games. Maybe?”
“I’ll let you know if a guy ever falls out of heaven for me.” I take another slice of bread, add more butter and jam.
Grandma watches with delight as I eat, like every bite makes her happy. “What are they feeding you back at the college? Anything healthy?”
“Nothing like this,” I say between mouthfuls of bread and coffee. “The cafeteria’s filled with mostly stale stuff, processed foods.”
“Like the grocery. That’s why I’d rather produce or make it myself.”
I nod, looking around the neat kitchen. Sparkling canning jars in one corner. A butter churn in another. Everything neat, clean, and simple. A part of me longs for this kind of peace, just focusing on the day-to-day.
Not thinking about college finals, student loans, whether to go on to graduate school. If any of my hard work will ever pay off? Grandma knows her hard work pays off. She tastes it every day. I lick a crumb from my thumb.
“Can I help with the dishes? Anything else?”
“Oh, my no,” she says, shaking her head. “Go enjoy the sun and warm weather while you can. Won’t last long.”
Outside, notebook in one hand, metal bucket in another, I soak in the atmosphere of this place. Off in the distance, Mt. Whitney looms rugged, snowcapped, bare, tree-free at the top. People climb it. I have friends who’ve made the summit. Still can’t fathom how when the top looks dangerous as cathedral spires, sharp as dragon’s teeth.
I sit in the north pasture for a long moment. Describe a murder of crows flying overhead, a rush of inky feathers, loud squawks, and choreographed flight. In the distance, Grandpa’s horses sprint. Their feet prance, heads arch imperiously when the wind rises, distant clouds drawing closer.
I pull up the collar of my lightwash jean jacket, jotting notes, daydreaming, thinking about the one thing I shouldn’t. A tanned, muscular man in the distance, bent over barbed wire, mending fences. The sleeves of his gray button-down are rolled to the elbow, thick forearms straining, tattoos shadowed beneath skin.
My mind ticks back to last night. The way they glowed and pulsed beneath his shirt. Didn’t know blacklight ink could do that. Wonder what they must look like in a club.
I can’t think of any other reason he’d have them, though the thought of the grumpy cowboy rocking to the beat of a DJ makes me giggle until tears streak my cheeks.
He lifts his head, my laughter carried on the wind, jaw set, mouth somber. No DJ Guetta for this guy. He ticks his head backdown, like every sound I make disturbs his silence. Like he can’t wait for me to leave.
The handle of the metal pail vibrates against my fingers as I walk, notebook tucked beneath my arm, sun warming my face. Here to recapture memories, see if they still taste as sweet.
At the ancient, sprawling blackberry bushes, I pick the large, juicy berries. Pop one into my mouth, savoring the sugary tartness. Still as good, warmed by the sun, despite the passage of time. Maybe you can fall back into some memories.
I see myself at twelve, ebony locks flying in the breeze, arms spread, fingers touching the heads of the heavy-laden grass as I ran through the pasture with the milking cows. I used to swear I could hear it sing. Now, it’s every facet of this place, every hidden landscape and feature. But even more than that, it’s the man who greets me with frowns and silence.
