Then I side-eye a white Stetson, a large man looming in the entryway, filling it, and appraising me.
My throat tightens. I forgot the scale of him.
The realization vibrates through me like his turquoise eyes that stare a touch too long. His face is clean-shaven, unlike earlier when a five o’clock shadow felted his cheeks.
He wears fitted Wranglers and a black, button-down Western shirt with pearl buttons and tiny white flowers.
The cotton hugs his muscles, as does the denim. The shine of a silver belt buckle catches my eye, engraved with something indecipherable.
I want to ask about it. But I look away, unwilling to be caught looking below the belt. He smells of oiled leather, sandalwood, and pine.
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 once.
“Where in the world did you get that?”
“Rachel.” Not a person, a town.
“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. I don’t know why.
“Talk outside,” he mutters—not at me. Instead, he saunters toward Grandpa.
He nods as Ash clamps a hand on his shoulder. “Call us when it’s time to eat.”
“Just a few more minutes,” Grandma says, surveying the table and cataloging what’s missing. “Pickles and jam.”
“Butter, too,” I add, trying to get my breath back under control.
What in the hell’s wrong with me?
I’ve known Ash 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, Ash keeps his eyes averted. When I talk, he ignores me. 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.
I feel like an outsider, lost in their cordial conversation. Town gossip. Weather patterns. The small stuff that makes my absence achingly clear.
Until oddly, Ash levels his gaze on me. “How are you enjoying being back, Josephine?”
I laugh at his slow drawl and careful pronunciation.
“Just Jo now,” I correct. “Fewer syllables, less fuss.”
Grandma clears her throat, eyes sliding between us. Grandpa focuses on the food.
Ash takes another thick slice of homemade bread, slathers it in freshly churned butter and homemade strawberry jam.
