Her hand moved before her mind could catch up, her cold fingers threading through his warm ones.His grip firm, he pulled her up, steadying her.She didn’t let go, and when he leaned closer, she felt herself tilt toward him.
“You remember that rock up at my place?”he murmured.
The flat boulder that looked out over the valley, always half swallowed by weeds.She used to play there for hours, bow to string, hair whipping in the wind.Playing whatever came—wrong notes, right ones—the mountains carrying it all away.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered.“Pretend you’re there.”
And then he let go—taking the warmth of his hand with him.
As Nash retook his spot in the pew, Margie reached over and patted his arm.Junie, without a word, slid closer, her shoulder pressing into his side.Nash blinked—surprised.She never did that anymore.He quickly tucked her under his arm, not about to waste whatever miracle this was.
Up front, Luanne had taken her place at the pulpit.A few steps behind her, Cassie lifted her violin.
Her eyes shut; her bow rose; her head tilted, like she was listening for something only she could hear.Horsehair met string, the first notes ringing out across the church.Almost instantly, her expression eased and her spine lengthened, as if the sound itself were drawing her upright.
The sight of it—the sound of it—the way she held it—knocked something old loose inside Nash.Hell, she’d always played the damn thing like she’d been born with it there.
Then Luanne’s voice joined in—gentle at first—letting each line fall heavy, the way a prayer might when you’ve said it too many times to count.
Of all the money that e’er I had
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I’ve ever done
Alas, it was to none but me.
Luanne’s voice climbed, not in volume but in ache—each note more worn than the last.
And all I’ve done for want of wit
To memory now I can’t recall.
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all.
Good night and joy be with you all…
When Luanne’s voice fell away entirely, Cassie carried the refrain alone, breathing the final line out of the violin, letting it linger in the stillness.A brief pause—then the bow shifted.
The melody changed.No words now—just the song again, slower, stripped bare.Her bow swept long and deliberate, her elbow cutting in with sudden precision, driving the sound higher, pressing the strings until they cried.Then her wrist loosened, her body following, the tone collapsing back into a soft ache.
Tears slipped free from her closed eyes, catching the stained-glass light.Her lips stayed parted—not in sobbing, but in breath.And her arm kept moving—sawing, really—measured and goddamn stubborn.Her wrist flexed and released, over and over, the motion so relentless it looked almost painful.
And Nash thought, this is what grief sounds like.Looks like.
It wasn’t speeches or scripture.Just a girl with her brother’s ghost caught in her hands, trying to tear it free one note at a time.
Chapter Thirteen
“Earthtoearth,ashesto ashes, dust to dust.”
The preacher’s voice carried over the grave, not quite reaching Cassie, her gaze fixed on the casket—on every hiss and creak of the ropes as it descended into the dark below.
Margie stood at her right, Nash at her left.He hadn’t asked to stand there—just stepped forward when Harvell had called for immediate family, taking his place beside her like it was a given.She hadn’t protested; she hadn’t even thought of protesting.Maybe she was too numb—or maybe, like at the church, she was even a little grateful for his presence.
Whenever you’re ready, Strawberry.
