Page 43 of My Cowboy Freedom
Chapter 11
Sky
Every so often, the hands’ laughter rose over their card game and onto the wind. The sound reminded me of waves building, cresting, breaking, and subsiding. Jason’s laugh was pitched the highest, then Tad’s next. Robbie chuckled—a low sort of rumble that had to really get going before I could hear it from where I lay in my bunk.
The faint strumming of a guitar carried from the ranch house.
That was Rock, probably. I’d seen him with the case on the porch. Noticed his elegant, long-fingered hands. Felt the callouses when we shook. He sounded like he was just playing around, warming up. Getting ready to choose a song and start playing for real.
I wore nothing but a pair of jeans, but like the night before, it was dark out. Nearly moonless.
I jammed my feet into my new boots and stepped outside, drawn by the sweetness of the sound. He was only strumming. Occasionally picking. Running up and down the scale; what my dad—who’d played guitar—used to call “noodling.”
But as I made my way along the trail to the house, he found a familiar melody and started to play it. I didn’t know what it was, but I liked it. The song nailed the evening’s mood for me, like Rock was writing the soundtrack for a movie featuring only the two of us. His playing was as haunting as the landscape. His music was built from heart and talent and fierce, brutal honesty.
When I was close enough to see him, Rock looked like some country music star—healthy, despite his troubles. Wholesome as a milk commercial featuring a basketful of puppies.
Speaking of dogs. Maisy knew I was there. She’d probably heard me coming as soon as I left the bunkhouse. But she lifted her regal head and blinked serenely into the darkness, so she must not have considered me a threat.
Or maybe “watchdog” was beneath her pay grade. For whatever reason, she set her head back down on her paws and dozed off while I watched her master play for a bit.
But then I considered how standing there in the shadows might appear to someone else—like I was stalking him or something. I cleared my throat. “Hey.”
Rock’s fingers stilled. “Hey, Sky. I heard you guys fixed a downed fence today.”
“Yeah. That’s right. Someone must have run off the road.”
“We didn’t hear about anyone getting hurt. Must have been minor. Assholes should have told us about the fence, though. That’s common courtesy.”
“Should be anyway. How come you stopped playing?”
“I have company.” His words were light but he stared at me hungrily. “I can play anytime.”
Well, shoot. Remember the no-eye-contact rule? You’re breaking it.I stepped out of the light.
“Your playing is why I came up here. I’m sorry I interrupted you.”
“Well, don’t give up yet. It could still happen.” He started to strum again. This time it was a song I’d heard a few times on the pop radio station.
He sang the familiar words, his deep, pleasing voice clear as crystal bells in winter. He wasn’t trying to be operatic or sexy or winAmerican Idol; he was just singing, and the sound went straight through all the barriers I’d put up between myself and other people. It went through my hard candy shell, into my gooey center—straight to my heart.
“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to lose your country card?” My voice was a bare whisper.
He kept playing. “I like all kinds of songs.”
“You’re good.” I acknowledged.
“I should be.” He picked a little more of the familiar melody. “For a long time after my accident, playing guitar was my only thing.”
I could picture that: Rock as a kid—an injured athlete, forced to rest his body while his mind wants to go a hundred miles an hour.
“You’re good at it.”
He gave me a lazy smile as he started playing “Stardust.” He sang it just like Willie Nelson. Slow and sweet and impossibly sad.
I wondered what he was sad about. Being different? Being gay? Needing Maisy or living with relatives at his age? Lost opportunities? Lost love...?
Whatever it was, the boy on the porch sang “Stardust” like a man who’d lived a lot longer than twenty-three years. It occurred to me then how easy it was to judge someone.
