Choose One Master

My father knew I was the traitor because he had taught me where to place a comma. He’d drilled it into me since I was eight: the comma splice, that lazy joining of two complete thoughts as if they shared a single breath. Just that afternoon, over the remains of the lunch that was our daily excuse for lessons, he’d tapped his pen against my third paragraph. “Two thoughts, Isabel. Choose one master for each.”

I’d corrected it without argument. His rule, my ingrained habit. But whenever he was not looking over my shoulder, I still chose the comma. I liked the way it forced two thoughts to face one another, almost poetically.

I was shouldering the satchel containing my essay notes and assignments when the courier knocked on my father’s office door. He handed him a folder addressed to the Minister of Civic Formation, received his signature for the documents, then stepped outside to wait for a response.

Casually gathering the leftover food and disposing of the trash, I glanced at the pages spread out on the desk. A familiar printed pamphlet, a short list of names, and a brief letter, signed by our Honored Leader.

I remembered another such letter, two years prior. A leaflet had circulated about the failure to feed the hungry in the city. The printer’s son had been accused and convicted. He’d been marched out the main gate in chains and hadn’t been seen since. My father had signed the order. I remembered because he’d made me proofread the offending text the next morning, as if the sloppy grammar in it was the offense.

I could see recognition flash in my father’s eyes as he read the pamphlet. His voice trembled as he whispered, “You teach your sons to read, you command your daughters to remain blind. A nation that silences half its minds cannot call itself wise.”

He recognized my style and the comma splice I had chosen for its rhythm. He had trained me too well to think I had used it through ignorance.

Dropping the pamphlet, he grabbed the list of the accused. It was short, listing the names of the sons of other government officials and a few known activists. All young males, since literacy was forbidden for females.

One name jumped out. Cousin Cleopas, the son of my father’s brother Alecio, and likely next in line for his post as Minister of Doctrine and Policy. No love was lost between these brothers.

Years earlier, Alecio had taken the ministry Father believed should have been his. My father still kept the letter from that year, its seal broken, the paper frail with age. Alecio had offered him a junior assistant’s post as consolation: charity, dressed as family loyalty. Even my father’s eventual rise to his own Ministry post did not dull the sting.

“Cleopas.” He said quietly, testing the substance. His pen hovered over the name a half-second longer than the decision required. Enough of a hesitation that I understood, even as he saved me, some part of him was glad for the excuse to repay the pain. Then, for a moment, a glint of satisfaction crossed his face before he caught it. He circled the name, initialed beside it, and regathered the papers.

I drew breath too sharply. Father glared at me, rapidly shaking his head for silence. I had not intended to bring harm to the family. I only thought of being right and drawing attention to a just cause. Anonymously, of course.

Officially, no females were taught to read or write. Privately, my father considered an ignorant daughter unacceptable. I knew I would not be suspected, at least by anyone other than my father. But I had not thought of the punishment for those they might accuse.

As the door closed behind the courier, my father spoke. “We will not speak of this. Have your persuasive essay completed by tomorrow at noon.”

I nodded. He corrected my arguments the next day, and my grammar each day after, his pen as precise as ever, but he no longer looked me in the eyes. He was still teaching me, but he had stopped wanting to know what I did with the knowledge.

I heard, weeks later, that Cleopas had been sent to the northern mines. My father never mentioned it. Neither did I. Some nights I still saw his name circled, my father’s pen hovering. I told myself the truth had been worth the cost. One wronged victim, among many. Some nights, I almost believed it.

When the city gossip settled, I double-checked the grammar on another pamphlet.

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Mercy’s Accomplice

Abel was frantic. Slamming his paws against the front door. Sondra looked up from her chair by the fire. This wasn’t like him. The blizzard outside was howling, the farmhouse groaning; it wouldn’t be safe outside. Yet with the threat of darkness, he added shrill barking.

She couldn’t take it anymore. Looking out the front window, she studied the field between her and the tree-lined dirt road a few hundred feet away. Deep snow, swirling in the wind. It might be safe if they hurried. She bundled up, including her husband’s winter boots.

Abel quieted when she put on her coat, and he sat before her as she offered his leash. She grabbed a flashlight, a meager help if he ran into the coming dark.

When she opened the door, he lunged ahead, scanning the road, searching. Then the frenzied bark returned, and he broke loose, running straight for the woods.

Following his tracks, she found Abel prancing and growling at a man half-buried. The flashlight revealed one leg folded awkwardly beneath him, and the snow around his chest held the tint of old rust.

“Abel!” When he came, she firmly wrapped his leash around her hand. Certainly, a motionless, bleeding man couldn’t have survived long in the storm; she turned back toward home. The sheriff could investigate once she contacted him.

A few steps away from the road, a rustling sent Abel into a register she had never heard from him before. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the man struggling to move. She shuffled across the road, released the leash, and got an arm under the stranger.

It was dark and frigid by the time she had dragged him across their yard and down the storm cellar stairs. He would be warm enough in there until dawn.

Widowed, she lived alone. Injured or not, she didn’t trust an unknown man in her home.

Later, she brought him a blanket and pillow. He told her his name was Clay Bower. He said he’d fallen from his horse at the fork in the road and crawled until he saw a chimney with smoke. He said thank you, ma’am, more times than a man in that much pain should have breath for.

Abel wouldn’t come down the cellar steps. He sat at the top of them while she spoke with Clay. His eyes never left her as he watched the darkness below him.

Around midnight, she checked again. Clay was half-delirious with fever, mumbling about his family, two valleys over. About his wife being gone, and his children too. Between the delirium and his sobs, he was difficult to understand.

She’d brought broth to warm him, but when she heard what sounded like ‘so much blood’, she went still, the ladle full in her hand.

Fever talk, she told herself. She remembered the rust stain in the snow from an injury she’d yet to discover. That was all it was. But she was careful to lock the storm cellar doors before she returned inside.

There was no way she could get word into town this late and in a snowstorm. She’d figure it out in the morning.

Sheriff Norbert Layton and his deputies came with first light. “Morning, Mrs. Grayson. Did you happen to see anyone pass through this way last night?”

She had the whole truth sitting right there, and it would have cost her nothing to give it to him. But snow had covered the bloody drag marks; there was nothing to tell him about the man lying in her cellar.

“No one’s come to my door,” she said. This was true enough; he hadn’t come to her door, and he hadn’t passed through. She’d gone out and brought him to the cellar herself.

Layton nodded. “Be careful. A man murdered his family two valleys over. He was last seen riding this way.”

Abel chose that moment to squeeze past the sheriff’s legs and plant himself on the cellar doors. The rumble wasn’t quite a growl.

“He’s never done that with…” she started to say, then caught herself. Let her dog stand there growling for no reason, she’d say nothing to explain him.

Layton looked at the dog and the locked cellar doors. “Abel’s usually got better manners than that.”

She nodded. “Long night.”

He looked at his hands, then back at the cellar doors. “I expect I’ll swing back through tomorrow. Check on you.” He seemed satisfied, though as she watched them ride off, she wasn’t sure.

“Come, Abel. Back inside.”

Clay’s fever broke that afternoon. The please-and-thank-you politeness thinned out, revealing a colder heart underneath. He asked her, almost idly, whether the sheriff came around often. He looked in her eyes as he asked.

She understood then, with a clarity that came too late, exactly who she’d been protecting.

By early evening, he had healed enough to move about in the cellar. She made sure to have Abel with her when she checked on him. She saw it in his eyes plainly, for the first time undisguised; he was not an innocent traveler.

So much blood. Why hadn’t she listened?

Sheriff Layton came back the next morning, as he’d said he would, but this time Clay stood behind the door, by her shoulder, the whole conversation, listening to every word she gave. The tip of a knife pressed into her back, hidden, but clearly present.

The cellar latch hung open. She was not, ordinarily, a careless woman. The sheriff knew this. She let Abel do what he wanted, which was to stand between the sheriff and the house without moving.

Layton looked from the open latch to the dog, then to her anxious face. “Roads seem clear today, should you need to come to town. The man we were seeking must be long gone.” He did not look back at the cellar or her as he rode away.

She watched as he crossed the road into the woods, taking the narrow path that led toward town. His horse’s blaze flashed briefly as he turned to face her land.

That afternoon, Clay twisted her arm back, forcing her to the barn. He told her plainly what happened to people who saw too much. He smiled when he told her what had happened to the family two valleys over. While she saddled her horse, he wrenched Abel’s collar, holding a knife at his throat.

Then Sheriff Layton peered in the open door.

It was her last chance. She yanked on the cinch and shoved the horse toward the stall wall. He reared as expected, shrieking and striking out. With Clay startled, Abel pulled back and latched his teeth onto his wrist. The knife dropped.

He kicked Abel, who flew, whimpering, into the wall. Layton moved fast, wrestling Clay to the ground. As he reached for the knife, Sondra stepped from the stall, planting her boot on it.

Afterward, with Clay in irons secured to the wagon, Layton didn’t ask why she hadn’t told him. They both knew there’d been a window, and that she’d ignored it.

“Abel,” was all he said, crouching to scratch the dog’s ears, “is a better judge of character than most folks I know.”

She said nothing. There wasn’t a version of the truth that made her even half as good as Abel.

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Chapter Eight: Unexpected Findings

Wind tore through the valley before dawn, jostling the cottonwoods and clattering the loose screen-door hinge.

The dry air crackled, announcing change, and I’d woken bracing, as if I knew we were about to hear what we didn’t want to know.

Gran was sitting at the table when I came down, hunched over her mug. She looked up, and in that glance, I knew; whatever peace we’d borrowed had run out.

I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat across from her. A manila envelope rested on the table between us. The emblem of the Cibola County Sheriff’s Office was pressed into a corner.

Gran slid it toward me, her eyes tired. “Sheriff Reyes brought this by early this morning. Said it couldn’t wait.”

My hands hesitated over the flap. My chest had already gone tight.

The envelope wasn’t thick, but it might have been made of stone. Inside was a single sheet with two short paragraphs of typed text and a bolded note at the bottom.

          Preliminary results indicate the presence of an atypical compound in Quentin                             Teague’s system. While inconclusive at this stage, the substance is not consistent              with over-the-counter medications or any prescription treatments listed in his                  medical history.

         No external trauma was observed. Internal findings were nonspecific. At this time,           the manner of death remains undetermined, pending additional laboratory                      analysis.

         Further testing has been initiated to clarify the identity of the substance                and its potential impact.

I stared at the words. “What does that mean?” I asked.

Gran didn’t answer right away. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and looked off toward the window.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But it doesn’t feel natural. And if they don’t know…”

The silence stretched out.

I folded the letter and set it down. “You think someone killed him?”

Her eyes filled, but she blinked the tears away. “I think Pops knew too much,” she whispered. “Things buried from years ago. A choice that never quite stayed buried.”

I stood and paced to the window. The land outside hadn’t changed. The sun crept across the fields, and Gertie stalked something in the tall grass. But everything in me felt off-kilter.

I turned back toward Gran. “Does anyone else know?”

“Eli knows. I think he’s coming by later,” she said. “Harlan didn’t say much, but he looked worried.”

There was a beat of quiet, and then Gran looked up at me, not the same way she had before. A trace of vulnerability crept into her voice. “I don’t want to go through this alone, Mija.”

The words hit deeper than anything in the envelope.

I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around her shoulders. She leaned into me. And for the first time since I’d come home, I let the thought bloom: I can’t leave. Not yet.

About midmorning, Gran had pulled out the notebook she used for everything—recipes, feed orders, funeral casseroles—and set it on the table between us. The air had settled after the wind, leaving the house in a kind of suspended stillness.

“We need to talk about the service,” she said gently. “Before folks start calling.”

My stomach knotted. I pulled my chair closer to the table. “Did you and Pop ever talk about this?”

She shook her head, “We thought we had more time. He was healthy.”

Turning a few pages in the notebook, past old grocery lists and weather notes, she found a blank one. “I want it to be his, not something fancy or dressed up like he was someone else.”

I nodded. Pops would have liked that.

“And I want it at the church,” she added, as if that part was obvious. “Where he was baptized. Where he taught Sunday school. Where he sang bass from the second pew until his voice gave out.”

I smiled despite the ache in my chest. “I bet that old hymnbook still has his pencil marks.”

Gran nodded. “He had his own harmonies.”

“What about the eulogy?” I asked. “Do you want the pastor to do it?”

“Pastor Torres will handle the message,” she said. “But I was hoping you’d speak, too. You knew him in ways no one else did.

“I…” My mouth went dry. “I want to. But I might start crying and mess it up.”

She looked over, her voice steady but kind. “Then write it. Whatever you choose, he’d be proud.”

I swallowed hard. “There’s a song floating in my head. No words yet, but a melody.”

“I figured,” she smiled softly. “He’d like that.”

“He might not like how it sounds,” I admitted. “It’s pretty rough.”

“He never cared about being perfect. He cared about singing truth.” She glanced toward the window. “Maybe that’s all this needs.”

I looked down at the table, at the scratches Pop accidentally carved in the wood with a screwdriver when he was fixing something without a workbench. My hand rested on the edge of the table, grounding myself like I’d seen Gran do more than once.

We spent the next hour sharing stories and crying. Accepting that it wasn’t yet time for details or decisions, Gran closed her notebook and smoothed her hand over the cover. “He didn’t like fuss,” she said. “But he always appreciated effort.”

I stood slowly, the notes beginning to line up in my chest. “I’ll go work on his song.”

Gran reached out and squeezed my hand. “Take your time, sweetheart.”

I needed air.

More than came through a screen door or drifted through the corners of a house echoing with silence. So, I slipped on my boots, whistled softly for Gertie, who honked from somewhere behind the barn, and made my way out past the garden fence and the low-slung shed.

The trail toward the creek hadn’t changed. Cottonwoods lined the edge like old guards, their trunks scarred with initials from years back—mine and Eli’s among them, though the bark had grown so much you could hardly tell. The stream wound lazily through the grassland, water catching glints of morning sun.

I sat on the smooth rock where Pops used to bring a thermos and a book. Relaxing, I listened to the gurgle of the creek. Its rhythm matched the melody in my head. Gertie lingered a few feet back, preening, waiting for me to finish our walk.

That was when the first lines came. Not words, really, but images.

Watching a sunset through the rain. His boots by the door. The porch swing creaking at night, along with his guitar’s gentle tune. How he never locked the barn, but always closed the door. Like he trusted the land to hold its own.

I pulled out my phone, opened the notes app, and started typing.

          The world felt still, colors drained to gray
          When you were called and slipped so far away

I stopped. I blinked hard. Not crying. But it was close.

Another line came.

          I walked in darkness, lost and all alone
          A heavy heart, a seed of sorrow sown

I let the lines sit there for a moment. Then whispered them aloud, testing how they tasted against the breeze.

It wasn’t finished. It wasn’t even a song yet, but as we finished our walk, scraps of lyrics tumbled around in my head.

The screen door snapped shut when I stepped back onto the porch, guitar in hand. I hadn’t played since Denver, but this time, it wasn’t a performance. It was closer to prayer.

I sat on the top step, the wood warmed by the afternoon sun. Gertie snuck behind me, laying close against my back. I strummed once, softly.

I found the progression without thinking, fingers moving out of habit. And then I closed my eyes and sang the opening lines. Quietly at first, almost under my breath.

The chorus rose before I could stop it:

          But as the dawn breaks through my pain, I see your smile like sunlit rain
          Washing over every doubt and fear, whispering softly, “I am near”…

The door never made a sound. But Gran was there, standing in the doorway, arms crossed tight, her face heavy with tears. Her expression said more than words could, as I finished the chorus.

          Every shadow fades away when I think of you on that brighter day
          In the Father’s arms, you’re finally free, and that’s the hope that lives in me.

The last chord lingered in the air. Gran didn’t speak.

She stepped onto the porch and lowered herself carefully onto the step beside me. Her hand slid over mine. She offered warmth and comfort. Her face was damp, eyes swollen from the tears she wasn’t trying to hide. “Your song? For him?” she asked.

“A start on it,” I said. “I sat in his spot by the creek, and the words came to me.”

She nodded. “He’d be proud.”

I looked down at our hands, hers worn and sure, mine still shaking. “I don’t know if I can sing it at the service.”

Gran didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The porch swing behind us rocked in the soft wind. Gertie had settled nearby. And the morning, somehow, didn’t feel quite as heavy.

I stayed on the porch long after Gran went inside, the guitar still across my lap, the song repeating in my head like waves against rock: soft, steady, unrelenting.

The wind shifted. Dust stirred near the drive, kicked up by something heavy rolling over loose stone. A truck pulled up slowly: an older model, dust-muted blue. Eli’s.

He parked by the drive, climbed out, and paused at the gate, uncertain. Off duty, he wore civilian clothes: jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt faded by the sun. He took off his hat and held it at his side, eyes searching the yard for me. “You up for company?” he called gently.

I smiled, teasing, and strummed a soft chord. “Since you’re already here.”

He walked up the porch steps, movements easy, careful, as if I might spook. “You writing?” he asked.

“Started it this morning,” I said. “The words found me down by the creek.”

Eli nodded and looked out at the hills.

I set the guitar beside me and pulled my phone from my pocket, opening the notes app. “I haven’t finished it.”

“Can I hear what you have?”

I hesitated, only a second, then passed him the phone.

He took it reverently and read it twice.

“You mind if I join you?”

I blinked. “Sing?”

He smiled a little. “Don’t act surprised. We used to harmonize, remember? You on the melody, me grounding it.”

I laughed softly. “Yeah. That was how we got through things back then.”

He sat down beside me and handed the phone back. “Try it again.”

I picked up the guitar and started singing softly. And, as if it had never stopped, his voice slid in behind mine: low, rich, and solid.

The harmony wrapped around us both.

I faltered on the last line, voice cracking. But Eli didn’t.

The final chord faded slowly, like the hush that comes after a hard truth. We sat in the silence that followed, living in this new truth.

Eli set his hat on his knee. “If you sing that at the service… and you need harmony… I’ll be there.”

My throat tightened, but I nodded. Because I already knew I’d need it.

By the time Eli left, the night had gone quiet, the song lingering in the wood, wrapped in the sunset. I stood for a while, watching his taillights disappear down the road, then turned back inside.

Gran was in the kitchen, two mugs of tea already steeping. “I figured he might stay awhile,” she said, not looking up.

I gave a small smile and reached for the mug closest to me. “We sang together. Like old times.”

Gran’s eyebrows lifted. “He harmonizes well. Always did.”

I blew across the top of the tea, watching the steam rise. “He offered to sing harmony. At the funeral.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for her small notebook on the counter. A church bulletin was folded inside, with announcements printed and a schedule for the month tucked behind the prayer list.

“We need to finish the service,” she said softly. “The pastor’s coming by in the morning.”

It fell together quickly. Pastor Torres would lead and provide the sermon.

Hymns: Love Divine, All Loves Excelling, Be Thou My Vision, and a few testimonies from friends. A slideshow, if I could pull one together from Gran’s albums and whatever was stored in the old laptop upstairs.

My new song, if I could finish it.

And maybe, for him, there’d be sunflowers by the altar. He always said they were the only flowers with good posture.

She looked up, her eyes glassy. “You’ll sing?”

I nodded. “It’s his song.”

Gran’s throat worked around emotion. “He’d be proud.”

We sat a moment longer in the hush of shared understanding. The old house creaked. The wind moved through the trees outside. Somewhere distant, Gertie honked once, clear and strong.

I broke the silence. “There’s a box of old letters in the shed. Some of them are from my dad. There’s a journal, too. It looked like whoever was writing it stopped suddenly.”

Gran’s face shifted. Not surprised, but wary. “I haven’t opened those in a long time.”

“I wasn’t going to either,” I said. “But after what the sheriff said, and after that toxin report…”

Gran exhaled slowly. “It seemed sudden, and I didn’t want to believe there was more to it, but now?”

We were quiet again, but this silence was different. Tense.

“I think I’ll read the journal tonight,” I said. “In case it has anything to reveal.”

Gran nodded once. “If it brings you closer to the truth, then it’s time.”

The light above the table buzzed faintly. The tea had gone cool.

Time had shifted, and I felt like a glimmer of dare I say, hope? There was less grief, more purpose.

Tomorrow, we would talk with the pastor. Tonight, I’d read about the past.

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Chapter Six: Almost Home

Traffic picked up as I neared Grants. Billboards for fireworks, truck stops, and ancient lava tubes dotted the landscape, sun-bleached and wind-torn.

I turned south at Exit 81, heading into familiar country. The road narrowed again, twisting through scrubland and sandstone, past ranch fences, tin-roof sheds, and signs with peeling paint.

As I headed towards Ramah, the hills closed in tighter, the trees thickened, and the world became quieter.

Somewhere along the stretch between there and Zuni, I remembered the last trip I’d taken out here with Pops; I must’ve been sixteen.

We’d stopped to fix a flat, and he’d made me learn how to change the tire, even though the sun was hot and the jack was rusted. I’d cursed under my breath, hands black with road grime.

“Can’t sing your way through a blowout,” he’d said, grinning as he handed me the lug wrench. “Gotta learn how to take care of things, too.”

I’d been furious then. But now, the memory made me smile.

The red cliffs and sandstone bluffs flanked me on the right as I pulled past Ramah, glowing rust and rose under the early afternoon sun. I rolled down the windows, letting the dry wind slip in, carrying dust and pine.

The road straightened as I approached Zuni village, flattening out beneath a vast blue sky. I passed the school, the cultural center, the gas station with the hand-painted sign, and finally pulled into the large lot of the grocery market off the main road.

Inside, it was surprisingly large and modern with wide aisles, bright lighting, and the familiar hum of large refrigeration units. A pair of young kids ran past the end cap displaying cans of soup, laughing. I wandered for a while, not quite sure what I was looking for, but not ready for more driving yet.

Eventually, I picked up a few things I thought Gran might need. No one recognized me. Nothing more than a quiet nod from the clerk and the rhythmic beep of the scanner.

Back in the car, I paused at the edge of the lot, turning right to head out of the village.

I turned south onto Highway 36, a road that wound through hills thick with piñon. The land rose and dipped with a rhythm of its own.

The sun was starting to lean west, throwing gold across the grasslands and dragging long shadows over the road.

A few elk moved off into the trees, half-hidden in the branches. The bull lifted his head as I passed. We looked at each other. His gaze seemed strangely accusing.

There were no more road signs now. No more stores. Only the hum of tires, the occasional bird call, and the murmur of wind blowing through the hills.

At the edge of the second ridge, I turned west again, following a dirt road so old the map barely remembered it, until I found what I was looking for: a shallow creek which wound through the hill country, its water sparkling under the cottonwoods.

I turned into an otherwise unmarked lane, and gravel crunched under the tires.

This was the edge of their land: likely my land someday.

The house appeared, adobe faded to sandy brown, the porch roof sagging a little more than I remembered. It looked like it had seen ten thousand sunsets and didn’t flinch at a single one.

I cut the engine and sat for a minute. No rush. I breathed in deeply. Along the creek, the cottonwoods moved in the wind. The leaves whispered across each other, rustling softly. The breeze brought sage and juniper, soothing reminders of childhood.

Gran stood on the porch, her white hair swept up in a loose bun. Her enduring smile greeted me.

When I stepped out of the car, and she opened her arms, we didn’t need words. I crossed the yard and hugged her like it was the only reliable thing left in the world.

She held me tight with quiet strength. “You’re home,” she whispered against my shoulder.

Behind us, a honk broke the silence.

Gertie stood in the yard, feathers puffed, watching us with bright, suspicious eyes. She waddled a little closer, then stopped, head tilted.

“She’s not sure yet,” Gran murmured. “But she will be.”

I laughed softly.

“Come inside,” Gran said gently. “You look like you’ve been driving through all four seasons.”

Taking one last look at the sky, I followed her in.

As the screen door clicked shut behind us, the cool of the house wrapped around me, faintly scented with coffee, and old wood warmed by the afternoon sun.

It smelled the same. But the air had changed—the laughter was missing.

Gran moved with quiet precision, but there was nothing frail about her. She poured the coffee the same way she always had: strong, with no cream or sugar.

She touched the counter for a moment before turning, palm flat against the surface, grounding herself.

“I overfilled the filter again,” she muttered. “He’d always sneak behind me and stir it with the spoon as if that made it stronger.”

I smiled, barely. “He used to swear by it.”

She looked up, and her smile broke. “It didn’t.”

I took the mug she offered before she sat. Her hands clung to her own cup, seemingly hoping the warmth might hold her together.

“You remember how he used to whistle when he was about to say something smart?” she asked.

I nodded. “He’d do it even when he had nothing to say. Just to make you curious.”

We both laughed quietly, remembering.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of him.

She turned her eyes toward the window. “He fixed the porch light the night before,” she said. “Said he didn’t like sitting on the swing in the dark.”

I sank into the chair I always used when I was little. The one Pops kept fixing instead of replacing. The legs creaked beneath me.

“You made good time,” she said.

“Only stopped for lunch. Laguna. Pop’s favorite.”

She nodded. “Figured as much. Gertie kept pacing the driveway this morning as if she knew you were coming.”

I glanced toward the window. The goose in question stood in the tall grass near the creek, neck stretched toward the horizon. She was waiting for someone else to pull into the drive.

“She’ll come around,” Gran added. “She misses him, too.”

I looked back down at my coffee. The mug was warm in my hands, supporting me. The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt safe.

“Did he suffer?” I asked finally.

“No. Went quiet in his sleep. He simply...” Gran shook her head, “stopped.”

My chest clenched. “I should’ve called him the night before,” I whispered. “I meant to.”

Her eyes softened, and her voice was quiet but sure.

“He knew. Pop always knew what you meant, even when you didn’t say it.”

I nodded and took another sip. The heat didn’t sting this time.

Gran reached behind her and pulled a folded piece of paper from the counter.

“He left this by the phone. Don’t know if it was for you, or something he needed to remember.”

I took it carefully. The paper was soft from handling. It wasn’t long: a list of things he meant to do this week.

Oil the gate hinges. Mend the west fence. Pick up more coffee. Call Dakota back.

My throat tightened. The last line sat heavier than the rest. He’d saved it for last so he’d have more time.

I folded the paper slowly and tucked it into my notebook without a word.

Gran stood and rested her hand lightly against the back of my shoulder to remind me she was still here. Then she walked outside, the screen door swinging shut behind her with a soft bang.

I stayed seated, listening to the kitchen clock tick above the stove and the faint sound of Gertie honking somewhere down near the pond.

The house settled around me again. Its walls and windows were worn smooth with use.

I hadn’t been back in months. Maybe longer. But the familiarity hugged me close. The creak of the floorboards. The slight hitch in the bathroom door. The hum of the swamp cooler that always needed cleaning twice a season due to the constant wind. It was all the same.

Except he wasn’t sitting with me.

His boots sat by the door, scuffed and dusty, laces tucked the way he always left them. His denim jacket hung on the peg, sleeves worn soft at the cuffs. Ready for him to reach for it on the next cold morning and head out to the fence line.

I moved into the living room.

Sunlight filtered through the west-facing window, catching on the dust in the air like memory particles.

His coffee mug hung in its usual place on the rack: second from the right, chipped at the rim. His guitar rested in its stand next to his fireside chair.

The throw blanket Gran had crocheted years ago was folded across the backrest, loose in the middle where it had learned the shape of his shoulders.

I stood too long, staring.

Eventually, I picked up the guitar. It was heavier than mine. The neck was wider, the strings worn smooth: they’d remember his touch.

I sat in his chair and strummed a single chord.

It rang out. The sound filled the room for a heartbeat, then disappeared.

I let the guitar rest across my lap and looked toward the end table where he used to keep the remote and a small dish of change.

A single sheet of paper lay there, folded in half. My name was written on the outside.

I hesitated.

The words were rough. A few lines in his familiar hand, ink smudged where his thumb had pressed:

You’ve got her gift, you know. Tala, your mama’s voice. But mine too. Strong and sharp and loyal to the soil. Don’t lose it. Don’t go so far that you can’t find your way home.

I crumpled and set it down as if it had burned me.

I stood, guitar in hand, and gently returned it to the stand beside his chair. The strings twanged as I let go.

I didn’t cry, but I gripped the back of the couch longer than I meant to, before fleeing outside.

Chapter Seven: Gertie

The sun was low on the ridge, casting long amber streaks across the grass. The air had cooled. It wasn’t cold, but edged with evening, like the land was settling in for sleep. A few crickets had started their songs.

Gran stood with Gertie by the pond, watching the sun set.

I sank into the porch swing, letting it creak beneath me, the chain hitching gently with each sway. Pops had fixed it last spring, muttering that everything fell apart if you didn’t keep it tuned.

I pushed off with my foot and let it drift slowly.

The breeze tugged at the hem of my shirt, carrying the scents of the valley.

Then I heard the soft pat of footsteps in the yard. Gertie emerged from the grass, her white feathers catching the dusk light. She paused at the bottom of the steps, head cocked slightly, one foot raised.

She didn’t honk; she watched.

I found myself humming, low and slow, a tune I hadn’t sung since I was ten. A song Pops used to play when the power went out, and we lit the house with candles.

Gertie crept a little closer and settled near the steps.

The last of the sun slipped behind the hills. The world turned blue and gold.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whispered.

Gertie made a low, soft chirring sound in her throat, a cry I’d never heard from a goose before. Then, with surprising grace, she hopped onto the edge of the swing, webbed feet pressing into the slats beside me.

She didn’t crowd. But she settled there. Quiet. Comforting. Somehow, she knew I had started to shake. I sat, blinking fast, trying not to cry.

The swing rocked gently beneath us. Two hurting creatures settled side by side with no idea what came next.

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t leave, either.

And for the first time all day, I didn’t feel alone.

The chill stole in fast once the sun was gone, and I wasn’t ready to unpack anything, least of all my feelings.

Ducking back inside, I half-expected the kitchen light to flick on with Pops’ voice behind it.

Gran, who must have ducked in the back door, had left a bowl of stew on the stove, warming. I wasn’t hungry, but I ate half of it anyway, because she had made it special for me.

We moved quietly that evening. She folded laundry while I dried dishes. No talk about the funeral yet. No talk at all, really.

But there was comfort in the way our movements aligned. We’d done this a thousand times before, or so it seemed.

I carried the laundry upstairs for her, placing it on their bed. More signs of Pop were scattered around the room. His Bible on the nightstand, slippers by the bed. He had died here. I whispered a prayer, but I didn’t stay.

In the upstairs hallway, I ran my fingers along the paneling, remembering how many times I’d traced it as a kid, walking in socks and dragging a stuffed horse behind me.

I paused by my old room, opening the door a hair. My hand rested on the doorknob. It had been years since I’d slept here, but the outline of the bed, the crooked bookshelf, the painted closet door, it was all still mine.

There was a soft thud outside, the sound of a bird landing on the eaves, and for a moment, I could almost hear Pop on the porch, strumming his guitar, humming along.

I moved back toward the living room, stopping at the bookshelf. He kept his songbooks there: old spiral notebooks filled with blue ink and penciled chords. I ran my hand over the spines but didn’t open any.

Gran had pulled out her weaving basket. She sat in her chair, back straight, hands steady, the warp stretched across the lap loom like an unfinished story. I watched her for a moment from the hallway, then crossed to the couch and sank into the cushions.

As the room settled into quiet again, Gran paused in her weaving. “Long drive?”

I nodded. “Left after the show. Got into Albuquerque at sunrise. Packed. Drove straight here.”

She let out a soft whistle. “That’s a hard stretch when you’re carrying more than luggage.” Her shuttle moved again.

“Didn’t sleep much,” I added. “Didn’t want to.”

Gran didn’t answer right away. The rhythm of her weaving felt like a third heartbeat in the room.

“So,” she said gently, “you’re really heading back after the service?”

I looked down at my hands, then at the shadow Gertie cast through the window, curled beside the porch rail.

“That’s the plan,” I said. But even to my own ears, it sounded undecided.

“You’ve always been one for chasing the horizon,” she said. “But this place has a way of waiting for you.”

She glanced up and gave me a smile that held a thousand small memories in it. “And not just the place.”

I didn’t answer. No need to.

The house settled. The swing rocked once more in the wind. And I knew she’d heard the crack in my voice.

She nodded, passing the shuttle from one hand to the other. Back and forth. Thread and tension.

“Plenty that needs doing,” she said.

I leaned back, muscles aching in strange places. The road had finally caught up with me.

Outside, the porch swing creaked as the winds increased. Inside, Gran wove, and I watched the shadows pool at the corners of the room.

We didn’t say anything else. But it felt like we were holding each other together by being there.

I moved to the kitchen for water and glanced through the back window. Gertie was making her way behind the barn, the way she always did when the day wound down.

The last of the light caught her feathers as she paused at the water’s edge, silhouetted in the soft gold of the dying sun. The pond rippled around her like a halo.

That was where Pops had found her. A fluff of wet down and a crooked wing, abandoned by whatever flock she came from. He brought her in, wrapped her in an old flannel, and told me, “She’s family now.”

He cleared out a corner of the barn for her: scrap fencing, an old dog crate, patched together with more care than it looked. Said it was temporary, but it wasn’t.

I smiled, remembering. That was Pop. Always taking in strays. Always offering shelter, whether we asked for it or not.

She became his shadow after I left, following him through morning chores, waiting on the porch when he ran into town, listening without needing to understand.

And now she stood there, neck arched toward the hills like she was listening for him to come home. She stayed there for a while, then slid into the pond, gliding in slow, thoughtful circles, watching the dark gather at the edges of the land.

Eventually, she disappeared into the shadows.

I turned from the window and set my mug on the strainer.

Gran remained in her chair, weaving. She didn’t speak, but I could read the rhythm in her hands, steady and deliberate. Not sleep-ready.

We shared the silence the way we used to share songs, without apology.

Later that night, I stood at the doorway of my old room, fingers brushing the frame, feeling the years tucked into the wood.

The air smelled of cedar, laundry soap, and the faintest hint of lavender. The same sachet Gran used to tuck into my pillowcase when I had nightmares.

The bed was made, of course. Sheets stretched taut, quilt draped across the foot. A stack of books on the nightstand, along with my bent lamp. The same mirror with the sticker half-peeled from the corner. Nothing had changed.

Except me.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the room that belonged to someone else. A younger version of me who used to sing to the ceiling and imagine stages waiting just beyond the cottonwood trees.

Restless, I couldn’t accept the feeling of home. I lay back slowly, my shoes still on, and my arms folded across my ribs. The wind whispered across the rooftop. The floor creaked once below. I imagined Gran weaving, letting the threads pull long into the quiet.

Outside, somewhere near the pond, I thought I heard Gertie honk once or twice. Soft. Almost like a lullaby.

And, for the first time since Rock Springs, I slept.

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There has been a request for pictures of the goats.

Here are the players:

Rufus at 6 months (he is a lot larger now):

His mother Calliope:

The white goat beside her is Mugsy’s mother.

Mary (Mary quite contrary), Rufus’s twin sister:

And Mugsy:

THE REUNION!

Mother and son greet each other:

Rufus and Mugsy meet and establish that they are goats:

And finally, their early interactions:

Rufus is nervous. He was with Bucky for most of his life, and now his friend is gone. We have left the four of them together in an area that opens to Rufus’s shed, so he has a safe zone, if he feels he needs it. So far, his mother is the only one who has been allowed inside his home.

We don’t know how long it will take to acclimate Rufus, and the others, to their new living situation. They will roam together today, and we will see how they are doing before deciding where they sleep tonight. We will give Rufus time to adjust before we move him in with the girls full-time.

UPDATE: They are together in the main shed tonight. There is still some confusion, but Rufus seems happy not to be alone.

Chapter Four: Etched Upon My Soul

I don’t know how much time passed, but the crew called for a sound check, so I stood, as steady as I could, and prepared for the show.

Everyone looked at me like I had a second head. I’d never walked off alone like that. I was never brisk with them, but I couldn’t face the emotions. Maybe after the show.

I hugged my guitar. I held my flute as if it could hug me back. Kayla asked if I was alright.

“Tired,” I said. “Long road from Rock Springs.”

No one pushed. They all gave me space, which told me they knew somehow, and they felt it too. We were all worn out, ready for a longer break.

The hours passed in a blur of makeup, pre-show rituals, and the strange quiet that settles right before the lights come on. I could do this. I’d done it a hundred times. But tonight, I relied on instinct, on rote memory.

The music I needed wouldn’t fit what the audience expected. But maybe honoring Pops was more important. I shared with the band that the last song would be mine alone. They nodded and let me be.

By eight, the house lights dimmed. The crowd erupted. The band was in place, waiting.

I stepped into the glow and smiled like it wasn’t breaking me.

We played the opening numbers full of fire, Honky Tonk Night, Runaway Sky, the usual ones. The crowd moved with us, arms waving, stomping boots on the floor.

I moved with them, too. But it felt like singing from underwater.

After the slower set, I reached for the mic, and the audience quieted.

“This next one,” I said, voice barely above a whisper, “is for someone who believed in every single note I ever wrote or sang. I hope he’s listening.”

The band eased into “Firelight Waltz.” I let every word fall gently and true, even when my voice caught.

             Three steps and a glance threw us back in time

             Boots on the porch and your hand in mine...

I don’t remember finishing the song.

The energy slowly faded as I lifted my hand in a silent cue to the band, and the last echo of the final chord dissolved into the vast space of the arena.

Wes took my guitar and handed me my mother’s flute.

A single blue spotlight found me. I stepped forward slowly. In my hands, the polished wood of my Navajo flute caught the glow, smooth from years of playing.

The others eased back into the shadows.

“I usually play this,” I said quietly, “for Ma, who taught me of her heritage, and the song of the winds.”

My voice caught. “Tonight, I play it for her... but also for my grandfather, whose spirit flew this morning to join her.”

I looked out across the sea of faces.

“Now, they soar in the wind, and my heart.”

Then I brought the flute to my lips.

The first note stretched long and slow, trembling at the edges: like wind through a canyon, like the first call of dawn over a quiet mesa.

The melody rose, dipped, flowed like water. It carried something too big for words, shaped by longing, love, and memory.

Each note hung in the air like mist, suspended before melting into the next. The minor tones hummed in my chest, in my bones.

The crowd fell silent. Thousands of people, and not a single sound. They didn’t need to understand it to feel it.

Because this wasn’t just music; it was prayer.

I closed my eyes and let the melody take me deeper. I wasn’t playing from memory anymore. I was playing from pain, from loss.

This song had been passed down. My mother imparted it to me, just like her mother had taught her. It lived in my blood. One piece of my childhood I’d never let go.

Each note carried me home: to the warmth of my mother’s arms, guiding my tiny hands on the flute, to the scent of sage and summer rain in the desert, to the hum of stories told around the fire, stories I didn’t always understand but always felt.

I played as if the song could cross time. As if it could reach through the veil, all the way to her, to the ones I lost too soon.

And for a moment, I swear I saw her, standing beyond the light, and Pops by her side, confused, but smiling back at me.

The final note drifted into silence.

Then, somewhere in the dimmed theater, a single soft amen. Someone understood and recognized the reverence.

Applause followed. Not wild or explosive. Deeper, like a thank you.

Near the front, an old man nodded, as if he understood what the rest of the crowd might not.

And me? I didn’t say a word.

My heart full, I lowered the flute. I already knew this song was never about the applause.

The last note lingered somewhere in my chest as I stepped offstage, flute cradled as a memory worth preserving. The dressing room felt too bright, too raw, even in silence. I sat on the edge of the bench and stared at my stage boots, not ready to take them off. I didn’t want to move at all.

Wes set my guitar in its case without a word. Jesse handed me a water bottle, eyes searching mine, but not asking. Kayla stood inside the doorway, arms crossed, waiting.

“Give me five,” I said, “I’ll meet you on the bus.”

They gave me ten.

The crew had broken down the gear, packed the last cases, and filed off with tired nods and respectful distance.

When I finally stepped back into the narrow lounge of the bus, everyone was there. Bryn leaned against the kitchen counter. Wes and Jesse flanked the sofa. Kayla sat at the small table, watching me closely.

“I need to go home,” I said.

No one asked questions. None of them made a scene.

I swallowed. “My grandfather passed away this morning. I found out soon after we arrived in Denver. I didn’t want to say anything until…” My voice cracked, and I let it. “Until after. Pops would have wanted that.”

Kayla stood and crossed to me without hesitation. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders, comforting. I didn’t cry, but I accepted her heart’s offering.

“I’m leaving the tour,” I said quietly. “At least for now.”

No one protested. They knew the decision was already made.

“We’ve got a few days open,” Jesse said finally. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I can handle lead vocals if needed,” Kayla added, voice calm. “Tell us what you need.”

“I need the road,” I whispered, “but not this one. Not right now.”

We headed home before midnight. I did nothing but stare, my eyes unfocused, tears slipping silently down my cheeks.

The city lights thinned as we pulled onto the highway, neon giving way to amber streetlamps, then dark. I sat in my usual spot, one leg tucked under me, head against the cool window.

No music played. No one spoke above a whisper.

Behind me, the bunks settled, curtains drawn, zippers pulled. Kayla handed me a thermos of coffee before disappearing into the shadows.

“Yell if you need anything,” she said.

I sat in silence; tears etched on my cheeks.

Chapter Five: Let the Miles Roll

The sky was beginning to lift when the first outline of the Sandias came into view. They were softly shadowed, holding the horizon like a delicate memory. The colors bloomed slowly: pale lavender, then rose, then gold, streaking across the edges of the range like someone brushing life back into the day.

It felt both cruel and holy. I swallowed hard. “Morning, Pops,” I whispered.

The bus pulled into the narrow gravel lot behind our old practice space. Our studio sat at the edge of a crumbling strip of southside storefronts; a defunct gas station with rusted pumps bolted to the concrete island and a cracked adobe façade that had been patched more with hope than plaster.

The front windows were barred, and the side door was steel and dented. Streetlights buzzed high above the roofline, casting long shadows in the dawn.

Ugly as it was, it had history. A place where we learned to sing over sirens and traffic, to layer harmony with the rattle of freight trains and planes overhead.

Our garage band started in a real garage. We wore that like a badge.

My SUV was right where I’d left it, second row, coated in a film of dust that dulled the shine. I threw my gear in the back, gave a quick nod to the crew, and slid behind the wheel.

The streets were quiet; a false sense of peace. A few tents slouched in the alleys and along the chain-link. Bedrolls were tucked behind trash bins and under trees, shapes barely moving. Half a block up, a woman pushed a cart so full it groaned, the wheels catching every crack in the pavement.

Unearned guilt followed me like a whisper.

Another block down, a low boom overhead made me flinch; an Air Force jet slicing through the morning sky. It rattled my side mirror and shook something loose in my chest.

I reached the freeway entrance as the light changed, stopped too fast, and nearly clipped the median. A horn blared. My heart kicked into my throat.

“Get it together, Teague,” I muttered.

I merged onto the I-25 northbound ramp and let the road stretch open. The hum of rubber against pavement was almost soothing. Almost.

A song came on the radio—mine. A live cut from a festival show. The audience cheered as I launched into the chorus of “Runaway Sky.”

I hummed along without thinking.

Then I recognized the harmony, the lift in my voice, and the smile I heard behind it, and shut the radio off.

The drive north only took fifteen minutes, and when I pulled into my apartment complex, the morning light had shifted.

My building sat in one of the safer neighborhoods off San Mateo, low stucco buildings, beige with burnt orange trim. The apartment was inexpensive, but clean.

Roses spilled over the fencing near the laundry room, and the smell of someone’s breakfast, eggs and chorizo, hung faintly in the air.

I parked in my usual spot and climbed the stairs to the second floor. My door stuck a little, as usual, and I had to nudge it with my shoulder.

Inside, everything was the same as I had left it.

The same gray couch and leaning bookshelf I never bothered to anchor. The same layer of dust on the framed photo of me, Pops, and Gran from my first real show in Santa Fe, eight years ago.

The place smelled of faint wood polish and air freshener from when I’d cleaned before our tour. It felt like someone else’s life, like a museum honoring the girl I used to be.

I grabbed a duffel from the bedroom and started packing on autopilot: jeans, flannels, boots, a half-used notebook, a sweatshirt that still smelled funky. I tossed in another pair of boots.

I moved without thinking, until my hand brushed the edge of my old cowboy hat, tucked behind the closet door.

Pops had bought it for me the day I got my first radio single. “Not just for show now,” he’d said, tipping it onto my head with a grin.

I ran my fingers along the brim. Zipping the duffel, I slung it over my shoulder and grabbed the hat before I could talk myself out of it. The band would be fine without me.

The tour could pause. But Gran couldn’t wait.

The sun was high when I returned to the parking lot.

Two blocks from the freeway, I spotted the old drive-thru coffee hut I hadn’t visited in months; Kiva Coffee, a turquoise shack wedged between a tire shop and a shuttered nail salon.

I pulled in behind a dusty Subaru and checked my reflection in the rearview. I looked like a singer on the run from her own setlist.

When it was my turn, I leaned out the window and said, “Large black coffee. Extra shot. No room.”

The barista raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve had a morning.”

“Something like that,” I half-smiled.

When the cup hit my hands, the heat bit through the cardboard and straight into my bones. I took the first sip before pulling away.

It was strong. Bitter. Perfect.

Exactly how Pops drank his.

I hit the westbound freeway ramp and didn’t look back.

I hit Exit 114 just before noon, the heat already rising off the pavement in slow waves.

The Laguna 66 Pit Stop hadn’t changed a bit. The same sun-faded mural of eagles and mesas stretched across the stucco wall, same flickering “OPEN” sign in the window, same cracked plastic letters announcing today’s special: Green Chile Cheeseburger + Fries $9.99.

I pulled into a shaded spot near the edge of the lot and sat for a moment, engine ticking. The coffee was gone, my nerves were unraveling, and I hadn’t eaten since Denver. My stomach complained with grief, hunger and the large coffee settling sideways. It grumbled.

Inside, the place smelled like grease, dust, and something faintly sweet, like dried apricot, leather and sage. The refrigerated cool felt good after the heat.

I ordered at the counter, just a name and a number, no smile, no eye contact. I was halfway to the drink station when I heard it:

“Wait… are you Dakota Rain?”

I turned.

A teenage boy in a Raiders cap blinked at me, wide-eyed. He held a fountain drink in one hand and a worn phone in the other, my face glowing back at me from a music video thumbnail.

“Um, yeah,” I said, voice low. “Passing through.”

He lit up. “My sister loves your song, Honky Tonk Nights?”

I gave a small nod. “Tell her thanks.”

I turned back toward the counter as the clerk behind the register tilted her head.

She had long silver braids and work-roughened hands. “You used to come in here with your grandfather,” she said.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t reach for a phone, but she said it as if it mattered.

“He always ordered extra chili on his burger. Never took the receipt.”

I swallowed. “Yeah. That sounds like him.”

She nodded once, then passed me my order: Laguna Burger, fries, and a cup of salsa so hot it could wake the dead.

“Drive safe, child,” she said. “The wind’s been talking today.”

I didn’t ask what it said. I just thanked her, took the bag, and walked out into the sun.

Not sure I wanted to eat where they were watching me, I turned left out of the lot and took New Laguna Road, a two-lane ribbon of cracked asphalt that wound west through the grasslands like it had no particular place to be.

The teen’s face was still in my mind, eyes wide like I was a story character come to life. And the woman behind the counter. She spoke as if I were merely Pop’s granddaughter. The one he delighted in introducing to neighbors and friends.

“My girl?” he’d say proudly. “She’s got a voice like a summer storm. Comes in quietly, leaves the whole valley listening.”

He never said what it might cost.

I found a small turnout past a rise in the land, near a weather-worn bench and an overlook with a broken plaque. One of those roadside rest spots locals use, but tourists rarely find.

The breeze smelled like baked earth and piñon smoke, and the only sound was the breeze rustling through the dry grass.

I parked, climbed out, and sat on the tailgate with the paper sack beside me.

The burger had cooled. Green chili, charred edges, a little too much salt, the way Pops would’ve liked it. I ate in silence, watching the haze over Mount Taylor, trying not to think.

In the distance, the red cliffs burned under the afternoon sun. A hawk circled overhead.

I closed my eyes. The wind lifted strands of my hair, brushed my skin at my neck and wrists.

I brushed the crumbs from my legs and dropped the sack into the trash bin. Then I slid behind the wheel and let the door thud shut behind me. Remembering the air’s soft brush on my skin, I watched the wind thread through the grass, like it had been waiting for me to move.

I pulled back onto the road and let the miles roll beneath me.

Author’s Note:

Thank you for taking this journey with me. I hope you enjoyed the brief sketch of New Mexico. Dakota is almost home. What do you think she will find there? Will she stay?

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Chapter One: A Highway Heart

Chapters Two and Three

Chapters Four and Five

Honky Tonk Happenstance

Dakota Rain writes through scars and sings with soul. When her grandfather’s unexpected death ends her life on tour, she returns to her New Mexican home and her grandfather’s favorite porch swing.

What follows is a homecoming rich with haunting memories, a trunk with long-lost letters, and the quiet companionship of those who stayed behind: a resilient grandmother, a childhood friend, a house echoing the music of those she’s lost, and, of course, Gertie: a fiercely loyal, emotionally intuitive goose who’s not buying Dakota’s “I’m fine” routine.

Told with quiet wisdom and lyrical depth, Honky Tonk Happenstance is a cozy, slow-burning novel about grief, tenacity, and the music that lives inside us long after the stage lights fade.

What to Expect

A cozy, character-driven mystery
A female country singer from rural New Mexico

Deep-rooted, unresolved grief
A fiercely loyal, emotionally intuitive goose named Gertie
Two unsolved murders haunt a small town

Lyrical literary prose

Chapter Two: A Desert Flower Blooming

“Alright, let’s slow down a bit,” I eased closer to the mic. “Are you missing someone tonight? If so, this one’s for you. For those who love deeply, ‘The Song Remembers You.”

The band shifted behind me as I leaned into the first notes.

The crowd quieted, then a ripple moved through the room. A young man near the bar raised his glass to the lady smiling beside him.

The first chords were gentle, and my voice followed suit, drifting low and easy:

          There is a verse in the silence, I still hear you sing

          In the hush after midnight, your memory clings...

Couples swayed slowly near the edge of the dance floor. Some closed their eyes, listening with their hearts. Others stepped into the open space again: older couples, mostly, holding each other close. The band softly slid in behind me in harmony.

Kayla joined the chorus, blending with my voice, synchronized beneath the melody.

          The notes may fade; the chords fall through

          But the song remembers you.

I don’t know why this song insisted on being sung tonight. I hadn’t planned to sing it, yet it haunted my mind, demanding to be free. I found myself staring past the crowd, thinking of home.

The applause brought me back. I adjusted my guitar strap, and someone near the bar gave a sharp whistle.

“Y’all are a tender-hearted bunch,” I said lightly. “But don’t cry just yet, we’ve got one more to send you out dancing.”

A few people gave a happy cheer.

“We’re going to end the night as it should end. On a front porch, with someone you love and a waltz in your step.”

The band rolled gently into Firelight Waltz—the song Pops always swore would outlive me—I heard my grandfather’s boots keeping time while he and gran danced on the porch. Stars winking over the barn. A waltz made for stories that far endured.

          Three steps and a glance threw us back in time,

          Boots on the porch and your hand in mine.

The room swayed. Most danced, but some stepped aside and watched the others. Someone standing alone near the back raised a lighter. I let the music carry me, not only through the notes, but through memory.

           And we danced a waltz, a firelight dream

           Like two old souls found a brand-new stream

          Trusting love again, after all the pain

          Like a desert flower blooming in the gentle rain.

When the last note settled, the applause rose in waves. I stepped back, smiling, though I felt oddly broken-hearted.

I tipped my hat again, pushing myself to smile in genuine celebration. “You’ve been fine company, Rock Springs. Keep dancing until we see you again.”

Kayla met me outside, hair damp, eyes shining. “That was the one tonight,” she said. “The Firelight Waltz? You had the room clinging.”

“I felt it. Must’ve been the air,” I said with a tired grin. “Or maybe it was your high note on verse three.”

“You noticed?” Kayla beamed.

“Please, I felt it.”

Back on the tour bus, Wes claimed the last peach cobbler from the fridge. Jess was already asking where we might stop for gas (he needed more snacks) on the way to Denver.

Kayla tossed me a water bottle and lifted hers in salute.

“Denver next,” Wes said. “Big stage. Big lights.”

“Big crowd,” Kayla added, bumping her hip against mine. “Hope you’re ready for it.”

I smiled. The mood was light and easy. I was home. It might not have walls and a porch swing, but I could carry it with me on the road.

By midnight, the bus had slipped onto the highway, the faint glow of Rock Springs fading behind us. The highway ahead was dark, the inky black between towns that eats headlights whole.

Most of the band had gone quiet, tucked into bunks, watching the stars pass by through smudged windows.

I had settled in the same corner where I’d woken that morning and flipped through my notebook. Still running on caffeine and autopilot, the same line haunted me.

          I’m chasing songs with a highway heart

I didn’t write anything new, but the melody stayed with me, surfacing in random hums.

My phone buzzed. It was a new text from Pops. “You were singing from the heart tonight. Gertie and I could feel it. Sleep tight, darling.”

I smiled at the screen, thumb hovering. Night, Pops, I typed, but didn’t send it. It was late. He’d still be awake, but it would be better to call him in the morning. I locked my phone and set it on the bench beside me.

The drone of the bus faded. The land stretched past the shoulder into the dark.

And in my mind, the line came back, clear as a bell, the song remembers you...

I tapped the pen once, twice, then let the tip settle on the page.

           My heart wonders if home is real

          Or a memory, a numbness I feel.

I read the lines back in a whisper. They felt… right. Close to something authentic.

          Miles melt away, but the distance stays the same

          This endless road, a cruel, familiar game.

My hand moved without thinking. I paused, pen hovering, the words out of reach. A wave of memory came gently, like the scent of alfalfa in summer. My sister was laughing, her mouth full of peanut butter. My mom’s feet tapped in time while she peeled apples. My father strummed his guitar while I hummed the melody.

Gone. They had been gone for so many years now. One fateful stormy night, one weakened bridge collapsed, and I alone survived. Still alive in my heart, they sing harmony in every song.

I shook my head and went back to writing:

          Sometimes I see faces in the rearview mirror

          Ghosts that bring laughter, when shadows draw a tear

          They smile and wave, but are always out of reach

          Leaving me stranded, beyond the grasp of speech

I smiled at the phrasing. Pops would like that. He always said it didn’t matter how many people were in the seats, only that the music was honest.

          I’m chasing songs with a highway heart,

          A restless spirit, torn from the start

          This asphalt ribbon, my only friend, it seems,

          Lost in the echoes of long forgotten dreams.

The chorus hummed in my chest as I sat back against the cold window, staring out at the blur of stars. The land out there was so broad and empty. But my heart was fuller than usual, like a tide about to break.

I flipped to a blank page and randomly wrote: Don’t forget the firelight. I didn’t know where it belonged, but I had learned to record those flighty thoughts that surfaced out of nowhere.

Crawling into my berth, the words stayed with me, a lyric chasing me across the miles, with a highway heart of its own.

Chapter Three: A Mile High Tribute

There’s a certain kind of morning that reminds me of Ma. Where the sky is open and the colors soft, and when the sun’s still deciding if it wants to rise. Hesitating, as if to honor those who no longer walk with us, but still hold our hearts.

Dawn brought an undeniable gentleness, leaving space for contemplation. Ma would play her Navajo flute early on those days. And she taught me that music is what we use to share when we can’t speak the words.

She used to say the wind spoke loudest when we were calm, when our spirit wasn’t trying to outshout it.

Pa, too, would remind me that music kept me grounded and helped me stay true.

I didn’t understand that as a child, but I was beginning to.

I missed them both more than I could name. When we arrived in Denver, and when it was a decent hour, I would call Pops and tell him.

We rolled into the city as the sun began its rise, casting long shadows toward the Front Range Mountains behind us. Pale morning light spilled across windshields, catching the edges of buildings like flames.

The world slid by the window. The bus rattled over a pothole, and Kayla cursed softly up front, but I stayed quiet.

I used to love cities. The pulse. The noise. Now they made me feel out of sync with myself.

We passed an open bakery and a man sitting on the curb, nursing a cup of coffee. He reminded me of Pops: of quiet mornings back home, when the world was starting to stir, and you could hear the wind howling over the rooftop.

I discovered the road hums differently when you’re tired. Not just the weariness that sleep can fix, but one that settles deep in your heart without asking why.

Leaning my forehead to the glass, I let my breath fog the edge. In the reflection, my eyes looked older than I remembered.

The city didn’t notice us, but I saw it. The sky over the city burned lavender, then orange, then peach, and finally pale blue. The road was almost silent, barely a hum in the bones, a breath between lives.

Denver rose around us like a steel garden, blooming in the blue-gray haze of dawn.

I was tired. Not from the miles, but from the way they stacked on top of each other until I couldn’t remember when I had last felt peace.

The Crescent Theatre stood at the edge of downtown; a quiet brick sentinel tucked between a shuttered print shop and a café that hadn’t opened yet. The marquee slowly blinked our band name and the upcoming concert. It looked like a place with stories layered into the walls.

The band bus pulled alongside the curb to unload. Our small crew parked behind the bus and scurried to grab our bags for the show. Our gear would be locked in the dressing room until we needed it.

We had a day to relax and unwind before soundcheck and the show. So, our morning began slowly.

Kayla was singing softly in the front dining area of the bus, some old tune she never quite finished. Jesse was grumbling about the tight turn into the alley and how we should’ve booked the Fillmore instead. Wes was taking vengeance on a defenseless granola bar while Bryn stayed in his bunk with a paperback and noise-canceling headphones, only the tip of his boot visible in the narrow hallway.

I remained by the window, watching as the crew unloaded. The mountains reminded me of home, and my nostalgia required an open sky.

The city was stirring around us: trucks and buses rumbling past, a courier cyclist wove between parked cars, and someone sweeping the sidewalk with practiced rhythm. It was a quiet moment, with the stillness that asked you to listen rather than move.

I thought of home. Of Gertie guarding the yard. Of Pops humming while he measured out coffee. I used to dream of stages like this. So why didn’t I feel more excited about tonight?

I scrolled through my phone: strong reviews, fan posts, tags. It should feel good. But it didn’t.

I called Pops to say I’d arrived and to tell him I missed him.

When the ring stopped, I jumped in. “Hey, Pops, just rolled into Denver. You’d hate the traffic, but the venue is huge. Thought I’d call before soundcheck…”

“Dakota?”

“Gran? Where’s Pops?”

“I... I don’t know how to say this.”

“You’re scaring me, Gran. What’s wrong?”

“Pop… He’s gone, honey. This morning. He... he didn’t wake up.”

“What? No.”

“I’m so sorry.” Tears robbed her voice, but she rushed on. “He was so proud of you. He always said your voice came from your mama, but your fire? That came from him.”

I didn’t want to talk on the bus. I needed air.

Slipping past the others, I exited, crossing the narrow alley beside the theater. I found a spot near the unopened diner where no one would overhear. “Gran, I will be home as soon as I can find a flight. I am so sorry you are going through this alone.”

“You were his girl, Dakota. His pride and joy. He loved you more than music. Sometimes I thought more than he loved me.” She laughed, but I could hear her catch a sob. “We had plans. More sunsets, more strolls. How… I miss him so already.”

“Gran, will you be okay? I’ll come as soon…”

“Some of the church ladies are here.” She interrupted me. “I’m in shock. We had over fifty years together. Good years.”

“I love you, Gran. I wish I could hug you through the phone.”

“I can’t… I can’t talk anymore, Dakota.” Her quiet sobs faded as the phone call ended.

I don’t know how long I stood there after the call ended. I heard his voice from the morning before: “You sang true. I could feel it.”

I hadn’t texted back or called. I hadn’t said I love you. I hadn’t said goodbye. And now Gran was there alone.

I went back to the theater. The crew had finished and was planning to move the bus to a nearby parking garage.

Kayla called my name from the bus. I lifted my hand and waved, acknowledging I’d heard her, but couldn’t stop.

I wouldn’t tell them. Pops would have said the show needed singing first. And I still had my voice. I wouldn’t disappoint a crowd who may have driven hours to hear the music he raised me on: I couldn’t disappoint Pops, who’d be watching from heaven.

Dazed, in shock, I didn’t remember the walk. Only that the sidewalks felt too loud, and every traffic light came too fast. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I couldn’t remain motionless.

As they had taught me, in the quiet, you heard most clearly, the truth would sing loudest. I didn’t want to face the truth. I didn’t want to sing it loudly.

I passed storefronts without seeing them. Stepping into a tiny coffee shop on a corner I couldn’t name, I ordered his usual: strong, black, nothing fancy. This was a place Pops would’ve liked, with real mugs, no canned music, and no one in a hurry.

I pulled out my notebook, but the page stayed mostly blank. I wrote one thing and circled it twice:

Strong coffee. Old songs. Porch swing. Pop.

I walked until my feet hurt. I walked until the wind picked up and the city noise dulled into background static. I ended up at a small park and sat on a bench under a tree whose leaves were turning yellow, orange, and red. Life was fading. But it would be reborn in the spring.

A child laughed in the distance. A dog barked. A train rumbled somewhere nearby. The world didn’t know he was gone.

I didn’t cry. Not yet. The tears pressed against my ribs, but they hadn’t found their way out.

By mid-afternoon, I made my way back to the Crescent. The theater doors were locked, but security let me in. I moved on instinct, grabbing Ma’s flute.

The backstage was quiet. I found a spot near the wings, pulled out the flute, and tried to play.

The first note cracked. The second came out thin. The third didn’t come at all.

I set it down in my lap and sat there, the red velvet curtain like a wall between me and everything I couldn’t say or even think.

I used to believe music could fix anything. But grief doesn’t care about bridges or chords.

Author’s Note:

Thank you for reading! I hope you are enjoying the story. Dakota has faced grief before - too often in her young life - but this may be different. She will be facing some life-changing decisions. What do you think she might do next? How will the Denver concert go? And after: will she finally tell the band?

Please let me know your connections to this story. Thanks!

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Chapter One: A Highway Heart

The faint morning light leaking through the window made me wince. I dozed on the Red Earth Rambler’s bus couch, one leg tucked under me, hugging my notebook like a well-loved teddy bear. My pen had slipped onto the floor sometime in the night. So had my hair tie. My neck ached from the angle I’d slouched into, and my arm was numb.

Kayla was grinding coffee beans up front, which is probably what revived me. She made it strong enough to wake the dead. A deep breath of the aroma pulled me the rest of the way into the morning.

I sat up, stretched, and reached for my phone.

Two new texts. One from the Denver venue confirming that the show sold out. The other was a message from my booking manager: “Killer response from last night. Denver will love you.”

My phone buzzed softly in my hand. The screen told me it was Pops. I nestled into the sofa cushions and pressed the phone to my ear.

“Morning, darlin’. You sleep on the couch again?” His voice was warm, weathered, and full of light. Hearing it made the bus feel less like a metal box hurtling through nowhere and more like home.

“Yeah. Woke up on a pile of half-written metaphors.”

“Sounds about right,” he said. “Bet you were chasing ghosts and choruses again.”

“You know me.”

“You sound like you need two more hours of sleep and a plate of green chile biscuits.”

“Only if they’re Gran’s.”

“When you get home, they’ll be waiting,” he said, then added, “You sang true last night. I could feel it.”

I blinked. “You weren’t here.”

“No,” he chuckled, “but Gertie was. Told me all about it this morning.”

I laughed. “That goose is a menace.”

“She’s faithful. Shadowed me all morning while I fed the chickens. Dog’s jealous. Cat’s pouting. But Gertie? She doesn’t care what the others think. Just wants to be near the action.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“I thought so too.”

There was a pause. I could hear the sound of the porch swing creaking softly on his end.

“You doing okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Tired.”

“That’s allowed. Just don’t forget where the road ends.”

His voice had a somberness I didn’t recognize, as if he was packing a goodbye into a sentence too small to hold it.

“I haven’t,” I whispered.

“Good. Call me when you get to Denver.”

“I will.” Saying goodbye always tugged at my heart. “I love you, Pops.”

He hung up with a simple, “Love you, kid.”

I stared at my notebook, still open in my lap.

          I’m chasing songs with a highway heart...

          A restless spirit, torn right from the start...

Outside, the sky was getting brighter. Kayla passed me a steaming mug of coffee without my asking. I sipped it slowly.

Tonight, we would play in Rock Springs. But for the moment, I sat still and let the warmth sink in: coffee, sunlight, Pops’ voice hugging me in the quiet. Even a highway heart needs a soft place to land.

The hum of the pavement matched the rhythm in my chest. I leaned my head against the back of the couch and let the blur of the highway lights flicker past like old reel film.

Bryn, lounging in the recliner across the aisle, had his headphones in, absorbed by a well-worn western. The guy never read anything else. Wes had already claimed the booth table, sketching beats on his drum pad with glow-in-the-dark sticks. Jesse strummed softly on his unplugged bass, just a ripple of notes, warm and low like evening wind through cottonwood leaves.

Last I remembered, they had all been in their bunks. How had I slept through it all?

I reached for my notebook and the guitar leaning on the couch. My dad’s guitar. He had played it, long before I had been born, and it had passed down to me through Pop’s callused hands and quiet lessons. The mahogany was scratched and smooth, but it still held his voice. When I played it, I didn’t feel so far away from the mesa sun and the smell of sagebrush.

I thumbed through pages of old lyrics, ink smudged and corners folded, always circling back to the chorus I couldn’t shake:

          I’m chasing songs with a highway heart

         A restless spirit, torn right from the start.

         This asphalt ribbon, my only friend it seems

         Lost in the echoes of forgotten dreams.

I voiced the lyrics softly, barely more than a whisper. Jesse glanced over but didn’t interrupt. He knew better than to poke at a half-born song. I stared at the empty line and waited for an image, a memory to rise.

“You writing again?” Wes asked, appearing beside me with a red licorice wrapper and raised brow.

“Trying,” I said. “This one’s stubborn.”

He nodded, offered me a piece. “The best ones usually are.”

Bryn popped his head from behind his book. “She’s probably still moping about that cute stagehand from Casper.”

“Was not,” I shot back, laughing before I could stop myself. He was cute.

By the time we rolled into Rock Springs, the sun was dipping low over the hills. The marquee outside the Saddle House was already glowing with the band name: DAKOTA RAIN & THE RED EARTH RAMBLERS Live at 8 pm – Dance Floor Open.

The floorboards of the Saddle House in Rock Springs, Colorado, were grooved by boot heels, and the walls echoed with the laughter of couples flirting under the hanging Edison lights.

String lights glowed, cables hidden by old ropes and spur-studded beams. The place wasn’t big, but it was enough to fit a bar, a band, and a wide patch of open floor worn smooth by dancing soles. And it was ours tonight.

It smelled like beer-soaked wood and barbecue smoke; exactly how a good honky tonk should smell. The kind of place where boots scuff the same furrows into the floorboards every weekend and the regulars know where to lean for the best sound.

We did a quick sound check. Kayla ran harmony. Jesse’s bass rumbled as steady as a heartbeat. Wes tapped fretfully on the rim of his snare, as if he were counting down the seconds until showtime.

I strapped on my dad’s acoustic and checked the tuning one last time.

“Y’all ready to dance tonight?” The patrons answered with a shout before I finished the question.

I opened with “Honky Tonk Night.” It was a rowdy one, meant to get people moving and warm up the strings in my voice.

          Neon lights and a band on stage,

         Cowboy boots, all the rage,

My fingers danced over the strings of my guitar. The crowd didn’t wait; they knew it by heart. Beside me, Kayla swayed in rhythm, her clear voice sliding in beneath mine. Jesse’s bass kicked in low and steady, mimicking the dancers’ boots.

The lyrics rolled out suave as summer iced tea, and the crowd responded with whoops and a flurry of swirling dancers. Couples swayed, arms around each other’s waists, their smiles bright. The bar crowd clapped along in time, half-empty beers forgotten as the rhythm took hold.

The patrons two-stepped like they meant it, boots sliding, mood rising with the chorus. Missed steps added to the laughter. Kayla smiled as she leaned in beside me for the final line. We didn’t need to look at each other. We’d done this so many times that we ran on muscle memory.

The beat faded into a warm rumble of applause and laughter.

Someone shouted, “Play it again!” but I tipped my hat and reached for my water bottle.

Resetting my cowboy hat on my already sweaty hair, I laughed. “We’ve got a few more for you.”

I glanced sideways at my band, my second family. I caught Kayla’s grin, Wes’s raised eyebrows, and a quick nod from Jess. They were locked and ready.

We flowed through a few more crowd-pleasers, then stopped for a break.

I noticed a little girl at the edge of the crowd who had been mouthing the words as she leaned against the stage. She ran to a couple near the bar who had been slow-dancing with their foreheads touching. It wasn’t lost on me how much these songs meant to people.

But I felt like I was watching it all through a window. Maybe that’s why those lyrics haunted me. Had I given my home-tied heart for a highway heart? My restless spirit resisted settling as I watched everyone else find at least a hint of happiness.

Author’s Note:

Welcome to Honky Tonk Happenstance! I hope you enjoyed the story. I will be posting this one on Saturdays, when I am able. What did you think of the characters and setting? I linked a recording of one of the songs mentioned in the story, but the vocals and instrumentation were created by Suno. Perhaps someday I will be able to afford to record it properly. Please feel free to comment and let me know your reactions to the story and music. Thanks!

Honky Tonk Night by Dakota Rain Teague and the Red Earth Ramblers:

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Honky Tonk Happenstance

Dakota Rain writes through scars and sings with soul. When her grandfather’s unexpected death ends her life on tour, she returns to her New Mexican home and her grandfather’s favorite porch swing.

What follows is a homecoming rich with haunting memories, a trunk with long-lost letters, and the quiet companionship of those who stayed behind: a resilient grandmother, a childhood friend, a house echoing the music of those she’s lost, and, of course, Gertie: a fiercely loyal, emotionally intuitive goose who’s not buying Dakota’s “I’m fine” routine.

Told with quiet wisdom and lyrical depth, Honky Tonk Happenstance is a cozy, slow-burning novel about grief, tenacity, and the music that lives inside us long after the stage lights fade.

What to Expect

A cozy, character-driven mystery
A female country singer from rural New Mexico

Deep-rooted, unresolved grief
A fiercely loyal, emotionally intuitive goose named Gertie
Two unsolved murders haunt a small town

Lyrical literary prose

Jharek perched on a hoarding roof beneath a window located high above the gray stone walls of Mherkhumli. Here, he could hope for his father’s return while avoiding the meddling of his nine-year-old sister, Shaya, and the concerned eyes of his mother. He leaned back against the rough stone of the castle’s walls, absorbing the tranquility of the sun. The warmth chilled as the clouds obscured it. The evening’s cooling breeze brought the sharp scent of the sea and the cries of the gulls nesting on the cliff below.

Movement tempted his eyes down the rocky precipice jutting into the murky waters below him. A lone fisherman skirted the rugged shore on his way out to sea. The waves were calm with no sign of his father’s fleet heading toward port. Everything seemed as it always was – peaceful. The sun peered from the clouds for a moment and then vanished. Only the rim of the bay remained visible as twilight fell.

Secured to the castle yet seeming to float free in the sky, Jharek loved this storeroom cantilevered out over the sea. Its lone window looked over the stark cliffs and deep blue waters towards the Isles of Zerthua. As children, he and his older brother Thareg dove from the roof of the hoarding beneath the window into the ocean surf thirty or more feet below. Now it was his place of refuge: a place to contemplate and dream.

He used this room to practice his kata with his quarterstaff and his fighting using a wooden sword that he snuck from the training fields. A battered and abandoned throne stood in as a target. His father, King Udhael of Mherkhumli, preferred that he hone only his strength and dexterity, saying that he would begin with weapons when he was older. Fortunately, his brother Thareg disagreed and was training him in their secret room.

Tonight, he had no desire to return to the crowd of servants and guards below. Even hunger didn’t move him. Restless, discouraged, he longed for something more, a way to prove his worth to his father. Staring out over the darkening sea, he shivered as a cold gust tousled his long mahogany hair. He carefully rose from the sloped roof and crawled back through the window. Glancing out, he asked the wind, “When will I follow you?”

Jharek’s father and older brother Thareg had set sail six months prior, and they were long overdue. With one last search in the faint moonlight, he shook his head. There was no sign, no thin line disturbing the rhythm of the waves indicating the passage of the small fleet. He turned his back to the window and leaned against the stone wall. Staring at the faint shadows cast by the forms in the room, he remembered the day they left and the argument on the deck of his father’s ship.

“You will not accompany your father,” Queen Mhura said, “we need you here.”

“But why? You have the king’s guard to protect you and your cooks and maids to serve you. I should be at my father’s side! That is my place!”

“That is the place for Prince Thareg. Your place is here.”

“But why? I am almost as tall and strong as he…”

“Enough, Jharek,” King Udhael interrupted, “Return to the castle!”

“But, fa- father,” Jharek pleaded with his gold-green eyes, “Can’t… can’t I wait until the ships sail?”

King Udhael glared into Jharek’s eyes and gestured. “Go.”

As the word “go” echoed in his memory, Jharek sank cross legged onto his feather-filled pallet on the floor. His leather tunic protected his back from the sharp edges of the roughhewn wall. “I’m almost thirteen, yet they treat me like a child. They need me? For what? Carrying their sewing baskets?” He pounded the wall. “I’m no boy!” He glanced at his leather sling-bag and quarterstaff in the corner. “Next time I won’t be denied my place,” he promised himself. Darkness settled throughout the room.

Chilled, he wrapped himself in a blanket. He expected sleep to be slow in coming. Why were they so late? He knew his father hoped for an alliance with the ruler of the Isles of Veruthia, for trade and for the seaward protection of Mherkhumli. In return, he offered the spice crops and exquisite fabrics of the mainland and a promise of peace in their common waters. Jharek thought of his challenge to be allowed to sail with them. Frowning, he lay down and closed his eyes.

“Next time,” he whispered as he fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * * * * * * *

“Jharek, Jharek, wake up,” Shaya’s urgent whisper entered his dream. He groaned as he rolled away from her voice. It was too soon to be morning. He flickered his eyes; the room was still dark.

“What now, Shaya? Let me sleep!”

“Quiet, Jharek, they will hear!” Noting the fear in her voice, he listened to the muffled sounds beyond the room. Muted voices and familiar footsteps strode the hallways, breaking the silence.

“The guards are on duty, why should I wake?”

“It’s not the guard, it’s Uncle Rhangir’s men! They’ve taken the castle. I was hiding in the bed curtains, waiting to surprise Mother, when they rushed in after killing her guards. They dragged her and her maids away!”

“Rhangir’s men? Attacking Mother? But why…” Opening his eyes, he glanced around the room. Nothing had changed.

“I locked the door, but that won’t give us much time, please…”

A deep voice carried through the storeroom wall, “You clear this room; I’ll take the next. Lord Rhangir wants the children to be taken alive.” One set of footsteps faded into the distance. Now fully awake, Jharek stood, quickly strapped his satchel across his chest, and grabbed his quarterstaff. The door rattled.

“Quick, climb out onto the roof. I will follow.”

Shaya crawled onto the windowsill. “I’m afraid.”

Jharek held her hand for balance as she turned and extended her feet towards the ledge. The door behind him creaked like the wheels of an old cart carrying bricks to the market.

“Crawl to your left; I’ll be right behind you. We’ll use the sea to escape.”

“How? It’s so far below!”

“We’ll be okay, just hurry!”

Once Jharek saw that his sister was safely on the hoarding roof, he turned back into the room and snatched his thin sleeping mat. Armored fists hammered at the door - it wouldn’t hold for long. He rushed to Shaya and headed further from the window. Glancing down at the base of the cliff over thirty feet below, he detected rocks in the surf. The agitated beat of the waves told him the tide was going out; there would barely be enough depth.

The outgoing tide scared him. He had never dived into such shallow water; every sound jarred his nerves. An oar slapped the water below. White spray broke on jagged rocks, but the mist didn’t reach the ledge. Jherek regarded Shaya shivering in her nightclothes, so vulnerable.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

She nodded. Carefully crouching, he laid the quarterstaff on the roof behind him and wrapped the thin, feathered mat around his sister, hugging her to his chest. Jharek grabbed his staff and slowly stood. He pushed himself back against the stone wall and pulled Shaya even closer. As the pounding from the room intensified, he kissed the top of her head and prayed for her safety.

“Relax if you can; it will make the dive easier. When you feel me take a deep breath, breathe in too and hold it.” He checked the outgoing tide as it hit the rocks and retreated. As he timed his dive, the sound of shattering wood and a light flared from the window.

Angry voices. “They’re not here!” Then the rattle of armor and heavy footsteps. A voice through the window. “They’re out on the ledge.”

Jherek jumped. Cold air rushed over him. The lantern lights high on the castle wall faded, and the gray-black cliff face loomed as they fell. Taking a deep breath, he rolled in the air so that his sister rested on top of him. The water embraced him as he hit the surface and plunged beneath the waves. Pain - cold, stabbing pain. Air fled his lungs. All sounds ceased as light flared in his brain, then darkness.

Here’s the prompt -- A family of tiny people lives in an inn run by dragons, using curtain snippings to sew clothes and stealing tiny bits of food. One day, a baby dragon finds a tiny human, and they become friends. They somehow keep it secret for years, until the tiny child of the tiny people decides to steal the crown jewel of the queen dragon staying at the inn. How does this all go down?

Cave Run Inn

The Cave Run Inn was built at a crossroads between two worlds. The known world of dragons and the secret one of the tiny humans. Now, by tiny I don’t mean your basic diminutive like three or so feet tall, I mean truly tiny.

The Anee family lived in hiding in the Cave Run Inn. They lived in the walls and attic. Their friends, the mice, allowed them to ride on their backs when they were tired or had to climb to great heights. Tiny human hands were also useful to the mice.

When they had lived in their own land, there had been laws against stealing from others, and they had been law-abiding humans. But here, to survive, they set these laws aside. They relied on the dragons for everything. Taking only what they needed. Eventually, they would find a way to make restitution to the dragons who owned the Inn.

One day, the tiniest of the Anees, three-year-old Raibeart, was playing with dust bunnies under a dresser. He was concentrating so hard on his game that he didn’t hear the room door open or the newly hatched daughter of the owner enter. She, too, wanted a quiet place to play, so she came to what she believed was an empty room.

Raibeart was hopping after the dust bunnies when he bounced out from under the dresser and onto the tail of the dragon baby. At first, the dragon did not see him. So, it became a new game. Hop on the dragon without being caught.

The mice sometimes played games with him where each had to take something from the other without being noticed. Playing this with a small dragon seemed too good an opportunity to pass up.

It was going well, too, until the dragon suddenly sneezed, stirring the dust bunny camouflage and blowing Raibeart across the room. Suddenly, they stopped. The dragon looked at Raibeart, and Raibeart looked back at the dragon.

“What are you?” The little dragon asked. “I’m not supposed to play with strangers. Are you a stranger?”

Raibeart quivered in fear as she tilted her head. “You don’t look like a dragon.”

“I’m not a stranger, though I don’t know you, so I suppose I am. I am a human. My name is Raibeart.” Raibeart knew he was in trouble, but he hoped the little dragon would not tattle on him.

The dragon turned her head and stretched out her neck towards Raibeart, so she could examine him more closely. “My name is Leticia. What’s a human? You look like a bug. Should I squish you?”

“No! Please don’t. My family and I live here at the Inn. We won’t hurt you or your family.”

“That’s odd. My family lives here too. This is Daddy’s inn. How come I don’t know you?”

Raibeart shrugged. “Well, you do now. Wanna be friends?”

And just like that, since there were no other young children in the inn, they became best friends.

Now, Leticia agreed not to say anything about Raibeart to her parents. She was afraid they would think he was an imaginary friend anyway.

Raibeart did mention meeting Leticia, which frightened his parents, but they saw he wasn’t hurt, so they didn’t stop him from playing with her again. They urged him to be careful, thinking maybe having a friend in the dragon family might help some day.

Leticia and Raibeart played every day. Sometimes in the rooms and sometimes in the forest behind the Inn. They tried playing chase, but Leticia almost crushed him beneath her big feet. And anyway, she always won because she could fly. They tried to play hide and seek, but Leticia’s tail kept poking out from behind the trees, and Raibeart always won.

Finally, they found a game that they could play together. Even on rainy days, they could still play. Storyteller. That was the game. One of them would start the tale, and the other would take over. They switched back and forth until they were both rolling on the floor (or the ground), laughing.

Soon, they were best friends. Leticia met Raibeart’s family, which scared them, until they realized she was very young. Raibeart didn’t meet Leticia’s family since they likely would have chased him off or set deadly tiny human traps, as they did for the mice. He did spy on them once at dinner, curious to see them up close.

Several years passed with this idyllic friendship growing closer. Then one day, Raibeart had been racing inside the walls of the Inn on his friend Lomán’s back, when he came up with a great idea for a story. What if humans were big enough to ride dragons? Then he and Leticia could see the world together, and no one would question their friendship.

He shared his idea that afternoon as they sat telling stories in their private tree house. She seemed skeptical. Picking him up by the back of his shirt, she brought him right up to her eye. “Isn’t that shirt just like the curtains in room seven? I don’t think dragon riders would wear curtains. It would be beneath them.”

“Just pretend with me! Once upon a time, there lived a boy named Hugh the Daring, who dreamed of being a famous dragon rider. The only problem was that he was the son of a goat farmer, and farmers weren’t allowed to ride dragons. The other problem was that dragons liked to eat goats, so his father wanted nothing to do with them either. He dreamed, and he dreamed, nothing could change his mind, so one day, he ran away.” Raibeart looked at Leticia. “Your turn, Leticia.”

“But he was too tiny, and the dragon he found couldn’t see him, and accidentally stepped on him. And that ended his dream. The end.”

Raibeart glared at Leticia, then stomped off to rejoin his friend Lomán in the walls of the Inn.

But it wasn’t just Hugh’s dream, it was Raibeart’s too. He knew it could never happen, but he longed to fly. Riding a mouse in the dark was thrilling, but riding a dragon through the sky? His heart could barely stand the thought.

He and Leticia remained friends, but from that day forward, they didn’t play together very often. Raibeart was old enough to help with the family chores, which meant stealing food and fabric from the Inn. They also needed other things. He found a finger bowl to use as a bathtub, and leather scraps for the soles of their shoes.

Since he couldn’t share his stories with Leticia anymore, he also stole paper and leads so that he could write them down.

More years passed and Raibeart grew into a tiny young man. He was almost as tall as his father, who stood at about three inches. Life was a struggle for the Anees. As Leticia took on more responsibilities for her parents, stealing became more difficult, since she knew their habits.

Raibeart overheard his parents talking one night about how they longed for an easier life, one filled with fresh food and leisure time.

When he learned through the mice that the dragon queen would be visiting, he formed a plan. Perhaps he could make one last life-changing heist. One that would allow his parents to live honorably for the rest of their lives. The queen’s jewels!

He knew the queen would be placed in the master suite at the top of the Inn, just beneath their attic home. Since the dragons didn’t have a central safe, the jewels would remain with the queen. And even if they were locked up, he was a master at picking locks.

Raibeart mentioned his plan to no one. If he failed, he alone would know. He became obsessed with getting in and out of the suite without detection. Well, that and opening every lock that he could find.

Sometimes opening a lock would yield an unexpected treasure, like the box that held golden coins. He only took one, for that was all that he could lift, but it would go well with the gems from the queen’s jewelry!

He learned that when a merchant stayed at the Inn, he could search their things while they ate in the dining room on the ground floor. And a very high-class dragon once had a silver set of eating utensils. That yielded a tiny hors d’oeuvres knife which swept and parried like a sword made just for him.

Beneath his bed in the attic was a space where no one looked. This became his stash. The knife was a tight fit, but he felt better, knowing that he would be armed and be able to protect himself when they left the Inn.

Raibeart knew that after he stole from the queen, he and his family would have to flee. Leticia would not keep silent after such a loss.

The day finally arrived. The Anee family watched from a vent in the attic as the queen’s entourage landed and prepared for her visit. The suite was inspected and cleaned again and again until it was approved.

Hours before dinner, the queen touched down in the rose gardens behind the Inn.

The queen would be staying for two nights. The artistic flight and fight competition would take place the day after her arrival, and the awards ceremony the next morning.

His best bet for stealing the jewels would be during the luncheon planned after the ceremony.

Raibeart waited patiently to enact his plan. Each time the dragon queen left the room, he was tempted to enter, but each time he resisted. He knew she might need the jewels for another event and would miss them sooner if he took them too soon.

When the time was right, he entered the suite from the hole behind the dresser.

Glancing out to make sure the path was clear, he was startled to see Leticia’s giant eye looking under the dresser right at him.

“What is this?” she asked. “Surely you are not visiting the queen?”

“No, no. I… I just wanted to see what her room looked like. If you had added anything special for her comfort. Always looking for ideas for my stories.”

“Like, where she keeps her jewelry box? You wouldn’t dare steal from the queen, would you?”

“No, no need for that. I am a writer now. No need to steal to support my family.”

“Hmmm.” She looked skeptical, as only Leticia could. “Well, you’ve seen. Run along now. I think I will wait here until the queen returns.”

There was nothing that Raibeart could do but leave. Dejected, he roamed the walls that he would never leave. He would grow old and die having never seen the world nor flown on a dragon.

As he passed the air vent in the living room wall, an uproar ensued.

“Thief, thief! Stop!” The queen’s guard raced through the room after a small dragon. Leticia! What had she done?

Raibeart couldn’t show himself in the house, so he ran outside. He saw Leticia racing through the gardens and out into the woods. She flew up briefly, dropping something into our old treehouse. And then raced on. If Raibeart hadn’t known the playhouse was hidden in the leafy branches, he would not have noticed the action.

She then circled back to the house and landed by her father.

“I’m sure you are mistaken.” Leticia’s father shouted. “My daughter would not steal!”

“But she was in the queen’s chamber alone.” The guard shouted back.

“I was waiting for the queen,” Leticia said. “I wanted to ask how I could become one of her entourage.”

“What?” Both her father and the guard said.

“I want to leave this place and travel the world. Sorry, father, but I was meant for more than cleaning rooms and washing dishes!”

The guard wandered away, shaking his head.

“Why have you said nothing, Leticia?” Her father asked.

“I didn’t want to dream of something impossible.”

She glanced at Raibeart’s hiding place under a rose bush by the front door and winked. Her father left, following the path the guard had taken moments before. He was also shaking his head.

So, what had Leticia dropped in the tree house?

Raibeart ran through the thick grass making his way around the house and back to the forest. The path to the tree house was overgrown, but he knew the way by heart.

Leticia was there when he arrived, beaming from ear to ear. “I have missed you, Raibeart. I hope I didn’t scare you this morning.”

“You terrified me! And you broke my heart.” he said, near tears with joy for her return to his life.

“I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid. All these years, I have thought about Hugh the Daring and wished for a way to make his dreams - your dreams - come true. Then the queen came.”

Raibeart waited for her to continue, but she remained silent. Looking around on the floor for something. She began speaking absentmindedly as she searched.

“What no one knows is that being a queen is quite dull. So the queen had a hobby. She creates tiny houses for the children of the Elven king. Of course, she says an artisan makes them for her.”

“What?” There was something strangely satisfying about saying that.

“Yes, it’s true. And I had her design a house for you and your family. I didn’t tell her about you, but only that there was a youngling that would like such a house to play in. I was to pick it up today before she left.”

“And the guards caught you?”

“Yes, but she will leave it in the room, and I will retrieve it when I clean.”

“Why would you do this for us? And what are you looking for?”

“She made one last thing.” She gleamed triumphantly as she held up a tiny saddle. “She made a miniature dragon rider saddle. We will have to attach it to something that will reach around me, but… what’s wrong?”

Raibeart could not stop the tears. His dream. His family was cared for and safe. He and Leticia could travel the world together. She’d made it happen.

“But why? You were so angry about Hugh the Daring.”

“No, I loved Hugh the Daring, I just didn’t believe enough. When I saw your obsession with locks and the master chamber, I knew you would risk it all to find your dream. I could do no less.”

That evening, Leticia talked with her parents and told them about her friend. She also shared her dream. She visited the queen’s room to retrieve the little house. The Anee’s house was placed in the woods, under the shelter of an old oak. And they were allowed to take from the Inn’s garden as they needed.

And Leticia and Raibeart traveled the world.

I hope you enjoyed this short story.

I am curious, would you be interested in hearing more about Raibeart and Leticia’s adventures? They would be written for an intermediate or middle-grade audience.

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