Page 19 of Where the Music Grows

I scour the perimeter of the clearing, gathering dry leaves, twigs, and a few larger branches. Once I’ve got a decent pile, I crouch by the fire ring and arrange the tinder carefully. I strike a match from the dwindling pack I tossed in my glovebox months ago. The flame catches quickly. I blow gently, coaxing it to life. It’s a small victory, but one that feels huge in the quiet of the woods.

As the fire grows, I drag a fallen log closer to sit on. The heat is comforting, and for a moment, I let myself just breathe. The fire is calming. Comforting. It makes me feel like I’m not alone. I should have done it earlier.

A rabbit pops out of the trees, startling me at first, but then darts off. He’s probably wondering what I’m doing in his territory. I’m not a fan of rabbit stew, so he’s safe. We stare at each other for a second before he bolts into the underbrush.

I grab the little pot with a handle and walk down to the creek to get some water. While I’m bent over, something catches my eye.

“No way.” I grin.

I leave the pot and walk over to the wild blackberry bush. It’s a little early in the season, but there are plenty of plump, dark berries. I pop a few in my mouth. Tart, sweet, perfect. Nature’s granola bar.

“Holy shit,” I gasp when I realize the area is dotted with blackberry bushes. It’s not exactly a buffet, but it’s better than nothing.

By the time I get back to camp, I’ve got a pot of water, and my pockets are stuffed with berries. I put the pot over the coals to boil. Dad might’ve been a hardass, but he taught all of us how to cowboy camp. Back when we were young, he’d take each of us boys out for a little one-on-one time. We’d fish, hunt, and sit around the campfire at night.

This is why I was so confused. My dad and I weren’t always at odds. I have a lot of good memories of him. It’s just...after Mom died, it was like the happy part of dad died with her. His fun, loving side was buried six-feet deep with her. The only thing left up top was a shell of a man.

While I wait for the water to boil, I grab my guitar. The opening lines of the song I wrote earlier float back to me. I strum a few chords, testing the rhythm. It’s rough, but there’s something there. I put the words to music, finding the right place to put them with the melody.

I close my eyes and play it again, louder this time, singing my heart out and letting the music transport me to another time.

“You’re pretty talented.”

The voice comes from behind me, startling me. I nearly drop the guitar. I twist around, heart hammering.

A woman stands maybe fifteen feet away, her hands tucked into the pockets of a worn flannel shirt. She’s maybe in her fifties, with silver-streaked brown hair pulled into a messy bun and a face that looks like it’s spent a lifetime smiling.

“Shoot—” I scramble to my feet. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Agatha. Or Aggie, if you prefer.”

I swallow. “Jack.”

She nods toward the fire. “You know you’re on private property, right?”

Shit.

I hold up my hands. “I didn’t see any signs. I’ll pack up and go—”

“Relax.” She laughs. “I’m not kicking you out. Just curious.”

The water starts boiling. I grab it with the edge of my shirt so I don’t burn my fingers and set it aside. Aggie watches me, her head tilted like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve.

“You running from something?” she asks.

“No.” The answer comes too fast.

She raises an eyebrow.

I sigh. “Not from something. To something. Maybe.”

That makes her smile. “Better answer.”

I hesitate, then figure there’s no point lying. “I’m kinda... between places right now.”

“Ah.” She nods like this makes perfect sense. “Chasing a dream, I suppose.” She steps closer, her eyes lingering on the guitar in my hands. “Music?”

“Yeah,” I admit, feeling a strange mix of vulnerability and relief. “Trying to, anyway.”