Rust & Starlight
Chapter 31 : Luke Didn’t Die in Combat
Mason came home from Nashville eight days later, earlier than planned.
He’d finished the duet, cut the basic tracks for the remaining songs, and told Julian he needed a break. The studio could wait. The tour could wait. The only thing that couldn’t wait was Wren.
Something was wrong. He’d heard it in her voice during their nightly calls — the hesitation, the forced cheerfulness, the way she changed the subject whenever he asked about the farm. She was hiding something. And he intended to find out what.
He drove straight from the airport to the farm, not stopping in Millbrook, not calling ahead. The truck bumped down the dirt driveway, kicking up dust, and he saw her on the porch, sitting in the old rocking chair, a book open in her lap.
She looked up when he parked. Her face was surprised, then happy, then something else — something that looked like fear.
“You’re early,” she said, standing.
“I missed you.” He walked to the porch, climbed the steps, and pulled her into his arms. She felt thinner than when he’d left, more fragile. “I missed you so much.”
She held him tightly, her face buried in his chest. “I missed you too.”
He pulled back, looking at her. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Wren. I’ve been on the road for fifteen years. I know when someone’s lying to me.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Please. Whatever it is, let me help.”
Her eyes filled with tears. She shook her head, tried to turn away, but he held her gently.
“It’s the farm,” she whispered. “The bank is foreclosing. I have sixty days to come up with a hundred and thirty thousand dollars, or I lose everything.”
Mason’s heart stopped. A hundred and thirty thousand dollars. He had five times that in his checking account. The advance from the label alone could cover it twice over.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“Because I didn’t want you to think I was using you.” She pulled away from him, wrapping her arms around herself. “I’ve spent three years being independent. Taking care of myself. Asking for help feels like failure.”
“It’s not failure. It’s trust.”
She looked at him — really looked, her eyes red-rimmed, her face pale.
“There’s more,” she said. “Something I haven’t told anyone. Not even my mother.”
Mason waited.
“Luke didn’t die in combat,” she said. “You know that. I told you he drank himself to death in the barn. But I didn’t tell you the whole story. The part that matters.”
She walked to the edge of the porch, looking out at the dead orchard.
“He came home on leave six months before he died. He was supposed to be in Afghanistan, but there was an incident — a friendly fire thing, not his fault — and they sent him back stateside for evaluation. He was supposed to get help. Instead, he came here.”
She turned to face Mason.
“He was sober for the first week. Happy. We planted new trees in the orchard. He talked about the future, about having kids, about growing old together. I believed him. I wanted to believe him.”
Her voice cracked.
“Then the nightmares started. He’d wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, convinced he was back in the convoy. I’d hold him, and he’d cry, and then he’d get dressed and drive to Hays and come back with a case of whiskey. The drinking got worse. The violence got worse. He never hit me — he wasn’t that kind of man — but he’d throw things. Break things. Scream at me until I locked myself in the bathroom.”
Mason’s hands curled into fists. Not at Luke — at the war, at the system, at everything that had broken a good man.
“The night he died, we had a fight,” Wren continued. “A bad one. He was drunk, and I was tired, and I told him I couldn’t do it anymore. I told him I was going to call his commanding officer, have him sent back to the hospital. He looked at me like I’d stabbed him.”
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“He said, ‘You want to get rid of me? Fine. I’ll do it myself.’ And he walked out to the barn.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t follow him. I was so tired, Mason. So tired of fighting. I thought he’d just pass out, like he always did. But this time, he didn’t.”
Mason crossed the porch and took her in his arms.
“It’s not your fault,” he said.
“That’s what the letter said. That’s what everyone says. But I knew he was struggling. I knew he was in pain. And I let him walk out that door.”
“You were exhausted. You were scared. You were doing the best you could.” He pulled back, looking at her. “The only person responsible for Luke’s death is Luke. And the war. And the illness that told him he wasn’t worth saving.”
Wren looked at him, her eyes searching.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve been where he was. Not the war, but the darkness. The voice that says everyone would be better off if you disappeared.” He touched her face. “The only reason I’m still here is because you pulled me out of that ditch. Luke didn’t have a Wren. He had a disease that told him he was alone.”
She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing.
“I don’t want to lose this farm,” she said. “It’s all I have left of him.”
“You’re not going to lose it.” Mason pulled out his phone. “What’s the bank’s number? I’m calling them right now.”
“Mason, no—”
“Wren. Listen to me. I have money. More money than I know what to do with. Let me use it for something that matters. Let me save this place — for you, for Luke, for us.”
She stared at him. The tears were flowing freely now, but she wasn’t sobbing. She was just… letting go.
“You’re not buying me,” she said.
“I know.”
“You’re not saving me.”
“I know.”
“You’re just… helping.”
“I’m just helping.” He smiled. “That’s what people do when they love each other.”
She took his phone from his hand, set it on the railing, and kissed him.
It was a long kiss, deep and slow, the kind that said more than words ever could. When they finally broke apart, she rested her forehead against his.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too.”
“Even though I’m a mess?”
“Especially because you’re a mess.” He kissed her nose. “Now give me the phone. I have a bank to call.”
Mason made the call from the kitchen, while Wren sat at the table, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. He was calm, professional, the same man who had negotiated contracts with the biggest labels in Nashville.
“I’d like to pay off the remaining balance on Wren Calloway’s loan,” he said. “Full amount, plus fees and costs. I can wire the funds today.”
A pause. Mr. Hendricks was probably choking on his coffee.
“Yes, I’m serious. Yes, I have the money. No, I don’t need a receipt. Just send the confirmation to Wren’s email.”
He hung up and turned to her.
“It’s done.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He sat down across from her. “The farm is yours. Free and clear.”
Wren stared at him. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll never keep a secret like that again. We’re partners. That means we share the hard stuff, not just the easy stuff.”
She reached across the table and took his hand.
“I promise.”
That night, they walked through the orchard.
The trees were still bare, but the buds were swelling, getting ready to burst. Spring was late this year, but it was coming. Wren stopped beneath the largest peach tree — the one Luke had planted the week before he deployed — and placed her hand on the trunk.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the tree, to Luke, to the past. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I couldn’t save myself. But I’m not sorry I’m still here.”
Mason came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“He’d be proud of you,” he said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know that anyone who loved you would want you to be happy. And you’re happy now. Aren’t you?”
She leaned back against him, looking up at the stars.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m happy.”
They stood together in the orchard, the ghosts of the past finally at rest, the future stretching out before them like the Kansas prairie — wide, open, full of possibility.