Rust & Starlight
Chapter 17 : The County Fair
The invitation came from an unexpected source: Mabel.
She called the farm phone — the landline, a relic that still hung on the kitchen wall — on a Tuesday morning, while Mason was outside splitting firewood. Wren answered, expecting a delivery confirmation or a bill collector.
“Calloway farm,” she said.
“Wren, it’s Mabel. You’re coming to the county fair Friday night, and you’re bringing that fella.”
Wren blinked. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are. I’ve already bought your tickets. Non-refundable. Be at the main gate at six o’clock.” A pause. “And wear something pretty for once. You’ve been in coveralls for three years.”
The line went dead.
Wren stared at the receiver, then hung up slowly. She walked to the back door and watched Mason split logs with an axe, his breath steaming in the cold. He’d gotten stronger over the past few weeks — his shoulders broader, his arms more defined. The Nashville softness had been replaced by something harder, more real.
“Mabel’s forcing us to go to the county fair,” she called out.
Mason stopped mid-swing. “The county fair?”
“Friday night. She bought tickets.”
He set down the axe and walked toward her, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Is that a good idea? People will stare.”
“People always stare. That’s what people do.” She crossed her arms. “The question is whether we’re ready for them to stare at us.”
Mason thought about it. The talent scout. The calls from Nashville. The decision he’d made to stay. The town already knew he was here — Mabel had seen to that. Going to the fair would be a statement. Not hiding. Not apologizing. Just living.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
Wren raised an eyebrow. “You’re not worried about what they’ll say?”
“I’ve been on the cover of every tabloid in America. I’ve been called a drunk, a loser, a has-been, and worse. A few farmers in Kansas don’t scare me.” He stepped closer, close enough to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “The only opinion I care about is yours.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
Friday night arrived cold and clear, the sky full of stars.
Wren wore a dress — an actual dress, the first Mason had seen her in. It was simple: dark blue, long-sleeved, falling just below her knees. She’d left her hair loose, and she’d put on a touch of lipstick, the color of wild roses.
Mason stared when she came down the stairs.
“What?” she said, self-consciously touching her hair.
“You look beautiful.”
“You look like you’ve never seen a woman in a dress before.”
“I haven’t seen you in a dress before.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
She took his arm, and they walked out into the cold.
The county fair was held on the outskirts of Millbrook, in a field that had been used for this purpose since 1922. There were carnival rides — a Ferris wheel, a rickety roller coaster called the “Tornado,” a carousel with chipped wooden horses. There were food stalls selling corn dogs, funnel cakes, and something called a “deep-fried candy bar” that made Mason’s arteries ache just looking at it. There was a livestock barn, a quilting competition, and a stage where a local bluegrass band played off-key covers of songs Mason had written.
Mabel met them at the gate, wearing a bright purple windbreaker and a satisfied smirk.
“You came,” she said.
“You bought non-refundable tickets,” Wren replied.
“I did.” Mabel looked Mason up and down, assessing. “You clean up better than I expected. Those arms didn’t come from singing.”
“Fence posts,” Mason said. “And a judgmental cow.”
Mabel snorted. “Clarabelle does have opinions.” She pressed two tickets into their hands. “Go. Have fun. There’s a pie-eating contest at eight, and I expect you both to cheer for me.”
She disappeared into the crowd before either of them could respond.
The fair was overwhelming.
Not because it was large — Nashville’s events made this look like a backyard barbecue — but because everyone was staring. Mason felt the weight of their gaze as they walked past the food stalls, the game booths, the clusters of families in matching sweatshirts. Some of the stares were curious. Some were hostile. A few, he noticed with surprise, were admiring.
Wren squeezed his arm. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Are you okay?”
“I’m from here. They’ve been staring at me my whole life.” She pulled him toward the Ferris wheel. “Come on. I want to see the view.”
The Ferris wheel was old — probably older than Mason’s father — and it creaked alarmingly as it lifted them into the night sky. Wren sat beside him, her hand resting on his knee, her face tilted toward the stars.
“Look,” she said, pointing. “You can see the farm from here.”
Mason followed her gaze. In the distance, past the fairgrounds and the fields and the dark line of cottonwoods, a single light glowed. The kitchen window. He’d left the porch light on.
“It looks small from up here,” he said.
“The farm?”
“Everything. The fair, the town, the problems.” He looked at her profile, illuminated by the carnival lights below. “You look small too. But you’re not.”
Wren turned to him. “What am I, then?”
“You’re the biggest thing in my life.” He said it simply, without drama. “Bigger than Nashville. Bigger than music. Bigger than all of it.”
She didn’t answer. But her hand tightened on his knee, and she leaned her head against his shoulder as the Ferris wheel carried them over the top.
They rode two rides — the Ferris wheel and the carousel, because Wren insisted that carousels were “romantic” and Mason was not about to argue. Then they bought a cone of cotton candy, pink and fluffy and impossibly sweet, and shared it while walking through the livestock barn.
The barn smelled like hay and manure and the particular funk of animals who had been bathed for competition. Wren stopped at every stall, admiring the prize-winning pigs and the blue-ribbon sheep. Mason followed, eating the last of the cotton candy, when a voice cut through the noise.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Wren Calloway and her Nashville houseguest.”
Mason turned. A man stood in the aisle — mid-forties, heavyset, wearing a John Deere cap and a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. Two younger men flanked him, their arms crossed.
“Evening, Dale,” Wren said coolly.
“Evening.” Dale’s gaze slid to Mason. “So this is the famous Mason Cross. Read about you in the tabloids. Said you were a drunk and a wife-beater and a general disgrace to the music industry.”
Mason’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.
“The tabloids lie,” Wren said. “You know that, Dale.”
“Do I?” Dale stepped closer. “Seems to me a man with his reputation doesn’t just show up in a small town and start cozying up to our widows. Seems to me there’s something unsavory going on.”
The barn had gone quiet. Other fairgoers were watching, their faces a mix of curiosity and discomfort.
Wren opened her mouth to respond, but Mason held up a hand.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly. Then he turned to Dale.
“You’re right,” Mason said. “The tabloids said a lot of things about me. Some of them were true. I was a drunk. I made a lot of mistakes. I hurt people I loved.”
He stepped closer to Dale — not threatening, just present.
“But I’ve been sober for thirty-four days. I’ve been fixing Wren’s fence and milking her cow and learning to be a better man. And I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m here because this woman gave me a second chance when no one else would, and I intend to spend the rest of my life earning it.”
He held out his hand.
“So you can think what you want about me. You can say what you want about me. But if you ever speak to Wren with disrespect again, you and I will have a conversation that doesn’t end with a handshake.”
The barn was silent. Dale stared at Mason’s extended hand, his face reddening.
Then, slowly, he shook it.
“Fair enough,” Dale muttered. He turned and walked away, his friends following.
Wren let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
“Mason,” she whispered.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I’ve had enough fair for one night.”
They walked back to the truck in silence. The cold had deepened, and their breath fogged in the air. When they reached the truck, Wren stopped.
“That was incredible,” she said. “What you said to Dale.”
“I meant every word.”
“I know.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright. “That’s what made it incredible.”
Mason opened the passenger door for her. She climbed in, and he walked around to the driver’s side. But before he got in, he looked back at the fair — the lights, the Ferris wheel, the crowd of people who would be talking about this for weeks.
He didn’t care what they said.
He had something better than their approval.
He had her.