Rust & Starlight
Chapter 26 : A Record Producer’s Offer
The video appeared on a Tuesday.
Neither Mason nor Wren saw it at first — they were in the barn, mending a broken stall door, when the first notifications started. Mason’s phone was still in the kitchen drawer, powered off, where he’d thrown it weeks ago. Wren’s phone was in her coat pocket, but she’d forgotten to charge it, and the battery had died sometime in the night.
So they worked in oblivious peace, hammering and measuring and arguing good-naturedly about whether the new boards were straight. Clarabelle watched from her stall, chewing her cud with an expression of profound boredom.
The first sign came at noon, when Mabel’s truck pulled into the driveway.
Wren wiped her hands on her jeans and walked outside to meet her. Mabel climbed out of the cab, her face unreadable — not angry, not worried, but something else. Something like awe.
“You need to see this,” Mabel said, holding up her phone.
The screen showed a video. Grainy, clearly shot on a smartphone, with shaky camera work and bad lighting. But the subject was unmistakable: Mason, sitting on the porch of the farmhouse, playing guitar and singing. It was the night he’d finished “Kansas Rain” — the night Wren had told him she loved him. Someone had been watching from the road. Someone had recorded it.
The video had been posted on YouTube. It had 2.4 million views.
Wren stared at the screen. The comments were scrolling by too fast to read, but she caught fragments: “Beautiful” … “Who is this guy?” … “I’m crying” … “Is that Mason Cross?” … “He’s back!”
“Mabel,” she said slowly. “When was this posted?”
“Yesterday afternoon. It’s gone viral. Every news outlet is picking it up.” Mabel’s voice was careful. “They’re saying Mason Cross is making a comeback. They’re saying this song is the best thing he’s ever written.”
Wren turned to look at the barn. Mason was still inside, probably wondering what was taking so long.
“He doesn’t know,” she said.
“Then you’d better tell him.”
Mason took the news in silence.
He stood in the kitchen, watching the video on Mabel’s phone, his face expressionless. The comments scrolled by: “Where is this farm?” … “Who is the woman?” … “I need this song on Spotify” … “Is he sober?” … “Best comeback ever.”
When the video ended, he handed the phone back to Mabel.
“I didn’t want this,” he said.
“Too late.” Mabel tucked the phone into her pocket. “The world found you anyway. Now you have to decide what to do about it.”
“What are my options?”
“You can ignore it. Let the hype die down. Go back to fixing fences and milking cows.” She paused. “Or you can lean into it. Call your manager. Make a record. Go on tour. Become Mason Cross again.”
“I never stopped being Mason Cross.”
“Didn’t you?” Mabel looked at him — really looked, the way only old women who have seen everything can look. “The man who crashed into this farm was a ghost. The man standing in front of me is real. The question is: which one do you want to be?”
She walked out before he could answer.
That night, the phone in the kitchen drawer started buzzing again.
Mason ignored it at first. Then Wren pulled it out, powered it on, and handed it to him.
“You need to see this,” she said.
The screen was full of notifications. Missed calls from Gary — his manager, forty-seven of them. Texts from numbers he didn’t recognize. Emails. Voicemails. And one message that stopped him cold.
“Mason, it’s Julian Voss. I’m in Hays. I’ll be at the farm tomorrow at 10 a.m. Don’t run away this time.”
Mason stared at the words. Then he set the phone on the counter and walked to the window.
“He’s coming here,” he said. “Tomorrow morning.”
“I heard.” Wren came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you listen to his offer?”
“I don’t know that either.”
She rested her chin on his shoulder. “Whatever you decide, I’m with you.”
He covered her hands with his. “Even if I decide to leave?”
She was quiet for a moment. Then: “Is that what you want?”
“No.” He turned in her arms, facing her. “But I don’t know what I want anymore. I thought I did. I thought I wanted this — the farm, you, the quiet life. But now the music is back, and it’s louder than ever, and I don’t know if I can ignore it.”
“You don’t have to ignore it. You can make music here.”
“Can I?” He looked around the kitchen — the peeling wallpaper, the creaking floors, the wood stove that smoked when the wind was wrong. “This isn’t Nashville. There are no studios here. No producers. No labels. If I want to make a record, I have to go where the record is made.”
Wren’s arms tightened around him. “Then go. Make the record. Come back.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I go, the world will follow. Reporters. Paparazzi. Fans. They’ll find this place. They’ll find you. And everything we’ve built — the privacy, the peace — it’ll be gone.”
Wren pulled back, looking up at him. Her eyes were steady.
“I don’t care about privacy,” she said. “I care about you. If making music makes you happy, then make music. We’ll deal with the rest.”
Mason touched her face. “You make me happy. The music is just… noise. You’re the signal.”
“That’s a very romantic thing to say.”
“It’s true.”
She kissed him — soft, lingering. “Then stay. Or go. But don’t stay because you’re afraid of losing me. Stay because you want to.”
He held her for a long time, breathing in the smell of her hair, feeling the beat of her heart against his chest.
“I’ll listen to his offer,” he said finally. “That’s all I’m promising.”
“That’s enough.”
Julian Voss arrived at exactly 10 a.m.
He drove the same black SUV as before, but this time he came alone. No portfolio, no business cards, no slick sales pitch. He walked up to the farmhouse door with his hands in his pockets, looking smaller somehow, less threatening.
Mason met him on the porch. Wren stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching.
“Mr. Cross,” Julian said. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“I know. I’m not here to sell you. I’m here to show you something.” He pulled out his phone and played the video — the same one Mabel had shown them. “This isn’t a demo. This isn’t a studio recording. This is a grainy cell phone video, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in ten years.”
Mason said nothing.
“That song,” Julian continued, “is called ‘Kansas Rain.’ I know because the internet named it. It’s been streamed three million times in twenty-four hours. People are covering it. People are crying over it. People are saying it’s the best thing you’ve ever written.”
“I wrote it for her.” Mason nodded toward Wren. “Not for the world.”
“The world doesn’t care. They want it anyway.” Julian put his phone away. “I’m not offering you a record deal, Mason. I’m offering you a chance to share this song with the people who need to hear it. There are veterans out there who are struggling. There are widows who are grieving. There are people who have given up on love. Your song is giving them hope.”
Mason looked at Wren. She was watching him, her face unreadable.
“What would it look like?” he asked. “The deal.”
“One album. One tour. Six months. You record here, if you want — I’ll bring the studio to you. You play the songs you’ve written. You tell your story. And then you come back to your farm and your woman and your judgmental cow.”
“Clarabelle,” Wren said.
“Bless you.”
“The cow. Her name is Clarabelle.”
Julian blinked. “Right. Clarabelle.” He turned back to Mason. “What do you say?”
Mason walked to the edge of the porch, looking out at the dead orchard. The branches were bare, but there were buds — tiny green buds, barely visible, pushing through the bark. Spring was coming. The trees would bloom again.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“The album is called Kansas Rain. And the cover is a picture of this farm.”
Julian smiled — a real smile, not the practiced one from before.
“Done.”
They shook hands on the porch, and Julian drove away.
Wren came up beside Mason, slipping her hand into his.
“Six months,” she said.
“Six months.”
“That’s a long time.”
“It’ll go fast.” He squeezed her hand. “And I’ll come home every chance I get.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I know you will.”
They stood together, watching the SUV disappear down the dirt road. The sun was high, the sky was blue, and the orchard was waking up.
Mason Cross was going to make an album.
But first, he had a fence to check.