Rust & Starlight
Chapter 37 : A Song on the Radio
The drive to Hays was routine now.
Wren made it twice a month — for supplies, for bank business, for the occasional doctor’s appointment. The forty-minute stretch of highway had become familiar, almost comforting: the curve past the old grain silo, the straightaway through the wheat fields, the billboard for a steakhouse that had been there since her childhood.
But today was different.
Today, she was driving back from the feed store, her truck bed loaded with bags of grain, the radio tuned to the local country station. She wasn’t really listening — her mind was on the orchard, on the new chicken coop she was building, on the fact that Mason would be home in four days.
Then the DJ’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“Alright, folks, this next one is a special request. It’s been climbing the charts all week, and it’s now the number one most requested song in the country. From his new album Kansas Rain, here’s Mason Cross with the title track.”
Wren’s hands froze on the steering wheel.
The opening chords filled the truck — familiar, intimate, the same ones she’d heard Mason play a hundred times on the porch. But this was different. This was the studio version, polished and produced, with pedal steel and a soft harmony in the chorus.
Mason’s voice came through the speakers, clear and warm:
“The prairie sky is wide and cold,
And I’ve got no one to hold,
But there’s a light in the farmhouse window,
And it’s calling me back home.”
Wren pulled over to the side of the road.
She sat there, the engine idling, the wheat fields stretching to the horizon, and listened. The song played on — the verses she knew by heart, the bridge she’d heard him struggle with, the chorus that had become their anthem.
“So here’s to the woman who saved a wretch,
Who gave him a blanket and a place to rest,
Who taught him that fences can be mended,
And that love isn’t a prize — it’s a test.”
By the time the song ended, tears were streaming down her face.
The DJ came back on. “That was Mason Cross, ‘Kansas Rain,’ the fastest-rising single of his career. And folks, if you’re wondering who that song is about — the ‘woman on the other side’ — her name is Wren Calloway. She’s a farmer in Millbrook, Kansas, and she’s the reason Mason Cross is back.”
Wren wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
Her phone buzzed. She looked at the screen: Mason.
She answered.
“Are you listening?” he asked. His voice was breathless, excited.
“I just pulled over.”
“Did you hear it?”
“I heard it.”
“What do you think?”
She laughed — a wet, joyful sound. “I think you’re going to be even more insufferable now.”
“I’m serious, Wren. What do you think?”
She looked out at the fields, the blue sky, the endless Kansas horizon.
“I think it’s beautiful,” she said. “I think the whole world is going to hear it and fall in love with you.”
“The whole world doesn’t matter. Only you.”
“Stop being charming. I’m driving.”
“I’m not charming. I’m truthful.” A pause. “I wish I was there. In the truck with you. Listening to the song for the first time together.”
“You’ll be home in four days.”
“Three now. I’m coming back early. I canceled the last show.”
Wren’s heart leaped. “You what?”
“I canceled it. The band needs a break. I need a break. And I need to see you.” His voice softened. “I need to see the orchard blooming.”
“The buds are almost open. Another week, maybe less.”
“I’ll be there for it. I promise.”
They stayed on the phone for a while, not talking, just breathing. The radio played another song — something about trucks and dirt roads — but Wren barely heard it.
“I should go,” she finally said. “The feed is in the truck, and Clarabelle is probably plotting against me.”
“She’s always plotting.”
“I love you, Mason.”
“I love you too. Drive safe.”
“You too. Wait, you’re not driving. You’re in a hotel.”
“I’ll drive safe anyway. Out of solidarity.”
She laughed and hung up.
The rest of the drive passed in a blur.
Wren couldn’t stop smiling. Her face ached from it. The wheat fields seemed brighter, the sky bluer, the whole world more alive. She turned the radio back on, hoping to hear the song again, but the station had moved on to a commercial for farm equipment.
She didn’t care. She’d heard it. The whole world had heard it. And somewhere in Nashville, Mason was packing his bags, counting down the hours until he came home.
She pulled into the driveway, parked the truck, and walked to the orchard.
The trees were covered in buds — thousands of them, swollen and pink, ready to burst. The late frost had delayed the bloom, but it hadn’t killed them. They were survivors, just like her.
She touched the trunk of the largest peach tree — the one Luke had planted, the one that had almost died.
“We made it,” she whispered. “We’re still here.”
The wind rustled the branches, and she could almost imagine the tree whispering back.
That night, Wren sat on the porch with her laptop.
Mabel had shown her how to use Spotify, and now she pulled up Mason’s album. The cover was a photograph of the farm — the porch, the orchard in the background, the morning light just breaking over the horizon. She’d taken it herself, months ago, on a whim. Mason had asked to use it, and she’d said yes, not thinking much of it.
Now it was everywhere. On billboards. On magazine covers. On the screens of millions of phones.
She clicked on the first track — “Kansas Rain” — and listened again.
This time, she didn’t cry. She just sat, wrapped in a blanket, watching the stars, letting the music wash over her. The song was no longer just Mason’s. It was hers too. Theirs.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Mabel: “Heard the song. Cried into my dinner. You’re a lucky woman.”
Wren typed back: “I know.”
Another buzz. This time from an unknown number: “Your farm is famous. My wife won’t stop talking about it. — Clive Hanson”
She deleted it without responding.
The night deepened. The stars multiplied. And somewhere on the road between Nashville and Kansas, Mason was driving toward her, the headlights cutting through the dark.