Page 1 of The Mountain Echoes

CHAPTER 1

aria

My ex-fiancé is comforting his wife, my sister, as we stand in front of my father’s grave. If it weren’t so heartbreaking, it would be funny.

Papa is gone.

He’ll never again bellow, ‘Aria,’ when he’s angry.

He’ll never again order me to straighten my spine.

He’ll never again tell me not to show weakness, to hold it together, and to fall apartonlywhen I’m all alone.

He’ll never ask me to come back home.

Tears spike my eyes. I pull them in.

Not gonna cry, Papa, not in front of others.

The priest says, “Amen.”

Dirt hits the coffin.

My body is still, but my insides jolt with the sound, as if someone just slammed a gate shut behind me. My brain scrambles to make sense of the hollowness inside, like when the TV signal cuts out, and all that’s left is static.

The wind kicks up again, going right through my coat, which is suited for California but not Colorado. The chill cuts through skin and flesh, hitting my bones.

I don’t mind it. It jars me into wakefulness and reminds me to put one foot after the other despite being submerged in grief.

I wrap my arms around myself.

My eyes take in the view of the mountains I’ve missed for a decade.

They are spectacular.

The cemetery sits by the church on a rise at the edge of town, its whitewashed walls weathered by wind and winters long gone.

Just two days ago, I was in another church in a vineyard in Napa, celebrating a friend’s wedding. I left before the reception, my suitcase filled with weddingoutfits, completely unsuited for Wildflower Canyon.

Thankfully, I’d packed an LBD for the wedding—otherwise, I’d have had to dig through the attic for whatever was left of my old clothes.

I knew that Celine had wanted to toss them into the trash when she turned my bedroom into a guest room, but Nadine, our long-time farm manager and Papa’s close friend, didn’t let her.

The church in Napa has one thing in common with this one—both stand in front of mountains. These, however, are stretched wide and jagged, their snow-dusted peaks catching what little sun the gray sky offers this early in spring.

Pines crawl up the lower slopes, darkand plentiful. Beyond them, Wildflower Canyon, a small town with big ranches, yawns open. It’s vast and stitched together with the fading golds of last season’s grass.

The cemetery backs up to all of it as if the dead are keeping watch over the land.

The mountains are still covered in snow and will remain so until May, possibly longer if the storms continue to roll through.

Thick drifts cling to the ridgelines.

The land’s holding its breath, waiting for spring to make good on its promises.

Down here, though, the thaw has begun.

Mud clings to boots.