The March sun rose over the horizon, illuminating the ranch. With the deep snow gone, prairie grass waved in the light as the ground warmed beneath it. The sky was dotted with fluffy cumulus clouds, and the breeze was crisp but not bitterly cold. The absence of vapor trails from high-flying aircraft made the world feel as if it had slipped two hundred years into the past. Nothing else in the sky or air hinted at the crisis gripping the world beyond this small Wyoming ranch.

In more populated areas, panic and pandemic became the new normal. Cable news channels constantly broadcast fearmongering and conspiracy theories. The world was bracing for the worst, which many referred to as the biblical “End Days.” Yet, on the prairie of the Brun-Dahl Ranch, the sun continued to rise and winter receded.

Pax sat atop August, gazing across the prairie, warmed by the early spring sunshine despite patches of snow still speckling the ground. After his first week of daily contact, August had become his friend, and now, a few months into their relationship, they communicated silently through touch. This new form of communication felt both strange and comforting for someone who had relied on sound all his life.

The jacket Kat had given him on that long-ago frigid day was also more comfortable and looser. A vegan diet and daily hard work on the ranch had trimmed the excess weight he had gained since Sarah passed. He felt good and strong, with muscles again.

He let his beard grow, embracing a more rugged cowboy look. He liked what he saw in the mirror, except for the silver mop of hair on his head—the color, not the length. Kat had offered to trim his hair as she did weekly with his beard, but he declined, wanting to awaken that old, long-haired rock-and-roller inside him.

With a simple motion, August turned and brought him back to the path where Katja met him on Freyja. The two rode quietly down the path to Vild Lade.

“You’re leaving soon?” Katja asked as they rode along, her words just as likely to be a statement as a question.

“No,” Pax replied simply.

“No?” she laughed. “The snow is melting. Aren’t you planning to be on the road again to continue your quest?”

Pax looked at her and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “This pandemic is going to last a while. Some states are talking about lockdowns, which means… I don’t know what it means, but my pilgrimage is on hold.”

“You don’t want to go home to see your family?”

“I do,” he sighed. “But I think they’re all going to be locked down too. One more body in the house will only add to their stress.”

She rode silently, listening.

“And who will sing to the new horses when they arrive?” he asked.

Katja smiled and nudged Freyja into a trot as they approached the barn. Pax silently urged August to keep pace.

As Pax got used to working with the wild foals and yearlings under Katja’s care, he found that singing while filling their feed and water or mucking out stalls helped keep them calm. After being knocked around on his first day at the ranch, he started singing to himself to stay calm around the horses and realized that when he was relaxed, so were they. So, he made singing a daily routine. The males enjoyed his version of Me and Bobby McGee, while the filly loved Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson.

“Know your audience,” he had told Katja when she saw how the horses reacted to his voice.

He sang for Katja as well. She enjoyed classic ‘70s ballads, and he did his best, even though he sometimes struggled to remember all the lyrics. Thirty years earlier, he would have known every word of every song on the radio. Now, he remembered most of them and made up the rest. Kat never called him out for his creative license.

He also sat at the piano, reliving his childhood lessons. Although many keys beyond the second octave above middle C were out of tune, he let his fingers play some of his original songs to hear how they sounded.

Even their living arrangement had evolved. One night in early February, he woke to the sound of a board creaking outside his bedroom door. He turned to see the door open, revealing Katja standing there, backlit by the full moon shining through the windows behind her. He knew why she was there. The tension between them had been growing, accompanied by subtle displays of affection—a gentle touch of her hand on his chest, her arm linked with his, and a lock of hair brushed from his face to behind his ear.

“Kat, I,” he tried not to sound harsh, “I can’t.”

She leaned against the doorframe. He could see the outline of her fit body in silhouette, but her face remained shrouded in shadow.

“You can’t? Or you won’t?”

He thought about it. Could he? Yes, he was quite sure he was capable. Was he ready to? That was another question.

“I can,” he said, meaning he was able. “But I won’t. So, I can’t.”

She sniffed slightly, and he recognized that it wasn’t the sniff associated with a cold or dust in the air. It was the sound of disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” she said, stepping away from the door and heading back to her room.

He lay for a full minute, nervously fingering the rings, before getting out of bed and walking to her partially open door.

“Kat?” he whispered.

“It’s okay, Pax. I’m okay.”

“Can I come in?”

She shifted in bed and glanced at the door. He entered the room.

“I’m sorry I was so blunt,” he said. “I don’t want you to think it’s you. It’s absolutely not you.”

He laughed softly, signaling to her that he was attracted to her and that any obstacles to their being together were his responsibility, not hers.

She moved over, letting him lie on the bed next to her. He felt comfortable doing this. They had grown close and shared deeply personal stories, including their experiences of loss. They often listened to music and lay together on the sofa in the living room. They felt at ease like this.

“I’m not ready, Kat. That’s all. It’s not you. It’s all me. I’m not ready, but wow, if you feel that way about me, I’m… wow.”

She crept closer as he slid his arm under her head, allowing her to rest in the crook of his shoulder. Her hand rested on his chest. They remained that way in silence for a long time. He accepted that he would stay there through the night, and as he drifted closer to sleep, he heard a whisper.

“You feel like him.”

The next morning, he woke before dawn. The remnants of his dream state fogged his perceptions, and he felt Her against his chest, spooning as they had so many times before, his arm wrapped around her, and her hands wrapped around his arm. She didn’t smell the same, but she felt perfect in his arms.

“Sarah,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry, no,” came the response.

His eyes flew open. The woman he was holding wasn’t his wife, who had left his life years earlier. This woman felt like her, but she wasn’t her.

“Kat?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Just Kat.”

His response surprised them both. Rather than pulling away in shock, he hugged her tighter and resisted the urge to cry.

“I’m sorry, Kat, I thought you were—”

“I know,” she said. “All night, I thought you were Carsen, and then I would remember that he’s gone and it was you.”

“I’m sorry I’m not him,” Pax said.

“And I’m sorry I’m not her,” Katja replied.

They lay spooning, holding each other, feeling something strangely familiar. He wanted to kiss her, to give her what she desired, to love her. But he knew he couldn’t—not in the way she wanted. Katja meant too much to him, and he wouldn’t give in to these basic desires, fearing he would break her heart when he eventually left.