Page 26 of Even After This
As we exit the boardinghouse, a primitive wooden sign above the door grabs my attention.
I nod at the word carved across it. “Alba?”
Prissy pushes the door open and steps on the porch. “Thehistory of the ranch.” She approaches the corner of the house and crouches down.
I follow suit and wait.
“The original settlers who claimed this area were from Spain. They were hunting for silver. Story is the husband wanted to keep moving north, but the wife insisted on putting their stakes here.”
“Why?” A fly thinks we’re friends, and I swat it away to tell it otherwise.
Prissy stands. “I think they were right here in this spot.” Her eyes search beyond, then fall on me. “Colorado is known for its Rocky Mountain bluebells. They’re a beautiful hue of blue. Almost purple. But the wife found twelve flowers that didn’t match the others. White Spanish bluebells. She believed it was an omen signaling where they should settle.”
“Twelve Bluebells Ranch.” The wind carries my whispered words away.
“Hyacinthoides hispanica. ‘Alba.’”
“What does ‘alba’ mean?”
Prissy’s baby-blue eyes laser into mine. “Dawn.”
Her response almost takes my breath away.
Dawn. Beginning.
Breaking our gaze, I stand and consider the area where the flowers once grew. Slowly I spin, taking in each piece of the ranch. The vast fields, the sturdy boardinghouse, the brown wood fence delineating the property line to the neighboring ranch. In spite of my fleece jacket, chills race down my arms.
Could this be where I belong?
Prissy walks past me, heading in the direction of her car, her platform boots covering the gravel with unexplained grace. “Legend goes, the Spanish bluebells haven’t appeared here since. The following spring the field was covered only in Rocky Mountain bluebells.”
An odd sensation washes over me, and I find myself hoping I’ll be visiting next spring to witness the blue blanket of beauty.
Maybe even catch a glimpse of an inspiring white bloom.
6
My head spinslike a cheap plastic top. Round and round, until it twists right off the table into oblivion.
What does Twelve Bluebells Ranch mean for me? A simple catalyst to consider new options? Or is the land somehow my alba? My dawn. My beginning.
What the heck would I do with a full functioning ranch? “Native Texan” doesn’t mean we’re all born with cowboy hats and spurs attached to our bodies.
Without my prompting, Prissy cancels the last two property showings to give my brain a rest.
We agree to touch base later, though I make no promises about my ability to express coherent thoughts. When I say goodbye, I picture her snapping her fingers to transform from her magic jeans back to her power realtor uniform.
While cruising through the lobby, I decide I need to figure out when the hotel shuttle leaves next. I want to make a visit to the Cheyenne Zoo. A stroll in the fresh air will get my blood pumping and help sort things out in my head. Plus, they revampedthe elephants’ section since my last trip, and I want to check out the new digs.
On my way to find a hotel shuttle, through the hustle of the arriving crowd, I clock Harlan in a corner talking on his phone. Heat flushes my face, my pulse picks up, and I stop in my tracks.
Dressed in business casual khaki pants, he looks quite dapper today. The white oxford shirttail hanging casually underneath his navy sweater presents a boyish air. However, he’s all man.
What is the appropriate behavior? Do I smile at him as I pass? Or am I supposed to stay and talk to him? What’s the protocol for someone famous who is starting to become familiar on vacation but you probably won’t ever see again?
I don’t have that manual.
I approach him, gritting my teeth as I prepare to act normal.
