Page 11 of Cherry Tree Ranch

Lani doesn’t write back straight away, so I sit on the desk chair and rewatch a video she posted. She’s standing on the beach with a white-and-yellow plumeria flower tucked behind her ear. She pulls her long black hair away from her shoulders and turns the camera in a circle, showing the palm trees, the beach and the little cottage her auntie lives in behind her. I can almost smell the salty ocean air and the bright citrusy scent of the plumeria.

I had to tell Lani I won’t make it to Hawaii to visit next month like we planned, because I need all the time I can get to earn money. Her parents paid for my ticket as a graduation present, but thankfully it was refundable. I knew I’d be saying no to several things when I said yes to trying to save the ranch, but missing out on going to Hawaii is harder to bear than I imagined, especially when I see her so happy there.

Still, as much as I initially worried about letting her down, Lani has been amazing about my decision to stay. She’s come here with me a couple of times and understands how much this place means to me. She summed up my feelings better than I ever could. She told me that in Hawaiian culture aloha ʻāina – “love that which feeds” – means land is not a thing to be owned, but rather a source of life and identity that should be honoured and respected. It struck me as one of the truest things I’ve ever heard.

That’s cool, she finally responds to the picture of the bronze horse. Where’d you get it?

This antique desk in the barn. I take a picture of the desk and send it too.

I flip the horse round and round. On its belly I spot an engraving: Te amo – J.

I take yet another photo. This is interesting.

Sweet! Who’s J?

Wish I knew.

Well, keep digging! I bet that desk is a history treasure trove.

I ready myself to open the desk. Why does it draw me in? Is it because I want to know the story behind the photo? Or who J was, and who they gave the horse to? No one I’ve heard of in Grandpa’s family had a first name starting with J. Whatever it is, I feel moved by a desire – no, a need – to know what secrets this desk keeps.

I grab the two handles on the roll top and push – but it’s locked. I pull open the drawers, hoping to find the key, but they’re full of papers and boxes and old junk, as messy as the rest of the barn. Grandpa was the kindest man, but he wasn’t the best at staying organized.

I lean against the top again, making it creak. I don’t want to hurt the old thing, so I stop. Forcing it is clearly not the answer. Dad would say I’m doing it all wrong. If he were here, he’d have taken over by now. Though, he wouldn’t want me to figure this out, because he’s against me having anything to do with the ranch. He’s especially bitter that I’ve chosen it over college.

I turn in a circle, looking for another way to get in. There’s an assortment of screwdrivers in the toolbox, but I’m afraid those will scratch the wood. Then I spy a stack of old paint cans with a metal paint key on top.

Gently, I wedge the paint key in the key hole. It fits like a charm. As I twist, the lock on the left side of the desk clanks as it releases, but the right side is stuck. I stand back with my hands on my hips. Grandpa always encouraged me to take my time, to think things through, and if the ranch has taught me anything it’s to problem-solve and be resourceful.

I lift the edge of the rolltop about a quarter-inch and use my phone flashlight to inspect the latch. It’s flat on one side, arced on the other, just like a door latch. Part of a cardboard box makes the perfect hold for the left side while I slide another piece under the edge and bang the right latch. It takes several vigorous whacks, but finally the latch pops open.

“Yes!” I pump my fist in the air.

Taking a deep breath, I give the lid a nudge. It clack-clack-clacks as the rolling top disappears into the desk. Inside, the desktop overflows with papers and newspaper articles – a sea of knowledge and information collected over years and years of ranch ownership. There are stacks of envelopes tied in silky ribbons, and a fountain pen and an inkwell sit in the corner cubby. Then there are the ink stains and tiny drawers, eerily similar to those in my dream.

A piece of newspaper flutters from the desk in the breeze and floats to the ground. I breathe a sigh of relief – it’s just the breeze that sent a chill across my spine. Old memories of playing with Emery allowed my imagination to run wild.

The newspaper is very old and very thin. It’s folded in half twice and, as I pull it carefully open, only one spot in the middle tears. The article is the size of my palm, and the letters are so small it’s almost illegible. I squint in the dim light. The heading reads: Dorothy and Margaret O’Connor Ride Rough Stock.

May 5, 1924

Dorothy and Margaret O’Connor Ride Rough Stock

Pinto Valley locals, Dorothy and Margaret – or, as we affectionately call them, Dottie and Daisy, respectively – came in first and second in bronc riding during our local contest yesterday. This will be the last time we see either of them in the amateurs, as they both qualified for the professional circuit, which starts next weekend. Older sister Dottie has ridden in the amateur circuit for two years.

Both girls grew up breaking wild horses on their family ranch on Ute Mesa. Their mother said that when she and her husband did not bear a son, they gave up trying and put the girls in the saddle. The family also raises Rambouillet sheep.

When asked about going out on the road, Dottie said, “That it will be easy compared to the ranch work we’re used to doing.” Because the rodeo season is only four months, they will be back to help their mother on the ranch in September.

Dottie, age 21, and Daisy, age 18, will ride broncs at Cheyenne Frontier Days on June 9th and 10th.

Under the article is a photograph of a girl on a bucking bronc, with the caption: Daisy O’Connor qualifying ride, Pinto Valley, CO.

She’s the same girl from the picture frame on the desk. This ranch is on Ute Mesa – that means the sisters must be my relatives; Mom’s maiden name was O’Connor. I squeal to myself. Girls who rode broncs! That’s almost unheard of these days, and women had even fewer rights back then. It feels like a small victory that gender alone didn’t stop them and they were allowed to rodeo.

The rodeo events most girls do these days are barrel racing or running for rodeo queen. I asked Mom if I could do breakaway roping on Blue, but she said no. She couldn’t afford lessons and Blue was in a different town.

Mom loves going to rodeos, though. She would love it even more if it were inclusive like when Daisy and Dottie rode. I can’t believe I never heard stories about these women growing up. They were a part of our family’s past that should be shared.