Page 12 of Cherry Tree Ranch

My stomach grumbles, and I have the sudden craving for more honey, or some of the cherries I’ve picked. I realize I’ve got distracted. I have to start preserving the cherries or I’ll never finish before the market tomorrow.

But, as I reach to close the desk, something catches my eye. Inside one of the cubbies, nearly camouflaged, is a small box. It’s made of exotic wood with a geometric design. A tiny golden clasp holds it closed. I may be mistaken, but it appears to be a ring box. If there’s a ring inside, I may be able to pay off a big chunk of the debt. Holding my breath, I flip the clasp up with my thumb.

Inside is a piece of paper crumpled into a tight ball. I tip the box, catching the ball in my palm. There’s a slot in the cushioned velvet but no ring. I unfurl the paper gently and flatten it.

DAISY,

I WON’T ACCEPT THE RING BACK. KEEP IT AND ACCEPT MY PROPOSAL.

IF WE MARRY AND JOIN OUR RANCHES, I WILL NEVER MAKE YOU LIFT A FINGER AND YOU’LL NEVER WORK ALONGSIDE A FOREIGNER AGAIN.

WE’LL HAVE THE LARGEST CATTLE RANCH ON THE WESTERN SLOPE AND I’LL LET YOU KEEP YOUR SHEEP.

YOURS,

EARL

I can’t help but scrunch my nose in disgust. No wonder the note was crumpled into a ball. I put both things back and, for comfort, I slip the little bronze horse into my pocket. I slide the roll top down and, with the honey frame in hand, run back to the house.

Chapter Six

“My goodness,” Mom says as I come puffing into the kitchen. She points at the sink, indicating I should wash my hands before doing anything else. She can’t afford to get any sicker than she already is.

“What the heck happened?” Emery asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No, I don’t,” I scoff. “I just rushed back to take over.”

“Dahlia, you don’t have to do this alone,” Mom says, leaning a hip heavily against the counter. “Did you get some honey?”

“Yep, and I didn’t even eat any,” I say, before remembering the drip I licked. I set my prized frame in front of her. “You really don’t need to help me. I promise I can do it on my own.”

“I know you can, but it’s also OK to ask for help.” Mom emphasizes this with raised brows, knowing I have a hard time doing that. If I mess things up on my own, I only disappoint myself.

“Mom,” I say, desperate to sway the conversation away from me, “did Grandma ever use honey to sweeten the sour cherries instead of sugar?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“I figure, with the honey we’ll have once it’s all ready to harvest, it might be worth a try. I can use the frames that are ready for now.” I squirt soap in my hands and breathe in the lemony basil and sweet mint on the windowsill.

“Go for it.” Mom gives me a reassuring but weak smile. She’s wearing down.

“I’m done,” Emery blurts, pitting a bright red Montmorency. She throws the cherry in the bowl like she’s flicking a bug off her skin, and the juice bleeds down her arm. Her face scrunches in disgust and she rushes to the sink, bumping her hip against mine. She turns the faucet towards her and twists the knob to cold. I hold my sudsy hands over the sink and watch her in disbelief.

“Why is this stuff so damn sticky?” she complains, scratching at her juice-streaked arms. “No wonder Grandma never thought I was good in the kitchen. I can’t stand this.”

I pull the faucet back in my direction and turn it to warm again. “I don’t know why you bothered helping if you were going to act like this about it. And maybe if you used warm water, like I was doing…”

“Like I was doing,” she mocks. “You sound like Dad.”

My stomach sinks. The last thing I want to do is sound like him. I turn to Mom, searching for hurt in her expression, but she’s pretending to ignore us while she moves jars to be sanitized closer to the stove.

Emery and I have always sparred. The verbal abuse we dished out growing up was epic, but no scar runs deeper than the choice she made to live with Dad instead of Mom. At the time of the divorce, I was ten and she was twelve. Promises of living in his giant house with a big screen in her bedroom, top-of-the-line skis and a weekly spending allowance were enough to convince her she didn’t need to see us very often. Even now, eight years later, I can’t forget the grief it caused Mom.

I look in vain through every drawer for a fresh hand towel. My anger towards Emery burns hot, but I don’t want to argue. So I bite the insides of my cheeks and replace my negative thought with a positive one.

Dad’s old truck will be ready for me this weekend. He gifted it to me when I graduated, but it needed a few repairs first. He’s had it since he was in college; his dad gave it to him and now he’s giving it to me. Emery got a brand-new Range Rover Velar when she was sixteen, though she crashed it into a lamppost right before she came home from college. It’s still getting fixed.

Dad’s truck is sentimental to him. I’m surprised, but also grateful, that he’s giving it to me – especially now. The markets are every Thursday. Tomorrow I’ll use Mom’s car, but for the market next week I’ll be able to pack the truck’s bed full of cases of cherries.