Page 2 of Cherry Tree Ranch

She hands me the cookies and uses tongs to place the last glistening cinnamon roll in a paper box. I sigh happily. The warm scent of cinnamon makes me feel all cosy inside, even though it’s the warmest day our little mountain town has seen in eight months.

I pay her and open the box, taking a taste of the cream-cheese frosting with my finger. It’s not honey, but it’ll do for now.

“I need to close up shop,” the woman says expectantly. “My son is riding saddle broncs soon.”

“Is that the next event?” I slap the box shut. “I can’t miss that either – it’s my favourite. Thanks for the cinnamon roll!” I say, and take off with the box clutched to my chest.

“Sorry. Excuse me,” I say, weaving through the crowd. I move through the sea of people, passing my kindergarten teacher and an old boss before another familiar face catches my eye. Wyatt Adler is holding his ticket out to the woman putting red Xs on everyone’s hand. I already have mine, so I’m able to scoot past. He grins warmly in my direction and waves, taking me by surprise. I shoot a quick glance behind me, but no one is looking his way, so that smile must’ve been for me. I lift my free hand in a small hello before I’m pushed forward again by the crowd.

Wyatt Adler, who was a year ahead of me and state medallist in track, recognized and grinned at me.

After climbing up the short flight of stairs, I take my seat next to Emery. Country music blares from the speakers.

“What did you get?” Emery asks.

I can’t wipe the smile off my face as my mind replays Wyatt’s wave, but Emery doesn’t even notice. It makes my heart sink slightly. Swapping playful comments about guys at a distance is one thing, but she never asks me personal questions. Then again, I guess I never ask them of her these days either. It’s like the rift between us is so deep now we don’t know how to – or don’t want to – find our way back. My best friend, Lani, is more of a sister to me now.

“A cinnamon roll,” I reply, setting it down in the small space between us and opening the lid. “Want some?”

She looks down at the roll. “Where’s the frosting?”

“I may have licked it off on my way here. Shut up. I couldn’t find any honey, so this was the next best thing. Thanks for your help, by the way.”

“Like I said… Ridiculous.” Emery pulls her hat down to shield her eyes from the setting sun, which beams brightly from the horizon.

I pull out my phone and text Lani.

Saw Wyatt Adler. He waved at me!

“All that sugar is really bad for you, you know,” Emery goes on.

“What are you saying?” I ask as my phone buzzes. My sister is a health nut. I’ve always had a curvier figure than her, and she loves to remind me of that. Personally, I couldn’t care less.

I check my phone. It’s Lani.

What?! I’m missing all the good stuff. Hawaii has nothing on Wyatt Adler.

You’re missing lots of hot cowboys too, I message back.

Lani goes to Hawaii every summer. Her mom’s family still lives there, and she helps her auntie with her photography business. I’ll be on my way out there to meet her in a month and in the fall we’ll be rooming together at the University of Colorado.

“I’m not saying anything, Dahlia,” Emery says coolly. She acts like I’ve insulted her. We never see eye to eye for long.

Right as I’m about to lay into her about why my body is none of her business, the announcer comes on and tells us about the final barrel racer.

“Here we go, folks – her name is Kaylee Watson, the breakneck blonde who is yet to be beat this season. She’s riding her filly, Buttercup. Let’s give her a warm welcome.”

The girl comes galloping into the arena on a beautiful palomino horse. Buttercup leans hard round each barrel and uses her hind end to pivot. I’m impressed – I know from riding Blue how hard it is to do what she’s doing, and for a moment I’m jealous of the mixture of joy and concentration she has on her face as she rides. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that. As they come into the straight, the girl’s hat flies off and her long blonde hair streams out behind her, waving in the wind. The crowd goes wild as she leaves the arena, triumphant.

Next up is the saddle bronc riding, and as we wait for the event to start, the announcer narrates the history of the sport. How men tamed the West and the wild animals to go with it. That only the bravest men ride these rank horses. How horses were their greatest tool on the range, helping the cattle industry boom and the American economy thrive here.

I shake my head. That’s one take on the history of the American West. Manifest destiny – the idea that settlers had the right to expand westwards and were entitled to the land – was, and unfortunately still is, the mindset of many.

The announcer goes on: “Many a cowboy will tell you saddle bronc riding is the toughest rodeo event of all because of the precision it takes to synchronize with the horse and its movements. Now, folks, first up we have a Silver Springs local. He grew up mutton busting and moved on to mini broncs at the green age of eight. These days he rides the big boys, like this bronc, Hell Cat. Let’s hear it for him. Come on – get loud.”

The crowd cheers and stomps their feet on the metal bleachers. It sounds like being inside a thundercloud. Unfortunately, the rider is bucked off in about two seconds. A new song plays as he limps off, and I let out a squeal. Emery and I used to love this song when we lived together, back before Dad left and everything turned strange between us.

Emery’s trying to keep herself from smiling about the song, so I yank at her hand. We jump to our feet, lock eyes and stomp our boots excitedly. We sing loudly to each other, shouting over the muffled music from the speakers. She swings my hand forward and back as we shake our hips side to side.