Page 26 of Cherry Tree Ranch

“Mom!” I say.

“Oh, baby girl,” she says, pulling me into a hug that floods me with gratitude and relief. “I’m so glad you’re OK.”

“I’m OK, Mom,” I say, my eyes welling up.

“You’re not allowed to leave this world before me. You understand?”

“I understand.”

Chapter Twelve

Half asleep and half buzzing, I push my cheek into my pillow. I channel every thought into my dream, where Cash’s calloused hand is touching my shoulder again. Only this time, he pulls me into his big, warm chest.

I melt when he leans into me. His soft lips graze my ear, and he whispers, “I’m here, mi flor.” I look up at him as he tucks a curl behind my ear – but in the dream, my hair is blonde. He tips up his brown felt hat and takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my mouth to meet his. As we kiss, he lets out a short hum in the back of his throat, delighted with the taste of my mouth on his.

Then his hum turns to a buzz, and I’m awake and reaching for my vibrating phone. I silence it without looking and lie in bed, replaying his voice in my head for as long as possible. I’m here. The image of his gentle smile rushes through me like a fresh spring river.

My phone buzzes again with a message. I lift it from the nightstand and bring it under the covers with me.

Did they let you go home? How are you feeling?

I’m properly awake now. It’s Cash.

Have a monster headache and my hand hurts. The swelling’s up to my elbow now. Otherwise good. How’d you get my number?

Emery. Got hers before we left. I needed all your info to fill out the hospital paperwork.

Your horse is happy. She and Blue have been eating side by side. It’s cute.

I take in one last breath of the lavender oil Mom sprayed on my pillow last night and get out of bed. The sun is already high in the sky. I don’t normally sleep in, and now I remember why. It gets hot as hell by nine a.m. I turn up the volume on my phone as I get dressed, but it doesn’t ding.

Mom is in the kitchen taking raspberry muffins out of the tin when I enter. My mouth instantly salivates and I’m acutely aware of how hungry I am. The subtle scent of cinnamon Mom sprinkles over them, mixed with the wafting aroma of lavender bundles hanging from the ceiling, calms my head a skosh.

“Good morning, sweetie! Did you sleep well?”

“Uh, yeah. I’ve been having a bunch of vivid dreams lately.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“About the ranch in the past, and Daisy. I can’t get those stories about her out of my head.” I leave out that I just woke from a dream about Cash. I also leave out how unrelenting my desire is to dig into the desk now that I know it was Daisy who died falling from the cliffs.

“Huh. Well, come sit down and get breakfast.” She pats the blue stool at the kitchen island with a hand I hardly recognize any more – it’s thin and bony. Her tissue-paper-like skin is mottled with red rashy spots. She tried wearing gloves while waitressing for a while, but customers complained, wondering what infectious sickness she might have. “I made coffee. Want some?”

“Always. Maybe it will help with my headache. But I have to have a muffin before my stomach caves in.” I take one with my unstung hand and slice a large chunk of butter off the stick. It melts as it nestles into the steaming muffin, and I follow it with a generous drizzle of honey. Licking my lips, I add, “You didn’t have to do all this, Mom.”

“What? Make breakfast? I used to make breakfasts like this all the time. I miss it.”

“Me too,” I say quietly. I don’t want to make her feel guilty. My phone dings and my head snaps to look, but it’s only a weather notification. More loudly, I say, “Raspberry muffins are my favourite.”

I inhale half my breakfast in one bite. I close my eyes and grin – this is comfort food. The muffin is tart, the butter is luscious and slightly salty, and the honey is sweet and earthy. A large drip of silky butter and honey lands on the knuckles of my resting hand. I lick it off like this is my last meal.

“That’s why I made them.” Mom quirks her mouth and raises her eyebrow as if to say, Are you going to eat your hand too? But I can tell she’s happy to see I have an appetite.

I cover my mouth and chuckle, but then old memories of eating these muffins flood my mind. My heart aches a little at the most vivid one. All four of us went sledding one morning, and Mom packed them as a snack. Emery rode our red sled in her purple snow suit while I watched from the top and ate a muffin. When Mom and Dad flipped off their sled going too fast, they laughed so hard they cried.

My throat tightens, so I push the thought of our family out of my head. “Who cleaned up in here?” I ask, looking around. There are parts of the kitchen counter I haven’t seen since before we moved in. “It’s so clean … and so organized.”

Mom catches me glancing at the dahlias in the ceramic pitcher and gives me a wry smile. It may be my imagination, but the blooms appear more vibrant than before. She must have trimmed the stems. “Your sister did all this.”