Page 28 of Cherry Tree Ranch

OK if I come drop off your mom’s car and get my horse?

Sure.

I can help with cherries when I come.

Whoa, did he just offer to help me?

Thanks, but I’ve got it, I insist, not wanting pity. Aren’t you supposed to stay away from here?

I help my mom can applesauce every year. Got mad skills stuffing jars. He doesn’t answer my question.

Oh yeah? I write back. Now I’m imagining you in a ruffled flowery apron.

My thumb lingers over the send button. Do I dare try to tease him? I take the risk.

Some say it’s my best look.

I grin.

See you in 30, he writes.

Is he serious? I don’t necessarily want any help, but I do need to keep plugging away on the cherries, and I’m tired after yesterday.

Plan. I’ll be in the orchard.

I run back into the house and jump in the shower, then rummage through Emery’s leftover clothes. I find a flowy tank top that will be nice and cool today. I slip it on and admit to myself I also like it because it fits me more snugly than Emery and accentuates my curves. I use detangler and a pick to comb through my matted hair, but there’s no way I’m going to get my curls looking good before he gets here.

Mom peeks in. “Forget something?”

“I know I’m about to work outside, but I could smell the hospital on myself from yesterday, so I thought I’d clean up a little,” I say. “Oh, and … Cash is coming to bring the car back, and he wants to help me today. Is that OK?”

“Of course, but come back to the house at some point so I can meet him and thank him for yesterday, OK?”

She’s the best. She’s never made me feel awkward about guys.

“Will do.”

I put away my sun hat and put on my sunglasses instead – the most expensive thing I own. I carefully clean the iridescent blue lenses. Mom spent way too much money getting them for me at Christmas. I hardly ever wear them because I’m afraid they’ll get scratched.

I check my phone again and reread Cash’s texts once more, heat crawling up my neck as I recall the dream I woke up from this morning.

As I step outside, I see his horse’s hoofprints still fresh in the dirt from yesterday, proof it wasn’t all a strange dream. I tread lightly, not wanting to ruin them, as if it might break a spell somehow. The sun glares over the top of my sunglasses. I remember now why I wear a silly sun hat – it works.

I take a quick break in the shade of the barn, leaning against its weathered door. But, as I do, a sudden, heavy sadness saturates my body. I tell myself it’s the intensity of the last few days catching up with me. But, as strange as it sounds, it feels as if it’s coming from the barn. I take a deep breath. I should get up and go to the orchard as I planned. But, instead, I find myself pushing my sunglasses to the top of my hair and giving the door a nudge.

As I step inside, cool air streams over me.

The desk sits shining in the back corner, and I make my way round the cardboard boxes towards it, but today the saddles hanging on wooden wall racks catch my attention. One of the blankets is covered in so much dust it makes me sad. As I pull it from the saddle and shake it out, the coarse wool fibres release years of dirt and decay. I can make out a pattern of animals – sheep, llamas and horses – all in vibrant shades of red, orange, green and violet. It’s a shame that such a work of art is hidden in this dirty barn.

As I lift it back over the saddle, I notice the saddle itself is ornately tooled with flowers. I prefer riding bareback – I feel grounded when my skin’s close to Blue – but if I could dream up the perfect saddle it would be this one. Inscribed on the cantle is the word Daisy. My fingers find the impressions and trace each letter. The silver conchos are cool to the touch, but the saddle feels warm in all its worn spots, almost as though someone just sat in it.

This saddle belonged to Daisy, the girl in the photo on the desk. With one hand on the saddle and the other holding the blanket, the sepia tones melt away in my mind and it becomes a moving image. Except I’m no longer watching her – I become her. I pull off my cowgirl hat and cue the horse to rear with a single word: arriba.

As he rears, I look out and see a mountain in the distance, the same one we see from the ranch here. The heat from the sun enwraps us. Sweat trickles down my temples.

“Dahlia. You in here?” Cash calls through the barn door, jolting me back to reality. “Dahlia?”

Chapter Thirteen