Page 31 of Cherry Tree Ranch

I look up at him. He smiles at me, and the scar on his neck jumps up as he swallows. Then he stands and puts out his hand expectantly. I lift mine, and he grasps it firmly, pulling me to my feet with ease. When I’m standing, I feel the weight of his sharp eyes searching mine for answers. He keeps hold of my hand. I don’t know what he’s asking, but all I want to say is yes and yes.

I brush away the tiny twigs stuck to the back of my legs and change the subject, withdrawing my hand. “Do you mind if I ask how you got your scar?”

He touches his forefinger to it. “It’s a birthmark, actually.” He leans over and pulls his belly bag back on.

“I’ve never seen a birthmark like that.”

“Right?” he says. “It’s like a choker, huh?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean…” I start.

“No, really, it’s OK. My mom has a theory about it. Actually, it’s not only her theory – lots of people believe birthmarks are injuries from past lives.”

“So, what does she think happened to you?”

Cash shrugs. “Guillotine.”

“Really?”

He traces the thin pink line in a semi-circle at the side of his neck. “Yeah, but I don’t think so. Otherwise, wouldn’t it go all the way round?”

“Hmm. My birthmark could only be seen when I was a baby. It’s on the top of my head and it’s mostly faded.” I braid my hair over my shoulder and smooth back the top. My curly hair is frizzing in the heat. “I wonder what kind of injury it could be from.”

“Maybe you were dropped on your head as a baby.” He smirks.

“Ha!” I snort. “You’re probably right.”

We pick cherries until my basket is brimming and his belly bag makes him look like he’s nine months along. We empty them into crates and pick again.

After we get the cherries inside, my head aches and exhaustion claws at my back. Mom comes in from watching TV and thanks Cash for all he did yesterday. He acts like it was nothing.

I pour us both glasses of lavender lemonade, my favourite drink from a store in town, before he leaves, and savour it. Then I watch him ride Luna away.

When I pull the poultice from my hand, it’s still incredibly swollen but the pain is nearly gone.

Chapter Fourteen

As I sleep, I dream of the girl in the photo again.

Like I imagined in the barn, I’m in her place, waving my hat overhead as my horse rears. He puts all four feet down, and I smile at the man standing behind the photographer. He’s shaking his head; they didn’t get the photo. He has black hair, dark skin, a chiselled jaw and soulful eyes as black as night. He nods to me to try again, so I ask my horse to rear. The man begins waving his hat in the air, drawing the attention of my horse for the photographer. It’s a brown felt hat – similar to a cowboy hat, but the crown is narrow and more pointed – with vibrantly embroidered rings on the underside of the brim. His eyes crease at the corners when he laughs, and suddenly he’s Cash, and the scene is different.

Cash’s hand is round mine, pulling me from the ground in the orchard, his eyes smiling down at me. I’m about to ask him why he’s helping me when his hand rests on the small of my back, and he brings his lips close, as if to brush them against mine. But, just as he runs his hand across my waist, I fall out of his arms.

Down, down through the earth, I fall like a rock tumbling down an endless well. My lungs scream out his name, but my voice cracks, making his name inaudible as I fall through the vastness.

I wake up to my whisper-yells, calling for him over and over. A cold sweat clings to my back and sticks me to my sheets.

Through my open window, a comforting breeze wafts in. I pull off my covers and stand in the cool air. It’s still the middle of the night. I watch the stars as my mind replays the part of my dream when Cash was about to kiss me. Cash, who I need to keep reminding myself isn’t available. Lani is right.

Suddenly, the barn door bangs against its hinges. Metal screams against metal and the wood door clamours against the barn. I stand frozen at the sound, blood tingling in my veins. I push my window down and lock it – both locks – and go back to bed. I turn away from the window and pull my covers over my head, telling myself I’m still dreaming. Or it’s a side effect of anaphylaxis, something like that.

Cold sweat creeps over my body again as the banging abruptly starts again. My mind races with thoughts – the strange sadness I feel in the barn, the old legend of Daisy riding off the cliffs.

But, really, what is there to be afraid of? It’s windy outside, I rationalize. That’s all it is – the breeze blowing the door. Something could have come loose, the hinges damaged.

I flip off my covers and stomp to the window. It’s not a dream. I’m wide awake. I pull at the locks and fling the window back up. A gust of wind comes rushing in and knocks me back a step. I cross my arms over my chest, my thin pyjama shirt and shorts clinging to my sticky skin. I need to sort this out.

I run out to the mudroom, pull on my boots and grab a battery-powered lantern. I lean into the breeze as I walk, watching the barn door clang forward and back, forward and back. A gust pushes my hair behind my shoulders. I jog towards the barn and run as I get closer. The barn door has slammed shut again. I don’t want to feel the weight of all its sadness, but my instinct compels me to go inside. A coyote howls in the direction of the cliffs, making me jump. Hand shaking, I reach out and yank the door open.