Page 41 of Cherry Tree Ranch

“Bet. We’ll do it together.”

“I miss you!”

“Miss you!” She kisses at the phone.

I go back to the letters. I can see Joaquin was beginning to love Daisy.

It dawns on me I’ve only seen what’s on the desk. I’ve neglected to look in the desk. I pull the top drawer open and find it filled to the brim with rodeo publicity posters. The sisters are on a couple of them. Some of the posters are very plain with only entry fees and dates, but the larger the city, the more colourful and decorated the poster.

Under all the posters is a small wooden jewellery box. Carved into the underside of the lid is, My sister, my best friend. Inside there’s a bundle of pearls strung together. I pull at the strand and it’s unexpectedly long – so long, it’s knotted about three quarters of the way down. As it comes out, another identical one appears underneath. I hold the necklace over my head and let it fall against my neck. The pearls are cool against my skin. They are real, with little grooves, ridges and bumps.

“These must be worth a fortune,” I whisper to myself. “Between these, the saddle and the desk—”

But the words coat my tongue with bitterness. It’s hard to think about selling these treasures any more. I’ve become attached to it all.

I hold the necklace away and give in to the urge to swing the end in a circle. The girl from my dream in the hospital with the brown curly hair flashes in my mind. This time she’s not on a bronc, but I imagine her dancing in front of me with the strand of pearls round her neck. She waves me to the dance floor and jives with her hands splayed out, kicking her feet forward and back. The black fringe on the bottom of her dress swings side to side.

I carefully place both necklaces in the box, wishing I didn’t have to leave them behind. I close the desk, take the lantern and return the blanket, carefully covering the saddle. Then I return to the house. The only light on is the one above the kitchen sink, a sure sign Mom’s gone to bed.

Chapter Eighteen

The purply-red flesh of the Bing cherries reflects the golden-hour light as I bring my handful over to Cash, who is photographing the Montmorencies. The evening air is sweet relief after weeks of hot, sweaty weather.

Cash brought a digital camera over because I’m adding photos to my pamphlets and video to the website I’m building. He angles the camera, taking multiple shots and emphasizing the beautiful light. He scoots his shoulder against me and shows me the camera display.

“They look amazing!” I say. “How about we take a break?” I hold out my hand. “We’ve got plenty of cherries for the market, the producer’s competition and then some. Plus, these taste even better than they look.”

Cash lifts a brow and takes one from my stash. I watch his mouth as he’s about to tug the cherry off its stem with his teeth. His full lips mirror the colour of the cherries. It’s the perfect shot.

“Stop!” I take the camera from him, step back, and adjust the focus. “OK, put it between your teeth and hold the stem.”

“Yeah … I think it would look a lot better if it’s you in the shot.” He snatches the camera back.

“Hey!”

He raises his brow expectantly. “Show me how it’s done.”

I tentatively raise a cherry to my mouth, put it between my teeth and hold the stem out.

“Now smile.” I smile and gaze up at a cherry tree. “Yes! Like that.”

I stay still while the lens shutters open and close, and Cash walks around me. He lowers the camera and toggles through the photos. When he blows a short breath out and tips his head up at me, I bite down on the cherry.

“Any good ones?” I ask, peering over his shoulder.

“They’re all good.”

He turns the camera for me to see. I blush. They are good.

“My turn,” I tell him.

He rests the camera in my palm. We begin picking again and I take photos of the cherries on the trees and in my basket. I take others of Cash. Lots of others. I set my basket down and zoom in on his tan bicep as he reaches above his head. The light is perfect, golden and glowing. He turns when the shutter clicks rapidly. His goofy grin makes me laugh.

“That’s perfect,” I tell him, and step closer. “Don’t move.”

His grin turns to confusion. “What was perfect?” he asks with a pair of cherries dangling from his fingers.

“That face you did. Like this.” I do my best impression of his big smile.