Page 45 of Cherry Tree Ranch

“I’ve heard of them. They’re really colourful and decorated, right?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Honestly, I wish I knew more about that part of my heritage. My grandma told me the Kachina dolls represent the belief that everything on earth carries a life force. I’ve always felt connected to that. I’m most myself when I’m in nature and with animals. So I think life is about connection to ourselves and others. To life force.”

“Why don’t you know much about that part of your heritage?”

“It’s a long story, but when my grandparents moved to Colorado from New Mexico they did everything they could to learn English and get jobs. They faced a lot of discrimination, and because of that they unintentionally repressed their way of life,” he explains.

“Like their traditions, you mean?”

“Yeah, but they didn’t necessarily call them that. It was just who they were, how they lived.”

“That’s sad,” I say, thinking of how much I’m enjoying learning about my ancestors.

“It is, but my grandparents are cool as shit. They basically raised me until I was ten when my mom was starting her businesses. I learned how to work hard and take care of myself because of them. They did everything they could to help me be successful. They never wanted me to be taken advantage of like they were.”

“What happened?”

“People they worked for wouldn’t pay them what they said they would. They worked fourteen to sixteen hours every day. My mom told me a story about them being kicked out of a rental for a white family in the first month, even though they had paid first and last month’s rent. I could go on; they were taken advantage of constantly.”

“That was your mom’s family, right? Where is your dad’s family from?”

Cash takes his cherry bag off his shoulder. “Peru and Germany, but they’ve been here for a long time.”

“In Colorado, you mean?”

“Yeah. My dad’s great-great-uncle and great-grandfather came from Peru as shepherds and his great-grandma travelled through Asia to escape Germany.”

“Wow, cool. My family were German on my dad’s side, Irish on my mom’s.” I look at his tall figure silhouetted by the starry sky. “My grandparents were important to me too, especially my grandpa. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss him or wish he was here to talk to.”

We watch the stars for a moment more and then I bring the cherries very quietly into the house. As his truck crunches down the gravel drive, I realize I didn’t get a chance to delete more of the photos of him from the camera. After overthinking whether I should text him about it, I decide not to.

Instead I bring my phone under my covers with me, feeling like I’m thirteen again and down bad for a boy.

I open my messages and type: You were right. I’m seriously in trouble with this cowboy, Lani.

Chapter Twenty

It’s Thursday morning and although the sun has yet to rise, I woke up feeling like it was shining within me. I had the best dream last night. The ranch was full of lush green grass waving softly before me. Tomatoes the size of my fists grew in the garden. Fruit trees full of cherries, sunset-coloured peaches, bright-red apples and plums as dark as night all ripened in the hot sun. Flowers lined the edge of the house. Shorn sheep in the fields munched easily as lambs ran and bucked with each other.

Dawn is about to swallow up the last twinkling stars as Cash comes up the drive. His truck is hot as hell. It’s a pristine vintage pick-up, probably from the seventies, a shade somewhere between blood and wine. I can see myself in the chrome bumper as he stops in front of the house.

I push myself off the porch and brush dirt from my hands.

“Are you ready for your big competition?” Cash asks through the open window. He’s a sight for sore eyes; I can’t help but smile.

“Technically, all I do today is drop the cherries off.”

At the fairgrounds, the entrance is decorated with a rainbow of pennant flags for the upcoming rodeo. I push the gear lever into park behind the bucking shoots. Cash leans over my seat so far that his chest is in my lap. He grabs my door handle and wiggles it.

“This door can be sticky,” he says. “You have to wiggle it, push out, and then pull up.”

“Oh, OK.”

He sits up and his hand slips on the seat. He catches himself using my thigh.

“Shit, sorry,” he says.

My breath catches in my chest. His forearms flex as he pushes up and his eyes are wide with embarrassment. Now I see the arm bulges Emery gushed about when he was carrying me. She was right about them. A rosary falls out of his pocket as he slides from the seat. The clear iridescent beads sparkle against the leather.