Page 50 of Cherry Tree Ranch

We’re slowly approaching Wyatt’s lifted black pick-up. “I’m—” I start as Mom hits a rock in the road. It sends my head into the roof. “Jeez, Mom. I almost got a concussion. Sure you didn’t pop a tyre?” I laugh.

She huffs out a chuckle. “Haven’t you learned? Got to hold on to your britches when I’m driving.” We stop in front of the rusty gate at the bottom of the hill. When I move to get out, she puts her hand on my shoulder. “You good?”

I know she’s not asking about my head. “Yeah.” I wave her off and shrug. “A little nervous is all. It feels surreal – you know, that he’d want to go out with me.”

“Don’t doubt how special you are, Dahlia.”

I smile. “OK, Mom.” I get out and swing the heavy gate open. It’s not the grand entrance most people imagine for a ranch, only a regular livestock gate with a padlock. Grandpa liked it being inconspicuous.

Wyatt gives me a small wave and a toothy smile. Then he nods to Mom, but doesn’t get out of his truck to say hi. I watch him look down at his phone while I hold the gate open for Mom. She turns round on the road, and on her way back she rolls down the window. “I’ll be awake for a while. If Wyatt doesn’t bring you up, I’ll come down.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

She drives off and I push the gate closed. The sharp click of the latch makes this date suddenly feel very real. I take a deep breath and shake off my nerves. I’m ready to have some fun – with someone who’s available.

“Hey!” Wyatt says when I open the passenger door.

“Hi,” I say, and I realize I’m genuinely excited to be getting out. Ever since we moved here, I’ve been holed up on the ranch or working to save it, and I’m long overdue letting my hair down.

“Buckle up.” Wyatt smiles. “We’re going to have some fun.”

“Oh yeah? What do you have planned?”

“You’ll see.” He pulls away and heads towards town.

If I hadn’t known Wyatt since middle school, I’d be a little terrified about going on a date with a guy who doesn’t tell me where we’re going.

“So, uh, why were you in town again?” I ask.

Unlike me, Wyatt doesn’t seem awkward at all as he taps his hand on the steering wheel to the beat of the music.

“One of my dad’s paintings sold. I told him I had a reason to come over anyway, so I delivered the piece and picked up payment.” He lifts a bushy eyebrow, and all his perfectly aligned teeth show when he smiles.

“That’s good. Your dad’s painting selling, I mean.”

“Yeah,” he says, steering the truck on to Orchard Avenue. “Though I would have come over anyway, even if my dad’s painting hadn’t sold, Dahl.”

I swell with something like confidence, but a twinge of ick swirls in my gut. The nickname feels premature. Dahl. Dad called me that when I was little, and I’ve never liked it.

He parks in town, and we walk down Main Street, past the bookstore with its cosy velvet couches in every corner, past the French patisserie and the coffee shop where they personally roast their beans. The scent of the freshly brewed coffee reminds me of Grandpa calling it bean water. I smile to myself as Wyatt and I weave through a group of tourists taking a photo.

The train thunders slowly through town, whistling at each crossing. As Wyatt and I cross the street, I glance towards the old depot. Over on the red platform, in the light of the setting sun, I swear I see the woman with brown curly hair who was riding the bronc in my dream shielding her eyes. But after the train chugs past she’s gone.

Near the breakfast spot, which is in a converted livery, is the arcade. It’s attached to the pizzeria next door, beads hanging down from the doorframe the only separation. At the pizzeria counter there’s a gelato bar – real Italian gelato, not small-town-trying-to-be-sophisticated-gelato. My favourite is the pistachio, but I haven’t had any since last summer when Grandpa and I were here.

“Pizza, then games?” Wyatt suggests, somewhat sheepishly. Golden light seeps between the buildings, creating sharp angles of light.

“Yeah, that sounds good.” I smile encouragingly as Wyatt and I emerge from the shadowed sidewalk and into the light, where a mural of kids picking peaches is painted on the side of the town hall.

“Don’t you love this town?” Wyatt stops and admires the mural. “There are trees with actual leaves, not just pine trees. And it’s so green.”

I laugh to myself. It’s not the most brilliant observation, but I understand what he means.

He reaches out and takes my hand in his, and I look down. It’s a little surreal, but not in a bad way. I nod. “Yeah. It’s nothing like Silver Springs. The only thing there for the locals is the grocery store and the fairgrounds.”

“I liked making money teaching snowboarding lessons,” he says. “But it got old the way the town catered to all the ritzy out-of-towners.” He surprises me with the sentiment. I’d expect a guy like him to say something about all the ski bunnies or the wicked half-pipe.

I relax when we step inside the pizzeria. The scent of pepperoni and cheese permeate my senses. That is, until I see Cash in the kitchen, and everything else vanishes.