Page 71 of Cherry Tree Ranch

Cash and I work quietly around each other. I find a small group of envelopes with an emerald ribbon encircling them. Unlike the others, there isn’t any writing on the envelopes. I put them to the side and make a mental note to come back to them. Then, as I pull out the rodeo publicity poster, the one with both sisters on it, a leather journal appears. Tooled into the bottom corner is a daisy, no bigger than a nickel.

I ruin the quiet vibe. “Cash … look!”

He cocks his head. “Open it.”

I untie the knotted leather strap binding the journal closed. The first thing I notice is that the handwriting is tightly written in perfect cursive. Cash and I sit cross-legged by the documents, almost on top of one another, and read the journal.

“It starts in 1923 – that was before Daisy started rodeoing,” I tell Cash.

May 17, 1923

I find myself watching Joaquin constantly. He’s only been here for a couple of weeks, and we haven’t talked about much other than the sheep he tends, but his presence is magnetic.

“Joaquin?” Cash points to the journal. “That was the name of my great-great-great-uncle who worked here!”

Dots are connecting in my mind, creating familiarity that comforts and frightens me all at once. “Your great-great-great-uncle who was a shepherd…”

“That must have been him!”

We read on:

August 19, 1923

After helping pick fruit down in the valley, Joaquin agreed to getting paid in trees, then he gave them all to me. He and I have shared many wonderful moments together, but I’m confused by such a grand gesture.

We worked together, planting a hundred in all. There are sour and sweet cherries. While we planted, he hummed a beautiful song. I asked him what it was, and he said it’s a song that helps calm the sheep – a lullaby, but he doesn’t know the translation to English. He believes singing to the trees will help them grow. After they were all in the ground, he brought out a guitar-like instrument and sung the whole thing to me and the trees. Instead of calling me Daisy, he says “mi flor” – my flower.

My spine tingles. “Cash,” I exclaim. “You sing like that too. And the instrument…”

“The charango,” Cash says. “My dad played it when he told me the story of Joaquin. Do you think it’s the same one?”

“It’s got to be. This is amazing!” I shake the journal excitedly. “I mean your ancestor, my ancestor, they were in love right here on this very same ranch.” I hug the journal to my heart and beam. “This may sound crazy, but it feels to me like they’re still here somehow.”

“I don’t think it sounds crazy at all.”

“Ahh! I’m so excited about this.”

“I can see that. You’re practically vibrating.”

“Want to take a quick break and blow off some steam?” Before he answers, I take him by the hand and pull him off the ground. Outside the barn, I start running and pull Cash’s hand to keep up. Out of breath, with burning legs and lungs, we make it to the pond. I stay on the other side, opposite the hives.

“You shouldn’t be this close to the hives,” Cash says, pulling me back the way we came.

“It’s OK. Trust me. The pond is huge – look at it. We’ll stay over here.” Right now I’m willing to risk being this close to the bees. Mom and Dad will never find out.

“Over here and do what?” he asks, frustrated with me as we walk.

“Do you remember what you said you’d be doing on a hot day like this when I was stung?” I ask as we get to the dock.

He raises his eyebrows, takes off his ball cap, and scratches his head. “I believe I said, ‘I’d be swimming buck naked on a scorcher like this.’”

“Yes, yes you did. And today is even hotter. And…” I can’t wipe the smile off my face. “You promised in the pizzeria closet that you’d do whatever I want.” I playfully tug at the ends of his shirt and nod my head to the water.

“You want to swim?”

“Yep.”

“All right. Let’s do it.” He peels his shirt over his head and tosses it on to the dock. He inhales quickly and puts his hands on his hips. “Now you.”