Page 10 of Cherry Tree Ranch

“Thanks for your help,” I say loudly. “Now my ancestors won’t haunt you for trespassing.”

He looks over his shoulder with a twinkle in his eye. “That’s too bad. I’m not scared of a bit of trouble.”

Then he takes off at a trot, glancing back with the same perplexed expression he wore when I saw him at the rodeo.

Chapter Five

The bees hum around me in a high-frequency flurry. I smoke the comb and check the frames, and after finding one capped with wax I scrape off a corner of honeycomb and dip my glove inside. The rich amber liquid drizzles in slow motion while the late morning sun sears my neck through the veil. A breeze blows smoke into my eyes, making them sting.

I take a deep breath, and my fuzzy vision clears. Ever so slowly, I take a frame from the hive and slide an empty one in its place. A jarring move might elicit a thousand needle-like stings, so even though my heart beats like a hummingbird’s I move like a sloth.

The worker bees will soon be busy creating comb in the fresh frame. I’m sorry to make more work for them, but I need this honey. Besides, the bees and I have always had a good understanding. I work quickly and calmly and leave them plenty of honey in the winter. But it doesn’t mean my hands don’t shake as I rest the turquoise lid back on the hive box and step backwards slowly.

“Thanks for the honey, little ladies,” I whisper.

In the two weeks since we moved in completely, I’ve made a path from the hive boxes, round the pond and through the orchard to the barn. I could travel it with my eyes closed.

As I get to the barn, I pull up my veil and remove my gloves. Saliva pools on my tongue as a heavy drop of honey slides down the frame and on to my finger. I lick it off and slide the sweet syrup back and forth on the roof of my mouth, notes of cherry blossom and sage surfacing. The bees must be travelling to the crimson cliffs because blue sage grows only there.

Every summer, Grandpa would take me to those cliffs. We’d pick as much sage as we could, but we always left enough for the bees. I wonder why Grandpa, or Mom for that matter, never told me about the heartbroken girl who supposedly rode her horse over the edge. If it’s a legend in this area, why don’t I know about it?

Mom and I were always here at a moment’s notice if Grandma and Grandpa needed a hand harvesting honey and cherries. They all had plenty of opportunities to tell me the story. We’d spend every holiday here – even Halloween, when we’d carve jack-o-lanterns and drink cider and dream about growing our own pumpkins some day. It would’ve made for a good fireside tale. But perhaps they thought I was too young, couldn’t bear to spoil my stay with anything dark or tragic.

I hated having to go back to our apartment at the end of our visits, which were never long enough. Memories of the ranch are my best and most vivid. I feel like I’ve lived here all my life.

Over the last two weeks, I’ve worked harder than I ever have before. Mom and I have been unpacking, and I’ve been picking cherries from sunup to sundown. Being so busy preparing for my first farmer’s market on Thursday has left me with little time to explore more of the barn.

I stop and look up at it now before sliding its rickety door open. A hollow owl sits atop the barn’s prow, overlooking the south end of the ranch. Sunlight shines between the cracks in its sharp metal feathers.

I hang my bee suit up next to Grandpa’s old one, take a stilted breath and weave through the junk. The desk is just as it was before, majestic and magnetic, drawing me near.

I stop short of the desk, take the photo of the girl on the horse from the ground and read the inscription again: A photo to keep in your sheep wagon – Love always, Your Flower. I sigh, wishing I knew the story behind it. I tidy up the broken glass, slide the photo back into the frame and set it in its original place.

There’s a chill in the air again. It sends goosebumps across my arms, but I refuse to be scared. I blow out a long breath and turn my attention to the little bronze horse. I absorb the peace the artist was so eloquently trying to convey, and my shoulders relax – until my phone buzzes. It’s Lani.

Has the mysterious cowboy come by again?

Nope, I reply.

I told Lani about Cash’s unexpected appearance, and she thought it was a little shady – though, when I mentioned his abuela’s tortillas, she did admit she appreciated “a hottie who can cook”. Later, she looked him up and sent me a link to his social media account. Actually, it wasn’t just his account – it was his and Kaylee’s. And she’s definitely his girlfriend. They were riding horses together and modelling new clothes, boots and hats for their rodeo sponsor, Buckaroo Billy’s. I closed it when I couldn’t take any more of their picture-perfect couple content.

Now, Lani writes, You should follow him. Kaylee does this eye-roll thing she thinks is cute, but they do post some cool stuff.

No way, I reply. You follow him. He doesn’t know who you are.

Already did. There’s a funny one where she’s riding her horse, and her long blonde hair and her palomino’s matching mane are blowing in the wind. Then it cuts to Cash. He’s standing in a barn next to his horse with a blow-dryer, making a parody of Kaylee’s clip and attempting to get his and Luna’s hair to blow back.

She sends me the video. It is funny. I envy Kaylee. She looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world – and, based on all her expensive kit, she clearly doesn’t want for money.

That’s his horse, Luna, I type.

She’s cute. Cash doesn’t play a big part in many of the other videos though. He’s more the brooding background type. But did you know Kaylee’s mom died last year?

No, that’s terrible. So maybe she does have a care in the world.

Very sad. She had a whole post dedicated to her mom. Anyway, wyd?

I send a photo of the bronze horse to her. Checking stuff out in the barn. Look at this!