Page 3 of Cherry Tree Ranch

As we’re dancing and singing, I catch the eye of a rider waiting by the chutes. When his eyes find mine, the air quiets around me like someone hit pause on the music, and on me. I stop dancing, and everything around him seems to blur.

My body feels light and floaty. I anchor my gaze on him; he’s the only thing keeping me grounded as the world spins. I lift my hand from my lap and almost wave, like I know him. But do I? Even though he’s a little far away, I see confusion cloud his face. But he doesn’t look away.

He takes off his straw cowboy hat, runs his fingers through his black hair and scratches his head, his dark eyes still on me. I tilt my head at him questioningly, but he just furrows his brow and shakes his head.

A guy next to him gets his attention and he turns hesitantly. Before getting to his bronc, he turns back and squints at me, like I’m a puzzle he can’t put together. Then he fits his hat back on his head, and as soon as he looks away all the noise of the rodeo comes rushing back. Still, I’m left with the strangest feeling, like there’s a hole in my chest that has always been there but was filled, just for a moment, by his gaze.

My phone buzzes multiple times – Lani surely wanting more details – but answering her is the furthest thing from my mind. I’m transfixed.

When the bronc rider bends over the chute to mount his horse, I get a glimpse of his body – broad, lean and strong. The green fringe on his chaps sways as he lifts and measures the bronc rein behind the swells. He puts one foot on top of the saddle and gently lowers himself down, before putting his feet in the stirrups and lifting the rein towards his chin.

The announcer tells us his name is Cash Cortez, his bronc’s name is Strawberry, and he’s from Pinto Valley, the same town where Grandpa lives. Grandpa’s ranch in Pinto Valley was my second home growing up.

He nods his head to tell the guys he’s ready, and the gate swings open. Cash takes one last glance over his shoulder at me before Strawberry turns out of the chute – not a smart move because she jumps and he’s off kilter. I beg the stars to help him get the horse away from the chute. Falling into the dirt hurts like hell, but it’s nothing like being thrown into metal rails.

Strawberry bucks once, hard. Cash is able to right himself in the saddle. He swings his free arm as his body whips back with her motion. Then she turns and bucks again, sending him flying over her neck. He lands right in front of Strawberry’s front feet. She jumps – but doesn’t totally clear him. Her back legs strike him in the head.

My hand flies to my mouth. Behind me, Emery and the rest of the crowd gasps. I stand and clutch the rail between us and the arena. The horse runs circles, still bucking while the pick-up men ride to catch up and release the flank strap making her buck.

The guy is curled up and not moving. Cowboys from the chutes, an EMT and the barrel racer with the long blonde hair all run to his side. The announcer speaks to the crowd in a hushed tone, letting us know they are doing all they can for the young man and the rodeo will continue as soon as they are able. As we all watch in horror, I notice the woman who sold me the cinnamon roll is beside him too. He must be her son.

The barrel racer – Kaylee, I think – wipes her eyes and leans down, kissing him on the cheek. The EMT is talking with his mom and pointing towards the gate. She and the girl walk slowly to the edge of the arena.

Then I hear Emery’s phone ding, the sharp sound bringing me back to earth. An instant later, mine buzzes.

“Who is it?” I ask after hearing her draw in a quick breath.

“Just look at your phone,” she says quietly.

As I read the message, I fall into my seat: all my worst fears in just a few words.

I stare out into the arena in disbelief as the EMTs get the cowboy on a stretcher. An ambulance backs into the arena, and he’s loaded in. As they pull away, the flashing red and blue lights fill the night sky.

Chapter Two

Apparently, Grandpa died almost instantly. His Life Alert notified emergency services that he had fallen, and he was found soon after.

The moment that Mom texted us, Emery and I left the rodeo for the hospital – the only major one near Silver Springs or Pinto Valley. On our way through the waiting room, I saw the barrel racer watching TV, cheeks stained with tears and make-up. Even through my shock and grief, I wondered if the bronc rider was OK.

The remembrance ceremony for Grandpa a week later was just what he would have wanted. We spread his ashes around his ranch, his favourite place in the world. He used to say it was cursed because nothing has grown here for one hundred years, except for the cherry trees, but it was the place he called home since he was born.

We left coral, pink and butter-yellow peonies for him in each of his favourite spots. They were the colours of the sunsets he loved to watch – the sunsets we’d watch together.

This morning, Mom and I scoured the ranch house for his will and finally found it in an old shoe box in his closet. Now we’re sitting on the porch to open it together – Mom in Grandpa’s chair and me in Grandma’s old rocking chair.

“Should I have insisted Emery be here?” Mom asks, her voice quiet from exhaustion. She makes a haphazard attempt at twisting her unkempt grey hair into a clip, but it ends up even messier than before. Despite the amount of time she’s spent resting, the bags under her eyes have grown darker each day. Grandpa was Mom’s rock, her one lifeline besides me, so him being gone has been a massive blow. I peer into her bloodshot eyes. She doesn’t need the extra stress of worrying about Emery right now.

“No.” I shake my head. “She knew we might find it, and she didn’t want to help, so no. Honestly, Mom, she’s never been as connected to this place, or to Grandpa, as you and me.”

She pulls up the sleeves of the threadbare cardigan she’s worn on repeat this week. “That’s true,” she sighs.

“Yeah, so stop feeling guilty.”

Her finger trembles under the envelope flap and the glue crackles as she slides it open. She reads slowly and, when she’s done, she pulls another piece of paper from behind the will. Instead of reading it, she hands the letter to me and smiles, tears pooling in her hazel eyes.

“It’s for me?” I ask.

“Mm hmm.”