Page 69 of Cherry Tree Ranch

What’s going on with you? I ask her.

I met a guy…

Spill!

At a family photo shoot. Said he was bored of lying on the beach with them, so we hung out. I took him to the shave ice shack and stuff.

And stuff??

Kinda kissed him…

Lani!

I know. Quick. But he’s gorgeous! And nice. That’s important too, right?

“I’m going to the grocery store,” Mom says, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.

Lani! My lord. Gtg but let’s call later.

I wave from Grandma’s chair as Mom drives away and Cash pulls up in his truck. I’m up and at his side before he can close his door.

Yesterday, when I woke up in his arms, I told him about my back-up plan to sell some things from the barn if I don’t make enough with cherries and honey.

“You want to see the desk I told you about?” I ask. I graze his forearm with my fingertips. “I really want to show you what I was talking about yesterday.”

He stares at his arm. “Yeah, of course.”

I lead him into the barn and to the desk. I lift the roll top and look back to find him staring at my butt.

“Cash!”

“What? Sorry. It’s just…” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “You. In those shorts… You look really good.” He blushes and looks at the ground. “What’s this from?” He picks up a small piece of shattered glass.

“This.” I lift the photo of Daisy from the desk. “I accidentally dropped it. She used to live here with her sister. Her sister, Dottie, was my great-great grandma – and you’ll never believe what they did.”

He raises his brow.

“They rode saddle broncs.”

“Really?” Cash says, handing me back the photo.

I watch his eyes dance as I pull out the articles I’ve read so far. It felt like an intrusion when I first looked into the desk, but now it feels like a mystery to be solved.

“I had no idea women rode broncs back then. Even now there are only a few. A lot of states don’t allow it. I heard when the American Cowboy Association formed they tried to keep it diverse, but insiders made it very difficult for anyone different to keep competing,” Cash says. “So groups formed their own rodeos. My mom’s uncle used to be a bull rider in the All Indian Rodeo Cowboys Association. What are these other things?”

“Oh, um … I haven’t had a chance to look at all of it yet.” I turn towards him. He towers over me, my face to his chest. I think back to my talk with Mom and wonder if I’ve seen all this stuff before somehow. The pearl necklaces made me feel like dancing, I feel the need to hold on to the bronze horse and Daisy’s saddle is warm and familiar.

I run my thumb over a fragile envelope. It’s not cream, nor yellow, but rather a beautiful colour in between that only comes with the passing of time. Inside are dozens of black-and-white and sepia-tone photos. Cash and I look through them with awe.

“Look at this photo,” he says.

It’s of a group of men and women all huddled together by the Pinto Valley rodeo stands. It’s a diverse group of some of the happiest-looking people I’ve ever seen. I flip it over. The rodeo gang, 1923.

“There are lots of people of colour,” Cash says quietly.

“Are there any other people of colour you compete with now?”

He shakes his head. “No, but there’s an Arapaho rider up in Wyoming who’s really famous – he rides in PRCA rodeos. Raises bucking horses too, just like I want to do.”