Cherry Tree Ranch

Chapter One

“Seriously, Dahlia?” Emery huffs.

“What? He’s cute.” I reach for a crispy funnel-cake fry from the basket in her lap. My sister and I never agree on anything, especially boys.

“Yeah, if you like wannabe cowboys.”

“Fine, how about that guy with the shaggy blond hair in the denim shirt? The one on the black horse.”

“OK, now you’re talking. See how intensely he’s staring at the steer? I wonder if I can get him to look at me that way.”

We watch the breakaway ropers take their turns roping calves. The event takes a lot of talent, but only lasts a few seconds. A steer is released, the rider tries to rope it and, if they do, the rope breaks away. The roper doesn’t risk losing a thumb from dallying and the steer stays on its feet.

“Ooh, Emery, look at that one!” I gasp.

“Where?” She cranes her neck to see the roper I point towards.

“That horse looks like Blue,” I say, watching how gracefully the animal moves out of the arena. “I miss Blue. We really need to go visit him and Grandpa.”

“You’re insane. There’s a sea of hot cowboys, and all you’re looking at is the stupid horses?

” She dips a funnel fry into the cup of syrupy chocolate sauce and then stops mid-bite.

“I found my cowboy… Over there – the guy standing by the chutes. The tall guy with the saddle slung over his shoulder.”

Sitting in the stands, I’m happy to bask in the noise and energy of the rodeo. Little kids run around us as their parents whoop and holler at the riders, and the air is full of the smell of horses, sweat and sugar. I finish the fries and gaze longingly into the red-and-white-checked basket.

“Haven’t had enough sugar?” Emery lifts her brow.

I assess my craving and realize, no, I’ve not had enough. “Do you think anyone’s selling honey?”

“You’re ridiculous.” Emery thinks my obsession with honey is borderline psychotic, but there aren’t many things that make me happier.

“Want to come with me real quick?” I ask reluctantly.

“Honey…” She pretends to weigh two things between her hands. “Or checking out hot cowboys? Yeah, I’m sticking with cowboys, thanks.”

“Fine,” I say, rolling my eyes.

I start down the first line of booths. When the rodeo comes to town, everyone crawls out of the woodwork to sell their home-made goods, and I bet someone’s selling local honey.

I’m almost ready to give up when I catch a swirl of sweetness in the air.

“Excuse me,” I say to a woman selling baked goods.

A wide smile crosses her face when she looks up from her cash box. “Hi there. Would you like a cinnamon roll or a cookie?”

“Actually, I was wondering – do you know if anyone’s selling honey today?”

“Hmm. I don’t think so, but I’m from out of town.”

My face falls and I look around. I’ve checked every booth.

“On second thought, what type of cookies are they?”

The woman picks up a cellophane bag with three cinnamon-sugar-covered cookies inside. “These are biscochitos – a traditional New Mexican cookie.”

“Oh cool, I’ve never had those. Are you from New Mexico?”

“Yes, but I can’t take credit for this recipe,” she says. “It’s my tia Maria’s.”

“They look delicious. I’ll take a bag of these and a cinnamon roll, please.”

She hands me the cookies and uses tongs to place the last glistening cinnamon roll in a paper box. I sigh happily. The warm scent of cinnamon makes me feel all cosy inside, even though it’s the warmest day our little mountain town has seen in eight months.

I pay her and open the box, taking a taste of the cream-cheese frosting with my finger. It’s not honey, but it’ll do for now.

“I need to close up shop,” the woman says expectantly. “My son is riding saddle broncs soon.”

“Is that the next event?” I slap the box shut. “I can’t miss that either – it’s my favourite. Thanks for the cinnamon roll!” I say, and take off with the box clutched to my chest.

“Sorry. Excuse me,” I say, weaving through the crowd.

I move through the sea of people, passing my kindergarten teacher and an old boss before another familiar face catches my eye.

Wyatt Adler is holding his ticket out to the woman putting red Xs on everyone’s hand.

I already have mine, so I’m able to scoot past. He grins warmly in my direction and waves, taking me by surprise.

I shoot a quick glance behind me, but no one is looking his way, so that smile must’ve been for me.

I lift my free hand in a small hello before I’m pushed forward again by the crowd.

Wyatt Adler, who was a year ahead of me and state medallist in track, recognized and grinned at me.

After climbing up the short flight of stairs, I take my seat next to Emery. Country music blares from the speakers.

“What did you get?” Emery asks.

I can’t wipe the smile off my face as my mind replays Wyatt’s wave, but Emery doesn’t even notice.

It makes my heart sink slightly. Swapping playful comments about guys at a distance is one thing, but she never asks me personal questions.

Then again, I guess I never ask them of her these days either.

It’s like the rift between us is so deep now we don’t know how to – or don’t want to – find our way back.

My best friend, Lani, is more of a sister to me now.

“A cinnamon roll,” I reply, setting it down in the small space between us and opening the lid. “Want some?”

She looks down at the roll. “Where’s the frosting?”

“I may have licked it off on my way here. Shut up. I couldn’t find any honey, so this was the next best thing. Thanks for your help, by the way.”

“Like I said… Ridiculous.” Emery pulls her hat down to shield her eyes from the setting sun, which beams brightly from the horizon.

I pull out my phone and text Lani.

Saw Wyatt Adler. He waved at me!

“All that sugar is really bad for you, you know,” Emery goes on.

“What are you saying?” I ask as my phone buzzes. My sister is a health nut. I’ve always had a curvier figure than her, and she loves to remind me of that. Personally, I couldn’t care less.

I check my phone. It’s Lani.

What?! I’m missing all the good stuff. Hawaii has nothing on Wyatt Adler.

You’re missing lots of hot cowboys too, I message back.

Lani goes to Hawaii every summer. Her mom’s family still lives there, and she helps her auntie with her photography business. I’ll be on my way out there to meet her in a month and in the fall we’ll be rooming together at the University of Colorado.

“I’m not saying anything, Dahlia,” Emery says coolly. She acts like I’ve insulted her. We never see eye to eye for long.

Right as I’m about to lay into her about why my body is none of her business, the announcer comes on and tells us about the final barrel racer.

“Here we go, folks – her name is Kaylee Watson, the breakneck blonde who is yet to be beat this season. She’s riding her filly, Buttercup. Let’s give her a warm welcome.”

The girl comes galloping into the arena on a beautiful palomino horse.

Buttercup leans hard round each barrel and uses her hind end to pivot.

I’m impressed – I know from riding Blue how hard it is to do what she’s doing, and for a moment I’m jealous of the mixture of joy and concentration she has on her face as she rides.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that.

As they come into the straight, the girl’s hat flies off and her long blonde hair streams out behind her, waving in the wind.

The crowd goes wild as she leaves the arena, triumphant.

Next up is the saddle bronc riding, and as we wait for the event to start, the announcer narrates the history of the sport.

How men tamed the West and the wild animals to go with it.

That only the bravest men ride these rank horses.

How horses were their greatest tool on the range, helping the cattle industry boom and the American economy thrive here.

I shake my head. That’s one take on the history of the American West. Manifest destiny – the idea that settlers had the right to expand westwards and were entitled to the land – was, and unfortunately still is, the mindset of many.

The announcer goes on: “Many a cowboy will tell you saddle bronc riding is the toughest rodeo event of all because of the precision it takes to synchronize with the horse and its movements. Now, folks, first up we have a Silver Springs local. He grew up mutton busting and moved on to mini broncs at the green age of eight. These days he rides the big boys, like this bronc, Hell Cat. Let’s hear it for him. Come on – get loud.”

The crowd cheers and stomps their feet on the metal bleachers.

It sounds like being inside a thundercloud.

Unfortunately, the rider is bucked off in about two seconds.

A new song plays as he limps off, and I let out a squeal.

Emery and I used to love this song when we lived together, back before Dad left and everything turned strange between us.

Emery’s trying to keep herself from smiling about the song, so I yank at her hand. We jump to our feet, lock eyes and stomp our boots excitedly. We sing loudly to each other, shouting over the muffled music from the speakers. She swings my hand forward and back as we shake our hips side to side.

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.