Chapter Three
I take off to the barn, hoping I can find something valuable to sell to pay the taxes. Mom can’t work, nor has she got an answer on qualifying for disability yet. So it’s up to me.
I yank at the door with all my strength and pull it open far enough to slip through.
Inside there’s a menagerie of rusty farm equipment, tools and storage bins.
Grandpa hadn’t done much in here the last few years.
He kept himself cooped up in the ranch house ever since Grandma died five years ago.
I’m afraid to get rid of anything sentimental, but if it saves the ranch from auction, that’s what I’ve got to do.
My choices are now much bigger than myself.
Generations of love for this land and its future are at stake.
Ranches like this get sold to the highest bidder all the time, divided into subdivisions.
The land forever scarred, the wildlife forced into ever decreasing habitat.
It’s not unlike what happened when settlers “discovered” the American West.
In the shadows of the barn, I find my way to my bee suit hanging next to Grandpa’s.
It’s covered in dust and grime and smells of stale sweat.
I run my hand down the fabric, wiping away the dirt, when a small streak of sunshine peeks through the door.
It turns the dust in the air into a thousand twinkling stars and lights a dark corner of the barn.
I stop short. There’s a desk – a beautiful antique desk – just standing in the shadows.
Its glossy sheen is mesmerizingly beautiful in the ray of sunlight.
This is definitely something we could sell.
Was it here all along, hiding under that dirty old sheet?
Back when we played here as kids, Emery and I used to pretend it was a ghost that would lurch out of the darkness to consume us.
Neither of us dared to peek underneath or ask what it covered.
We liked to imagine it was our little secret.
But now the sheet has vanished; it isn’t lying next to the desk, nor has it been thrown over something else.
I always get goosebumps when venturing this far back in the barn, and now isn’t any different.
Only this time I walk in the direction of the desk as if someone is nudging me from behind.
I feel utterly compelled to move towards it. My skin prickles as I draw near.
History was my favourite subject in school, and in front of me is a cornucopia of historical treasures.
At the back of the desk, behind the lacquered roll top, a dozen silver and bronze figurines glint in the light.
There are figurines of people and animals that appear to be Art Nouveau and others with geometric shapes, and clean lines from the Art Deco period.
The smallest figurine is a tiny bronze horse.
I pick it up and turn it round. It’s small enough to fit in my palm and its heavy weight and smoothly cast edges are comforting.
The horse’s long mane and tail are swept to the side as if a gentle breeze is passing through and its head is tipped towards the sky as though it’s enjoying a beautiful day.
The desk and the horse should be covered in dust and cobwebs like everything else in the barn, but they’re not.
The sheet must have been taken off very recently.
But who by? I suppose it’s possible Grandpa made it back in here with his walker, but it seems pretty unlikely.
And, since he passed, no one’s been in the barn but me.
As I put the horse back, something else catches my eye: a small silver picture frame.
Inside is a sepia-toned photo of a young woman atop a black-and-white paint horse rearing high into the air.
Her cheeks are round and soft like mine, her joy palpable.
She balances beautifully in the saddle while holding her cowgirl hat high above her head.
The soft curls in her blonde hair graze the puffed sleeves of her intricately embroidered blouse, leather chaps protect her legs and her pointed boots poke through heavy stirrups.
“Who are you?” I whisper, wondering how she’s hidden back here for so long under the sheet. The woman’s smile is as big as the sun shining down on her, and she looks so alive it’s as though I’m there with her.
As I inch closer to the desk and take the frame from its place, a mouse skitters from under the desk chair next to me.
I drop the photo and glass shatters at my feet.
I flinch and brace myself from a scolding yell from Dad – a habit that’s hard to break, even though I haven’t lived with him for several years.
When I lean down to pick up the frame, the photo falls out, landing face down. Written on the back in tight cursive it says, A photo for your sheep wagon. Love always, Your Flower.
A cold chill races across my back. I snap up and pull the back of my shirt down.
The barn door is open and must have let in the early morning breeze.
Still, I turn my head slowly, watching for anything out of place.
Maybe Emery and I were right about the desk, and I need to leave it alone.
Abandoning the frame, I walk briskly out of the barn.
I find Mom standing at the kitchen table, looking through the box of papers Grandpa left behind. Wrinkles have deepened on her forehead, and she’s muttering to herself as she digs.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think there’s anything valuable in the barn that we could sell?”
Her head pops up in surprise. “Uh, maybe. I imagine there might be a few things in there, if they haven’t completely decayed from time and neglect.” She sighs and drops down into a chair at the table. “Don’t get your hopes up, though.”
I twist my mouth, thinking. “What are you looking for?”
She huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “A miracle.”
“Oh?”
“I was hoping Grandpa’s will forgot to mention some secret bank account or trust he left behind.” She lays her head on top of her folded arms on the table. “I’m tired.”
I sit in the chair across from her and rest my elbows. For a moment, my heart twists and I imagine spending what the ranch is worth on helping Mom. “Maybe we should sell after all…”
“What?” Her head snaps up again. “You don’t really feel that way, do you?”
She sees it on my face that I don’t. I can’t pretend. It wouldn’t feel right. Giving up on the ranch and walking away would feel like giving up on myself, on our family, our history.
“Dahlia, I’m tired, honey, but you have enough grit for the both of us. Like Grandpa said in his letter: don’t let anyone stand in your way.” She sits up with a teary smile. “I will never stand in your way. OK?”
I nod.
“Do you understand?” She regards me seriously. “No matter how tired I am, I will be OK.”
I get up and take the seat next to her, pulling her in for a hug. “But, if we sell, the money could help you be more comfortable. We could afford a nice house, get you to the therapy clinic. You’d feel better and—”
She puts up a flat hand. “Stop. If the ranch is what you want, you’ve got to go for it – you’ve got to try. Dahlia, tell me honestly, is this what you want?”
I dip my head. Selling and going off to college would be doing exactly what Dad expects of me. But deep down I know it: this ranch is where I’ve always felt the truest version of myself. Staying here, I could take some time to really figure out who I am.
I meet Mom’s eyes with a soft smile. “I have no doubt. This is what I want.”
Mom squeezes my hand and nods in agreement. “Then it’s settled. We’re fighting to stay.”