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!
Lani doesn’t write back straight away, so I sit on the desk chair and rewatch a video she posted.
She’s standing on the beach with a white-and-yellow plumeria flower tucked behind her ear.
She pulls her long black hair away from her shoulders and turns the camera in a circle, showing the palm trees, the beach and the little cottage her auntie lives in behind her.
I can almost smell the salty ocean air and the bright citrusy scent of the plumeria.
I had to tell Lani I won’t make it to Hawaii to visit next month like we planned, because I need all the time I can get to earn money.
Her parents paid for my ticket as a graduation present, but thankfully it was refundable.
I knew I’d be saying no to several things when I said yes to trying to save the ranch, but missing out on going to Hawaii is harder to bear than I imagined, especially when I see her so happy there.
Still, as much as I initially worried about letting her down, Lani has been amazing about my decision to stay.
She’s come here with me a couple of times and understands how much this place means to me.
She summed up my feelings better than I ever could.
She told me that in Hawaiian culture aloha ?āina – “love that which feeds” – means land is not a thing to be owned, but rather a source of life and identity that should be honoured and respected.
It struck me as one of the truest things I’ve ever heard.
That’s cool, she finally responds to the picture of the bronze horse. Where’d you get it?
This antique desk in the barn. I take a picture of the desk and send it too.
I flip the horse round and round. On its belly I spot an engraving: Te amo – J.
I take yet another photo. This is interesting.
Sweet! Who’s J?
Wish I knew.
Well, keep digging! I bet that desk is a history treasure trove.
I ready myself to open the desk. Why does it draw me in?
Is it because I want to know the story behind the photo?
Or who J was, and who they gave the horse to?
No one I’ve heard of in Grandpa’s family had a first name starting with J.
Whatever it is, I feel moved by a desire – no, a need – to know what secrets this desk keeps.
I grab the two handles on the roll top and push – but it’s locked. I pull open the drawers, hoping to find the key, but they’re full of papers and boxes and old junk, as messy as the rest of the barn. Grandpa was the kindest man, but he wasn’t the best at staying organized.
I lean against the top again, making it creak.
I don’t want to hurt the old thing, so I stop.
Forcing it is clearly not the answer. Dad would say I’m doing it all wrong.
If he were here, he’d have taken over by now.
Though, he wouldn’t want me to figure this out, because he’s against me having anything to do with the ranch.
He’s especially bitter that I’ve chosen it over college.
I turn in a circle, looking for another way to get in. There’s an assortment of screwdrivers in the toolbox, but I’m afraid those will scratch the wood. Then I spy a stack of old paint cans with a metal paint key on top.
Gently, I wedge the paint key in the key hole.
It fits like a charm. As I twist, the lock on the left side of the desk clanks as it releases, but the right side is stuck.
I stand back with my hands on my hips. Grandpa always encouraged me to take my time, to think things through, and if the ranch has taught me anything it’s to problem-solve and be resourceful.
I lift the edge of the rolltop about a quarter-inch and use my phone flashlight to inspect the latch.
It’s flat on one side, arced on the other, just like a door latch.
Part of a cardboard box makes the perfect hold for the left side while I slide another piece under the edge and bang the right latch.
It takes several vigorous whacks, but finally the latch pops open.
“Yes!” I pump my fist in the air.
Taking a deep breath, I give the lid a nudge.
It clack-clack-clacks as the rolling top disappears into the desk.
Inside, the desktop overflows with papers and newspaper articles – a sea of knowledge and information collected over years and years of ranch ownership.
There are stacks of envelopes tied in silky ribbons, and a fountain pen and an inkwell sit in the corner cubby.
Then there are the ink stains and tiny drawers, eerily similar to those in my dream.
A piece of newspaper flutters from the desk in the breeze and floats to the ground. I breathe a sigh of relief – it’s just the breeze that sent a chill across my spine. Old memories of playing with Emery allowed my imagination to run wild.
The newspaper is very old and very thin.
It’s folded in half twice and, as I pull it carefully open, only one spot in the middle tears.
The article is the size of my palm, and the letters are so small it’s almost illegible.
I squint in the dim light. The heading reads: Dorothy and Margaret O’Connor Ride Rough Stock.
May 5, 1924
Dorothy and Margaret O’Connor Ride Rough Stock
Pinto Valley locals, Dorothy and Margaret – or, as we affectionately call them, Dottie and Daisy, respectively – came in first and second in bronc riding during our local contest yesterday.
This will be the last time we see either of them in the amateurs, as they both qualified for the professional circuit, which starts next weekend.
Older sister Dottie has ridden in the amateur circuit for two years.
Both girls grew up breaking wild horses on their family ranch on Ute Mesa. Their mother said that when she and her husband did not bear a son, they gave up trying and put the girls in the saddle. The family also raises Rambouillet sheep.
When asked about going out on the road, Dottie said, “That it will be easy compared to the ranch work we’re used to doing.” Because the rodeo season is only four months, they will be back to help their mother on the ranch in September.
Dottie, age 21, and Daisy, age 18, will ride broncs at Cheyenne Frontier Days on June 9th and 10th.
Under the article is a photograph of a girl on a bucking bronc, with the caption: Daisy O’Connor qualifying ride, Pinto Valley, CO.
She’s the same girl from the picture frame on the desk.
This ranch is on Ute Mesa – that means the sisters must be my relatives; Mom’s maiden name was O’Connor.
I squeal to myself. Girls who rode broncs!
That’s almost unheard of these days, and women had even fewer rights back then.
It feels like a small victory that gender alone didn’t stop them and they were allowed to rodeo.
The rodeo events most girls do these days are barrel racing or running for rodeo queen. I asked Mom if I could do breakaway roping on Blue, but she said no. She couldn’t afford lessons and Blue was in a different town.
Mom loves going to rodeos, though. She would love it even more if it were inclusive like when Daisy and Dottie rode. I can’t believe I never heard stories about these women growing up. They were a part of our family’s past that should be shared.
My stomach grumbles, and I have the sudden craving for more honey, or some of the cherries I’ve picked. I realize I’ve got distracted. I have to start preserving the cherries or I’ll never finish before the market tomorrow.
But, as I reach to close the desk, something catches my eye.
Inside one of the cubbies, nearly camouflaged, is a small box.
It’s made of exotic wood with a geometric design.
A tiny golden clasp holds it closed. I may be mistaken, but it appears to be a ring box.
If there’s a ring inside, I may be able to pay off a big chunk of the debt.
Holding my breath, I flip the clasp up with my thumb.
Inside is a piece of paper crumpled into a tight ball. I tip the box, catching the ball in my palm. There’s a slot in the cushioned velvet but no ring. I unfurl the paper gently and flatten it.
DAISY,
I WON’T ACCEPT THE RING BACK. KEEP IT AND ACCEPT MY PROPOSAL.
IF WE MARRY AND JOIN OUR RANCHES, I WILL NEVER MAKE YOU LIFT A FINGER AND YOU’LL NEVER WORK ALONGSIDE A FOREIGNER AGAIN.
WE’LL HAVE THE LARGEST CATTLE RANCH ON THE WESTERN SLOPE AND I’LL LET YOU KEEP YOUR SHEEP.
YOURS,
EARL
I can’t help but scrunch my nose in disgust. No wonder the note was crumpled into a ball. I put both things back and, for comfort, I slip the little bronze horse into my pocket. I slide the roll top down and, with the honey frame in hand, run back to the house.