Chapter Eight
I didn’t go look at “art” after the market like Lani suggested. Customers began trickling in, so I stayed at my booth until I sold every last jar of cherries. I’ve got a long way to go to meet my goal, but I signed up online for that competition last night.
I hop out of bed as the sun rises over the mountains, resolved to ask Mom about the desk. She’s lived here since the day she was born. I put a large glop of honey in my coffee and watch as it swirls into the cream. I head to the porch and sit on the edge of Grandma’s chair.
“Mom?”
“What’s up?” She looks from the sunrise to me.
I take a deep breath. “I found some things in the barn, and I’m wondering if you know about them.”
“What things in the barn?”
Shadow jumps into Mom’s lap and purrs as Mom strokes her glossy black-and-white coat. I look into her amber eyes, and she squinty-smiles at me, the way only a cat can do.
“Well…” I scratch Shadow’s chin in greeting. “I opened the old desk in the back corner…”
Mom sits up and sets her mug on the wrought-iron table between us. She looks towards the barn.
“You opened the desk?” She gulps. “Really?”
“Um, yeah?” I say, trying my darndest to play it cool. “Is that a bad thing?”
She clears her throat. “Well, no. Not at all. It’s just …
no one has ever been able to open it. It was as if the roll top was glued shut.
” She’s lost in memory for a moment. “I found Grandpa trying to open it one day. He tried every key he could find, but it wouldn’t budge.
The desk was precious to him, and he didn’t want to damage it, so he never forced it.
He told me if I messed with it I’d get a whooping. How’d you do it?”
I digest her words. No one has ever been able to open the desk. I take a breath and tell her how I opened it – about the photo, and about the letters I found inside. She listens intently, nodding her head, but never once interrupting.
“Daisy and Dottie loved this ranch – kind of like someone else I know.” She raises her brow at me. “Being a female rancher back then wasn’t easy. Ever heard the saying ‘Men are tough, but women are tougher’?”
I nod. “‘They’re harder, but we’re tougher.’ C. S. Lewis.”
“Right. Well, there wasn’t anyone tougher than Daisy, Dottie and their mama, Clara. My Grandpa Charlie told me stories about them keeping the cattle ranchers who wanted grazing rights at bay. They raised sheep and Dottie loved taking care of the fields. She sold hay to people all over the state.”
“So Dottie was your great-grandma?”
Mom nods. She sips her coffee a couple of times before going on. “It’s a sad tale, Dahlia. She and my grandpa Charlie were the only ones who survived. Rumours ran rampant back then, but we know Daisy and Clara died here, and we don’t know exactly how. Daisy is a particular mystery.”
My heart squeezes. “Why?”
Mom’s eyes are sad. “Legend has it she rode her horse off the cliffs there.” She points her eyes at the crimson cliffs.
“What?” I breathe. The legend Cash mentioned. I can’t believe Mom knew it but didn’t tell me.
“Grandpa Charlie never wanted to talk about it.” She shrugs. “He was a baby when Daisy and Clara died, and I was really young when he died, so I never got the full story.”
“Huh. And Dottie never knew what happened to them?”
She lets out a heavy sigh. “Not that I know of.”
We sit and stare off into the distance until I remember something I read. “Mom, did you know sweet cherry trees are only supposed to live ten to fifteen years and sour cherry trees twenty to twenty-five?”
She waves a hand up at the orchard. “Those trees are ancient then.”
“No kidding. It’s crazy, right?”
“Or maybe it’s not.” She smirks. A meadowlark sings its tune in the distance, and she turns to listen. Birds rarely visit the ranch, and, if they do, they come to the trees by the pond, or to the orchard. There isn’t enough life here for them to stay long.
“You don’t think the trees living five to ten times as long as they should is weird?”
“There’s always been something special about this ranch. The longer I live the more I realize some things aren’t easy to explain.”