Chapter Twelve
Half asleep and half buzzing, I push my cheek into my pillow. I channel every thought into my dream, where Cash’s calloused hand is touching my shoulder again. Only this time, he pulls me into his big, warm chest.
I melt when he leans into me. His soft lips graze my ear, and he whispers, “I’m here, mi flor.
” I look up at him as he tucks a curl behind my ear – but in the dream, my hair is blonde.
He tips up his brown felt hat and takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my mouth to meet his.
As we kiss, he lets out a short hum in the back of his throat, delighted with the taste of my mouth on his.
Then his hum turns to a buzz, and I’m awake and reaching for my vibrating phone. I silence it without looking and lie in bed, replaying his voice in my head for as long as possible. I’m here. The image of his gentle smile rushes through me like a fresh spring river.
My phone buzzes again with a message. I lift it from the nightstand and bring it under the covers with me.
Did they let you go home? How are you feeling?
I’m properly awake now. It’s Cash.
Have a monster headache and my hand hurts. The swelling’s up to my elbow now. Otherwise good. How’d you get my number?
Emery. Got hers before we left. I needed all your info to fill out the hospital paperwork.
Your horse is happy. She and Blue have been eating side by side. It’s cute.
I take in one last breath of the lavender oil Mom sprayed on my pillow last night and get out of bed. The sun is already high in the sky. I don’t normally sleep in, and now I remember why. It gets hot as hell by nine a.m. I turn up the volume on my phone as I get dressed, but it doesn’t ding.
Mom is in the kitchen taking raspberry muffins out of the tin when I enter. My mouth instantly salivates and I’m acutely aware of how hungry I am. The subtle scent of cinnamon Mom sprinkles over them, mixed with the wafting aroma of lavender bundles hanging from the ceiling, calms my head a skosh.
“Good morning, sweetie! Did you sleep well?”
“Uh, yeah. I’ve been having a bunch of vivid dreams lately.”
“Yeah? About what?”
“About the ranch in the past, and Daisy. I can’t get those stories about her out of my head.” I leave out that I just woke from a dream about Cash. I also leave out how unrelenting my desire is to dig into the desk now that I know it was Daisy who died falling from the cliffs.
“Huh. Well, come sit down and get breakfast.” She pats the blue stool at the kitchen island with a hand I hardly recognize any more – it’s thin and bony.
Her tissue-paper-like skin is mottled with red rashy spots.
She tried wearing gloves while waitressing for a while, but customers complained, wondering what infectious sickness she might have. “I made coffee. Want some?”
“Always. Maybe it will help with my headache. But I have to have a muffin before my stomach caves in.” I take one with my unstung hand and slice a large chunk of butter off the stick.
It melts as it nestles into the steaming muffin, and I follow it with a generous drizzle of honey.
Licking my lips, I add, “You didn’t have to do all this, Mom. ”
“What? Make breakfast? I used to make breakfasts like this all the time. I miss it.”
“Me too,” I say quietly. I don’t want to make her feel guilty. My phone dings and my head snaps to look, but it’s only a weather notification. More loudly, I say, “Raspberry muffins are my favourite.”
I inhale half my breakfast in one bite. I close my eyes and grin – this is comfort food.
The muffin is tart, the butter is luscious and slightly salty, and the honey is sweet and earthy.
A large drip of silky butter and honey lands on the knuckles of my resting hand.
I lick it off like this is my last meal.
“That’s why I made them.” Mom quirks her mouth and raises her eyebrow as if to say, Are you going to eat your hand too? But I can tell she’s happy to see I have an appetite.
I cover my mouth and chuckle, but then old memories of eating these muffins flood my mind.
My heart aches a little at the most vivid one.
All four of us went sledding one morning, and Mom packed them as a snack.
Emery rode our red sled in her purple snow suit while I watched from the top and ate a muffin.
When Mom and Dad flipped off their sled going too fast, they laughed so hard they cried.
My throat tightens, so I push the thought of our family out of my head. “Who cleaned up in here?” I ask, looking around. There are parts of the kitchen counter I haven’t seen since before we moved in. “It’s so clean … and so organized.”
Mom catches me glancing at the dahlias in the ceramic pitcher and gives me a wry smile. It may be my imagination, but the blooms appear more vibrant than before. She must have trimmed the stems. “Your sister did all this.”
I stare. “What? No way!”
“Yep. She kept herself very busy all evening yesterday until you came home,” she says, giving me a sideways glance. “She was worried about you.”
“Interesting,” I say, suppressing my shock. I notice Emery even watered the herbs on the windowsill. The mint was wilting yesterday but it’s bright green and perky today. “I wish she’d keep my room this clean when she visits.”
“Well, she’ll probably stay at your dad’s for a while now.” She surveys me while buttering her muffin. “You know the reason your sister didn’t take you, don’t you?”
“She wanted to stay with you so you could sleep.”
Mom fills a mug halfway with coffee and scoots it across the island to me. I fill it the rest of the way with cream and another swirl of honey.
“I’m a grown woman. I don’t need a nap nanny,” she laughs. “The truth is, your sister hates hospitals. Do you remember when you were there after the accident with Blue?”
“Kind of. Why?” I say over the edge of my coffee.
“She freaked out when you showed her the bruise covering your leg. And, as many times as I’ve been in the hospital, well, I think she’s had her fill.”
I watch Mom’s face turn solemn. Her grey hair is pulled into a bun, and she’s attempted some make-up today. The bronzer on her cheeks makes her appear slightly more youthful, but she can’t hide the years of illness. She looks ten years older than she really is.
“When did she leave?” I take a bite of my second muffin.
“Before I woke up.” Mom points out the window to the horses. “She fed the horses on her way out.”
“Yeah, I saw them munching hay together from my window.” I also noticed she shone the prisms Mom hung in every window. As the sun arcs around the ranch house, one room or another is filled with dancing rainbows. Right now, the teardrop prism is refracting light on to the root-cellar door.
A thick layer of honey from the bottom of my coffee mug oozes down my throat and takes my headache away. I guess that’s how addictions work. I lift myself from my stool, and the rainbows dance across my skin as I walk slowly to the sink.
“I told her about the Young Producers competition. She saw your cherry-jar labels,” Mom adds, seemingly hesitant. “And she’d like to design something more eye-catching for you, if you’ll let her.”
I consider my response as I rinse my dishes and stare out of the open window.
A Steller’s jay hops around on the scrub oak and the cherry trees gently shudder in the morning breeze.
Man, I love this place. A sense of calm floods my senses, and for some reason I believe for a beat that everything here is going to be OK.
“That’s a good idea,” I finally say.
“Really?”
“Yeah. She’s talented,” I admit. “Maybe it would help with sales and marketing.”
“OK, then. I’ll let her know you’re up for it.”
“Sounds good. Have you mentioned the debt to her yet?”
Mom sighs. “Not yet.”
“Will you not?” I ask. “I don’t want her to tell Dad. We don’t need more doubters right now, if you know what I mean.”
“I do. And I’ll let you tell her when you’re ready.”
“OK. Thanks for breakfast, Mom. I need to go pick cherries before it gets any hotter out.”
“You sure you’re up for picking today? Do you have your EpiPen?” She raises her eyebrows.
I pat my back pocket. “Got it.”
In the mudroom, I put on my wide-brimmed sun hat, and I’m rubbing in sunscreen when my phone buzzes. I pull it out too quickly and drop it on the concrete floor. Wincing, I flip it over and blow dust off. Thankfully, the screen is unblemished.
Sorry that took so long, Cash writes. Had to help my dad. You resting today?
No. I need to pick and can cherries, I reply. I refuse to be deterred.
OK if I come drop off your mom’s car and get my horse?
Sure.
I can help with cherries when I come.
Whoa, did he just offer to help me?
Thanks, but I’ve got it, I insist, not wanting pity. Aren’t you supposed to stay away from here?
I help my mom can applesauce every year. Got mad skills stuffing jars. He doesn’t answer my question.
Oh yeah? I write back. Now I’m imagining you in a ruffled flowery apron.
My thumb lingers over the send button. Do I dare try to tease him? I take the risk.
Some say it’s my best look.
I grin.
See you in 30, he writes.
Is he serious? I don’t necessarily want any help, but I do need to keep plugging away on the cherries, and I’m tired after yesterday.
Plan. I’ll be in the orchard.
I run back into the house and jump in the shower, then rummage through Emery’s leftover clothes.
I find a flowy tank top that will be nice and cool today.
I slip it on and admit to myself I also like it because it fits me more snugly than Emery and accentuates my curves.
I use detangler and a pick to comb through my matted hair, but there’s no way I’m going to get my curls looking good before he gets here.
Mom peeks in. “Forget something?”
“I know I’m about to work outside, but I could smell the hospital on myself from yesterday, so I thought I’d clean up a little,” I say. “Oh, and … Cash is coming to bring the car back, and he wants to help me today. Is that OK?”
“Of course, but come back to the house at some point so I can meet him and thank him for yesterday, OK?”
She’s the best. She’s never made me feel awkward about guys.
“Will do.”
I put away my sun hat and put on my sunglasses instead – the most expensive thing I own. I carefully clean the iridescent blue lenses. Mom spent way too much money getting them for me at Christmas. I hardly ever wear them because I’m afraid they’ll get scratched.
I check my phone again and reread Cash’s texts once more, heat crawling up my neck as I recall the dream I woke up from this morning.
As I step outside, I see his horse’s hoofprints still fresh in the dirt from yesterday, proof it wasn’t all a strange dream.
I tread lightly, not wanting to ruin them, as if it might break a spell somehow.
The sun glares over the top of my sunglasses.
I remember now why I wear a silly sun hat – it works.
I take a quick break in the shade of the barn, leaning against its weathered door.
But, as I do, a sudden, heavy sadness saturates my body.
I tell myself it’s the intensity of the last few days catching up with me.
But, as strange as it sounds, it feels as if it’s coming from the barn.
I take a deep breath. I should get up and go to the orchard as I planned.
But, instead, I find myself pushing my sunglasses to the top of my hair and giving the door a nudge.
As I step inside, cool air streams over me.
The desk sits shining in the back corner, and I make my way round the cardboard boxes towards it, but today the saddles hanging on wooden wall racks catch my attention.
One of the blankets is covered in so much dust it makes me sad.
As I pull it from the saddle and shake it out, the coarse wool fibres release years of dirt and decay.
I can make out a pattern of animals – sheep, llamas and horses – all in vibrant shades of red, orange, green and violet.
It’s a shame that such a work of art is hidden in this dirty barn.
As I lift it back over the saddle, I notice the saddle itself is ornately tooled with flowers.
I prefer riding bareback – I feel grounded when my skin’s close to Blue – but if I could dream up the perfect saddle it would be this one.
Inscribed on the cantle is the word Daisy.
My fingers find the impressions and trace each letter.
The silver conchos are cool to the touch, but the saddle feels warm in all its worn spots, almost as though someone just sat in it.
This saddle belonged to Daisy, the girl in the photo on the desk.
With one hand on the saddle and the other holding the blanket, the sepia tones melt away in my mind and it becomes a moving image.
Except I’m no longer watching her – I become her.
I pull off my cowgirl hat and cue the horse to rear with a single word: arriba.
As he rears, I look out and see a mountain in the distance, the same one we see from the ranch here. The heat from the sun enwraps us. Sweat trickles down my temples.
“Dahlia. You in here?” Cash calls through the barn door, jolting me back to reality. “Dahlia?”