Chapter Seven
I stayed up most of the night printing out rudimentary labels, getting them perfectly straight on the jars and gathering all the supplies I needed for the market. Even though I’d worked all day, I was so filled with excitement that I couldn’t sleep, and I was up before the sun.
I’m even more excited about getting Dad’s old truck after loading Mom’s tiny car.
Every surface is covered. I’m balancing two jars in my lap, and I taped a few to the dash.
I had to leave several jars at home. I try not to think about the dizzying number of jars I’ll have to sell in six months to make thirty thousand dollars.
I make my way to the market, and as I get down the mountain the humid air of the valley fills my lungs. The scents are lovely – fresh-cut grass, flowers and rich soil. I’m envious of such fertile ground.
When I get to Town Park, the sidewalks are lined with an assortment of people – hippies, cowboys, farmers and so many who are a blend of each.
One of the best parts of this little town is the mix of people who love things home-grown and home-made.
Nearly everyone makes their living off the land, so all nature provides is rarely taken for granted. I’m happy to be among them now.
I back the car up the alley where vendors are busy setting up booths with local flowers, vegetables and freshly baked breads. I didn’t eat breakfast, and my senses are on high alert. The aroma of sourdough and cinnamon swirls through the warm air, luring me to the baker’s booth.
“Good morning,” I say to a woman in a sunflower jumpsuit. She’s kneeling with her head in a box.
“Hi there,” she says, levering herself to stand. “I’m not open just yet.”
It’s Cash’s mom again.
“Oh, I’m a vendor too,” I say, “but I’m not sure I can make it through the day without one of those cinnamon rolls. If you’re busy, though, I understand.”
“Not too busy for someone so sweet.” She chuckles and walks to the giant cinnamon rolls on a silver tray. “These are made with wheat my neighbour grows.” She uses tongs to place one in a paper box and holds it out to me.
“Thank you! How much?” I set the edge of my case of cherries on her table and dig in my pocket.
“Now, wait a minute,” she says, eyeing me. “Aren’t you the girl who bought a cinnamon roll from me at the Silver Springs rodeo?”
“Sure am. It was amazing.”
“Are you selling those cherries?”
“Yep, and I have fresh Bings and Rainiers too.”
Cash’s mom waves off the money I offer her and grabs a jar from the case.
“OK, how about this? I’ll give you the cinnamon roll and a sourdough loaf for a jar of your cherries. Or, I have flowers.” She points to her side, where several buckets of colourful bouquets are arranged.
“The flowers are amazing, but I’m afraid they’ll wilt while I’m here.” I smile.
She proceeds to slide the sourdough, scored on top with a flower pattern, into a paper bag. I balance the cinnamon roll and bread on top of my jars and bring the case close to my chest, biceps aching. With my chin holding down the loaf, I tell her thank you.
“I’m sorry to keep you.” She eyes me balancing my precarious load. “But you’re the youngest vendor I’ve ever met. Have you heard about the yearly competition for producers your age?”
I shake my head.
“It starts at the Pinto Valley county fair and rodeo in a few weeks. You pitch your product, go through a couple of rounds of judging – a public tasting, then a panel of experts. If you make it into the top two, you win prize money. If you get first place, you win a booth at the Colorado State Fair.”
A bead of sweat trickles down the middle of my chest as I balance everything, including what she’s just told me. “That’s amazing. Do you think I’d qualify?”
“You have to be under twenty-one, I think. And be willing to go through some food-safety stuff.” She smiles. “But I don’t see why not.”
“OK – thank you so much!” I shake my head slightly, my heart soaring with hope. “I’m definitely going to look into it.”
If I secured a spot at the state fair, surely I wouldn’t have any trouble paying off the ranch’s debt. It brings in tens of thousands of people.
“Hey, before you go…” she says, studying the jar of cherries. “Next time don’t forget to put your phone number and address on your label. It’s required.”
I smile. “OK, thanks. I didn’t know that.”
After bringing the first case of cherries to my booth, I set up my collapsible table and smooth the cherry tablecloth across the top.
I found it in one of Grandma’s boxes – the outer edge is bright red-and-white gingham, the inside aqua blue.
Cherries printed on the trim hang from curved stems in twosomes with a green leaf on each.
She used it every time she sold cherries.
I walk back and forth from Mom’s car to the booth, and with each case, my arms feel like they’re getting both stronger and weaker.
My hands shake with anticipation as I set out the jars, each ruby-red cherry glimmering in the first rays of bright sunlight shining into my booth.
I sit down on the stool and snatch the cinnamon roll out of the sun.
My first bite is filled with the rich, buttery dough, the warmth of cinnamon, and the gentle tartness of the cream cheese.
I believe if heaven were a food, it would be honey, but this cinnamon roll is a close second.
My phone buzzes with a message from Lani. Aloha. Good luck today. You’ve got this!
Her text reminds me that I should talk to her dad. I message him before I forget and ask if he can help me with the ranch financials. He writes back saying to call him whenever I have time.
When I look up, a woman is standing at the table, staring at me expectantly. I stand up too quickly, and my cinnamon roll falls into the dirt. The woman buys two cartons of sweet cherries, popping several in her mouth before I have a chance to hand her the change.
I lean down to scoop up my cinnamon roll, praying some of it is salvageable, but as I do, a ribbon of scent blows in my direction. It’s the smell of nectar, warm and sweet. My eyes dart around, searching for the source.
Coming round the corner, I see someone carrying a bouquet of the most exquisite flowers I’ve ever seen. Then the guy who’s holding them comes into view, and my palms instantly clam up.
He comes straight towards my booth, and I realize if he sees the cinnamon roll he’ll know I’ve met his mom – his mom who will not like the fact that he’s met me, that he’s been to my ranch. I hide it behind a jar of cherries as Cash steps up to my table.
“Funny seeing you here,” he says, glancing around the booth and then back to me.
“Yeah, you too,” I say. I feel like there’s a cherry pit in my throat I can’t spit out. “What have you got there?”
One side of Cash’s face curls up in a smile. “Dahlias.”
He watches me as I stare into the flowers. The petals momentarily defy gravity as a breeze floats up underneath the bunch.
“I’ve never seen them in quite that colour,” I say, stunned.
Mesmerized by the dahlias, I lean into the giant blooms that are my favourite colour, purple.
But they’re not simply purple – their starburst pattern of petals is lavender on the inside with grape-purple backing, with hints of plum and a semi-yellow centre.
“Here, smell them.” He pushes the flowers towards me and runs his hand through his hair. “My mom breeds them, and she’s been working on creating scent. Dahlias don’t normally have one.” He points in the direction of her booth. “She’s the little lady over there who also sells baked goods.”
I take the bouquet and bring the flowers to my nose; the intoxicating, spicy-citrus aroma sends tingles down my spine. He smiles and shoves his hands into his jean pockets, arms stiff and shoulders scrunching up round his ears.
“You like ’em?” Cash asks eagerly, bringing me back to earth.
“They’re incredible.” This feels serendipitous – seeing him here with my namesake flowers. They seem made for me.
“Selling your cherries, huh?” His hand lingers on my table, tracing a cherry on the tablecloth.
He was so confident at my house, but now he seems on the cusp of nervous.
“Did you know our town name, Pinto Valley, is named after a herd of wild paint horses that lived in the valley when settlers came? Pinto means ‘paint’ in Spanish.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say.
He points at the jars of cherries. “Those look delicious. Can I buy a jar?”
“Dahlia?” someone calls.
I’m completely caught off-guard as my vision snags on another familiar face – a face I saw for only a moment at the Silver Springs rodeo. He walks towards my booth with a sunny smile, shielding his eyes and squinting.
“Wyatt?” I say, looking to Cash for a split second and then back to him. I can’t believe he remembers my name.
My friends and I have all had a crush on Wyatt Adler at one time or another. He was always the guy who was out of reach, the one we knew we’d never date but was fun to swoon over – like an untouchable movie star.
Even though he and I were in track together, we only talked a handful of times. Lani had Geometry with him one year. She met me at my locker every day after class to tell me what he wore, how he’d sit in his chair and how his jaw flexed when he was thinking hard.
The last time I saw Wyatt at school, his shirtless back was facing me at a track meet.
He had just won the eight-hundred meter, and he peeled off his jersey and swung it over his head in circles.
Then he kissed his girlfriend. He treated her like a queen, and they went off to the same university, CU.
Although I heard they broke up in freshman year.
Wyatt sidles up to my table, leaving his dad waiting behind.
“What are you doing here in Pinto Valley? Didn’t I just see you at the Silver Springs rodeo?” So he was waving to me.
“Yeah.” I hold the dahlias a little closer to my chest. “But I live here now. What about you? What are you doing here?” It’s surprisingly refreshing to see someone from home.
Wyatt never really fitted in there, though.
With his year-round tan skin and wavy blond hair, he looks like he belongs on the beach with a surfboard, not on the slopes with a snowboard.
Wyatt glances at Cash, and Cash holds his stare. “Hey, man. I’m Wyatt.” He always was a friend to everyone.
Cash takes his extended hand and offers a small smile.
“Dahlia and I went to high school together,” Wyatt adds.
“Oh. Dahlia and I…” Cash gestures towards me. “Well, we’re…”
“Friends,” I interject.
Cash eyes me, shifting his weight. “Uh, right. Friends.” Wyatt’s gaze hovers for a moment on the flowers, as if confused, then he looks back to me. “I’m in town because my dad’s paintings are in the art show tonight. Are you going?”
“Not tonight,” I say. “Do you or your dad want to buy some cherries?”
“So this is what you’re doing now?” He lifts a jar. “Can’t say I’m one for cherries. I’m more of a peach guy.” He winks before looking back to his dad and giving him a one sec gesture. I wonder if I’m understanding and turn my gaze to Cash, who’s clearly not impressed with Wyatt’s comment.
“We better get over there.” He steps away and then turns back, tapping two fingers on the table. “You still on the old track group chat?”
“Not sure,” I say.
“I’ll look. We should get together while I’m here.” He gives me a toothy smile and tilts his head to Cash. Then a flash of curiosity crosses his face. “Oh, and are you still going to CU in the fall?”
“Not right now. Maybe some day,” I say.
“That’s a shame,” he says at the same time his dad calls his name. “OK, see ya.”
I find Cash’s eyes, but his smouldering gaze makes me feel vulnerable so I quickly look away, plucking a loose petal from one of the dahlias.
“That was a blast from the past,” I say, my cheeks blooming with heat.
“The good kind?” he asks speculatively.
“Not good or bad. Weird is all.”
Cash tips his head. “So you’re not going to college?”
I rearrange some of the cherry jars to busy my hands. “I’ve got a ranch to run.”
“Wait, you’re running the ranch?” Cash asks, mouth slightly agape.
“Yep. Grandpa left it all to me. I had to decide between college or staying here.” Cash nods slowly, his shoulders seeming to relax.
“Losing Grandpa was horrible, but living on the ranch is a dream come true,” I admit with a smile.
“I promised the ranch I would take good care of it, if it takes good care of me. So, that’s what I’m going to do. ”
His smoulder from before melts into an easy smile, brightening his dark eyes. “That’s great. Go for it,” he says, and straightens. “Well, I better get back.”
I feel a sudden tug to draw him back, even for a moment. “Don’t forget these!” I say, holding the flowers out after him.
He holds my gaze. “Keep ’em.”
“Really?” I ask, thinking he was probably taking them to his girlfriend. “You don’t want them?”
“They’re yours.”
Then he abruptly walks away, and inexplicably my heart feels like it’s being pulled in his direction by a taut thread – like I felt at the rodeo, but stronger this time.
I shake myself and take a photo of the dahlias with my cherries as a background for Lani.
It’s going well. Found out about a cool competition I could enter! Also, guess who came to my booth!!
Who??
The mysterious cowboy and our high school crush.
What?! Both of them?
Yeah … Cash was helping his mom and Wyatt is in town for his dad’s art show. He’s going to look up my number apparently.
As he should! I think you need to check out some “art” after the market.
Some art, huh? Maybe.
I wait and watch as customers walk past my booth with bunches of lettuce and carrot greens peeking out of their bags.
Best keep away from that hot cowboy, Lani writes, and sends me a social media link.
I click on it and find the latest video on Cash and Kaylee’s account.
They’re riding their horses side by side and holding hands.
Kaylee looks back over her golden palomino’s butt and smiles.
The caption says: Downtime with my guy after practice.
A little over three weeks till the semi-finals in Pinto Valley.
Come see me and Cash doing what we love.
Hmm. I think she’s actually perfect, I write.
Nah. She’s a little fake if you ask me. Cheesy caption.
I smile. Lani is so loyal. She’s typing again. Now get back to being a boss!
I grin, put my phone away and wait for the next customer.