Chapter Sixteen
Cash and I spend the morning picking. In almost every way it’s the same as yesterday, except this time I wear my sun hat. We pick until our fingers are red and the crates are full. Before bringing our haul inside we rest under the trees, watching them sway in the breeze.
Without warning, he breaks me from my trance. “My mom has been insisting on me getting a real job,” he says, and twiddles his thumbs.
“What do you do now?”
“Make money rodeoing. Got a pretty big sponsorship, actually. I need to get my own place, and that’s the fastest way – just need to get enough money first. But I was thinking … I could help you with your cherries in the meantime?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t pay you.”
“How about this? Don’t pay me until you make some money yourself.”
“It’ll be a while,” I laugh. “I’m currently trying to save this place from debt and pay half of my hospital bill.”
“What?” He narrows his eyes. “Why?”
“The hospital bill? Because I was being careless. This place being in debt? My grandpa was being careless.”
“Your dad said that about you?” Cash says, understanding.
“First it was, ‘I’m giving the truck to Emery instead of you because she’s actually in college’,” I say in my best Dad-like voice. “Then it was, ‘This little fit cost me my deductible, so you’re paying for half of it.’”
Cash bends his knees and takes the belly bag off, heaving it easily to his other side.
“My dad hates this place, and it seems he wants to make it as hard as possible for me to live here.” As I tear up, Cash hands me the hanky from yesterday.
“What makes you happy?” he asks.
“This place. I’ve dreamed of living here since I was little – like in my actual dreams too.
I know it sounds odd, but I dream of the past here too – scenes from another time.
I guess I’ve always liked history.” I feel vulnerable in my admission, but there’s something about what we went through together when I was stung that makes it easier.
“That’s pretty cool, actually.” He rubs his chin and grins. “Do you dream about the future of the ranch too? Say, with me here, picking cherries?”
I laugh and smack his forearm. I pull my hand back quickly and heat races up my cheeks, making it all the way to my eyes. They burn with embarrassment, but also with a heat I can’t ignore.
He looks down at his arm and then his eyes flick up to mine.
“My dad wants me to live his ambitions too.” He laughs to himself.
“He says I’m a genius mechanic, and his business will be all mine some day.
The funny thing is I’d much rather grow my mom’s flower business.
No pun intended. Plants and animals are my thing, not machines and tools.
But my biggest dream is to raise bucking horses. ”
“Have you told your dad?” I ask.
“No, he’d say gardening and horses are women’s work. I’ve never told anyone this stuff.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. Has he opened up to me about this, but not his girlfriend? “Well, if that were true about plants and animals, this community would look a lot different.”
“He says stupid shit sometimes.” I watch as he massages a thumb across his knuckles and wonder if his hands get sore hanging on to broncs. “So, back to me helping… No pressure, but I like being here and I can hold out until you make some profit.”
“I’ll think it over, but don’t get your hopes up,” I say, looking away. “How does it work with your sponsor?” I stop and check his expression. “With rodeoing. Isn’t that good money?”
He shrugs. “I get all my clothes and boots free, a small monthly stipend for now and the company pays for my travel.”
“To rodeos?”
“Yeah, and I make a performance bonus if I win.”
“What do you have to do for them?”
“Keep winning,” he scoffs. “But, seriously, I also have to be present on social media, do photo shoots for their apparel, and … there’s an interview coming up.” He looks down, digging a heel into the dirt.
“I sense you don’t like it?” I ask.
He sighs and puts on a brave face. “It’s terrible.
I’m a puppet in everyone else’s show. I just want to ride.
” He scratches his nose and regards me. “We all make sacrifices to get where we want to go – I just never saw myself being trapped as the literal poster boy for an apparel campaign. It’s so fake.
The only good thing is I’ll get a big payout after semi-finals, and an even better one if I make it to finals. ”
I take a twig from the ground and break it into small, even parts. His words chafe at me. He might be opening up to me, but the fact he’s conveniently failing to mention his girlfriend leaves a sour taste. “What’s so fake about it? It’s just modelling clothes, right? Not too bad a sacrifice.”
His eyes look distant and pained. “If only I could tell you the half of it.”
*
Cash came up to help me pick for the next two mornings, preparing for the second market.
The work paid off; I sold every jar. In the week that’s followed, he’s stayed true to helping me – even on Sunday morning when his abuela was at church.
He’s been friendly, chatty even, telling me about growing up here and asking me about growing up in Silver Springs.
He hasn’t talked about his sponsorship again.
I’ve been bottling cherries in the afternoons by myself, but today Cash wants to stay.
I show him Grandma’s recipe and how to measure the honey with an antique spoon, the same spoon my grandma used for sugar.
He gives me a hard time about being like a grandma because they know recipes by heart but never measure anything.
“We are measuring,” I protest.
“Oh yeah? What’s the measurement of this fancy little spoon then?”
I bite my lip, thinking. “The right amount.”
“My abuela never measures anything either,” he says. Then he uses a voice I recognize instantly as an imitation of Julia Child’s, “Now, put in the honey. I like to cook with honey. Sometimes I even put it in the food.”
“Oh my God.” I laugh, recognizing it as a twist on her famous statement about wine.
“Growing up, me and my grandma watched YouTube videos of her. Now wait,” he says. “The recipe calls for sugar.” He points his finger at the word sugar under the yellowing plastic page cover.
“Yeah, it says sugar, but I improvise with honey. It tastes better.”
“What are you going to do when you run out?” He points to the only jar of honey I have left.
“I’ll put on my suit and harvest it, same as always.”
He measures everything into the stock pot.
“I’ll help you,” he says. “I’ve never done it, but I’m a fast learner.
You know, you can still get stung through a suit, don’t you?
” I was hoping he didn’t know that. He studies his finger, furrowing his brow.
Then he licks the honey off. “Damn, now I understand why you love this stuff. It’s fricking incredible.
” He dips the spoon into the honey jar and puts it back in his mouth without hesitating this time.
He lets it sit in his mouth while it melts on his tongue.
“You act like you’ve never had honey before.” I poke him in the ribs with my wooden spoon. “Don’t eat it all.”
“Of course I have, but this honey is a little too good,” he says. His smile curls round the spoon and his eyes brighten mischievously. “Seriously, why is it so delicious?”
I shrug. “I think it’s the cherry blossoms. The bees also love sage.”
“Huh, the sagebrush that grows everywhere?”
“They like the sagebrush, but it hasn’t bloomed yet. They go to the blue sage under the cliffs right now.”
I start pitting the cherries, pushing my thumb gently into the centre.
“We still have Grandpa’s old bee suit. I can show you how to harvest here soon.”
“Cool. You heard me about still being able to get stung, right?”
“I heard you. And I know.”
He grunts out a laugh. “Just going to pretend you don’t, huh?”
“I’m being optimistic, not pretending.”
“I see. Isn’t optimism normally saved for things that can change? Not to rain on your parade, but your allergy isn’t going away.”
I turn my back to him. He’s right and I hate it.
“By the way … there’s a lot more I can help you with. My uncle taught me how to run haying equipment. We could get your fields going and, if you put up some hay, you’d make a lot more money.”
“I’m not sure it’s worth trying,” I say, bringing another bowl of cherries to the pot and dumping them in. “I think there’s something wrong with the soil and the only water we have is the snow melt that collects in the pond. Besides, isn’t it a little late in the year to start?”
“Not necessarily. If you have great conditions, it could grow enough to cut in three months. There’s still time for that.”
“Let’s say I had the money to buy seed and we get all the ancient equipment running, what else would I need?”
“Fertilizer.” He pauses about to say something, but snaps his mouth shut. “So I want to tell you—”
My phone buzzes on the counter. I glance away from the cherries in the pot. The juices are beginning to thicken to a brilliantly red gel.
Wyatt: The group chat doesn’t exist any more. Got your number from a friend. How does dinner tomorrow night sound?
I hold the phone rigidly still. Wyatt is asking me out? I wasn’t expecting to hear from him since it’s been over a week since I saw him. I start typing and then delete everything. I try again.
“You good over there?” Cash asks.
“Yep. All good. Just trying to figure out how to write this person back.”
He gives me a I’m not going to pry nod.
I hold the phone for way too long without moving.
“Anything I can do to help?” Cash says. “Let me guess? It’s that guy, Wyatt?”
I look him dead in the eye, shocked he remembers Wyatt’s name. “How did you know?”
“Just a hunch.”
Should I discuss this with Cash?
“Blue’s the only guy I need right now,” I decide to say.
“He was definitely into you … Wyatt, I mean.” He clenches his jaw.
“You think?” I ask, flattered.
“Coming from a dude, there’s no doubt.” His words should sound positive, but it’s hard to read him.