CHAPTER 1
FORD
Dear Cowboy,
I’ve been thinking a lot about sadness. Don’t worry, Ford, not my own, even though there are times when I’m sad. Ha! As if you’re worried about my sadness.
But I haven’t just been thinking about sadness. I’ve been thinking about loneliness and bravery. I’ve been thinking about relief and surprise. I’ve been thinking about resentment and passion.
We’re taught these feelings, these words that are meant to convey what we experience in life.
And we’re told this is the language, this is how we communicate what we feel.
We all just trust it. Trust the construct created long before you or I came to be, which will continue on long after we are gone.
The language of it. The connection those words are hoping to describe.
It’s all just…too much. You know? Too much and not enough.
Then I think about you and how your dedication might make you feel all of those things without anyone taking the time to notice.
I guess, if you are feeling any of those emotions, maybe take my letter with you on a ride and watch the sunset bathe your beautiful land. Experience a moment that can’t be stolen or replicated or lost.
And then get some sleep because there will be more to feel tomorrow.
I hope tomorrow is more good feelings than bad. For both of us.
My thumb rubs over the sunflower sticker at the bottom of the page. It’s what she uses in place of a signature, and I have no idea what it means. Does it mean anything?
Is it a sign, something I should be looking for? I can’t remember the last time I came across a sunflower other than at the bottom of these letters.
They’ve been coming for almost a year. There’s no pattern. Sometimes I get one a week for a month and then I might not get one for two months.
But they always seem to show up when I need them the most. And when I least expect them.
At first it made me a little uncomfortable, making me feel like I was being watched.
Now I find them comforting.
I’m also incredibly curious about who it is.
They don’t share a lot of details, but I know it’s a woman.
Not only is the handwriting a dead giveaway, but there’s something sweet in her writing that makes me feel like it’s not a guy.
I don’t think a guy would send me anonymous letters signed with a sunflower sticker.
Maybe I’m wrong.
Ever since the first letter arrived, I’ve been walking around Seneca Falls with my head on a swivel. I’m always looking for some sort of clue. Honestly, part of me expects for my letter writer to jump out from around a corner and shout, “Surprise! It’s me.”
I’m constantly wondering if I’m talking to my Sunflower. She could be anyone. Maybe. I hope not just anyone. The last thing I need is some middle schooler with a crush on me. But I don’t think it’s the case.
There’s something about the way this woman writes. I don’t think she’s a kid and in school still, but I don’t think she’s older than me either. What the hell do I know, I’m only 25, almost 26. Once Valentine’s Day rolls around, I’ll be celebrating another birthday.
The only thing I’m looking forward to when it comes to my birthday is the possibility of getting a letter from my Sunflower. She’s the only one who wished me well, or even acknowledged my birthday last year. I’d love to say it was because of Valentine’s Day that people forgot. But I know the truth.
No one gives a fuck.
I don’t have people in my corner. Not anymore.
Sure, I used to, but then Dad died and everything except for Sagebrush Ranch, which has been in my family for generations, fell apart.
Maybe I should find solace in the fact that the ranch still operates, and I’ve been able to make improvements and grow the business.
Somehow, when I’m all alone in the giant house on the land with only ranch hands who see me as a boss and not much else, it’s not easy to take solace in the success of the ranch.
The ranch was founded by my family, and it has remained in the hands of the Conners family ever since. It’s my fucking legacy.
Legacy. Fuck.
Legacies are hard and the mantle of them is rarely given in the way we want, in the way we think we can handle.
My Sunflower wrote that in her first letter to me, the one celebrating my birth when it felt like everyone who was supposed to care had forgotten. Except for a stranger, at least to me, who went out of their way to recognize the day.
Ever since I read those words, I’ve been trying to come to grips with the legacy wrapped around me. No one ever asked if I wanted the burden of it or if I was strong enough to carry the weight.
Once Dad died, it just seemed expected of me.
Sometimes I have to wonder if he knew his time was up because he had been methodically preparing me to take over for a while.
Back then it was like I could still hear his voice telling me about how important the land is, how our family has thrived on it and protected it as repayment.
How did my Sunflower know I was struggling with my legacy a year ago while I stared down another birthday?
She spoke about it like her own legacy is sometimes suffocating, and scary.
There have been so many times I wished I could write her back; tell her how I understand the expectations of it all feeling like fear.
But I can’t.
Because there’s no return address on the letters when they arrive. I’ve been tempted to make a copy of the letters to use them like wanted posters. Someone would recognize the handwriting or some of the turns of phrase, right?
I never follow through because I’m not willing to share these letters with anyone. They feel special, sacred almost.
What if I tried to track down who it is and then the letters stopped? I think it’s what I fear the most. The letters stopping.
So, I’ve kept my mouth shut about them and tried not to act too deranged every day when I go to the mailbox. Sure, I could be going for whatever mail was delivered, but it’s not really why I check it every day. I check to see if I’ve gotten another letter from my Sunflower.
For the last year she’s described the seasons, the land, the town, and what she loves and fears without giving too much away.
Through her letters I’ve learned to appreciate everything more.
I had stopped looking at Seneca Falls beyond the place I grew up, the place I’ve been tied to without anyone asking if it’s what I want.
In the moments of resentment, real seeds of hatred were starting to take root. I looked around at Sagebrush and saw what it was taking from me. Then Sunflower started writing me letters.
She’s given me back an appreciation which could have easily been lost forever.
It was almost inevitable with how much work I put into the ranch. It was all left on my shoulders when my mom and sister moved to Lake Tahoe. They’ve spent their years entertaining and pretending like their last name is currency. Considering the people they spend time with, it probably is.
But it’s all on my back.
Dad would be ashamed.
I shake my head and take my letter straight into my room. I sit on my bed, not caring about being more than a little dusty after working most of the day. My stomach growls as the scent of pot roast floating through the house.
Rosalie is an amazing cook. She’s been in charge of Sagebrush’s kitchen since before I was born. After her husband was killed while serving in the military, she wound up in Seneca Falls without much going for her. Dad hired her and gave her a safe place to raise her son.
It’s hard to believe now, but Rosalie and mom were friends, and they raised their kids together. I don’t think mom would lower herself to consort with a cook now. Even though Rosalie really is my manager, not just of the house, but of me.
Sometimes I wish I had been given the opportunity to leave like Rafael.
He went off to school, and built a life away from Seneca Falls.
He has a baby on the way and Rosalie has been beside herself about it.
I’m going to have to fend for myself when she goes to visit them for a few weeks once the baby arrives.
I’ll be fine, but only because Rosalie taught me things in the kitchen when we were growing up.
I don’t remember where Mom was then. As I stare down at the letter, my eyes taking in the words one more time before I fold it up and tuck it into my bedside drawer, in order, I can’t help but wonder if maybe I didn’t notice Mom’s behavior because Rosalie was there.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, tempted to rip open the drawer and read all my Sunflower’s letters. Again.
Before I can, the phone in my office starts ringing. I had to find a special phone that sounds like the devil’s come from hell to take you away. It was the only way I could hear the damn thing from my room.
I’m not ready to move into my parents’ room. I can’t remember the last time Mom slept there, but if I move in there, if I change things around, it means this is really my life. I’ll have no way to escape.
It’s everything Dad raised me to believe in. It’s the life I wanted back then. But I had no idea how things would change.
When I pick up the phone in my office and sit down, my voice is gruff, “Hello?”
“Ford,” my mother’s trilling voice has me swallowing hard and wishing I hadn’t made it to the phone in time.
But I can’t hang up now.
“Hello, Mother,” I try to keep my voice even, but it’s not easy.
“I’m so glad you answered, darling,” she sounds expensive, like I’m about to get billed for her calling me. Trust me, I wouldn’t pay to be graced with her presence, over the phone or in person. “You spend so much time out working on that dreadful ranch.”
My eyes close slowly and I fist one of my hands to try and stop myself from destroying everything on my desk. It wouldn’t do me any damn good to give into the temptation of violence.
“Well, someone has to work at the ranch,” I remind her, pushing the words past my gritted teeth. “Or else how would you be able to shop to your heart’s content?”
“Now, Ford,” she admonishes me like I’m an errant toddler and not her 25-year-old son who has already been in charge of Sagebrush for far longer than he should have been.
If only Dad hadn’t died. But he did.
“You know it’s better this way. I was never meant to live on that ranch so far away from civilization. Crystal is just like me, and it can’t be helped,” she says the words like they’re true.
But the alternative would be both of them here, in my house, on my land, and getting in my way. Yeah, that would be worse. Far, far worse.
“Yes, I’m very aware of where your talents and priorities are. I understand your need to be in Lake Tahoe,” my voice is tight.
What I don’t mention is that the house Dad bought there years ago was only supposed to be a vacation cabin, not used as a permanent residence. Pointing it out would be a waste of time.
I clear my throat and make a wish for a little patience. “Was there a specific reason you were calling today, Mother?”
“Of course,” she enunciates the words like she’s some big city debutante, “I know how valuable your time is.”
“I appreciate it,” I bite out the words, more than done with this conversation.
“Of course you do, darling,” she coos the words like they’re precious. They’re not. “Now, I was calling because I would like you to take care of a few things for me. The biggest thing is that I would like to redecorate the house here. I want you to contact someone who can take care of everything.”
My eyebrows pull together and dread curls in my gut. “You want to redecorate the house?”
“Why, yes,” she agrees. “I think it’s time, don’t you? Decorating trends move so fast and this interior is over three years old now. I think it’s time for it to be freshened up to reflect the new year, and I just don’t think it’s quite luxurious enough. We can do better.”
I let out a slow breath, surprisingly relieved when I realize she’s not talking about the Sagebrush farmhouse. My house. Even if I haven’t made any changes.
I’m seriously rethinking that. Maybe it’s time I made some changes.
Or maybe you just need the woman writing the letters to step out of the shadows.
I’ve argued with Mom before about how much money she spends and what her lifestyle is costing us. She doesn’t care. Not even a little bit.
“You’ll make it happen. I think Crystal and I will take a trip to New York for some spring fashion shopping while it’s being done. I’ll get our travel all set up with our agent and I’ll let you know so you can schedule the decorator.”
I’m about to tell her all the reasons why I won’t be doing her bidding, but the words get lodged in my throat. I might not like her, or Crystal, but they’re the only family I have left. If I turned my back on them, Dad would be so disappointed in me.
My stomach churns and it feels like I’m drowning. It always does when I talk to Mom.
Before I can agree, disagree, or say anything, the line goes dead. She didn’t even bother saying goodbye. I’m not sure why it bothers me. It shouldn’t; it’s been this way for years and I don’t see it changing anytime soon.
When I look down into my bedside table’s drawer, Sunflower’s letters are sitting there. Not judging. Not expecting. They’re just words on a page from a stranger.
But they mean a lot to me.
I reach in and pull out the first letter and start to read it again. No one else may see me, but she does. If only I knew who she was; I think I’ve been waiting for her my entire life.