Page 30 of Cherry Tree Ranch

“Honey sounds pretty good right now,” he mumbles. “I got a really sour one.”

He proceeds to put on the harvesting bag, which looks incredibly like a baby carrier, and something falls to the ground.

“I forgot,” he says, picking it up. “I made you a poultice with osha root for your sting.”

“Wow, thank you,” I say, touched. “What’s osha root?”

“It’s a native plant that can be used for remedies. The tops look like carrot leaves. Here, smell it.”

“It smells like a spicy carrot,” I say.

“Wrap it round your hand while we pick. It should help with the pain and inflammation.”

I take the poultice from him and use the old T-shirt material it’s in to wrap it round my palm. I fumble to fasten it with my other hand, so Cash steps in, tying it snugly.

He looks up, fixing his eyes on mine. “Too tight?”

“Just right. Thanks.”

I start picking the bright-red fruits and place them gently in my basket. We get into a rhythm of picking and Cash starts humming a calming tune. He’s more than six feet tall, and with his long arms he can reach cherries only the birds normally get.

The wooden step stool, grey and white from years of weather, helps me reach a little higher. Cash’s song hits a new part that repeats itself, and suddenly blood throbs in my ears, pulsing with each note. My arms stiffen, and I jerk in his direction to listen.

“Cash…” I say, unsure.

“Hmm?”

“What song is that?”

“I don’t know the name of it. It’s a Spanish lullaby. My dad used to sing me to sleep with it while he played a Peruvian instrument called a charango.”

“Huh,” I say. I shake off my strange reaction. “It sounds … familiar. What’s a charango?”

“It’s like a tiny guitar, but with ten strings. It’s been in my family forever. Came from Peru with an ancestor.”

I reach to pick what looks like the perfect cherry, but I pull too hard and its ripe skin bursts open, spraying juice on to my face. Cash hands me a handkerchief and I dab my skin, getting spots of red all over the pure white cloth.

“So what are you going to do about harvesting honey now?” Cash asks, his belly bag growing full.

“I’ll have to always wear my suit. No more tempting fate,” I sigh.

“OK, but what about right now?” He hesitates. “Aren’t you at risk by the trees?”

“I haven’t figured it out yet. I can’t just stop taking care of the bees or the trees,” I sigh. “Cherries and honey are all this place has, and I’ve got to make money somehow.”

I walk under the shade of the next tree. Cash continues to a branch on the other side. He works steadily and with a precision I have yet to master.

“Can your mom help?” He peeks through the leaves.

“No, she gets too tired picking. She helps with preserving them sometimes. Now that the sweet cherries are coming in, she helps put them in cartons.”

Cash comes round to my tree. “Yeah, those are everyone’s favourites. And just so you know … I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’ve never seen anyone’s trees with this many cherries.”

“Really?”

“Heck yeah. This is incredible.” He puts a hand on his cherry-filled belly bag. “You’re going to have a lot to sell.”

“Yeah,” I say distantly and look down the row of trees, “but I’m so cooked. Last week I barely got the cases in my mom’s car.” My head starts to ache. I sit down and pull my sweat-damp hair off my shoulder, leaning into my hand and resting my elbows on my legs. “I’d have it all figured out if I was getting my dad’s truck. Then I could bring so much more to the market.”