by K. K. Allen
His eyes were glued to the top of the six-hundred-foot-tall mountain. From the angle he was looking at it from, it looked nearly impossible to climb. I waved him forward. The less time he thought about the arduous climb, the better it would be on his psyche.
“Unless you’re going to try to stop me again?” I arched an eyebrow and waited for him to meet my threatening stare.
When he shook his head, I smiled. “C’mon. I’ll show you the trail.”
I stomped through a section of public land filled with light brush until we reached the other side of the rock, where the incline looked much less intimidating. I hopped into my next step, feeling giddy that I had company on what used to be a solo jaunt to the top of the cliff.
The hike wasn’t at all as steep as it looked from the front, and it only took a few minutes to reach the top. Once we were there, I walked Ridge out to the large bristlecone pine tree, its bald branches thick and twisty. The tree was the strangest, most beautiful one I’d ever seen, with its large roots the size of elephant trunks and its only remaining needles visible at the very top. I’d spent hours against the massive trunk.
I spun and raised my arms to the sky, happy to be back in my element. Though I tried to come as often as I could sneak away from the vineyard, I couldn’t make it every day, every week, or even every season. My freedom usually came when my parents were busy hosting a wine tasting or giving visitors tours of the vineyard and they left me alone for hours.
“Isn’t this amazing?” I asked Ridge when I stopped spinning.
He didn’t answer me. His eyes were on the edge of the cliff ahead of us.
When he started to step forward, I wrapped my hand around his wrist and squeezed. “Stop!”
He didn’t pull his arm away that time, but he frowned when he looked at me as if to ask, “Why?”
“We can’t go any closer to the edge, or someone could spot us.”
His eyebrows pinched together even more.
I explained to him that the hilltop and some of the surrounding land was public property that overlooked both Bell and Cross farmland—cornfield and vineyard—with patches of government-owned property around us.
The hilltop was my sanctuary and my favorite spot in all of Telluride. It showcased the beauty of the land below while making me feel like I was on top of the world. But getting a closer view meant risking getting caught.
I searched Ridge’s eyes, wondering how much he knew about our families and their ongoing feud. He hadn’t been in Telluride long, but his pointing the shotgun at my head back at the bridge showed he already knew how territorial our fathers got about their properties. While they hadn’t had a dispute in nearly a decade, the tension was always present.
“Neither of us should be up here. There’s no way to get to this hilltop unless one of us is trespassing on land. In this case, it’s me. It’s too dangerous for me to get here if I go across my land. That’s why I go through the cornfields.”
I was afraid Ridge would be angry, but I wasn’t sure why I cared. He was the boy who’d just held a shotgun to my head like he wanted to kill me. But if anything could make me panic, it was the thought of losing the only freedom I knew of—and Ridge had caught on to my weakness. Something that looked like recognition flashed in his eyes, then acceptance followed as he took a step back from the edge.
We sat down against the tree, letting the sun warm our faces while the clouds moved with the breeze. My arm brushed his accidentally, but when he didn’t jump to distance himself from me, I somehow knew that Ridge and I would be friends, even if our parents didn’t want us to be. Even if Ridge didn’t want us to be. I would grow on him like the twisty tree at our backs, until I was so deeply rooted in his life that he couldn’t push me away again if he wanted to.
We had our hilltop along with our tree and our land that was spread out below our feet. No one could take any of it away. At least that was what I had convinced myself.
I turned to Ridge, so many questions filling my mind. I hated that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—talk to me.
“So you really are a mute, then?”
He slowly turned to meet my stare, then a few moments later, his mouth started to part. Anticipation filled my chest while I waited for words to come. I’d never wanted something so badly.
“I’m not a mute. That word is not kind.”
His voice surprised and thrilled me in equal measure. His tone was soft, which didn’t surprise me at all, but it had a richness that felt significantly his.
“You speak.” The wistful words rushed from my throat faster than I could stop them.
“I don’t like to waste my words.”
His answer hit me like a forceful breeze—powerful yet calm amid the gloom that fated us both. But I was delighted that he’d chosen to speak to me. As hard as it would be, I promised myself I wouldn’t take advantage of that gift.
We sat in silence for what felt like hours. As much as I loved to talk, I didn’t mind being still. The hilltop was the perfect place to do that. But on that day, my thoughts were consumed by the boy sitting beside me.
“You come here often?”
“As often as I can.” My heart kicked at our nearness. “It’s my favorite place to think, to dream, and to pray.”
His eyebrows knitted, and worry lines formed. “You aren’t afraid?” He tossed a glance behind us.
“Of what? Lions and tigers and bears? ” I smiled. “What’s to be afraid of when humans are the scariest predator?”
“What about hunters? Where I come from, that’s all there is.”
I smiled again. For an older boy, his innocence was sweet. Sure, my papa had warned me about hunters—quiet men who stalked their prey with sharpshooting rifles or bow and arrows, their aim steady, and never missing a single shot. My papa knew those men well. Over a decade ago, he used to be one of them.
“This hilltop and that bridge we met at might be public land, but everything that surrounds it is owned by our fathers, yours and mine. It’s been fenced in for decades. We’re sitting on landlocked property with no public access to get here. There are no hunters here.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Before taking the vineyard over from his parents, my papa was a hunter. He hunted elk, mostly, but some of the men didn’t like to play fair. Designated hunting grounds opened up seasonally, and that was where most of the men would go. A few others would access ground by trespassing onto private property that had been landlocked after the Civil War. Back then, property in Colorado got sold off much like a checkerboard in certain areas. The sold land was used to generate revenue that would support public institutions. Mind you, my papa told me all of this while he was supposed to be reading me Little Red Riding Hood one night.” I chuckled at the mental picture of my papa holding the children’s book while whispering his own stories to me. “Anyway, he told me to think of the black spaces as federally owned public land, while the red spaces are available for purchase.”
“That’s quite the mental picture.”
“Right?” Excitement flitted through me. I’d never forgotten the visual he’d painted for my imagination that night. A map of land ownership would show more of a jigsaw formation, but the Bell and Cross farms were a part of that history. “That checkerboard created a clear problem when it came to accessing hunting grounds that had been landlocked with no available access road to get to it. Hence the fence that has bordered the perimeter of our property for the last few decades.”
“Boundaries don’t keep people out. They fence you in.”
I bit down on my laugh, feeling my physical attraction toward Ridge sprout butterflies in my chest at his quote from Grey’s Anatomy. “Shonda Rhimes is a genius.”
A hint of a smile lifted Ridge’s cheeks.
“While I see what you’re getting at, Wise One, our groundskeeper inspects our borderlines often. If anyone was cutting through, he’d know about it.”
Ridge looked like he was thinking about my words, so I g
ave him a minute before changing the subject. “I just have one more question. I hope you don’t take offense.”
He waited, his expression unchanging.
I swallowed, feeling nervous about intruding for the first time since our introduction, which was ironic, since I’d just trespassed on his land to climb onto the rock. “Why haven’t you come to Telluride before now if Farmer Cross is your father? The Ute Mountain reservation is only a couple hours from here.”
His slightly upturned lips turned back down, and his jaw hardened. “That’s a story for another day.” Then he turned his chin up slowly to stare at the sky. “Rain is coming.” A rumble of thunder followed. “We should go.”
Not even a second later, a raindrop hit my nose, then another one hit my arm. “What are you? Psychic?”
“Not psychic,” he said, his tone low. “Nature speaks, but not too many listen.”
I blinked as his words sank in, almost forgetting about the storm that was suddenly rolling in. After just a few hours with my mysterious neighbor boy, I became a million times more curious about Ridge Cross and where he’d been for the past thirteen years of my life.
Another crack of thunder finally jolted me into action. In seconds, Ridge and I were making a mad dash down the hill, through the thick brush of weeds, and back through the cornfields. Instead of heading toward his home, Ridge followed me as I ran down the familiar path, all while the rain soaked into the soil. Mud splashed the backs of my legs and dress while rain coated my dark hair.
I didn’t mind the rain or even the mud. The only thing that bothered me in that particular moment was that my time with the strange boy was over.
I looked over my shoulder as I ran. Ridge was smiling as he chased me through the muddy fields. The rain had washed away the dirt that had caked his face earlier, and I couldn’t help but take a closer look at the features that had already caught my attention from a distance.
Ridge Cross was unmistakably breathtakingly handsome, and excitement that he was in Telluride to stay overwhelmed me.
Adrenaline licked through me, and we picked up the pace, not stopping until we reached the bridge where we’d met.
When I turned around, the rain was barely noticeable in the surrounding trees. I smiled at him, and he smiled back at me. An ache filled my chest as I wondered when I would see the boy again. I wouldn’t allow it to be long. Despite all obstacles, I was determined to make sure Ridge and I stayed friends, no matter the cost.
4
Camila, Two Months Later
I loved to watch the seasons change, from the white winter blanket that melted away to a promising spring, to the wildflowers that sprang to life under a blazing summer sun, to perhaps my favorite season of all—fall.
In the midst of the summer-to-fall transition was always a sense of uncertainty. One morning, a full spectrum of colors would fill the beautiful landscape of Telluride, and in that same afternoon, everything could change. We never quite knew when our first snow would blow in, but we were always prepared for it.
My friends and I liked to take advantage of our last sunny moments in September. We would ride our bikes through the endless mountain off-roads that would soon become ski trails, then we would take the gondola to Mountain Village, and from there we would ride back down the Village trail. Once back in the box canyon of Telluride, we would stop at one of the many cafes for a snack.
“C’mon, Camila.” My friend Trip had just made it to the start of one of the switchbacks.
Like always, I was behind the others but not because I couldn’t keep up. On a day like today, when the sun was high and a few clouds brought in the perfect breeze, I loved to stop and watch the vibrant wildflowers dance. Whereas my friends wanted to race through the terrain like we had somewhere to be.
“Go ahead,” I yelled, waving them on. I would rather bike the trails at my own pace, anyway. What’s the point in any journey if you don’t allow yourself time to stop and breathe?
Trip gave me a stern look and shook his head. His father, Thomas Bradshaw, was my papa’s right-hand man at the vineyard. And since Trip was a couple of years older than me, on outings like that, he always became my unofficial babysitter. As handsome as he was, his arrogance always managed to rub me the wrong way.
I glared at him then turned back to the deep valley of wildflowers and aspen groves, which seemed to stretch for miles. Anger had a way of lighting up inside me whenever I felt forced to follow someone else’s trail instead of blazing my own. It was only a matter of time before I erupted. Instead of fighting back, I squeezed the handlebars of my bike as hard as I could and gave in. “Fine.”
After hopping back onto the seat, I zoomed past Trip and down the trail, not slowing at the switchback. It only took a few seconds to catch up with the others, who had stopped on the side of the dirt path, waiting for me, no doubt.
Grinning, I flew by them, too, and didn’t stop when they screamed my name. I rode the narrow dirt path over rocks and puddles of rain from the day before, taking each sharp turn like the pro that I’d become in the past couple of years.
If my parents knew what my friends and I meant by “biking the mountain trails,” they would lose their minds with rage. While the path was marketed to tourists as “easy,” it was anything but. One slip, and the wheel of my bike could skid, throwing me off the thing and straight down a cliff.
The next switchback came and went, and I was nearly down the mountain when I spotted a boy with dark hair hiking with his back to me. Even without seeing his face, I knew exactly who it was.
It had been two months since I’d seen Ridge last. He hadn’t tried to stop me at the bridge again, and he hadn’t come up to the hilltop when I was there. It had finally occurred to me that he might be avoiding me, which did wonders for my stubborn nature. As adamant as I had been to remain friends with the boy, I was just as determined to avoid him right back. Two could play that game.
Ridge hadn’t seen me yet. I would ride right by him without saying a word and with my head held high. But I was so focused on speeding by him that I failed to see a thick stick on the path until moments before my bike hit it. My front wheel jerked to a stop and I lurched forward over my handlebars then landed hard on my back.
Gravel dug into my shoulders before I shot up and tried to breathe. A moan came out instead. Everything felt constricted.
Ridge knelt down in front of me and placed his hand on my back. “You just had the wind knocked out of you. Try to breathe through your mouth while pushing your stomach out.”
My eyes latched on to his as I did as he said or at least I tried like hell to.
“Good. Now exhale while sucking your stomach back in. That will help stretch out your diaphragm.”
His presence was so calming that even when I felt like death, I knew everything was going to be okay. Though that wasn’t the first time I’d had the wind knocked out of me, it was still terrifying.
Just as I was regaining my breath, the sounds of the other bikes approached. My senses were returning quickly, and I was suddenly aware that tears had stained my face and dirt covered my clothes and exposed skin. I didn’t care so much about the dirt, but I didn’t like the fact that Ridge had just seen my tears. I never allowed anyone to see my weaknesses, yet I felt prone to them with him.
“Camila!” my friends yelled in near unison.
Josie and Raven were the first ones to me, while Emilio, Brody, and Trip came up behind them.
“Are you okay?” Josie, my best friend, asked, already inspecting me for injuries.
Raven, Trip’s younger sister, stood back and stared at Ridge.
“I’m fine now, thanks to Ridge.”
Trip’s glance bounced off Ridge then back to me like he wasn’t even there. “Well, all right,” he said without extending an ounce of grace to the boy who’d just helped me breathe.
Ridge picked up my bike, remaining quiet, while Trip helped me off the dirt. Then everyone looked at each other in awkward silence.
“We should get you home,” Trip said soberly. “Are you okay to ride, or should we walk?”
“I said I’m fine.” I shot him a glare, angry that my friends couldn’t even look at Ridge or thank him for being there to calm me when I fell. I turned back to Ridge, my expression softening. “Thanks again for your help.” My words were firm, and I hoped my friends would take a lesson in my kindness. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
Ridge ran a glance over my friends then nodded.
I grabbed my bike from Ridge and hopped on. “Last one down the hill buys the pizza,” I called as I took off riding.
My friends all yelled, “Slow down!”
“You are the craziest of the crazies,” Josie told me as she reached for a slice of pizza.
“Freaking nuts,” Raven chimed in around a mouthful.
“But kind of badass, though,” Brody added with a shrug. “You’re not afraid of death. I give you that.”
He followed his comment up with a hearty laugh, and we all joined in. Well, everyone except Trip, whose narrowed eyes were glued to the door of the pizza joint. When I followed the direction of his stare, heaviness washed over me. Ridge had just walked in, and had stopped at the hostess stand for a menu.
“We should invite him to sit with us.”
Trip snapped his head to give me a wide-eyed stare. “Are you crazy? No way, Camila.”
He hated my new neighbor, and I blamed our parents for that. Whatever issues Papa had, Thomas Bradshaw had adopted them.
Once upon a time, I’d had a crush on Trip. He’d always seemed so attentive and nice when we were younger. And he was unmistakably gorgeous, with his deep-blue eyes and sandy-blond hair. It seemed every girl in our school had a crush on him. But my crush had ended the moment I found out that he’d only been so attentive because my papa had been paying him to keep a close eye on me. From that point on, I’d felt more resentment toward him than anything else.