by K. K. Allen
She gave me a beautiful smile. Her perfect white teeth beamed back at me between painted red lips. Her skin was naturally tan and looked even darker compared to the white that powdered the earth. Camila was the type of beautiful that made hearts ache and knees weak—classic, timeless, and all things rare. She was wholesome and innocent, like an undisturbed patch of snow at the end of winter.
“I didn’t know I needed an excuse to enjoy all that nature has to offer,” she said.
“But have you? Have you enjoyed it all?”
She tilted her head and gave me a questioning look.
“There are an endless number of hiking trails around here. You should get out there and see what exists beyond these box canyon walls. Don’t get me wrong. The hilltop is great. I understand why that’s your sanctuary. I’m just saying don’t let that be the end of your journey. Take the bigger hills and harder climbs. I couldn’t even tell you about what exists out there. You wouldn’t believe the magic, unless you saw it with your own eyes.”
“Then take me. Show me.”
She was asking me for more than to take her on a hike, and it took all my willpower not to give in the moment I realized it. “You know I can’t take you hiking. Even this”—I pointed between her and me—“is pushing the boundaries that have been set for us.”
“Screw the boundaries.” She glared at me. “They’re ridiculous. Look at us, Ridge. What damage are we doing by being friends? I can’t see the bad in it. This whole rivalry bullshit doesn’t make any sense.”
Camila got fired up about injustices often, but never once had I heard her cuss. “It might never make sense to us, but that’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” she shouted into the enclosed cabin, her words bouncing off the walls and pummeling me like little bullets.
“The point is that we don’t make the rules.” I sounded much calmer than I felt. A wildfire that not even I could contain at that moment burned in my chest. “Not now,” I whispered. “Not yet.”
She stood, took one step to cross over onto my bench, and sat, wobbling the car as she moved. Her leg pressed into mine as she leaned in. Her chin tilted up, and her lips parted. “Why not now?”
The challenge in her words only added gasoline to the growing fire inside me. I only had one choice. I had to push her away. “You are fifteen.” I didn’t hide the anger in my voice that time. “You cannot possibly know what you’re asking for or whether the risks you’re willing to take are worth it.”
“You are worth it to me, Ridge." Sadness and fear coated her eyes, tearing up my heart.
“I am nothing.” My voice boomed. It was the only way she would hear me. “I can offer you nothing. And you mean nothing to me.”
She froze, bringing a chill to all the spaces around us. The already-fragile ice crumbled beneath our feet, signaling the explosive end to our friendship.
Before either of us could say another word, we were inside the Oak Street Harbor Plaza, and the gondola car started to slow. The doors slid open, and Camila moved first, hopping out onto the padded mat—where Trip was standing and glaring at me.
10
Camila, Six Months Later
My first wobbly steps were taken in a large barrel of grapes on my first birthday in 1992 during the Bell Family Vineyard Harvest Festival. My parents loved to retell that fact to anyone who would listen, as if they wanted to ensure that everyone knew I was heir to the invisible throne. And every year, I repeated the tradition, which showcased me as their daughter and future vintner who would one day carry on the family dynasty. I accepted the role with pride.
At sixteen years old, I stood on the wooden platform that wrapped the large barrel of red grapes beside my parents. A smile lit my face as Italian music poured through the outdoor speakers, and a crowd quickly formed around us. Our ceremonial grape stomp had clearly become the highlight of the entire harvest festival. I was thankful that my steps were much less wobbly than my first ones.
I scanned the crowd to find that many of my peers and their families were already there, while more continued to pull into the already-crowded parking lot of the winery. Food, drink, and art vendors were situated on the red-dirt clearing, offering prepared meals, produce, and refreshments to consume. From noon to sunset, people could tour the winery, partake in tastings, and fill crates of grapes in the vineyard.
Harvest season meant that over the next couple weeks, the vineyard would be packed with townsfolk who wanted to help handpick every grape from the vine. But my parents didn’t want to make the festival just about the vineyard. They wanted it to be an opportunity for other farm owners in the area to bring their freshly harvested crops to sell and promote. Well—all farmers except for one.
The Cross family was strictly forbidden to enter my parents’ land, even at a public event like that one. Not that Harold or Ridge would try to set foot on my papa’s property. Over the past six months, Harold Cross’s name had officially been removed from the farmer’s market vendor list, and every last business in town that had once purchased corn from him suddenly cut ties.
My papa was behind it. Who else could it be? No one else in Telluride hated the man enough to meddle in his business affairs in such a cruel way. Harold was forced to sell outside of Telluride, and rumor was that Ridge was the one going off to Ouray and Silverton to chase new business.
Papa hadn’t come right out and said it, but a certain event at Mountain Village had a lot to do with what was going on. After Trip saw Ridge and me together, Trip was brimming with fury. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had gone straight to my papa after we got home.
I hadn’t forgotten the agreement Trip and I had made when Ridge first moved to town. Trip promised to be nice to Ridge if I promised to stay away. The timing of it all was too suspicious, and for that, I was riddled with guilt.
For the past six months, Ridge and I had kept our distance. After what he had said to me at Mountain Village, my heart was too broken to see his face. But over time, I started to recognize the power my papa held over his, and my feelings started to change. Ridge was only trying to protect Harold’s farm, and he had every right to do so. Once summer came around, the thought of staying mad at him and staying away from the hilltop felt unbearable.
I missed sitting under the crooked tree with him for hours, even when he wouldn’t say a word. I missed meeting at the bridge and catching up on everything we’d missed in each other’s lives. Most of all, I missed his silence, which always calmed my constant storm, my need for adventure, and my careless search for it. He was the peace in my existence. And even when he did speak, his words were always carefully chosen, respectful, and meaningful. What he’d told me on that first day we met had been true. Ridge didn’t like to waste his words, and I loved him for it.
It irked me to the core to know that our families had every opportunity to settle the feud but refused to do so. Three months ago, I’d tried to bring up the feud with my papa again, desperate to put an end to it all.
“There are rumors, Papa. Rumors that you’re sabotaging Farmer Cross’s business. Is that true?”
My papa had been sitting cross-legged in the vineyard, cutting back the unwieldy vines. He stopped what he was doing and wiped the sweat from his brow before smiling at me. “Don’t worry yourself with small-town rumors, mija. Look at us,” he said, pointing to his chest and mine. “We’re out here working. Does it look like I have time to go around sabotaging businesses? Farmer Cross is doing that all on his own.”
A quick flash of a memory brought me back to the first day we’d seen Ridge and Harold at the farmer’s market. My papa had been brimming with hatred that day, making me doubt his words.
“Then why can’t we all be friends? His family and ours?” I had to be careful with my tone. I wanted him to believe that the intent behind my question was innocent and playful.
My papa cupped my cheek, an adoring look in his eyes. “You are too good and too young to understand, my Camila.”
“But I’m not too young,” I insisted.
“Maybe, but trust me. The history is long and boring, and it’s better not to get involved.” Then he had turned back to his precious vine, ending our conversation.
My unsettled thoughts were interrupted when my parents nudged me to join them in the barrel of fruit. The grapes immediately squeezed out of their skins and between our toes. While the act of grape stomping was a little gross, I laughed every single time.
I clutched the bottom of my long white dress and bunched it at the top of my thighs, giving me room to move my legs. There was no use trying to avoid getting dirty. I didn’t care about stains or getting wet. That was all part of the fun, to dance among the fruit that afforded our family the opportunity to give back to the community in so many ways. I considered it a privilege and an honor to lead the celebration.
As always, my mama was the first one to start moving around the barrel, twisting her shoulders and stomping in time with the folk music, earning the first cheer from the crowd. The wide smile on her face showed that she was filled with pure joy. She was practically exploding with it. And every year that I watched her, I was always mesmerized by her smile, her laugh, and the sheer exuberance as she danced. She was in her element, right where she was meant to be.
I turned to Papa and saw the look on his face as he watched Mama dance. My heart squeezed. He was like a lovesick puppy, grinning and shoving his hands into his pockets while stomping around with much less coordinated movements than Mama.
Those were the moments I lived for and cherished. I would hold them close forever.
I grinned like a fool as I watched my parents, waiting for the perfect moment to jump in and join them.
“Dance, Camila! Dance!” came a familiar voice from the crowd.
My eyes sifted through the people until I found Josie. I stuck my tongue out at her. She was wrapped up in Emilio’s arms. They’d been dating since that night I rode the gondola with Ridge. It turned out a love story had been born that night—it just wasn’t mine.
Josie’s beauty had always been mesmerizing to me. With her strawberry-blond hair, electric-blue eyes, and freckles that looked like specks of gold in the sun, she was so clearly the reason boys wanted to hang out with us lately. I had always been the tomboy of the bunch—always dirty, always running, and always one of the guys. Josie was so far opposite me on the spectrum that I often had a hard time believing we were friends.
Then something happened over the summer. My hair had grown past my shoulders for the first time in my life, and I suddenly cared what I looked like for school and outings with my friends. I asked Josie to teach me how to do my makeup and style myself in a way that still felt true to me. I became her miniproject, and in turn, the boys had started to look at me differently.
I began flirting and going on one-off dates, but no matter how hard they tried, I wouldn’t let them kiss me. Kissing was reserved for something more—something I knew I was waiting for even though I didn’t know when it would come.
Josie and Emilio were attending the festival with some classmates of ours, all regulars over the years. Most of us had known each other since we were toddlers. Ridge might have adopted the term Wild One for me, but my preference for living on the edge was no secret. My peers called me a tomboy, a farm girl, and one of the boys. To some, it was an insult. To me, it was a compliment. They knew I wasn’t afraid to get a little dirty and that Josie’s jeering would be enough to get me to join in on the fun.
I spent most of my days out in the fields with Papa instead of with my mama. While she gathered fresh crops from the garden for supper, I tucked vines in preparation for a storm or chopped wood to be used in the burn bins whenever a cold front was about to come through. Neither of my parents argued with my preferences. In fact, I thought it made my papa realize just how invested I truly was. Since I was the only child, I believed he might have even been relieved, to some extent.
Hiking my skirt a little more, I mimicked my mama’s movements. She looked far more graceful than I ever could, not that I was trying to look like a professional grape stomper up there or even a beautiful goddess like my mama. I just wanted to have fun, and that was exactly what I would do.
I exaggerated my steps, kicking up my heels and stomping around while I circled the perimeter. Halfway through the song, I looked around to see how much the crowd had grown in the past two minutes. From the front of the platform that separated the barrel from the crowd, all the way down the first slope of the vineyard, the crowd stood packed in tight.
Everyone clapped in time with the music, causing my chest to swell. I was proud of my family and all they had accomplished over the past century. My papa alone had been managing and operating our ancestors’ land and vineyard for nearly three decades. And with the help of his business partner and dozens of workers and volunteers, our vineyard was able to bottle hundreds of thousands of premium bottles of wine each year.
I snapped back to the present when the music transitioned into the next song.
My papa grabbed my hand and spun me under his arm before bringing me in to dance. “Your dancing gets better every year.”
I smiled at the unexpected and sweet compliment. Not many times in my life would I have said that about my papa. After a few spins around the barrel, he released me and took my mama into his arms. Their dance was a slow and romantic one that had the crowd swooning. Apparently, even my mama thought so. She giggled and fell into him while the slow song played on.
When the third song came on, a line had already formed at the bottom of the stairs, and one by one, guests started to climb inside to partake in the stomping fun.
I made eye contact with my parents and saluted them then gestured to my exit. “I’m going to make my rounds!” I shouted then grinned as I climbed out of the barrel and made my way down the stairs.
Trip was waiting for me at the bottom. “Hey, birthday girl. That’s quite the mess you got yourself into there.”
I laughed when I looked down at my white dress. It was covered with purple stains, just as I had expected. Then I slapped my hands to my sides and looked back at him. “Wouldn’t be a proper grape stomp without making a mess of things, now would it, Trip?”
“Well, then get back in there, and I might just follow.”
He grinned down at me, triggering the warning bells in my brain. Over the past few months, I had started to see a shift in his attitude toward me. No longer did he act like an older, protective brother but like someone who might like me as more than a friend.
I didn’t know what made me feel that way exactly. Maybe it was the extra-long glances, the easy smiles, or the fact that he still tried to go everywhere with me even though his babysitter status had expired. Maybe it was a blend of all the above, but I’d started to believe what everyone else around me had been hinting at for years.
Trip stepped closer. His proximity was stifling. I laughed, trying hard to hide my discomfort. I gently placed a hand on his arm and noticed Josie waving me down from the side of the crowd. “There’s something I need to do.” I waved an arm at the barrel. Everyone’s shrieks of laughter rose as more people were added. “If you’re not purple by the time I come back, I’ll be terribly disappointed.”
With a chuckle, I backed away and darted through the crowd toward Josie, where she was waiting with a devious grin. “You ready to head to the cave and taste some grapes, birthday girl?”
My grin matched hers as I nodded. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
11
Ridge
An early morning delivering hay to one of Harold’s customers preceded an unexpected and eventful day on the farm. It had rained a few days prior, so our harvest schedule was slightly off. With the sun shining bright and not a cloud in the sky, we had the tractor equipment prepped and were finally ready to go pick some corn.
“Whadda ya say, son? Time to open up these fields or what?”
Harold clapped a heavy hand on my back before givin
g my neck a squeeze that radiated his excitement. Harvest season was what my papa lived for, apparently. Over the past two and a half years since moving to Telluride, I’d learned a lot about my old man. For one, his smile was as rare as finding an ore of silver from an abandoned mine. I didn’t have the heart to argue with Harold when he was in a good mood.
“I’m ready. Let’s fuel up.”
He nodded and clapped once before putting his fingers between his lips and whistling. A second later, Bruno, our two-year-old border collie, came running up to join us, his mouth hanging open in a ridiculous smile, like he knew exactly what we were setting out to do.
Harold had picked up Bruno as a puppy soon after I moved to the farm. I suspected he’d bought him for me, but the pup refused to leave Harold’s side. They became fast friends, going everywhere together, into town and around the farm. It turned out that Harold was a sucker for furry friends.
We walked over to the tractor, and Harold jumped on to start the engine. When he jumped back down, he pointed at the front of the machine. “Help me attach the chopper to the picker, then meet me on the high field with the bin!” he yelled over the loud engine. “We’ll start with the headland. I’ll get ’er started, then you can take over for me.”
My jaw dropped, and Harold noticed. He winked and clapped me on the back again. “You’re eighteen, son. Time to get ya on a real tractor.”
My job had always been to follow him out onto the field, basically for the purposes of pulling him out of the mud when he would get stuck. I also drove the bins around to collect and move the husks of corn as we gathered them. But picking the corn and operating the harvester had always been Harold’s job. I had never even questioned it.
It took us another hour to get out onto the field. Farming was never as simple as it seemed. Some sort of mechanical issue, a flat tire, or climate issues hindered work that needed to be done. So when we finally made it out onto the field and began plowing the crops, it felt like the hard part was over.