Trail Rides and Starry Eyes

Chapter 1

Cassidy

The heap of carrots in front of me shrinks as I peel them for Sunday dinner. I’ve al-ready finished with the potatoes, which are cubed and in a pot on the stove, ready for boiling and mashing. I’m so used to peeling, dicing, and slicing up veggies for dinner that I barely think about it anymore.

When I was younger, the piles of vegetables seemed insurmountable, and I used to get blisters where the ancient metal peeler rubbed against the soft pad of my palm. Now that I’m seventeen, I have years of experience and hard-earned callus-es to protect me.

Rough skin.

Ragged nails.

Rope burns.

A hand model, I’ll never be.

I toss the carrots with salt, pepper, olive oil, and a few sprigs of fresh rosemary from the garden before spreading them in a baking dish. The cowboy steaks are seasoned and marinating, ready for Dad to throw on the grill as soon as he and Grandpa get back from riding out to the south pasture to check on the cattle.

Hardly anything goes to waste here on the ranch--not if we can help it--and the hogs are more than happy to snack on our kitchen scraps and week-old leftovers. I use the back of the knife to scrape the vegetable peels off the cutting board and into the antique enameled slop bucket. I can remember my grandmother having me hold the bucket for her while she scraped kitchen trimmings in. The kitchen is full of reminders of her.

A collection of tea tins.

Hand-tatted doilies.

The kitchen witch she made hangs over the sink, the doll’s frizzy gray hair billow-ing out under a crooked black hat. She sits on a broomstick of sticks and dried wheatgrass. When I was little, Grandma and I would gather up twigs, herbs, and bits of leftover twine, and we’d sit on the back porch while she taught me to make little brooms that I’d leave as gifts for all the fairies I was sure lived out by the duck pond.

Grandma’s been gone for two years, but sometimes the grief rushes at me from out of the blue.

I blink back tears and grab the slop bucket. The handle squeaks as I make my way from the kitchen to the mudroom. My sturdy red rubber boots are on a mat by the door, snuggled between Dad’s old work boots and Mom’s gardening Crocs. I slide my feet inside the boots and clunk over to the screen door, where a warm, soft breeze floats in.

June in Wyoming smells like warm grass and sunshine, with just a hint of barnyard. It’s my third favorite smell after Mom’s fresh-from-the-oven wild huckleberry pie and the scent of sweet pea blossoms on a dry summer day.

The dirt path from the main house to the pigsty cuts through the kitchen garden where we grow most of our produce. Honeybees hover around the fragrant laven-der blossoms. Cucumbers, peas, and beans grow up trellises, and watermelon and cantaloupe vines attempt to flee the raised-bed planters and stretch toward the goat pasture.

Like me, their roots are firmly planted at the ranch. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been fed stories, along with my peas and carrots, of the intrepid Sterlings who traveled from England to Wyoming in search of a better life. What started as a sheep farm in the 1860s eventually became a cattle and horse ranch. And, as an only child, I’ll be expected to take over someday.

I love it here. I do. But lately I’ve also been wondering what lies beyond the soil at my feet. Beyond our kitchen garden. Beyond Silver Stallion Ranch’s ten thousand acres.

It’s not like I’ve never left the ranch--Jackson’s only a little over an hour’s drive away. We make monthly shopping excursions into Casper or Salt Lake City. And there’s always our annual New Year’s trip to Denver for the National Western Stock Show.

Sometimes it just feels like I live in a completely different world.

Maybe I do.

At least, compared with the other students in my online distance learning classes, who are always chatting about the things they do for fun.

They play on sports teams. I play mechanic on the old tractor.

They go to concerts. I go on cattle drives.

They act in the local theater’s plays. I act like life on the ranch is . . . enough. And it should be, right? It was enough for Grandma, who left behind her life in New York City to marry Grandpa after a love-at-first-sight chance meeting while she was va-cationing in Denver. It’s been enough for Grandpa and Mom and Dad. But there’s a voice in the back of my mind that reminds me it wasn’t enough for Uncle Alex.

That it might not be enough for me.

Trouble, one of our farm cats, is sunning herself between the rows of bee balm and lemon balm. She peers at me with suspicious yellow eyes, her calico tail swish-ing.

“Cause any chaos today?” I ask.

She replies with a salty “Meow.”

We originally named her Sweetie, before we knew just how much of a menace she can be. Shortly after we got her, she climbed Mom’s brand-new lace curtains in the living room, completely shredding them in the process. We’re still finding tiny white strands of thread that haunt us like old Christmas tinsel. A few days after the curtain catastrophe, she ran into the main house with a live squirrel and then let it go right in the middle of dinner. Imagine our shock when the squirrel ran across the table, knocked over the gravy bowl, and then flipped Grandpa’s plate right on-to his lap.

In his frustration, Grandpa wiped a clump of mashed potatoes from his cheek and exclaimed, “That cat is trouble with a capital T.”

And the rest is history.

I take the path between the rustic greenhouse Uncle Alex built from old doors and reclaimed windows and the cozy guest cottage that sits next to the duck pond. I wonder if Uncle Alex dreamed of building his new life in California while he was hammering in the nails. Was he thinking of Hollywood when he cut the scavenged hardwood to size?

The goat pen is straight ahead, but I turn and head toward the pigsty. A few of our hens peck at the dirt and cluck to each other. Most of them ignore me, but Birdzil-la, an ornery Rhode Island Red, fluffs up her feathers and stomps her foot. Usually, her bawking is worse than her bite, but she’s definitely one to watch out for.

Hogwash squeals as soon as she sees me coming, and the sudden burst of noise sends Birdzilla scampering back toward the chicken coop. Hogwash jumps up against the wooden plank next to the gate, and immediately Pigsly and Lizzie Boarden join her, snuffling and grunting and making a ruckus. Duchess of Pork ris-es from her mud bath, gives a little regal shake, and struts across the pen to pre-side over the commotion with a bellowing oink.

“Afternoon, ladies,” I say. “How about a little snack?” I upend the slop bucket into the trough to a deafening chorus of oinks and grunts. The minute the scraps land, the pigs line up in a row and their anxious squeals turn to happy slurps.

As I turn to head back to the main house, a commotion catches my eye. Trouble must have followed me over from the garden. Usually, the farm cats and the chickens get along, but Birdzilla is uppity today and Trouble is . . . well, trouble.

The hens are not happy to see a cat strutting through their terrain. Like mini-velociraptors, the chickens fan out in a circle to surround her. Trouble sits and glances around, her tail twitching. Birdzilla mock-charges and Trouble gives her a lazy blink before lifting a paw and licking it.

A few of the chickens lose interest and go back to pecking at the dirt. Birdzilla scratches an itch. Trouble yawns.

Then all hell breaks loose when Sergeant Peeper and Tyrannosaurus Pecks rush over.

Trouble jumps up, her back arched, and hisses.

The agitated hens flap their wings and charge.

The yard becomes a whirlwind of flying feathers and dust.

Mrrreeeeoooow!

Ba-gawk!

I wrap my arm around Trouble before she can pounce on Birdzilla. Trouble twists away from the attack chickens. When I set her down behind me, she bounds off toward the goat pen.

Crisis averted.

Or not.

Trouble is gone, but Birdzilla’s still out for blood. Her beady black eyes fix me with a cold stare. I stare back. It’s not the first time we’ve squared off, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

Birdzilla comes at me with all the fury a six-pound chicken can muster. When she’s in arm’s reach, I grab her as gently as I can, flip her upside down, and tuck her into my side like a football. Birdzilla wiggles for a bit and then calms enough that I can set her back down without worrying that either of us will get hurt. The minute her feet hit the ground, she rushes off toward the coop in a huff, leaving a trail of feathers behind her.



Mom’s in the kitchen rolling out buttermilk biscuit dough when I get back to the main house.

“Hi, Ma,” I say as I return the slop bucket to its home, on a shelf hidden behind a red-and-white-checked gingham skirt beneath the large cast-iron sink.

Her long brown hair is coiled in a messy bun at the back of her head and held in place with one of Dad’s tattered old blue bandanas. “What happened to you?” she asks, looking up from the counter.

“Birdzilla and Trouble happened,” I say.

“That explains this,” she says, plucking a fluffy auburn feather from my hair, which is a few shades lighter than hers. “You look like a mess.”

“I feel like a mess.” My flannel shirt is splattered with potato starch and carrot juice and covered in a fine coating of barnyard dust. “I’m gonna go get cleaned up for dinner.”

Upstairs, I wash the smudges of dirt off my face and do my best to comb the rem-nants of the barnyard melee from my hair. All I need now is a fresh top.

Sunday dinner isn’t a formal affair, but Grandpa insists that everyone’s neat and presentable in a clean shirt and their best jeans when we sit down to eat. Even though Dad’s taken over most of the ranch’s operations since Grandpa retired three years ago at the age of seventy-four, Grandpa still presides over the dinner table.

No phone calls or texts are allowed during meals.

You don’t get served dessert until your plate’s clean.

And there can be absolutely, positively no mention of Uncle Alex before the table is cleared. (Unless Grandpa brings him up first.)

Just as I reach the bottom stair, Dad’s phone rings. I walk into the kitchen to find him standing next to the sink, staring down at his cell phone with a torn look on his face.

“Don’t answer it,” Grandpa warns from his seat at the head of the dinner table. “We’re about to eat and I don’t want my steak to get cold.”

Dad looks over at Grandpa with a furrowed brow. This is Dad’s decision-making face, which means he’s seriously considering taking the call. Must not be a tele-marketer, then.

Grandpa pulls his cloth napkin into his lap. Clearly he doesn’t expect Dad to defy him.

Dad’s phone rings again. He presses a button before lifting it to his ear. “Hello? Is everything okay?”

There’s an excruciating pause as we all look at Dad.

“Well, now, that’s a mighty big favor,” Dad says, dragging a hand through his short salt-and-pepper hair. He listens for a second and then his eyes lock with mine. “I understand, Alex. Right. Well, I’m not sure. I’ll have to run it by Cass.”

There’s a warm breeze coming in through the open window, but a shiver of unease snakes its way down my back, all the same.

What on earth does Uncle Alex want from me?

Chapter 2

Wilder

Lights.

Camera.

Action.

And a face full of fake snow.

Thankfully, wardrobe gave me a pair of dark aviator sunglasses to protect my eyes. A gust from the wind machine tousles my hair, and I step forward, my boots sinking into a thick layer of cellulose snow. When I hit my mark, I casually pull off my sunglasses.

Gaze at the camera.

Tilt my head.

“Flannel-lined to keep you comfortable in the cold,” I say, making sure I enunciate each word.

“Good,” the director calls. “Cut.” He steps out from behind his live feed monitor. “Let’s do it again. I want more snow this time.”

I slide the sunglasses on and walk back toward the fake snow drift that separates me from a giant green screen.

This time, when the director calls “action,” I’m greeted with a massive flurry so thick I can barely keep my eyes open, even with the sunglasses.

“Cut. A little less snow.”

It might look like a wintery wonderland in here, but it’s almost summer in SoCal and this set is hotter than hell. Not to mention, I’m severely overdressed. The fake snow isn’t melting, but I sure am. Still, this commercial will be a perfect addition to my demo reel.

A makeup assistant rushes over and dabs at my face. A trickle of sweat slides down my back and soaks into my already-drenched T-shirt.

“Backpack,” the director calls. “He needs a backpack. Teens these days are always walking around with a backpack.”

While the props department scrambles to find a backpack, the pause in shooting offers me a prime opportunity for a quick cooldown. I stand in front of the giant fan meant for the fake snow and pull open the flannel-lined canvas jacket the wardrobe department dressed me in.

After a couple of minutes, I’m back on my spot with a backpack slung over one shoulder to give me an “authentic high schooler vibe.”

The backpack’s not the problem, dude. Reality is.

I haven’t been to a traditional school in years--between having on-set tutors and doing remote learning--but I don’t know anyone who’d be caught dead in a flannel-lined anything outside of a paid gig. But this is L.A., land of year-round warmth and sunshine, so what do I know? The coldest thing here is the ice rink where the Los Angeles Kings play.

We run a few more takes until the director’s satisfied and then break for a set change. Usually I’d head straight for craft services but it’s a short shooting day, so instead I make my way to the tiny cube of a room they’ve assigned me for ward-robe changes. As far as a dressing room goes, it’s nothing spectacular. Four dingy white walls and scuffed linoleum floors. There’s a rack of clothes in one corner, la-beled by scene, and a creaky metal folding chair. A cheap mirror hangs on the back of the door.