Home > A Bridge Between Us(4)

A Bridge Between Us(4)
Author: K.K. Allen

“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 gave 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.

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