“They found your mom. They found her dead. I’m sorry, son. She’s not coming home.”
Like a dagger, his final words plunged through me. My chest and neck tightened as emotion tried to claw its way out. Stinging heat rushed to my eyes.
Harold Cross hated Patrick Bell because of the life that had been stolen from him. Patrick Bell was the reason I’d grown up without a father. Instead, I was raised by a single mom who could barely hold down a job and could barely feed us without bringing home leftovers from her bar dates with random men. In the end, she’d paid the ultimate price for it all.
“When the harvest season is done, I will leave Telluride.” My voice shook with every syllable. “And I won’t be coming back.”
18
Camila, One and a Half Years Later
I’d just finished cleaning the kitchen after an early family dinner when I looked up to find the older version of me swirling her wine with a frown. Her eyes were on the liquid sloshing around in her glass, and a pang hit my chest as I pondered canceling my plans to stay home. Papa had already retired to his casita for some late-night work. He probably wouldn’t come out of there until morning. I hated the thought of leaving her by herself.
After a minute of internal debate, I set the rag I’d been holding on the counter. “Do you want to watch a movie tonight, Mama? We can find something on TV or pick out an old DVD.”
She let out a short laugh and shook her head. “No, sweetie. I’m going to call it an early night.”
I bit my tongue, wanting to ask her why—and why it felt like my parents had been bickering a lot lately. But she would never give me the answers. If anything, the fact that I’d picked up on it would only sadden her more, and that was the last thing I wanted to do.
Mama worked hard, not just as the vineyard’s bookkeeper and winery host but also at the country club where she volunteered her time. From the looks of her when she came home, I’d assumed the country club was where she was the happiest. Getting time to socialize with her friends and get away from the exhaustive pressures my papa set for himself and everyone around us was probably refreshing.
Papa was all about production, timelines, and perfection. A simple concept, but perfection became a laborious benchmark that was impossible to reach. Patrick Bell wasn’t happy unless he’d succeeded in all things, and no one wanted to bear the wrath of my papa’s unhappiness.
“I thought you were heading out to go camping with your friends,” she said before checking the time on the clock above my head. “You’d better get going if you want to beat nightfall.”
I waved a hand. “My friends are already checking us into the campsite. I just need to park and plop myself down by the fire when I get there.” I grinned but couldn’t hold it for long. Something just felt off, and I hated leaving, even if just for a few days, without knowing she would be okay. “Seriously, Mama. I’m happy to stay if you want company.”
Mama walked over, giving a soft and completely genuine smile. She held my face and kissed my cheek before staring me dead in the eyes. “Go. Have fun with your friends. You deserve a fun spring break away. Just be careful out there.”
She was referring to the snow patches that still packed sections of terrain, making an overnight hiking trip in the mountains a risky one. It was late April, just past the end of ski season in Telluride, but the unpredictable weather patterns in the mountains remained. I dreaded winter, purely for the fact that the “white gold,” as locals called it, blanketed everything I loved most in the world—the vineyard, the cornfield, the hilltop, and the wildflowers that always came alive in the late spring and summer. I always entered a state of hibernation in the wintertime, locking me in place until the cold melted away. So the spring break my friends and I had been planning felt much like an awakening of sorts.
I hugged her tight and nodded. “I promise to be careful. Please don’t worry.”
The “You don’t know how to be careful, Camila” look plainly written in her eyes made me laugh.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m going on an entirely guided trip with well-trained staff.”
“Where is this place you’re going again?”
“Some private campsite near Camp Bird in Ouray.”
My mama shuddered. “Don’t they call that place a ghost town?”
I laughed. “You can call most of the towns around here ghost towns, Mama.”
Telluride and the surrounding areas had been big on silver mining back in the day. In the 1950s, a final mining bust had shut down all the mines in the area, causing families to leave town in droves. Business on Bell Family Vineyard suffered right along with it. Not until the area slowly started to become a ski resort area in the 1970s did life begin again.
“Raven set the whole thing up, so blame her. But you know Trip will be there to report back on my behavior, as always. In fact, this whole spring break thing is starting to sound like a drag if you ask me.” I winked at my mama. “But Josie insisted, since there’s this boy, Ryker, she likes, and you know I can’t refuse the girl.”
Her face twisted with confusion. “What happened to Emilio?”
I smiled back at her adoringly, knowing she always had a hard time keeping up with the gossip. “They broke up months ago. She doesn’t think he liked her as much as she liked him. Can you believe that? I just—”
“Yes, yes.” She waved me off, as she always did when she recognized I’d started on a tangent. “I know you’ll be just fine, mija.” She squeezed my hands.
My mama knew me too well, and while she feared for my adventurous nature, she honored it as well, never wanting to get in the way of what lit life inside me. So she stayed quiet when most mothers would ground and lecture. She let me be, but I had a feeling she sometimes knew more than she let on, like my old weekly trips to the hilltop.
“Well, if you’re going to go, then go. Before I change my mind.” Her words, though an effort to shoo me away, were playful and encouraging. “Oh, and don’t forget your bear spray.”
I chuckled. “Already got it covered, Mama. I’ll text you when I get to the base camp.”
I arrived in Ouray, a city less than an hour outside of Telluride, just as the sun was starting to set. The two cities were separated by the rugged Sneffels Range, where my friends and I would be hiking for the next few days. The Victorian-era mining town of Ouray was nestled in the thirteen-thousand-foot peaks of the San Juan Mountains. Many referred to it fondly as the Switzerland of America, and with its surrounding mountainous backdrop of never-ending hillsides and natural beauty, it was easy to see why.
Raven had booked us a private hiking tour through a campground where we all would spend our first night and meet our hiking guide. A sign on a wood post read Camp Lachey, signaling where I should turn in. The spacious area was an open clearing complete with yurts, trailers, and tiny homes where visitors could stay without having to worry about their own setup or equipment. From there, my friends and I would partake in a three-day hiking adventure through the Mount Sneffels wilderness that would end back at the camp with a send-off party.