A Bridge Between Us

by K. K. Allen

  A Bridge Between Us

  Copyright © 2020 by K.K. Allen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted stored in any form, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher listed above, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Design: Najla Qamber Designs

  Cover Photographer: Regina Wamba

  Editor: Red Adept Editing

  For more information, please write to SayHello@KKAllen.com

  To all the Wild Ones out there—the strong women who blaze trails for others to follow. May your beautiful spirits shine bright forever.

  Author’s Note

  While A Bridge Between Us is a work of fiction, this story was largely inspired by real locations and the attached history. In an effort to bring you the most authentic story imaginable, sensitivity was a top priority while creating this fictional world. I am forever grateful to the people who contributed their thoughts and experiences. On top of speaking with these courageous souls, endless hours of research was conducted in order to respect the viewpoints of all characters involved in this story. For specific works, please see Works Cited.

  Any resemblance to persons, names, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Camila

  I had always known he wasn’t mine to keep, but that didn’t change the way I loved him—quietly, gently, and from afar.

  As the seasons changed, the corn stalks grew strong, and the grapevines flourished with hope. But none of it mattered, not when the soil at our feet bound us in a century-old rivalry. We’d never even had a chance.

  They said life flashed before your eyes on the way to death, but on that night, after my final scream burst from my throat and my world started to fade to black, I only thought of him and his sweet chocolate eyes, his desperately cautious stare, and his silence that carried more weight than gold.

  I should have died that night. Instead, I crossed the moonlit bridge and never returned. I let rivalry win. If only that had been enough to keep us all safe. If only we didn’t have a bridge between us.

  1

  Camila

  The dark barrel of the shotgun stared back at me, halting me in my tracks. My heart should have been pounding like a gavel, but I suspected the boy on the other end of the trigger was no threat. He was just scared.

  His hands shook, though he was desperately trying to steady the weapon. Beads of sweat formed around his mouth, and his dark-brown hair stuck to his forehead. I was a stranger to him, but even with a scowl and dirt from a long day’s work on the farm coating his face, he wasn’t a stranger to me.

  I’d seen him just the day before when my parents were setting up their wine-tasting booth at the farmer’s market in downtown Telluride. I was sitting on the tailgate of our truck, restlessly swinging my legs, when my gaze caught on an older boy carrying crates to one of the produce booths—back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum. His eyes were cast in front of him, his hair was disheveled, his lips were flattened in a line, and he carried himself in a way that made it all look effortless.

  In a small town like ours, it was easy to spot the newcomers because of the clear difference between the residents, the snowbirds, and the tourists. That boy was none of the above.

  Curious, I kept my eyes glued to him as he tried to angle the corn bins onto the display and failed miserably as they rolled down and around his feet. I giggled at the show, finding it fascinating how a strong boy could seem so flustered at a simple task. I didn’t know why, but I wanted to know everything about him, including why he had come to Telluride, of all places.

  A moment later, one of my questions was answered when Harold Cross, an older man with a long, full beard and a plaid button-down shirt over jeans, approached the boy with a disapproving frown and a shake of his head. He mumbled something to the boy, but I couldn’t read his lips. Clearly, Harold was displeased, which didn’t surprise me. The farmer was known as the town grump, always walking around with a chip on his shoulder.

  Two prominent farmlands featured in the red rocky mountain land that bordered the southeastern side of Telluride, Colorado—the Cross Farm and Ranch and the Bell Family Vineyard and Winery. Harold owned the farmland across from our family’s vineyard, though we rarely came into contact with him. Our lands were separated by an area of dense woods and a strip of acreage as long as our land was wide, so it felt silly to call ourselves neighbors. In fact, it was forbidden.

  When my parents walked back to the tailgate of the truck, my curiosity grew even more. “Papa, why haven’t I seen Farmer Cross at the market before today?”

  My papa’s eyes widened in surprise as he registered my words, then he took a quick look over his shoulder. The way his back stiffened told me all I needed to know. The surprise wasn’t pleasant.

  “Must be a mistake,” he said, clearly miffed by Farmer Cross’s presence. “Cross has been on the vendor wait list for years.”

  He and Farmer Cross would never be friends. The whole town was privy to the famous Bell and Cross feud that went back over a century. The feud had started with land, became fueled with money, hastened with greed, and ultimately ended in power. My papa held that power, thanks to his prime social standing in the community, and he would do anything to keep it.

  I’d just opened my mouth to change the subject when my papa whipped his head toward my mama. “He brought that boy here, Selena. I’m going to say something to Bill.”

  My mama leaned in and narrowed her eyes. “You will not get the town manager involved in this, Patrick. Harold Cross and his son have just as much right to be here as we do.”

  “His son?” I asked, the question slipping from my mouth more quickly than I could catch it. "I’ve never seen him be—”

  My papa huffed and gave me a warning look. “That boy is trouble. You’re not to go anywhere near him. You understand me, Camila?”

  “You’re speaking nonsense,” my mother hissed. “He’s just a fifteen-year-old boy.”

  Only two years older than me. Hope sparked in my chest.

  My papa shook his head. “No. He’s a Cross. Therefore, he’s trouble. If he’s not now, then he will be soon enough. Just you wait.” He leaned forward, his face reddening like it always did when he got worked up. “The boy’s a Ute, I’ll have you know.” He whispered that part, telling me it was something bad.

  Everyone around there knew the Ute people were the first indigenous inhabitants of Western Colorado. The Ute Mountain reservation was just across the San Juan Mountains, nearly a two-hour drive away. Our teachers talked about it in school, and the various landmarks in and around town pointed to their history. But my knowledge was clearly vague, according to my papa’s anger.

  “What’s wrong with being a Ute, Papa?”

  “Those Indians think this land is still theirs, and that makes them trouble,” he snapped. “My ancestors worked hard to purchase the plots we live and work on, and no one will make me feel different.” His indignant huff could be felt for miles. “And that’s that.”

  “You mean Native American. And the boy has a name,” my mama said, her eyes filled with anger. “It’s Ridge.”

  “How do you know?” my papa shot back.

  Every time my parents argued, their cultures spewed out like pent-up lava. With my papa’s Spanish roots and my mama’s Brazilian roots, they shared passionate dynamics that worked for them in love but against them at a crossroads.

  “Harold brought
him by the country club for a round of golf the other day.”

  My papa’s face twisted in confusion. “Harold golfs?”

  Mama rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, Patrick. Maybe he was just showing his son around town. The boy seems so quiet and sweet.”

  “Who wouldn’t become a mute if their mother went missing one day and never came home? Doesn’t mean the boy’s sweet. Don’t be so naive, Selena. It’s the quiet ones you need to watch out for.”

  My throat closed at the thought of Ridge losing his mother. Missing?

  As if detecting my sadness, my mama turned toward me with a sympathetic expression then wrapped an arm around my shoulders and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Don’t worry, mija. A mother’s love never goes away. I’m sure she will turn up.”

  Then she faced my papa with sharpened daggers in her eyes. “This conversation is over.”

  I hoped what she’d said was true. Though I hoped Ridge was okay, I didn’t know how he could be. To lose a parent in that way and never know if you would ever see them again—I didn’t even want to imagine such a thing.

  I’d chosen to say nothing more about Ridge or Farmer Cross that day. I’d heard my papa’s warning loud and clear. Stay away or else. But that didn’t mean I had any intentions of listening.

  Hence why the boy was standing in front of his property, aiming a shotgun between my eyes.

  It was my second time seeing the boy, and I couldn’t stop my pulse from racing at just how good looking he actually was. With high cheekbones that kissed the sun, almond-shaped chocolate eyes that looked lost, smooth skin that clearly spent time outdoors, and a strong angled nose that gave him a distinctly different appearance from anyone else I’d ever known, the new boy in town was utterly fascinating, so much that I ignored the flags and whistles that blew with our first meeting.

  I propped my hands on my hips and leaned forward so that my small voice would carry over the bridge. “You can put the gun down, Farm Boy. I’m not leaving.”

  My papa had taught me to stand my ground in the presence of a bully. He told me that in most cases, the one doing the threatening was the real coward. My mama, on the other hand, had warned my papa that he was making me too confident for my own good. I wasn’t afraid to test both theories.

  The boy clenched his jaw then shook his head before jabbing the gun in my direction.

  I tilted my head and squinted, trying to determine whether everything my papa had told me about the boy was true. “You’re Ridge Cross,” I said finally. I was confident in the statement, but it irked me that the boy didn’t even flinch at the fact that I knew who he was.

  According to my papa’s rant, which had seemed to last the good part of the previous day, the boy didn’t speak—ever—but I wasn’t convinced it was because he couldn’t. “Are you really a mute?”

  The boy’s eyes flashed with anger.

  Blood raced through my veins. “It’s fine, you know, if you don’t want to talk. I don’t mind. My parents tell me I talk enough for everyone else, anyway.” Daring a step forward, I cautioned him with my eyes. “I just want to come a little closer and introduce myself. Is that okay?”

  I didn’t wait for his permission again. After a series of long strides over the center of the forty-foot-long bridge, I slowed to assess the situation. Ridge still hadn’t moved an inch as he spied me with curious brown eyes and a stiffened frame. And he hadn’t taken his barrel off me.

  “I’m your neighbor. I live right through there.” I pointed behind me at a thick patch of forest that separated a section of landlocked public property from my parents’ vineyard. “Where the grapevines grow?” I said the last part as a question to see if I would get any sort of response from him. Even a simple nod would have appeased me.

  Again, he didn’t shift an inch, causing me to sigh as I took another step forward. Annoyance was starting to twist its way through me. I didn’t like to be ignored.

  “I’m standing on public property. You shoot me now, you go to jail.” I pointed toward a large spruce tree marked with red spray paint by my papa. “Your property is past that red X.”

  That time, the boy looked, following the direction I’d pointed to, and I took it as an opportunity. I marched the rest of the way to him then wrapped my fist around the barrel of his gun and shoved it away from my face.

  His head snapped back to mine, and my lips curled into a smile.

  I stuck out my other hand. “Camila Bell. Nice to meet you.”

  His face bunched into a deeper scowl as he glanced at my hand then back to my face. He didn’t shake my hand in return or speak. Instead, he blew out a breath and yanked his shotgun from my grip before setting it against a nearby tree. I chose to believe it was a truce of sorts.

  I nodded past him again, gesturing to the plot of land his father owned, where the cornfields grew tall over the summer. “Wanna run with me?”

  Confusion replaced his scowl.

  “I like to run through the cornfields. It’s fun. You’ll see.” I reached for his hand, but before I could even touch it, he yanked it away.

  Shock and annoyance rippling through me, I stumbled back. Not only was I curious, but I was also determined. “Okay, fine. Whatever.” Holding up my hands, I rolled my eyes. “I was just trying to be nice.”

  With a glare, I turned to make it look like I was leaving, but then I pivoted and made a dash for the tree that held his gun and turned the barrel on him.

  His eyes flashed with surprise as I started forward, causing him to have to walk backward. “You think you’re some tough guy, huh? Pointing this shotgun at me like it gives you power? Well, it doesn’t. The most powerful weapon you possess is your tongue, Farm Boy, and it appears you don’t like to use yours much. So, tell me, who has the power now?”

  I stepped forward one more time, and it was enough. Ridge took a final step back, his foot caught on the edge of the creek, and he fell back into the water. The shock on his face was priceless as water soaked through his white shirt and dark jeans.

  I laughed a little too hard and pulled the gun back to check the safety. As soon as I confirmed my suspicions, I grinned. “Surprise, surprise. Safety’s on, Farm Boy.” Then I inspected the chamber and laughed even harder when I saw that it was empty. “I knew it.” I threw the gun to the side and backed toward his land while he pulled himself out of the creek.

  He shook his head so adamantly at me that it made me laugh.

  “What is it, boy? You don’t want me to trespass?”

  He nodded just as viciously as he’d shaken his head.

  “Well, that’s too bad.” I took another step back, crossing the red X on the tree. “I’ve been running through the fields for years. Besides, it’s the easiest way to get where I’m going.” I shrugged. “So come with me or don’t. But you sure as heck ain’t stoppin’ me.”

  With that, I turned and took off through the woods and into the cornfields.

  2

  The Hunter

  Through the scope of his binoculars, the hunter tracked their movements at the bridge and through the woods then lost them when they tore through the cornfields. He didn’t bother chasing them there. He’d followed the girl enough to know exactly where they were headed and would take another path.

  Twigs snapped and leaves crunched beneath his heavy boots as he worked his way along the creek toward the hilltop, not even bothering to be quiet. No one dared to walk that route. Not only was it inaccessible to the public, but it was dangerous terrain, just a narrow piece of land above a steep slope. The bed of water below widened and rushed faster where it got deeper and colder—which was why the girl preferred the forbidden route through the corn.

  With each step, annoyance swirled inside the hunter like it did every time the girl broke the rules. Camila Bell was beginning to become a problem. Her papa was too blind and stupid to see the trouble behind his little girl’s eyes, but the hunter saw her for the mischievous little brat she was and would always be. Something would have to be do
ne. A lesson would need to be taught.

  The hunter emerged from the woods and stepped into the tall dried grass, which just reached his eyes. His heavy breathing slowed as he paused and scanned his surroundings. A second later, he saw her again, just as he knew he would.

  She was trudging across his line of vision a safe distance away from spotting him when she stopped and glanced over her shoulder to see if the boy was still following her. He was, begrudgingly so, but his presence only added to the hunter’s frustration. Besides the fact that she had wandered too far, her dad would have her head if he ever found out who she was hanging around with.

  Camila had only ever traveled to the hilltop alone, and she had already gotten too close for comfort. She had no business traipsing around land she didn’t own, especially when her father owned plenty.

  That land belonged to the hunter. And he would do whatever it took to keep it.

  3

  Camila

  Summers in Telluride had always been beautiful. When the trees were full, the crops were just starting to dry out, and the lakes and creeks were perfect for cooling off. That time of year was also when it felt safest to trespass through Farmer Cross’s land, since the corn stalks hid me from view.

  I whipped left down a row of corn and moved faster, my dark hair blowing behind me, as I sped down the route I’d run hundreds of times before. Not until I’d reached the end of the path and stopped to turn around did I notice Ridge following not too far behind. He looked breathless and still confused, but the spark in his eyes filled my chest with hope.

  “See?” I said around heavy breaths. “No harm. We’re on public land again. And now we can go up there.” I turned and pointed to the rocky mountain in front of us then swiveled my head back around to catch his reaction.