“Boss, it’s time to get the Sanderson geldings loaded up. I know you wanted to be there to make sure out goes smooth.” He says as he spits into the rocks. Juan has been the ranch foreman going on 25 years. The man is as much a father to me as my old man ever was and I largely blame him for my love of ranch life, I couldn’t love him more even if I wanted to. I’m still not quite to him calling me boss, though, even if it’s been 10 years since he’s been doing it.
“Yup, let’s get on down there and get it done while it’s still cool out.”
***
We get the Sanderson geldings—all 24 of them—loaded and secured onto the trailers in just a little over 4 hours. Roy Sanderson is one of the ranch’s oldest clients, and back in the day when my father was running the place, Roy was just about the only person keeping the ranch afloat. As much as the old man loved horses and the desert, he wasn’t much of a rancher. In fact, he wasn’t all that much of a businessman even though he came from such a long line of them. The old man craved action, and the thing with ranch life is, there ain’t all that much action to be found in it. Forget about anything you’ve read, or seen in the movies and whatnot where you see ranch hands moving around all day roping stray steers or horses. All that working from sun up-to-sun down stuff is nothing but pure nonsense. For the most part, ranching is really more about waiting to work and then waiting for more work to come. More than a few of my boys will get so bored sometimes that they’ll invent chores for themselves to do.
Because of this, and my father’s nervous nature, he had to go outside of the ranch to seek his thrills and he went into law enforcement. At first, he joined up with the Phoenix police department, but after a few years of doing nothing but being parked out on the I-10 pulling over speeders—which, I imagine, was an even bigger torture than ranching for the old man—he ended up running for sheriff of Apache Junction. Which, because of his name and the family’s reputation, he won by a landslide.
Apache Junction—or AJ as it’s affectionately called by the locals—used to be a small retirement village planted against the foothills of the Superstition Mountains. When the old man was sheriff, it was little more than a loose collection of mobile home parks, RV dealerships, and antique stores. It was quiet and peaceful. But then the Baby Boomers started retiring, and they brought in a load of their crappy, dependent adult children who brought along all of their crappy, dependent adult problems.
Mostly drugs, specifically, methamphetamines, and lots of it.
The old man basically went from having a sleepy little town of docile, white-haired grandmas and grandpas, where usually the worst thing that happened was that one of them would drop dead in the middle of the night, to having a town where break-ins and drug-related homicides became a daily occurrence. The old man got his thrills with his new job and then some. So much so that it eventually ended up getting him killed. He walked in on a couple of speed freaks tossing a trailer house, and both of them had shotguns. They let loose on him the second he stuck his head in the door. I was 25 when it happened and rounding out my second tour in Iraq. The army let me go a couple of months early to take care of things at home along with my brother Samuel and Paul.
I thought when I came back, the three of us would re-bond over the old man’s death, and we’d end up running the ranch together side-by-side. But no such thing happened, it was nothing but a misty-eyed fantasy of a man who’d been gone from home for too long. Sam had his own thing going on down in Tucson—he was and still is a commander with the U.S. border patrol—and Paul was bent on revenge. Not so much revenge against the fellas who shot the old man—Dad’s deputies had taken care of that a couple of days after the shooting—but in a general angry young man kind of way. He joined up with the Phoenix PD with his eyes set on becoming part of their drug task force.
For better or worse, the ranch was mine and mine alone. And for awhile, it was lonely as hell, but then I grew to love the solitude of it all and realized that I absolutely needed it.
Chapter 2
The retired couple dropped Inez off at a small motel on the outskirts of the town of Apache Junction called the Goldmine. It was a small, dusty looking place that only had two cars in the parking lot. But at that particular moment, it looked like absolute heaven. The front desk was attended by a little old woman who looked like she was evening older and more worn than the motel. But she was friendly and didn’t ask Inez for a credit card in order to check-in and she paid in cash for a two-night stay. She was actually quite surprised by the cleanliness of the room. The bed smelled of fresh sheets and the bathroom gleamed shiny and white.
The very first thing she did once the door was locked behind her was strip out of her grimy, sweat-caked clothes and step under the ice cold spray of the shower and open her mouth to drink and drink until she felt like she was going to be sick. She had never been so thirsty in her entire life, nor had her skin ever felt so filthy. The dust and dirt that washed off of her left a dark brown ring in the tub. She climbed out of the tub shivering and exhaust and collapsed on the bed in a heap as her body finally gave out and she tumbled headlong into an 18-hour long sleep.
When she finally woke up, she could barely move a muscle for nearly two hours. Her entire body throbbed with both dehydration and running for her life across the burning desert for miles and miles. When she was finally able to rise, she once again returned to the shower, but instead of standing under an ice cold jet, she sat on the floor of the tub and turned the temperature of the water as hot as she could stand it, allowing the steam and heat to lose her stiff muscles. After her shower, she washed her filthy clothes by hand using the free miniature bottle of shampoo and then wrapped in a thick terry cloth robe, she turned on the television, surfing through the channels until she found a local news program.
She wanted to know if the group of immigrants she'd been traveling had been discovered or not? She sat watching the news for two hours and there was nothing reported about it, and for some reason, the lack of coverage sent a chill down her spine. It either meant that the local news media didn’t care about a group of dead Mexicans— that wasn’t just the American television news, either. Thousands of bodies were discovered in her country and never reported. There was just too much murder and death in her native country thanks to the narcos—or the bodies had been hidden or destroyed and no one but the coyotes knew that the people she had ridden in the truck with were dead. The coyotes and her.
And this is what scared her the most, she was a witness. She had seen the men’s faces, each of them would be burned in her memory for all time and this was dangerous because she could identify the men and turn them into the police. She prayed that the coyotes had just decided to give up their search for her, but the one thing the life with the cartels had taught her was that criminals never left witnesses to murder alive.
***
Inez paid for another two nights, and the little old woman—who named Mariel and she was the owner of the Goldminer—gave her a substantial discount.
“I’ll just book you at the weekly rate, dear,” She said as she patted Inez’s hand affectionately.
She couldn’t believe the sheer amount of kindness she had experienced since she’d crossed the border. True, the men who had brought her here had tried to kill her, but everyone since then had been so willing to provide her favors without expecting anything else in return. So often in Mexico she had seen news reports about people who would voluntarily “guard” the invisible border between Mexico and the United States with high-powered firearms. These people would say the most hateful things about Mexicans who were only attempting to go to the U.S. to search out better lives for themselves. Most of these immigrants weren’t criminals, they were hard working people who weren’t able to find decent paying jobs in their home country. But yet, these people—most of whom looked like the coyotes who had tried to kill her—only saw them as parasites who wanted to do nothing but rape, murder, and take jobs away from American citizens.
Of co
urse, the jobs illegal Mexicans were “taking” weren’t the kind of jobs most Americans wanted to work, so their ire made no sense to her.All the same, she was grateful for the kindness she had received, especially after what she’d endured.
Now that her lodging had been taken care, Inez needed two more things: Fresh clothing and food other than the surgery and salty snacks she had been living on out of the vending machine next to her room. After she paid for her room, Inez asked Mariel if there was a clothing store and market close by.
“There’s a Wal*Mart about a mile down the road. I can call you a cab if you want?”
Inez declined the offer. A mile long walk was nothing, when she first went to work at thirteen, the factory she worked at was a four-mile walk from her family’s home and she made this trek back and forth for close to 10 years, so one mile was no effort for her. Besides, she knew that if she didn’t stretch her tired muscles a bit chances were they would remain stiff for several more days so it was better that she exercised them.
As she walked, as far as she could tell, there weren’t that many differences between Mexico and the United States. There were just as many cars—although the cars here were nicer and newer—and just as much pollution and crowding. The only real difference that she’d noticed so far was that most people only spoke English, whereas Inez not only spoke Spanish fluently but as well as both French and English Her father very much believed in education—despite the fact that he pulled all of his children out of school by age 13, but this was entirely for financial reasons and you could tell it broke his heart to do it—and being able to adapt to an ever-changing world.
She arrived at the shopping plaza which was jam packed full of cars as dozens of people streamed in and out of Wal*Mart. Although the retail chain had been in Mexico for almost 30 years, Inez had never stepped inside of one other than to use the restroom. As she walked inside with a large group of customers, her skin was immediately cooled by the blasting air conditioner, It was absolutely heavenly after her walk. She surveyed the store in wonder. Everything a family would need to run its household was all under one enormous roof. It felt decadent and a bit overwhelming.
It took her a few minutes to orient herself to her surroundings and then quickly located the things she needed: Bread, vegetables, fruit, prepackaged lunch meat, two changes of clothing. Her emergency money that she had hidden in her shoe was quickly evaporating, she knew she would have to find a job sooner rather than later otherwise she would be out on the street. For a moment, she thought about the possibility of maybe living and working at the Goldminer? Mariel seemed very nice, and most likely she needed people to clean the guest rooms. And if she didn’t have an opening, maybe she knew of another motel that needed maids?
As she paid the unsmiling cashier from her crumpled wad of bills and change, she felt a sudden sense of dread wash over her, as if someone was watching her too closely. As the cashier handed her back her change, she understood why she experienced this creeping feeling. In the lane directly in front opposite her’s, she saw one of the coyotes who had tried to kill her staring right at her, his eyes narrowed as if he was searching his memory of where he’d seen her before? Inez quickly looked away from the man and snatched up her three plastic bags and kept herself staring straight ahead as she passes his checkout line.
She felt her heart hammering in her chest as mind replayed those final minutes at the box truck. He had been the one to pull open the door, his machine gun hung casually over his shoulder, his dead, flat eyes unmoving and cold. As she walked, she could still feel him behind her, his eyes boring into the back of her head. She knew he was following her and she began to panic. The walk back to the motel was a desolate one. Yes, there were a few buildings she remembered passing, but she didn’t think they would give her any real place to hide. Plus, she would be leading him right back to where she was staying and she might not only be endangering herself but everyone at the motel as well.
She needed to either lose the coyote in the parking lot or find a place close by to hide, and then double back to the motel. She scanned the parking lot and the other buildings surrounding the massive store. Most of the shops were small businesses that looked like they were getting ready to close for the evening. But then she spotted what looked like a restaurant in the far corner of the shopping complex. It looked as busy and crowded as the Wal*Mart had. She didn’t know if she would be able to lose her pursuer inside of the restaurant, but she didn’t think he would be bold enough to try and grab her with so many people inside of it. She wound her way through the busy parking lot, purposefully striding towards the restaurant entrance praying that she wouldn’t feel the coyote’s dead hands suddenly grab her.
Chapter 3
If you haven’t guessed already, I’m not exactly what you would call the social type. For the most part, I enjoy my own company and can do without most people. When I first took over the ranch, I didn’t leave the property once in the first 7 months I was back home. Sure, I talk with Juan and the other ranch hands some, but only when it was absolutely necessary. The fact was, after spending so long seeing the very worst of humanity in Iraq and then having to deal with my father’s murder, I didn’t have much use for anyone. I needed the solace of quiet, I needed time to not think and just let my mind go blank and reset itself.
You hear a lot about PTSD on the news and in corny television shows and movies, and all of that crap makes it sound like it’s one of those ailments where the person suffering from it might just snap at any moment and kill their neighbors, or their family, or themselves because they can’t let go of the things they’ve seen or the things they’ve done or had done to them. But in my experience, it isn’t as dramatic as all that. For me, it was almost like the world around me was like a television tuned to a channel of nothing but static white noise and the volume’s turned up to 11. It frazzles and spits at you and it's all you can hear even when someone is standing right in front of you, their mouth moving but with nothing coming out but more static. You can understand why so many vets take to drinking or drugging or even going so far as putting a bullet in their head because you just want the noise to stop.
But after my months of nothing but quiet I was able to shake off the worst of my memories. I know they’ll always be there, they’ll always be an ugly part of me, but I knew I was ready to rejoin the world, and I started making small sojourners out into the world. Going out for groceries, picking up feed, going to the movies, or even just out for a cup of coffee or dinner. And I’ll have to admit, it felt good getting back into old routines and enjoying the small, simple things. What I found myself enjoying the most was going out to restaurants and eating food I didn’t prepare myself. Sadly, I’m your stereotypical bachelor and my range as a cook is limited to grill cheese and tomato soup and grilling a semi-decent steak. I wouldn’t call myself a foodie or nothing like that—mostly because I tend to appreciate simpler tastes than most food snobs—but I do enjoy eating out and I make sure to do it at least 3 or 4 nights a week.
My favorite place is a Mexican joint called the Superstition Cafe. It’s been around for nearly 40 years and I even remember eating there when I was kid and kind of hating it. But once I started venturing out into the world again, the staff made me feel welcomed and relaxed, and the food is actually pretty tasty. The one downside of it is that it shares a parking lot with a Wal*Mart, which no matter how well adjusted and comfortable with the world I become, I swear I’ll never step inside of one. But I can endure the crowds in order to shovel the #6 taco plate into my mouth and drink a few margaritas.
I’m waiting to do exactly just that and working on the first of margaritas at the bar when I see a young Mexican woman push her way through the throng of people milling around the bar waiting to be seated. Her clothes are little rough looking like she hasn’t changed out of them in awhile, but other than that, I think she’s just about the most beautiful woman I’ve come across in a good long time. She’s short, maybe only 5’1, but not stick thin
like most women her height. She’s curvy like a woman ought to be. Her thick black hair hangs down past her shoulders, perfectly framing her heart shaped face. But what’s most striking is her almond shaped eyes. They’re so intense and focused that they almost appear black in the lighting of the bar.
I’m so mesmerized by her that I’m almost surprised to find her standing right in front of me, her black eyes locked with mine. She gives me a small, delicate smile, as if she’s about to break out laughing, and then I realize the reason she’s giving me this look is because my mouth is wide open and my chin is resting in my lap. I want to say something clever that will make her laugh and make me seem smarter than I actually am.
“Uh … Hi,” Is all I’m able to squeak out, though, it does the trick though and her intense eyes lighten and her smile broadens.
“Hello.”
I’ve regained a bit of composure and my mouth starts working again. Although I’m still feeling a little awkward and I jab my hand out at her.
Highlander's Desire: Winter Solestice (Against All Odds Series 2) Page 5