Chapter 5
Camila
Grandma Rosa’s office smells like dust, that mix of cedar furniture and leather that reminds me important decisions were made here before I was born.
I drop into her chair—the same one where they found her dead three weeks ago—and I feel strange.
The leather creaks under my weight. Outside, the sky has gone black, that heavy black that promises a big one.
The first thunder is already rumbling in the distance while I go over the ledger, trying to decipher the tiny handwriting.
If she saw a laptop in her office, she’d lose it.
She hated computers; she said they made us lazier.
I’m almost sure Liz thinks the same. I’ve never seen a woman more anchored to tradition than she is.
The ranch is drowning. No one wants to admit it, but it’s dying.
Debts, loans, overdue payments. It’s an absolute mess.
Lightning lights up the north yard, and from here I can see the cows huddled against the fence, scared.
Suddenly, the radio on the desk crackles to life. I thought it was just decoration, a relic of the past. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that they’d still use it, though I remember Mrs. Henderson mentioning a few days ago that in some parts of the ranch there’s no cell phone reception.
“Rancho Vega, north pastures, do you copy?” a young, scared cowboy asks. “We’ve got a washout at the creek... I repeat, there’s flooding, the north fence is under water, the cattle are moving east; they’ll be off the ranch soon!”
My heart lurches. I grab the radio without thinking.
“This is Camila. I copy.”
“Camila? Where’s Liz? I need to talk to her.”
“She’s not here. Describe the situation.”
“No, put Liz on. I’m alone, and I don’t know what to do—the cows are getting away. Some of the calves could die. I can’t see shit. I need Liz,” he insists.
“Stay where you are,” I order him, hearing the distrust in his voice. “We’re on our way.”
As I step out of the main house, the wind drives the rain and slaps me in the face. Someone’s already alerted Liz, who is running with several of the hands toward the barn where they’re already saddling the horses.
“Hey!” I shout. “It’s the north fence!”
Liz turns and looks at me with a strange expression.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” she yells.
“I can ride. I want to help,” I blurt while two of the cowboys shake their heads.
“We don’t have time for bullshit, Camila.
You know how to go for a ride. This is very different.
It’s night, the ground will be flooded, and the cows are spooked.
It’s dangerous,” she protests, stepping a little closer, water dripping down her face.
“If you want to help, stay here and call the neighbors. Tell them we need hands—whatever they can spare—unless they’re in the same situation we are. ”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She bolts for the barn while I run back to the house, walkie-talkie in hand and my dignity in the dirt.
I dial the first number I find on the emergency list taped to the kitchen wall.
“Hello?” The voice on the other end sounds sleepy.
“This is Camila Mendoza, from Rancho Vega. We have an emergency. The north fence is down, and the cattle...”
“Shit,” he sighs. “I’m heading over with my boys,” he adds, hanging up before I can explain.
I call five more numbers. The Calderóns promise six hands. The Morrisons are as bad off as we are, with serious flooding on their ranch. The sheriff will come at first light.
I step back out onto the porch. It’s pouring.
The headlights of a pickup slice through the dark near the barn.
It’s Diego Henderson, loaded down with tools.
Through the rain I see Liz gallop out on Diabla, that black mare no one else dares to ride.
They vanish into the storm as if the night had swallowed them whole.
I stay on the porch, out of the rain, but for some reason I want to be out here.
I try calling more neighbors while the walkie-talkie crackles every few seconds.
From the chatter, the situation sounds chaotic.
They talk about calves in the water, about Liz fighting the current with Diabla to save them.
Shouts, tension. Sometimes I can’t even make out what they’re saying.
One of the hands comes back with a nasty gash on his arm—I think it’s the youngest Sandoval boy, barely seventeen.
His older brother is with him, both of them soaked to the bone.
Mrs. Henderson comes out with blankets and hot coffee and motions them into the house.
More neighbors arrive by the road, all ready to help.
Liz
At dawn, the ranch looks like a war zone. Churned-up earth, muddy puddles, the fences in the north swallowed by a river that was dry yesterday. But the cattle are safe. Some of the cows are a little banged up. But safe.
My hands ache from dragging calves through the mud, and my boots weigh a good five pounds more than they should. Diabla snorts when I leave her in the barn. It’s been a long night.
The workers come back dead tired. Some on horseback, others in pickups with more dents than paint.
They mutter about the flood of the century, though the old-timers swear there was a much worse one thirty years ago.
Some blame the Corps of Engineers, which hasn’t dredged the creek in years; others blame the county Flood Commission.
“Good job, Liz. Most folks would’ve lost half their herd,” grumbles one of the old-timers, spitting chewing tobacco onto the ground.
When I get to the main house, Camila is sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, hair mussed, and looking tired.
I sit beside her, and for a few minutes neither of us says anything.
Then she smiles and offers me a bottle of water like a peace offering.
“Drink. You look half dead.”
“You did a good job mobilizing the neighbors. You saved our asses,” I admit after a long swig.
She shrugs, but the flush in her cheeks tells me she liked hearing it.
“It was just logistics. You did the hard work. People say you took the mare into the middle of the river to save the calves. I would’ve liked to see it,” she adds, though I think she regrets it right away.
“Listen, what I said in front of the barn about you not knowing how to ride... it’s just that I don’t want anything to happen to you. It was dangerous and...”
I pause. I wrestle with saying “I’m sorry,” but it’s hard. My sister always says I communicate better with horses than with women.
Luckily, I don’t have to keep talking. Diego Henderson calls to us from the kitchen.
His mother has cooked fried eggs, bacon, and tortillas fit for an army.
The cowboys devour breakfast, wrapped in blankets, toasting with mugs of coffee laced with shots of liquor.
They relive the hardest moments. They laugh, happy with a job well done.
They’re my real family. The one I never had.