Chapter 6
Liz
I give the crew the morning off to rest, and, at lunchtime, Mrs. Henderson decides to reward us with a proper feast. Charcoal-grilled meat with corn tortillas, tamales, and refried beans.
Most everyone shows up today. The Ortegas are chatting away with Diego and a couple of Carlsbad cousins, but when Camila walks through the door, the volume drops, like someone turned down the radio.
For a second, you can even hear the ticking of the old clock above the fridge, the one that’s been five minutes slow since the day Rosa hung it there more than fifteen years ago.
She says hello and sits beside me at the table while Mrs. Henderson slides a heaping plate her way.
“You need to eat, boss. It was a rough night,” she admits with a smile, so I’ll know calling me “boss” is a sign of respect and not a dig.
Without meaning to, the conversation tilts toward work. Fence repairs, what to do about the old pump that blew, who’s taking the north line when the thermometer pushes past a hundred and four. Camila eats in silence, listens to us, even dares a suggestion or two without anyone so much as sneering.
A week ago they would’ve laughed at her for suggesting a different way to log the cattle inventory. Today she mentions liability forms, and nobody blinks.
She’s changed, and so have they.
***
By six thirty the barn is almost silent, just the horses rustling in their stalls and the drip from the waterers. The heat has eased, but the wood still radiates it, slow and steady.
Miguel, the Ortegas’ youngest, comes in, nervous. He’s put on his best shirt, the one with a bull’s head embroidered over the pocket, and he won’t stop rubbing his fist.
He’s got a folded paper in his hand, the edges gone gray from so much handling. When he notices me watching, he squeezes it tighter, as if it could give him the confidence he’s looking for.
“I’ve been accepted, Miss Harper,” he blurts. “To college,” he adds, handing me the letter.
“That’s... damn, that’s really good news, Miguel. I’m sure your parents are very proud,” I congratulate him.
He tries to smile, but it dies quick on his lips.
“They want me there in August. I don’t even know... I don’t even know how to fill out the financial aid forms,” he admits, dropping his voice to barely a whisper. “My dad says we can’t pay until the cattle sell and he gets his bonus, but the letter says I’ll lose my spot if I don’t.”
I take the paper. Always the same words: Congratulations, welcome, next steps. Below, a list of deadlines along with several pages of instructions for applying for financial aid that might as well be in Greek, because I don’t understand a thing.
I hate this kind of situation. The kid’s looking to me for help, and I don’t even know where to start. I can splint a leg, shoot a coyote, keep a calf breathing through a storm, even ride a bronc at a rodeo, but this... this is over my head.
“Let me take a good look at it, okay? There’s always a solution. We’ll find some kind of financial aid so you can go to college,” I assure him.
He bites the inside of his cheek and nods, grateful.
“Thank you so much, Miss Harper,” he says before turning on his heel and heading out with his head a little higher, the letter clutched in both hands like a treasure.
I can’t let him down.
I’m no good at this kind of thing, but I know someone who is.
I ease open Rosa’s office door. Camila is working at her laptop and doesn’t even look up from the screen.
“There’s fresh coffee, if you want some,” she announces, pointing her index finger toward a thermos.
“I need your help,” I sigh.
She goes still, like someone with a remote had hit pause.
“You need my help?” she repeats, turning toward me very slowly.
“I’ve got a problem. It’s not ranch business; it’s Miguel Ortega’s. See, he’s been accepted to college—he’ll be the first in his family to go—but he needs to look for financial aid and I... well, I don’t even understand half the requirements,” I confess, letting out a small puff of air.
“Do they have a website or something?”
“He wrote it down here,” I tell her, handing her the paper the kid gave me in the stables.
“They’re standard forms,” she explains as her fingers fly over the keyboard. “The deadline is... it’s pretty tight, but it won’t take us long. It’s very easy.”
She doesn’t need to say more. I sit beside her as she starts to read the instructions out loud.
I get lost by the third word, and she notices.
She smiles and points out the important parts, guiding me patiently.
Her cheek is almost pressed to mine, and I catch myself studying her, noticing her lashes and that little mole on the side of her neck that drove me crazy when we were teenagers.
“It’s critical to make clear that the family income is below the threshold,” she murmurs, as if she thought it was partly her fault.
She smiles when we finish filling out all the forms. She sets her hand on my forearm and strokes my skin with her thumb. Testing, or maybe inviting.
I meet her eyes, and she smiles again. Outside, it’s starting to get dark. My breathing picks up, a telltale tingle settling low in my belly. Camila goes still, waiting for me to say something while she keeps stroking my arm with her thumb.
But all I manage is a clumsy “thank you” before I walk out of the office, feeling the heat climb up my neck.
Maybe my sister’s right. I’m much better with horses than with women.