Chapter 8
Liz
Rosa always said that after the end of the world, only silence and the things you forgot to clean would be left. But today’s not a normal silence; it’s one that practically demands you notice what’s missing.
Once Camila’s car disappears in a cloud of dust, I sit and just listen.
There’s the wind. There’s the old fridge.
There are the calves lowing, but there’s no creak of the rocker on the porch while she drinks her coffee with her eyes on the Sacramento Mountains.
Nor her constant questions about how to make the chores easier.
I go into the house and wander through the kitchen.
Her mug is set on the counter, the handle perfectly parallel to the edge.
She does that, always setting things just so, as if the world might explode if she doesn’t.
Without thinking, I slide my thumb along the rim, thinking of the faint lipstick mark she usually leaves on the ceramic. Not even that remains.
The barn smells of oiled leather and sweat. Saddles hang from their pegs, each at the same angle. It’s my own form of control, I guess, as silly as her habit of lining the mug’s handle up with the edge of the counter.
Old Relámpago lifts his head when he hears my steps, flicks his ears, and snorts, calling for my attention. In his prime, during barrel races, he could turn so fast my kidneys wanted to leap out of my body. Now he mostly sleeps and begs for sugar cubes or carrots.
“Good morning, legend,” I say, opening his stall door for the daily brushing. “Miss me, old champ?”
He nudges my shoulder with his muzzle for a scratch and leans into my hand.
“Do you miss her too?” I ask, leaning against his neck. “The lawyer. The one who always brings you carrots, even those first days when she pretended she didn’t like you.”
Relámpago snorts, and I tell him she’s gone to Santa Fe for some kind of conference where Michelle will be—the one who undresses her with her eyes.
I let him push at me with his muzzle because I know it calms us both. The movements are always slow and rhythmic. I close my eyes and picture myself heading back to the main house and finding her reading in the old rocker on the porch. Where her grandmother used to sit.
Relámpago bumps me again, harder this time, as if to say: “Enough nonsense, Liz. Much as I enjoy your company, there’s a lot of work to do on the ranch.”
By around eleven in the morning, the barn is spotless, the horses brushed, the saddles and bridles well oiled.
I saddle up Diabla before the heat turns unbearable, tightening the cinch while she tries to bite me.
“Don’t even start with that nonsense,” I warn her, pointing a finger at her.
She swishes her tail and tosses her head, snorts.
She’s got an attitude problem. She thinks she’s the queen of the ranch, when, in his prime, Relámpago would’ve left her in the dust in a barrel race without breaking a sweat.
She knows the way to the Ortegas’ house, so I let her pick a pace that’s comfortable for her.
An army of chickens greets us when we arrive, and the smell of beans drifting out the kitchen window is the first thing I notice.
Miguel comes running out of the house, waving a piece of paper in the air.
“Miss Harper!” he shouts, nearly out of breath. “It just came! It’s official. I’ve been awarded financial aid to go to college.”
“Wow. A full ride? Housing, meal plan, all the books? Congratulations!”
As soon as I step inside, Mrs. Ortega leaves the kitchen to hug me.
“Sit down, Liz, you’re too skinny. I made a special meal to celebrate,” she insists, pointing to the table where Miguel’s little brothers and sisters are already seated.
I don’t even realize how hungry I am until she serves me a mountain of beans and a platter of enchiladas.
“Is Miss Camila staying here?” Miguel asks suddenly, clasping his hands like he’s bracing for bad news. “Or is she… leaving after?”
We all know what he really means is whether she’ll sell the ranch when the two months are up and leave us without work.
“I don’t know,” I admit with a resigned sigh. “I think she’s starting to feel more comfortable here. I wish I could tell you everything’s fine, that Rosa had a plan, but the truth is I don’t have an answer.”
They nod in silence and lower their heads. We don’t bring it up again. No one wants to anymore, but it’s something that’s starting to keep most of the crew up at night.
***
At two in the morning the whole ranch is quiet.
Relámpago looks at me, puzzled, as if wondering why I’m visiting at this hour.
He’s half-asleep, swishing at a fly now and then with his tail.
He lifts his head sometimes, as if to make sure I haven’t vanished.
I talk to him about my worries, about the ranch’s future and all of us, and he looks at me like he understands. Maybe he does—he just can’t say it.
Suddenly a sound shatters the stillness of the night. It’s not a coyote or one of the dogs barking; it’s the crunch of gravel under car tires, and, for some reason, my heart speeds up.
I pretend to be very busy with Relámpago, even though at this hour it doesn’t make much sense. Still, I duck my head and play it off. Out of the corner of my eye I can see her stop, probably surprised to see the barn light on, and head my way.
The old horse snorts and swivels his ears, recognizing her. Camila comes up to the stall door, strokes his neck while Relámpago rubs his muzzle against her, knocking her off balance.
“Look who’s back,” I murmur, barely lifting my head. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“I preferred to come back early. And you? Doing night rounds now, or you just couldn’t sleep?”
I just shrug, though we both know it’s the second.
“Relámpago likes my company. Or maybe I like his.”
“I heard about Miguel,” she says suddenly. “Mrs. Henderson texted me. Full ride to college. He must be thrilled.”
“That kid’s going places. The Ortegas threw a whole party to celebrate. They saved you some food, by the way. They’re really grateful to you,” I assure her.
She smiles, and looks at me with a strange expression before running her hand through Relámpago’s mane.
“I was thinking on the drive back. About Santa Fe, and the conference, and all the...” She makes a vague circle in the air with her hand. “You know, the whole Michelle thing.”
I swallow, bracing for the worst.
“I realized that, for the first time, I felt empty in that world. It was weird, you know?”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I force myself to ask, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure she can hear it.
“Maybe tomorrow. Right now I’m dead on my feet,” she apologizes, heading for the house and leaving me alone in the barn.