Chapter 14
Liz
The black sedan coming up the road is completely out of place.
The sun hasn't even burned the dew off the grass, and my shirt is already sticking to my skin. I try not to worry, but this smells like trouble.
When the driver's door opens, the first thing I see is a pair of high heels.
The expensive kind. Half a second later, Marisol Mendoza looks me over with disdain.
She stands there for a beat, letting the reality sink in, and for a moment I see the person Rosa used to describe: a woman made for somewhere else, not for the ranch.
Camila watches her from the porch, her face pure terror. I never understood it. She's a high-powered attorney, and she's still terrified of her mother.
I hang back, watching her walk up. Camila opens her arms, maybe expecting a hug or a kiss, but Marisol stays rigid. Then she softens, just a little, and lets herself be hugged.
I walk over, wipe the dirt from my hands onto my jeans, and try to greet her, but she turns her back and heads for the main house, muttering something about “the hellish heat in this place and the flies.”
She doesn't speak to me until she's seated in the living room.
“Eliza Harper. The last time I saw you, you were a grubby little brat getting into trouble with your kid sister. My daughter says you run all this now,” she adds, making a vague gesture with her finger.
“I'm trying,” I admit. “Rosa taught me a lot, and...”
She lets out a sigh, like I'm boring her with my explanation. Camila sits beside her and tries to smile.
“Do you want me to get you something to drink? Ice water? A cold beer?” she asks.
She doesn't answer right away. She takes everything in, as if tallying up how much money she could squeeze out of this place.
Then she complains about the heat again, asks why we don't have air conditioning, and requests a glass of ice water, which I insist on going to get myself so I don't have to sit alone with her.
For a few minutes, nobody says a word. The only sound is the hum of the fridge in the kitchen and, outside, the lowing of the cows.
“I see the ranch has gotten quite modern since the last time I was here,” she blurts suddenly, addressing Camila and ignoring me completely.
“Your grandfather wanted to do everything the old-fashioned way—he wasn't much of a businessman.
I'm glad to know your grandmother did things better. Now it'll be worth more.”
The conversation is a mess, though calling it a conversation is generous. There's more silence than words, and every time Marisol speaks, it's mostly to complain. I keep out of it, preferring to stay quiet and listen.
Lunch is even worse. We serve pozole and tortillas, but the tension is so thick I can barely taste the food. Marisol asks about Rosa's will, whether we've considered offers from developers... whether Michelle has made a firm offer to put in a luxury hotel with a golf course.
Camila's voice has gone thin, brittle. Last night she was crying; she accused me of not supporting her. She chose not to spend the night in my bedroom, so things aren't good between us. In any case, every time I try to answer for her, Marisol ignores me.
After dessert, I leave them alone to talk. At first I hear only silence; later, shouting. They argue about something I can't pin down, and Camila locks herself in her room, slamming the door.
“You—show me the ranch!” she orders when she sees me appear.
I shrug, and we head outside. It's not as hot now; it's cloudy, and I'm grateful for that.
I choose the path that runs north, past the old windmill and the best-kept pastures.
She follows me in silence, but I can almost see the wheels in her mind turning, running the numbers—how much she can get for each head of cattle, each horse, every square foot of land.
Two of the hands pass us and tip their hats in greeting.
“This place still smells awful,” are the first words she utters after almost half an hour.
I explain it's a ranch, and they all smell like this because there are cattle and horses, but she doesn't even look at me.
“Maybe you don't understand. After all, you barely knew your mother, and you don't know what that's like, Eliza, but I just want what's best for my daughter,” she says suddenly, without stopping to look at me.
For a moment I'm speechless. I consider breaking her nose with a punch, then remember she's Camila's mother and hold back—barely.
“Rosa was like a mother to me,” I explain, keeping my cool as best I can. “She taught me everything I know.”
“This is pretty good,” she admits, changing the subject. “You're innovating.”
I nod, forcing a smile I doubt reaches my eyes.
“We're trying,” I acknowledge.
Marisol's questions start coming faster. Cost per head of cattle, average rainfall, water rights, yield per acre. She stacks each answer against something from her past, some ghost of a ranch she once knew but left behind long ago.
Our last stop is the Hendersons' place. It's set apart, near a small grove of poplars that keep it cool. The front could use a coat of paint, but there are always other priorities. Rosie smiles at her like she's still seventeen, pulling her into a fierce hug.
“Look at you, a real city woman. Your mother always said you'd go far. Even back when I helped change your diapers many years ago, she always said it. This girl will go far; she won't stay on the ranch. How right she was!” says Mrs. Henderson. “Have you seen how well Liz is doing?” she adds.
Marisol nods, silently. Even a small smile seems to cost her.
Then Rosie drifts into little anecdotes from many years ago, before Marisol decided this place was too small for her and left it for good. She keeps fond memories of her, but Mrs. Henderson always sees the bright side of things. For me, it's harder.
When we get back to the main house, Camila is waiting on the porch, rocking in her grandmother's old rocker. Nervous.
Suddenly she stops and turns to me.
“If you hurt my daughter, I'll end you,” she threatens, jabbing her index finger into my chest.