Chapter 17
Camila
At night, the kitchen smells like fear and desperation.
On the table, instead of food, there are open ledgers.
And my laptop, loaded with spreadsheets that don't add up.
Everyone has come. The Hendersons, the Ortegas, the Hernándezes, the Sandovals, who remind us they're the fourth generation of their family to work on the ranch and that they'd die for it.
Even T-Lee showed up, even though she doesn't work here.
“I grew up in this place, dude,” she reminds me. “It's in my blood. They won't take it from us without fighting tooth and nail. I owe that to your grandmother,” she adds, pressing a hand to her heart.
Today nobody asks for more food, nobody wants another beer. Today the faces are long, and fear has taken hold of these tough people.
“So, is there any solution?” Mr. Henderson asks, squeezing his hat between his hands so hard he's bent it out of shape.
“If there is, I don't see it,” I admit with a sigh of surrender.
“Maybe we can buy a little more time, but even if we sold every head of cattle, all the horses, and a few acres of land, it'd be hard to pay that debt plus the ranch's normal expenses.
And afterward, we wouldn't have anything left to keep going.”
“We've always managed one way or another,” Mrs. Ortega cuts in. “In the last drought, we gave up part of our wages and pulled through.”
“In the last drought, Rosa took out this loan they're calling in now,” I remind her. “In so little time, we don't have the capacity to take on more debt, and both the bank and Michelle Pryce know it. That's why they're taking advantage and putting the screws to us.”
“If I see one of those drones flying over the fields again, I swear I'll shoot it down,” the Sandovals' eldest son mutters through clenched teeth, spitting chewing tobacco into a bucket.
No one responds, but everyone thinks the same. Michelle has been sending drones to record each of the 5,000 acres of land and study the possibilities of building a luxury resort. They don't just spook the cattle; they're an insult to the people who work here.
“Look, maybe I can help a little with that,” T-Lee blurts.
“Not with shooting the drones—well, that too; I've got good aim,” she jokes.
“I mean bringing in revenue. Remember I told you there were people willing to pay to come?
I'm not talking tourists; I'm talking influencers looking for different content.
We could pull in a good sum. It wouldn't cover the whole loan, but it would help a lot.”
For a second, even the dogs don't dare breathe.
“We could create a one-of-a-kind package,” she continues.
“An immersive rural experience. Influencers aren't afraid of hard work if cameras are rolling. We can charge them to help us: milking cows, branding calves, fixing fences. They film it, share it on their social media, and that brings more people, more money. We make the ranch famous, and they leave happy.”
Liz doesn't take even half a second to protest.
“I'm not turning the ranch into a damn circus!” she growls, slamming her hand on the table.
The crash makes even T-Lee go still. The ranch hands, who were nodding along just seconds ago, now drop their gaze to the floor like kids about to be scolded.
Mrs. Henderson breaks the silence with a wisdom that doesn't come from schooling but from common sense and experience.
“Mija, when it was Rosa's turn, she did what had to be done. She didn't like banks, she hated owing money, but sometimes you have to swallow your pride to save the land,” she whispers, earning the approval of several cowboys.
“What do you think?” Liz asks, tipping her chin at me.
I feel all the eyes settle on me. Expectant. As if they want to remind me that, deep down, it's my ranch and I'm the one who has to make the final decision.
“I don't like T-Lee's idea,” I admit, “but I like the idea of losing all this a lot less.”
I watch Liz tense, though a moment later her expression softens. Her sister catches on in a flash and lets out a “Boom, take that, dude!” so loud even the dog jumps.
“So what? Do we vote on it, or is it decided?” Mr. Ortega asks.
Liz's face is a full-on storm: anger, resignation, wounded pride, all at once.
“If they come, they're going to work, and hard,” she warns with a snort.
The mood changes at once, as if someone had just opened a window onto the future. Now beers do come out of the fridge while T-Lee sets up one of her videos.
“This will blow up TikTok, dude, I swear,” she mutters under her breath.
I take the chance to get close to Liz, who's gone very quiet.
“Are you mad?” I ask, handing her a cold beer.
“If this is going to die, I'd rather it go out with a big bang than in silence. It's what your grandmother would have wanted,” she assures me, and for the first time since we started the meeting, we both smile at the same time.
“Let's see what you think of this,” T-Lee shouts, drawing everyone's attention. “War Council at Rancho Vega! Save the ranch.”
She doesn't even edit it; she explains the situation we're in and shoots it straight onto social media. In minutes, it starts to go viral.
In a hurry, I draft a liability waiver in case we have an accident with one of the influencers, a temporary contract, and a sheet with the basic rules they have to follow.
“Do you really think it's going to work?” Liz asks, coming up behind me and leaning down to kiss my neck.
“I don't know, but it's our only option,” I confess. “Today we make our own rules, and at least, if we lose, no one will be able to say we didn't try.”
You have to admit, the video T-Lee put together to promote the ranch turned out really well, and soon the first inquiries and reservation requests start coming in.
It's still not enough. But for the first time in a long while, the numbers are going in the right direction.