Chapter 19
As if her voice will carry that far, Angie whispers, “Who’s car is that?”
Bill shrugs. From here, shadows drape the car’s interior, obscuring anyone inside from view. “Probably someone on the cleaning crew,” he lies.
Angie’s navy Honda Civic is nearby—she managed to get a good spot when she arrived for work earlier. Bill walks with her to the door and waits until she’s inside, the motor running, before he gives her a jaunty wave and starts across the lot to his own car. Angie revs her engine, probably to get his attention, but Bill ignores her. After a moment, he hears her radio turn up and her tires squeal as she pulls away.
The engine in Jamal’s car roars to life, then settles into a quiet purr. The passenger side is a good two feet from the driver’s side of Bill’s aging Toyota Corolla. Skirting around the back of his car, Bill stops at his door but raps on the window to Jamal’s instead. The window glides down soundlessly and warm airs wafts out, tinged with the scent of Jamal’s cologne. Bill has to peer into the darkness to make out the form in the driver’s seat.
Then Jamal smiles, his teeth like stars set in the black night. “Yo, homie. Wanna ride?”
The invitation in Jamal’s voice is all the encouragement Bill needs.
THE ENDKnocking Boots
The sun has already begun to slip behind the barn by the time I ride in off the trail. I don’t rush—I can hear the clamor of plates and utensils amid the rising voices calling to each other from the supper table set up outside the bunkhouse, but here at the barn it’s just the sound of my horse’s shoes on the hard-packed earth and the whine of a mosquito hovering at the back of my neck.
My boots scuff in the sand as I ease off the old mare. She whinnies, and I keep a hand on her withers to calm her. Sweat dampens her coat; I need to brush her down, bust a new bale of hay, and fill a trough with fresh water before I think about my own dinner. By the time I’m through, the other ranch hands and cowboys should have had their fill, and I’ll be able to savor a quiet moment to myself by Cookie’s fire.
I’m in the stall with the mare, stooped down as I wipe her legs with both hands to check for nicks or burrs, when I hear the barn’s side door open. The hinges on it squeal in protest every time it swings one way or the other. Our foreman Hank Jolson threatens to remove it completely if we don’t keep the damn thing oiled, but it’s a hard chore to remember after a day spent in the fields under the sweltering sun. Most of us cowpokes use the barn’s front double doors, riding in on our horses or leading them out into the stunted grass just outside and ignoring the other entrance entirely.
Hank’s the only one who uses it, him and Mr. Swanson, who owns the ranch. I suspect Hank gets so bent out of shape about the squeak because Mr. Swanson mentioned it once, and he’sthe boss.
The hinges squeal again as the door is shut. I stay squatting in the stall, concentrating on the mare’s foreleg, which she seems to favor a little, but I’m all ears. I pick up the shuffle of boot heels in the dirt, the jangle of spurs—Hank, I know it’s him. He’s the only one of us who favors those dandy silver bells on his boots—then I hear an accented voice ask, “You wanted to see me, Mr. Hank?”
It’s one of the Mexicans, I can’t place who. Lupe or Pedro or Jose, whatever the hell the others’ names might be…they all seem the same to me. They came on the ranch as a group and keep to themselves, talking in rapid Spanish I can’t follow and watching the rest of us with laughing eyes, as if we amuse them. On days when Hank gets a burr up his backside, he tells us he’d rather have a whole ranch of Mexicans than us surly white boys, as if we’re that much younger than he is himself. I’m twenty-three, I work hard, and I keep to myself. Hank lumping me in with the rest of the beer-swilling, whore-loving hands turns my stomach.
That’s part of the reason I’m here now, off on my own. I’m not one of those guys and never will be. Alcohol only makes me sick, and I’d rather have a man’s rough hand on me than a woman’s soft touch any day.
Not that I’d dare admit it out loud. I keep my head down, my tongue quiet, my mind to myself, and one day I plan to have enough money saved up to start a ranch of my own. ThenI’ll give into my baser needs. ThenI’ll find a man to love.