Filthy Secret

LUPITA

“Come in, base.” Dad’s voice comes over the radio, drawing my attention from the vegetables I’m washing. The tension in his voice is enough to make my stomach twist.

I turn off the water then grab a dish towel to wipe my hands as I head to the counter. Please-please-please don’t let there be trouble. Hopefully we didn’t lose more cattle. And if we did, let it be because of the fence being down and not someone using them for target practice. I pick up the radio from the base and press the button on the side. “This is base,” I reply, releasing the button.

“Did you buy T-post clips?”

“Yes, sir. The bags should have been with the rest of the supplies.” I let my lids drift closed. Unless they ended up with the feed. The guys working for Felix seem to be distracted half the time when we’re there.

“Well, they’re not,” he replies with barely concealed annoyance.

“Let me check the shed.” I set down the radio and rush through the kitchen, letting the screen slam against the frame.

Mom looks up from the garden. “What’s wrong?” she asks, her back stiff.

“The T-post clips are missing,” I call out. She slouches where she’s kneeling, her shoulders drooping. I should be more careful. The fact we have people shooting on our property has to be weighing on her. Me running out could have been something happening to Dad.

Pushing back her wide-brimmed hat, she pulls her forearm across her brow. “I’ll be right there.”

“I’ve got it.” I poke my head into the storage shed. Sure enough, the wooden box holds a couple of bags of feed, with the clips sandwiched between them. I snatch the package out of the box.

“Find them?” Mom calls out. I hold up the bag. “Oh shoot.” She drops her hands to the top of her thighs.

At this point, Dad’s on the other side of the ranch, having ridden by horseback with the supplies. If he has to come back then go again, he’s going to lose what’s left of daylight. That means we could lose some cattle if they try to go into the river for a drink. “I’ll take them out to him.”

“Hang on,” she says, pushing up from where she’s weeding. “Estela’s gone, so I’ll go with you.”

Because, of course, I’m a girl. “I can go by myself,” I shoot back, trying to curb my irritation. How was I supposed to go off to college when I graduated, when two years later I can barely leave the house on my own.

“Mom, I’m not completely useless.” She stops in her tracks.

She chews on her lip for a few seconds. “All right.” The defeat in her voice isn’t exactly reassuring. “But you lock the doors.”

“Of course.”

“And take a radio with you,” she tacks on. “But don’t use it while you’re driving. In fact, tell your father to meet you along the way.” “That sounds good.” I’ll avoid most of the things they harp on.

“Pay attention to the road,” she continues, “because it’s pretty bad in some areas.” In recent years, Dad’s been using the few horses we have left, so road maintenance hasn’t been much of a priority. “Be very careful by the riverside, it’s got the drop-off…”

“I know.” I manage not to roll my eyes at her. I’ve only been through there a hundred times in my life when I used to run around with Dad.

“And put some jeans on, or your father will have a breakdown,” she warns, pointing at the cotton shorts I’m wearing.

More like he’d have a meltdown. I can’t imagine Dad falling apart over anything. “I’m not getting out of the truck, and I’m not going all the way to where the guys are.”Belonging © NôvelDram/a.Org.

She sets a hand to her hip. “Well, it’s your butt. Just remember I warned you.”

I rush into the house and pick up the handheld radio but pause before hitting the button to talk. There’s still a chance he’ll tell me I can’t go alone, so I’ll have to be careful about what I say. Clutching the plastic bag to my stomach, I take a deep breath and push the button. “I found the bag with the clips. The guys put it with the feed.” “Idiots,” he grumbles.

“Mom says to ask if we can meet along the way.” I cross my fingers he won’t ask to speak to her.

“Yeah. That’ll save the rest of the day.”

I rush to the door, grabbing the keys off the nail.

“Just be careful.”

“Got it.”

“What’d he say?” Mom asks, heading in my direction.

“He liked your idea.” I keep moving, trying not to give her a reason to change her mind. “I need to go.” I pull open the truck door. “And I’ll be careful,” I toss over my shoulder as I slide into the driver’s seat. “And I have the radio.” I hold it out for her to see before closing the door. “So you have nothing to worry about.”

I pull the seat belt across my waist and jam the key into the ignition. The engine has barely come to life when I’m putting it in gear. This seems like such a childish thing to do, but it’s my version of breaking curfew- something I’ve never had the chance to do.

In seconds, I’m down the drive, looking both ways until I’m clear before I cross the two-lane highway to the other side of the ranch. My heart’s hammering in my chest. Yeah, Dad will probably get pissed when I get there without Mom, but I have a good thirty-forty minutes of freedom.

Firmly packed caliche covers the drive to the stables, but then it becomes more of an overgrown path. I slow down to maneuver through a rut deep enough to have the truck lean to the right, sending everything sliding across the cab. This place has changed so much over the years. Someone, at some point, must have tried going through mud and ended up having a bad day. In the past, Dad never would have let the condition get this bad.

I press down on the gas, speeding up for the mile or so before there’s another nasty spot. Or, at least, that’s how it was the last time I came down here. If she’d been born a boy, I wouldn’t have this problem. Dad’s voice echoes in my head. I set my jaw. Well, I can’t help the fact I was born a girl. If I was a guy, I’d know this area by heart, just like every other Torres before me. Instead, now I’m stuck in the house, across the highway, while Dad works with the cattle.

I hug the curb only to have a mesquite branch drag against the truck bed with a screech. Teeth on edge, I check back through the side mirror. It’s not like anyone would notice a new scratch on this old truck. It probably has original dirt on it, because I can’t for the life of me remember Dad getting it washed.

Turning back to the road, I tighten my grip on the wheel. Then a sharp crack fills the air, followed by another. What in the… An odd fizzing echoes in the cab then the front of the truck drops to the left. “Whoa.” I take my foot off the gas and put my weight into holding the steering wheel straight. “Seriously, a flat.” I drop my head back, trying not to have a fit because, if nothing else, I’m my father’s daughter.

“What the hell else could go wrong?” I reach for my seat belt then catch sight of something moving on my left. Dad? He can’t be this far so fast. In the span of what must be a second, a man comes out of the brush, jumping over branches. A camo shirt, sunburned skin, and wild hair, but my attention locks in on the gun he’s got clutched in one hand.

Who is he? A coyote? Fear catches hold of me. With the tire out, I’m stranded. I reach for the radio to call for help, only it’s not where I set it down next to me. It has to have dropped to the floorboard. Wait, my door’s not locked. I slam my hand on the worn panel, hitting the lock as the guy reaches me.

“Look what I found,” he says triumphantly, in Spanish, while yanking on the door handle.

I lean away, fumbling with the buckle, needing to be free.

“Where are you going, baby?” He’s watching me, laughing like a demented child with a magnifying glass over an anthill.

Oh my God. He slams his fist against the window. I can’t seem to find the button I need. No-no-no-no-no. Then finally, the base clicks, and the thick band comes loose. Why did I come alone? I push off the floorboard on the driver’s side but hardly move.

He slams against the window again.

I scramble across the seat. The radio. Dad.

Something solid hits the glass.

Dad. “My father’s on the way.” I glance back to see the crazy look in his eyes then catch sight of the huge rock in his hands.

The jagged edge hits the window again, the sound of breaking glass filling the truck cab.

I scream, terror filling me as every mention of danger on the ranch goes through my head. The man laughs louder, as if he likes hearing my terrified scream. Tears burn behind my eyes. I reach out as the door opens behind me with the usual protest. He’s coming. I clutch the handle, putting my weight against the door, but it won’t open.

Calloused fingers close around my ankle.

My throat burns as a shrill scream fills the cab.