Mesa. It was a hard climb over sharp rocks and through prickly scrub, and so steep in places, the men had to lean forward, gripping the manes of their horses to keep from tipping backward. By the fourth switchback, the horses were dripping foam, their sides heaving as they fought for air.
At the top, Ramirez cut between two granite boulders. Motioning the others to stay, he waved the drag rider forward, then rode out onto a wide, flat shelf that ended in a sheer drop. Dismounting, he let the reins drop and walked to the edge.
The drag rider, Paco Alvarez, a stocky man with quick, darting eyes, dismounted and ducked into the shade of a sandstone overhang to roll a smoke. He didn’t like heights. And he didn’t like being so near the rancho. What if someone saw them up here? What would happen to all of Sancho’s plans then?
Through a veil of tobacco smoke, he watched Sancho walk back and forth along the ledge, muttering to himself, his long, gray hair whipping around his face like thin wisps of smoke. Paco noted he was limping, coming down hard on his bad knee as if he wanted the pain, needed it to keep his mind focused. Paco wondered if he was drifting again.
It happened a lot lately. Sancho would forget things, like what day it was, or the names of the men they had hired, or the fact that his mother, Maria, and her lover, Jacob Wilkins, had both died years ago. It was as if the present was slipping away and his mind was sliding back into the horrors of the past. Paco didn’t like that either. In prison, Sancho had promised him half of the rancho if he would help him destroy the Wilkins family. It was the only thing that had kept Paco alive during ten years of hell. He wouldn’t let Sancho’s craziness ruin it now.
Out on the ledge, Ramirez threw back his head and laughed.
“ Cállate ,” Paco hissed, knowing how sound carried on the rocky slopes.
Sancho turned, a look of surprise on his gaunt face as if he’d forgotten Paco was there. He grinned, showing gaps where teeth used to be, and waved Paco closer. “ Ven, Paco. Mira. ”
Reluctantly Paco moved to the edge and peered down. The valley opened below him—rolling grasslands, the silver ribbon of the creek, piñon canyons sloping inward like spokes on a wheel, and at the hub, perched on a bend of the creek by the mesquite tree, the rambling hacienda where he had been born. Paco felt something tighten in his chest. Even at this distance, he could see the slash of red at the base of the adobe walls, blooms from the hundred rosebushes Maria Ramirez had planted thirty years earlier to commemorate the birth of her son.
The favored son. The true son. The son that would kill her.
“See, Paco? Es lo mismo . Nada is changed.”
Feeling dizzy, Paco stepped back. “He added a porch.”
Sancho tipped his head back, eyes closed, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the wind. “Do you smell them? Her roses?” A half smile softened the sharp angles of his face. “She knows I am back.”
Disgusted, Paco flicked the butt of his cigarillo at a passing beetle. “She knows nothing, Sancho. She’s dead. Muerta .”
“No. Listen.” Sancho cocked his head as the wind whispered through the overhang with a sound as mournful as a woman’s sigh. “She calls to me.”
Paco lost patience. Grabbing the other man’s arm, he jerked him around to face him, trying to break the hold of the past. “Forget her, Sancho. What about the rancho? What about Wilkins?”
It was a foolish move. Despite his haggard appearance and damaged leg, Sancho was neither weak nor slow to react. His shoulders were solid, his arms knotted from years of being worked like a mule, his hands still so fast Paco never knew the knife was there until he felt the blade against his throat.
“¿ Qué dice, Paco ? Forget her?”
Paco didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Sancho was an artist with a knife. Paco had seen him cut a man to ribbons and still keep him alive for hours, and he knew the only way to
At the top, Ramirez cut between two granite boulders. Motioning the others to stay, he waved the drag rider forward, then rode out onto a wide, flat shelf that ended in a sheer drop. Dismounting, he let the reins drop and walked to the edge.
The drag rider, Paco Alvarez, a stocky man with quick, darting eyes, dismounted and ducked into the shade of a sandstone overhang to roll a smoke. He didn’t like heights. And he didn’t like being so near the rancho. What if someone saw them up here? What would happen to all of Sancho’s plans then?
Through a veil of tobacco smoke, he watched Sancho walk back and forth along the ledge, muttering to himself, his long, gray hair whipping around his face like thin wisps of smoke. Paco noted he was limping, coming down hard on his bad knee as if he wanted the pain, needed it to keep his mind focused. Paco wondered if he was drifting again.
It happened a lot lately. Sancho would forget things, like what day it was, or the names of the men they had hired, or the fact that his mother, Maria, and her lover, Jacob Wilkins, had both died years ago. It was as if the present was slipping away and his mind was sliding back into the horrors of the past. Paco didn’t like that either. In prison, Sancho had promised him half of the rancho if he would help him destroy the Wilkins family. It was the only thing that had kept Paco alive during ten years of hell. He wouldn’t let Sancho’s craziness ruin it now.
Out on the ledge, Ramirez threw back his head and laughed.
“ Cállate ,” Paco hissed, knowing how sound carried on the rocky slopes.
Sancho turned, a look of surprise on his gaunt face as if he’d forgotten Paco was there. He grinned, showing gaps where teeth used to be, and waved Paco closer. “ Ven, Paco. Mira. ”
Reluctantly Paco moved to the edge and peered down. The valley opened below him—rolling grasslands, the silver ribbon of the creek, piñon canyons sloping inward like spokes on a wheel, and at the hub, perched on a bend of the creek by the mesquite tree, the rambling hacienda where he had been born. Paco felt something tighten in his chest. Even at this distance, he could see the slash of red at the base of the adobe walls, blooms from the hundred rosebushes Maria Ramirez had planted thirty years earlier to commemorate the birth of her son.
The favored son. The true son. The son that would kill her.
“See, Paco? Es lo mismo . Nada is changed.”
Feeling dizzy, Paco stepped back. “He added a porch.”
Sancho tipped his head back, eyes closed, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the wind. “Do you smell them? Her roses?” A half smile softened the sharp angles of his face. “She knows I am back.”
Disgusted, Paco flicked the butt of his cigarillo at a passing beetle. “She knows nothing, Sancho. She’s dead. Muerta .”
“No. Listen.” Sancho cocked his head as the wind whispered through the overhang with a sound as mournful as a woman’s sigh. “She calls to me.”
Paco lost patience. Grabbing the other man’s arm, he jerked him around to face him, trying to break the hold of the past. “Forget her, Sancho. What about the rancho? What about Wilkins?”
It was a foolish move. Despite his haggard appearance and damaged leg, Sancho was neither weak nor slow to react. His shoulders were solid, his arms knotted from years of being worked like a mule, his hands still so fast Paco never knew the knife was there until he felt the blade against his throat.
“¿ Qué dice, Paco ? Forget her?”
Paco didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Sancho was an artist with a knife. Paco had seen him cut a man to ribbons and still keep him alive for hours, and he knew the only way to
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