Chapter Four
That hadn’t gone so badly, Carl thought as he followed Camila and Juana down a narrow hall. He liked Luis and Gerardo, and while he hadn’t been able to keep up with the conversation, he figured he’d done his best. He was glad he’d brought some casual clothes he could work in. First thing tomorrow he meant to pitch in and help around the ranch. Luckily he’d had a lot of practice at that these past few years.
Outside the windows of the house, it was fully dark, and Carl was surprised how late it had gotten, but when he checked his watch he realized it wasn’t even eight. They were far closer to the equator here than they were up in Montana, he remembered.
Juana stopped at the entrance to a small room. “Camila.” She waved a hand for Camila to enter the room but blocked the way when Carl went to follow. “For Camila,” she reiterated.
Of course. He hadn’t meant to assume they’d share it, but before he could say this, Juana crossed her arms and faced her cousin. “Que indecente. Such an assumption for him to make. Are you sleeping with him outside marriage? No true Torres would act like that.”
Camila winced, and Carl blinked. “Watch it—” he started.
“Mamá will be home tomorrow. She would die to see such indecency,” Juana went on.
He’d heard enough. “First of all—”
“Carl, it’s okay.” Camila slipped in between them. “Juana, neither of us meant any disrespect. And Carl and I aren’t sleeping together, not that it’s any of your business.”
“You’re a member of my family; that makes it my business. Come. I’ll show you your room,” Juana said to Carl. “Be glad I still give you one after you disrespect my cousin so.” She led the way back down the hall. Carl glanced back at Camila, who seemed caught between laughter and exasperation.
“See you in the morning,” she said with a shake of her head. Carl followed Juana, trying to cling to the remains of his sanity.
It wouldn’t do to show weakness to the enemy.
His phone buzzed in his pocket just as Juana escorted him into a small, neat bedroom at the back of the house. She left without another word, her displeasure clear in every gesture. Carl sighed, shut the door and answered the call.
“How much progress have you made so far?” Virginia Cooper demanded.
Carl kneaded the back of his neck with one hand. He shouldn’t have answered the phone. “No more since the last time we talked. I’m in Mexico.”
“Mexico?” The mixture of outrage and disbelief in her voice implied she’d never heard of such a thing. “The way you flit around, no wonder you can’t find a home in Chance Creek.”
Ouch. “I’ll be back in a couple of days. I’ll work on the presentation here, then finish it when I get back. I’m heading to California on the eighth to meet with Sven, the man who’ll help with the funding and the robotics program.”
“California, huh? I see where your priorities are.”
“My priorities are keeping the promises I’ve made.”
“You’d better keep the one you made to me. Get that presentation done. We need time to look it over well before the twelfth. I thought you were a businessman.”
“I am.” Or he was. Now he was a rancher. A rancher without a ranch… “And I understand you’re anxious to get started,” he said, knowing he needed to placate Virginia. “I have to hammer a few things out with Sven before I can get too far.”
Virginia sniffed. “The architect has already finished his part. If you weren’t dragging your feet on your end, construction could be underway by now. You don’t seem all that interested in getting a ranch.”
“I’m interested,” he assured her. There was no way construction could have started under any circumstances, but he wasn’t going to argue it out tonight. “I’ll get on it, Virginia, as soon as I can.” He hung up. Time to call Sven.
It was relatively early in California, and his friend was still at his office. Without being interrupted, they were able to go over different deals Fulsom might offer and the responses Sven could give to them, and Sven calmed down, which was a good thing. He needed to be sharp during negotiations. By the time Carl had said goodbye, they’d gotten a basic strategy in place and mapped out an action plan for once the offer had been made.
“Stay strong,” Carl told Sven. “Don’t blink. When the offer comes, don’t rush to answer it. We have time to think things through.”
“Will do. Thanks, Carl. I mean it; I know you’ve got your own life going on.”
“I’m doing my best to take care of both. Talk to you tomorrow. When we do we’d better start hammering out this presentation I need to write for Virginia.”
“I’ll make some notes while I’m pacing my office tonight,” Sven joked.
When they’d hung up, Carl stripped down, climbed into bed and started on the language app again. He’d been proud of how many phrases he’d learned during their short flight, but it was all too clear he had a long way to go.
He only completed a few more lessons before his head began to swim, however, and he used his data to bring up a search engine. He’d heard of Cuauhtémoc, and of the Aztecs, but much of the earlier conversation between Juana and Camila had eluded him. Before the Europeans, Mexico was divided between the Mayan and Aztec empires, right? Or was it the Aztecs and the Incas? In any case, he’d never heard of the Olmecs or the Nahuatl.
He settled into the challenge of finding answers. He was good at memorizing information, but he was better at solving puzzles. It wasn’t fancy shirts or expensive watches that had defined him in his earlier life; it was tackling new challenges head on with tireless enthusiasm.
He missed that.
Carl considered the past few years. He’d enjoyed learning about ranching from the Coopers, and the physical work felt great after years at a desk job, but he missed coming up with a vision and carrying it through. He wouldn’t get to experience that part of ranching until he owned his own spread, which made him even more eager to make that happen.
He’d done all he could on that front right now, though. A quick look at listings earlier had told him nothing new had come on the market.
He settled down to the task at hand.
Three thousand years before the dawn of the Nahuatl, or Aztec, Empire, the precursors of the Teotihuacán people settled in Cuicuilco, the article began, and Carl realized as he took in the unfamiliar sounds of the Torres ranch he probably wasn’t going to sleep much in his new surroundings tonight. That was a given anyway, though.
If he hadn’t been thinking about precolonial Mesoamerica, he’d be thinking of Camila—and exactly what they’d do together when they finally got alone.
Now she knew what her cousin thought of her.
Camila worked in silence, unpacking her suitcase and settling into her new room. Juana had come back to help her, and Camila pointedly ignored her in the hopes that she’d get the hint and go away.
Juana’s assertion she wasn’t a true Torres—and therefore not a true Mexican—struck home. It cut far too close for comfort to her father’s lectures when she was a child growing up.
Diego had always emphasized the distinction between true Mexicans and the Americanized versions. He had wanted to raise children who stayed close to their roots, so they’d spoken Spanish daily, eaten traditional food, and her father had regaled them with stories about their history—when he had time. Unfortunately, running the restaurant left little of that, leaving the information in Camila’s head full of holes.
It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t born and raised here, and Juana’s accusation wouldn’t hurt so much if her father hadn’t made such a fuss about authenticity, too. He hated the way her friends in Houston spoke a mixture of Spanish and English, the meanings of traditional words changed by such close contact with another language. He hated the music she’d listened to, which combined Spanish lyrics with American rock and roll.
He despised the Americanized Mexican food served in restaurants—
Just the mention of a hard-shell taco could send her father into a furious tirade.
For Juana to call out Camila on her heritage was a direct insult.
Camila couldn’t think of a suitable answer.
Meanwhile, Juana stared at each item Camila unpacked as if its presence in the room might taint her. As Camila put away the last of her clothes, Juana frowned at something in the bottom of the suitcase. “What is this?” She fished it out between two fingers, as if it might bite.
Camila recognized the photograph she’d brought to Houston to show her parents—an image she’d taken the day she and Fila opened their restaurant.
“Fila’s Familia,” Juana read out loud, echoing the sign that hung over the restaurant’s entry. “Afghan-Mexican fusion food.” She laughed derisively. “Afghan-Mexican food? What is that? You poor thing, if this is all there is to eat in Montana. Just wait until I have the chance to cook for you. You’ll want to never go back.”
Camila snatched the photo back. “That’s my restaurant. And Afghan-Mexican food is delicious!”
Juana’s mouth twisted as if she’d swallowed something sour. “Your restaurant,” she repeated. “Huh.”
Camila reached her breaking point. “You know what? I’ve had a long day, and I’d like to be alone.” She crossed the room and opened the door pointedly. After a moment Juana followed her.
“Of course,” Juana hissed. “The gringa doesn’t want a real Mexican around.” She flung herself out of the room.
Camila shut the door behind her and sat down on the bed. Couldn’t anyone in her family be proud of her accomplishments? It was as if she could never be good enough. Certainly not as good as perfect Juana, who thought Camila was some kind of a traitor to Mexico.
They’d treated her like a thief for even asking for the mask—as if she was the one after it and not her mother.
Camila picked up the photograph and put it away in her bag. She couldn’t wait to get home to Chance Creek.
As if on cue, her phone buzzed.
Maya again.
Those Coopers are definitely up to something. Virginia Cooper’s so smug these days you’d think she was about to be crowned queen! Liam’s riled as a wet hen. He’s stuck on the ranch unless one of us drives him. It’s like having a delinquent child.
What do you think Virginia’s up to? Camila typed back. Hearing Chance Creek gossip made her even more homesick.
I don’t know—I hoped you would. I heard Carl’s out of town again. Where do you think he went?
How should I know? Camila wrote back quickly. She didn’t want Maya thinking she was helping the Coopers.
You guys hear everything at the restaurant.
I’m not at the restaurant. Gotta go, Camila texted back and turned off her phone.
Carl woke well before dawn, rose from his bed, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, slipped his feet into his boots, grabbed his hat and headed to the kitchen, where Luis and a couple of the other men were already up and about. Old habits died hard, and even though he hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, he knew once he was awake he’d stay that way. Besides, he wanted to help Camila.
“Oye,” one of them shouted from the table. “Gringo rico, where has your ropa de marca gone?”
Before Carl could think of a response to a question he didn’t understand, Luis pressed a steaming mug of coffee into one hand and a plate of what looked like fried corn husks into the other. “That’s my brother, Arturo David Valentín Torres.” Luis indicated the seated man and pointed to a chair. Carl sat down, too. Arturo was taller than Luis, huskier, too, but the men shared the same dark hair and quick smiles.
“I’m Carl.” He shook Arturo’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Salsa?” Arturo slid some jars his way, none of which looked like what Carl thought of as salsa. “Salt. Cilantro. Where are your fancy clothes, Carlos?”
“Atole?” Luis offered him a pitcher of something milky, white and steaming.
“Uh, no thanks.” He turned back to Arturo. “It’s Carl, not Carlos. And I didn’t think I would need my fancy clothes today.”
“My mistake,” said Arturo, though his grin said it hadn’t been. “You remind me of Señor Slim.”
“Carlos Slim?” Carl chuckled. The comparison was flattering. The world’s richest man had informed some of his own entrepreneurial strategies.
“A smart man,” Luis said. “Sugar for your coffee? Cream?”
Arturo snorted. “A smart devil.”
“One cream is fine. Slim’s not popular here?” Carl had always assumed he would be about equivalent to a Bill Gates or Warren Buffett figure in Mexico.
“Depends who you ask,” Luis said, pouring Carl’s cream for him.
“And how much of his money is in their pocket,” Arturo growled. “Eat your tamales, gringo.”
Carl took a bite. The cornmeal was rather bland. Luckily the coffee was strong and dark.
“I’d like to help out today.”
“The gringo knows ranching?” Arturo scoffed.
“The gringo does,” Carl told him.
“We’ll be moving the cattle right after we eat,” Luis said. “Borrow a horse and join us.”
“Will do.” After draining his mug, Carl finished his meal quickly, grateful when Camila came into the kitchen. He had the feeling she’d been up earlier than he had. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and she was moving slowly. When her gaze lit on the coffeepot, she perked up.
He wondered if she’d slept at all.
He brought his dishes to the sink and asked her in a low voice, “What’s the plan?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “My cousins aren’t going to give me the mask. Maybe when my aunt gets here, I’ll have better luck with her. I have to wait for her to get back.”
How long would that be? Carl tried to hide his consternation, but he must have failed.
“You don’t have to stay,” Camila told him. “I know you’re busy.” She turned away.
Hell, Carl thought. “I want to stay,” he said truthfully, pursuing her. He was finally getting a chance to spend some time with her. If it hadn’t been for losing the Hilltop Acres, this mission would easily be his top priority.
Her relief was palpable. “I appreciate it.” She touched his hand, and Carl’s body woke up. He was always aware of Camila on a physical level, but when she got close, he felt more alive than at any other time.
Someday he’d get Camila alone, and he’d get as close to her as two humans could get.
But he’d better stop thinking about that now before he gave himself away.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised and hoped he could live up to his words. “In the meantime, how about I help the menfolk outside, and you work on Juana? Maybe if we butter them up, they’ll change their minds.”
Camila snorted. “It’s worth a try, but don’t hold your breath.”
Carl stepped outside a few minutes later, and his optimism returned. Dawn was coming, but the sun hadn’t broken over the horizon yet. The day seemed fresh and new and full of possibilities. Camila’s mother wouldn’t have sent her if she didn’t think Camila could complete her errand. It made sense that Ximena, Diego’s sister, would be the one to decide whether the mask stayed or went. In the meantime, his first measure of business was to make himself useful. It was a beautiful morning, and if the ranch was laid out somewhat differently than they usually were in Montana, that was fine. He admired the enclosures filled with hundreds of chickens, the pens of goats and the fields of corn, rows of tomatoes and orchards of apple, mango and avocado trees.
Carl didn’t know how to take care of avocado trees or goats, but he sure as hell knew his way around a herd of cattle. He found a horse in the nearby stables, saddled up and rode out to the cattle enclosure. There were several larger pastures nearby, and given the arid landscape and the hundreds of hoofprints leading toward them, he figured the Torres family rotated the cattle through them. One looked very dry, but if he drove them through the other gate, the cattle could reach the creek far down at the bottom of the hill. Given the clear sky overhead, he figured that was the better option. It was already getting hot. He threw open the gate and started urging the cattle toward the hillside.
He’d gotten the herd well on their way when the rest of the men came out to watch him. Arturo shouted after him, “Where are you taking our cattle, gringo rico?”
Carl pulled his horse up and shouted back, “They need water, don’t they?”
Arturo threw his hands up in the air. “Gringo loco!”
Luis pursued Carl. “No need to take them to the creek. Rain today, and lots of it. We’ll keep them close.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Luis confirmed.
Carl didn’t think he could be right, but he wanted to make a good impression on these men, so he decided the last thing he should do was tell them how to run their ranch. Instead, he helped them herd the cattle back into the closer enclosure, and though they teased him about his mistake, he got the feeling it was all in fun. Even Arturo seemed friendlier now that Carl had messed up.
They spent the next two hours mending fences, another task Carl was quite familiar with, until fierce black clouds covered the sky. The temperature plummeted, and Carl ran for the safety of the barn with the others when rain fell hard all around them. Lightning split the sky, and thunder roared so close the rafters shook with it.
He could only imagine how fast the creek would rise after such a storm. If he’d gotten those cows down the slope, it might have been a disaster.
So much for knowing how to ranch.
He hoped no one told Camila about his mistake.
“I’ll be back to make breakfast,” Juana said when the dishes were done. “You go… rest.”
“We just ate breakfast.”
Juana rolled her eyes. “That was a snack for the menfolk to keep them going through their first chores. Real breakfast comes later.” She disappeared to her room, leaving Camila in the kitchen alone.
But Camila had no intention of resting. Here was her chance to prove herself. She wouldn’t be a guest; she’d be a helper. When Juana came back, she’d have a satisfying meal all prepared. But what should she make?
She wished she could prepare something fancy, but that wasn’t practical. She didn’t know what ingredients and equipment the kitchen stocked, didn’t know how heat diffused across this particular stovetop or how the altitude and dry air would affect the cooking process. Chances were she’d just embarrass herself. Better to start simple: she’d make huevos rancheros, something even a child could get right.
Camila got the eggs ready and sliced the avocados before she encountered her first hiccup. It was time to make the tortillas, but she couldn’t find any masa flour. There were a couple of unmarked jars whose contents looked close, but the grains were far coarser than what she was used to. She decided she would hold off on the tortillas until everything else was finished and started on the salsa instead.
She’d just finished dicing the tomatoes when Juana appeared.
“What are you doing?”
Camila kept her cool. “Making huevos rancheros.”
Juana raised her eyebrows. “Huevos rancheros? What are the avocados for? And the sugar?”
Camila rolled her eyes. “The sugar is for the salsa.”
“Salsa de que?”
“What?”
“What kind of salsa?” Juana peered into the bowl where Camila was mixing the tomatoes with oil, sugar, cilantro, salt, pepper and peppers. “Italian pasta salsa, by the looks of it.”
Camila crossed her arms. Juana was being deliberately obtuse. Salsa might simply mean sauce here in Mexico, but she had to know it meant something far more precise in the United States. “Do you need something?” she asked pointedly. So much for feeling helpful.
“I need a nice breakfast, which means huevos rancheros that have not been made ruined with avocados and salsa gringa.” Juana opened a cupboard, took out an old-fashioned mortar and pestle, and started making a sauce of her own. She left out the oil, sugar and pepper, went a little heavier on the chiles, then added a flurry of spices that Camila didn’t catch and topped it off with freshly squeezed lime juice. “Try.”
Camila took the spoonful Juana offered her. It was spicy—and really good.
But that didn’t excuse her cousin’s rudeness.
“The gringa doesn’t even know how to cook,” Juana said, elbowing Camila out of the way.
Camila lost what little patience she had left. “Then why am I the one who owns a restaurant? You’ve never even worked in one.”
Juana jerked like she’d been slapped, and Camila wished she could take back her hasty words, but it was too late.
“Maybe not,” Juana told her. “But I slave in this kitchen every day of my life, making real food my family can be proud of. Mamá says that Tío and Tía won’t even try your fusion trash.”
Camila’s remorse evaporated, and she didn’t know what she’d have said if the front door hadn’t swung open just then.
Expecting the men back from the fields, she was surprised when an older woman entered the kitchen dressed in dark pants and a vibrant tunic, large silver jewelry gracing her throat and wrists. Her hair, beginning to silver but still very dark, was as stylish as her clothing.
“Mamá!” Juana cried.
Ximena was home.