“Are things that bad?”
“No.” Her perfume teased him, light and intriguing, a pleasant change from the mustiness of straw and the pungent odor occasionally drifting in from the stalls. She glanced at the papers he had out. He smiled easily, trying not to breathe her scent in too deeply, and handed the papers across the desk. “My mom always said I was un enojon. Easily angered. I deny it, but … ” He shrugged. “As you can see, I’ve been trying to analyze what you have in the way of stock.”
“And?” She leaned back in her chair, studying him. She wondered how he’d been received in Florida and Kentucky, with his South Texas habit of throwing Spanish words into a perfectly good English conversation. The habit gave purists fits — and she’d suffered herself, at college in New York. Here, though, it made him seem genuine and unaffected. She wondered, too, how easily angered he actually was — how much of “un enojon” — he’d seemed rather unruffled since his show of temper during that initial interview.
He gestured at the papers he’d turned over to her. “How do you feel about selling everything and starting over?”
Dell blanched. “Selling? Everything?” she asked, and he could hear pain in her voice. “The horses — which horses? I can’t sell the horses — ”
He ran a hand over his forehead, rearranging his hair, then rubbed his chin. “Ms. Rosales — ”
“Call me Dell, Jovi. I can’t talk to some stranger about my horses. Why do I need to sell them? My father had excellent stock — some of the horses I trained myself, some of them before I left home for college. Before — ” She stopped, then gave her head a decided shake. “I don’t think I want to sell any of them,” she finished.
“Dell, this is a horse farm,” he said. “You have too many horses. Some of them are too old to be productive. Why do you need” — he pointed at a highlighted item — “Fourteen quarter horse mares if you intend to raise primarily Appaloosas and Arabians?”
“My father liked quarter horses best. They’re his horses. And they’re all really good horses. Besides, we use some of them with the girls.”
“He’s not here any longer, Dell,” Jovi said gently but matter-of-factly. “So they’re not his — they’re yours. And they haven’t produced colts in several years.”
“We don’t have a quarter horse stallion, and I haven’t had time to have them bred.” She frowned across the desk at Jovi. “That’s where you come in, remember?”
“But fourteen?” He shook his head slowly. “Dell, I don’t know your financial condition. But most people can’t afford twenty-nine horses and two ponies — old ponies — even in good times. How can you justify all these mouths to feed when they’re not bringing in a single penny?” Pain touched her eyes, but he pushed on. “I have to call it like I see it. You’re spending a fortune — feed, insurance, vet bills, help. Your father had excellent horses, true enough. I noticed the trophy case, and I’ve looked at some of the past books — the ranch used to sell almost all the two-year-olds for top-dollar prices. But not recently. And with economic conditions — you may struggle to sell stock even when you have the mares bred.”
Dell stood up and walked over to the window, looking out for a few, silent moments. Finally she sighed heavily and turned back around. “I suppose we need to talk about a sale, then. But not today.” Her lips twisted in a wry smile. “I have to make peace with the idea first, I guess.” She came back again and sat down. “Tell me something, Jovi … how big a stickler are you for job descriptions and doing only what you were hired to do?”
He arched an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Why?”
“How are you at carne asada?”
He blinked, then grinned. “The best, naturally. I wasn’t away that long!”
“Good.” She plucked absently at the eyelet blouse she was wearing, removing invisible lint. He couldn’t look away.
“These girls have lost so much — all of them have either left or been taken away from their families.” Emotion came and went in her eyes as she spoke. “Amy was telling me the other day that the thing she missed most was the Sunday carne asada — the family getting together — even the smell of the smoke, she said. I can’t give it all back, but I thought we might try to reproduce some of it.”
“Fine with me.” He leaned back a little and idly tapped the desk.
“I could do it,” she continued seriously. But Jovi, you remember carne asadas in these parts, right?”
He nodded. “Alcohol, music, and fighting, too often.”
“I want something better than that for the girls. A good time without the bad thrown in.”
“So I come in because … ?”
“You can cook the meat,” she said immediately, “while I chaperone.”
Jovi gazed across the desk at her, straightening in his chair. This was an unwelcome situation. There was an intimacy about a carne asada — friends had carne asadas. And families. He was the last person she could trust, even if she didn’t know that. Yet. He couldn’t have hidden his irritation. She looked startled by his abrupt change in demeanor, and then the impenetrable air of calm and distance settled back around her. “Is something wrong?” she asked. “If you’d rather not, don’t feel obligated — ”
“There’s no problem,” he answered. “Just don’t expect miracles, Dell. Those girls are tough cookies, deep down.”
Dell stood, her own annoyance undisguised. “I don’t expect miracles, Jovani,” she retorted. “I’m not that naïve. But the girls aren’t nearly as tough as you think.” She cast a quick glance at the clock on the office wall. “I thought we’d start around five.” She turned toward the door then stopped to look back over her shoulder. “I’ll let you know about the horses within the week.” Her tone was dismissive, boss to employee.
Good. Better that way, he reminded himself brusquely. Because at best, Dell was just his boss. And at worst … at worst, she was the woman he’d destroy. Soon.
The lights in the side yard glowed, scattered around the large expanse with tasteful flare. Tejano music played softly, and roses and honeysuckle sweetened the night air, although the smell of fajitas sizzling on the grill overpowered the lighter floral scents at the moment. Jovi propped a shoulder against the brick wall of the grill and glanced around the patio again, relishing the abrupt quiet.
Minutes ago, the girls chattered and argued by the pool, but Rosa had herded them off to change out of their bathing suits.
He reached over and poked at a piece of fajita, lifting it up and flipping it over. Laughter announced the return of the girls, and he frowned. Had Dell noticed when Maribel approached him, flirting with a determination that should have been beyond her years? He hoped she knew what she’d gotten into with the teenager. Bad, bad news.
Then again … His mouth tightened, and he speared another piece of meat. There was a real possibility Dell’s main concern wasn’t the girls’ welfare, anyhow, however unlikely that seemed when he watched them together.
The girls were loaded down with trays of dishes, glasses, and condiments, and Rosa came behind them, carrying a steaming jarro of beans. The earthenware pitcher and the aroma of the bacon and cilantro-spiced beans filled him with nostalgia.
There had been days, many, many years ago, when the beans cooking slowly on his mother’s stove had been the day’s food. He’d worked hard to overcome that — and she could afford what she chose, now — but the beans were still a constant in her kitchen. It was who they were, she would tell him, clucking at his insistence that she go out with him to eat in some new restaurant or other.
Selina unloaded her tray on the table, and she ran across the lawn toward him, her long, unruly hair flying with abandon. “We’re starving, Jovi,” she announced. “Need help?”
“Nope. Got it under control.” He held out a tray of cooked meat for inspection. “How does that look?”
“Perfect!” She took the tray from him. “Give it. Are you gonna eat with us?”
“Sure.” He looked at the last of the meat, just beginning to cook. “This can take care of itself for a while.” He walked across the lawn with her, and Rosa, Michelle, and Amy all greeted him with smiles. Maribel frowned.
“Bet you didn’t even use beer on it,” she sniffed. “Carne asada with no beer sucks.”
“Smells pretty good to me,” Dell said, her voice floating melodically on the hot summer air. He turned, his indrawn breath of surprise not quite audible over the girls’ conversation. Dell had abandoned her usual slim-fitting pants and skirts for a loose dress. Its scooped neck was embroidered with flowers, and the gauzy material draped her body enticingly. The yard lights glinted on the silver earrings exposed by her upswept hair and the matching necklace around her slender throat. As stunned as he was by her appearance, though, his eyes widened involuntarily when he took in the toddler at her side. The little girl appeared to be two or three. Her huge, black eyes took in everything with infinite interest, and a mass of curly black hair tumbled around her tiny, pale face.
So, he thought, and was abruptly annoyed with himself. There were hundreds — thousands — of single mothers. It meant nothing. Nothing about morals, or lack of them. Nothing about whether or not this woman might be engaged in illegal activity. Surprising no one had mentioned the girl, but oh, well. He masked his surprise, and when Dell came over to him, the child in tow, he smiled at the little girl with genuine warmth. It was impossible not to — she was irrepressible.
“Jovi, this is Becky.” Dell stooped, lifting the child with tenderness and holding her up for him to meet. “Becky, this is Mr. Treviño.”
“Hi.” The girl pressed her face into Dell’s shoulder briefly, then shot him a slight smile before giggling and burying her face against Dell again.
“She’s shy,” Dell explained, “but she’s getting better.”
“She’s precious,” he murmured, reaching out a hand to touch the girl’s hair. Dell’s face softened at the gesture, and she smiled.
“Afraid of giving her ojo?” she asked.
He seemed a little embarrassed, but nodded. “Our old superstitions die hard, don’t they?”
“You probably got some glares in Florida,” she said, still grinning. “Even more up there in Kentucky during Derby week. In New York there were people who thought they should report me.” The custom of touching something you admired — or envied — to prevent harming it was largely unknown outside of the Mexican-American culture that embraced the practice. Many mothers who were unaware of the benevolent intent of warding off ojo were offended — or frightened — when strangers touched their child’s cheek or head in passing.
“Some,” he admitted, his eyes dancing. “Guess I can see why strangers might freak out just a little in this day and age.”
Dell put Becky down, and the child toddled over and climbed up on the bench with Michelle’s help. “Looks like someone’s hungry.”
“She always is.” Dell smiled, inhaling deeply. “Shall we eat?” She waved a hand at the girls clustered around the end of the table filling glasses with tea.
Everyone claimed a place at the table, with Jovi sitting near the end so he could keep an eye on the meat still cooking over the dying coals. Rosa sat with the girls, ignoring Maribel’s hostile looks and the endless chatter of the other three. Dell walked over to re-light a citron light meant to discourage mosquitoes, and returned to find most of the bench occupied. She glanced at the others, then pulled her skirt up slightly and maneuvered herself onto the bench between Becky and Jovi.
“I hate this attached seating,” she grumbled. “There’s no way to get in and out gracefully.”
“You did pretty well,” he said mildly, and she shot him a sideways glance. He smiled. Next to her, Becky babbled happily. The girls were rolling pieces of the spicy meat into Rosa’s homemade flour tortillas, and Dell reached for a basket and passed it to him.
“Get ’em ’fore they’re gone,” she warned.
“Gone!” Amy snorted. “After the hours it took to make the damn-darn things — ”
“Mamá always said they invented stores so women could quit making tortillas,” Selina interjected. “But ¿sabes? Rosa’s tortillas are kickass.”
“Riquisimas,” Jovi agreed.
Rosa beamed across the table, basking in the praise. “Gracias, gracias.”
She reached over and patted Selina’s cheek, then smiled across the table at Dell, ignoring Jovi altogether. “These niñitas can cook up a storm, now.”
The girls exchanged a look and Amy giggled. “Lying’s a sin, Rosa. We burned half your masa and rolled the other into cardboard.”
“And still we have enough,” Rosa retorted gently.
“I’m impressed you girls even tried,” Dell admitted. “I never quite got it, did I, Rosa?” She passed the pico de gallo to Jovi, and he spooned the chili-tomato salsa over his meat with a flourish.
“Beats store-bought food all to hel — heck,” he said, choking a little on the last word as he remembered his audience, and everyone laughed. Everyone except Maribel.
“Santito!” she muttered sarcastically. “Afraid to let the boss hear you curse? ’Fraid she’ll find out you’re not really a saint, papacito?”
The girls shifted nervously and exchanged worried glances. Dell set her glass of tea down carefully. “Maribel, it’s not fair to embarrass Jovi like that. Don’t ruin the evening for everyone just because you’re out of sorts.”
“I’m not out of sorts. I just hate all this — this crap.” She waved a hand at the assembled group. “Tortillas — shit! I was turnin’ tricks and them — ” She waved a hand at the other three. “Them, I don’t know about. Probably doing it for free, huh, Selina? So your mom shipped you out? But at least you’re good in the kitchen, according to Rosa.” Then she turned derisive eyes on Dell. “Maybe you’re not happy to hear, that, huh, jefa? Beneath us women to be in the kitchen, huh?”
Jovi stood, unsure whether or not Dell would appreciate him sticking his nose in. Dell wiped her mouth on a napkin, seemingly unperturbed, before responding to Maribel in her usual, level tone. “Maribel, quit trying to pick fights. No one’s going to let you ruin their evening.”
The girls were watching Dell and Maribel silently, their eyes apprehensive, as she continued. “I don’t know what tore your life apart. But I think the real deal here is you can’t handle how your choices turned out — and you need to.” She picked up her tea and took another sip. “This isn’t an appropriate conversation around Becky, though. Or the other girls, if you’re using it to shock or belittle them. Finish dinner.”
Maribel started to say something, but her eyes fell momentarily on Becky, and she clamped her lips shut. For a moment, softness came and went across her face. “My sister’s about three,” she said, then seemed startled and embarrassed at the proclamation. She pushed aside her plate and went over to the pool, and Dell let her go. Almost immediately, Amy and Selina were giggling over something, and after a minute, Michelle chimed in, making faces at Becky while she cut up another piece of meat for the child.
Jovi went over to check on the remaining meat, turning it over with pursed lips. He had come to find out if Dell’s apparently ample income was honestly come by; he had more or less expected his suspicions would have been clearly confirmed by now. Instead, he found himself struggling to remain objective and detached from this woman they called “la inalcanzable.” Her concern for the girls, the apparent distaste she had for impropriety — nothing tagged her as a calculating woman who helped funnel illegal drugs across the Rio Grande and onto highways heading north. He swatted at a solitary mosquito, frowning. She was a mother, too, one who clearly doted on her child. Yet he had been told she might be letting traffickers move freely across her ranch. And profiting from
it?
He stood in the shadows by the grill, watching her thoughtfully. On the tiled patio near the house, the girls were dancing, except for Amy, who was standing shyly to one side, watching. Even Maribel was moving across the large, flat slabs with the music, spinning around and seeming, for once, her age. Becky clambered off the bench and trundled over to join the fun, and Rosa began carrying things in from the table. Dell sat alone at the table, her features in profile, the light falling around her as she watched over them, her slender fingers tapping out music on the table.
Sighing, he forked the last of the meat onto a tray and carried it into the kitchen. He put the tray down and was turning to go when the phone shrilled. “Can someone get that?” Rosa called from the pantry. “I’m on a stool.”
He picked up the receiver. “Hello?” There was a long pause on the other end, and his instincts told them someone was debating whether or not to answer. He tried again in, in Spanish. “Bueno? Quién es?” He could sense the other party still on the other end, but no one answered. Then, after a moment, the line clicked as the caller hung up.
“Was it for Dell?” Rosa asked, coming out of the pantry, still breathless from her climbing and storing.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. No one answered.” He looked at Rosa consideringly. “She doesn’t have caller ID?”
The older woman frowned at his question. “I think she does, in her office — but it’s not much your business, is it?”
“No, but it might make sense with the girls here and all. Do their families call? Wouldn’t it be a problem if strangers — or friends of theirs, even — called at all hours?”
Unattainable Page 3
