The Last Chance Ranch

by Wind, Ruth

  “Warn me against what?”

  He moved his body away from hers and took her hand. They walked alongside the river. “Do you know her story?”

  “La Llorona guards the rivers—she was a very beautiful peasant girl who fell under the spell of a rich man. When he went to marry another, La Llorona threw their children in the river and drowned them, so he could have nothing, as she had nothing. Now she haunts the rivers, looking for her lost children, weeping and weeping.”

  Tanya felt a stinging recognition in the story. “How sad.”

  Ramón shrugged and lifted his face to the night, as if scenting the ghost. “It’s a story to keep children away from the river,” he said. “It isn’t true.”

  A shiver ran down her spine. “You’re wrong,” she said quietly. “It is true. It’s been true through all of time, and will be true a thousand years from now, and La Llorona is crying for all those women who were betrayed.” Her voice roughened. “For me.”

  Ramón, who had stopped to listen, bent and put his mouth on hers again. It was a sharply heated kiss, filled with tongues and teeth and urgent need. Tanya met it eagerly, taking refuge in his sensual ways, in his demanding kiss. When he lifted his head, with a trail of one, two, three little kisses, he said, “I can’t stop thinking about that, about kissing you.” He brushed his lips over hers once more. “You know I think about it all the time, whenever I look at you?”

  Watching his lips move, Tanya nodded, and drifted forward, her body alive and thrumming. She swayed toward him. “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she said in a breathy voice, “I’m irresistible.” She lifted her gaze and smiled.

  “Two jokes in a single week? What’s the world coming to?”

  “I guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

  He pressed against her, and Tanya pressed back. “Let’s rub some more then,” he said. And kissed her again. When the heat began to rise once more between them, Ramón put her firmly away. “I’m not Superman, cricket. Let’s go back before I rip off your clothes right here.”

  Tanya backed away, and wiped her palms on her jeans. She lost herself when he kissed her. She just disappeared in pleasure.

  In a companionable manner, Ramón tossed an arm around her shoulder and they walked back in the direction of the farmhouse. Tanya thought she could manage his proximity fairly well until she realized how her breast brushed his side. How their thighs touched, then didn’t, then did. How his hips bumped hers. Yearning pulsed in her—the yearning to give herself to this sensual, sexy, gentle man.

  With a cold sense of shock, she realized she was falling in love with him. How could that have happened? How could she have allowed her guard to slip so quickly?

  As they reached the barn, Merlin came padding out and licked her hand. She bent and stroked his head. Ramón paused with her. The square was quiet. In the barn a horse nickered, and from the kitchen came the light clinking of spoons and pans and glassware. From the dorms came music, unidentifiable except for the pounding beat of rap, which seemed to be the music of choice for most of these boys. “I wonder why they like rap so much,” she said aloud, trying to avoid her thoughts.

  “It’s angry,” he said. “It expresses their feelings of betrayal and fury and violence.”

  “How can you approve?” Tanya asked. “It’s misogynistic and violent.”

  “Some of it is,” he said, lifting a shoulder. “So is a lot of rock and roll. Rap is like any other music—it expresses something that needs expression, whether we agree with the sentiment or not. And some of it is very powerful, very touching.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “Ask Tonio to play some good songs for you. Tell him you want to learn about it. He’ll show you.”

  “I will.”

  A small pause fell between them, empty, waiting for the words Tanya knew she needed to say. She took a breath, steeling herself, and said, “Ramón, I think you need to know I don’t think I can give myself up to whatever this is between us. It scares me.”

  “Don’t worry so much, Tanya.”

  She shook her head. “It isn’t worry, Ramón. It’s too intense. I just spent eleven years in prison because of an intense relationship.”

  “Not intense, Tanya—violent. There’s a difference.”

  “Not to me.”

  His face was unreadable in the dimness, but she sensed his sudden stiffness. “I’m not Victor.”

  “I know that.” And she did know. But they were alike in ways. There were similarities in the way they looked and talked. The timbre of their voices was nearly the same. But most of all, the passion was the same.

  No, that wasn’t true. She had been so young when she and Victor got together that she’d never really even enjoyed sex all that much. Some of it was nice—the kissing and touching and all of that—but she had never liked it the way Victor did. She suspected, though of course she had no one to compare him to, that he had not been the most adept lover.

  But then, he’d been very young too. And what he’d lacked in skill, he’d made up for in passion. “He wanted me so much I felt whole for the first time in my life,” she said quietly. “He wanted to attach me to his body so that I’d be part of him. It’s impossible to tell you how that made me feel.”

  “That’s obsessive.”

  “I know,” she repeated, and looked steadily at him. “I’ve fought so hard to be whole by myself, and when you kissed me like that… back there… I felt engulfed.”

  “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “Is that what’s bothering you?” He lifted a hand to brush away a lock of hair from her face. “Do you think I was apart and coherent? Do you think anyone is at moments like that?” He shook his head. “They aren’t.”

  Even his hand on her cheek made that pulsing heat burst through her body again, starting that ache low in her groin. Irritated, she turned her head. “I don’t want that in my life. It’s too crazy.”

  For a moment, his hand hung in midair. Slowly, he put it down, looking at her with measuring eyes. He nodded once. “I understand,” he said. “I won’t bother you anymore.”

  “Ramón! I didn’t mean it like that.”

  He touched her arm, let it go. “I know you didn’t.” A sigh left him. “We’ll just be friends, as we always have been.” He cleared his throat, as if to change direction. “Will you help me put the dance together? We need to get it done—it’s two weeks from this Friday.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Good.” He lifted a hand. “See you tomorrow, then.”

  Tanya nodded and clasped her arms around her chest. She should have been feeling relieved. She had seen the problem, confronted it as honestly as she could, and dealt with it. Why, then, did she feel such a sense of loss?

  * * *

  All the way into the house Ramón cursed himself. Or rather cursed everything—Victor, fate, timing. In his study, he closed the door and leaned against it.

  Damn.

  He had not intended to indulge himself like that, but out there in the moonlight, undone by the sweet yearning in her face, he had been unable to resist her. And even then, he’d only intended to play, to tease her a little and stoke the growing hunger he saw in her eyes. He’d meant to just take one more baby step forward into her skittish world. A light kiss, a few teasing words, a little light erotic play—kissing her palm, maybe, or her neck.

  But the narcotic night had seduced him. Seduced Tanya. The moonlight had washed into them, and awakened their senses. Kissing her, he felt expanded—his hearing was so acute he heard the dance of field mice in their underground dens below the prickly pears, and scented the crush of juniper berries broken underfoot like spilled gin. He had closed his eyes, unwilling to add sight to the sensory overload, and concentrated on taste—her silky tongue, swirling with his, her eager lips, her faint sighs.

  And feeling—her breasts bumping into his chest, immensely giving, her slim long back and round buttocks, firm with the muscles of her daily running.

 
He’d simply fallen over the edge at that moment, fallen adrift in the nectar of Tanya, in the pleasure of touching her, feeling her.

  She was terrified, and with good reason. He had to keep himself in complete control. Not a single breach, or she’d run off like the wounded doe she was.

  But he knew tonight that he could not let it lie anymore. He wanted her deeply. She wanted him, too. It was right that he should be the one to teach her men were not all violent, that passion did not always wound. Perhaps he could help free her fully, to live instead of just survive. Slowly, carefully, he would show her. And if he had to let her go when she was free of the past, he would accept that, too.

  The phone rang, and with a growl of frustration, he picked it up. It was the line from the dorms. “Ramón here.”

  “Dave here. We need you, stat.” In the background were shouts and chaos. “Couple of boys are at it again.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Ramón said, and headed for the dorms, glad to have something to distract him.

  Chapter Ten

  Dear Antonio,

  Sometimes now—from the great old age of twenty-seven—I think about how young we were, Victor and I, when we met. When we got married, when we each made decisions that would affect us forever. I was seventeen when we got married. Eighteen when you were born. At nineteen, I was already divorced. I met him when I was fourteen, and—well, never mind. No need for you to know every little detail.

  Now I watch the news and see it’s only getting worse. I see some of the young girls who come in here to visit their mothers or aunts or sisters—and they’re so old by the time they’re fourteen. Already so grown up. And so often now, the boys just kill each other. Before they’re even old enough to know how long forever is.

  I wish we could make it better somehow for all of you. I hope Ramón will teach you to treasure your childhood, then your adolescence. Once it’s gone, you can’t be a kid ever again. Remember that. Be a child before you become a lover. Be a man before you take a wife.

  Love, Mom

  Tanya awakened from restless dreams long before the sun rose. A cat—this one named Snoopy—slept on her feet. It was a young orange-and-black calico, and stretched lazily when Tanya shifted to lie on her back while the dreams faded.

  It was not uncommon for her to dream of the night of the shooting. She never remembered the actual moments—not the shooting itself or the police arriving. Her memory stopped with Victor at the bathroom door and picked up again when she was locked in a holding cell downtown with a prostitute wearing red fishnet stockings.

  It wasn’t uncommon for her to have nightmares of all kinds, actually. In her dreams, she worked out her sorrows and angst. In daily life, she thought she was fairly normal. It was only in her dreams that she reacted to everything that had happened.

  As she lay there in the darkness, a cat purring on her chest as she stroked its soft, pointed ears, the dream she’d had filtered through her mind. It wasn’t the last confrontation with Victor, or one of the other times he’d lost control or the more recent panicky dream of being back in prison.

  No, this time, she’d dreamed of dancing with Ramón. He was younger, slim to the point of skinny, his glasses hiding his beautiful eyes. But his hands had been warm on her back, his laugh infectious and teasing, and his mouth—oh, she had seen his mouth that day. In her dream, she felt his arousal against her thigh, and she smiled up at him in a knowing, womanish way, to let him know she had noticed. In her dream, he had danced them toward a secluded cove and kissed her. Tanya laughed and put her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him deeply, reveling in the feeling of his hands on her breasts and smoothing over her rounded tummy.

  Then she heard a shot, and Ramón slumped against her, his hot blood burning her hands that held the gun. In her dream, Tanya screamed, “No!”

  And woke up to a cat on her feet in a room of Ramón’s making. For the first time, she knew she’d dreamed a piece of that blacked-out day, as well as a metaphorical wish that things could have been different. If only she’d met Ramón sooner. Or been a little wiser about things. If only he had been a grown man instead of seeking boy.

  If only.

  With a sigh, she tossed back the covers and put on her robe. “If only” would make her crazy. No one had any clear idea of the world at seventeen. Victor had probably understood more, in his primitive way, than either Ramón or Tanya. Victor had sensed the powerful attraction between his cousin and his wife, an attraction neither Ramón nor Tanya had admit.

  She padded down the stairs in the silent house, going to the kitchen for a cup of tea. There was a light on already, and Tanya hung back, unwilling to meet Ramón in her present state. She needed to think about him and her feelings for him before the whole thing rocketed out of control. The kisses and touches between them had been, to this point, very gentle, but Tanya wasn’t fooled. There was an untamed river of passion within Ramón Quezada, and it was dangerous to her carefully dammed emotions.

  Silently, she peeked around the door and saw Tonio bent over a spiral notebook. A glass of juice and scattered evidence of varied snacks littered the table—. popcorn, carrot sticks, an empty candy wrapper. He’d been there awhile. She wondered if she ought to leave him alone.

  Pushing the door open, she said quietly, “Hi. Am I interrupting?”

  Startled, he looked up at Tanya, then looked at the clock, which read 3:15. “What are you doing up?

  “I could ask you the same question. Bad dreams?”

  He quirked his mouth—and the gesture was utterly Victor. Somehow, it was a relief. This awkwardly teenage boy really was the Antonio she’d left behind, the one with the long eyelashes and a fondness for peanut butter crackers. “Nah,” he said. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

  Tanya took a mug from the cupboard. “I’m making some tea. Do you want some?”

  “No, thanks.” He pointed to his glass of juice.

  “That should promote easy sleep, all right,” she said, and smiled to show she wasn’t criticizing. She filled her mug with water and put it in the microwave, then leaned against the counter, hands in her robe pockets. “Are you a writer?”

  He shook his head, his thumb flipping the edge of his spiral notebook. The whole page was filled with his small, neat printing. “It’s, like, a letter.”

  The microwave dinged. Tanya took out her mug and fixed the tea. “I’ll leave you alone, then,” she said.

  “You don’t have to,” he said. “I mean, you don’t have to stay and keep me company, either, but I don’t mind if you’re in here.”

  Tanya took the hint and sat down, trying to find someplace for her eyes besides the white, heavily filled page. His hair, freshly washed and as yet unslicked, hung black around his face—a face that was angled and brown and beautiful, all the more startling because of his blue eyes. Her eyes, she thought proudly.

  Eyes presently filled with misery. “Still feeling bad over the girl—was her name Teresa?”

  “Yeah.” Restlessly, he flipped his pen onto the page, off the page. “I really like her. And I know Edwin’s gonna hurt her—maybe not outside, but he’ll hurt her. He’s a jerk.”

  Tanya carefully schooled her mouth to keep her opinions to herself. It wouldn’t do to say, “You’re right—he is a jerk.” Instead she lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. But maybe he really likes her, too.” She held up a hand at his protest. “I know you don’t want to hear that, but it just might be true.”

  Tonio stubbornly shook his head. “He’s already said he slept with her. I heard him saying it in the orchard that day. He’s lying. She wouldn’t do that.”

  Again, to remain neutral, Tanya nodded, sipping her tea. “It sounds like a tough situation.”

  “You know those really jealous guys who beat up everybody when they think their girlfriend is talking to someone else or something?”

  “Sure,” Tanya said, tongue in cheek.

  “He’s like that. He almost killed his own brother over some girl b
ack in Albuquerque, and I saw him hit a girl last spring for calling him a name.”

  None of the anecdotes surprised her, but Tanya still didn’t know what the best advice for Tonio would be. “Have you tried to talk to her? Maybe she just doesn’t realize how dangerous he might be.”

  “You believe me.”

  Tanya nodded.

  He put his hand on his hip, pushed the notebook an inch up on the table. “I’m writing her a letter.”

  “Good.” She bit her lip. To say anymore would be foolish.

  “I tried not to say anything about how I feel about her or anything. I just want her to be safe from Edwin—he only wanted her to get to me, anyway.” Again he flipped his pen restlessly on the page. “I’m only going to tell her one time I’m here for her if she needs me.”

  “That seems a very wise choice.”

  Tonio looked at her. “Sometimes, it’s so easy to talk to you, it’s like I know you already. Like I knew you when you came here.”

  Tanya froze. Did he guess who she was? Was she ready for that? He didn’t seem angry. “Sometimes people just mesh. I’ve met people I hated on sight, too.”

  Color moved up his cheeks and he lowered his eyes. “I think you kinda remind me of my mom. She gave me away when I was three, to Ramón.”

  Words burned in her throat—words she desperately wanted to say. I am your mother and I didn’t give you away, you were taken. To hold them back, she didn’t speak, only sipped some tea and swallowed the words, bitter and whole, nodding. One thing she’d learned early in life was that people only needed a little nodding to keep talking.

  Tonio included. “She was real young. It was probably too much for her—though my dad, that is, Ramón, says she wanted to keep me out of all the mess.” He rubbed the paper under his hand. “I have one letter she wrote to me before she had to go to prison.”

  In a swift bright flash, Tanya was sitting in her kitchen in the little house in Albuquerque, amid the ruins of her carefully collected, hand-painted and mismatched china, writing a letter. She could see her hand on the paper, writing “Dear Antonio… ”