The Last Chance Ranch (12 page)

Tanya didn’t realize how tired she was until she stood in the doorway. There she paused, feasting her eyes privately upon her child. He had a fat lip, the only evidence of his fight with Edwin, and his mood was considerably calmer than it had been earlier. Desmary directed with gestures more often than words. Zach, almost too small for the chair, swung his feet.

“You miss her?” Tonio was saying.

Zach nodded.

“Mad at her, too, though, huh?” There was a reedy quality to Tonio’s voice, the cracked hollowness of adolescence. “What I remember about my mom is being mad.”

Mothers. They were talking about mothers. Tanya shrank back, listening.

“Yeah,” Zach said. “She didn’t have to go and die.”

“You don’t know. Maybe she did.” Tonio dropped a handful of apple slices into a bowl of water and grabbed another whole apple. “You gotta try and keep the good stuff.”

“Is that what you did?”

“Yeah. As much as I could. I don’t even have a picture of my mom—only one of my dad, so I don’t remember what she looked like, but I can think of other stuff—like this perfume she used to wear, and pretty hair, really long and blond.”

Tanya smiled. Her hair had never been particularly long. Children’s perceptions were so different.

“But you know what I remember?” Tonio asked. “This weird song, about a lady who gets married the day before she dies. Sounds gross, but it was real pretty. She used to sing it to me before I went to sleep at night.”

Raw pain sliced through Tanya’s chest, and she backed out of the kitchen, unable to breathe. She ran smack into Ramón. He took one look at her face and said, “Come on, honey, let’s get you to bed.”

It had been too much of a day. Way too much. The fight in the orchard, her fall from the tree, the kiss from Ramón and now this. “I’m so tired.”

She let him walk her to the door of her bedroom, then firmly stepped away. The bag she handed to him. “Give it to Zach, will you?”

“Why don’t you just wait and give it to him tomorrow?”

Tanya nodded.

“Is there anything you need? Can I send someone up with some tea or something?”

“No,” she said and looked over her shoulder. “No, I think I’m just going to go to
sleep.
”

Ramón smiled. “Good. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

She bid him good-night and shut the door firmly—against him, against the painful memories the day had roused, against confronting the realities her new life offered. She kicked off her shoes, her bra and jeans, and fell into bed.

* * *

Ramón washed up and went down to dinner. Tonio, looking even more sullen than he had the night before, waited at the table with Desmary. To his surprise, Zach was there.

Ramón gave Desmary a questioning look. She lifted a comfortably padded grandmother shoulder. “He’s little,” she said. For one moment, Ramón hesitated. He had to admit Zach tugged his protective instincts the same way the kid pulled on everyone else’s. He was too young to have known so much trouble, and in spite of the problems he found at school and with other children, he possessed a basic sweetness of nature that made it hard to resist him. “All right,” he said, and tension drained from Zach’s body visibly, as if someone had pulled a plug on his big toe.

Touching his shoulder, Ramón said, “Napkin in your lap, guy. Elbows off the table. “Do you have homework tonight?” he asked them both.

“I have math to do,” Zach said. “Not much though.”

“Are you good at math?”

Zach shook his head. “Not very. It’s boring.”

“What do you like?” Carefully, aware of the way Zach watched him, Ramón neatly cut his meat, put the knife down and shifted his fork to his right hand. “Music, maybe?”

“Music is for sissies.” He cast a glance toward Tonio, who steadfastly ignored him. “I like art.”

Ramón nodded. That didn’t surprise him. “I bet you draw birds, don’t you?”

“How’d you know that?”

“I’ve seen a few of them. You’re quite an artist.”

Zach shrugged. Ramón repeated the process of cutting his meat, then looked at Tonio. His plate of food was largely untouched. “Is your mouth bothering you?” Ramón asked.

Tonio gave him a sullen glance and shook his head. “I couldn’t quite hear you,” Ramón said.

Tonio sighed gustily and said, “No.”

“You need to eat something, then. Do you have homework tonight?”

Ramón grinned. “Shall I guess what it is? Do you have math like our little friend here?”

Not even a hint of a smile, Ramón noted with an inward chuckle. Often he could use a little teasing to bring healing to their relationship after a sharp punishment. He tried again. “English? Science?”

“Yeah and no.” The faintest ease of features erased the scowl on Tonio’s brow.

Ramón decided not to push it, but after supper, he called Tonio into his office. It was an old-fashioned room, with a long window facing the mountains. Shelves filled with Ramón’s beloved books lined the walls—a good many of them in Spanish by the new wave of Latin novelists. It was one of the great joys of his life that he could read such beautiful novels in their original language.

Tonio draped himself over an overstuffed chair. He didn’t speak, just sprawled, working a toothpick in his mouth, and waited for Ramón.

Ramón, too, took his time. He shelved several books, then sat down in the comfortable office chair he’d bought for himself two years ago. “We should talk about this, son. It isn’t like you to be out of control.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“One of the things I’ve always liked about you, Tonio, is your strong feelings. But you can’t let those feelings rule you. It’s okay to be mad. Furious, even. It’s okay to be frustrated and hurt and anything else.” He leaned forward earnestly. “Feel anything you want to feel—it’s all okay. You just can’t act on those feelings inappropriately. And you have to eventually get to the moment when you ask yourself, what do I want?”

Tonio waited.

Ramón hated these scenes. Hated them and often wondered how much benefit they were. But he had them with almost all the kids, all the time. The boys were out of control, and had no disciplinary tactics to help themselves out of the sticky situations into which their mouths or hearts or screaming hormones got them.

He tried again. “What you really want doesn’t have anything to do with Edwin.”

“Oh, yes, it does. You know what I feel like when I see him? I want to break his face.”

“Under the circumstances, that’s a very normal feeling. It just isn’t okay to do anything about it.” Ramón clasped his hands. “The bottom line here is the girl. Teresa, right?”

Tonio nodded.

“Edwin could give you dirty looks from morning till night if he weren’t going with the girl you want.”

Tonio looked stung. “I really like her,” he said with lowered eyes. “And Edwin is mean to girls. He won’t be nice to her for very long.”

“That may be, but if you really like this girl, you have to respect her ability to make her own decisions. Even one you think is bad.”

“But what if he really is mean to her?”

Ramón pursed his lips. Here was a sticky wicket. “Unless he gets verbally abusive in public or actually hurts her physically, there aren’t many options.”

“That su—stinks.”

“I know.”

“Did you ever get a broken heart?” Tonio asked quietly.

Ramón looked out the window, remembering a day long ago, when a slim, pregnant teenager had stolen his heart. “Yes,” he said. “It hurts every time. But eventually, you realize it won’t kill you, even if it feels like it will.”

Tonio sighed. “I hope so.”

“Trust me, Antonio. Like any wound, it’ll get better eventually.”

The boy nodded. “Thanks, Dad. Can I go now?”

“Sure.” He rubbed Tonio’s arm. “Hang in there, kid.”

After he left, Ramón swiveled to look out the window, thinking about wounded hearts and emotions running amok. He thought about kissing Tanya this afternoon. He couldn’t remember the last time anything had made him feel so much. While their lips moved together, and he felt her hair on his hands, he’d felt dizzy, adrift. Alive like he hadn’t been in a long time.

If the truth were told, he’d spent most of the day in a state of semi arousal. Everything set him off—her neat little hands, the movement of her small breasts beneath her shirt, the way she turned her head to look at the spines of books. Every move she made pleased him, aroused him, made him want to make love to her. Now.

But that state of arousal had less to do with a need to see or touch or kiss any particular body part—though he’d certainly enjoy nibbling a breast—than it did with Tanya herself. The woman she was, the woman she’d fought to save. The lean and wary survivor she’d become.

He’d told himself not thirty-six hours ago that he had to leave her alone. She needed time and space to sort out her life and options before she jumped into another relationship. She needed to live on her own and experience life without a man or the state making her decisions for her.

It killed him to think of it, though—think of her leaving the ranch after he’d waited so long to have her here. He liked the way she fit here. She was a good cook and a talented baker, but he was more impressed with her ability to mother all the lost boys in his care. They gathered around her like hummingbirds around four-o’clocks, taking nourishment from her calm voice and encouraging laughter.

For the sake of those boys, for the sake of Tonio, who would eventually learn Tanya was his mother, and for Tanya’s sake, Ramón had to leave her alone. No more kisses. No more sexy teasing. None of it.

But a lonely, hungry voice in his head protested, She’s the one! The One.

* * *

Tanya was right about the arm. It was painful the first night but felt much better the next day. By the time a week had passed, she not only didn’t hurt anymore, but had grown so used to the stitches that she did everything she’d done without them. Soon she’d have to go to town to get them removed.

It was a peculiar week in many ways. The weather was brilliant—sunny and dry and warm. Indian summer. Her morning runs were exhilarating.

Tonio spent a lot of time in the kitchen, as did Zach. They talked, both of them, about everything and anything, as they peeled potatoes, or chopped carrots and tomatoes, or plucked freshly killed chickens of their feathers—a task Tanya particularly loathed. She’d grown used to eating animals she’d formerly seen running around the chicken coop, but didn’t like being able to identify which particular chickens she was chopping into pieces.

There was one bad moment on a bright sunny afternoon. Although they sometimes played the radio, Desmary had complained of a headache and turned it off that afternoon. Outside were the sounds of other boys at their chores—feeding chickens and pigs, sweeping the barn. Tanya creamed brown sugar and eggs in a huge metal bowl while Tonio cracked walnuts from a huge bag someone had given them. It was tedious work, but he picked out nutmeats happily enough as long as he could nibble on some of them. It amazed her how much these boys ate—all of them nibbled, grazed, gulped,
ate,
all the time.

Tanya paused in her stirring to reach for vanilla and a measuring spoon, humming tunelessly to herself as was her habit. It had driven Victor around the bend, that humming, and yet she couldn’t seem to drop it. It was a part of her, like having blue eyes or mousy brown hair.

One and a half teaspoons per batch, which meant four and a half teaspoons for this tripled recipe. She measured two and was pouring a third when Tonio demanded in a harsh voice, “What is that song?”

Tanya had to think. Which song was she humming today? An old folk song she’d learned at her one foray into camp when she was in sixth grade. “I don’t know what it’s called,” she said with a grin. “We always called it ‘There are suitors at my door.” She sang the first line.

And remembered.

This song, along with “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” “The Ants Come Marching Home” and “The Cruel War,” was part of her humming repertoire. It was the song Tonio had said he remembered his mother singing, the one about rivers running up hill and fish flying and a woman getting married the day before she died.

Tonio stared fiercely at her, his eyes ablaze with anger and hurt and a thousand questions. Standing there with the scent of vanilla in her nose, the notes of a song dying between them, Tanya willed him to remember, so the lie could be over. So she could stop tiptoeing around him. Softly she sang the last verse, the one he remembered.

“Stop it,” he said fiercely. “Don’t sing that song anymore.”

“Why?” she asked quietly.

“I just hate it, that’s all.” He stood up violently, nearly knocking over the chair, and bolted out of the room.

With a shaky sigh, Tanya measured another teaspoon of vanilla and couldn’t remember if she had added three or four. Better too little in this instance, she decided, and stirred it in.

She wondered how long it would be before he would guess. If he guessed—she supposed there was no reason for him to do so. Her hair was not long and blond anymore. Her body was lean and hard, rather than round and soft. Her name was Tanya, not the diminutive Annie he more than likely would remember.

And yet, the song was powerful. It was one she’d sung to him before bed every night. Every night. She’d even considered putting a tape of it inside the diaper bag she took to the day-care woman’s house that last night, but hadn’t had time.

The incident disturbed her all afternoon. That evening, wearing a jacket over her sweatshirt, she sat on the back porch gutting pumpkins to be used as jack-o’-lanterns. The seeds she put in a huge bowl for roasting later.

The night was fresh and cool, smelling of distant leaf burnings and rustling grass. Indian summer in New Mexico was truly glorious. She loved being able to sit outside after dark in October.

The screen door creaked and Tanya glanced over her shoulder to see Ramón coming to join her. He carried two mugs of coffee, and put one down beside her on an overturned orange crate. “Thought you might like this,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He, too, had been a little odd this week. After the kisses last Saturday, she’d known a pleasurable sense of arousal and anticipation. But he steered clear of her, and at meals or other functions when he could not avoid her, he treated her like a sister, with friendly respect.