barking with equal fervor at the woman and the snake. He started to hand her the water, then remembered the phone and flipped it closed and shoved it into his pocket. She looked too weak to lift the canteen to her lips, so he knelt to roll her over and support her head as he poured some into her mouth. Her lips were parched and swollen, and with her turned over he could see blood on her shirt or blouse or whatever it was. A lot of blood. He pulled at it to see the wound, but she recoiled.
“Are you hurt?” he said.
She had to spit out some dust and mud to get the water pasther swollen tongue. Finally she drank, all the time looking at him with huge brown eyes.
He fumbled for the Spanish word, trying to bring it back from his high school days. “¿Duele?” he said.
She tipped the canteen again and drank. Then she lay back and closed her eyes. He checked her pulse. It was strong. He picked her up, cradling her like an infant to his chest. She was light, but even a hundred pounds of deadweight was difficult to carry. His phone buzzed as he stumbled to the horse. How could he get her back to the ranch?
He let her feet go and held her with one arm while he fished for the phone.
“This is Border Patrol. Did you just call?” a woman said.
“Yes, ma’am, I . . . ran into some trouble. . . .”
“Who is this?”
“Sorry, ma’am, I made a mistake. Called the wrong number. My apologies.”
The woman muttered something and hung up.
The sun moved higher, spiking the temperature. It had reached 117 the day before, and with not a cloud in sight, he figured today would be no different. He thought about calling Slocum but decided against it. The man would just haul her to the nearest Border Patrol and wash his hands.
He hoisted the woman, limp as a dishrag, toward the saddle, but the horse backed away. J. D. cursed and grabbed the reins, which only made things worse, the horse circling. He let go of the reins.
“Easy,” he said calmly, a hand on the horse’s head.
His father’s voice came back to him. “The animal senses your fear. Relax. You don’t have to control it. You only have to guide it.”
He tried again, but he misjudged the woman’s weight andhad to pull her back. Finally he placed her in the shade of a cactus, removed the saddle, and straightened the blanket on the horse’s back. Then he pushed her up with one hand on her chest and another on her backside to place her on the horse. She was a girl, a tiny thing.
He led the horse to a rock and climbed up to sit behind her, steadying her weight with one hand. He tried to go as quickly as he could without jostling her, a hand in the middle of her back. Feet dangling, her body bouncing as they climbed higher, J. D. wondered where the girl had been and where she was going and what all of this meant to him.
“Who are you?” he said.
2
J. D. CARRIED THE WOMAN into the schoolhouse and placed her on his bed, the rising dust troubling him where it hadn’t before. It was inhuman keeping her here in the heat of the tin roof, but he had no choice. Her legs were streaked with blood, and he slipped off her remaining sandal and put it on the floor. She hadn’t stirred as he rode nor when he carried her into the room. But she was breathing and she had a pulse.
He glanced out the dirty window by the bed and was reasonably sure no one had seen them. The door faced away from the farmhouse, and he had brought the horse up by the mesquite trees to keep hidden. With school out, the kids would soon stir and Mrs. Slocum would be busy in the kitchen or with the goats. Who knew where Slocum was—probably asleep or at the well cussing at the busted motor. It was a full-time job, that drywell. J. D. couldn’t understand why he didn’t spend the money to dig a new one.
He pulled the fan closer and pointed it toward the woman’s face so that her hair moved in dark tendrils. Fighting the old feelings that stirred, he dipped a clean rag in the basin, wrung
“Are you hurt?” he said.
She had to spit out some dust and mud to get the water pasther swollen tongue. Finally she drank, all the time looking at him with huge brown eyes.
He fumbled for the Spanish word, trying to bring it back from his high school days. “¿Duele?” he said.
She tipped the canteen again and drank. Then she lay back and closed her eyes. He checked her pulse. It was strong. He picked her up, cradling her like an infant to his chest. She was light, but even a hundred pounds of deadweight was difficult to carry. His phone buzzed as he stumbled to the horse. How could he get her back to the ranch?
He let her feet go and held her with one arm while he fished for the phone.
“This is Border Patrol. Did you just call?” a woman said.
“Yes, ma’am, I . . . ran into some trouble. . . .”
“Who is this?”
“Sorry, ma’am, I made a mistake. Called the wrong number. My apologies.”
The woman muttered something and hung up.
The sun moved higher, spiking the temperature. It had reached 117 the day before, and with not a cloud in sight, he figured today would be no different. He thought about calling Slocum but decided against it. The man would just haul her to the nearest Border Patrol and wash his hands.
He hoisted the woman, limp as a dishrag, toward the saddle, but the horse backed away. J. D. cursed and grabbed the reins, which only made things worse, the horse circling. He let go of the reins.
“Easy,” he said calmly, a hand on the horse’s head.
His father’s voice came back to him. “The animal senses your fear. Relax. You don’t have to control it. You only have to guide it.”
He tried again, but he misjudged the woman’s weight andhad to pull her back. Finally he placed her in the shade of a cactus, removed the saddle, and straightened the blanket on the horse’s back. Then he pushed her up with one hand on her chest and another on her backside to place her on the horse. She was a girl, a tiny thing.
He led the horse to a rock and climbed up to sit behind her, steadying her weight with one hand. He tried to go as quickly as he could without jostling her, a hand in the middle of her back. Feet dangling, her body bouncing as they climbed higher, J. D. wondered where the girl had been and where she was going and what all of this meant to him.
“Who are you?” he said.
2
J. D. CARRIED THE WOMAN into the schoolhouse and placed her on his bed, the rising dust troubling him where it hadn’t before. It was inhuman keeping her here in the heat of the tin roof, but he had no choice. Her legs were streaked with blood, and he slipped off her remaining sandal and put it on the floor. She hadn’t stirred as he rode nor when he carried her into the room. But she was breathing and she had a pulse.
He glanced out the dirty window by the bed and was reasonably sure no one had seen them. The door faced away from the farmhouse, and he had brought the horse up by the mesquite trees to keep hidden. With school out, the kids would soon stir and Mrs. Slocum would be busy in the kitchen or with the goats. Who knew where Slocum was—probably asleep or at the well cussing at the busted motor. It was a full-time job, that drywell. J. D. couldn’t understand why he didn’t spend the money to dig a new one.
He pulled the fan closer and pointed it toward the woman’s face so that her hair moved in dark tendrils. Fighting the old feelings that stirred, he dipped a clean rag in the basin, wrung
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