This Red Rock Read Free

But
    damn him, with his unexpected warmth, he wasn"t making it
    easy.
    “I grew up down near Santa Fe,” he said, shaking his
    head slightly in response to my question and laughing
    shortly. “Closer to home than you expected, right? Folks up
    here always assume I must be Mexican because of my
    accent.”
    “I hadn"t noticed,” I lied.
    He smiled, and countered, “You had. But you weren"t
    listening properly, were you?” He laughed again, not at me,
    but with me, and I felt myself soar a little, despite myself.
    “My parents are Spanish. Real old Spanish, from Spain. It"s
    my first language.” He shrugged. “Mexican Spanish is
    completely different.”
    “I know that,” I told him, earnestly, and then laughed
    back. “You guys lisp.”
    “That"s right!” He grinned at me, and shifted his weight
    in the dirt. “Important distinction, man. We lisp because
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    we"re aristocrats. Don"t forget it.”
    “Oh, I won"t.” I was leaning back a little, angling my
    body toward him. It was an unconscious movement, the kind
    of stance I took up in San Diego bars, entirely unsuited to
    the bright dawn sun of a New Mexico cattle ranch, but I
    wasn"t thinking. He was easy to talk to, this guy, this Oro. I
    could see now that there might be something in this summer
    for me, so long as I kept a hold on myself, didn"t let myself
    get out of hand. If I could be content just to ride the ragged
    edge of flirtation, enough that there"d always be a margin of
    plausible deniability, maybe Oro and I could be friends, kind
    of. Maybe we could have some fun.
    “You an aristocrat too, hrrm?” He gestured at my hands,
    which l had unconsciously stuffed back into my pockets in a
    way that now felt abruptly and distressingly awkward. I
    grinned at him nervously, and withdrew them again.
    “I wanna do what common people do,” I quoted glibly,
    the back of my throat tensing up the moment the words were
    out of my mouth at the realization that this guy, unlike
    everyone at UC San Diego, would almost certainly not have
    Pulp"s back catalog memorized and on hand to quip with.
    Probably he"d just think I was being an ass. But he went on
    smiling, although he shook his head a little in a way that
    told me he thought there was some reference in there
    somewhere, but that he was missing it.
    “Well,” he said, tipping his head toward the long shed
    that ran along the outskirts of the great dirt-field where the
    majority of the work seemed to be going on, “I"m sure I can
    fix that for you, if you want some help getting started.” The
    gesture was an obvious invitation, and, combined with the
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    half-step he took in the direction of the shed, I deduced that
    he wanted me to follow him. My hands, forced out of their
    usual hiding place, felt over-large and superfluous. I found
    that I had no idea what to do with them, and quickly tucked
    them behind my back.
    “Thanks,” I said, my gratitude so heartfelt that I was
    sure it had to be fully audible in my voice. “Simple things
    first, I think.”
    “Oh, I can find you simple,” Oro said, his voice thick
    with amusement as he led the way in long, certain strides,
    the pointed toes of his boots leaving triangles of purpose in
    the dust. “Things don"t get simpler than mucking out.”
    I should have known that was coming. I snorted, and
    kicked up a little cloud of dust as I tripped after him. “They
    don"t,” I conceded, humbly. “I"m sure that"s the best place to
    start.”
    “It is,” Oro informed me brightly, shoving open the half-
    gate of the long building, which I now determined was most
    definitely a stable, divided up into a number of neat little
    stalls. When I had followed him inside, he bolted the gate
    behind us, and cast about the room with his eyes, evidently
    in search of something. The something turned out to be a
    spade, which he located quickly, and pressed into my hands.
    “Which ones need doing?” I