Filthy Secret

LUPITA

I turn on the flame for the stove’s back burner when the screen door rattles. “Lupita,” Dad yells from the front porch. “Open this damn door.”

I rush back to find him glaring down the drive. His frown lines are deep trenches, a sure sign of his mood and the lecture I’m about to get.

“Mija, get the door.” Mom’s urgent plea comes from somewhere out of sight. “Your father’s had a bad morning.”

Great, just what I needed to hear. “Sorry. I had the screen locked,” I add under my breath as I fumble with the lock. Meanwhile, tension’s coming off her like a thick blanket. “There you go.” I push the door open, letting her in while Dad keeps looking out at the driveway, his arms crossed.

She grabs my hand, pulling me along. “I’m so glad you were locked in tight,” she says loud enough for Dad to hear while she gives me the sideeye. “Please don’t push it,” she whispers, sending me ahead. “Just let him vent.”

I turn on the stove as my tummy tightens in concern. Lunch should only take a few minutes. The door slams closed then the snap of the latch echoes in my head. I drop the diced potatoes and carrots into the oil as my pulse hammers against my neck.

“What were you thinking?” Dad asks, his frown still in place.

“Sit down, Jorge,” Mom says, fussing over him. “Lupita will have lunch in a minute.” She pulls a Mexican Coke out of the fridge and sets it on the table.

“What did the guy say to you?” he asks, not budging from the entrance to the kitchen.

“Nothing, really.” I stretch my hand over the pan of rice to test the temperature. “He’d only been here a minute or so, long enough to ask for you and give his name.” Roman de Marco…the memory of his introduction filters through my mind.

“Sit down,” Mom insists.

I reach into the cabinet for a plate, catching his movement from the corner of my eye. “Three or four?”

“Four,” he replies, reaching for the buckle on his gun belt.

At least his anger hasn’t messed with his appetite. “Two for you, Mom?” I scatter the queso fresco along the middle of the red tortilla then roll it up.

“Yes, please.”

“That guy’s up to no good,” Dad grumbles. I heed Mom’s warning and keep my mouth shut. “He has some balls coming here.” “What did he want?” Mom asks.

“Asked if I wanted to lease out the property.”

“Oh…”

The way she leaves the word hanging, as if there’s more she wants to say, speaks volumes. My pulse kicks up immediately.

“And he knows we’re having problems,” he says, his voice much too quiet.

I glance over, trying to gauge his mood. The bluster I can manage, but this has me a little worried.

“Everyone’s having hard times right now,” Mom points out. “It’s the economy.” She’s not wrong. I imagine that’s why Mr. de Marco’s looking at getting some land. “Is leasing something you’d consider?”

Dad draws in a deep breath. “I’m a rancher, Ines.” He shakes his head.

“Taught by a rancher, who was taught by a rancher.” “I know,” Mom says, apologetically.

I add a helping of rice to the enchiladas then cover them in the diced carrots and potatoes. Setting the plates on the table, I take a long look at my poor father.

“It’s all I know how to do,” he says, defeated. “I thought, having a girl, we’d have a Torres who could go to college. That you could make this into a good business for when it’s yours.”

My heart clenches, knowing we don’t have the money for it and the responsibility he feels. “I’m sorry, Dad.” While I could say it’s nobody’s fault, it’ll get him going about the Mendozas. “I can still learn from books.”

He looks me square in the eye, addressing me like he’s never done. “Do you think we should hand over the ranch?”

My mouth goes dry. Taking a step back, I run my palms along my jeans at the hips. Leaving this house, the only life I’ve known, and the place my family has lived for generations is a frightening thought. And what about Dad? All he knows is ranching. Would he end up a ranch hand for one of our neighbors? Then broad shoulders, a powerful jaw, and deep arresting eyes fill my mind. Roman de Marco, our future neighbor. I shake my head slowly. “I don’t know, Dad. I can’t imagine a Torres living anywhere else.”

He exhales then pushes himself up from the chair. He’s lost the stiffness in his shoulders. Is it fatigue or relief? He kisses my forehead. “You’re a good daughter, Lupita.”

I’m not sure what’s more shocking, the fact he asked my opinion, being called a good daughter, or not having him suggest I marry Antonio Mendoza. I can only pray I haven’t made the wrong decision.

***

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“Between yesterday afternoon and this morning, I’ve managed to meet with most of the landowners.”

“That’s good, little brother,” Victor says with enthusiasm. “What do they have to say?”

“In this economy, three are interested in unloading their land.” Two had almost jumped at the offer, but Victor doesn’t need the details.

“Including the one we needed?” he asks, expectantly.

Jorge’s expression fills my mind’s eye. “No.” I blow out a breath. “That was my first stop yesterday afternoon, but the owner wasn’t interested in selling.”

“God damn it.” The sound of his fist slamming on his desk comes through the phone. “That’s the key piece we need.” Knowing Victor, he’s running his hand through his hair in exasperation.

“I also offered the possibility of a long-term lease.”

He scoffs. “Nah. Doesn’t surprise me he wasn’t interested.”

“Leasing would allow him to keep the land in the family and work his way out of the problems he’s having.”

“Well, maybe we can use that to our advantage.”

Oh hell. He’s already gone to the worst-case scenario. Victor’s always been the shoot now and ask questions later type of guy. That’s one reason why half the time our family name makes people retreat a step. “What are you thinking?”

“Talk to our contact. He can tighten the screws and give the guy some incentive,” he concludes, as if it’s a done deal. “If Hugo takes the owner

out, you jump in and talk his family into selling.”

Lupita’s pretty face comes to mind. Somehow, thinking about her being free of family doesn’t seem like such a hardship. Maybe it’s that look of apprehension she had when Jorge turned into the driveway. But I’d like to exhaust all possibilities before resorting to taking a life.

“I’m meeting with one of the Mendozas this afternoon. The old man’s sick, so he’s been laid up.”

“Who’re they?”

I glare at the framed picture of a deer hanging on the hotel room wall, gathering my patience. “They own the property that hits up against La Escuadra,” I remind him. “The other neighbor’s out of state, so I’ll have to track someone down. That area isn’t as favorable, but it’ll have to work if everything else goes wrong.”

Victor laughs. “You’re not really going to be a landowner, Roman. This is to get a straight path up from the river so we can increase distribution.”

Regardless of the result, I’d like to have us fit into the community and keep this under wraps. The trouble Hugo’s causing has disrupted the process enough for me to need to do damage control.

“I’m putting this together like a gigantic puzzle. It’s more about finding the right buyers and lining them up to our advantage.”

“Whatever,” Victor says, dismissing my plan. “Just get me the lane and fuck the rest of them.”