A Cowboy's Redemption

“What kind of job?”

“Counseling troubled teens.”

Cruz had spent more than a decade behind bars and the experience had left him jaded. He was the last person who should mentor gangbangers.

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Last week Cruz had met with his parole officer and had been handed a laundry list of do’s and don’ts—the most important being that he stay the hell away from Albuquerque and gangs. Fine by him. There was nothing left in the barrio but bad memories. Cruz was free to move about the state as long as he reported in to his parole officer on a weekly basis.

“What are your plans?” Fitzgerald asked.

“I don’t have any yet.”

“We both know what you’re qualified to do.”

Rodeo. Cruz had promised himself that when he left prison he’d never ride again. What had once been a dream—becoming a world-champion saddle-bronc rider—had been stolen from him the moment the gun had gone off in his hand.

He’d had a hell of a rodeo run in prison and his prowess in the saddle had earned him the respect of the inmates and guards and those living in the surrounding community. But no matter how accomplished he’d become, he was still a felon cowboy and his victories were tainted.

“I’ve had my fill of rodeo,” Cruz said. All he wanted now was to be by himself and reclaim the sense of peace that had been ripped from him when the judge had handed down his sentence.

“If you won’t accept the job then you’re going to need these.” Fitzgerald dropped a set of keys in Cruz’s hand.

“Shorty wanted you to have his wheels.” Fitzgerald pointed to an older-model red Ford parked next to a Dodge Ram with a man sitting in the front seat—probably an employee from the ranch.

Before Cruz found his voice, Fitzgerald said, “I’d better get on the road. We have a group of boys arriving in a few days and Maria’s got me busy until then.” He shook Cruz’s hand. “I’ll tell her that you’ll visit soon.”

When Fitzgerald reached his vehicle, Cruz called out, “You hear much from Alonso or Victor these days?”

“Come out to the ranch and Maria will fill you in on the guys.” Fitzgerald hopped into the Dodge and drove off, leaving Cruz alone.

Alone was good. Alone was his normal. Even among the thousands of prisoners he’d lived with daily, he’d always been alone.

He stared at the Ford. The sun glinted off the shiny paint, highlighting minor dings and scratches on the doors. Fitzgerald must have run the pickup through a car wash on the way to the prison. As he crossed the lot an image of Shorty popped into his head—gray hair, scruffy beard, bow-legged and cheek swollen with chewing tobacco. The retired bullfighter could spit tobacco juice twenty-five feet through the air.

Cruz pressed the key fob and unlocked the truck. He slid behind the wheel, then remembered he didn’t have a valid driver’s license. He’d have to remedy that sooner rather than later. He rummaged through the glove compartment and discovered the truck’s title—it was in Fitzgerald’s name. Cruz assumed Fitzgerald was paying the insurance on the vehicle. He shut the glove box then started the engine. The needle on the gas gauge registered a full tank—enough fuel to get him the hell away from this place by the end of the day.

He turned on the air conditioning and adjusted the vents toward his face. Freedom was feeling more real every second. When he buckled his seat belt, he noticed the envelope sitting on the passenger seat with his name scrawled on the front. He tore open the seal and removed the handwritten note.

If yer reading this, son, then I must be ten feet under in the boot yard. I was hoping I’d be there to greet ya when ya got out of the slammer but the ol ticker must have quit ticking.

Cruz’s eyes watered. Damn Shorty for dying.

What the hell, man? Did you think life wouldn’t go on for others while you were in prison?

Yes. No. Shit.

I ain’t never spent time in prison, but I had a friend who did and it took a while fer him to get used to being free. Ya gotta stay out of trouble, son. The best place fer ya is the circuit. Ya keep riding just like ya did in prison and before ya know it, yer pent-up anger n pain’ll disappear.

Cruz rubbed his eyes, ignoring the moisture that leaked onto his fingertips.

I made sure Fitzgerald set ya up proper-like fer the next go-round. Do me proud, son. That’s all I ask. See ya on the other side—but not too soon, ya hear?

Shorty.

Cruz glanced into the backseat. A Stetson sat next to brand-new rodeo gear, including a saddle for bronc riding. Next to the gear rested a duffel bag. He unzipped the canvas. Several pairs of jeans, shirts, underwear and socks were packed inside along with a Ziploc bag of toiletries. A belt and pair of cowboy boots rested on the floor. Had Shorty paid for all this?

A sharp stab of guilt pricked Cruz. Each year he’d rodeoed for the prison, he’d given the warden a list of people he wanted to deny entrance to—Fitzgerald and his wife, Maria, and Shorty—because he’d let them down and he didn’t have the guts to face them. And his two best friends, Alonso and Vic. Alonso because he couldn’t bear to see the sympathy in his eyes, and Vic because he should have been the one sitting in prison—not Cruz.

Included in the envelope was a list of summer rodeos. Shorty had backed Cruz into a corner. The last thing he wanted to do was ride another bronc, but out of respect for the old man, he’d rodeo until he figured out what to do with his life.

First things first. He needed a job. The fifty dollars in his pocket wouldn’t last long. His best bet was to look for work in a city like Las Cruces. Instead, he drove west, hoping to find temporary employment on a ranch or a farm. As soon as he earned enough money to keep the gas tank filled and pay a handful of entry fees, he’d hit the circuit.

Cruz drove over two hours before giving in to the gnawing hunger in his gut. When he whizzed past a billboard displaying a faded and tattered advertisement for Sofia’s Mexican Cantina in Papago Springs, he took the exit and drove the frontage road for a mile before arriving in the one-horse town.

The two-block map dot consisted of abandoned mobile homes and bankrupt businesses. The gas station’s single pump was missing its hose and the attached convenience store was packed from floor to ceiling with junk. Behind the station an antiques shop and Cut & Dry Hair Salon sat vacant.

The only two places that appeared open for business were The Pony Soldier—a bar with a life-size plaster horse spinning on a pole attached to the roof—and Sofia’s Mexican Cantina, which was located inside an adobe house. Next to the restaurant sat a corral with two donkeys and a horse, a lean-to, a barn and a rusted, windowless single-wide trailer. A newer SUV was parked alongside a battered pickup in front of the home.

He’d dreamed of his first meal as a free man taking place at a Waffle House. His mouth watered when he thought of how long it had been since he’d eaten homemade biscuits and gravy. But it appeared he was destined—at least for today—to eat what he’d eaten in prison, more bland refried beans and rice. He parked next to the SUV and noticed a Help Wanted sign in the window of the restaurant.

He knocked but no one answered. When he tested the knob, the door opened. The smell of chorizo and fry bread assaulted his nose and he forgot all about biscuits and gravy. The front room had been converted into a waiting area. He tapped the bell on the counter to announce his presence. A beautiful blonde with blue eyes and an engaging smile appeared out of nowhere.

“Hello.” Her feminine voice sounded foreign to Cruz and he thought for a moment that he’d imagined it. “Welcome to Sofia’s Mexican Cantina.” She peered behind him. “Are you dining alone?”

Temporarily speechless, he nodded.

“Right this way.”

The subtle sway of her feminine hips mesmerized him as he followed her into another room. She ushered him to the table by the window, which looked out at the donkeys and the lone horse. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

She held out a laminated menu. “My name is Sara Mendez.”

Her smile and twinkling blue eyes shot his concentration to smithereens. It had been a long time since he’d been this close to a pretty woman.

“If you’re not in a hurry, José will cook anything you want.”

Oh, man, he was so not in a hurry.

“His specialty is pork tamales and chicken enchiladas.”

Hopefully anything José cooked would be better than the prison slop he’d consumed. “I’ll take a tamale and an enchilada.”

“You won’t be disappointed.” She hurried off, her long ponytail swinging behind her.

Left alone he stared out the window, watching the animals in the corral. He’d thought a lot about the day he’d finally be free from prison and none of the scenarios he’d imagined had been anywhere close to this.

And today wasn’t over with.

His ears caught the sound of shoes scuffing against the floor and he spotted a miniature shadow ducking out of sight behind the doorway. Sara returned with a basket of chips, homemade salsa and a glass of water.