Prologue—The Mule
Bill” and “Mary”, Kyle’s custodians, had turned off and removed the fuse for the air conditioner in the old Buick, and opened the windows. They were approaching the border now, and any conversation they had engaged in earlier now gave way to a nervous silence. Kyle sat alone in the back seat, miserable and sweating badly in the fiery desert heat that propelled the temperature inside their auto to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. But the heat wasn’t his main problem. How had he ever ended up in this position? At only 14 years old, he had still cobbled together the reasoning that what he was doing here wasn’t right. Naturally, he had occasionally transgressed the boundaries of proper teenaged behavior, but he wasn’t a criminal! He had had no desire to follow in his father’s footsteps; yet here he was, a “mule”, carrying his dad’s products from Mexico into the U.S.
Kyle had, among other characteristics, a certain sensitivity toward life; a way of seeing things that was monochromatic. And when his father’s thinly veiled drug trafficking scheme had been pressed on him, he had immediately rejected it, though eventually he had been coerced. As unbelievable as it now seemed to him, this man had also offered additional thinly veiled threats to bring harm to his mom and family at home.
Beyond even that, the idea of the death and misery drugs brought to so many was abhorrent to him for maybe “spiritual” reasons; the lessons from the Bible his grandpa and grandma had taught him long ago, still unforgotten.
“Guillermo and Maria”, whom he had just met prior to this trip, were his supposed grandparents. This familial scheme in transportation of drugs was another diversion. The cartel leadership believed such tactics at the border crossing would be a nail in the coffin of the detection ability by the U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP). Much like how the U.S. foreign intelligence services applied distraction to infiltrations of human assets overseas, the deception almost seemed like a mathematical algorithm predicting the possibility that law enforcement officers might miss the crime. The spy trade in dangerous locations around the world had begun to employ various “masks” to their male dominated operations by joining them with a woman, or even sending in groups (like backpacking students). They thus blurred the lines of the most common operative’s appearance watched for by the enemy as a single, young man. In Kyle’s case, who would readily suspect a young boy and his grandparents of being smugglers of a deadly narcotic?
Kyle had vaguely wished, like most impressionable kids of a missing dad, that his estranged father might be the hero he hadn’t known because of some unfathomable and important world mission that had kept him far away. His mother had given him only the most minimal historical accounts of the man he had never met. She’d never really maligned him, exactly, but had rather dismissed him; and if she hoped she could have gotten away with planting his memory in some graveyard. But she couldn’t sustain that misdirection forever. She gave the barest of outlines on his dad instead; the father he hadn’t known was simply a mysterious figure. Emotionally, he gave his father only a position of neutral existence in his young mind; nothing more. He hadn’t really thought too much about it over the years, though occasionally, his mind wandered and he would quiz his mom, silent as she tried to be about the man.
That was until two years ago, when he was 12. His father, Dylan Rivera, a Mexican national, had appeared out of the mist. Suddenly, Kyle was whisked away to Mexico, to his father’s villa and ranch just over the border, near the town of Ojinaga, the sister city to Presidio on the U.S. side. He had become the more traditional shared “property” of a mom and dad no longer together. For a while, anyway.
At first, he had a bit of happy anticipation to meet and get to know his dad. He was a “don”, an honorific title usually associated with an older Spanish gentleman. He wasn’t aware that the term had also come to mean a Mexican Mafia lord as well. But as time went by, he came to understand it well.
His father, Dylan, had explained that Kyle, while being the subject of shared custody, would spend most of his time with his father, while his mom would become the parent with visitation rights. This was because he was now of an age to assume his role in the Rivera household and business interests. His new status was not open for discussion, nor did his own wishes seem to make any difference at all.
Thus, it had come about that on this initiation into the world of illegal narcotic trafficking, his place as heir to the clandestine world of Dylan’s cartel kingdom was now being put to the test; could he maintain his cool well enough to stay out of jail today? It was something he had never, in his wildest imaginations, contemplated.
It had surprised Guillermo and Maria when the Customs agents had directed them to the auto search area as their turn to cross had come up. They tried to seem nonchalant and cool under this unexpected circumstance, but it was a hard thing to disguise fear completely. Especially since the boy was falling apart and images of long-term prison confinement began to dance in their minds.
And sure enough, the agents had zeroed in on him. The older couple had come somewhat prepared, knowing that Kyle’s first passage in this business might be frightening and could become a telltale. They had prepared false medical reports that identified Kyle as a high-functioning autistic. And that even seemed to match his actual personality. He was brilliant, but often almost anti-social to those not close to him. And he had a certain fearless defiance about him that could pass as characteristics of the condition. Some of Autism’s typical traits included the inability to understand the thoughts and feelings of others, leading to some degree of anxiety in social settings. Additionally, there was a certain inward focus causing a preference to live in their own world; as well as a disinterest in others that manifested sometimes as apparent rudeness, and carelessness (or bluntness) in speech and behavior.
Kyle’s teenaged rebellion, normal for a 14-year-old, naturally seemed to mimic some of these very qualities, as well as his own personal proclivity toward resisting authority based solely on the demand for it. All of that made Guillermo and Maria’s cover story for him just slightly more believable they supposed. They hoped.
But when Kyle was ushered into the cool office of the border agent, it did little to alleviate the heat he was suffering from. He sat across the cold metal table from Agent Cortes, who smiled and offered him a water or soft drink. He readily accepted, hoping to ease the cactus prickles that infested his dry throat.
“Hello, young man! I am Officer Cortes of the U.S. Customs Department. I wonder if you’d be willing to answer a few questions for me?” Again, she smiled pleasantly, though Kyle could see clearly the eagle’s focus in her eye and the almost predatory way she leaned into him across the table.
“Yes ma’am”, Kyle answered nervously.
“What is your name, son?”
“Kyle McCallan, ma’am,” he replied.
“Okay, Kyle. Why were you visiting in Mexico?” she asked.
“I stay with my father, who is Mexican and has a home there.”
“I see. So, your father is Mexican. What is his name, please?”
“His name is Dylan Rivera.” Kyle answered. Officer Cortes jotted down some notes on a pad and nodded subtly at the one-way mirror opposite her chair. Dylan knew exactly what was going on with that. Not really so subtle.
“And your mother?”
“She is American, and her name is Rachel McCallan. I was born in Texas. And my mom still lives there.”
Cortes continued, “So, your parents are divorced. And you spend time with both of them during the year, right?”
“That’s right.” Kyle answered.
“Very well, then. So, you are travelling with your mom’s, or with your dad’s parents then?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Cortes showed signs she was a little impatient with his intentional refusal to be forthcoming with her question.
He finally answered her, seeing the frown she wore. “My dad’s parents, ma’am.”
Officer Cortes seemed to switch gears and light upon the next question, asking, “Are you nervous, Kyle? Because you seem to be a little anxious?”
Kyle thought about just telling her the truth about what he’d been forced into, but thought twice when he remembered the threats Dylan had made toward his family. Instead, he took a swig of his soda and answered, “I don’t enjoy being around things I’m not used to, is all. And I don’t like being interrogated.” Kyle answered testily, a fire sparking in his eyes. He didn’t have to pretend in his answer to that question! Or maybe it was his subconscious plot to divert attention in this most dangerous cat-and-mouse interview. He wasn’t sure. He hated trying to deceive the cat, but he also didn’t automatically accept the role as mouse, either.
“Is that what you think I’m doing here, Kyle? Interrogating you?” Cortes asked, smiling her hungry smile again.
“I don’t know, ma’am. But you asked if I’m nervous. I’m not nervous, but like I said, I’m not so comfortable either. Would you be?”
“Okay, Kyle. I understand. Your grandpa showed me your medical record that seems to suggest that indeed you might be uncomfortable, so let’s move on.”
“What do you want from me?” Kyle now took the lead.
“Well Kyle, as you know, it’s my job to make sure those who cross into the U.S. are appropriately screened so as not to allow foreigners in without proper identification and authorization automatically. Additionally,” and now she seemed to refocus her hawkish gaze on him with a less pleasant smile, “we ensure that no illegal commodities come into the U.S. Do you have any illegal commodities that you’re bringing back from Mexico, Kyle?”
“No, I don’t! I’m just coming back to stay with my mom for a while. My parents are divorced, and this is just what we have to do to be able to see each other. It’s not my first trip, but it is the first time I’ve been treated this way. I don’t know why you would think a kid and his grandparents should be so suspicious!”
“Okay, Kyle. I suppose you’re right.” She was suspicious; it was her job, and the techniques used by drug traffickers included all sorts of deceptions, including the one he’d mentioned. She’d seen it all. But today, she was getting nowhere with this kid, so she decided to end this discussion. Officer Cortes closed her notebook and stood. “I don’t see any reason to detain you or your family any longer. We can go back to your car now.” Her instincts were that this was more than it appeared, but there were other fish to be caught. Time to move on.
At the car, Kyle noted other officers were searching the trunk and actually thumping the spare tire like a melon they wanted to know the ripeness of. Guillermo and Maria stood on the sidewalk nearby. They were a little hard to read, but seemed to be uneasily disguising any nerves with easy conversation.
Finally, the officers, who had lingered a long moment on the tire, were signaled by Cortes, who dismissed further investigation with a small wave of her hand. An officer replaced the tire and their bags and closed the trunk, waving the family back to their vehicle.
Bill thanked the officers for their service and the three got back into their car and moved across the border and into the United States of America.
A mile down the road, Bill stopped at a gas station in Presidio to replace the fuse for the a/c. Kyle got out of the car and jogged over to the side of the building, where he threw up his last meal, thanking God it hadn’t been his last meal.
Right then, he decided he would have nothing more to do with such adventures. He also decided his “father” was a total asshole and he would find a way to get back home to his mom and family as soon as possible.
Part One—Desert Rescue
Chapter One—Rachel McCallan
Rachel McCallan was the only child of her parents, and the fifth generation to have lived in the United States, transplants from the Scottish Highlands. From great-great grandparents who had immigrated from Scotland, that family had gone to New Hampshire but later moved to the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina.
A scuffle over another man making improper advances toward his wife in a general store had left the offending party blind in one eye and morally obligated to see to revenge against the upstart husband. A decade of feuding finally convinced the Scots to leave their home and migrate to the wide-open spaces of Texas, where they settled in the west-central town of Ft. Stockton.
A surprising line-up of famous American legends had a Scotch-Irish heritage, men like Sam Houston, Stephen F. Austin, Davy Crockett, and Jim Bowie. There was even a Cherokee Indian chief, Chief Bowles, who was of mixed Scottish and Indian heritage. The chief was described as ‘decidedly Gaelic in appearance, having light eyes, red hair and somewhat freckled.’”[2]
By the time Rachel came along, the family had moved to the Ft. Davis, Texas, location she now lived in. Her grandfather Liam was a Presbyterian churchman and both he and his wife Lilias served their community as pastors for many years, leading others to Christ by their compassionate and Godly lifestyles. That included many Mexican “illegals” whose lives were changed dramatically from the hopelessness of their situations after seeking the pastor’s help to become documented U.S. immigrants.
The two had raised their children to accept and walk in the same faith and blessings they had preached for so many years. Rachel’s mom and dad were committed Christians, but seemed less than completely successful in conveying the truth of the Gospel they so loved to their only child.
With Rachel, her grandparent’s, and parent’s faith seemed to stall. She grew up very curious and a little wild, not such a great combination in her case. When she was 17, she took a dramatic off-ramp into a dangerous and costly choice that would affect the rest of her life.
With her friends, she had plans to attend college after school, and they had all set up a final farewell “ceremony” to migrate them into the new world of unrestrained adult self-determination. It started with a wild night in the self-proclaimed live music capital of the world. Rachel wanted to be a musician and eventually teach music. She was an accomplished cellist already, and had performed in a number of musical presentations, including a prior competition in Austin, the mecca of new artists of various disciplines, but especially music.
Visiting again, now as a young woman, she and her rowdy girlfriends, Tiffany and Brittany, had attended a lively modern music concert in which a handsome Mexican boy led a band, playing his rocking guitar like it was on fire. She caught his eye, a stunning and well curved young woman, dressed invitingly, and whose enthusiasm for his performance strayed beyond the appreciation of music. After he left the stage, he made his way over to her and her friends, who were similarly drooling over him.
And he knew he was to be drooled over. He was over 6’ tall, with an athletic figure and bronzed skin tone. His hair was jet black, cut in an old “Quinn Dean” style. His eyes, black as hell itself identified him as one of its own. His smile, with perfect teeth, made women swoon. And he could play guitar like it was going out of style. He used it all to effect.
“Hola, senorita,” he spoke his oily Spanish greeting. He eyed her with thinly disguised lasciviousness, barely able to keep from licking his lips. She hardly minded that; his attention was correctly focused on her. That she was behaving exactly as the cliche mindless groupie. It was inconsequential in her estimation.
Within minutes, she had accompanied him to his hotel room where she enjoyed Tequila and shared the great Mexican “bud” he proffered. By the time an hour had passed, the rocker (Dylan was his name), had her undressed in his bed, with her own drunken enthusiasm far surpassing his own. For him, it was merely a night’s pleasure; for her a new beginning outside the realm of her anciently backward parents. Dylan would be her entertainment this evening, her first sexual affair. She seemed completely up to it, with nothing in the way of nerves or hesitation. In fact, she took to him energetically and with a hunger she meant to satisfy. She’d been indoctrinated enough by her carefree friends to expect great things; and he hadn’t disappointed her. Much.
The next morning, she awoke with a monstrous headache and alone in the hotel room. Dylan was nowhere to be seen. Strangely, she now felt a little hurt, maybe even angry—maybe mostly at herself, although she wasn’t sure why. She had finally done what she had wanted to accomplish for some time; she had put her parent’s restrictive morality and lifeless rulebook behind. She was FREE! She could move into the realm of grown women who enjoyed the exact same pleasures in life that a man did.
But it didn’t feel that way. A voice in her head was telling her she had freely given away something precious and unretractable. Not that virginity was such a big deal anymore! Was it? But if felt like a kind of bad deal to her. Regardless of the momentary pleasures of the flesh her friends had so thoroughly convinced her would be her passage into adulthood, it disturbed her she might have followed the wrong advice. She truly wanted love, but knew she had accepted a cheap knock-off by listening to and following the crowd. The overnight affair had lasted a few short hours (more like minutes, if she recalled rightly), and now her “lover” was gone, probably forever. Whatever she had to show for the encounter had lasted only a night, and had left just a hangover and little else to recall pleasantly.
A deep gray sense of shame overtook her, blocking out the bright morning sunlight pouring in through the hotel room windows. It made her uncomfortable to think that maybe her parents had been right, but she couldn’t shake the idea. Maybe waiting for marriage with a proven love who wanted HER and not just what she could give to satisfy his animal lust was what she really wanted. Hell with all the others who had convinced her of how great it would be! They sure didn’t seem so damned happy with their own frequent carnal encounters, now that she really thought about it! They had sold their souls for a bowl of soup! And now, so had she.
It was water under the bridge now, though. She returned to her home in Ft. Davis, and life went on as usual. For a while. A very short while.
After weeks of feeling strangely nauseous and ill, and with hormonal attacks wreaking havoc with her emotions, she was not really too surprised when the test kit revealed the pregnancy.
She wasn’t one to try to hide the truth from her parents; no, they always knew what was happening with her, anyway. One evening after dinner, she called her mom and dad to sit with her in the living room where, sobbing, she told them the whole sad story and begged for their forgiveness and help in the days ahead. Her name, Rachel, which meant “purity” was certainly not how she had behaved.
She wasn’t sure what to expect, but what she got wasn’t quite it. Both of them came to her on the couch, put their arms around her and wept with her. Her dad said it was a cowardly man who would do such a thing, a pig of a man. Rachel confessed she was just as much at fault, since she had followed all her “friends” advice to go with the handsome Mexican and enjoy herself. She should find a new life, with the freedom to experience sexual pleasures, they had convinced her. Why should only the men be able to enjoy that freedom? But the next morning, she had realized her mistake. But too late.
Her parents did forgive her and help her, and the next few months were filled with cautious anticipation and joy. Rachel’s mom and dad didn’t try to dismiss the hardships ahead for her, nor did they let her believe they would assume responsibilities she had unwittingly bargained for that night in Austin. She would have to accept the consequences and make a path for her and her new baby. Oh, they’d help her along, certainly. But it was her life and she would have to live it, through the good and the bad. And Rachel was okay with that; she was never one to sidestep responsibility, or even consequences.
Rachel ended up attending a community college and then, with her parent’s help, going on to Sul Ross State University a short distance away in Alpine. Sul Ross had a thriving music program, and Rachel came away with her Batchelor of Music degree, graduating Summa Cum Laude. It was a proud day, and her 4-year-old son Kyle, along with mom and dad, celebrated the special day with her. She was then 22 years old.
Surprisingly, Rachel had spent her time in college studying hard and leaving the partying to others. She had learned her lesson, and although she couldn’t undo her past, she wanted to keep the remainder of her dignity and self-worth intact as much as she could. She wasn’t sure why, but it just seemed to her it would be better for her to set those particular needs aside for the time being. It helped that she had developed a disgust for what she had done and the inequity it had created for her family and her.
After school, Rachel was able to land a rather shaky position in the Ft. Davis combined Junior and Senior high school music program, teaching eager young people about the joys she had discovered in music. It was actually what she had prepared for in college; and even though the kids could be rowdy and undisciplined, she loved her job.
Kyle began to grow up and was happy and well cared for between mom and his grandparents, where he often roamed their small cattle ranch, finding adventures at every turn. As he entered grade school, he seemed to become a target for bigger and crueler children, and fighting became a default for him before long. Not that he was prone to violence at all. In fact, he was a curious and thoughtful young man. But he had similarly inherited mom’s indomitable will. He had added a new color to the palette as well; he was fearless. Eventually, the other kids had to extend a grudging olive branch and the respect he had earned.
Mom continued to work in the schools, bringing home an adequate paycheck for their few needs. After some time, Rachel decided it was time for her son and her to strike out on their own, but this time in a much saner and more controlled manner than her teenaged days. Rachel leased a small 2-bedroom studio apartment in town and she and Kyle took up residence on their own. Grandma and grandpa McCallan still helped when they could, contributing a little money, caring for Kyle after school, or chaperoning an occasional field trip, which was a great joy for them.
It wasn’t too long before Kyle broached the subject of his father in a more serious way than Rachel or her parents were able to avoid. Rachel asked her mom and dad if they’d mind helping in the conversation, and they agreed to accompany her and Kyle for a meeting and discussion. Nevertheless, they firmly committed to a non-interference policy in which Rachel must now cover this difficult subject for herself. Their support would be limited to standing with her and affirming their love for them both.
One late spring day, when Kyle was about 8, mom had requested that after school, Kyle ride his bike to meet her at a diner in town called the Desert Dawn Coffee Lounge, a favorite spot for locals. The owners, a Mexican-American couple whom she had befriended by occasional visits, and through community events in the small town, had offered to keep the place open for them (exclusively) past the breakfast and lunch hours they normally were open. After she explained the reason, they were happy to help in this small way, with Rachel hoping a more neutral location might encourage “adult” conversation.
The bells on the diner’s door clinked their musical notes, and Kyle came in smiling, spotting mom and grandparents sitting together at a booth.
“Hi hon,” Rachel offered. “You want a soda or something?”
Maybe trying to accommodate the more mature role he seemed to be invited in through this meeting, he asked, “Can I have coffee, like you guys?”
“Sure, baby! Black? Cream? Sugar? How’d you like it?”
Having little real experience with coffee at 8 years of age, he bravely went all in for “the works”. When Felicia, who was co-owner with her husband Manuel and normally did the table service, came over, they gave her their order for him and she smiled, winking conspiratorially at the adults. She came back minutes later with a creation that could hardly be called “coffee” exactly, but was more like a sweet concoction with a little coffee added for flavor. Kyle accepted the coffee, thanking Ms. Felicia; and when he had tried a sip, smiled broadly and said, “Wow, I really like coffee! No wonder adults always drink this stuff!” The whole table laughed, including Felicia, and even Manuel, behind the counter tallying up the day’s receipts joined in.
Well, it was a good start, Rachel hoped.
“Kyle, I know you’ve been interested in finding out more about your dad, and I’m hoping maybe you can forgive me for not having said much before. But you’re older now, and I think it’s time we had a talk about it, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kyle answered. “I kind of wondered about him.”
“I understand that,” Rachel answered. “To be honest, it is kind of a difficult subject for me, but I’m going to be as open as I can be with you, okay? I won’t lie to you, or try to mislead you, but I need you to understand something…”
“What mom?” Kyle asked.
“It would be nice if we lived in a perfect world, but we sure don’t. So, what I’m going to tell you now will fit squarely in the category of ‘What was I thinking?’ Does that make any sense to you, hon?”
“I guess, mom. Does that mean that I was a ‘mistake’?”
Rachel looked down into her coffee for a long, anxious second. “Kyle, my son, you were NEVER a mistake, and you aren’t one now just because I’m telling you this truth about your dad and I! No, baby, it was never you who was a mistake. It was all ME who was mistaken!”
Before you were born, I was pretty out of control at times. When I graduated from high school, I went out with some wild and stupid friends who convinced my naïve young mind we should celebrate our entrance into what we supposed was adulthood by doing something… bad. We went to a concert in Austin where I met your father, a handsome young Mexican boy who was a rock star to me. Anyway…”
Rachel’s parents, Collin and Bonnie Jean, had sat on separate sides of the booth, allowing Kyle to take a spot opposite his mom for this talk. Bonnie Jean (Bonnie to her family) sat next to Rachel, and now squeezed her hand tightly under the table, with tears welling up to match her daughters.
“Well, I met your dad that evening, and with the help of my misguided friends, chose to spend the night with him. Do you understand what I’m saying, Kyle?” A creased brow and frown let the table know she was struggling to decide how much detail was enough. Thankfully, Kyle answered in a very adult way.
“I do understand, mom. I get the sleeping together stuff…”
Rachel choked on a smile and said through the lump in her throat, “Well, you are a bright young man, and I wouldn’t expect anything less! So, yes, we slept together.”
“I was very young and naïve, and knew nothing of worldly ways with men. I hadn’t known about birth control, and sort of thought it was the man’s job for all that stuff…” Her voice trailed off, and she paused for an uncomfortable change of position in her seat. “After that encounter, I never saw your father again. I didn’t know where to find him, and I supposed he had continued on his rock-concert travels.”
“It wasn’t long before I realized that one night together with him had produced a pregnancy. You were born 9 months or so later. I had told your grandparents about the whole thing, and they stood with me to welcome you into our lives. It was, and has been, ever since, the happiest day of my life. I never regretted your coming to join us, and neither did grandpa and grandma. You have been a welcome addition, and none of us, especially ME, have ever thought of you as a mistake. I regret I did what I did ONLY because you deserved to have a father to watch and help you grow up, and I cheated you out of that…” Rachel began to cry softly, and Collin reached across the table to take her hand.
And then Kyle did the same thing, adding his hand to his grandpa’s. He said, “Mom, I understand, and I would never hold it against you for what happened back then. I don’t think I’ve had it so bad at all, and I have so much love from all of you! I’m happy and thank you for being so great a mom to me, always! I wondered about him, but you know, it’s been fine without him. I hope someday maybe I can meet him, but you are my mom…and, my DAD too! So, thank you. I love you!
Now, the whole dang table was in tears, except for the boy who they had dreaded telling this story to. Mom was creating a puddle of tears on the table, and even Felicia was wiping tears away as she wiped nearby table tops from the lunch crowd.
Kyle’s final act of melting all their hearts was when he took his cloth napkin and wiped mom’s face and knelt on his seat so he could reach mom with a big hug and kiss. Oh, she was done now!
The family finished their coffees, each one in some state of relief over the confession, so hard for Rachel to make, but so important for Kyle to hear and understand. It was a wonderful new start for the young McCallans.
But a troubling storm was brewing over the horizon in Mexico.
Two years had passed since that meeting and the little McCallan family had grown closer and happier than ever. Life with Kyle was becoming a greater and greater adventure, and when he was 9, the family had taken a week-long vacation to attend the Texas Scottish Festival & Highland Games in Decatur. Kyle was immersed in his family’s heritage, a thing his grandparents proudly talked of whenever he would listen. But getting out and seeing his family’s cultural ancestry instilled a new thrill and pride all his own. He loved the kilts, and was totally impressed with the games. He especially loved the caber toss, in which a large log was hoisted and thrown by various strong men. He loved the hammer throw as well. Since he was shorter and stockier than some his age, it just felt good to see these men, who were built like fireplugs, perform feats of amazing strength and stamina. Kyle was built like Collin and as they wandered around the various contests of the fair, he felt honored to be walking among the throngs with the man he so admired and took after.
Then, the unpredictable and discouraging intruded. Rachel lost her job.
The combined junior and senior high school music departments had succumbed to the ongoing cuts coming from serious state education money troubles. Even worse, the parents of the students who might have tried to keep their children in a music program could not afford the ever increasing and often outrageous sums that musical instruments were demanding. The county had held out for as long as they could because of their gratefulness at having such an accomplished and exceptional music instructor in Rachel. She was called in and given a generous gift from her tearful fellow faculty members and parents, with the forlorn hope it might provide at least a bit of time for her to land on her feet in another job.
And Rachel did find another job.
One morning she sat in the Desert Dawn going over the classified ads in the Ft. Davis newspaper and on her Indeed app website on her phone, as she had done nearly every day since being dropped by the school system. Felicia came over with the coffeepot and took a seat next to her.
“Any luck, mija?” Felicia asked, using the warm Spanish term of endearment, which meant “my daughter” or “my little girl”.
“None, Felicia. I’m getting a little frightened. I truly don’t want to move back in with my parents, although they love us both and would welcome us back. And I dread the idea of moving further away from all of you, the life we’ve come to love. But things are getting bad and our area isn’t showing signs of improving any time soon. I don’t have a fabulous resume that I can rely on, anyway. So, it’s a little discouraging. But you know me, I won’t quit!”
“Honey, we love that about you and Kyle—your whole family, really. Listen, Manuel and I have been talking. We truly need some help around here. It’s a big surprise, almost going against the grain, our own business is actually doing great. I mean, better than just the two of us can handle anymore. I’m having to help with baking and cooking, while still keeping the customers happy and fed, while Manuel is racing around in the back trying to get all the meals prepared, stock, keep up with the bakery goods…and don’t even get me started on the bookkeeping! We don’t get home till way after dark most evenings, and then have to be back here in the morning by 5! We’re getting too worn out to keep up this pace, and we really don’t want to lose our love for what we do because it’s overwhelmed us, you know?” Felicia had a worried look in her eyes, and Rachel could see that she was indeed concerned about the future of the restaurant and she and Manuel as well. Could this be an answer to both of their dilemmas?
“Anyway, we wondered if you might be interested in helping us out, at least temporarily, while you’re between real jobs? It would be an amazing answer to prayer for us, and maybe it could help you sort of stay afloat until something better comes along. The only problem I see is that when that good job does show up for you, Manuel and I will have to go out and find someone to take your place!”
Rachel looked up at her dear friend, only slightly older than her, with a little hope. “So, Felicia, that would be so great! But I must make one condition, okay?”
“What’s that?”
“When it comes time for me to go, I promise to help find someone to take my place, okay?”
The two ladies laughed, and Felicia shook Rachel’s hand, saying, “Done!”
“Two questions, Felicia. What do I do, and when do I start?” Rachel looked at Felicia, a huge, relieved smile on her face.
“You’ll be taking my place waiting tables, working the register, and helping my son Mateo bus the tables. Is that okay with you? Unless you can bake and cook?”
“Dangerous, very dangerous!” Rachel laughed. “No, I’d love to do the waiting and bussing. I’m pretty good with people and I think I could pick up the work pretty easily with your help and guidance.”
“Fantastico! Can you start Monday morning? Manuel and I will need to get all your paperwork in order, and put together the new business strategy now that we have some relief!” Felicia called Manuel over and gave him the good news, and he shook Rachel’s hand like she had just delivered the Publisher’s Clearinghouse giant check to them! For all of them, it was a good day, and a hopeful beginning of great things to come.
The Desert Dawn hadn’t always been a coffee lounge, diner, or café (depending upon whom you asked). Built before the turn of the 20th century, it had originally been an old south Texas saloon. There’d been a bar, an old piano and stage for the entertainment, and a whorehouse upstairs. The front of the café still bore the appearance of a saloon, but as the business of alcohol sales suffered some in the 30s, the switch was made to a somewhat more respectable business. The place had been gutted and rebuilt as a diner or café, and since then had been refurbished a number of times. Defying its age and history, the old building was still solid and proud. During the turn of the 21st century, the decision had been made to give the ancient edifice yet another facelift, which had turned it into a more modern version of an eatery, although the exterior style had not been completely altered, except to bring it up to full repair. And inside, rustic wood floors, and tongue-and-groove wood walls and ceiling defined the dining area, with its booths, tables and long counter top with revolving stools.
The upstairs was now used for the Aguilar’s living quarters, which included a nice modern office space. That had required a good deal of redesign and renovating, but in the end, Felicia was very happy. Manuel might have been able to live happily in an old bordello (which was how she referred to the disgusting state of it when they’d bought the place). But she was not about to entertain even the thought of it, no matter how humorous Manuel might have found it to be! She’d be living in a nice, new 21st century home, something he’d better plan on! When it was finally rebuilt, the inside space upstairs had been turned into a sort of condominium. Remnants of the old character of the building remained as concessions to Manuel’s capitulation to Felicia’s unbending requirements. Manuel was a gentle and soft-spoken man, always happy, always kind and generous. So, when he had given in to Felicia’s “demands” with complete and peaceful compliance, she knew it was her turn.
The historical wooden stairway to the long upstairs landing that went from one side of the building to the other was restored, although there weren’t actual doors to bedrooms there. It was now just a long walkway to the entrance of their home through a single door at the end of the passageway. Felicia, who didn’t try to prevent Manuel from having a little fun with it, allowed him to have it rebuilt with some of the appearance of its dubious old western origins. It ended up mischievously decorated with ornate antique chandeliers, fancy Victorian balustrades, and polished wood handrailing. The roguish pieces de resistance were the faux “doors”, complete with numbers in an old west type font, glass doorknobs, and signs announcing the name of the female entrepreneur who “worked” in that room! There were also “Do not disturb” hangers on a few of the doorknobs to add even more comedy.
Surprising to Felicia, what Manuel had gently asked her to allow, had become one of the real draws to the place, and they’d even printed a brief historical account (with an old photograph print) of the saloon/bordello turned café on their menus! A little like the modern-day Cracker Barrel Restaurants, people got a feel of the old-time west by stepping inside. The Aguilars even set up a small section of the entrance as a curio/souvenir store with tee shirts depicting caricatures of old west cathouse “customers” in various comical situations with the girls leading them upstairs to their rooms, with cowboys pulling off their gun belts or suspenders, smiling lustfully! The name advertised on the front read The Desert Dawn Saloon, Brothel, Coffee Lounge! Needless to say, everyone in Ft. Davis owned one or more of the brilliant marketing strategy souvenirs, as did all their relatives across the U.S. and parts of Mexico!
And there was one other delightful holdover from the old west bar-room. At the front of the exterior of the café, was a porch area under a tin portico roof. Because the building sat above a low crawl space, the raised porch was high enough to require wooden steps up. At the top of the steps, before the customers entered the restaurant’s foyer, there was a set of rustic wooden swinging doors, similar to what had once been the actual entrance to the old saloon. It was one more fascinating reminder of the past!
Rachel had been working there a couple of months when early one morning a handsome, well-built cowboy came in through the chiming door. Kyle sat in a booth drinking his coffee (now much more like the real thing) and devouring one of Manuel’s famous sticky buns. They truly were his signatory bakery treat, and the fame of them had spread all around the nearby towns to the many who visited often, and delighted in the addictive sweet magnum opus. Rachel and Felicia had both made a pact to avoid the delicious sweets that Manuel had humorously named “Los Dulces del Diablo” the Devil’s Sweets; and they knew it was true. Damn it!
He made them in the style of Mexican cinnamon sweet rolls, but the real monkey that got on everyone’s back who ate one was the toppings. They were a mortal-sin-worthy concoction of heated confectionary sugar, heavy cream and various secret spices generously ladled on top of the bun; they were a meeting of heaven, earth and, according to the name, hell! Manuel had even used red and black food coloring for the frosting, seeing how well the name caught on. All anyone knew was that it was the most quickly addicting pastry in all of human history. And it was making their little restaurant very popular!
Wyatt, the cowboy Rachel had noticed with mild interest, walked over to a booth and caught her eye. Like a gentleman, he removed his cowboy hat and asked her, “May I sit here, ma’am?”
Since he was the only other patron besides her son at the moment, the morning rush not yet having started, she looked around the café, smiling impishly, and said, “Mister, you got the place almost to yourself. Sit wherever you’d like. I’ll be happy to serve you. Would you like coffee?”
Wyatt smiled back with a friendly shyness and said, “Yes, ma’am. Coffee’d be nice. And maybe one of those rolls the boy there has?”
“Sure. But two things. First, those rolls are outlawed in many countries because they cause addiction, and…”
“Ma’am?”
“It isn’t ‘ma’am’. It’s Rachel.” She smiled brightly at him.
“Hello Rachel. My name’s Wyatt.” He reached out a hand, and she shook it warmly.
Rachel asked, “Where you from, cowboy?”
Wyatt answered, “Here. I own the Desert Air Ranch west of town, just below the state park. Very pleased to meet you, ma’am… uh, Rachel, I mean.”
“Well, nice to meet you too. Will Doc Holliday be joining you, Wyatt?” she asked sarcastically, but not unkindly.
He laughed. “Yeah, first time I ever heard that one!” Rachel giggled in a sweet, tinkling timbre.
Rachel came to the table, bringing a large warmed Dulces del Diablo and freshly brewed coffee to him. She served him with a polite smile and retreated to continue her morning set up duties.
Wyatt pulled out his phone and began scanning some unknown articles on some website. He looked up to see Kyle looking over at him as if entranced. “Howdy, sir. I’m Kyle. That’s my mom you just met. Cute, ain’t she!”
Wyatt didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, she’s definitely cute. You must be pretty glad she works here so you can enjoy all this great food, huh?”
“Yes sir! I am very privileged! You come here a lot? Mom just started working here not too long ago, so we haven’t met everyone who normally comes in.”
“No, actually, this is my first visit in a pretty good while. I work a lot out of town, so I haven’t stopped by as often as I’d like. Been jonesin’ for one of these sticky buns, so I thought I’d come over. I’m hoping I can make this a more normal habit, though. Trying to stay in town a bit more.”
“What do you do, sir?”
“Okay, first, you don’t have to call me sir. My name is Wyatt, like I told your mom. Second, how old are you? Don’t you have school?”
“Of course, but it doesn’t start for another couple of hours, so I hang out here with mom in the meantime; and I’m 10…Wyatt. And what did my mom mean about ‘Doc Holliday’?”
“Long story, Kyle. From the old west where Doc Holliday was Sheriff Wyatt Earp’s friend and deputy.”
“Oh, is ‘Earp’ your last name, too? Are you the sheriff?”
“Nope, but I used to be an Air Force Special Tactics force para-rescue operator. And I fly a small plane now. I volunteer help with the U.S. Customs and Immigration Enforcement to find folks lost or in trouble in the deserts around here.”
“Wow! That’s sounds awesome! Could you take me up in your plane sometime?”
Rachel, who’d been half listening to the conversation while she worked, said, “Kyle! You could at least let Mr. Wyatt get a few sips of coffee down before you start making crazy demands! Sorry Wyatt.”
Wyatt quickly covered for the boy, “No, that’s fine. I like a man who’s curious and bold enough to ask for what he wants! Kyle, I’d love to have your company sometime. Maybe we can arrange something some weekend soon? If it’s okay with your mom?”
“Oh yeah! Now you’re talking! I’d love it! Mom, is it okay?” But he said it more like a statement of fact than a question.
“Honey, we’ll see. But for right now, PLEASE let Mr. Wyatt enjoy his coffee and bun in peace!”
Wyatt smiled brightly at Rachel, and she immediately noticed his handsome face a bit more than she had at first; she hadn’t quite picked up on it before. He seemed to be kind of shy, or maybe…humble? He was a man who didn’t really draw attention to himself and she had almost overlooked him—literally.
Wyatt looked to her to be maybe in his mid-thirties, although his eyes showed signs of the beginnings of crow’s feet which made him look slightly older, or more distinguished maybe. He had a sort of weathered look, which wouldn’t be strange for a rancher, she supposed. She would call his face ruggedly handsome and leave his age a mystery. He was a well-built man, not thin, not heavy, sturdily muscled and with a big chest, strong shoulders and quite large arms not too well confined by his short-sleeved, green khaki work shirt. He wasn’t very tall; maybe 5’10”, but he bore himself in a way that hinted you shouldn’t mess with him. His face was lightly covered by a short, black beard, and he had a strong jawline, with a dimpled chin that was interesting, she thought. He occasionally flashed a brilliant smile with white teeth that stood out against his sun-darkened face. His skin was fair, but tanned, as though he spent a lot of time outdoors. His voice was a throaty baritone, and Rachel wondered what he’d sound like in a choir. He had a nice head of wavy, nearly black hair, cut in a moderately longish but attractive style, but the sides being much tighter to his head; leaving the impression of very short hair when he wore his hat. His hairstyle finished with an unruly lock in front that wanted to desert the ranks and hang down over his forehead.
But his eyes grabbed her from the start. They were almost unidentifiable in color, and in his darkly tanned face, were prominent and attractive. In the soft artificial light of the predawn diner, they looked maybe hazel or gray, but when he turned a certain way, they revealed aquamarine green with noticeable flecks of amber. They shone with intelligence and purpose, and they’d caught her attention for sure.
Similarly, Wyatt thought Rachel made an astounding first impression. Being such a small town, he wondered how he’d missed this girl? Just as Kyle had mentioned, she was “cute”. But really, Wyatt didn’t think he’d stop at “cute”. Maybe amazing, or gorgeous… or stunning?
What he did find cute was that she was tiny! He guessed her height at only about 5’ in stockinged feet, and maybe a buck ten in weight, with not much excess. She was fit, looked well-toned and curvy, which gave her an incredible proportionate hourglass figure few men would miss. Her skin was fair, and she had a mop of beautiful, if somewhat untamed, fiery red hair, tightly curled and hanging low down her back in a loose French braid. Her face was symmetrical and attractive, without blemish and lightly made up, with a very nice shade of red lipstick to finish the look. Her smile was lovely and hinted at intelligent curiosity, a certain unruliness to match her red mane, and probably creativity. She also seemed to exude confidence beyond her slight stature; like nobody better mess with her! Wyatt appreciated that.
Her eyes were a spectacular shade of blue, but also flashed colorful shards of hazel and even gold, making them enchanting and unusual, Wyatt thought. When she spoke, someone might expect the voice of a munchkin, he thought humorously; but instead, they would be treated to an almost musical mezzo-soprano, a middle range. Her laugh was mesmerizing to him; he thought it very pleasant indeed.
She worked in a sort of skinny jean tights and a basic and very feminine but modest scooped-neck tee, with cap sleeves exposing her muscular arms. She filled the shirt nicely, too; her round, perky breasts left Wyatt with a guess of her age at 24 or 25, maybe. But since Kyle said he was 10 years old, maybe mom was just a little older than his initial estimate, so he revised his guess upward to maybe 27 or 28. She didn’t look it though; he thought. But that might have been partly because of her diminutive size, he supposed. Whatever. It’d just have to be a mystery for now.
Wyatt didn’t dwell on Rachel or his new friend, Kyle, but sipped his coffee (whose flavor was a nice complement to the famous sweet buns) as he returned to his phone and the information that would determine his day’s work. A short time later, as other patrons began to greet their day with breakfast at the diner, Wyatt said goodbye to Kyle and made his way to the cash register to pay for his meal.
Rachel, refreshing coffee for a group of local guys, looked over and left the table, quickly making her way to the register.
“How’d you like your breakfast, Wyatt?” she flirted.
“He thought for a second and answered, “Liked it a lot, but can’t do that too often! Have to keep my girlish figure, you know!”
Rachel laughed and replied, “No girlish figure like I ever saw, cowboy!” Wyatt smiled, thanked her, paid his check and left a large tip, as was his normal custom. He left through the tinker-bells door and got into his big dual wheel truck to forge his way into today’s activities.
