forward, his face reddening like it always did when he got worked up. “The boy’s a Ute, I’ll have you know.” He whispered that part, telling me it was something bad.
Everyone around there knew the Ute people were the first indigenous inhabitants of Western Colorado. The Ute Mountain reservation was just across the San Juan Mountains, nearly a two-hour drive away. Our teachers talked about it in school, and the various landmarks in and around town pointed to their history. But my knowledge was clearly vague, according to my papa’s anger.
“What’s wrong with being a Ute, Papa?”
“Those Indians think this land is still theirs, and that makes them trouble,” he snapped. “My ancestors worked hard to purchase the plots we live and work on, and no one will make me feel different.” His indignant huff could be felt for miles. “And that’s that.”
“You mean Native American. And the boy has a name,” my mama said, her eyes filled with anger. “It’s Ridge.”
“How do you know?” my papa shot back.
Every time my parents argued, their cultures spewed out like pent-up lava. With my papa’s Spanish roots and my mama’s Brazilian roots, they shared passionate dynamics that worked for them in love but against them at a crossroads.
“Harold brought him by the country club for a round of golf the other day.”
My papa’s face twisted in confusion. “Harold golfs?”
Mama rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, Patrick. Maybe he was just showing his son around town. The boy seems so quiet and sweet.”
“Who wouldn’t become a mute if their mother went missing one day and never came home? Doesn’t mean the boy’s sweet. Don’t be so naive, Selena. It’s the quiet ones you need to watch out for.”
My throat closed at the thought of Ridge losing his mother. Missing?
As if detecting my sadness, my mama turned toward me with a sympathetic expression then wrapped an arm around my shoulders and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Don’t worry, mija. A mother’s love never goes away. I’m sure she will turn up.”
Then she faced my papa with sharpened daggers in her eyes. “This conversation is over.”
I hoped what she’d said was true. Though I hoped Ridge was okay, I didn’t know how he could be. To lose a parent in that way and never know if you would ever see them again—I didn’t even want to imagine such a thing.
I’d chosen to say nothing more about Ridge or Farmer Cross that day. I’d heard my papa’s warning loud and clear. Stay away or else. But that didn’t mean I had any intentions of listening.
Hence why the boy was standing in front of his property, aiming a shotgun between my eyes.
It was my second time seeing the boy, and I couldn’t stop my pulse from racing at just how good looking he actually was. With high cheekbones that kissed the sun, almond-shaped chocolate eyes that looked lost, smooth skin that clearly spent time outdoors, and a strong angled nose that gave him a distinctly different appearance from anyone else I’d ever known, the new boy in town was utterly fascinating, so much that I ignored the flags and whistles that blew with our first meeting.
I propped my hands on my hips and leaned forward so that my small voice would carry over the bridge. “You can put the gun down, Farm Boy. I’m not leaving.”
My papa had taught me to stand my ground in the presence of a bully. He told me that in most cases, the one doing the threatening was the real coward. My mama, on the other hand, had warned my papa that he was making me too confident for my own good. I wasn’t afraid to test both theories.
The boy clenched his jaw then shook his head before jabbing the gun in my direction.
I tilted my head and squinted, trying to determine whether everything my papa had told me about the boy was true. “You’re Ridge Cross,” I said finally. I was confident in the statement, but it irked me that the boy didn’t even flinch at the fact that I knew who he was.
According to my papa’s rant, which had seemed to last the good part of the previous day, the boy didn’t speak—ever—but I wasn’t convinced it was because he couldn’t. “Are you really a mute?”
The boy’s eyes flashed with anger.
Blood raced through my veins. “It’s fine, you know, if you don’t want to talk. I don’t mind. My parents tell me I talk enough for everyone else, anyway.”