Body Heat. Brenda Novak

lived with Edna, Bruce’s wife, who’d prided herself on her taste and cleanliness. His mother could’ve experienced a better life if she’d been allowed to become one of the maids. Edna had several in those days. His father had once promised Carolina the chance to work inside, get out of the terrible heat. But Edna had refused. She couldn’t stand to have Carolina in such close proximity to the Family. Knowing that she’d also had a son by Bruce, Edna had lobbied to have Carolina kicked off the ranch completely.

      Fortunately, his father had never gone quite that far. He’d tried to buy her off once, but she’d refused to leave Jorge. So Bruce had let her stay. She’d continued to work in the fields, as long and as hard as any man, and continued to live in one of the little shacks along the periphery of the South Forty. Roderick had worked beside her, trying to do more than his share in order to give her a break. Until that last beating from his half brothers. Then his father had insisted he find work elsewhere to resolve the constant conflict.

      That was why he felt so compelled to come here, he realized. As much as he hated his father, this was home, the only home he’d known until his mother had died and some other farm laborer had moved into her shack.

      The tires of the Hummer he’d rented crunched on gravel as he rolled slowly down the drive and turned into the compound. He didn’t have much time. Already, a light shone in the grand ranch house. His father had always been an early riser.

      Circumventing the nicer vehicles and farm equipment stored near a large silver water tank and a grain bin, he took the narrow road that led along the fence to the living quarters for the field help. The shacks were as tiny as ever—only two rooms. But they’d been painted. A satellite dish sat on the roof of the first one, with cables running to the others, and there were air-conditioning units in the left side windows. Conditions here had improved. When Roderick was a boy, they’d had no heat or air-conditioning, no electricity at all, and no plumbing. When he told other Americans he’d grown up poor, they had no idea he was talking about the kind of poverty found in third-world countries like the one his mother had escaped.

      As he sat there, taking it all in, a door swung open and a stooped, withered Mexican stepped out. The man hadn’t turned on any lights. He probably had family inside he didn’t want to wake.

      Noticing Rod immediately, he squinted to see who it was.

      Roderick froze when he realized he was looking at Jorge. Boy, had he aged in the past fourteen years!

      Their eyes met, and the old man’s wrinkled mouth curved, revealing several missing teeth.

      The urge to throw the car into Reverse suddenly gripped Roderick. As ashamed as it made him feel, he wanted to forget his roots, forget he’d ever lived here. But he didn’t drive off. Jorge was already shuffling toward the truck at an eager gait.

      Conjuring up a pleasant expression, Rod lowered his window. “Hola, mi amigo.”

      “Hola, hijo.” Jorge’s gnarled hand clasped Rod’s forearm with affection. “¿Cómo estás? Eh?”

      “Muy bien. Muy bien.” Rod switched to English. He could speak without the slightest accent, which reminded him that he’d escaped his past. He had plenty of money and opportunities and people he cared about—a whole other life in California. “You’re still here, old man?”

      “Where would I go? I’m too old and ornery. No one else would have me.”

      After seeing what so many years of physically grueling labor had done to Jorge, Rod was surprised Bruce had allowed him to stay. Certainly he couldn’t do all the work he’d once done. Maybe there was an element of trust between him and Bruce that made up the difference.

      “What’s our Navy SEAL doing these days?” Jorge beamed with pride. “Still catching bad guys for Department 6?”

      “For now.”

      “Your father is so proud.”

      The smile slipped from Rod’s face; he felt it go. “What’s going on with him? Why is he contacting me all of a sudden?”

      “With age comes wisdom, eh?”

      “Sorry, not buying it. Something must have caused such a major change of heart.”

      “No, he’s asked me about you for years. He knows what you are, can’t deny that you’re a good son, someone to admire.”

      Rod cocked an eyebrow at him. “Jorge? Cut the crap.”

      “Listen, hijo. He had a bad health scare eight years ago, a heart attack. He’s been different ever since. I think he has realized what he’s lost and wants to fix it if he can.”

      “And bringing me here to help solve the murders, that was just an excuse?”

      “More than an excuse. He thinks you can help. If someone can kill at will and walk away, never to face punishment, it scares everyone, eh? Americans as well as Mexicans. The whole community. You remember what I told you about that rancher near Portal.”

      He was referring to a man whose family had lived in the area for fifty years. “He was stabbed to death on his own land last March.”

      “That’s right. He’d just called in to say he’d found some Mexican nationals suffering from dehydration and was assisting them.”

      Rod stretched the cramped muscles in his neck. “Do you think there’s any connection between that incident and what’s been happening lately?”

      “I don’t know. But even if there isn’t, what if illegals arm themselves? Try to retaliate?”

      “We’ve got to make sure it doesn’t escalate,” he muttered.

      Jorge nodded in satisfaction. “Yes.”

      That increased Rod’s dedication to finding the person responsible for all the bloodshed, but it didn’t change anything else for him, not where his father was concerned. He glanced toward the house. “I gotta be on my way. Take care of yourself.”

      “What? No! Stay. You don’t have to go. Your father would be happy to see you.”

      “There’s no need to upset Edna and her boys.”

      “Bah! Who cares about Edna?” he teased. “And those boys? They won’t bother you these days. They’d be able to tell just by looking at you that it wouldn’t be a good idea.”

      “It’s not only them. Regardless of what Bruce might feel or what he’s been through, I’d rather not see him,” Rod clarified. “I don’t consider him to be any relation.”

      The expression on the old man’s face led Rod to believe he’d hoped for more. “Forgive him, Roderick,” he said, grabbing his forearm again. “Deja ir el pasado.”

      Let the past go…. “That’s what I’m trying to do. Only I want him to go with it.”

      “That’s not what she hoped for you.”

      A pickup began to move in the clearing. Someone was starting work. Roderick couldn’t put off his departure any longer without risking some type of confrontation. He didn’t want to hear what Jorge was trying to tell him, anyway. Just because his mother wouldn’t give up on Bruce didn’t mean he’d hang on till the bitter end. “It was great to see you,” he said, and covered Jorge’s hand with his own.

      Jorge nodded but seemed troubled as Rod backed up and headed out. Fortunately, the person in the pickup had taken the opposite direction, toward the lettuce fields. Was it his father or one of his half brothers driving? Rod couldn’t tell. He could see only the taillights, back bumper and the dust kicked up by the tires.

      He imagined confronting Stuart or Patrick now that he was older. He wanted them to demand he step out of the way, willing to take them both on at once, just as they’d always preferred. But…what was the point? He wouldn’t feel any better afterward. That wasn’t the kind of man he wanted to be.

      Forget them, he told himself. But he’d