Rocking R

Esau Rodriguez hated subdivisions.

His family had owned a ranch in Doña Ana county for five generations. The land around Las Cruces might not be the best without irrigation, but if you got water to it, it would grow anything.

He loved the Rio Grande, loved the majestic Organ mountain vista that spread out no matter where you were in the valley, and he loved prickly pear and ocotillo and even the damned coyotes.

What he hated about the valley now was the damned houses that sprang up like prairie dogs at sundown, whether cheap-assed or fancy, squatting on the landscape like a spotty kind of plague. He had to drive past them to get home from town, had to watch the inevitable creeping, encroaching mess of new construction and shake his head.

It was a damned good thing he had good fences, and that his house sat off the road a good bit, where he had open range and some chile fields to hide everything. The old Chevy bumped across the cattle guard and across the dirt track that circled the inside of the perimeter fence, heading down to the house. He'd stop up and get the mail later, after it ran; he needed to exercise old Paint anyway. Right now he had groceries to put away.

"Mierda," Esau cursed when he got to the gate on down to the house, which stood wide open. He'd have to count dogs, and damned if border collies and Great Pyrenees came cheap. "Well, I guess they know who feeds them," he murmured, stopping the truck with a jerk when he saw the utility vehicle parked by his back patio.

"What the fuck!"

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