His cell mate, Orlando, had been in and out of prison most of his adult life and had warned Cruz that he might freeze up on the outside. Cruz had hated prison with every fiber of his being but it had been predictable—even comfortable in a perverse way. He’d been told what to do, how to do it and when to do it for the past 4,326 days. There was no one on this side of the wall instructing him to do anything. From now on every decision was in his hands.
“Need a lift?”
Cruz’s heart jumped inside his chest but not a muscle twitched—years of bracing himself for an unexpected attack had taught him to control his body’s reactions. It took only a few seconds for the familiar voice to register, then Cruz relaxed. Riley Fitzgerald. He grinned at the former world-champion saddle-bronc rider—the only man who’d ever tried to make a difference in Cruz’s life.
“Considering where you just came from, you look good.” Fitzgerald clasped Cruz’s shoulder and gave him a hug. The last hug he’d received had been from Maria Alvarez, Fitzgerald’s wife and Cruz’s former high-school teacher, after he’d passed the tests required to earn his GED. She’d been proud of him that day—too bad he’d let her down. “How’s Maria?” She and Fitzgerald ran the Juan Alvarez Ranch for Boys outside Albuquerque. The ranch had been named after Maria’s deceased younger brother, who’d been killed in a gang shooting when he was a teen.
“Maria’s fine. She’s eager to see you.”
Cruz wasn’t ready to socialize with people. Not yet. Not until he grew acclimated to life outside of prison.
“There’s a job waiting for you at the ranch,” Fitzgerald said.
“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