I grew up on a farm/ranch on the northern edge of the Permian Basin in Texas. We were far enough north that we had adequate water for some truck farming, and good feed for horses and cattle. We were also just south enough to benefit from the oil booms.
Mom's great grandfather was an engineer and land speculator who made a fortune off the oil boom of the twenties. He used much of his fortune to buy out farmers who were going to lose their farms during the Depression. He picked some of the choicest acreage for our family to farm.
They didn't always have any money, but they always had food and a roof over their heads.
In the 1950s, he began selling off some of the extra land: acreage he bought for twenty-five cents and acre, he sold for ten dollars. In the 1990's, my father began selling off more land for seven hundred to a thousand dollars an acre! He kept about seven hundred acres for light ranching and to give me as an inheritance.
Mom and Dad sent me off to college, where I earned an engineering degree. I came home in 2000 to help Mom after Dad passed away.
I had a decent job with the State, and along with my inheritance, lived a very comfortable life. I didn't owe anything, so I could splurge whenever I wanted. Living on the ranch was nice: I'd inherited my parents' love for the place, and raised a few dozen head of cattle, and a couple of horses.
I didn't date much: I discovered quickly, most of the girls I knew also knew about my ranch and assumed I had more money than I really had! And none of them wanted to live on a ranch away from town. Mom said I would eventually find someone.
Mom passed away a couple of years later, and the house felt incredibly lonely. I was contemplating selling everything and moving away, but I never could quite find the time to get rid of my livestock. As soon as I started working the cattle, I would forget my cares and loneliness.
Most Saturday mornings, I'd go into town for coffee and breakfast. I'd joke around with the waitress, Martha, then go by the feed store, before returning home. A typical Saturday: a couple of hours, then home. Martha, who was a few years older than I, had a "friends with benefits" relationship. Occasionally, we'd make plans for Saturday night.
This Saturday was different. The Greyhound bus usually stopped here to let passengers have a break. When it left, a young woman stayed behind. She was dressed Goth style, with jet black hair, tattoos and nose piercings.
I heard her asking how far it was to the old Henry farm. I looked up and gave her a closer look: she was slender, almost boyish in build. She was also very quiet.
When she realized the farm was twenty miles outside of town, she asked about transportation. A few vulgar remarks from some of the younger men about how she could pay for a ride, drew some angry, and quite vulgar responses. The boys only laughed.
The girl said something about walking, but the waitress told her the walk would take four to five hours, which would be dangerous in the August sun. She slumped and sat in a booth and ordered some food while she thought about her options.
Martha pointed my way and told her something. She looked closely at me before coming over. I motioned her to sit and Martha brought their food over. She had ordered a bowl of soup and a glass of tea.
"Martha, bring her a sandwich, and put it on my bill," I said quietly.
The girl looked at me suspiciously.
I raised my hands and said, "I saw how you inhaled that soup: I figured you might still be hungry. Now, tell me...why did you come to talk to me?"
Looking over at Martha, the girl said, "She said you might give me a ride to the farm, that you live out that way. And she said you would be safe."
Safe...I'm in my mid-forties! I'm not THAT old!
"Why would you want to go there?"
"My father lives there. I couldn't call him to let him know I was coming: I don't have a phone number. I have directions, though."
"I suppose I could drop you there, if you don't mind riding in my old truck."
I waved Martha over.
"I'm Tom. I have to go to the feed store first. If you want anything else, ask Martha."
"I'm Erika. Thank you."
She looked back towards the boys at the counter, then asked, "May I go to the feed store with you? Those guys at the counter make nervous."
I agreed, and we threw her belongings in the back. Erika shrieked when she saw Riley, my Golden Retriever, in the front seat.
"Riley! Get in the back!" I ordered.
He whined and looked at the girl imploringly. Soon Erika was scratching behind his ears and smiling brightly.
I watched her as I loaded feed and supplements. She was short, maybe 5-1, 5-2: it was hard to tell with the platform knee high boots she wore. She might weigh one hundred pounds wet. She was slender almost to the point of being thin. Her black hair was tucked up under a wool watch cap. (That had to be hot!). She spent most of her time petting Riley. I could tell he really liked her, which is a good sign: Riley is a good judge of character!
I hadn't heard of any Henry place: neither had Martha. I talked to a few old timers at the feed store, but most didn't recognize the name. One thought he knew the place, but couldn't place who the current owners were.
Riley kept sticking his head in the opening sliding window on the back of the truck cab. Erika giggled and laughed as he licked her ear. Riley liking her told me as much about her as the words she spoke. I knew she was a decent kid.
"What's your father's name? That would help me find his place."
"Gillespie. Charlie Gillespie," she said with a smile.
Charlie Gillespie.
My blood ran cold. He was the meanest man I'd ever met. A drunk. A bully who got into fights whenever he came into town: often over minor things. Anything could be an insult, could trigger his rage. I'd heard his wife kicked him out years ago after he'd beat her and his kid.
I looked over at Erika. Why would this sweet young girl want to go live with him?
I also knew she wouldn't be able: Charlie was killed in a bar fight in Juarez a couple of years earlier. His place was close to mine. It had been foreclosed upon earlier this year, but no one had bought it.
I pulled over to the side of the road. I told her about her father's death, but nothing about his personality.
Erika began crying and screaming at me, "YOU'RE LYING! YOU'RE LIKE ALL THE OTHER MEN! YOU JUST PRETEND TO CARE ABOUT ME SO YOU CAN FUCK ME! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!"
She got out of the truck and began walking back to town. Riley whined, then jumped out after her. They walked a couple of hundred yards up the highway. Erika slumped to the grass: Riley lay next to her. I stayed where I was and watched her.
After a few minutes, I noticed she was hugging Riley and crying. Thirty minutes later, she stood and walked back to the truck.
"Would you like me to take you back to town? We can stop by the Sheriff's office: he can fill you in, and give you Charlie's effects. We didn't know who to contact."
"I'M NOT A RUNAWAY! I'M NINETEEN!"
I waited a moment and let her calm down.
"Can you take me to his place? I want to see where he lived: where I would have lived."
We pulled into the drive and I could tell no one had lived here in quite a while. The front door was off its hinges, and there were no power lines leading to the house: that meant the well wouldn't work, assuming the pump did work. There would be no one waiting for her.
"I haven't seen him in several years. He sent me a letter when I was thirteen telling me I could come live with him, if I wanted."
I was quiet as we looked through the house. You could tell Charlie lived here: There were pictures of him with a trophy buck, pictures of him with a large bass, pictures of him with his buddies. What was missing were pictures of him with his little girl. There were no pictures of Erika anywhere!
Erika ran back to my truck: she was biting back the tears. She wrapped her arms around me and sobbed.
"He never meant for me to come live with him! It was just a lie! He didn't even have a picture of me!"
