I fumble with my camera case. Hands are shaking—Dale always did the talking. I slip the strap over my neck just as the red truck pulls alongside my van.

The ranchero leaves it running—right there in the middle of the dirt road—and walks over to my window. Oh no.

I pop the door, jump out, and slam it quick behind me. He gets a whiff. I can tell. His salt-and-pepper mustache does a dance under his nose, and he brings his thumb up and swipes it across his nostrils. Then he pinches the brim of his hat.

“Miss Ricky?”

I exhale and put on my best Miss Georgia pageant smile. “Mister Valez?” I hold out my hand—all sea-foam chiffon and powder-pink nails. He wipes his hand on his jeans and shakes mine. His hand is the texture of an armadillo shell, and just as dusty.

“I hope you brought a fast camera, Miss Ricky. No one ever seen ‘em more than a blink. Got a good trigger-finger for that thing?” He nods at the bulky camera hanging from my neck. The weight of it is pinching my curls.

“Only the best in the country. But you know that already, or you wouldn’t have called, right?” Pageant smile again, throw a shoulder forward, Marilyn laugh.

But he’s looking at my nose, not my tits.

Shit, the Vicks.

I scoop away the slimy layer. “Oh, sorry. Hit a fox or something a few miles back—something smelly, anyway. Could hardly stand it!”

He smiles, then. Teeth bright in his dark face. Handsome. Too bad he’s the kind of nut-job who’d answer my ad.

“Follow me, Miss Ricky. The turnoff is hard to find. It’s why I had you meet me here.” He climbs back into his truck, and I slip back into the van.

We drive toward a dip in the pink desert rock. Bluffs rise all around us. In a low hollow there’s a splash of green, neat rows of alfalfa surrounded by wild sage scrub. Barbie’s Oasis.

A stir of black cows crowds one end of the ranch. They’ve cleared the scrub around them, but they’re clinging to the fence—half a field away from a tower of fresh hay, nearly climbing over each other’s backs. There’s a heap of black at the base of the haystack.

“They got another last night,” Valez says, climbing down from his pinging truck.

I’m hoping the sweat from my hands isn’t going to damage my camera. Praying Valez doesn’t see me sweat.

His stare turns icy. It cancels out the heat of the sun. “I’ll give you five thou for a picture of what’s doing this to my cows.”