I watched her face. Not relief. Confusion.
A man near the back caught my attention. Lean, weathered, maybe thirty. He was watching me with an intensity the others lacked, his eyes not on the floor but on my face, reading me the way I'd been trained to read him. I approached and extended my hand.
"Welcome. I'm the owner. You'll be working with me directly."
His eyes flicked sideways toward Webb—a glance so brief and loaded it carried an entire conversation in a quarter-second. Then he took my hand. The grip was cautious, the palm calloused deep and specific from years of manual labor.
"Bienvenido," I offered. My Spanish was functional—not fluent, but solid enough for conversation, built during a childhood ten miles from the border and refined during deployments where local interpreters were scarce. "¿Cómo te llamas?"
Welcome, what’s your name?
The reaction was immediate. The man's eyes widened. His grip tightened for an instant—not aggression, but reflex. Several of the other workers looked up from the ground for the first time, their faces registering the Spanish like a signal breaking through static.
"Miguel." His response came low. Careful.
"Miguel. ¿De dónde eres?"
Where are you from?
Another sideways glance at Webb. Longer this time. Webb had moved closer, his posture shifting from relaxed to attentive, his weight settling forward onto the balls of his feet.
"Oaxaca." A pause. Then, quieter, faster, the words compressed: "Señor, los dormitorios—¿son para nosotros? ¿De verdad?"
Sir, the dormitories. Are they for us? Really?
The tone in that question hit me in the sternum. The words were coming out in disbelief.
It wasn'tWhich bed is mine?butAre those actually for us?As if real beds and insulated walls were so far outside what he'd been expecting that they required confirmation from a stranger.
"Sí, de verdad." I kept my voice steady. Warm. "Camas, cocina, agua caliente. Todo para ustedes."
Yes, really. Beds, kitchen, hot water. Everything's for you.
Miguel's jaw shifted. Something moved behind his eyes—not gratitude, something more cautious. The beginning of a question he couldn't ask with Webb standing six feet away.
Webb inserted himself into the conversation. "Everything okay? Language barrier?"
"No barrier." I turned and met Webb's eyes. Held them. "My Spanish is fine."
Another micro-expression. The tightening around the mouth, the fractional narrowing of the pupils. Webb's assessment of me was being revised in real time.
"Wonderful. That'll make orientation much easier." The smile returned, but dimmer. "Shall I walk your crew through the facility? Standard onboarding—safety protocols, work schedules, that sort of thing."
"I'll handle the onboarding myself."
"Company policy requires?—"
"It's my ranch. My workers, my onboarding." I let the sentence sit. Compass had moved from outside to my side, positioning herself between me and Webb. "You can pick them up at the end of the season. I'll handle everything between now and then."
Webb studied me for three seconds. The driver, still in the doorway, had shifted his weight—a small movement, the repositioning a soldier noticed because it changed the angles. The driver's right hand rested near his hip. Casual. Accessible.
"Of course." Webb's smile didn't reach his eyes anymore. "Let me grab the intake folder from the van. Contact numbers, emergency protocols, that sort of thing."
I followed him and the driver back to the driveway. The walk took about two minutes, and Webb filled it with talk about High Basin's client satisfaction ratings and their excellent safety record and the comprehensive insurance package. Noisedesigned to fill space so silence couldn't settle long enough for questions to form.
At the van, Webb produced a folder from the passenger seat. Work schedules, contact numbers, emergency protocols. All printed on High Basin letterhead.
"Any issues, call the main line. We're always available."
