We arrive, I am stunned, the place is one of those Log lodge pole mansions, you know, weekend cowboys from Wall Street have, pretending that they are wild west men, not spoiled half humans from a dehumanizing world.
Except this is a working ranch, dogs barking, three huge black Sheppard’s, tongues lapping, trailing us. There are off shoot buildings, sheds and barns, tractors, wagons, old pick-up trucks, Fords I think. I can hear horses whinnying from the barns, as we pull up, parked, Oba looking at me strangely as she whispered in her elegant British African accent.
“Now Clare darling, do not be shocked or frightened by anything you see. These are odd people, but friends, trust me Clare, okay darling?”
I Nod.
Oba Grows serious looks at me.
“You will see Pilar, the brown skinned waif.
