Chapter 8

8

April 1846

Rancho Los Mesteños, Río Bravo

The pecking of raindrops on the roof roused Ximena. Joaquín’s side of the bed was empty. In the darkness, she spotted him pu ng on a cigarette by the open window, the white curtains and smoke bil owing about him as if he were half man, half specter, and she wondered if she was dreaming. A gust of wind l ed the room with the scent of spring rain—sweet grasses, mud, wet hay. She breathed it al in, her mind now ful y awake.

She heard Joaquín sigh in resignation. She went over to him and peered outside. Far into the wet darkness, in the direction of the west entrance to the rancho, she could see lights ickering on and o , in a pattern she couldn’t understand but knew was not random. These were signals guerril as used to communicate with each other. Torchlights by night, smoke signals by day.

Joaquín turned to get dressed.

“What do they want?”

“Tú sabes,” he said. He put on his boots, strapped on his spurs, and came to kiss the top of her head. “I must carry out my sacred duty to protect our frontier,” he said, repeating Juan Cortina’s words.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and looked up at him. “Whatever happens out there, there wil be no turning back.”

“Así es, mi amor. But what choice do we have?” He bent to kiss her, soft and gentle at rst, but then, he pressed her against him and his kiss deepened.

Urgent. Pleading. She reached for him, but he groaned and tore himself away.

“Go back to bed, cariño. At least one of us should get some sleep.” He turned and headed to the door.

“Joaquín!”

He stood in the doorway holding his escopeta, knife, and powder horn.

She lowered her gaze. “Be careful,” she said simply.

He returned to her side, stroked her hair, and held her while she rested her head on his chest.

“I wil come back to you,” he whispered. Then he pul ed away.

Minutes later, in the faint light of the indigo dawn, she could barely make out the solitary gure of man on horseback braving the storm as he left the rancho.

There was a knock on the door, and Nana Hortencia came in carrying a tray of yaupon tea. “He wouldn’t have stayed, even if you had told him what you saw in your dreams,” she said, matter-of-factly.

Ximena realized her grandmother had seen Joaquín leaving their chamber.

Nana Hortencia looked out the window, at the pouring rain, and said,

“Whenever a storm comes, the cattle turn their tails to the storm and try to outrun it. But the mighty bu alo faces the storm and runs straight into it. Your husband is trying to do as the bu alo, mijita. It takes courage to do so.”

Her grandmother took the brush and ran it through Ximena’s abundant hair. While she sipped her tea, Ximena thought about Nana Hortencia’s words and shook her head. The bu alo could do what it damn wel pleased. She wanted Joaquín by her side, so they could both run away from the storm.

When the old woman began to braid her hair, Ximena stopped her. She wanted her hair loose today so she could hide behind it.

“Come now, we must get ready for our patients,” Nana said. “Giving of ourselves, our gifts, is how we overcome the distress in our spirits.”

“I’m sorry, Nana. But I cannot accompany you today. Pardon me.”

Nana Hortencia patted her head in understanding. “Don’t let your worries take possession of your soul, mijita,” she said and left Ximena to her solitude.

For the rest of the day, the sky was bruised with storm clouds. The rain stopped and started in intervals, and the earth soaked it al in. The sun struggled through the watery clouds, and a few rays broke forth at times, il uminating the rancho with golden beams. Ximena’s breath caught in her throat at the beauty

before her. How could she blame Joaquín for ghting to protect the spirit of these fertile plains? Their sanctuary. To keep it from fal ing into the hands of invaders, these white “men of vision” who would come to desecrate the soil with their cotton plantations and machinery and their tortured slaves, ambition-driven men who would exploit the land and violate its soul with their technological “advances” while they pro ted from it. Vultures coming to feast upon Mexican lands.

Joaquín returned in the evening. Ximena could barely see him trudging along the muddy path back to the rancho, his head drooping like a ower pelted by rain. When he came in, he was so disoriented, he didn’t even take o his boots and chaparreras and tracked mud al the way into their chamber, his spurs jiggling like the iron chains of a condemned man.

“Ximena,” he said, the rain dripping from his sarape onto the chipichil oor.

He smel ed of wet earth and sagebrush, laced with something else. Blood.

“Válgame Dios, ¿pero qué has hecho, Joaquín?”

There was a savage look in his eyes. And instead of tel ing her what he’d done, he fel upon her, his mouth crushing hers. He tore at her blouse, lifted her skirt and petticoats, and pressed her against the wal , taking her from behind so that she couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t see the wild, feverish look of a man who had just kil ed someone. Then, suddenly, he burst into sobs and crumbled to the oor.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

She knelt down and gathered him onto her, rocked and cooed to him as if he were a babe in her arms.

Joaquín came down with chil s and fever and spent two days delirious in bed.

The healing teas and spiritual cleansings Nana Hortencia gave him nal y cured him, restoring enough of his strength that he could go outside for some fresh air and to soak up the sun. He insisted on taking a morning ride with Ximena, and it wasn’t until they were almost back at the house that he began to tel her about the man he’d kil ed. A patrol of Taylor’s soldiers, probably looking for the

missing quartermaster, had come upon him and the other guerril eros hidden in the chaparral spying on the enemy camp. Weapons were drawn and re exchanged. Joaquín’s gunpowder was wet from the rain. With his escopeta rendered useless and the Yanquis shooting at him from behind, Joaquín hurled his knife over the shrubs at the lieutenant aiming his pistol at him. When the Yanqui fel o his horse with the blade buried in his gut, Joaquín fel on him and plunged his knife into him again and again. The other Yanquis dispersed and left their fal en o cer behind.

He looked at his hands. “What have I done?”

“You’re trying to protect your home. There’s no shame in that,” Ximena said, grabbing his hand. “But if you must ght, mi vida, wouldn’t it be best to face the Yanquis on the battle eld, not hiding behind the chaparral?”

“They must stil be scouring the country for him,” he said.

A short while later, as they were approaching the stables, a cloud of dust appeared in the distance, and the sound of the horses’ hooves striking the earth shattered the silence. Riders were heading in their direction at high speed.

Joaquín and Ximena looked at each other. The color drained from his face. “Get in the house and hide yourselves!” he said. “And don’t come out until I tel you it’s safe.”

She did as she was told, rst cal ing out to Ramiro and the other ranch hands to join Joaquín. She ran into the house and gathered Nana Hortencia and the three house servants. They locked themselves in the healing room, barring the door. Peering out the window, Ximena had a view of the stables and men running in al directions. She heard Joaquín’s mu ed voice as he issued orders.

“What’s happening out there?” Inés asked, holding on to Ximena’s arm.

“Los Rinches are here,” she said. “They’ve tracked him to the rancho.”

Gunshots rang out, fol owed by Joaquín’s angry voice and the voices of strangers. Then the stables burst into ames. They were too far for the smoke to reach them, and yet Ximena’s lungs choked up. She could feel the intense heat of the re burning—not outside her, but within. Her dream came back suddenly.

The re. The smoke. The blood.

“I need to help Joaquín!” She rushed to remove the bar from the door.

“Mi niña, do not go out there. We must stay hidden!” Nana Hortencia pleaded, hurrying to her side.

“They’re taking the horses!” María said, looking out the window.

“Let me leave, Nana,” Ximena begged, trying to get past the old woman. But Nana Hortencia grabbed her arm with a strength that surprised Ximena.

“They wil hurt you and these innocent creatures if they see you,” she said, pointing at the young women. “You know how the Rinches are. Come, do nothing foolish. Let your husband and the ranch hands handle it.”

“Nana, please.”

“Patrona, I’m scared.”

She turned to see Inés cowering in the corner, with her hands over her eyes.

She rushed to her and held her. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Stay with us, señora Ximena,” Rosita pleaded.

Ximena nodded. Her grandmother was right. She was responsible for the safety of these women. She looked around in resignation and spotted the pile of calendula owers Nana Hortencia had picked that morning to make a salve. She took some of the owers and sprinkled the orange petals on the altar in the corner, then lit fresh candles to the Virgen de Guadalupe. Removing the rosary she wore around her neck, a gift from Nana Hortencia made with bright red mescal beans, Ximena told the others, “Come pray with me.” They got on their knees, and in the pauses between their prayers, Ximena could hear the commotion outside, horses shrieking, men screaming, gunshots punctuating the chaos. Then, suddenly, al the sounds were gone and only the women’s soft chanting was heard. She opened her eyes and the prayers came to a stop.

“Stay here. I wil return for you when it is safe,” Nana Hortencia said, getting to her feet. She left the room, and Inés slid the bar back.

Ximena stood to look out the window, but only the stables were in plain view, engulfed in ames. There was no sign of Joaquín, or of anyone. Smoke began to curl into the room through the gap in the door. The main house was on re.

She yanked the bar from the door and said, “Out. Now!”

“But the Rangers—”

She pul ed the three women from the window and hurried them to the door.

Just then, Nana Hortencia returned. “They are gone now. But—”

“He’s hurt, isn’t he?” Ximena said. She looked around the healing room, and her eyes fel on the calendula owers on the table. She scooped them up in her arms and took o running, rushing past the burning house, the stables. Even before she reached him, she knew that her dream had come to pass. He was sprawled on the ground, shot through the breast.

“Joaquín!” She stu ed the calendula under his shirt, pressing them on the wound to staunch the ow, but the blood seeped through the petals, through her ngers.

“Ximena,” he gasped, clutching her hands, his lips bloody. “You need to leave. It isn’t safe—send for Cheno. Tel him…”

“Joaquín! Don’t leave me!”

The stables col apsed just as he began choking on his own blood. Ximena held him while his body spasmed and then grew stil as his heart stopped beating. His lifeless eyes stared at her, the orange petals around him stained red.