Three Wishes (19 page)

“I’ll fetch you some water,” he said and straightened.

But Maria was already there, offering me a metal canteen.

“Rub your legs and wiggle your toes,” Javier said to me. “It will get the blood flowing again.”

After drinking deeply from the canteen, I handed it to Maria and set about following his instruction, wincing a bit as I did so. Doña Elena came by, watching me with some dismay. “So you are unused to the saddle, truly? Not only the sidesaddle, but riding at all?”

“I’d say that’s right,” I said. “I guess I’m from a town, more likely to walk than ride.”

“Hmph,” she sniffed, moving on, as if this was distressing, disappointing news. I supposed if she wanted to marry me off to her son, she hoped I’d be decent at this frontier stuff. And I was clearly failing on the horse-girl count, big-time.

“Do not mind her,” Javier said with a laugh, sitting down beside me and pulling his own canteen to his lips. “She was always a fine horsewoman, and she expects nothing less of everyone she meets. It is hardly fair. Especially if it is as you say—that you grew up in a town and are more accustomed to walking.”

I nodded. “Do you think I might have a turn in the wagon?”

“Of course,” he said, rising. “Frani can ride your gelding for a time.” He offered his hand, and I took it, grateful that the strength was returning to my lower extremities at last. But it felt oddly intimate, both of us standing there thinking about my legs, and I hurriedly dropped his hand. I moved away from him, hesitant at first, then striding faster. “If you’ll excuse me,” I said, when he moved to follow, as if worried that I’d fall, “I need a bit of privacy.”

That brought him up short, and he nodded quickly. “Of course, of course,” he said, gesturing me forward. I found my place behind some brush, warily looking in all directions before squatting. But no one came near.

The trail was long and dusty, and I soon wondered why I’d bothered with a bath at all this week. At this rate, we’d all arrive covered in dust and stinking in our sweaty clothes. I bounced along in the back of the wagon beside Adalia, who absently patted her sleeping child’s body. I had no idea how the toddler could sleep, tossed about as we were, and I soon wondered if it was simply a different sort of torture than the saddle, the only consolation being that I
felt
the pain in my backside rather than the dulling paralysis that I’d experienced earlier. Still, the others seemed well used to it, and I was determined not to complain, especially with Doña Elena riding alongside.

When the grand old lady finally edged away, I had a moment alone with Adalia at last. “So…you are returning to your own family.”

“Yes,” she said, a wave of sorrow crossing her face as her dark, almond-shaped eyes flicked over Jacinto and Estrella, on the seat in the front of the wagon. She repositioned herself on her sack of dried beans. “It was no easy decision for me. But I think it for the best. Ever since Dante died…” She paused, swallowed hard, and blinked before beginning again. “Ever since, I’ve felt so adrift. And I wonder…I’m hoping that in going home, I might find my anchor again. Not in another man,” she said, leaning toward me, as if sharing a secret. “Something that can never be taken from me,” she added, patting her chest. “Here.”

I nodded, remembering our conversation. “I understand,” I said. “Sometimes we have to do the thing that no one else wants us to do, in order to do what we feel led to do. And you know what else?” I said, leaning toward her, offering my hands when little Álvaro stirred irritably in his mother’s arms, agitated by the sweat and dust and bouncing. “You can always return,” I said in her ear. “There will be an open door for you at Rancho Ventura, no matter how sad and angry they seem.” All morning I had watched them all, and no one but the servants and Estrella had spoken to Adalia. No one had reached for the baby—a child they’d all doted upon. “They’re just trying to prepare their hearts for your farewell,” I said, gesturing at the children and at Doña Elena, all carefully avoiding our gaze. “No one willingly welcomes pain. They’re simply trying to steel themselves so they can get through it.”

Adalia nodded and blinked back tears as she handed me her son. “Thank you, Zara. That helps me.”

“I’m glad.”

I held Álvaro until he pooped his pants, then watched in some amazement as Adalia managed to change him, cleaning him up the best she could, in the back of the bouncing wagon. By nightfall, we’d covered more than half the distance to Santa Barbara, and I was just wondering how I would sleep, in the middle of so many people, when I drifted off under stars I recognized as my own, even if they were in a different century. And somehow that gave me just the comfort I needed.

CHAPTER 13

The next afternoon, we arrived on the edge of Santa Barbara weary and more than a little trail-sore. My body screamed for an Advil—or ten—but the best I was going to get was a change of clothes, a hot meal, and some tea. Happily, we paused on the edge of town, and the men and women divided up. I was wondering why when we came to a glen with a small pond at the center. It took everything in me not to shriek and tear off the wretched riding habit, but I managed to keep myself together as servants brought our trunks and offered us towels and soap. The women and girls all went to the mossy-edged pond, undressing behind prickly bushes that did a neat job of holding our clothes, like we were in some sort of early-California locker room. Then we slipped into the sun-warmed, murky waters, and I honestly thought I’d never felt anything as good in my entire life. It was almost as if the wear and tear of the trail had been worth it in order for me to feel this…this…
glory
.

Estrella moved behind me, soap suds on her hands, and passed me the bar. We ran the soap through our hair and over our skin and played and dunked until Doña Elena announced it was time to get dressed again, leaving the pool for the men. Apparently this was the routine—the way to reach the gathering not looking like filthy cast members on the set of
Mad Max
.

Maria, her own straight hair dripping, offered me a fresh petticoat and corset and the brown day dress—a blessed break from the tight riding habit. I slipped the dress on, and then after she’d combed out my hair, I crunched it with my fingers, encouraging the curls to form. I stopped her when she came at me, armed with pins and hairnet. “Please,” I said, “would it be all right to leave it down?”

She frowned in confusion but then shrugged and moved on to Estrella. We ate a bit of dried beef and tortillas, waiting at a distance as the men bathed, and once they were finished and had a bit to eat, we set off again.

When we arrived at the gathering place, just north of town, I stared in bewilderment. Before us were thousands of cattle—and our vaqueros drove the cattle we’d brought into the mix. Beside us, lines of tents formed a virtual town, and people from Rancho Ventura began pulling bundles from the backs of mules and the wagons to add our own section. Visions of a cozy frontier hotel vanished from my head as I realized that this was it. This was no trip to a charming, historical version of the Santa Barbara I had known in the future; this was a camping expedition on her outskirts.

I sighed and accepted a servant’s help in dismounting, Javier having gone somewhere with his men. I handed my reins to the man, gripped my skirts, and ascended a nearby knoll to check out the scene. After a short hike, I arrived and looked down to the gathering herd, watching as men moved through them on horses, pointing at one or another. To sell? To purchase? I had no idea. They’d erected ten corrals, perhaps for sorting or bronco riding or whatever they did at rodeos in this era.

There were a good fifty tents pitched already, with about fifteen campfires already sending up smoke. The smell of roasting meat blended with the sea air. In the distance, I could see the curve of the coastline and the bright white of a few buildings in the town proper, as well as the warm adobe and cross of the mission.

Around the edge of the tents, I spied six men in black and white uniform, with white Xs across their chests, following a leader with gold epaulets on his shoulders and a sharp, black hat. They approached a cluster of six men—with younger men hovering about—and I saw Javier at the center. Perhaps they were the rancheros, all gathered together. I thought I’d made out Mateo hovering close by them.

They stood there stiffly, listening to whatever the head X-man dude had to say. I stifled a giggle at my own internal joke, but managed to keep my composure. Then Javier gestured to the right, clearly inviting them to stay but with no enthusiasm. Mr. Blackcoat nodded once, and the men set out, riding directly beneath where I stood, where Mr. Blackcoat caught sight of me and smiled, touching his hat as he nodded in my direction. I pretended to smile back. He was about thirty, a big man with big features—nose, chin, eyes—and he and his men appeared to be the remaining Mexican military contingent from the presidio…the ones Javier seemed to so thoroughly resent.

We’d eaten our supper around the campfire, alongside Rafael Vasquez, his sister, Patricio, and a friend, when Javier rose, went to the wagon, opened the lid of a trunk, and brought back his father’s guitar. He handed it to me as the group around us fell silent. His mother began with stiff agitation, “Javier, this is not the place—”

But he shushed her with a wave of his hand, only looking at me. “The charreada is a time of celebration. I would like it very much if you might gift all of us with a song, Zara.”

I hesitated, glancing at Doña Elena and Adalia, who both bore warning expressions, but the rest were all encouragement and curiosity. And what was the harm, truly? Vanity won out; I felt the need to show them all just what I could do with the strings of a guitar, even if I was a lousy horsewoman. I shifted on my rock-seat to better balance the instrument and considered what I might play. I settled on “El Pomponderano,” the first song I’d learned via YouTube, with its intriguing blend of plucked notes along the strings, with the tapping the body of the guitar as a sort of mild drumbeat, and then building in tempo and complexity.

It began slowly, and I felt sweat beginning to bead on my forehead, aware that every single person was staring at me. I could hear others at neighboring campfires still talking and laughing, the occasional shout and the lowing of the cattle, but gradually centered in on only my song. My fingers, connecting lightly with the strings, were poised for the speed of the piece ahead. I closed my eyes and felt the rhythm, smiling as I heard someone begin to clap expertly—almost like another instrument, and then a second, picking up additional beats, at once making the song familiar to me but also giving it new life. My smile grew, but I kept my eyes closed, hearing the song build from the old guitar into something I knew I’d remember the rest of my life. Being here, in such a pretty place, on the edge of one of California’s earliest rodeos, and playing in a mariachi version of jazz? I had to admit, it was pretty cool, and I was going to relish every minute of it.

But when the song came to a close and I opened my eyes, I was aware that neighboring sounds had stopped—other than from the animals—and that our group had grown. People stood three-deep all around us, and children squatted in a posse all around me, staring up in rapt attention. Javier rose, grinning from ear to ear and applauding. “Brava!” he cried, urging the others to similar accolades. “Brava!”