Néstor hung back. He fidgeted with a loose thread in the brim of his hat. He was, to his knowledge, one of few vaqueros who ever stepped into this room. Most were illiterate. News among vaqueros traveled from mouth to mouth, rancho to rancho; if letters were necessary, they went from ranchero to ranchero on behalf of the workers.
Néstor eavesdropped on the ranchero ahead of him, the man’s wealth evident from his finely embroidered blue jacket to his polished boots. The man sought letters from Durango on behalf of one of his peones. Though it had been nine years since Néstor left Rancho Los Ojuelos, he could not picture hard-eyed Don Feliciano asking after letters for his peones. As if the man would go out of his way for anyone, much less someone he considered so beneath him.
It was Don Félix to whom Néstor’s uncle, Bernabé, dictated his rare letters. Since leaving Los Ojuelos, guilt drove Néstor to write to his family a few times a year, posting the letters from Durango and from El Paso del Norte. Once, he even wrote from as far as Santa Fe. He did not envy the task he gave Don Félix when the ranchero’s son had to decide where to send Bernabé’s reply. Often, Don Félix defaulted to the closest town to Los Ojuelos that Néstor frequented: Laredo.
When at last he had a letter in his hands, Néstor retreated to a corner where there were shelves hammered into the wall to serve as surfaces for people to read their letters and reply. Most did not, and Néstor stood alone; he curled his shoulders inward for privacy all the same as he opened the letter.
The date in Don Félix’s firm, confident hand was recent; it must have arrived a week ago at most.
Esteemed Se?or Duarte, the letter began.
Néstor frowned. When dictating, Bernabé began with mi hijo. His eyes skipped to the bottom of the page, to the signature, where his suspicion was confirmed: Don Félix had written him directly. He shifted his weight, taken slightly aback, and began to read.
The letter was only a few lines, and judging from a smudge or two, dashed off quickly:
I trust that you are well and I pray you receive this letter quickly. I am sure you have heard rumors of the North American army moving through Tejas toward Matamoros; I have seen them with my own eyes.
Cold swept through Néstor. Gunshots rang in the dark shadows of his memories; a sweep of blood, violently bright, pooled beneath his father’s hand, laying limp in the corral. Néstor was yanked from his feet and placed in a saddle in front of Abuela, the pommel digging into his stomach. Thundering hooves and Bernabé’s shouting filled his skull; acrid smoke stung his eyes as they fled south, away from Rancho Dos Cruces and all he knew.
My father has joined with other rancheros of las Villas del Norte to support the Mexican army’s defense of Matamoros by forming an auxiliary cavalry squadron. All the families of Rancho Los Ojuelos must provide as many men as they can spare. Se?or Casimiro has bid me write to you with a request: that you return to Los Ojuelos to dissuade Se?or Bernabé from joining the squadron by going in his stead.
I am certain your professional ties span far and perhaps your loyalties now lie with another rancho, but I ask in earnest when I request that you return and join us. Encourage as many vaqueros as you can to do the same, either to defend Los Ojuelos—where they will be paid handsomely for their trouble—or to join el Escuadrón Auxiliares de las Villas del Norte.
Vaya con Dios.
Sinceramente,
José Feliciano Serrano Segundo
Néstor’s heartbeat had quickened, his posture stiffened. He turned the letter over, searching his shirt pocket for the one pencil he kept there. Patted his other pocket for his knife. A reply began to swirl into place as he sharpened the pencil. Thank you for relaying the news, he would write. Please inform Se?or Casimiro that I am on the road.
He set the pencil to paper and scribbled the date. Esteemed Don Félix, he wrote, I will return—
There, the scrape of the pencil stopped. The sound of rancheros and townspeople talking around him, the click of bootheels and spurs—all of it faded.
No, hold it like this.
Nena’s hand was over his, hers summer brown over his dark one, both small, both dappled by the shade of anacahuita trees. Her fingers were warm as she adjusted his hold on the stick they were pretending was a pencil. Her dark brown hair always worked its way loose from its plaits over the course of the day; now, mid-siesta, it tickled Néstor’s face. Birds crooned sleepily overhead. The hum of crickets was a steady lullaby, cocooning them in the afternoon’s warmth.
I’ll help you, Nena said, and guided his hand over the patch of dirt they were using to practice letters. They were eight and determined to get Nena’s mother, Do?a Mercedes, to allow Néstor into the schoolhouse. He was not allowed if he could not already write, Do?a Mercedes and Nena’s aunts had concurred; he would only slow down the other children.
Néstor had lowered his head, humiliated. He knew he was too slow for the other children. Besides, he told Nena—what need was there for the son of a vaquero to read?
He had underestimated her. The tilt of her chin accepted her mother’s challenge, and every siesta since that day, they met behind la casa mayor to practice.
Now, she leaned close enough to him that he could almost taste the bite of woodsmoke in her hair that lingered from a morning helping in the kitchen, how it layered over the soapy, wildflower smell that rose from her sun-warmed dress.
Together, they wrote his name in the dirt. Néstor.
There, she said. Now you only need one more letter to make my name.
She moved Néstor’s hand below the letters, then released it and traced her own name in the dirt with an index finger. You can do it on your own.
Her name was easier than his. He never had to lift the stick. He followed the flow of the sounds. He followed his own heartbeat. Nena.
He looked up. In the siesta light, everything seemed suspended in honey: an amber halo around her brown hair, the smile that lit her face. The proud glint in her dark eyes. The dimple nestled deeply to the right of her mouth.
Perfect, she said. You wrote it perfectly.
An argument erupted like a gunshot behind Néstor. It was a splash of cold water to the face, yanking him into the present. Rancheros lingered on the patio of the post office, quarreling loudly about whether México would go to war against los Yanquis. The postmaster raised his voice to be heard as he wrangled new patrons into line. The sun cut harshly through the building’s one window.
Everything was suddenly too sharp against his ears, his skin.
He put the pencil down.
He forced his hands to fold the letter, ignoring how they shook. He shoved paper and pencil into his shirt pocket. He snatched his hat and left the post office, the ringing in his ears broken only by the click of his spurs.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
BETO FOUND HIM at the bar they haunted, elbows on the counter, head in his hands. The aguardiente in front of him untouched. He had been sitting there for an hour at least, without moving.
Néstor left Los Ojuelos for a reason. He could not even think the words, shape them in his mind like so many letters traced in the dirt.
Visions flashed behind his eyes instead. The eerie glimmer of orange light. The flash of teeth in the dark. Nena screaming. Visceral sensations: the weight of Nena’s body against his as he carried her back to la casa mayor. Falling; curling around her to protect her, the sharpness of rocks digging into his shoulders.
How still she was.
How cold.
My daughter is dead.
His neck stiffened; the back of his throat clenched against his will, no matter how hard he tried to relax it.
Beto’s greeting was effusive as he clapped Néstor on the back.
Néstor did not move.
Perhaps he would be frozen here forever, roped tight between two unbreakable truths.
The first: he could not return to Los Ojuelos. Nena’s death was his fault. Her whole family knew that.