THEY DID NOT speak to each other as Nena saddled the horses and they set off northwest. She shielded her eyes from the brutal evening sun and did not look at Néstor as they rode. The only sounds that broke their silence were the rhythm of hoofbeats and the swing of the machete as Néstor cleared a path through the chaparral when necessary. After three hours, hunger began to gnaw at her ribs, souring her mood further.
If Néstor commented on a rare bird or what the sunset told him about tomorrow’s weather, she gave one-word answers. As they put miles at their back, warring pieces of her hammered themselves into a conclusion.
He had rejected her, plain and simple.
It stung like a rope burn along her palms—every movement, even an innocent breeze, irritated what was raw and red. Reminded her why she often acted the way she did, bending over backward to please people: to avoid this.
“Nena, look.” This time, when Néstor spoke Nena lifted her chin at his urgency. He pointed south.
Over the silhouettes of cacti and maguey, four plumes of smoke curled toward the reddening sky, spaced out from one another in an orderly fashion.
There were people there. A group large enough for four fires.
Néstor shifted his weight in his saddle and slowed his mare to a halt. Nena followed in suit, her legs aching from the effort. All she longed for was a hot meal and the feeling of sinking into her own bed. Despite making good time, riding hard from dawn until it grew too hot and, after the siesta, long into the night, Néstor estimated that they were still two nights away from Los Ojuelos. Their stores of food were low. With Néstor’s arm injured, Nena bore the burden of trying to find food from the chaparral. It was a heavy responsibility, and one that she never wanted to bear again.
Where there were other people, there would be food. There might even be enough food that the people would consider bargaining it away, for the right price.
Provided they were friendly.
“Who do you think they are?” Nena asked, squinting against the sun at the smoke.
“Do you see those shapes against the hill? Between those low huisaches?” Néstor pointed at shadowy smudges that nearly blended into the slope of the land. Had he not pointed them out, Nena might not have noticed them. They were rectangular, almost like . . .
“Are those carts?”
Néstor rested his hand on the pommel of his saddle and nodded once. “Carreteros,” he said.
“Will they have food?” Nena asked.
“Certainly,” Néstor said. “The question is what we can give them for it.”
They had already pillaged the saddlebags of the horse Néstor had ridden away from the battle. Aside from the machete, ropes, and gunpowder, there was a spare shirt, saddle soap. Bullets. Essentials that would be difficult to part with mid-journey.
Nena lifted a hand to her neck. She pulled out her golden scapular, its thin chain delicate between her fingertips.
“Does this help?” Nena asked.
Néstor’s eyes widened when the small golden pendant caught the deep evening sunlight. Perhaps he recognized it.
“It does,” Néstor said. “But . . . but that’s yours. You’ve always had that.”
The wind shifted. The smell of smoke coiled downhill toward them, and with it came the smell of cooking meat.
Nena’s stomach growled.
“I can get another,” she said. “I’ll tell Mamá I lost it in the battle.”
“I’ll replace it,” Néstor said firmly. “I promise.”
The breeze brought another whiff of cooking meat their way. Was that . . . cabrito? It had to be. Nena’s mood lifted. Soon, they would be eating.
“Golden scapular, red dress,” she listed, flashing him an amused smile. “That’s quite the list to take into town. Where do you plan on getting the money for that?”
Néstor gave her a sharp look. He did not reply. He shoved his hat lower over his eyes and turned his mare away from Nena and walked on, toward the carreteros, effectively turning his back on her.
Nena stared at him, mouth slightly open.
She had been teasing him. Clearly he had not taken it as a joke. Not at all.
Awkward silence swept between them, as itchy and thick as if it had never left. It lingered between them, broken only by the clop of the horses’ hooves over stones, until they drew close enough to the group of carreteros that Nena could clearly make out the shapes of carts loaded with supplies from the capital. They would have china, cotton, and silver. Dangerous cargo to be carrying through land crawling with Yanquis.
“I think they’ll be skittish toward strangers,” Néstor said as he dismounted, as if he had heard Nena’s thoughts. “We need a story. We don’t want them to think that we’ll lead Yanquis right to them.”
Nena dismounted and brought the reins down over her horse’s head. “We’re deserters,” she said. “That’s good enough, isn’t it?”
Néstor chewed his lip and did not answer. Evidently not.
“We’ll tell them that you’re my wife,” he said slowly.
Nena’s reaction was as sharp as a reflex: “You will do no such thing.”
“They can’t know we’re traveling unmarried,” Néstor said. “Do you know how bad that would look for me?”
Nena folded her arms over her chest. “I don’t believe there’s a need for explanations.”
Néstor mimed walking up to her as if she were a stranger with an exaggerated tip of the hat. “Buenas tardes, se?or,” he said, voice falsely bright. “I am a poor vaquero with a sordid history, and this beautiful woman is the daughter of some rancho’s patrón. What’s that, you ask? Why are we alone in the chaparral, looking very much worse for the wear and clearly running from something? Well, for that I have a perfectly reasonable answer. Vampires, se?or. We are running from vampires.”
When she narrowed her eyes at him, his false smile dropped. “I have a point,” he said flatly. “Admit it.”
He was right. She was being unnecessarily stubborn. Was it because she didn’t want to find herself in a situation where she was forced to feign intimacy with him? After this afternoon, it would be excruciating. It would be like pouring salt on the wound.
“They won’t know I’m your patrón’s daughter,” she said.
“First of all, he is not my patrón,” Néstor said sharply.
His tone stung like the bite of a whip. It took her aback. “I don’t work for him any more than I work for you. Second of all, the moment you open your mouth, they’ll know you come from a land grant family. Carreteros have no interest in being caught up in business that will threaten their relationships with rancheros. A vaquero and a girl of noble breeding, alone in the chaparral?” He clicked his tongue. “Even you are not so sheltered that you don’t know how bad that looks. They’ll think I kidnapped you.”
Nena said nothing. Yes, she was sheltered, but not so ignorant that she couldn’t see the wisdom in Néstor’s point. That didn’t mean she was willing to admit defeat aloud. She rested her mare’s reins over the horse’s neck and reached up to undo her scapular. When she was done, she handed the necklace to Néstor. The golden pendant swung between them like a pendulum.
“Say what you must,” she said. “I’ll follow.”
Néstor took the scapular, his mouth in a firm line. “I understand that the idea of even pretending to be married to a vaquero must be repulsive to you, but I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think it was necessary. All right?” he finished briskly. “Now let’s go.”
Nena followed several paces behind his mare, watching Néstor’s turned back, his determined stride.