Frustrated tears pricked her eyes as they walked, hot and wet and unexpected. Twice she had insulted him without intending to. The space between them was now pocked with dangerous crevices, thick and tangled with thorns. She wanted to reach to the other side, to bring him close, but she was too tired to face what crossing that space took. Too hungry to feel anything but stinging hurt at how coldly he had shut her out. At how he had rejected her that afternoon.
Perhaps he was right to. Perhaps he, unlike Nena, had some foresight. Was it not true that anything that happened between them would only end abruptly when they returned to Los Ojuelos? They would leave this in-between, this lawless journey where survival superseded all the rules of polite society, and reenter the world they were born into. The world where vaqueros do not speak to the daughters of la casa mayor, where Mamá and honor and appropriate behavior were the law. The world where Nena’s bargain with Papá spelled the end of her freedom.
Perhaps it was right. But it wasn’t what she wanted.
What do you want?
She wanted to hold his hand in the night, as if he were a talisman against the darkness. He was a talisman. He was rich with magic she couldn’t understand, a key to a part of herself that had been dead for a long, long time. To her, he was worth more than he knew. He wasn’t a vaquero. He was Néstor. He was hers. It was folly for either of them to pretend otherwise.
Yet here they were. Approaching the men who circled the fire and rose warily at Néstor’s approach, hands shifting to the rifles at their sides. Pretending they were not each other’s, and at the same time, pretending that they were.
“Buenas tardes, se?ores,” Néstor said to the group, taking off his hat respectfully. “My wife and I are traveling to see her family in Laredo. We lost most of our provisions to Yanqui bandits several days ago and I was injured. May we share your meal? Perhaps barter for some supplies?”
He held out Nena’s scapular. It glinted in the light of the setting sun.
One man came forward from the rest. He was in his mid-fifties, his face deeply weathered from a life spent on the road, and was built like Tío Macario, the shepherd she and Néstor used to help when they were children: sloped shoulders, stout chest, firm short legs. He squinted up at Néstor.
“I think I recognize you,” the man said. “You work for Rancho Buenavista, do you not?”
“I have in the past,” Néstor said, smooth as could be. “I’ve moved between ranchos and have news of many of them. I’d be happy to share that over the fire.”
“It’s news of Matamoros we want, if you have it,” the older man said. “And we have plenty to share in return, especially with travelers hard done by. Come, se?ora,” he said, turning to Nena. He took in her appearance but seemed to find nothing notable in her wearing men’s clothing. “I am called Diego. You both look very tired.”
“My name is Néstor and this is my wife, María,” Néstor said quickly. “And we are exhausted.”
Nena followed Néstor to take their horses to where others were tethered, then returned and took a seat by the fire. Even after the relentless heat of the day, Nena welcomed its warmth on her face. Especially because there was an enormous pot of what smelled like caldo sitting in the coals and giving off long white plumes of steam.
Nena’s mouth watered. She wet it with a sip from her water flask and listened as Néstor exchanged news with Diego, who appeared to be the de facto leader of this group of carreteros. The carreteros’ journey had been disrupted by the outbreak of hostilities in Matamoros; they turned west to avoid the armies and bandits from either side who might see them as a tempting target. Néstor relayed news of the battle, being careful not to make it sound like they were deserters. As Diego instructed caldo to be ladled into jícara bowls for Nena and Néstor, he reported that the carreteros had heard from fleeing soldiers that the battle was lost by the Mexicans.
Nena’s heart dropped. She stared down at the hot soup in her hands. The steam warmed her face, but she was numb to it, numb even to its enticing smell and hunks of cabrito floating in the glistening broth.
They had lost.
What had happened to Félix? To Papá? Were they well? Were they safe?
According to Diego, the Yanqui army continued to plow south from Matamoros.
“What of the auxiliary squadron that fought with the cavalry? The group from las Villas del Norte?” Néstor asked. “My cousin rode with them. Have you heard of them?”
“Ah yes,” Diego said. “I heard some of them are riding south to continue to harass the Yanquis.”
“And the others?” Néstor asked.
Diego shrugged. “That’s all I heard.” He handed Néstor a bowl of soup. “So what’s your story, vaquero? Where are you coming from?”
Néstor began to speak, a story falling from his lips fully formed, detailed and as well-worn as an old pair of boots. He and Nena—that is, “María”—were married three months ago on his father’s rancho south of Río Bravo, not far from Matamoros. He named at least six of the twenty cousins from the surrounding area who had attended the wedding, including Beto’s name. It jarred the memory that Beto said his mother was from near Matamoros—perhaps all of these details had come from things Néstor heard from his friend.
It was good that Néstor was doing the talking. It was all she could do to keep up with his smooth falsehoods as a listener, much less as a participant. All she could hope that Diego did not ask her any follow-up questions. She was certainly too tired to provide any inventive answers. But Diego was polite: because she was another man’s wife, he did not ask questions directly of her, speaking instead to Néstor. As the men’s conversation shifted to the weather, she focused on her soup. The goat meat was tender and melted in her mouth; the broth was rich and well seasoned. Nothing had ever tasted so good.
Though they sat side by side, so close their shoulders were nearly touching, Néstor barely looked at her all evening. Nena caught none of his stolen glances trailing over her face and body. She had become accustomed to their presence; she felt their lack like the coldness of a turned back.
She stared down at her empty bowl as the men spoke, hot tears springing anew to her eyes. Her throat tightened as if seized by a fist. She blinked the tears away quickly.
She was tired. That was why she was upset. That was it. She was tired, and grateful for the fact that her belly was full of soup and she was not facing another mostly sleepless night.
One of the carreteros was wrapping up a tall tale about Pedro de Urdema?as, then turned to Néstor and urged him to tell a story.
Néstor sipped his soup, taking a moment before he replied.
“I think I might know of one,” he said. He cast a glance sideways at Nena. It caught her by surprise—he had barely said a word to her nor looked at her all evening. Then he cleared his throat and raised his voice. “I once heard that on a ranchito near Mier, there were two children, a boy and a girl. They grew up together even though the girl’s father was wealthy and the boy’s was not. The boy was so in love with the girl that he couldn’t see straight half the time, you know?” He gave a low whistle and gestured at his head to indicate loco. This drew soft laughter from some of the men. “It made him a little crazy. He was always trying to impress her. One night, he saw a strange light in the night, yellow as gold, and knew it had to mean there was hidden treasure. He and the girl grabbed shovels and ran into the night, convinced they were going to dig and find the buried silver of an old Spanish count. There was no moon. They were alone. And when they reached the place where the strange light shone, it winked out. Something came out of the darkness and attacked them.”