The men around the fire had grown so quiet Nena could hear their cattle grazing. Hear the crackle of burning branches and the soft stamp of a horse’s hoof. The hum of crickets rose around them like a veil between them and the deepening night. She felt as if she were caught in a dream as Néstor told the story of what had happened to them as children.
“It was a beast, as tall as a man, hairless and wretched, with long arms and a goat’s cloven hooves. Its teeth were as long as a rattler’s fangs, and its claws were like machetes as they reached toward the girl,” Néstor continued. “It was El Cuco, hungry for children. The boy fought as hard as he could, but he was no match for the monster. The girl was severely wounded. The boy carried her back to the ranchito, to her family, but when they reached the house, the girl was dead. Her father shouted that it was all the boy’s fault, and so the boy ran. He ran and he ran until his legs gave out, until his heart broke. Then he ran more. He mourned every day of his life until, one day, he had to return to the ranchito.
“When he arrived, he discovered that the girl was alive.”
Murmurs shifted through the listening carreteros.
“A curandera, blessed with the gift of healing, had brought the girl back from the dead,” Néstor said. “She was a woman, grown and beautiful, and to the boy’s grief, she was engaged to a rich hacendado. The boy had nothing, you see. One night he took a shovel and he retraced his steps into the chaparral, looking for the light above the dead Spaniard’s buried treasure. If only he were rich, maybe the girl he loved would marry him, he thought. So into the night he went. But the night was black and silent, and though he didn’t know it, the darkness began to follow him . . .”
Nena listened, spellbound, as Néstor took their story and wove it into a vaquero tall tale. It rose like mist, slipping from ear to ear among the carreteros. With them, it would travel across El Norte, from town to town, landing on strangers’ ears, moving through strangers’ lips, morphing and changing until the long-ago night that had driven her and Néstor asunder became as much a part of this land as the sound of the chicharras in the hot afternoons or the rumble of cattle moving through the low, rolling hills by the river.
“Where did you hear that story?” Diego asked Néstor when he was finished.
“From a vaquero I drove with, many years ago,” Néstor said. A stock answer. Another tall tale.
Diego ran a hand over his unshaven face. “There’s truth in every story,” he said slowly. “Out here, there are rumors of dangerous beasts. We’ve seen them before, near San Luis Potosí. You should be careful.”
“We’re trying to be,” Néstor said. He lifted his wounded arm for emphasis. “The last thing I need after the Yanquis is for El Cuco to try to snatch my woman away.”
His attempt at humor was met with a scatter of nervous laughter. Both threats were too close to home.
“Why don’t you spend the night by our fire,” Diego said. “There’s always safety in numbers.”
Néstor looked at Nena, his raised brow seeking her opinion. The thought of leaving this circle of people among whom she felt safe, of leaving the golden glow of the fire and going into the night, was deeply unappealing. She nodded.
Together they rose and walked to the horses, where Néstor’s old blanket was rolled and attached to Luna’s saddle. When Néstor struggled to untie it with his one good hand, Nena reached over his arm and did it herself.
“What did you think of the story?” he asked. He met her gaze as she took the blanket in her arms. Heat rushed to her cheeks. It suddenly felt too intimate, standing there and looking into his eyes. She dropped her gaze.
“It was a bit sad,” she said softly, turning to walk back to the fire. He fell into step beside her. “I didn’t like how it ended.”
Néstor was silent for a moment. Sandy earth crunched beneath the soles of their boots.
“You know,” he said in a low voice, “you can change the ending. If you want.”
He did not meet Nena’s eyes when she studied his face, his profile silhouetted by the orange light of the fire. Change the ending of which story—the story he told, or theirs?
But there was no opportunity to ask. There were carreteros all around, preparing to sleep. No words that she could find to ask him what he meant.
Nena lay out the blanket a slight distance away from the fire and lay down on her back. Néstor took off his hat and lay down next to her, shifting onto his right side to protect his wounded shoulder.
She closed her eyes and listened to the soft rumbles of the camp settling around them. To Néstor’s steady breathing.
“Are you all right?” His voice was soft against her ear, soft as it sank into her body. She nodded.
A carretero, perhaps someone on watch, began to sing a low melody. It mixed with the crackle of the fire, with her heartbeat, with her breathing. Sleep had been hovering just over her shoulder all evening; now, it sank over her like a heavy blanket. Her belly was full. Others stood on watch. Néstor was at her side.
Tonight, she could actually sleep.
“I don’t think it’s repulsive,” she said, softly enough that the only person who could hear her was the one who lay to her left.
“What?”
She turned her head to him and opened her eyes, fighting the heaviness of sleep. Her head blocked the light from the fire, casting his face in shadow. They were so close that the tips of their noses brushed.
“Being married to a vaquero,” she whispered. “I’ve never thought that. Not if he’s the right one.”
His eyes were dark and liquid as he gazed at her. Even in shadows, his beauty caught her in a trancelike kind of stillness, as if the world beyond them had ceased to exist.
If only he hadn’t pulled away from their kiss. If only things weren’t strained between them. All she longed for was for it to be easy with him, the way it used to be. This felt easy: lying next to each other under heavens that swung low and velvet and heavy with stars. If she reached up, she might be able to touch one, to singe her fingertips on its glow. If she reached to him, she knew they would never be apart again. Nothing had ever felt easier.
It was everything else that was difficult.
“Not everyone thinks that,” Néstor said softly.
He was right. Not Mamá, certainly not Papá. Not their allies on the surrounding ranchos who believed that families like theirs were above such things. She knew what her parents feared: that if the Serranos were not held in high esteem by their neighbors, if they faced an attack, they would be left to face it alone. And they might not survive.
Nena turned her face back up to the stars and closed her eyes. Sleep crept up quickly. It softened the world around her, blanketing the sounds of the camp.
“I know,” she whispered. “But sometimes, I don’t care.”
23
N?STOR
WHEN N?STOR WOKE, the camp was still. The sky was gray with dawn yet to break; birds were only just beginning to sing. The air was crisp with the smells of cold and smoke.
He also smelled Nena. In sleep, she had curled onto her side and moved closer to him. Or he had moved closer to her. Either way, they curled against each other, her hips flush against his, her back pressed to his stomach. The hand of his injured left arm rested on her hip. Holding her close.
He did not know what she would say if she woke to find them in this position.
He lifted his hand. Waited to see if her breathing changed. She slept on.
Pain did not immediately radiate through his shoulder at the movement. That was a good sign. He slowly sat up and tried moving his arm forward, then shrugging the shoulder. Achy, and certainly sore, but far less painful than it had been following the vampire attack.
Perhaps it was how long and deeply he slept last night that did the trick. Beto must be onto something about a good night’s sleep.
A glance around the camp showed other men rising, stretching. One stoked the embers of last night’s fire and placed a pot for coffee in their midst.