The women of the family rose and cleared the table, then began moving to the courtyard of la casa mayor for prayers. As Nena followed, she stopped in her tracks as Mamá took her by the elbow.
“I don’t know what story you’re spinning,” she said. “But there will be no more talk of strange beasts in my house. No more talk of how you rode alone with a peón for days.” Nena felt a reflexive lick of defensiveness. Néstor was not a peón. He was his own. But she bit her tongue as Mamá continued. “Your honor is the family’s, Magdalena. If we have any hope of sweeping this under the table, everyone must keep silent about the matter. Do you understand?”
Hadn’t she known this moment would come? That when she returned to the rancho at Néstor’s side, Mamá would come down with all the force she had once used to keep Nena in line as a child? She had not used this tone with Nena in years.
And, to her shame, her response was to make herself as small as possible. To speak softly. To placate.
“Yes, Mamá,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
IN PAP?’S ABSENCE, Mamá led the rancho in evening prayers. In addition to the midday meal, it was one of two times a day everyone on the rancho gathered in the courtyard of la casa mayor.
Néstor was there with his grandmother and Bernabé. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw him step slowly into the courtyard, Abuela on his arm. Like her, he had had a chance to bathe and change; he was clean-shaven again, his black hair combed away from his face, his dark eyes shining when they caught hers.
To her right, she heard Mamá clear her throat.
Nena dropped her eyes quickly. Folded her hands demurely before her.
If Mamá was already acting as she was, what would Papá say when he returned? It required little imagination to know that it was as bad an omen as the appearance of an owl. As voices droned through the evening prayers, dread pooled in her stomach, slow and sticky as blood.
Whatever happened, Néstor was going to be hurt. The mess she had created was like a runaway steer that she could not stop from crashing into fragile things.
Prayers seemed interminable. When they finally ended, when the people of the rancho began to disperse for evening chores, she slipped out from under Mamá’s watchful eye as subtly as she could. It was as if she were ten years old again as she sneaked around the corner of the kitchen, dodging an aunt or two. She lingered in the herb garden behind the kitchen, sinking to her knees in the soil and pretending to be looking for something.
She rubbed sprigs of rosemary between her thumb and forefinger as she waited, inhaling deeply the soothing smell.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a figure stride to the anacahuita grove and vanish behind the trunks.
Her heartbeat quickened. She should be calm, but her traitorous body was eager to be near him. It was nervous and jumpy with the flush of childhood infatuation.
She waited a few more minutes, pulse in her ears. Then, with a quick look over her shoulder to make sure no one in the kitchen was watching her, she rose and walked as casually as she could toward the trees.
The hum of chicharras pulsed overhead, rhythmic and soothing in the evening heat. Loud enough that she prayed no one could hear her gasp of surprise when Néstor took her firmly by the waist and pulled her close to place a firm kiss on her temple.
“Néstor!” She made his name a hiss of chastisement. She pushed against his chest; he released her immediately. “If anyone saw, that would be the end of me.” She stepped back, flustered, and made a vain attempt to collect herself. Smoothed her skirt, tucked a lock of hair away. It fell back out again at once, tickling her cheek. “We have to be careful.”
Néstor slipped the errant lock of hair behind her ear with gentle fingertips. The softness of his touch made her heart fold over itself. “Soon we won’t have to be.”
She cleared her throat and took a half step back. “Papá returns tomorrow,” she said awkwardly.
“I know,” he said. He slid his hands into his pockets and leaned back against a tree trunk, a picture of unassuming ease. “I’m ready.”
But he wasn’t. Neither was she. She bit the inside of her cheek and folded her arms over her chest.
“Mamá is already cross,” she said. “I . . .” She knew precisely why Mamá was displeased with her, but she could not bring herself to say it aloud. She should tell him about the bargain she had made with Papá. Its stipulations. She wanted to say that she had made it before Néstor ever reappeared and that she regretted it now. That part of her wanted to throw everything away and be with him, but she couldn’t. Not after seeing what the Yanquis were capable of. The Rinches. The rancho was vulnerable, and she had to protect it in any way she knew how—even if that way was Mamá and Papá’s way.
But how could she put that into words, when he looked at her the way he did now, with the steady, calm confidence of someone looking at the one missing piece of their life?
She couldn’t.
She swiftly changed the subject. “I tried to bring up the vampires at dinner. Javiera’s been having nightmares, and I don’t want to sleep without salt at the door. But she wouldn’t listen.”
Néstor’s demeanor shifted with the change of topic.
“Abuela said they had two more attacks while we were gone,” he said, his expression growing grim. “Only one survived.”
Cold slipped over Nena. “Who didn’t?” she whispered.
“Tío Macario’s third son, Jesús,” Néstor said, sadness deepening the lines on either side of his mouth. “Two days ago. He was eighteen.”
Nena crossed herself. She should have been here. Instead, she had flung herself headlong into an ill-fated, selfish gamble. This was the price the rancho paid. “Dios mío,” she murmured.
Could she have saved him? She would never know.
She should have never left.
But if she hadn’t, there was so much she would not have discovered about the vampires. How beheading destroyed them. The use of salt for protection. The Rinches with their chains.
“Javiera told me that Félix sent a letter,” she said. “He says they’re being followed, but there was something in his wording that made me wonder. I wonder what is following them.”
“Salt,” Néstor said flatly. “Everyone needs to be putting salt at their thresholds.”
“And windowsills,” Nena added, thinking of the night before she left with the squadron. Of the otherwise silent dog Pollo barking incessantly at the open window. “I doubt that Mamá will listen to me, but Javiera and my cousins will. We have to let everyone know before nightfall.”
Vespers happened at twilight; now, the sky was streaked with deepening purples. They did not have much time.
“Ignacio and Elena are already at our house talking to Abuela,” Néstor said, straightening. “They could help spread the word.”
“You need to go talk to them,” she said. For a fleeting moment, it felt as if they were on the road together again, relying on each other to survive. Their lives would never be like that again. “Tell everyone. I have to go back and get salt from the kitchen without making Mamá suspicious.”
“May I walk you back to the house?” Néstor asked.
“No,” Nena said quickly. Absolutely not. That would only incite Mamá further. “I’ll go alone.”
A shadow of hurt crossed over Néstor’s face.
“It’s what’s best, for now,” she added quickly.
“I understand,” he said, but the somber tone of his voice made Nena want to take his hand.
She didn’t.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Nena said. “After Papá returns.”
She turned to go back to the house.
“Nena,” he said.
Was he going to ask her why she was acting so differently? A bolt of terror shot through her at the thought of answering. But when she looked back at him, he shook his head.
“I . . . Never mind,” he said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good night.”
“Good night,” she said.